Drifting in that slow, almost delicate pleasure felt so blissful she did not want it to stop.
“You seem very contented,” he said lowly.
She nodded, closing her eyes to savor the dreamy sensation. “I require nothing more.”
“Ah, but I do. I require you so crazed with passion that you scream loud enough to shake the walls.”
She smiled. “It is unlikely I will so thoroughly forget myself. Even in abandon, I do not go mad.”
“You will for me.” He gently squeezed a nipple, waking her out of the lulling delight with a jolt.
It startled more than hurt. It also changed the pleasure to a stimulation less careful, less polite, less . . . safe.
In the next few minutes, she lost all control over what was happening on the sofa. Lyndale commanded her passion and responses. It was different than it had been in Scotland. An engulfing sexual haze permitted little perception, but she sensed that he was not nearly as lost this time as she was.
His head lowered. His tongue laved at her nipples, then flicked tiny touches at flesh so sensitive that each new contact increased the shuddering tension between her hips.
His teeth nipped carefully. A savage pleasure shot through her. He sucked gently, then harder, and a feral wildness tinged her body’s visceral response. When he used his mouth on one breast and his hand on the other, the combined intensity sent her to another world.
She heard sounds, her sounds, the notes of her cries and moans. They rose and fell on her breaths.
“It appears you were right,” she whispered.
He covered one breast fully with his hand, in a gesture both protective and possessive. He kissed the other, then nuzzled up to the crook of her neck.
A deep, sensual sigh flowed into her ear. “I said screaming, Bride. So wild that you cannot control the sounds, nor even try to. So mad with pleasure that you never want me to stop.”
She fought for a deep breath, to retrieve some composure. A new wickedness with his mouth defeated her. She struggled to keep the sanity to speak. “We will stop anyway. I have already said I want no affair.”
“You are not acting like you want no affair.”
No, she wasn’t. She was permitting liberties she should not, and all but begging for more. She had no right to expect the slightest restraint from this man, and no reason to believe he would not use her as thoroughly as he pleased.
She clasped his wrist, stopping his caress. Her body hated her doing that. It rebelled so fiercely she almost gave in. Her primitive essence began offering a hundred reasons why making love would be a marvelous idea.
“You said no liberties unless granted,” she whispered.
He twisted his wrist free, but not to touch her breast again. He looked into her eyes and caressed her face.
“You believed me, didn’t you? You are still somewhat innocent if you trust any man, let alone me. I am flattered. I do not think a woman has trusted me since I was twelve.”
A devilish gleam quickly replaced the surprise she glimpsed in his eyes. He caressed down her body, reminding her he was no angel.
“I will be good to my word. In return, let us strike a bargain. If you do scream, I am free to seduce you another time, properly and thoroughly. If you do not, I will retreat and be so proper in the future that the bishops will have hope of my redemption.”
He slid away from her, and off the sofa.
“What are you doing?”
He knelt, facing her, almost out of her reach. She, however, was well within range of his caresses. He shed his frock coat, then his hands smoothed up her legs, under her petticoats.
“I am pleading my case on my knees. Any woman would be flattered.”
The only touch was on her legs, but she felt terribly vulnerable. Her instincts warned he was luring her out of her depth. He stroked up and down while his gaze caressed the rest of her.
This game had gone too far. There were excellent reasons why she should not be doing this, no matter how wonderful it felt. Important reasons why she must remain completely separate from this man and give him no excuse to notice her, let alone pursue her.
Her mind, dazed by pleasure, refused to cooperate. She simply could not piece together the logic for refusing him. Doing so seemed unnecessary in light of the marvelous warmth and thrills his invisible hands created. Seeing him fully, lit by the fire and lamp, so handsome and male and attentive, did not help her feeble brain’s vain efforts.
He caressed higher, his arms making her skirt rise and bunch. The heat and pulse of pleasure lowered in her body, urging her hips to rock to an inner rhythm of desire. His gaze captured hers so she could not hide what was happening to her.
He stroked higher. Boldly, shamelessly. His expression assumed the severity she remembered, and the confidence of a man who knew his effect. Her mouth went dry and her head swam in a growing delirium.
He pushed her skirt and petticoat high, then looked down at her stocking-clad legs. “They are as beautiful as I imagined.” He glanced to the mound of fabric bunched on her lap. “This will never do.”
Before she comprehended what he meant, he had her petticoats unfastened. Effortlessly, he lifted her bottom and swept them away.
Her dress sagged down her hips. He helped it along. “It will only get crushed.”
Further objections became pointless, since he had the dress off in a blink.
He looked at her differently then. It frightened her a little. She glanced down at the path his gaze had moved. She knew half her clothes were off, but it still startled her to see the scandalous image she presented, covered by nothing but slack stays, stockings, and the short, thin skirt of her chemise.
He leaned forward and kissed down every shocking inch. Along her naked shoulders to the drooping tab of her chemise. Across her chest to the top swells of her bare breasts. Down each breast, where he paused to tease until she arched and cried.
