by Nicole Byrd
“What?”
“All of this.” She glanced about them. “Make me forget. If I have one hour left to live, make it a splendid one.”
He looked at her in astonishment. “Do you know what you are asking?”
“Oh yes,” she said, lifting her face to smile at him, her eyes shining with that mischievous sparkle he loved so much. “I do know. I did not have a sheltered childhood, my darling. I know what I have not had, and I want it all.”
She put her hand to his cheek, ran her fingers across his lips, and he felt the need inside him surge, despite their danger, despite his guilt over not averting this quandary.
It was true. If they died here at midnight, it would be sufficient scandal when their mangled bodies were found together amid the rubble. Surely her brother would realize it was not just an accident with the fireworks, Dominic told himself. Fallon would have to realize that his sister would not have been so brazen.
Although now, her hand had dropped to his throat, and he thought perhaps that was not quite the right word.
She began to untie his neckcloth. He stopped her for a moment, then pulled it off himself and used it to dab at her neck. “You’re bleeding a little, dearest heart.”
“Oh, I like that title,” she said. “And yes, I know. It stings a bit. Would you kiss me, Dominic?”
She was the bravest person he had ever known, and he had witnessed courage often enough on the battlefields. But surely even his soldiers’ rugged valor could not top this petite woman who had a heart as sturdy and as true as any trooper’s.
And if she wanted to forget their current danger, their almost certain doom, then by God, he could give her that!
He pulled her into his embrace and leaned closer to touch her lips with his. She met his kiss eagerly, and when he pressed more firmly, she matched his need with a hunger of her own. She had surprised him before, but she continued to amaze him. No other young lady he had encountered had been so honest about her own desires. . . .
Dominic tightened his grip and allowed his tongue to slip between her lips, probing, tasting the sweet warmth of her mouth. She met him once again with equal fervor, passion meeting passion. And she pressed herself against him until the buttons of his jacket squeezed into his chest, and surely hers, too.
Cold or not, she pushed the coat away. He lifted his head, and she smiled up at him. “Would you unbutton my dress, please? I cannot bear to rip it, even though—”
He thought of exploding shards of stone tearing silk and skin alike and thrust the image away, glad that she had turned and did not see his face. Make her forget . . .
She slipped out of the gown and put it carefully aside, then pushed her petticoats down and he untied the light stays that had held up her small well-shaped breasts. They were quite alert on their own, he thought, trying not to smile as she pulled her shift over her head. Parade ready, the soldiers always said. . . .
“Well?”
He realized he had been staring and too idle for her liking. He shed his own clothes as quickly as possible; she was rubbing her arms again.
He rubbed them for her, and Clarissa’s lips lifted. “You have wonderfully strong hands, my lord—I mean, Dominic.”
“I’ll show you strong hands presently,” he murmured into her ear, then nibbled on its perfect lobe.
She shivered, but this time with pleasure. He kissed her neck, pressed his mouth against the top of her breast, and then lay her gently back against his coat.
Clarissa felt the coldness of the stone seeping past the too-short coat, but now he was lying on his side, close to her, and the warmth and nearness of his body was more than sufficient to distract her from the floor’s discomfort. His skin was very warm indeed, and now he put his well-shaped hand—she must tell him soon how much she enjoyed the symmetry of his form, she thought absently—on her breast. And then she forgot everything else as he stroked the sides of one breast, then the other, teased the nipples with the barest whisper of touch until her skin seemed afire, and then, just as she moved restlessly beneath his hand, he leaned forward and put his lips around a nipple.
This time she did gasp, then sigh in delight at the flashes of feeling that his tongue and mouth elicited. Her nipple strained against his tongue, and deep in her belly, other fires flamed. He gentled her nipple, stroked it, sucked and kissed it, and the flashes grew and the pleasure deepened. Then he lifted his mouth and before she could protest, he moved to the other nipple and coaxed it into the same fiery feelings. His mouth was firm against her breast, feeling just as wonderful as it had felt against her lips . . . and again her thoughts floated away.
He was stroking her belly now as he suckled one breast. The rivulets of fire spread, and her whole body seemed to glow from his touch. Her legs trembled and fell apart quite naturally so that he could run his hand down and find the soft places between her legs that had developed their own ache.
And now she found that he, indeed, had strong hands. His fingers stroked the inside of her thighs until she groaned from pleasure and need, and then at last he moved his hand to the heart of that strange yearning, found the soft folds and moved his hand in just the right places till the pleasure was so intense it almost frightened her. She arched her back against him and found herself making small sounds that could not—must not—be ladylike at all.
But he looked up to smile at her, and Clarissa reached for that dark shaggy hair and pulled his head closer so she could kiss his lips eagerly, hungrily.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered against his cheek, kissing it, too, kissing the rough scar that was part of him and thus as beloved to her as every other inch of that incredible body.
So he moved his fingers up and down and then, to her shock, slipped them deep inside her. And again a ripple of need flowed through her, and every movement of his hand seemed to both satisfy and inflame her, delight her and tease her into wanting more. He stroked and gentled and probed the recesses of her being, and she enjoyed every moment.
