by Lara Temple
‘Does it?’
‘Well, only their possible whereabouts, not why he sent them or what he wished of you. What shall you do now?’
He indicated the armchair with the glass he held and she shivered at the memory of the other evening—his arms around her, his thighs firm and warm beneath hers.
‘Sit. Have some.’
She hesitated.
‘I don’t think...’
‘Good. Don’t. It is not whisky this time, but port. A rather gentler path to perdition.’
She sat, barely resisting the urge to burrow into the warmth left by his body. Time was slowly melting from the hourglass and she wanted to cherish every moment in his company.
‘Try it.’
He pulled a chair close to hers and held out the shimmering crystal. The thought of drinking again from the same glass his lips had touched sent a shiver through her, followed immediately by a wave of warmth, as if the spirits were already swirling through her.
Carefully she took it, touching her lips to the cool rim, allowing the scent to reach her first, full and earthy, making colours swirl in her mind. She tilted the cup a little further and the liquid touched her lips, burning a little before it even enveloped her tongue. It was different from the burn and burst of the whisky but she still shuddered as it slid into her, both foreign and familiar. A word came to her—luscious. A warm, rolling word for sinking into...a whole world of sensations waiting to be embraced outside her straitened world.
Luscious...
Lustful.
She looked up and in the guttering light of the candles he looked beautiful and devilish, as tense as a hawk ready to swoop, talons extended.
‘I’ve never tasted anything like it,’ she murmured, struggling to keep her voice light. He reached forward slowly and took the glass from her. She watched as he raised it to his lips, her fingers curling into fists in anticipation. He drained the glass and refilled it, handing it to her once more.
He smiled as she took it, his expression relaxing at last.
‘Do you like it?’
She nodded.
‘This is my second time indulging in spirits here. I told you I don’t often...imbibe.’
‘You don’t often indulge yourself at all, do you?’
She tried to laugh, cradling her hands around the glass, but it sounded more like a cough, so she took another sip to mask it and warmth met warmth. Her cheeks were filling out, probably becoming rosy like a village maiden’s. She smiled at the absurdity of the thought.
‘At least you eat more now than when I first arrived, Ellie. Tonight you even tried the syllabub.’
On the surface his remark was innocuous, but her cheeks heated further. She probably looked like a boiled beet now. Before she could marshal her defences he shook his head.
‘That’s not a criticism, Ellie, quite the opposite. Every now and again you should remember to put yourself first and send everyone else to the devil. Now drink.’
She did as she was told, keeping her eyes on the glass so he would not see the tears pressing for release again. She wished they could stay like this. No, she wished for something else entirely, but that was pointless. When the glass was half-empty he reached across to touch it.
‘Just a little more, but not too much, or you will be cursing me come morning.’
‘Did your secretary bring you bad news?’ The words rushed out of her and in the silence that followed the ticking of the clock marched alongside her heartbeat.
‘Why do you ask, Ellie?’
‘You appear...unhappy.’
He hesitated, his gaze moving from hers to the fire. His mouth pressed into a hard line before he spoke.
‘There is another problem I am dealing with. It is complicated.’
‘Does it concern your sister?’
‘No. This problem is wholly mine.’
‘Perhaps you need someone to fix your problem for you.’
She tried to smile, but though he turned back to her, his eyes were almost black, as if the flames had transformed them from anthracite to obsidian.
‘Some problems cannot be fixed, at least not from the outside.’
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
He pulled the glass from her fingers and for a moment covered her hand with his. His palm was cool, firm, she could feel the pressure of his callouses along the back of her hand.
She had large hands, but his swamped hers, his fingertips curving into the edge of her palm, his thumb touching the base of her wrist. His touch was light, but it stung, heat crawling over her body like smoke snaking out from under the door of a burning room, and her sympathy vanished like dew in the desert, replaced by wholly selfish thoughts. Her pulse galloped against his touch like a bolting horse, but he said nothing. His lashes veiled his eyes, but she read tension in his cheekbones and the answering pulse beside his jaw. She waited for him to act, but then his hand released hers and he stood.
‘You can go to bed.’
She rose as well, her mind both numb and raw. By this time tomorrow she would be back at Whitworth. This could be the last time she saw Chase Sinclair. She would not see him again. Ever.
A rumble, very like a snarl, filled her head before she recovered her senses.
‘Goodbye, then, Mr Sinclair.’
It made no sense.
‘I shall see you in the morning, Miss Walsh.’
Heat chased clammy cold over her skin, pinching at her cheeks and nape and leaving her shaky at the reprieve. How utterly pathetic that with everything she had yet to face, postponing their inevitable farewell could do this to her. She stepped backwards as if she could somehow put distance between herself and her weakness. Then she turned and made her feet carry her out of the room.
Chapter Thirteen
May hot dreams warm your cool heart.
He’d cursed her that first day. Laid a spell on her. And it had come true in spades.
Ellie was no stranger to miserable nights. Plenty of hers had been ruined by worries about mortgages and the future or by sick or nightmare-ridden siblings. But she wasn’t accustomed to the kind of dreams that took possession of her that night. She wanted to blame the port, but there was no tucking away the vivid images her mind conjured.
