Melting Ice

by Stephanie Laurens

  She screamed, a gasping, keening cry, as the moment shattered about them; she felt him gather her closer still, felt the final powerful fusion, the ultimate joining of his life and hers.

  And then it was past. The moment slowly died, the ecstasy faded, yet neither moved. They lay locked together; the moon shone softly down upon them, a gentle benediction.

  Nothing any longer lay between them; there was nothing to interfere with the selfless, compulsive communion of their bodies, and their souls.

  She heard the refrain as she slid into sleep, his breath a gentle caress against her throat.

  His. Only his. His and no other’s.

  * * *

  Dyan awoke to find the muted light of dawn sliding into the room. In his arms, Fiona slept, her back curved against his side. He’d fallen asleep with the sound of her ecstasy ringing in his ears.

  The memory warmed him.

  He turned on his side and gathered her close, letting her silken warmth fill his senses. The result was inevitable; he was long beyond fighting it. He wanted her, needed her—and the ache was too new, too fresh, too excruciatingly sensitive to let it go unassuaged. And after last night, when her maturity had entirely overwhelmed her innocence, he felt no compunction in gently easing her upper thigh high, and sliding his fingers into her hot softness.

  He had loved her well, stretched her well, yet she was still very tight. He found the bud of her desire and stroked, caressed. Soon she was slick and swollen, his fingers sliding easily into her soft channel.

  It was the work of a moment to withdraw his fingers and, easing over her, replace them with his throbbing staff. Gently, very gently, he eased himself into her.

  All abandoned innocence, she was fully open to him; luscious and hot, her soft flesh closed about him. He closed his eyes tight and held back a groan as he sank deeper into her heat.

  And felt her awaken, felt that single moment of shock—then she melted about him.

  Fiona awoke to the indescribable sensation of being intimately invaded—of feeling Dyan’s body, hard and strong, surround her—of feeling him, hard and strong, fill her completely. She felt every inch of his slow slide, of the steady, relentless invasion.

  And felt, within her, a glorious well of feeling rise up and swamp her. She closed her eyes, as if to hold it in, and felt his arms close about her. Felt his chest against her back, felt his jaw brush her shoulder.

  “All right?”

  She smiled and nodded. And felt his spine flex, felt him move within her.

  She said nothing more, did nothing more, but simply lay there—his—and let him love her. Let him fondle her breasts, each caress gentle, long-drawn, heavy with wondrous feeling. Let him fill her gently, riding slow and easy, with no hint of the mindless urgency that had overtaken them in the night.

  After last night, she had no doubt that her body would satisfy him. When, at the last, he’d collapsed in her arms, he’d been beyond words, thought, or deed. He’d been sated so deeply he’d not moved for ages; she’d felt the difference in his muscles—the complete loss of tension.

  The same tension that was slowly coiling within him now; he pressed closer, tightening his arms around her, splaying one hand across her belly, under the sheet. Holding her steady as he moved more forcefully, but still with the same lazy rhythm.

  His jaw rasped her shoulder; his breath tickled her ear. “The others—the wanton scullery maids?”

  “Hmm?” Eyes closed, she smiled, concentrating more on his movements than his words.

  “They were just practice—all of them.”

  Her smile deepened. “Practice?”

  “Practice,” he averred, and rocked deep. “For this.”

  “Ah.” Eyes still closed, she felt the shudder that passed through him. She concentrated on the feel of him, slickly sliding within her.

  “Practice for you.” He nipped her ear as if aware she wasn’t listening. She chuckled and tightened about him. And heard the hiss of his indrawn breath.

  He gripped her more tightly. “No man likes to come to his love inexperienced, unprepared.” He shifted within her, then sank deep. “I wanted to be able to give you...this.”

  This was a slow, rolling climax that washed over her like gentle sunshine, a flush of heat that spread from where they joined through every vein, every limb—leaving her weighted with the most delicious languor, her senses spinning with delirious joy, and her heart filled with a heady rush of emotion.

  Tears sprang to her eyes as the sensations peaked. She felt him stiffen behind her, then felt the warmth as he flooded her.

