Slightly Scandalous

by Mary Balogh

  “Almost?” Freyja raised her eyebrows.

  “Well, I love Joshua dearly,” Morgan said, “and he is by far the most handsome man I have ever seen—including Alleyne. But I love him as a brother-in-law. I am going to have to find my own challenge and my own excitement—if there are any still out there somewhere.”

  It was on the tip of Freyja's tongue to tell her sister that her betrothal was not a real thing at all, but she did not say it. There were a few matters to resolve first, not least of which was the planned boat ride over to the island sometime today.

  I may not be able to keep my hands off you, sweetheart.

  Perhaps I will not be able to keep mine off you.

  Her heart beat faster at the remembered words.

  “You will find someone who is perfect for you one of these days,” she said. “Everyone does.”

  Everyone except me.

  The only perfect men she seemed to meet, Freyja thought ruefully, were unavailable for a permanent relationship.

  Freyja had been able to swim for as far back as she could remember. She could jump into lakes from banks, from overhanging tree branches, from the sides of boats. She could swim on the surface or underwater, in a crawl or a backstroke or a simple float. She could hold her own in a fierce water fight. She could sail along in a small, leaky boat, lying, sitting, or standing. It had never occurred to her to be afraid of water.

  Until, that was, she had seen the sea for the first time at the age of ten or so.

  She had never been sure quite what it was about it that was so terrifying. Its vastness, perhaps. But she had never had to admit her terror, even to herself, until now. She had never before had any opportunity either to swim in or to sail upon the sea.

  She was sitting on a narrow wooden seat in a narrow wooden boat, surrounded on all sides by water so close that she could trail her hand in it if she wished—she did not wish. She was very aware that only the thin planking of the boat beneath her feet separated her from unknown depths.

  She was so ashamed and so contemptuous of her own terror that she lifted her chin at an arrogant angle as if to say that all this was a crashing bore and clasped her hands loosely in her lap rather than cling for dear life to the sides.

  “Nervous?” Joshua asked with a grin.

  He was hatless. He was rowing through water that undulated in the breeze and was choppy enough to show the occasional crest of white foam on the waves. He was, of course, looking quite irresistibly gorgeous. The wind was ruffling his blond hair and making it gleam. She tried to concentrate on his good looks, or, better yet, on his wicked, teasing grin. He knew she was terrified.

  “Ha! Of a little water?” She tried not to notice that the island looked farther away now than when they had started or that the mainland seemed miles away.

  “I was not talking about the water.” He depressed one eyelid in that slow wink of his.

  “Nonsense!” She pressed her lips together and he laughed.

  He had explained at the luncheon table that he had promised her he would hire a boat and take her rowing for the afternoon. But before anyone could speak up with the suggestion that they make a party of it, he had added that the boat he had borrowed was very small, only big enough for two, and he was very sorry but he was a newly engaged man and needed some time alone with his betrothed.

  He had smiled engagingly about the table and looked both roguish and charming. No one had uttered a single word of protest, not even Aidan, who might at that moment have chosen to act the part of elder brother since Wulf was not there to give his opinion on such a blatant indiscretion. But of course, she thought, they all believed she was betrothed to Josh. Perhaps they would not have been concerned even if they had known that the island was their destination.

  Everyone else had proceeded to make plans of their own. The marchioness was to go visiting and informed Constance that she would accompany her—with the Reverend Calvin Moore. Chastity was to take everyone else down onto the beach. Morgan was going to take canvas and paints with her. Eve had made it clear that no one was even to think of going swimming.

  Freyja turned her head and was surprised to find that it would still move on her neck. She could see them all there now on the sand, tiny figures looking enviably safe, some of them running, a few walking more sedately. Three of them, on the edge of the water, were waving. Prue and the children? Freyja lifted one hand and waved back.

  She was suffocatingly aware that there were two blankets folded in the bottom of the boat. She had noticed them as soon as Josh and the fisherman whose boat this was had handed her in. She had stepped on them, in fact. If she were to ask what their purpose was, he would tell her that they were there to be wrapped about them if the wind should feel too chilly, but his eyes would laugh at her as he said it.

  She did not ask.

  “If you wish, sweetheart,” Joshua said, “we can turn back right now.”

  She regarded him haughtily. “I am not afraid,” she told him. “Not of anything. Are you?”

  But he merely smiled his slow smile at her.

  She noticed how the muscles of his arms and thighs flexed as he rowed. If the boat should tip over, she thought, she would simply swim. So would he. He would not let her drown. And she would not let him drown. She felt herself relaxing as she always did when she had once confronted any fear that threatened to daunt her.

  At the same time her breath quickened and the blood hummed through her veins. What would happen on the island? Would she let it happen? Cause it to happen? Prevent its happening? Or would the question not even arise? Would they simply enjoy an hour of walking about and admiring the views and then return to the safety of the mainland?

  For a while she thought they were not going to be able to land at all. The cliffs seemed too high, the shore too rocky, the sea too rough. But Joshua rowed around to a narrow, sandy beach in a small inlet, and he jumped out and pulled the boat up out of the water. He leaned over the side and slung the blankets over one shoulder.