They began realistically enough—she entered the drawing room and Chase offered her his glass... But what followed was wholly different, wholly unholy... She went to him, trailed her fingers along his jaw, the tense line of his lower lip, exploring every beautiful, uncompromising line of his face, all the while feeling the steel-sharp flames of his eyes stripping her, his hands mapping her, his mouth brushing the soft hair at her temple, moving lower...
But even in her dreams she was a fool because what did she have to go and do but speak the words she held so tightly inside her and suddenly there was nothing but the dull grey of dawn and the realisation that today she would say goodbye to Chase and tomorrow she would wake in her own bed in Whitworth and begin the rest of her life.
She needed air.
She tied her bonnet with a sharp tug, wincing as the ribbons caught the delicate skin beneath her ear, precisely where she’d dreamed of his lips caressing her.
When she reached the stile she cursed her recalcitrant mind for bringing her here. She stood anchored in the high grass, watching a cluster of sheep sheltering under a twisted oak a few yards away. Part of her wished her life was like theirs—surely sheep didn’t wake worrying if today would be the day everything they owned would disappear, or wake burning with need for a man who would probably be embarrassed but resolutely kind if he found out he was figuring in her lascivious dreams...
‘I would offer to help you over, but that landed me in trouble last time.’
The sheep raised their heads from the grass at her startled cry. He must have come across the field because she hadn’t
heard his approach. He was not wearing a hat and his hair was disordered by the wind and his cravat only loosely knotted. He looked like a man returning from a night of revelry, or stepping directly from her overheated dream. But he was all too real and solid, the scent of his soap and skin reaching her like an embrace. When she remained silent he leaned his hip on the wall by the stile, crossing his arms.
‘You are out early.’
‘I am on my way to the Tor.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes. I wished to see the sea before I leave. It might be years before I see it again.’
He did not answer, but when she turned towards the stile he followed and, though his hand rose, he didn’t assist her. She wished she hadn’t reacted so missishly the previous time. Today she would not object at all to feeling his arms around her, that sweep of his mouth on her cheek...
How was it even possible today was the last day she would see him?
Denial of such a possibility was buzzing inside her even though she knew she had no future with someone like Chase Sinclair. In fact, she had not much of a future of any kind. Tomorrow she would be facing the harsh realities of her failure and Chase would be on his way to Egypt.
It was utterly unfair.
She was Eleanor Walsh, spinster, twenty-six years old, and she was so, so tired of being a shell of herself.
Her hands burned with rebellion and her lungs were tight with fear. He made her body and mind rage like a poison, unsettling everything she had so carefully built, but even if she wanted to hate and resent his effect she couldn’t. It was too strong, too...wonderful.
In the past week she’d gathered more memories of pleasure and joy and been more herself, just Ellie, than in the past dozen years. In his company she rediscovered who she was and she wanted more.
She wanted to feel.
She wanted the kiss he’d spun out of air and words.
He owed her.
They reached the ledge of the Tor and stood looking out towards the greyish-blue line of the sea blending into a murky, breezeless sky. It would probably rain all the way back to Whitworth. A fitting beginning to the rest of her life, but she was not there yet.
‘I want something from you before I leave.’
‘Name it.’
She laughed at his immediate response. It was so like him. She could probably ask him for the money for the mortgage and he would give it to her without a second thought. But what she wanted she was not at all certain he would give as freely.
‘I want a kiss. A real kiss. I want you to show me what it is like.’
‘I...what?’
She kept her eyes resolutely ahead. If she looked at him, she would lose her nerve.
‘Is it such an outrageous request? Surely you have kissed so many one more can hardly make a difference?’
‘Blast it, Ellie. You know full well it is an outrageous request! And for your information I am a great deal more fastidious than you’re implying. I’ve certainly never kissed women who were... I mean...you know what I mean.’
Yes, she knew what he meant. Women who were plain and proper and past their prime. She’d never before wished with such a fever to be beautiful, or seductive, or anything that would make him regard her as more than a friend.
She didn’t know what to do next, but she’d already stepped so far out on to the ledge, she couldn’t withdraw now.
‘It is merely a kiss. I am not asking you to sell your soul to the devil. Today I must return to Whitworth and I doubt I shall have another opportunity to...experiment. I know I am not what you are used to, but... Does it matter so? Could you not try?’
* * *
Chase noted Ellie’s fisted hands, her half-wistful, half-defiant expression, but mostly the lost look in her eyes. He’d seen it often enough in the eyes of young men in the moments of fleeting calm before they marched into battle. It was a look that stretched back into the past as if gathering their whole life into one sensation, knowing it might be their last chance to embrace who they were.
It was not a look that should be in a young woman’s eyes and it cracked his resolve far more than her defiance. He wanted to gather her to him and shield her from everything.
Himself included.
He wished he could tell her she had no reason to worry about her home, but that wasn’t part of his plan. The last thing he wanted to do was give her cause to resent his interference.
‘Ellie. You don’t know what you are asking.’
