Melting Ice

by Stephanie Laurens

  Dragging in a quick breath, her eyes wild, her hair still loose about her shoulders, Fiona wrenched her hand from Dyan’s. He let her go; she threw him a mutinous look, then marched across the room.

  Dyan closed the door—and remained in front of it.

  Brows lifting slightly, Edmund shifted his mildly bemused gaze from Dyan to his sister, now pacing furiously before the fireplace.

  Color high, Fiona swung to face him. “Edmund—I do not wish you to listen to a single word Dyan says—not one!”

  “Oh?” Looking even more bemused—in fact, faintly amused—Edmund looked back at Dyan. “Good morning, Darke. What was it you wished to say to me?”

  “No!” Fiona wailed.

  “By your leave, Edmund, I wish to—”

  “Don't listen to him!”

  “—apply for Fiona’s hand—”

  “Edmund—he’s entirely out of order. I don’t want you to pay any attention—”

  “—in marriage.” Eyes locked with Edmund’s, Dyan ignored the seething glare Fiona hurled his way.

  Edmund blinked owlishly, then looked at Fiona. “Why shouldn’t he ask me that?”

  Still pacing, Fiona folded her arms beneath her breasts. “Because I don’t wish to consider the matter at present.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s too soon.”

  Edmund blinked—very slowly—again. “Too soon after what?” His gaze slid back to Dyan; he raised a quizzical brow.

  “I suspect she means too soon after last night, which she spent in my bed.”

  “It wasn’t your bed!” Fiona hotly declared.

  Across the room, Dyan met her gaze levelly; he could still see the last remnants of the gloriously distracted look that had filled her golden eyes in the corridor. And last night. “The bed I was then inhabiting.” He glanced at Edmund. “At Brooke Hall.”

  Edmund met his gaze and nodded once, in understanding. Still utterly unperturbed, he again looked at Fiona, now pacing even more furiously. It was Dyan’s firm opinion that Edmund, ten full years Fiona’s senior, had been born unflappable—which, given his sister’s propensities and the adventures he himself had led her into, was probably just as well.

  After a long moment, Edmund asked, still in the most reasonable of tones, “How long should Darke and I wait before we discuss this matter?”

  Fiona stopped. Lifting her head, she stared at Edmund. Then her eyes blazed. “I don’t want you discussing it at all! Not until I give my leave. I don’t want you to discuss anything with Dyan—if he has anything to discuss he can discuss it with me.”

  Edmund merely opened his eyes wider. “And how long are these discussions between you likely to take?”

  Fiona flung her hands in the air. “How the hell should I know?” She threw a furious glance at Dyan. “Given his progress to date, it might well be another fifteen years!”

  Uttering a barely smothered, distinctly unladylike sound, she whirled on her heel and stalked down the long room to another door to the corridor. She flung the door open and left, slamming it shut behind her. The sound rang in the silence of the library. Both men stared at the door.

  “Hmm,” Edmund said, and reached for his pince-nez.

  Dyan blinked. He watched as Edmund settled his spectacles back in place and refocused on his dusty tome. Dyan frowned. “You don’t seem overly concerned. Or surprised.”

  Edmund’s brows rose; he continued to scan his page. “Why should I be concerned? I’m sure you’ll sort it out. Never was wise to get in the way of either of you—and as for getting between you—a fool’s errand, that.” Reaching for a ruler, Edmund aligned it on the page. “And as for surprise—well, that’s hardly likely, is it? The entire county’s been waiting for years for the two of you to come to your senses.”

  Dyan stared. Oblivious, Edmund went on, “Only real surprise is that it’s taken you so long. Fiona’s the only one who’s ever hauled on your reins—and you’re the only one who’s ever rattled her.” He shrugged. “Obvious, really. Of course, with you in India, no one liked to say anything...” His voice was fading, as if he was sinking back into his tome. “Assuming you don’t actually want to wait another fifteen years, she’s probably taken refuge in her office—it’s the room that used to be Mama’s parlor.”