  Well, that answered one question at least, she thought, watching him.

  “We may want to sit down for a while,” he said, grinning at her. “Unless you plan to sit here all afternoon.”

  She ignored his outstretched hand and climbed rather inelegantly over the side to the sand. He hauled the boat even higher before leading the way up over sand and loose pebbles and rough rocks to the land above. She scrambled after him.

  The island was larger than she had thought. It stretched ahead in undulating dunes and depressions, a mixture of green, coarse grass, yellow sand, bare rocks, yellow gorse, and pink thrift. Seagulls were screaming overhead and from their perches on rocks and dunes. The air was crisp and salty. The sea was visible all around.

  Joshua took her hand in his as they stood on a small promontory drinking in the elemental beauty of it all.

  “It is strange,” he said. “I had forgotten that there is much I loved about Cornwall.”

  “In such a place,” she said, lifting her face to the breeze, “it is easy to believe in God and eternity without the interference of any religion.”

  “You had better not let the Reverend Calvin Moore hear you say that,” he said. But there was a warmth in his voice, a tenderness that caught at her breathing again and alarmed her.

  “Did I give you permission to hold my hand?” she asked.

  He chuckled softly and raised their clasped hands to bring the back of hers against his lips.

  “Too late for that, sweetheart,” he said. “You invited me here, remember? Just the two of us? There is another cove on the eastern side. It will be more sheltered from the wind than the rest of the island. Shall we go and sit there for a while?”

  “Of course,” she said, her knees feeling decidedly wobbly. What were they doing? After this business with Garnett was cleared up and presumably once the ball was over, they were to leave Penhallow and go their separate ways. They would never see each other again. Was she quite sure she wanted this memory? But
she realized even as she asked herself the question that really she had no choice now. Whatever happened—or did not happen—this afternoon would be forever seared on her memory.

  Would she find Josh as difficult—or as easy—to get over as she had found Kit? She had never lain with Kit.

  She stood gazing out at the endless expanse of blue-and-green water as he spread one blanket over the coarse grass above the little cove of a beach to which he had led her. It was indeed more sheltered here. One could almost imagine that it was summer again—a cool summer's day. He set down the other blanket, still folded. Presumably they would cover themselves with it if they were chilly.

  Afterward.

  She drew a slow breath. It was not too late. He would not force her.

  The last time it had been easy. There had been no decision to make. She had been in the throes of an urgent, blind passion occasioned by the pain of the christening party and something he had said to anger her—she could no longer remember what. Today there was too much time for thought.

  But one thought pulsed with the beat of her blood. She wanted him. She wanted the memory to take with her into the future. She could no longer think of protecting herself from the sort of pain she had known before with Kit. It was already too late.

  She had no wisdom at all, it seemed, in her choice of men to love.

  She sat down on the blanket, drew up her knees, and clasped her arms about them, all without looking at him. He came down beside her, sprawled on his side, his head propped on one hand.

  “So, sweetheart,” he said softly, “why are we here?”

  She shrugged her shoulders and kept them hunched. “To see the island?” she said. “To spend some time together?”

  “For what end?” he asked her. “Because we are betrothed?”

  “But we are not,” she said.

  “No.” He was silent for a while. “Why are we here, Free?”

  He was going to make her spell it out, was he? Well, that was fair enough. She had asked to be brought here. She had asked that they come alone. Was she now to act like a wilting violet and expect the man to take charge of the situation? She turned her head to look at him. His eyes were smiling back at her but without either the mockery or the wicked laughter she had expected to see there.

  “To make love,” she said.

  They gazed at each other while the air fairly crackled between them.

  “Ah, yes,” he said, his voice low. “To make love. We will do it properly, will we, sweetheart, without frenzy, without any haste at all? So that we will both have happy memories of our brief weeks together?”

  He sat up and pulled off his Hessian boots and his stockings. He shrugged out of his coat and unbuttoned his waistcoat. Freyja lifted her arms and drew the pins out of her hair. By the time she shook it free, he was pulling his shirt off over his head.

  She had hardly had a chance to look at him in the gamekeeper's hut at Alvesley. But his beauty, she discovered now, was not confined to his face. His shoulders, his chest, his arms—all were strongly muscled, beautifully proportioned male perfection. She set one hand on his back and spread her fingers. He was warm and inviting.

  “I have wanted this,” she admitted, “ever since the last time.”

  “Can you not do better than that?” he asked her, turning to her, smiling. “I have wanted this since before the last time. I believe it all started in a certain inn room when you were barefoot and wild-haired and furious.” He moved his head closer until his lips brushed hers. “You must be by far the most desirable woman I have ever known, Freyja Bedwyn.” His tongue stroked lightly back and forth across her lips, causing her to sizzle with sensation from her lips down to her toes.

  He unclothed her with hands that were clearly very expert indeed at the task. Then he removed the rest of his own garments while his eyes devoured her and hers devoured him. She lay back on the blanket when they were both naked.