And she wanted more.
“Oh, Dominic,” she whispered. “I need you, my love.”
He turned and lifted himself over her, and she felt, rather than saw, in the flickering faint light of the lantern, the firmness of him against her thighs. Then he moved slightly and put his hands beneath her hips to lift her just a little, and she felt him slide inside her.
Bloody hell, she thought. He felt as big as a mountain, and yet just right, just what she had yearned for, the right puzzle piece when she hadn’t even known what space was empty and needed him to fill it.
He waited a moment, then moved gently further into her, and there seemed to be something wrong, an obstruction.
She frowned, and then he pushed forward and there was a brief ripping pain.
“Oh,” she said.
Dominic leaned forward and kissed her lips. She returned his kiss eagerly, loving the feel of him against her, his whole body pressed onto her, her breasts pressing against the hardness of his chest. And she relaxed again and forgot to tense herself against the unexpected pang. Then he lifted himself once more, and before she could brace herself, he pushed again. And this time, instead of pain, she felt a rippling wave of pleasure so deep and pure that she groaned.
He paused and looked at her, and she managed to smile. “Don’t stop,” she whispered. “My love.”
“My own dearest heart,” he murmured.
Then he moved again, up and down, in and out, and the waves of delight flowed together, lifting her onto a crest of joy that infused her whole body as if she were a small pale fish caught in a current of pleasure. She was swept along with no control at all, only her body responded to his motion, and when he paused to kiss her breast, touch her lips, run his mouth along the curve of her neck, she felt white-hot from the heat of the passion they shared.
Then he lifted himself a little and moved again inside her, and she was swept back into the river, but now the feelings were so intense, the passion so scorching that she felt it must be a river of lava from so
me exotic volcano. He moved and she was swept along, the heat running through her, over her, cutting her to the bone with the deep joy of their passion. At last she felt as if her body had slipped into the molten waves at the center of the maelstrom, and the flood of pleasure impelled her, captured her, body and soul, her whole being rising and circling as it swept her to the peak of the bursting mountaintop—
When the joy exploded, she cried out, and he held her close and kissed her again and again, and she held him tightly, curled into him, wanting to be nowhere on earth but here, in his arms.
And if they died together—the thought seemed distant and far away—she would perish in a moment of sheer happiness, and how many of God’s creatures were granted that boon?
She shut her eyes for a moment, then opened them again and gazed at his beloved face, so close in the dimness. “Thank you, my love,” she said.
“Dearest heart,” he answered, his voice faint from spent passion. “You are the most amazing, most precious, most incredible woman I have ever known. If we should happen to live to see daybreak, tell me you will marry me, sweetling.”
She knew her eyes widened.
“Oh,” she said. Perhaps she had dreamed of this, in some distant corner of her soul, but she had never put the thought into words—it was too far-fetched, the earl and the former serving girl, the aristocrat and the not-quite lady . . . Did she deserve such a husband? She only knew that no lady, no matter how highborn, could ever love him more.
So she smiled and nestled closer, if possible, inside his arms. “I will marry you, Dominic. And if we don’t see sunrise, then I proclaim it now, for the heavens to acknowledge. I love you, and I take you for my husband, Dominic Shay, earl of Whitby.”
“And I claim you for my wife,” he answered, his voice stronger but still husky. “For better or for worse, indeed! For the rest of our lives—whether minutes or years, we will spend them together.”
She smiled at him, and the fear that had colored the beginning of this tryst was a distant memory.
But then, just as she was about to shut her eyes and await their fate, she looked up at the flickering shadows cast by the lantern—was its fuel fading?—and her eyes widened.
Eighteen
“What is it?” he asked.
“Dominic, there is a window, after all! There, just under the eaves.”
He rolled over swiftly and stared at where she pointed. “Yes, very small, and very, very high up. If you stood on my shoulders, do you think you could reach it?”
She looked at the window and, with regret, shook her head. “I always wanted to be taller, you know, just a few inches. It’s most unfair.”
He grimaced. “Normally, I would tell you that I would not change one hair on your head, but just now, a few more inches might be helpful.”
She nodded, and he went on. “Still, if we could get you to the rafter, there, I believe you could reach it, my love.”
He sat up, and with his coaching, she was able to sit with her legs about his neck and balance herself as he stood carefully. Having his head press against her naked stomach was an interesting sensation but, just now, not one she could savor.
“I can’t reach it,” she said in acute disappointment. Even when he stood close to the wall so that she could stand, with its support to keep from slipping off his slightly damp shoulders, she could not quite reach the rafter. A few more inches . . .
“If I had a rope to throw over it,” she suggested. “Put me down, Dominic. Where is your knife?”
He found it quickly and she took up her wonderful ball gown, sighing at what she was about to do.
He stared as she held out her hand for the blade. “Silk is quite strong, you know,” she told him. “And this is heavier than my petticoats, which would rip too easily.”
She used the knife to rip apart her dress, refusing to show the pangs she felt. Time was short, had to be short. Had someone outside lit the first firework yet?
