by Brenda Hiatt
"Just a moment." Releasing her, he pulled a blanket from the foot of the bed and threw it around her shoulders, pulling her to him again with the ends. "That's better. I'd be a poor sort of protector to betray your trust already."
Sliding her arms around him, she seized the ends of the blanket and wrapped them around his back until they were both covered. "I've made a commitment here as well," she said lightly, but with an undertone of meaning.
"Have you, Rowena?" He gazed into her eyes, trying to divine the depth of that meaning.
Though she blushed, she did not look away as she nodded.
Noel felt an urgent, overwhelming need to make her his completely, to forge a bond with her that nothing, not even death, could break. "I love you, Rowena. Will you be mine?" he asked, startled by the ragged edge to his voice. "Completely mine?"
"Yes," she whispered, gazing up at him with such trust and adoration that he felt suddenly invincible —and thoroughly aroused. "Please."
"How can I deny such a courteous request?" He tried to speak lightly, if only to disguise the depth of his feeling, which almost frightened him. Keeping the blanket about both of their shoulders, he led her to the bed. "First, let's get rid of the rest of these wet things."
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he yanked off his ruined boots, glad that Kemp was not one of those fastidious valets who would fly into the boughs over them. Then he turned back to Rowena, sitting beside him.
"Your shoes are wet as well—and your stockings," he pointed out. "Allow me."
He knelt at her feet to pull off first one shoe, then the other— sturdy walking shoes rather than thin ballroom slippers, but wet through nonetheless. He cradled one stockinged foot in his hands, marveling at how small and delicate it was— and how cold. "Now your stockings," he said, his blood quickening in anticipation.
Her eyes widened, but she made no protest as he slid his hands up her calves, to find her garters just above her knees. Slowly, he peeled away the damp stockings, reveling in the smoothness of her flesh. Watching her face as he moved his hands over her legs, he saw her swallow, her breasts rising and falling with her quickened breathing.
Again he lifted one of her feet, now bare, and gently chafed her toes to warm them. She twitched and he grinned up at her. "Ticklish?"
"A little," she confessed, blushing even more deeply.
Releasing her foot without taking his eyes from her, he peeled off his wet shirt, then unbuttoned his trousers. Rising, he quickly stripped them off, then sat beside her on the bed again. She still had the blanket draped about her, so he reached beneath it to untie the ribbons of her chemise.
"I'm glad you're not wearing a corset," he commented, enjoying her softness beneath the thin cotton. He cupped one well-rounded breast, marveling at its perfection.
She gave a little gasp, then said, "I . . . I only thought to be wearing that gown for half an hour, so it seemed unnecessary. But . . . I'm glad, too." Her voice was breathless, but without fear or reserve.
He undid the last tie, then slid his hands up to her shoulders, to push the chemise down over her arms. She wriggled a bit to help him, and the small motion nearly drove him mad with desire. He wanted her now, this instant, but he knew he would have to control himself if he was not to frighten or hurt her. He had had women before, of course, but none had been virgin. This promised to be a very different —and very special— experience.
Finally her chemise joined all of their other wet garments on the floor. As he had done two nights ago, he feasted his eyes on her lovely, voluptuous body, still not quite believing that she was willing to share it with him. He felt honored and awed —and as eager as a ram in rutting season.
The blanket had fallen from her shoulders to the bed behind her, and now he gently pushed her down atop it. "I will try not to hurt you," he said, knowing that some pain might be inevitable.
"I trust you," she replied, her wide gray eyes as open to him as her body.
"And I trust you to tell me if you wish me to stop," he said, hoping he would not be put to that test.
She smiled, an incredibly seductive smile for one so innocent. "I won't, but I promise."
Determined to make this as special for her as he knew it would be for him, he set about pleasuring her. Stretching out beside her on the bed, he kissed her lingeringly on the lips while lightly running one hand from her shoulder, down her side, barely brushing her dark curls, then back up her belly and between her breasts.
She pressed her whole length against him, silently demanding more, and he gave it to her. He stroked her from collarbone to thigh, pausing only slightly at her cleft and breasts, teasing her, making her want him the way he so desperately wanted her. She clutched at him, pulling him closer, urging him on as she arched against him.
Now he brought his lips into play, trailing kisses down the side of her throat, down her chest, and finally capturing the tip of one breast to tease the nipple with his tongue. With a little squeak of pleasure she squirmed, and the feel of her softness against his arousal was almost more than he could bear.
Sliding one hand down her belly, he buried his fingers in her curls, finding and exploring her most sensitive spot until she gasped, pleading incoherently for the same release he craved. Shifting his weight to his arms, he moved above her, again capturing her lips with his as his straining arousal brushed the juncture of her thighs.
"I'm claiming you for my own, Rowena," he murmured. "My own forever. If you've any objection, now is the time to tell me."
CHAPTER 20
Rowena was sure that if he denied her the fulfillment she craved another moment, she would fly into pieces. She had never imagined such intense longing, such burning need was possible.
"No . . . no objections," she panted. "Oh, Noel, please!"