  Dyan continued to stare at Edmund’s bent head for all of thirty seconds—then he shook his head, shook himself, opened the door and went off to track down his obviously fated bride.

  Who obviously hadn’t expected to be found. The stunned look on her face when he walked in the door was proof enough of that. Coldstream House was a rambling mansion; she should have been safe for hours. Realizing Edmund had betrayed her, she stiffened, lifted her chin, and edged behind a chaise.

  His eyes on her, Dyan closed the door. Noting the tilt of her chin, the flash of ire in her eyes, he turned the key in the lock, and calmly removed it. He hefted the key in his palm, watched her gaze lock on it—then he slid the key into his waistcoat pocket.

  And started toward her.

  “Dyan—” Fiona lifted her gaze to his face, and retreated fully behind the chaise. She frowned at him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m about to get your agreement to a wedding—ours.”

  Not entirely under her breath, Fiona swore. He was going to avoid saying the words—she knew it. But she would be damned if she married him after all this time without that—without a clear, straightforward declaration.

  “I am not simply going to agree to marry you.” She fixed her gaze on his face, on his eyes, waiting to read his direction.

  “That much, I’d gathered.” His gaze lifted; his eyes, deep midnight blue, locked on hers. “What I don’t yet know is what it’s going to take to change your mind.”

  Snapping free of his visual hold, suddenly breathless, she realized he was rounding the end of the chaise. With a half-smothered shriek, she turned and raced around the other end. “Words,” she said, and glanced over her shoulder.

  He followed in her wake, unhurriedly stalking her. “Which particular words would you like?”

  “Reasons,” she declared. “Your reasons for marrying me.” She scuttled behind the second chaise, facing the first on the other side of the fireplace. As long as he didn’t pounce, they could go around and around for hours.

  Something changed in his face; he looked up and again caught her eye. She fought not to let him mesmerize her. “I don’t want you to marry me for any stupid, chivalrous reason—like saving my reputation.”

  His brows rose; his eyes glinted wickedly. “I didn’t know your reputation needed saving.” His lips quirked. “Other than from me, of course.”

  She glared, and slipped around the second chaise. “I meant because of attending what I have on excellent authority was an orgy at Brooke Hall.”

  “I think,” he said, head to one side as if considering the matter, “that you’ll discover you didn’t attend any orgy—in fact, I seriously doubt anyone will remember seeing you there at all. But,” he said, steadily tracking her, “if that’s what you’re bothered about, you may put it from your head. I am not marrying you to save your reputation.”

  “Good. So why, then?” Fiona returned to the safety of the first chaise. “And if you tell me it’s to get rid of your great-aunt Augusta, I’ll scream.”

  “Ah, well.” Dyan surreptitiously closed the gap between them. “You are going to get rid of great-aunt Augusta for me—there’s no doubt whatsoever of that. However,” he conceded, swiftly lengthening his stride as he neared the chaise, “that’s not, I admit, why I want to marry you.”

  “So why?” Behind the chaise, Fiona turned.

  Dyan caught her and hauled her into his arms.

  “Dyan!” She struggled furiously, but he had her trapped. Incensed, she looked up, a blistering tirade on her tongue—

  He kissed her, and kept kissing her, until she couldn’t remember her name. She couldn’t think at all; she could only feel—feel th
e ardor in his kiss, the deep, long-buried yearning, the soul-stealing invitation that she’d first tasted fifteen years before.

  And her answer was there—all she needed to know of why he wished to marry her—it was all there in his kiss. He laid himself bare—showed her what was in his heart. Not simply passion, although there were wells of that aplenty, not just desire, although the hot waves lapped about them. And not just need, either, although she could sense that, too, like a towering mountain planted at the core of his being.

  It was the emotion that rose like a sun over it all, over the landscape of their bound lives.

  That was why he would marry her.

