“Thank you,” she replied softly, feeling safe and protected.
She had no idea sharing a horse was such an intimate thing. While his hands were busy with the reins, his arms enclosed her, holding her firm. Her legs rested across his thighs and she grew ever more aware of their sinewy strength beneath his breeches, and of the distinct bulge of what lay in between. The slow jogging of the horse had her thinking of a different rhythm. She nuzzled his neckcloth, inhaling the refined scent of the soap he favored together with the earthier notes of leather and horse, and provoked a slight, almost imperceptible hitch of breath in reaction. Threading one hand inside his coat, she felt the beat of his heart.
“What?” he asked.
“My hand is cold,” she lied.
He urged the horse forward. She would be sorry when the journey ended and also glad. For the inn would provide bedchambers. Perhaps only one.
“I see light up ahead,” he said. “We’ll have you in a warm bed soon.”
She was already beginning to feel quite warm, thank you.
Reaching the inn yard, he dismounted, then lifted her down, keeping her in his arms. It turned out that the The Swan at Egham was a small place that didn’t see many travelers. The innkeeper, once convinced that he had a pair of noble guests on his hands, was all smiles, promising accommodations for the entire party. He dispatched the ostler to help with the carriage and a maid to prepare bedchambers for my lord and my lady. Bedchambers. Two of them. One each.
“I haven’t seen snow like this in years,” the innkeeper remarked. “I reckon most travelers stopped at Staines.”
“Sensible ones did,” Damian agreed, giving her a significant look. She uttered a faint squawk of protest at his needling. “My wife had a slight accident and I need to get her warm at once.”
“I can walk,” she said.
“She’s delirious.”
There were worse things than being carried. It kept her in Damian’s arms.
Damian bore her up to the inn’s best bedchamber where a servant was plying a warming pan between the sheets of the bed.
“Here you are,” he said, putting her down next to the already glowing fire. “A room this size will warm up soon. Would you like something to drink?”
“Tea would be agreeable.”
“Bring some tea for my lady.”
The servant departed, leaving an awkward silence. Damian held his hands out to the heat. His practiced glibness had deserted him, leaving him staring at his wife in frustrated longing. Holding the woman he adored so close had been a delicious torture. In the course of the short ride, outright hostility had softened to silly bickering and ended in a silent harmony he hadn’t wanted to end.
“I should leave you.” He didn’t want to. “The fire is beginning to take hold. It’ll warm up soon.”
“You just said that.” She tugged at her bonnet and tossed it aside to reveal golden hair incongruously dry. He reached out a hand to touch the shining locks that swept back from her forehead, then pulled back. Clamping his arms firmly to his sides before they got any ideas, he felt a lump in his pocket. “Here,” he said, extracting a yawning kitten. “Here’s your cat.”
“Thank you.” Not for the first time he envied the creature clasped to her bosom. She dropped a kiss on its tiny gray head and settled it on a pillow, where it yawned again, turned over, and went back to sleep.
He stared at the bed. It was a good size and looked comfortable. “You’ll have to disturb her when you get into bed.”
“Pudge won’t mind. She doesn’t mind anything, even lumpy mattresses.” He might have read an invitation in the remark, but he was humble and unsure of himself. He didn’t trust himself to interpret the widening of her blue eyes, the faint curve of her pink mouth. His intention was to subject his wife to a prolonged campaign of wooing before he tried his luck again.
“I’ll leave you to undress.”
“I have nothing to change into until the carriage arrives but I need to remove this wet gown.” She tossed aside her cloak and presented her back. “I have no maid either. Will you undo me, please?”
Now this was torture. There was nothing in the world he wanted more than to undress his wife yet he couldn’t believe things would end up according to his deepest, most fervent desires.
Focusing on the immediate task, he examined the back of her gown.
As she visualized Damian’s long fingers seeking the fastenings of her sensible but stylish traveling gown, Cynthia’s skin tingled. Waves of longing shot down to her belly. Closing her eyes, she heard the faint click as the hooks were loosened, felt the chill on the exposed back of her neck, his cool hands through the linen of her shift. The minute the gown slackened she swayed backward, finding nothing but air and space. He’d stepped away.
“You are undone,” he said in measured tones.
Shaking her shoulders, she let the gown slip to the ground and stepped out of the stiff woolen circle. Pivoting on the heels of her half boots, she faced him. He was beautiful and solemn, like an angel at the last judgment. Did angels have earthly desires? How could he stand there still as a graven image when her intimate core was empty and throbbing, aching to be filled by him. She chose to believe it wasn’t her fancy that his gray eyes had turned dark, dark with need. Need for her.
Oh, she was indeed undone.
“Your shoes are wet.” Never had mundane words sounded so fraught with sensual possibilities.
Without uttering a word, she sat on the edge of the mattress and extended a leg. He dropped to one knee, and worked off the damp jean boot. Then he took the stockinged foot between his palms and rubbed the soles with his thumbs. She let her linen shift rise up, her knees fall open, evoking flared nostrils and a hitch of breath. Nevertheless, he did nothing but continue his blissful ministrations until she removed her foot and offered the other. While he removed the boot she tried an experiment, opening her thighs so brazenly that her intention could not be mistaken. She felt herself grow hot and wet inside. He glanced up the inviting tunnel and smiled. The message had been received. With utter concentration he returned to the massage of her foot.