  She closed her eyes; her smile slowly deepened. Regardless of what he thought, he had given her much more than this.

  Chapter 4

  Five minutes later, or so it seemed, Dyan hauled Fiona from the bed.

  “Come on.” He pulled her up to sit on the bed’s edge, then bullied her into her chemise.

  Yawning, she frowned. “I’m sleepy.”

  “You can sleep later—at home.”

  “Home?” She yawned again. Her bag had miraculously appeared in the room; Dyan, fully dressed, was rummaging in it.

  He turned with her carriage dress in his hands. “Here—put this on.” He pulled it over her head.

  Emerging somewhat irritated, left with little choice, she pushed her arms through the sleeves. “What’s the time?” she grumbled.

  “Late enough.”

  Fastening the dress, she looked up, and saw him cram her turquoise silk evening gown into the bag. “Dyan! You’ll crush it!”

  She started forward; scowling, he pushed her back. “Never mind about your gown—we’ve got to get moving. Where are your stockings?”

  They found them under the bed. Still dazed, half-asleep, she pulled them on. “But what—?”

  “Here.” He bent and slipped on her shoes. Then he stood and scanned the room. “That’s it. Let’s go.”

  He hefted her bag, grabbed her hand, and towed her to the door.

  “Where are we—”

  “Sssh!” Opening the door, he glanced out, then hauled her through.

  Swiftly, he strode along the corridor. Muttering direfully under her breath, she hurried beside him, too occupied with making sure she didn’t stumble to utter any further protest.

  They tiptoed down the stairs. Reaching the bottom, he paused to peer through the open drawing-room door; behind him, perched on the last step, she whispered in his ear, “Why are we acting like a pair of thieves?”

  He turned his head and glowered at her—and didn’t answer. Instead, with long, swift strides, he towed her across the front hall, down the side corridor, and into the garden room. A male guest, collapsed in a state of considerable disarray in a garden chair, snored noisily; Dyan tugged her past, shielding her from the sight.

  In the next instant, they were out of the house and striding for the stables. Long inured to Dyan’s method of covering ground—and his habit of hauling her along with him—Fiona valiantly scurried to keep up. If she didn’t, he’d been known to toss her over his shoulder; she didn’t think India had changed him all that much.

  As they rounded the corner of the house, she caught a glimpse of his face—grimly set. “Do you always wake up in such a delightful mood?”

  The glance he sent her was fathomless. “Only after orgies.”

  “Oh.” Fiona glanced back at the house. “Was that what that was?”

  “Take my word for it.”

  His boot heels rang on the stable cobbles. Sleepy grooms blinked wearily; Dyan waved them away. “I’ll get my own horse.”

  The grooms turned back to their duties, glad to be spared, but they remained too close to allow her to question Dyan further.

  Left holding the head of a magnificent gray hunter while Dyan saddled the beast, she gradually woke up, gradually recalled all that had taken place in the night. Grateful for the crisp morning air and its cooling effect on her heating cheeks, she gradually remembered all that had passed between them�
��and all that had not.

  By then, Dyan had the saddle on and had tied her bag behind it. He mounted, then, urging the gray forward, managing the beast with his knees, he reached down and plucked her from the cobbles. The next instant, she was crammed between him and the pommel.

  She immediately wriggled; he stiffened and hissed, “Sit still, dammit!”

  “I used to fit,” she grumbled, still wriggling.

  Cursing fluently, Dyan lifted her and resettled her with one knee over the pommel. “That was years ago—there’s rather more of you now.”

  She sniffed; there was rather more of him, too. The most interesting part was pressing into the small of her back. Ignoring it, she clung to the arm that wrapped about her waist. Dyan loosened the reins and the gray clattered out of the stable yard. Dyan turned the horse toward the forest and the track that led to her home.

  Yawning again, she sank back against him. “Was it really necessary to sneak out like that?”

  “What did you plan to do—stay for breakfast?”

  She raised her brows. “Do they serve breakfast after orgies?”

  He humphed and didn’t answer.