She worked as fast as she could. She ripped the dress into short lengths of fabric, and Dominic tied them together until they had a roughly made rope that looked long enough to serve their purpose. The irony of it was that the gold threads in her gown that had given it such a magical, simmering beauty seemed to strengthen the fabric. The couturier’s whim might yet save their lives, if the time did not slip away from them.
As soon as they could, she was balanced on Dominic’s shoulders again, this time trying to throw their rough lifeline over the rafter. The first time she tossed it, she swung too hard and lost her balance. Shrieking, she slipped from his shoulders and fell. But as the stones rushed up at her, Dominic grabbed her waist. Although the shock of his catch jolted her, and they both ended up in a heap, he had stopped her fall and taken most of the impact so that she did not hit the stone floor with full force, which could easily have splintered a bone.
It took a moment for her to catch her breath, then they started again. First, balance on his shoulders, lean on the wall, scramble to her feet, catch the rope when he passed it up, then, more carefully, try to toss it over the rafter.
The first throw fell short.
The second touched the beam but slipped away too soon.
The third attempt went over the beam.
“Knot it twice,” Dominic instructed, his voice a little tight from the strain of supporting her.
Now another scary moment. She had to swing on the rope, find a toehold in the rough stone and try to make it the rest of the way. She took hold of the rope and tried to work her way up.
She made it a few inches, half a foot.
But her fingers were damp with sweat, and her hands slipped on the rope. Clarissa gasped and dug her nails into the silk, hoping she wouldn’t shred it.
She stopped her fall, clung desperately to the line, and tried again. She reached up, inched a little farther, dug her feet into the stone wall beside her and tried to find a crack wide enough to support her. Reached a hand up to take another grip.
Inch by inch, she fought for every handhold.
Gemma felt her stomach clench with fear, but she forced her expression to remain composed. Where could Clarissa be? The air was cool, and she shivered.
“I cannot find her, Matthew,” she whispered. They had joined the other guests in front of the house as everyone waited for the fireworks to be lit.
Lady Gabriel had suggested, with the greatest courtesy, that the guest of honor should have the best spot for viewing.
Except that the guest of honor seemed to have disappeared!
Gemma bit her lip. “I blame myself,” she said. “I should have paid more attention to my duty and not have ignored your sister.”
If they had not danced two sets with each other, if she had not briefly forgotten everything except the pleasure she felt when she and Matthew joined hands, and how they might have something new to celebrate . . . But now she chastised herself all over again. “Oh, it’s my fault. I am her chaperone. I should have made sure she understood, but I don’t believe it. Clarissa cannot have slipped away—unless they are together and she has forgotten the time—but no, surely she would realize that she cannot vanish from her own ball!” Her mind was going in circles, and her thoughts made as little sense as her words, she told herself, but she was beyond caring.
“And I am her brother!” Matthew said, also keeping his tone low, although she detected the note of alarm in it.
“You don’t think—surely, there can be no dangers here?” Gemma protested, even as she felt a coldness in the pit of her stomach, and this time, she thought it was undiluted fear, not the evening air at all.
She had looked for them, for Clarissa especially, once already, but it was hard to search the whole house without alerting the other guests and starting gossip that nothing would quench, and that Gemma was not yet willing to do.
Psyche had been understanding, and she had sent word to delay the start of the fireworks, though one rocket had gone off before the servants received her command.
Now, the guests around them muttered and shivered a bit in the cool air, as they waited for the rest of the display.
“Is there a problem?” a stout older man inquired.
Psyche hurried off to pacify him, offering some excuse, which Gemma did not hear.
“I shall go through the house again,” Gemma said, when suddenly Matthew turned. “What is it?”
“One of the dogs has slipped out.”
“I thought Psyche had them put up; they are always frightened by the gunpowder and the lights,” Gemma said. But now she heard the barking, too.
“This one seems to have escaped the pen. And what is he snarling about?”
“It may be only the fireworks, my love,” she told him, but he had already turned. She saw him hasten forward, and some premonition sent her hurrying to find a footman to send after him.
“You’re almost there,” Dominic called. “Hang on, love, hang on.”
She felt as if her shoulders must be on fire. Not the delightful fire of their shared passion, but a deep pain as she swung on the makeshift rope, supporting most of her own weight on arms unaccustomed to such exertions. Still, she was likely stronger than the average young lady. Clarissa remembered the pails of water and hods of coal she had toted during her time as a maidservant, and thanked heaven she had not totally lost the muscles she had built up as a result. Biting her lip, she reached higher.
And suddenly her fingers brushed the rafter! Emboldened, she scrambled for a new toehold and tried again. This time, she got one hand around the rough wood, and although a splinter stung her hand, she gripped the beam hard. Between the wood beam and the support of the wall beneath her scrambling feet, she got one arm over it, then another, then, not daring to rest, her whole body trembling with fatigue, she pulled herself over.
Balancing again—she could not fall now, she would never be able to make this climb again—Clarissa braced herself against the wall and, knees wobbly, managed to stand and reach for the window itself.
It was partially blocked by a wooden shutter that, to her fury, did not want to budge. She had not come this far for nothing!