The curve of his mouth propelled her state of longing into the heavens. He too had delivered a message. He was hers, just as soon as she gave the signal.
“Damian,” she said, stroking the dark hair back from his forehead. It was soft and disordered, unlike its usual impeccable state. She noticed a faint bruise on his left cheekbone and, when he looked up, a reddening and perhaps a trace of blood about the shapely nose. She didn’t want to hear about his fight with Julian.
“What?”
“I want you.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.”
He swallowed. “Shall we undress?”
His blazing eyes sent her up in flames. “I want you now. Fast. I don’t want to wait a minute. Not even a second.”
Her husband knew what fast meant. He released her foot and pushed her firmly onto her back. Spread-eagled before him with arms extended, bare to her upper thighs aside from her stockings and garters, legs hanging over the end of the mattress, she felt shockingly, delectably open. The air, warmed by the fire but still with a little winter nip, cooled her private parts without in the least diminishing the burning heat inside. Tilting her head, she watched him watch her. Fully dressed in coat and waistcoat, breeches, and tall polished top boots, he offered a picture of masculine grace and strength that evoked a soft vulnerability in her that she could define only as a wish to be utterly possessed.
“I think you’ll have to take at least one garment off.” She cast a taunting little smile, lest he think anything had changed and he was in charge.
“There are so many areas in which your education needs to be improved.” Without taking his eyes off her, he opened the buttons of his sober brown buckskin breeches.
“Un, deux, trois . . .” she counted. “Quatre, cinq, six.” All the way to eleven.
&nbs
p; And the fall of leather descended.
“Your French really has improved, my lady.”
His male member leaped out from a frame of white linen. Far from sober, it seemed unbridled and fierce, darker than the rest of his skin, thick and powerful-looking. This time she anticipated nothing but pleasure. She stretched her arms and legs wider and lifted her pelvis. “Maintenant, s’il vous plait, monsieur.”
He stood between her splayed legs and lifted her shift all the way to the waist. She felt no shyness, only exhilaration. “Enchanté, madame,” he replied, grasping her bottom with one hand to bring her to the right height. Her head lolled back onto the bed so she didn’t see how he came in, only felt the quest at her entrance followed by a thrust and a smooth, gliding entry. “Je veux te foutre.”
Whatever he said sounded wicked and possessive; she felt wicked and possessed. Owned by him, utterly in his hands to take what he meted out with every confidence that the result would be her pleasure.
“Ooooh, yes,” she crooned on a long breath.
Her very great pleasure.
“All right?” he asked in a strained voice.
“Oh my goodness, Damian,” she shrieked.
Her extreme delight.
“I take it that’s a yes. You are incredible.”
“Don’t stop.”
“Not a chance.”
Both hands held her at exactly the place he wanted, resisting her involuntary convulsions as he withdrew and returned again, and again. With each entrance her longing increased, building to the crescendo of sensation he’d given her with his mouth the night of the bhang. Now she knew what to expect and, as far as his controlling hands allowed, met him thrust for thrust and discovered inner muscles that could clench his marvelous, brilliant member, savagely demanding it remain within, even as each movement intensified her bliss. Her thighs closed about his hips, her legs wound about him, holding him tight.
“Finalement, je te fous,” he gasped between heavy breaths. Since she didn’t know this particular French phrase, she guessed that it wasn’t one she would encounter in polite society. Rightly so. There was nothing polite about their joining. It was crude and earthy. The motions were the same as the soulless couplings they had endured after their marriage, but there the resemblance ended. How the same motions could achieve so different a result, she had no idea. He was a silken hammer in her soft cradle and she loved every slick inward drive, each momentary retreat, each return more satisfying than the last. She couldn’t stand the joy and never wanted it to end as she mounted to the same apex of ecstasy she’d enjoyed before. She felt that crest of joy, then the tumbling into delight, no less astonishing for being known.
“Oh, Damian,” she keened, jerking her head from side to side on the counterpane.
“Oui,” she screamed. “Oh God, yes!”
As tremors seized her body, his movements sped to a fever until they were wild and unrestrained. She expected the stiffening of his muscles, the arching of his neck, the cry of completion, and the rush of heat as he spilled his seed.
What happened next was different, though. Instead of removing himself from her body and her bed, he collapsed on her, still joined. As she became capable of sensations beyond what she dubbed the earthquake of delight, she registered the scratchiness of his coat rubbing her arms and neck and the tops of her breasts, rising above her stays. He took her mouth in a long, deep, wet kiss of the kind he’d never given her during their previous unions. For the first time she felt a rightness about this most intimate of actions, the strange congress of man and wife. More than that. It might just be the best thing the world had to offer.
Eventually, out of breath, they parted. They ended up sprawled on the bed, side by side with only the backs of their hands touching, a fleeting shadow of their devastating embrace.