Then lower, over her stays and stomach and slowly along her left hip until his lips found her naked thigh.
Each kiss initiated a river of fire flowing downward.
She watched, barely breathing, unable to keep her body still. The warmth of his breath on her thighs, so close to . . . she struggled to not embarrass herself.
He knelt tall and caressed her thighs slowly. “You are beautiful. I wish you could see how extraordinary you are with your hair flowing over your snowy skin and your breasts so perfect and high. Giving you pleasure is an honor.”
She believed him. She would have accepted anything he said. His words made her as proud as a queen.
A queen that he commanded.
His hands gently pushed her knees apart. The new vulnerability aroused her more. His caresses moved to her inner thighs, his fingers venturing higher and higher until she wanted to cry with impatience.
His hands slid around her hips, cupped her bottom, and slid her forward. She found her back and head flat against the cushion. She watched with shock as he slid off her drawers, then lifted her legs to rest on his shoulders.
He was not looking at her face now. She angled her head up enough to confirm just how scandalously exposed she was to him.
She began to force herself up to object. A deliberate, gentle stroke on the flesh he saw instantly defeated her. She sank back with a groan as the intense pleasure of that touch tremored through her body.
She closed her eyes as wave after rising wave of pleasure tensed through her. That delicate spot just got more and more sensitive. Her mind closed to everything except the incredible feelings and the savage desire. He made her thrash and whimper and cry, but she was beyond restraint.
“You make it hard for me to keep my word, Bride.”
She opened her eyes to find him looking at her face. She saw how their positions would make it very easy for him to violate his promise.
She wanted him to. Right now, she desperately hungered for whatever would end this torture. She had felt that way in Scotland and this was much worse. He had not been lo
oking at her in Scotland, or touching her so precisely, making the sensations direct and focused and intense.
He bent and kissed her thigh. She gasped at the way it made her vulva pulse. He kissed the other thigh, farther up. She rose up on her elbows and stared as he kissed again, this time the tawny curls.
“What are you doing?”
“Making free with the liberties you granted me.”
His hands stroked both her legs and eased them back until her knees crooked over his shoulders. That raised her hips. She lost her balance and fell back on the cushion.
“You bid me use my mouth for more than speech. Remember?” He kissed the curls again while he touched the secret flesh. The kiss lowered to where he touched and an unearthly pleasure shrieked through her.
“Do you want me to stop?”
Of course she did. This was wicked and shocking and unlike anything she had done or heard of. She never intended—
A new pleasure sent her head spinning. She almost swooned. A primitive ferocity colored her arousal.
She did not stop him. She could not. The pleasure just kept getting better and stronger and more maddening.
She lost control. Crying, insane with want, she moved her hips, urging more. She stretched her fingers through his hair to hold him to her. He kept making it wonderfully worse until she could not bear it.
She felt him pressing her thighs farther apart, opening her more. Warmth saturated one spot, then concentrated and intensified so much it hurt. It was a good hurt, but still she cried out. She heard his voice, quiet and ragged, telling her not to fight it.
She released her last hold on herself. A powerful sensation tensed higher and higher until she was screaming. Then it snapped and shattered and saturated her body with a vibrant sensation of bliss.
She was completely helpless afterward. Surprised and frightened and boneless. He moved her legs and sat her up and held her while the aftermath of her climax tremored through her. She buried her face in his waistcoat and did not speak. She barely moved.
He was not in much better condition himself, so he embraced her in the firelight while she found herself again.
With any other woman, they would pass this time holding subtle negotiations, while he regained his prowess. Then again, with any other woman, they would be up in bed.
With another woman, his body would have anticipated her doing for him after he did for her, as was the normal course of such things, and it would not have betrayed his control so thoroughly when her screams filled the night.
Just as well it had. It went without saying that Bride Cameron had never done that to a man, just as no man had done this to her.
Well, life was not predictable anymore. There was no reason why tonight should be any different.
He gazed down at her snowy shoulders, enjoying the way she was tucked against him. With any other woman, he would be annoyed with these games. Instead, he experienced a peculiar contentment and a solid resolve.
He wanted her. Already his body was reviving.
“That was not in the engravings,” she muttered.
“Not in those by Raimondi or Caraglio. There are more recent depictions, however, in case you think I invented it.”
She quietly laughed. The sound was lovely and welcome. He had some concern that she would accuse him of taking advantage of her. Which he had, if he wanted to be honest about it.
“If you know it is not included, you must have looked at them all,” he pointed out.
“Truly, it was the technique that enthralled me.”
“I trust mine enthralled you more.”
She laughed again, and lifted her head. She did not look directly at him. He could tell she was embarrassed. That touched him.
His gaze and hand came to rest on the volume of “I Modi” that still lay on the sofa. “Why did you think they were forgeries?” He asked it to put her at ease by speaking of commonplace things.
She shrugged. “I am probably wrong. Your expertise far surpasses mine. Where did you get them?”