  She was afraid then that if she touched him, if she initiated anything, she would spoil it all by being in too much of a hurry, as she had been last time. She wanted to discover if there could be any tenderness to lovemaking as well as soaring passion. She wanted to be able to remember him with tenderness. She wanted to remember him as he looked now, gazing down at her with controlled desire. She spread her hands to the sides, palms down.

  “Make love to me,” she said.

  “Oh, I intend to, sweetheart,” he said, bending over her.

  His hands went to work on her. He was as expert at making love with his hands, she soon realized, as he had been at unclothing her with them. He knew just where to touch her and how, sometimes with such light fingertips that she felt sensation more than his touch. And he knew how to use his mouth too, kissing her pulse points, suckling her breasts, breathing warmly against her navel and flicking it lightly with his tongue, feathering kisses along her inner thighs, sucking one of her big toes before raising his head and grinning at her.

  He took her feet in his hands, massaged them in ways that sent desire coursing through her with a faster beat, and then turned them and moved them upward in such a way that her knees fell open before he set her feet back down on the blanket. He came to kneel between her thighs, lifting her legs over his own. And then he slid one hand down between them.

  She was wet and hot—his hand felt cool in contrast.

  He knew just how to touch her there too. His fingers moved lightly, knowingly, and he watched what he did while she watched his face—beautiful, heavy-lidded, absorbed in what he was doing. And then he touched her somewhere with his thumb, rubbing it very lightly. She arched upward, crying out, all her carefully preserved control gone, and exploded into shuddering, utterly pleasurable release.

  He laughed softly as he lifted her higher into his lap, opened her with his thumbs, and plunged hard into her. She inhaled slowly. There was no pain at all this time, only incredible pleasure as he pressed against walls still throbbing and sensitive from her recent release. She moved her hands to cup his knees.

  “I think it is time I made love to you too,” she said, gazing at him through half-closed eyelids. “You feel very good, Josh.”

  “I do indeed.” There was laughter in his eyes, but they were passion-heavy too.

  Slowly she clenched inner muscles about him and his nostrils flared.

  “Almost,” he said, “you tempt me to surrender. Almost.”

  He withdrew to the brink of her and thrust hard inward again and withdrew and thrust again while she parried with pulsing inner muscles and rocking hips. She bared her teeth, feeling the rise of desire once more, and willed herself to match him stroke for stroke for as long as it lasted. She willed it to last forever.

  This time it was he who watched her face while she watched what they did together, her eyes observing what her body felt with such sweet, almost painful intensity. It was all almost unbearably erotic.

  “Sweetheart,” he said at last, his voice husky and breathless, “a gentleman cannot go riding off into the sunset and leave his lady behind. If I concede defeat, will you let go and allow me to follow you?”

  She looked up into his eyes, lost her rhythm, her slender hold on control, and was suddenly defenseless against the firm pounding of his body into her sweet pain. She cried out again and shuddered about him.

  He was still deep inside her, she realized a few moments later, and still large and rock-hard. She opened her eyes and he smiled into them. He brought his hands to the blanket on either side of her shoulders and shifted his position without withdrawing from her. He came down flat on top of her, covering her from shoulders to toes, his weight bearing her into the ground. He found her mouth with his and kissed her, not deeply, not passionately as she expected, but with infinite tenderness.

  And then he set his head beside hers, his face buried in her hair, and moved in her again with long, deep strokes, covering her so that she felt strangely cherished, strangely loved. Sexually sated as she was, it was an extraordinary sensation, emotional more t
han physical—and yet she was very much in the body too. When he went still, he was tense for a moment and then relaxed all his weight onto her with a deep sigh. She could feel the hot flow of his release deep inside. She wrapped her arms about him, feeling both giver and gifted.

  His breathing was labored against her ear. They were both hot and slick with perspiration. Seagulls were crying overhead. There was the eternal, elemental flow and suck of the sea against the sand. There were the smells of salt and sand and ocean. There were sunlight and sun heat and the welcome coolness of the breeze.

  The earth slowed beneath them.

  Ah, yes, the memory of this would always remain with her. And she would not allow future pain to sully it. She would not.

  He reached for the spare blanket as he rolled off her, and she turned onto her side facing away from him as he spread it over them and then slid an arm beneath her neck and curled in behind her.

  She gazed at the rocky cliff that formed one side of the cove and at the dark green water beneath it. A white gull was perched on top of a rock, gazing out to sea, opening its beak to cry out. She felt warm, languorous, very aware of every sensation impressing itself upon her memory.

  Judging from his breathing, Joshua slept for a while. She was glad. She did not want to talk. Not yet. She did not want to listen to his light teasing or to hear him tell her that they were in a scrape again.

  She did not want either to laugh or to fear. She simply wanted to be in this endlessly present moment. And when she must move on into the future—well, then. She would never forget. She would never allow herself to deny that for one glorious afternoon she had been not just in love. She had also loved. Loved with her body and loved with her heart.

  Fool, Fool, fool, a faint inner voice tried to tell her. But she drifted off to sleep rather than listen to the voice warn her that she would live to regret this day and this falling over a precipice into love itself.

  CHAPTER XX

  “Remind me, sweetheart,” Joshua said, his eyes squinting against the glare of sunlight on the water, “why it is we are not going to marry.”