“Sorry, Pudge,” Damian said when the kitten squeaked and retreated to the hearth to continue her nap. “Was that fast enough for you?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Slow can be good too.” He trailed his fingers over her breasts.
Would it be proper to say I look forward to finding out? She settled for “Oh.” Her boldness had vanished, leaving her paralyzed by shyness. Etiquette offered no guidance as to what to say under these circumstances. She wasn’t sure Lady Ashfield herself would be able to advise her on the correct behavior in this situation.
He tucked her head into the curve of his shoulder, making her wince. “Did I hurt you?”
“Just a hairpin. I can’t believe my hair is still up after that agitation.” He helped her rummage among her tousled locks, handing her the pins until they were all removed. The simple task seemed profoundly personal, more so than the energetic union of their bodies. That was a normal function of marriage while hair arranging was not. A strange and illogical truth.
“Why do you smile?”
“No reason. I just feel well.” Discussing her peculiar insight was a further advance in intimacy she wasn’t yet ready to pursue. The intensity of their congress had receded, leaving her physically replete but aware of the weighty issues that still lay between them.
Chapter 20
Damian awoke feeling sore all over and unsure of where he was. The bed was smaller than he was used to, though comfortable enough. The small chamber was well heated. The window revealed only that it was daylight and snowing. It all came back to him.
“Good morning!”
Now this was a sight worth waking up to. Cynthia, clad in blue with her golden hair neatly dressed, smiling at him from a seat near the fire.
“What time is it?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve been up a couple of hours but I decided to let you sleep.” Pink roses suffused her creamy cheeks. “You had a long ride through the snow.”
“It’s still coming down, I see.”
“I doubt we’ll be going anywhere today.”
Perhaps not tomorrow either. She couldn’t escape him, and enforced proximity would give him the chance to woo her into staying with him willingly, joyously. Yesterday’s lovemaking had been a good start.
“There’s food in the next room. Since we shared a bed”—she blushed again—“and the inn doesn’t have a private parlor, I ordered breakfast upstairs. There is bread and butter and cold meats. The tea is probably cold but I can ring for fresh, and something more substantial if you wish.”
“I’m sure it will do very well. Uh, how did we come to share a room and why don’t I remember?”
“You came with me upstairs after dinner, removed your coat, lay down on the bed, and fell asleep.”
The sheer bliss of ending a long sexual drought, and in sensational fashion, had temporarily numbed the havoc wrought by a brutal fight followed by a long, hard ride in poor conditions. The triumphant charge had ebbed over dinner. Damian had much to say to Cynthia and no idea how to begin. Perhaps it was as well that they had dined in a public room, under the interested eye of the innkeeper and his wife and a stranded commercial traveler who was the only other guest.
“That wasn’t very polite of me. Apparently I at least had the decency to remove my boots too.”
“As a matter of fact I pulled them off. It was quite a struggle.”
“I am obliged.”
The pink roses turned to deep red as she fixed her attention on the large sketch pad she held on her lap. She’d been bold enough in the grip of passion, but he rather hoped her grasp of French didn’t extend to the crudities he’d used in bed. In five minutes he returned, still wearing only his shirt and breeches.
“Since we’re not going anywhere today, I don’t see the point of dressing. I brought my breakfast in here, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
With Cynthia occupying the only chair, he perched on the end of the mattress, the recent location of long-delayed satisfaction. Thinking about that incredible bout had him ready for a repetition. But she looked so ladylike and serene this morning that it was impossible to believe she’d opened her le
gs and demanded he take her. He bit into a sandwich of bread and ham, concentrated on chewing it thoroughly, and watched her draw.
“Another window view?” he asked.
“It wouldn’t be very interesting since there’s nothing to see but snow.” She peeked at him from under her lashes. “I attempted to draw you while you slept. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Would you show it to me?”
Without a word she handed him the block. Remembering the less than flattering portrait she’d produced before, he looked with some trepidation. For a moment he scarcely recognized the face. He’d never seen himself with his eyes closed, but that wasn’t the reason. He stared at a man he hadn’t seen in years, one he’d once known well. A young face, innocent and carefree in repose, smiling faintly in his sleep, the only shadow a dusting of bristles on his chin. He couldn’t quite define the difference from the earlier drawing. The features were the same.
“You’re frowning,” Cynthia said. “Do you think it very bad? I was quite pleased with the likeness.”
“Is this how I always look when I am asleep?”
“I haven’t enough experience to judge so I’ll have to let you know.”
“Do you think I look the same when awake?”
“Not always. You do today.” As she studied him, he wanted nothing better than to kiss the gravity from her bewitching features and fluster her into blushing smiles. “Openness,” she said, with a nod. “Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve been closed off, self-contained, giving away nothing. As I drew you sleeping I saw you without a mask.”
“I am a diplomat. It is my job to be diplomatic.”
“Do you have to be like that with me?”
He did not. He hadn’t always been so with others either. Under the influence of Radcliffe, he had hidden his emotions and buried them so deep they’d almost ceased to exist. The lessons had fallen on fertile ground. Or frozen ground, rather. He’d come to Sir Richard in a state of shock and readily assimilated precepts that had numbed his pain. “I don’t want to be.”
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