“At an auction. As for expertise, yours is considerable. Your father’s legacy includes several fine Raimondis, so you know his technique. What about these seemed wrong to you?”
The discussion did not put her at ease in the least. She appeared quite uncomfortable. “Some minor details. Stippling and such. I am sure I am wrong. I only feigned confidence to convince you I was not viewing them for . . . well, for other reasons.” She stretched to reach her dress. “I should go.”
He helped her dress. When she was set right, except for her hair, he took her waist in his hands so she could not bolt the way she looked apt to.
“You should not be embarrassed, Bride.” He lifted her chin with his hand and kissed her. “Do not expect me to pretend this did not happen. Do not expect me to believe you did not enjoy it.”
Her lids lowered. “No, too much to hope for that.”
“And you did scream, so I am allowed to try for more. I want you, Bride, and I will have you.”
She stepped away, out of his reach. “As with any siege, I need only wait you out. You will probably pack up your arms and retreat in less than a month. I am told your interest in a woman rarely lasts even that long.”
He grabbed her arm and swung her back, into his arms. He kissed her hard before releasing her again.
“Perhaps so, Bride. But what a month we will have.”
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
She found her way through the dark house to her chambers, her senses dazed. Beneath her glorious euphoria, enough sense returned for her to know one thing very clearly.
She should have resisted Lyndale’s seduction.
Instead of taking the opportunity to quash his interest in her, she had encouraged him. Now he would be paying attention again. Maybe he would interfere. Possibly he would realize what they were doing here in London, and learn of their crimes.
No lamp shone in her bedroom and she had left hers in the drawing room. All the same, she knew she was not alone as soon as she crossed the threshold. Someone sat in a chair near the window.
“It is I,” Anne said. “Where were you?”
Bride was grateful it was not Joan or Mary. Even in the dark, either of them would sense how unsettled she was. Her other sisters would be suspicious about late-night ambling through this house.
“I went to the library to find something to read.” She trusted Anne would not notice whether she had carried a volume back. “Why are you here, Anne? You sound troubled.”
Her sister was barely visible, but she could tell when Anne rose. A drapery slid back, so they had a little light.
“Joan told me about your visit to the printer,” she said. “I think that we should take advantage of his offer to use the press.”
“I expect we will in time.”
“I do not mean for reproductive plates, Bride.” Anne moved past the window, then turned and strolled again, pacing. “We have the note plates, and you brought the paper that is left from Father’s stock.”
“It is too dangerous.”
“It is our duty. Are we to live here in luxury while others suffer? Are we to abandon them? I felt guilty when I donned this new dress today.”
Bride walked over and embraced her sister. “We are too far away to make use of the notes now. Who will pass them, and distribute the money?”
She did not say that both she and Joan had immediately realized that printing notes was possible. She did not want to encourage Anne’s impracticality.
“We could find a way if we wanted to,” Anne murmured. “You trusted Walter. We could find someone else to trust.”
“It would be reckless to—”
“You said we would come to London to find the forgers, to protect ourselves. I think that we may not find them, or ever protect ourselves,” Anne said. “I think we will be caught. If so, we should do what we can while we are able, before the ax falls.”
Bride smoothed her hand over Anne’s head, to soothe her
. Anne might be dreamy and impractical, but she was pure of heart. Sometimes she saw the world most clearly, as she did now.
They probably would not find the forgers before the government did. They probably would be caught and sent to New South Wales along with the thieves who had stolen those plates.
Anne had put into words the reason why distance had to be reclaimed from Lord Lyndale. An affair with him could put all of them in jeopardy. It would also be wrong to betray him with such deceit, even if he was only a paramour.
She embraced Anne again, but the comfort was for herself. A deep sadness throbbed in her heart. It would be hard to never feel carefree and young again, as she had tonight. Nostalgia already mourned the warmth and friendship this man offered her, if only for a short while.
It would be very difficult to regard him as a stranger, because he no longer was and, she realized, she was very fond of him. The truth was that she wanted to be seduced by him.
“We will talk with the others, Anne. We will all decide together. However, if we are going to do this, we must not do it in this house and betray Lord Lyndale’s generosity. We must find a way to live elsewhere.”
The next morning Bride met with her sisters and Jilly in Joan’s chamber. Everyone was dressed in new ensembles from head to toe.
Anne’s concerns pricked everyone’s conscience. It was as if her blunt assessment of the future wiped away a dreamy haze. Even Mary picked at her new skirt while her face fell with an expression of chagrin.
“I suppose we should do what we can while we can,” Joan said.
“We have to, in Father’s memory,” Anne said. “It is also the right thing to do, no matter what the laws say otherwise.”
“Aye,” Jilly weighed in.
“Then I must convince Lyndale to loan us the money so that we can establish a separate household,” Bride said. “We will make and sell some plates to Mr. Downey, then hire a press for printing the notes. We will find a way to get the money back home.”
No one disagreed.
“He be here today, up and around,” Jilly reported. “Not sleeping until three as most times. They said down below that his lordship called for coffee in the main drawing room an hour ago.”
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