He took her hands. Her fists were vibrating with tension and he couldn’t bear it. He wanted to give her whatever she asked for, however wrong. She turned her hands to clasp his.
‘Yes, I do. I am asking for a kiss. What else is there to know?’
Another layer of heat sheathed itself around his lungs and began spreading. The images from his dreams that night flared along with his body—he’d dreamt of licking amber-coloured drops of port from her skin, watching them slide with agonising slowness down the side of her neck, over the slope of her collarbone and towards the valley between her breasts...he could almost hear the soft whisper of liquid on skin as they’d continued their descent...
He wasn’t hot, he was close to combustion. He wanted to take off his coat...her pelisse...stretch her out on the mossy ground...
He tried to remind himself that it was cold and damp and there was nothing alluring about being covered with mud and moss. But not even mud could ruin his vision of Ellie unveiled, waiting for him...
Hell and damnation. Stop it. Now.
But his will was melting through his fingers like ice on a hot brick as his mind gathered ammunition to defend the indefensible.
She’d said it herself—she wasn’t a girl any longer, but a mature woman of twenty-six. He might even discover that there was nothing at all special about kissing her. There was no better antidote to fantasy than fact. For both of them.
He touched his fingertips to the ridge of her cheek, where a wisp of hair clung and shivered.
‘Take off your bonnet.’
She untied it, but the straw snagged on her hair and instinctively he reached up to slip the tangled lock free. He didn’t let go, though, running the freed hair between his fingers, drawing it down to its full length, his fingers just a shiver of breath from her breast. It was silky and warm and he brushed it over his lips to capture her scent—lingering on the exotic sweetness of her scent. God, he was hungry for her.
She stepped forward, her stubborn chin accentuated, the long line of her neck a creamy invitation to follow it beneath the outmoded pelisse as in his dreams. She should be dressed in the finest muslins and silks and spread on the finest sheets.
If she was his he would... But she wasn’t. She was a self-contained little island still hankering after her image of perfection embodied in Henry’s father. She might toy with the idea of adventure, but she was the kind of woman who probably longed for an upright, virtuous man who would fulfil her dream of stability and safety. His only role in her future was to free it to find the kind of life she so obviously wished for. Once he did that she would begin to see the world, and her prospects, quite differently. And very likely regret this moment.
He dragged in a breath, forcing it past the aching tension in his lungs. Then he tightened his hands on her arms, pushing her away.
Except that she didn’t do as she ought. Her fingers dug into his coat and she raised herself on tiptoe as she had that first day in the Folly. But this time she wasn’t trying to take back her property, just destroy him. All she did was tip her head ever so slightly, fitting her parted lips against his. He didn’t move, but with each breath the blood rushed and fled where they touched, like a leaf buffeted in the wind. Even his heartbeat was shifting, becoming nothing more than a reflection of her warmth flowing in and out of him. It felt so good, so right, that he feared something terrible would happen if he drew awa
y; everything would suddenly, cataclysmically, stop.
‘What now?’ she whispered, her voice wobbly, tickling his sensitised lips. One hand eased, moved upwards over his chest, shifting the linen of his shirt against his skin, his muscles contracting in its trail.
He tried to answer, but couldn’t. Instead he did the only thing he felt capable of at that moment. He sank his hands into her hair, curving over the shape of her scalp, and kissed her.
Not the way he wanted to—that was too dangerous—but as if they both stood on a sheet of ice and any reckless movement might destroy them both. He teased her lower lip gently between his, coaxing it into pliancy before skimming her controlled upper lip with the tip of his tongue. She gave a soft murmur of pleasure, rubbing her lips against his and, without thinking, he let his hands slide down, curving over her behind and bringing her closer. Her body jerked against him and he stopped immediately, cursing himself and her. He didn’t want it to end, not yet. Not ever.
But instead of drawing away, she shook her head, deepening the friction against his hands and mouth.
‘No, I didn’t mean to move. I couldn’t help it,’ she whispered. ‘Please don’t stop.’
A groan of agony and gratitude rumbled inside him. He should stop. They’d barely begun and already he was as hot as Hades and as hard as the Tor, not to mention his conscience was beating all the drums to call him back. But he couldn’t. He was shifting the course of her future, but so was she.
She shuddered, moving closer, her hands rising, tangling for a moment in his neckcloth as if she would remove it, before threading into his hair. It sent streaks of pleasure over his scalp, trailing like a rain of brimstone down his body. He had been hot before, now he was on fire, and for no better reason than a half-chaste kiss.
He abandoned reason and sank into the kiss, drinking her in until she was shivering with the rhythm of his lips and tongue, her breath catching on his name as he finally drew back so they could breathe. But he didn’t completely let go, toying with her lips, reluctant to break contact even to allow her to recover. He mapped them, seeing them without looking, bringing to the surface all the images he had been gathering this past week—he kissed her smile, the prim line she condensed her mouth into when she was trying not to answer Ermintrude’s verbal jabs, the little dip in her upper lip where she touched her tongue when she was nervous, the way she plucked at her plump lower lip when pondering a puzzle...