by Anne Gracie
This one night was hers, her own private, particular blaze of glory to keep her warm throughout the long, lonely nights ahead.
She lay quietly, almost breathlessly, watching him move around her cottage, his limp only slightly in evidence. The vicar’s nightshirt was too tight across his shoulders, too loose in the middle, and too short for his long, rangy body. The hem ended at midthigh.
A coil of excitement unraveled deep within her at the thought of running her hands over his body—and not because of fever. Well, it was, but a different kind of fever.
He built the fire to a bright blaze, dousing the shadows of the night, burning away her anxieties. Next, he lit a handful of candles, stuffed them, manlike, into various incongruous containers and placed them around the bed.
“Do you mind?” he asked, pausing in the act of lighting a candle. “If this is our one night together, I want to remember everything, including how beautiful you look as God made you.”
“No, it’s lovely.” She wanted to remember the sight of him, too, golden skinned, very male, and . . . utterly irresistible.
As God made you. That meant naked. Her nightgown was old and patched. She wished she had something pretty to wear for him. Should she remove her nightgown now?
But she was too shy to take it off while he was still wearing his.
He hurried to the bed, his limp still in evidence. “Brrr, that stone floor is freezing. We must get you some rugs.”
She could see how his mind was working, providing her with all the comforts, assuming he would have the right to take care of her.
It wasn’t going to happen. She would not live like that, as his dependent, with the whole village knowing. Watching. Whispering. And taking it out on the children.
Still, it was a kind thought.
A draft of cool air driftered over her skin as he lifted the bedclothes and slid in beside her. She jumped as his large, cold feet brushed against her calves. “Your turn to warm my feet, I think,” he murmured. He lay on his side beside her and smoothed a strand of hair back from her face. “You have the most beautiful eyes.”
She gazed back in silence, unable to think of a thing to say. She just wanted to kiss him and get started. She wasn’t quite sure what to do, but she’d invited him to her bed, so she should take the initiative . . .
She leaned forward and kissed him. It was a bit rushed and clumsy—their teeth clunked—but he steadied her with one hand on her shoulder. His other hand cupped the nape of her neck and his lips closed over hers as he took control, and her nerves—and bones—dissolved.
Maddy ran her hands over his shoulders, over the clean linen of his nightshirt that smelled of sunshine and soap, and freshly shaven man. Beneath the fabric, his shoulders were warm and hard, and he smiled lazily, like a big tawny cat, enjoying her appreciation as she smoothed her hands over him.
She dipped her fingers into the half-unbuttoned neckline of his nightshirt, caressing the strong column of his throat, slipping lightly over the upper planes of his chest.
He made a low sound deep in his throat, caught her hand, and kissed her palm. It sent tingles right to the core of her and her fingers curled around his jaw. “Shall I remove the nightshirt now?”
Her mouth dried. “Yes,” she croaked.
In one swift movement, he sat up, yanked it over his head, and tossed it aside. He was naked. As naked as he’d been that first night in her bed. But this time, for this one, precious night, he was hers to caress, absorb, love.
Firelight danced over the golden expanse of his long, hard body. Maddy stroked her palms slowly, luxuriously over him, loving the strength of his shoulders and the hard, elegant muscularity of his arms, the solid planes of his chest.
“You’re beautiful,” she whispered.
“No, that’s my line.” He pulled the thick plaits of her hair forward and unraveled them slowly, loosening one at the time, trailing his fingers through the thick locks, murmuring things about corn silk and fire as he rubbed it against his face and between his fingers and arranged it over her shoulders. When he finished, his fingers rested lightly just above her breasts.
“Do you want me to—” she began, reaching for the buttons at the front of her nightgown.
“No.” He pressed his hand over hers, stilling the movement. He smiled at her surprise. “Not yet.”
Before she could ask why, he bent and kissed her lightly on the mouth, once, twice, and then he was raining kisses on her face, on her eyelids, on her cheeks, soft and sweet, like summer rain.
