by Jane Godman
Rosie sat up and, keeping her eyes fixed on Jack’s, slid her ruffled shirt over her head. Turning on his side, Jack reached out and traced a finger down between her naked breasts, all the while demanding eye contact from her. As she shivered at his touch, he hooked another finger into the waistband of her breeches.
“I never thought to hear myself say this”—there was a hint of laughter in his voice—“but if I don’t get you out of those breeches this instant, I may explode. Take the blasted things off.”
Obediently, Rosie slid from the bed while Jack sat up, his hands bracketing her waist, pulling her to him so that she was trapped between his thighs. He bent his head to press a flurry of light, teasing kisses against the soft curve of her stomach, and she gasped. His smile deepened, and he lightly flicked one proud nipple with the tip of his tongue.
“All this time apart, I’ve thought of nothing but you.” The whispered words seemed to act as a catalyst, jolting Rosie abruptly into a different mood.
“No you haven’t!” It was an outraged gasp. “You have been kept very well entertained in Lady Kendall’s bed. I’m not going to be a brief distraction just because you can’t have her.” A deep blush bloomed in her cheeks as she attempted to reach across him to retrieve her shirt.
Perplexed by the swift change of atmosphere, Jack regarded her antics in surprise. “What are you talking about?”
He didn’t know whether to be angry or amused as she twisted and turned to get past him. When he made a movement to rise from the bed, Rosie pulled away from him. With a strangled sound of surprise, she promptly lost her footing, stumbled and landed face down on the bed. Seizing his opportunity, Jack tipped her unceremoniously over so that she lay on her back and pinned her down with an arm on each side of her. Rosie thrashed about in an ineffectual attempt to escape.
“Am I to construe from your words that you are jealous of Louisa, my sweet?”
Fury blazed in the grey depths of her eyes. But there was something else there as well, and it was the something else that interested him most. He had seen it once before on that never-to-be-forgotten night before Culloden. “No! Why would I care what you do?” The words were punctuated by panting that caused her breasts to rise and fall in a most distracting manner.
“I merely wondered if perhaps you imagine me doing this to her ladyship?”
Jack bent his head and nuzzled her breast, unerringly finding the hardened crest with his lips and circling it with his tongue. The fight went out of Rosie instantly, and she lay back, arching her back in something that looked suspiciously like enjoyment.
“Or this?” He slid a hand down her body and inside the waistband of the offending breeches. “And I can assure you that I have never before done this.” He unfastened her breeches and tugged them down, throwing them unceremoniously on the floor.
His gaze skimmed over her stomach and down to the dark triangle of curls between her legs. Reaching out one finger, he lightly ran it inside her folds, his breath catching in his throat at how wet she already was. “You want me as much as I want you.” He kissed along the jut of her hip bone, savouring the sweet taste of her skin against his lips, his finger returning to probe further. “Admit it.”
She squirmed against his questing touch. “Yes, I want you, Jack.” The words were little more than a sigh. “I’m tired of pretending too.”
With a masculine purr of triumph, Jack moved his lips up over the gentle curve of her waist and along her rib cage until they reached her breasts. Lingering with soft, teasing caresses on the tops of her breasts, he moved on to claim her mouth. His tongue teased the seam of her lips, and she opened them for him. As his tongue slid inside her mouth, a jolt of pleasure shot through to his nerve endings. A raw hunger, the like of which he had felt only once before—that night before Culloden—burned through him. Rosie’s tongue waltzed in time with his. It was a rhythm they both recognised, one they had made their own two years earlier.
“I’ve waited two years for this. I can’t wait any longer.” Jack shrugged his clothing aside swiftly and pulled her down on the bed next to him, his hands roaming over her body, caressing and claiming every part of her. Tracing the taut sinews of his back and shoulders, Rosie stroked the hair of his chest, following it as it descended across his flat stomach and lower until she could grip the pulsating rod of his cock.
“See how you make me feel, Rosie? How hard you get me?” Her eyes widened, and a shudder thrilled through her as she nodded.