  Comfortable enough, and secretly glad to be safely on her way home, she relaxed in his arms, smiling softly as the familiar scenery slipped by. She felt a twinge or three, but that was a small price to pay for the glorious sensation of fulfillment suffusing her. She was going to enjoy reveling in it, studying it from all angles—and managing what came next.

  She was deep in plans when the roof of Coldstream House rose through the trees. She sighed and straightened. “You can drop me off by the shrubbery—I’ll walk in from there.”

  She felt Dyan’s glance, then he looked ahead again. “I’m coming in.”

  She blinked, then turned and looked into his face. “Why?”

  His glance was so brief she couldn’t read it. “I want to talk to Edmund, of course.”

  “Of course?” A dreadful, not-at-all appealing suspicion unfurled in her mind. “Which course is that?”

  “The course I intend to follow—to wit, to ask for your hand.”

  “My hand?”

  “In marriage.”

  “Marriage?”

  “I did ask, remember?”

  “But I didn’t agree!” She glared at him. She could see his direction now—and it didn’t fit with her plans.

  Turning into the drive, he glanced down at her, the set of his jaw all too familiar. “As far as I’m concerned,” he growled, “you agreed—a number of times—last night.”

  “Rubbish!” She ignored her blush—this was definitely no time for maidenly modesty. “You seduced me!”

  “And you allowed yourself to be seduced. Very enthusiastically.”

  Glancing ahead, at the stables rapidly drawing nearer, she grimaced. “But that was just...” She gestured vaguely. “That! It wasn’t about marriage.”

  “It was as far as I’m concerned—and I suspect Edmund will agree.”

  She set her jaw. “He won’t be up.”

  “He’s always up at cockcrow. Buried in a book, maybe, but he’ll see me.”

  Fiona drew in a deep, very determined, breath. “I am not marrying you.” Not yet. Not until he’d answered the question she’d asked fifteen years ago. Fifteen years was a hell of a long time to wait for an answer; she’d be damned if she let him wriggle out of giving her that answer now.

  And, oh, she knew him well. If she gave any sign of agreement, of being ready to countenance an announcement of their betrothal before she’d convinced him to say the words, she would never hear them! Given last night, this was her last chance; avoiding him physically would be impossible—the only thing she had left to bargain with was her agreement to their marriage.

  The stable arch loomed before them; Dyan slowed the gray to a walk. “Fiona, if I ask, and Edmund gives his blessing, what are you going to do? Refuse?”

  “Yes!” She was quite definite about that.

  Dyan snorted derisively. “Of all the buffle-headed females!”

  “I am not buffle-headed!” She swung to face him as they entered the stable yard. “It’s you who can’t think straight!”

  His face set, Dyan looked past her, at the groom who’d come running. “Where’s his lordship?”

  “He’s unavailable!” Fiona informed him.

  Dyan kept his gaze on the groom. “In the library?”

  Fiona swung about and, ominously narrow-eyed, stared at the groom, who cravenly kept his gaze fixed on Dyan’s face—and nodded.

  Damn, damn, damn! Inwardly seething, Fiona swallowed the vitriolic words that burned her tongue—she might swear at Dyan, but she would not curse before her brother’s servants.

  She had to wait while Dyan dismounted. She tried not to notice the fluid grace, so redolent of harnessed masculine power, with which he accomplished the act, tried not to notice how easily he lifted her—no lightweight—from the saddle. Lips shut, she allowed him to tow her, her hand clasped firmly in his, out of the stables.

  Just like him to race ahead, to recklessly cram his fences. But she’d hauled on his reins before; she was determined to do so again. To hold him back until they got things straight—clearly stated—between them.

  There was no way she would wait another fifteen years to hear what she wanted—needed—to hear.

  She waited until they’d gained the relative privacy of the gravel walk before she reasserted her intransigence.

  “Why all this rush over marrying me?” She darted a glance at his set face and tried to slow her steps. “You’ve waited fifteen years, and now you can’t wait another day?”

  His grip on her hand tightened warningly; if anything, he strode faster. “One, I seduced you.” He flicked a measuring, too-arrogant-by-half glance at her face. “Quite thoroughly, if I do say so myself.”