  The heat of that sun warmed her through and through and she shed her icy armor. Softening in his arms, she wriggled her own free and draped them about his neck. He instantly drew her closer, deepening the kiss, letting the feelings intensify—the passion, the desire, the need—and that other. Fiona gloried in it.

  Dyan shifted; she didn’t realize he was backing her until her hips hit the edge of her desk. He gripped her waist and lifted her, balancing her bottom on the edge of the desk.

  Almost instantly, she felt the cool caress of the air as he lifted her skirts—pushed them up to her waist and tucked the folds behind her. Then he slipped one hand under the front edge of her chemise. Balanced as she was, with his hard thighs between hers, she was open to him; within seconds she was shuddering.

  Dyan broke their kiss and trailed his lips down the long curve of her throat. She let her head fall back, her fingers sinking into his shoulders as he slid one long finger past the slick, swollen, pouting flesh throbbing between her thighs, and reached deep. He stroked; she moaned.

  Satisfied, he withdrew his hand and went to work on the buttons of his breeches.

  “And,” he whispered. She lifted her head and their parched lips brushed, then parted. “If you haven’t yet got the message—or you’ve suddenly been struck blind and can’t read it—how about I’m marrying you because... ” Even now, he couldn’t resist teasing her. He studied her face, her gloriously distracted expression; his lips twitched. “You might, even now, be pregnant with my heir.”

  Her lids flickered; beneath her lashes, her eyes glinted. Her lips started to firm—he kissed them. “And,” he murmured, wrestling with a button, “if you aren’t, I fully intend to come to you day and night, and fill you at every opportunity—until you swell and ripen with my child.”

  Her lips parted—he immediately covered them. “How about,” he said, the instant he released them, “that I’m marrying you because, without you, the rest of my life will be as empty as the last fifteen years.”

  That, he could tell from her eyes, was almost acceptable.

  The last button refused to budge; he was so aroused he was almost in pain. He bit back a groan. Noticing his problem, she reached down to help. Her smaller fingers dealt deftly with the recalcitrant button; his staff, engorged, erect, sprang forth, into her hands.

  He groaned again—louder—as her fingers closed about him. “How about,” he ground out, quickly pushing her hands away, “that I’m marrying you because I need to be inside you—you and no other—or I’ll go insane.”

  She looked up and, one brow rising quizzically, caught his eye—he was clearly getting very close to achieving his goal. He was also getting very close to—

  “Dammit, woman, I love you! I’ve loved you forever, and I’ll love you forever. Are those the words you want to hear?”

  “Yes!” Her expression turned radiant. She flung her arms about his neck and kissed him passionately. She broke off as he grasped her hips, anchoring her on the edge of the desk. “Anyone would think,” she said, wriggling a little as he pressed between her thighs, his staff urgently seeking her entrance, “that saying those words was painful.”

  He knew what was painful—he found the source of her slick heat and thrust deep. She gasped, clung tight, and melted—not an iceberg but a volcano, pulsing with heat around him. He wrapped his arms about her and, with an aching shudder, sank deep. “Am I to take it that’s acceptable? That you can accept that as a reason for our marriage?” He knew she loved him—had known it for confirmed fact the first time she’d parted her thighs for him; she was, after all, Lady Arctic—and he was the only one who had ever melted her ice.

  All he got in answer was a sigh as he embedded himself fully within her. “For God’s sake, woman—say yes!”

  Fiona tipped back her head; a glorious smile curved her lips. She met his dark eyes, almost black with leashed passion; deliberately, she arched and drew him deeper still. “Yes.”

  She said it, panted it, screamed the word at least six times more before all fell silent in the office.

  He took her in his arms and filled her heart, gave her life purpose, completed her. She wrapped him in her arms and held him, filled the aching void within him, and anchored his wild and reckless soul.

  * * *

  They were married two weeks later; Dyan’s heir was born a bare nine months after that. And Dyan’s great-aunt Augusta, for quite the first time in his life, was pleased to approve.

  THE END

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