Like a cat, she rubbed against him, running her hands over his chest and shoulders, loving the spare, hard feel of him.
His skin was cool but it warmed under her touch, and the intense heat at the core of him seeped into her as it had on the nights they’d slept together.
He planted kisses from the corner of her mouth along her jawline in a slow, sensual exploration down the column of her neck.
Her lips felt swollen, ultrasensitive, even though he’d barely skimmed over them. She ached for the deeper kisses he’d given her before, and moistened her lips, enjoying the delicious hunger of anticipation. All she had was this night with him. She would not waste a moment of it by hurrying.
But she was hungry . . . and he was a feast.
Her fingers moved of their own accord, stroking lightly over the small hard nubs. Were his nipples as sensitive as hers? She circled them with her nails, scratching them lightly, like a cat. He made a soft growling noise deep in his throat and moved against her hands, pushing against her, demanding more.
Her beautiful . . . lion? No, he was a cougar, elegant and powerful and tawny.
Catlike, she licked his skin, tasting salt and spice and essence of Nash. He tensed. Did he not like it?
She glanced up and caught the glint of his smile. “Again,” he murmured.
This time she bit him very gently, scraping her teeth over the hard little raised nubs and he arched and shuddered beneath her touch. She smiled, filled with female power, then gasped as he brushed her breast though the fabric of her nightgown.
He stroked over the fabric so lightly, so delicately she should not even feel it. Instead she quivered uncontrollably at the lightest touch. Her breasts were achingly sensitive, their hardened tips thrusting against the fabric, craving his touch. He caressed her again and again and she shuddered and arched and pressed herself against him.
“And now . . .” he said and reached for the buttons on her nightgown. She moved to help him, eager for the sensation of lying skin to skin with him, but again he stopped her with his hands, saying, “These are my buttons.”
She waited breathlessly.
He undid one small bone button, then kissed her slowly, sumptuously. Delicious, but she wanted more.
Instead he undid another button, clumsily, with shaking hands.
She groaned silently. Why had she worn a nightgown with so many buttons? “I bet you were the kind of little boy who unwrapped his presents very slowly.”
“I was.” He took the next tiny bone button between long, strong fingers and gave her a slow smile. “I still am. Anticipation builds hunger.”
It certainly did. How many buttons were there? She tried to remember and failed. All she knew was that if he continued unfastening buttons at this torturous rate, she’d melt, or explode, or something.
“I’m not a parcel.” In one movement she pulled the nightgown over her head and tossed it aside. It floated to the floor and settled gently over his.
And she was naked in front of a man, for the first time in her life. Cool night air whispered against her skin.
“No,” he breathed. “You’re a gift.”
Under the scorching heat of his gaze, the last of her shyness melted. He’d called her beautiful and now, as he gazed, she felt beautiful, bathed in soft candlelight. The scent of burning apple wood and wax candles filled the air; her beeswax, from her own bees. Her world contracted to this place, this bed, this man. No yesterdays, no tomorrows. Only now
.
“Cream and silk, honey and fire,” he murmured. He trailed the back of his finger lightly down her cheek, then leaned slowly forward until his mouth was a hairsbreadth from hers.
She forgot to breathe. Her heart was pounding in her breast.
And then he captured her mouth, claiming possession with a hungry tenderness that unraveled her.
He stroked the inside of her mouth with his tongue, running his hands over her, warming, heating, melting her, demanding responses she hadn’t known were in her. Long shudders rippled down her spine in an insistent, rhythmic pull and flow.
With mouth, tongue, and hands he explored her, tasting, stroking, knowing her with a sureness that made her melt with pleasure, even as she arched against him. Every touch sent luscious ripples through her, curling her toes and causing aching quivers deep inside her. She was melting under his heat, spinning, holding him as if she were falling instead of lying safely in her own bed, in his arms.
She moved against him restlessly, clutching his shoulders as if riding out a storm at sea. She didn’t know exactly what she wanted, only that he, and only he, could give it.