Jack teased her nipples lightly with his fingertips before closing his lips around first one and then the other and sucking hard. His hand moved between her thighs again, and he drove two fingers in and out of her. Rosie’s whole body jerked in time with his deft movements. Almost immediately, he felt her tense as she came, her muscles clenching around his fingers.
Positioning himself between her thighs, he rammed himself into her welcoming heat, feeling the spasms that still trembled through her. Her tightness gripped him, and he drove himself hard into her, over and over, unable to take things slowly. He had waited too long to be inside her again. Had believed this moment would never come. Desperately, Rosie matched his movements until he felt another orgasm tear through her, making her cry out and throw her head back, her eyes wide with shock. He filled her with his climax and held her tightly to him, kissing her nose, her face, her neck as he called out her name.
Memories came flooding back as they lay entwined in the sweet aftermath of passion. Rosie’s fingertips traced his hard muscles while Jack delighted in the honeyed warmth of her scent and the way her body moulded itself so perfectly to the contours of his own.
“You are an addiction,” he murmured against her lips. “Every time I try to forget you, you invade my dreams as well as my every waking thought.”
* * *
Rosie was woken from her slumbering state by the warmth of Jack’s mouth on her breast. His lips were leisurely and tender as he sucked her nipple. When she opened her eyes, his arms, strong and corded with muscle, turned her so that she lay with her back against his chest. One hand moved over her abdomen, travelling lower until he parted her folds and slid a finger into her. Slowly, he moved the finger in and out, making her wetter with each stroke. Rosie stretched languorously before reaching a hand behind her. Jack sucked in a breath when her fingers closed around his rock-hard shaft.
He lifted her and held her open, so that she could feel him pressing at her entrance. Gripping her hips, he gently lowered her as he pushed up, until he was fully, throbbingly inside her. Holding her buttocks apart to increase the feeling of him pressed hard up against her, Jack began to make tiny grinding motions. His movements caused Rosie to moan and writhe. She was pinned tightly against his muscular chest by the position of their bodies. Controlling her every move, Jack lifted her up and down on his deeply embedded cock, impaling and then releasing her. The friction of their bodies rubbing intimately together was maddeningly good.
“Oh, dear God, Jack, what are you trying to do to me?” She gasped the words out.
“I want you to feel everything I have imagined doing to you for the last two years.” His breath scorched the back of her neck. “Every single day.” He punctuated the words with harder thrusts. “But nothing came close to the reality of this. Of being inside you again.”
Rosie was glad he couldn’t see her face at that moment. Even through the delirium of her passion, his words touched her, and tears briefly burned her eyelids. Jack had pictured making love to her every day? The thought was fleeting. She was too lost in sensation for coherent thought. His finger moved to her clitoris, coaxing and rubbing the tiny nub until she was incapable of thinking of anything but his touch.
“I dreamed of making you come so hard you wouldn’t be able to remember your own name.”
“Yes.” Her head fell back against his shoulder.
“Yes, what?” There was a hint of mischief in his gro
wl. His movements stilled, and Rosie squirmed against him.
“Make me come, Jack. Do it now. Please.” Desperate for release, she drove herself up and down his length. This time it was Jack’s turn to cry out in ecstasy as he matched her furious rhythm. Pounding wildly, their bodies slammed together. Rosie was panting by the time the first spasm hit her. Jack groaned. She knew he could feel her orgasm building and it pleasured him too. Another spasm shot straight from her core, making her buck and jerk in uncontrolled rapture. In response, Jack’s pace picked up further. He dipped his head to the side and bit her neck. The pain shimmied to her nerve endings, increasing her euphoria. Jack’s hips surged twice more and then slowed, his body jolting every few seconds with aftershocks.