In response, he began to move above her, the length of his shaft stroking the spot that cried out most strongly for his touch. She arched her back, trying to increase the contact between them. Every place his body touched hers, chest against breasts, thighs against thighs, lips against lips, sizzled with sensation.
She wanted more.
Wrapping her arms around his back, she pulled him down until he lay atop her, reveling in the hard maleness of his body. His arousal had almost frightened her with its size at first, but now she wanted it against her— inside her. He moved again, brushing her thighs, brushing the sensitive juncture between them.
Instinctively, she spread her legs to give him access, then when he seemed to hesitate, she drew them up and around him, pulling him with legs as well as arms. Her whole body seemed to throb with her need for him, for completion.
With a gutteral groan, he slid the tip of his shaft inside her, then withdrew it. She heard herself whimper, then pressed him back down with her legs. This time he penetrated more deeply, but not deeply enough, before withdrawing again. Over and over, each time only an agonizingly tiny bit deeper, he moved into her, then away. She tried to hurry him, but he was stronger than she and took his time.
Her breathing, her heart accelerated, as though she were running a race, straining toward a finish line that hovered tantalizingly out of reach. "Now, Noel, now," she whispered against his lips.
"I don't want to hurt you," he replied with heart-wrenching tenderness. "I want this to be special for you."
She would have laughed if she hadn't been so desperate for him. Special? "What could possibly be more special than this?"
She felt his lips curve into a smile against hers. "I'll show you."
Sliding a hand between them, he stroked her even as he continued to enter her and withdraw, driving her desire higher yet, higher than seemed possible. She felt herself expanding, bursting into flame. Catching his rhythm, she rocked with him, each motion bursting new buds of pleasure into bloom.
Just as she felt herself reaching a final crest, the one she was sure would kill her, he drove himself into her, filling her completely. She barely noticed the brief, stretching pain, for an instant later she ra
ced over the top of the mountain of sensation she'd been climbing and burst into a thousand pieces.
He stifled her cry of triumphant ecstasy with his kiss, absorbing it into himself. Again and again he thrust into her, prolonging her disintegration into pleasure. His arms trembling, he drove into her one last time, and this time she took his groan— almost a shout— into her mouth.
Slowly, slowly, she felt herself descending from the dizzying height she had achieved —that they had achieved together. She had never felt so complete, so satisfied. If this was what married couples did, it was no wonder Pearl always seemed so happy.
"I had no idea," she breathed, when she could speak again, gazing up at him—at her Noel —in wonder.
He smiled down at her with a tenderness that made her heart turn over. "Nor did I."
"You . . . you didn't?" His skill told her she couldn't have been his first. "But surely—"
As he did so often, he seemed to read her thoughts. "I've bedded women before, yes. But this is the first time I've made love to one— and had her make love to me. Believe me, it is an entirely different experience."
Hearing the word "love" on his lips made her almost giddy with delight. "I'm glad," she whispered.
"So am I," he said, then kissed her, a serious kiss that seemed to seal the bond they had just forged between them.
The words "plighted troth" flashed into Rowena's mind. A week ago, the idea of binding herself to a man for life, putting her person and her future under his control, would have been anathema to her. Now it seemed the right and natural thing to do. Noel, she knew, would never abuse any privilege she gave him.
Still, there was much she didn't know about him. As passion ebbed, her natural curiosity reasserted itself. He seemed to sense the change, for he shifted his weight off of her, though he still gazed at her lovingly.
"There is more where that came from," he said teasingly, caressing her as he smiled.
Though his touch intoxicated her, Rowena kept enough of her reason to realize they could not remain undiscovered here forever. "My maid will have returned by now," she said with a sigh.
"Do you want to return to your room, then?"
Smiling, she shook her head. She never wanted to leave him again, though she knew she must. First, though, she needed to know more— enough to help him in any way she could. "You still haven't told me why you lay in wait for me in the park."
With obvious reluctance, he released her. "You're right. Come, let's get dressed, so we can talk without any other . . . distractions." His grin made her want to fling herself back into his arms, but she restrained herself.
While he pulled dry clothing from his clothespress, Rowena slipped her fresh chemise over her head, then pulled on dry stockings. They exchanged more than one heated glance while they dressed, but did not touch each other until Noel offered to do up the back of her new gown.
With a shiver of anticipation, Rowena turned her back to him.
"Not still cold, are you?" he asked softly, his fingers working quickly up the row of tiny buttons.
"Not in the least," she assured him. "I don't think I could ever be cold when I'm with you."
His arms went around her to draw her close and he pressed a kiss to the sensitive skin below her ear. Rowena felt passion blossoming again, but forced herself to pull away.
"We need to talk, remember?"
He nodded, though his hazel eyes still smoldered and a smile played about his wonderful lips. "You're right. I'm sorry. Let's sit down."
They moved to the pair of chairs near his writing desk. Rowena clasped her hands in her lap to keep from reaching for him again. "Now, why did you believe the author of my essays was your traitor?"
He sighed. "I have read all of the letters in the possession of the Foreign Office that the Black Bishop sent during the war, as well as two that were intercepted once they knew he was helping the French. There were similarities in phrasing, sentiment, and even handwriting between some of those letters and those sent to the Political Register by Mr. –MRR."