His hand was between her thighs, stroking, caressing, parting her and ohh . . . ohhh. She gasped, her body lost to her control, arching and shivering deep into her very core, and the world dissolved and there was only him.
Nash clung to the last desperate shreds of control. He wanted to savor every movement, every sensation, each gasp and moan and tremulous sigh. Her golden brandy eyes widened, piercing him, lancing him, and then she closed them, shutting him out, pale crescents fringed in dark lashes, gilded in fire as she shuddered and thrashed under him in climax.
He groaned, desperate to bury himself deeply in the slender, golden, willing body, sweet as new hay, hot as brandy. He held back with every shred of self-command he could muster. Her first time. He was determined to make it the best it could be.
But she was so damned responsive. And he was so damned hungry for her. It felt like years that he’d been waiting to do this with her, not days. His body ached and throbbed with unfulfilled agony, a starving beast clawing to be fed.
Slowly the shudders passed from her and she lay in his arms, gasping for breath. He planted slow kisses in a glorious exploration down the creamy length of her body. His silken-skinned beauty. He could taste the salt-sweet dampness of her skin, the scent of her soap, made of beeswax and flowers, and the most addictive taste of all, the scent of Maddy.
He rubbed his cheek lightly over her breasts and took one rosy nipple in his mouth, teasing lightly at first, then becoming more demanding. Lavishing her with desire, loving the small soft cries of pleasure she made.
Her hands ran over his body feverishly, sending his inner beast into a silent screaming frenzy. Not yet, not yet.
He trailed kisses over her soft belly and buried his face in the dark nest of curls at the apex of her silky thighs. She made a small sound of surprise but her limbs fell apart in helpless desire and he tasted her, salt-sweet, elixir of Maddy, more potent than anything he’d ever tasted.
Her breath hitched in a series of little gasps and she began to moan and twist beneath him, urging him on with fluttering, distracted caresses as he devoured her.
He was hard as the rocks of hell and burning with desperate desire, and the taste and scent and feel of her ate at his control. He continued caressing her with his hand as he nibbled his way back up her body, leashing every bit of self-control.
He raised himself to possess her and she ran her fingers lightly over his cock in curious exploration. God, but it nearly unmanned him. He bucked under the featherlight touch, wanting so much more.
A long racking shudder consumed him. He couldn’t hold back much longer. But she was ready, more than ready, and when he positioned himself at her entrance, she pushed eagerly against him.
He entered her in a long, slow movement, feeling the frail barrier of her innocence shred, catching her gasp of pain in a kiss. Her legs came up and closed tightly around him and she rained blind, clumsy, feverish kisses on his chest and chin and arms, anywhere she could reach as her body struggled to adjust to his. His heart tightened in his chest, like a fist in a glove.
He clung to the last shred of his control and soothed her with his fingers, arousing her anew, and was soon rewarded with the tight rolling clench of her acceptance. One deep female quiver was all it took to send his body leaping for release, spinning out of his control, and he was rolling with her, thrusting deep, claiming her inexorably in that most ancient and eternal of rhythms. Soaring. Diving into fire and ecstasy . . . and darkness.
When next he was aware of anything, the fire had died to a dull glow of coals, and the candles were burning low. Maddy lay curled against him, watching him with soft eyes. Damp eyes. He moved to let the candlelight illuminate her face and saw tear tracks.
He rubbed them gently with a thumb. “I’m sorr—” he began but she didn’t let him finish.
“I’m not,” she said and kissed him softly, sweetly, and sighed. It was the sigh of a woman well satisfied. But the tears worried him.
“You’ve been crying.” Never, ever had his lovemaking ended in tears. Women’s tears unsettled him, unmanned him.
She shook her head and gave him a curious little half smile, the smile of Mona Lisa, hinting at things no man could hope to understand. She snuggled her head in the hollow between his jaw and his shoulder, settled her palm on his chest, closed her eyes, and went to sleep.
Tired as he was, it took Nash some time to follow her into sleep. It wasn’t just her tears that kept him awake. The whole thing was . . . disturbing.