  He looked ahead, neatly avoiding her dagger glance. “Two, you need someone to ride rein on you—Edmund demonstrably can’t. Three, my great-aunt Augusta will approve of you and consequently take herself, and all the rest of the family, off home. And four”—he drew her relentlessly up the terrace steps—“I’ve grown exceedingly tired of my cold ducal bed—you can come and warm it. Particularly as the exercise appears to meet with your approval and you don’t seem to have anything better to do with your life.”

  As a proposal, it lacked a certain something. From Fiona’s viewpoint, it lacked a great deal. Jaw set, teeth clenched, she set about demolishing it. “For your information, Your Grace.” She uttered the title with relish; she didn’t need to look to know it brought a scowl to his face. “At my age, I do not consider a quick tumble—even three long tumbles—to be sufficient reason to tie myself up in matrimony.”

  “More fool you,” Dyan growled, and dragged her through the open French doors of the morning room. “I know you’ve always been stubborn, but don’t you think this is overdoing it—even for you?”

  “Furthermore,” she said, rolling over his interruption with positively awe-inspiring dignity, “as I have survived the past fifteen years quite comfortably without anyone riding rein on me, I can’t see that your assistance in that sphere is of any particular advantage.”

  “Perhaps—but has anyone else been comfortable? What glib lie did you feed Edmund for your absence last night? Do you imagine he believed it?”

  It was an effort not to answer that, but Fiona ignored her blush, stuck her nose in the air, and forged on. “And I do not at all see that the notion of saving you from your just deserts—to wit, the attention of your great-aunt Augusta—should in any way influence me in such an important decision.”

  “That’s because you haven’t recently met her.” Dyan ruthlessly towed her down the corridor toward the library. “When I tell Augusta that I want to marry you, she’ll be over here in a flash—you’ll marry me quick enough just to be rid of her.”

  Fiona’s eyes kindled at the thinly-veiled threat. “And as for your last inducement to marriage, while last night was enjoyabl
e enough in its way, I do not feel any overpowering urge to repeat the exercise anytime soon.”

  To her surprise, Dyan halted; the closed library door was one step away. Slightly behind him, she drew level, intending to peer into his face. He turned in the same instant.

  And the wall was at her back—and his lips were on hers.

  One hand framing her jaw, holding her trapped, he voraciously plundered her mouth. He leaned into her, letting her feel his muscled weight, letting her sense her vulnerability, her helplessness.

  Letting her sense the instant desire that raged through him—and her.

  His chest crushed her breasts—they promptly swelled and ached. She felt her body soften, felt her limbs weaken, felt all resistance melt away. Felt his other hand press between their bodies, sliding down to evocatively cup her, felt his hard fingers search, and find her. Felt the skittering thrill that raced through her as he stroked, even though his touch was muted by her skirt.

  And felt, within seconds, the slick wetness he drew forth.

  For one aching instant, he pressed more firmly against her; his tongue probed the wet softness of her mouth with a now familiar, deliciously deliberate rhythm while, through her skirts, he stroked the wet softness between her thighs, probing her to the same evocative beat.

  Then he drew back from the kiss.

  Dyan continued to stroke her, feeling her heat scorch through the cambric, sinking one fingertip between the luscious, slippery folds. He looked down at her face and waited for her lids to rise. When they did, revealing her eyes, all stunned hazel and gold, he cursed softly; driven, he took her mouth in a last, ravenous kiss—then drew back. “You’ll melt for me, Lady Arctic—anytime, anywhere. Believe it.” He growled the words against her lips—then forced himself to release her. He took a step back, supporting her against the wall. The instant he judged her legs capable of holding her upright, he caught one of her hands; flinging the library door wide, he tugged her over the threshold.

  The room was a large one, rolling away down the wing. Edmund’s desk stood at this end, perpendicular to the door. A massive, dusty-looking tome lay open upon the desk; Edmund—a large, heavily built gentleman in a soft tweed jacket—was poring over it. He looked up as they entered. His expression mild—deceptively vague—he smiled gently and sat back, removing the thick-lensed pince-nez balanced on his nose.