"You—you read my original, handwritten essays?" she asked. Though it had no real bearing on the matter, she was curious. "How?"
"I, ah, befriended one of the clerks there, once I suspected a link. What I can't understand is how I could have been so mistaken." His eyes were frankly questioning, though not condemning.
She thought hard, trying to piece together everything she knew as she would consider all of the pieces on a chessboard. "You said that you believe Mr. Richards to be this traitor, apart from the essays?"
He nodded. "Everything I have been able to discover about him fits: people he has been seen with, his political leanings, the recent death of a government official who had been linked to Richards —whom he might have been attempting to blackmail."
"Oh!" Rowena felt a sudden shock of fear as another piece of the puzzle fell into place. "Nelson," she said in answer to Noel's questioning glance. "Mr. Richards was demanding information from the Home Office in repayment of his debt."
"I suspected as much," Noel said. "He'll be looking for other sources now that you have settled that debt for your brother." He shot her a grin. "You did a service to more than Sir Nelson when you won that chess game, you realize."
She returned his grin, but quickly became serious again. "Will Nelson be in danger now, as that other man was?"
"It's possible, if he has any reason to believe Sir Nelson is suspicious of him."
"I doubt that he is, actually. Nelson is not the most perceptive of men," she admitted.
Noel smiled again. "I had gathered that. Let us hope Richards has, as well. It is your brother's only safeguard."
She nodded, then returned to her probing. "If you have so much evidence against Mr. Richards, why is he still free?"
"The evidence is purely circumstantial, thus far," he told her. "What I lack is any sort of proof that might hold up in a tribunal. I had hoped proving that he was MRR might provide that."
"But—" Similarity of phrasing, sentiments and handwriting, he had said. Suddenly embarrassed, Rowena bit her lip. "I, ah, think I understand now why you believed what you did."
Still there was no accusation in his expression, only curiosity —and tenderness. "Oh?"
"Last winter, after reading Mr. Richards' treatise on Spence's theory of Natural Law, I . . . wrote to him, expressing my appreciation of his views," she confessed, realizing now that she had acted like a moonstruck schoolgirl. "He responded, I wrote him again, and he sent another letter."
Noel frowned, now looking concerned. "So you have been corresponding with him for the better part of a year?"
"No, just those two letters," she hastened to assure him. "His second letter implied that he had more important things to do, so I dared not write again. However, I . . . I kept those two letters, rereading them frequently until I had all but committed them to memory."
"So your own writings drew heavily from his letters?"
She nodded. It was mortifying to admit to her hero-worship of Richards, and even more mortifying that she had sublimated her own opinions to his, but she was determined to help Noel in any way she could. "I, er, even used his handwriting as a sort of model when I began writing my essays."
"Ah." His brow cleared, though he still seemed lost in thought. "Do you have those letters here, by any chance?"
"Why, yes. They are in my chamber," she said, blushing at this admission of how she'd cherished the things. "You may have them, of course."
He reached out and took her hand. "Thank you. And thank you for telling me this. Those letters may be even stronger proof than the essays could have been. He signed them, I presume?"
"Yes. So if they match those of the traitor, will that be enough to convict him?" She felt as though she should be worried about her longtime idol, but her only concern was for Noel.
"It might well be. That, plus certain information I'm hoping to obtain tonight or tomorrow." He stood. "I need to leave Town, Rowena, but only briefly.
I should be back by tomorrow night at latest, and with luck this will all be behind us by the following day."
"Where are you going?" she asked, alarmed by the grim resolve on his face.
Though his smile was no doubt meant to reassure her, the very fact that he felt the need to do so only increased her fear. "I plan to pay a visit to Richards' father, in Hertfordshire. I'm hoping he can be induced to tell me about his son's whereabouts during the war— and perhaps more. The rumor is that they are not on good terms."
Abruptly, Rowena remembered her promise to go driving with Mr. Richards tomorrow. She opened her mouth to tell Noel, but then hesitated. Perhaps she would be able to learn something from Mr. Richards that would prove his guilt beyond doubt, lessening Noel's danger—as long as Noel did not forbid her to try.
"I will fetch you the letters now," she said instead, "so that you can return— safely— as soon as possible." She stood and turned toward the door, but he put a restraining hand on her arm.
"No, keep them for the moment. The letters must stay safe. I would rather leave them in your care until I can take them myself to the Foreign Office with what I hope will be additional evidence. If I should not return—"
"No! I won't even consider that. But should you somehow be . . . delayed, I will make certain the letters are delivered. Who is to receive them?"
He went to the writing desk and scribbled a name on a slip of paper, then handed it to her, along with the oilskin-wrapped package he had confiscated earlier.
"These are yours, I believe," he said with a smile.
She took it without replying, without glancing at it, her eyes only for Noel.
"You will see me again, Rowena. Nothing can keep me away," he assured her. "I love you. I have to return, to hold you to your commitment —to be my wife."
Though his words made her giddy, she searched his face, trying to divine any thoughts he might be keeping from her, but he met her gaze frankly.