After he withdrew from her, Jack turned Rosie to face him, cradling her head against his chest as their breathing calmed. Rosie lay still, listening to his heart pounding beneath her ear, peace sweeping over her as she tried not to think about how right this felt. Even if you didn’t love your husband—and might actually hate him—shouldn’t adultery bring with it a tiny trace of guilt? She examined her conscience. No. There was happiness and a sense of belonging at being back in Jack’s arms. And an inevitable touch of sadness because it couldn’t last.
Gradually it became fully light, and, reluctantly, Rosie slid from Jack’s embrace. Shivering at the contrast between the warmth of his body and the cold air, she pulled on her clothing, conscious of Jack’s appreciative gaze following her every movement. She hesitated, wanting to find the words to explain herself to him. To at least begin to tell him why he could not know the truth. Why, after the intimacy they had just shared, this was all there could be. Even so, her instinct was to blurt out how it felt to be back in his arms, to feel alive once more. It didn’t matter. None of the words she searched for—whether of rapture or caution—would come. All she could do was gaze at him.
“Let us find Xander and Harry and get them safely back where they belong.” Jack seemed attuned to her distress. “This is not the time for angst. Besides—” His wicked smile gleamed, and he rose from the bed, coming to stand before her. Rosie’s eyes widened at the sight of his glorious nakedness and blatant arousal. “—if we don’t talk, we have time to do something far more interesting.” He whispered a suggestion in her ear, and Rosie gasped, blushed then nodded her agreement. “I am afraid I have to remove those damnable breeches again. ’Tis fast becoming my favourite pastime.”
* * *
When they reached Derbyshire and crossed Swarkestone Bridge—scene of the battle that had changed all their lives forever—it felt like coming home. To Rosie the air was clearer and fresher here. If only she could be returning in happier circumstances than these. The knowledge that they must be close to her son and her brother revived her. But what if Clive has not come to Sheridan Hall after all? Steadfastly she refused to listen to that final nagging doubt. Their questions at various coaching houses and tollgates along the turnpikes had confirmed Clive’s route. He had made no effort to hide his destination. He must know she would follow him. He wanted her to do so. Eagerly, she spurred her horse on.
They arrived at Delacourt Grange later that day, and although the three of them were exhausted to the point of pain, road-dusty and hungry, they tolerated Mrs. Glover’s exclamations with good grace. She eyed Rosie’s masculine attire without comment, but the tiny roll of her eyes in Tom’s direction spoke volumes.
“Where is Master Harry?” She was clearly not happy at the absence of her favourite. A tiny flicker of hope that Rosie had been nourishing, one that Harry might have come here to his own home, died with those words. Where was her brother?
They held what Jack termed a “conference of war” in the library, and Rosie, unusually subdued, allowed her fingers to trail along the back of her father’s favourite chair. A fond smile played about her lips as she pictured him there, books piled high on either side of him and his glasses descending further down his nose. She could have addressed a hundred remarks to him, and he would not respond to a single one when lost in this little world. She missed him dreadfully, but somehow the pain was less here in his home than it had been in London.
Jack and Tom’s conversation intruded on her memories. They were agreeing that it would be best to wait for nightfall before going to Sheridan Hall. Rosie raised her voice in protest at this. “I have not come all this way to wait. If Clive has Xander at Sheridan Hall, we must go there now and demand he hands him over to me at once.”
“What reason will you give?” Jack was seated on a corner of Mr. Delacourt’s desk, one leg swinging casually. There was nothing casual about the probing look he fixed on her face. “No-one has yet given me a satisfactory explanation as to why there is all this heat over Sheridan taking his own son on a trip to the country. I agree it was callous to have removed him without informing you, Rosie, but the child is equally his. God knows, I’ve no love for the man, but I’d like to know by what right I’m expected to snatch his son from him.”
Tom, apparently struck with sudden deafness, moved away to contemplate the view from the window. Rosie was left to consider how best to answer the one question she had hoped to forever avoid. She chose her words carefully. “Clive is not a fit person to have care of an infant. I have been aware for some time that his mind is”—she searched for a suitable word—“disordered. I believe it is an illness inherited from his mother who, by all accounts, was also somewhat wild. When he can be kept calm, his affliction is not apparent, and he can function quite well. Of late, his gambling debts have become so heavy that they have caused him great mental agitation, and his condition has been rapidly deteriorating. He does not behave rationally. This attempt to use Xander to get me to access Harry’s fortune is one example of the extremes to which he will go.”