He’d made love to a number of women in his life. He’d always looked on the act of lovemaking as an agreeable exchange of pleasure. Nothing more, nothing less.
But this . . . this was nothing like that. Yes there had been pleasure, but pleasure was too small a word. Too ordinary, too . . . tame.
Making love with Maddy Woodford had been nothing less than . . . shattering. No, it was more, it was . . .
He fell asleep searching for a word . . .
They made love once more in the stillness of the night, a short, intense, desperate coupling that left him sweating, exhausted, sated, and yet unsatisfied.
This time she fell asleep on top of him, her arms and legs still wrapped around him, and his arms locked around her, unwilling to let go.
The cold fingers of dawn were stealing into the cottage when she woke him a third time, running her hands over him so softly he woke gradually, as if floating to the surface of a very deep lake.
He was still only half awake when he entered her, every movement slow, as if in a dream, but the chill morning air licked at his flanks like a hungry wolf He would never forget the expression on her face as she loved him quietly, tenderly, with hands and mouth and body. Asking for nothing, giving all.
They came together in a shattering climax, the like of which he’d never experienced, the aftermath a piercing bitter-sweetness, like sweet wine cut with salt.
Nash held her against him as the sweat dried on him, unwilling to move. Still joined in the most elemental way, their limbs tangled, their breathing now quiet, seemingly at peace. But something niggled at him, an expression he’d glimpsed in her eyes in the cool dawn light. Familiar, but elusive.
He worried at it, as a tongue worries at a sore tooth, repeatedly, but to no effect.
Eventually she straightened and disentangled herself from him. “Time to go,” she whispered. “The children will be waking in an hour or so. They’ve already said their good-byes. It would be best if you were gone before they come down for breakfast.” She kissed him to soften the implacability in her words and in her eyes, and gave him a little push.
She reached down and grabbed her nightgown from the floor and pulled it over her head with a shiver and said, “Do you want breakfast?”
“No.” He was ravenous, but the expression in her eyes, the brightness in her voice disturbed him.
He rose and dressed swiftly, aware all the time of the way she watched his every movement. She helped him tie his ruined boot on with black ribbons, a leftover from her days in mourning, she said, and though he knew it must look ridiculous, he didn’t give it more than a passing thought.
She was all he could think of, too quiet for comfort, her glorious brandy eyes avoiding his for the most part. Once he’d caught a glimpse of, what . . . grief? Anger? Regret? Just a brief flicker that passed too quickly for him to interpret.
But it niggled at him, too.
For two pins, he’d climb back into bed with her and kiss every look from her eyes except ecstasy, but when he took a step toward her, she flung up a hand as if to ward him off.
Was it because he’d taken her virginity? Was she worried about pregnancy? “If you find you are with child—”
“Don’t worry.” She hurried to the door, opened it, and smiled, a wide smile that was meant to reassure, but unsettled him even more, and said, “You must go now.”
He hesitated, portmanteau in hand. “I’m only going up the road.”
“I know.”
“Whitethorn is maybe an hour’s walk or fifteen minutes on horseback from here.”
“I know.”
“So this is not good-bye, just . . . good morning.” The first in what he hoped would be many such good mornings. “I’ll be there for several weeks at least,” he told her.
She nodded, biting her lip, her eyes luminous.
“And even though I must return to Russia next month . . .” Suddenly he didn’t know what to say. “It’s not good-bye,” he repeated firmly.
“I know.” Her voice hitched. She gave a quick smile—he was sure it wobbled—raised herself on tiptoes, and kissed him again, a slow, lingering caress. A definite blasted good-bye, Nash thought.
He responded by ravishing her mouth possessively, almost savagely, determined to show her he had no intention of abandoning her.
What the hell was she thinking?
He was usually quite good at reading people’s expressions, divining their thoughts and feelings—it was an asset in his work—but apart from a brief, blind look in her eyes as he released her, he could read nothing in her face as she stepped back. “God keep you safe, Nash Renfrew,” she whispered and pushed him gently out the door.