“My God, Rosie, how have you borne this alone? Surely he should be confined for his own good as well as that of others?”
The conversation was straying into dangerous territory now. “There are reasons why I cannot take that step. Pray do not ask me to explain them, Jack, not when my son’s life may be in danger.”
“Do you truly believe that? You think Sheridan is capable of harming Xander?”
Rosie felt bright tears sting her eyes. “Yes.”
“Then there is no time to waste. Mrs. Glover has heard nothing of any activity at Sheridan Hall, so we must discover if he is indeed there before we break into the house. It is probably best, Tom, if you go to reconnoitre. Should I be seen in the neighbourhood and word somehow get to Sheridan, ’twould simply inflame his rage. I am not his favourite person.”
The mere suggestion of rousing Clive’s ire further made Rosie shiver. “Please hurry. It is three full days since they left London. Xander will think his mother has abandoned him.”
“He will know how much you love him.” Jack’s voice was gentle. “Let us not forget that Sheridan is expecting you. He is not expecting me, and I want to retain the element of surprise. It will be dark in an hour or two. Be patient a while longer, sweetheart.”
Tom, who was preparing to depart for Sheridan Hall, looked up in surprise at Jack’s use of the endearment, but made no comment.
“What if Tom finds that Clive is not at Sheridan Hall?” Rosie fretted.
“Then we will track him down to wherever he is holed up and call him to account. We have made each other promises in the past, you and I. Some of those we have struggled to keep. But this is one from which I will not be deflected. Sheridan will not win, Rosie. You have my word on it.”
* * *
Rosie used the frustrating wait to bathe and change her clothes but, in the spirit of the adventure, exchanged her travel-stained garb for a clean set of Harry’s clothing. Jack raised an approving eyebrow in the direction of her derriere, causing her to shake her head in mock reproach. She softened the expression with a smile.
Tom returned from Sheridan Hall, his expression doleful. He repo
rted that the place appeared closed up. “I’m not saying Sheridan’s not inside the house, but if he is, I could see no sign of it. It’s shameful the way that fine old place has been allowed to fall into ruin.”
“Even so, I think it’s best if you and I go under cover of darkness and gain entry to the house itself, Tom. It’s the only way to be sure.”
“I’m coming too,” Rosie asserted stubbornly.
“Sweetheart, even if I have to tie you to that chair, you are not.”
There was some heated discussion about the matter before Jack judged it dark enough for him and Tom to depart.
“Stay here. Do not follow us,” Jack ordered, pushing Rosie unceremoniously into the study.
When she opened her mouth to protest, he ensured her silence by roughly kissing her. Rosie succumbed to this harsh treatment with a resignation that looked suspiciously like enjoyment. As soon as he released her, however, she began to object again. Jack repeated the kiss until she subsided into murmured acquiescence.
“Tom and I will get into Sheridan Hall tonight—one way or another—to see if there is any sign of them there. I don’t suppose you can think of anywhere else locally where Sheridan might go to hide out in secrecy?”
His words triggered something in the back of Rosie’s mind—a half-formed thought that niggled but refused to fully surface—but she shook her head, and he dropped a light kiss onto the top of her curls. “We will find Xander for you, sweetheart, and we’ll bring him home safe.”
Rosie watched the hands of the clock for five minutes. Then, with the lamentable lack of caution which her cousin Martha had always deplored, she ignored Jack’s instructions. Slipping on Harry’s coat, she stole out of the house herself. A pang of guilt assailed her. She had not been entirely honest with Jack when she claimed not to know of any other place where Clive might have taken Xander. Both Jack and Tom could have worked it out themselves with a little imagination, she told herself by way of an excuse.