Her brow puckered. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Oh, no, dear heart. You did it too, too right.”
“In that case—”
He shook his head. “It is a matter of honor.” At her crestfallen expression, he grinned. “Ladies first.”
Perching between her still raised knees, he tossed the hem of her chemise high to expose her booted legs, her contoured thighs, her flat belly, and those luscious breasts, the nipples tipped and reddened and staring temptingly up at him.
With that, he parted her thighs wider and let his tongue guide his way between them.
Holly jolted at the first moist touch against her nether lips. Was that . . . good heavens. His tongue . . . touching her . . . there. The shock of it radiated outward from that most intimate place to the very tips of her fingers and toes. Her head came off the mattress.
“I . . . oh . . . but . . .”
He smoothly released one of her thighs, reached up to lightly grasp her chin, and pressed her head back down. Against her female regions, he uttered, “Shush,” and “Relax,” the vibrations of his lips sending more of those delicious currents through her.
Still, a scorching blush burned her cheeks at the thought of her position, his actions, the sight they must present. But then, oh, his tongue swirled and probed and speared, and her thoughts and qualms dissolved. She felt her body lifting, melting, heating, and she was consumed by a craving for more, ever more, only more of this—what Colin was doing to her—while nothing else mattered. Nothing.
Whimpers filled her ears, and she realized they were her own, rubbing her throat raw. Pleasure, hovering all around her, made her strain and arch, while Colin’s mouth never left her, never stopped carrying her along a crest of pleasure she could not have imagined. As his lips suckled a place that seemed connected to her very core, her soul, she felt the sudden pressure of a finger pushing inside her, then a gentle withdrawal, and a reentering, this time wider, the width of two fingers.
She clutched at the coverlet, her entire being centered on the twist of fear and pleasure building inside her as Colin worked his fingers, spreading her wider. Suddenly a spasm gripped her, shook her. Another and another followed, until nothing else existed but the shuddering contractions of her womb, the booming of her heart, and her cries of ecstasy.
Before her body stilled, Colin was beside her, his lips pressed to her temple, his arm anchored tightly around her. His hand continued to cup her nether regions, pressing, gently massaging while her body quivered, shuddered again, and finally drifted back to earth. When she could finally open her eyes, it was to see him staring down at her, his own eyes filled with understanding and satisfaction and . . . a tender entreaty.
Her body still tingling, she laid her palm against his cheek. “It is the gentleman’s turn now, if he’ll be so kind as to advise me.”
“It’s all right if you don’t wish . . .”
As she drew back with a warning expression, he fell silent, covered her hand with his own, and slid it down the length of his body. At his waistband, he released her and opened the buttons at one side of his trouser flap. It was enough to admit her, enough for him to fall free against her palm, to fill her hand with the solid, heated weight of his shaft.
She tried to stifle a gasp at the startling sensation, but he heard it and smiled so endearingly that she felt no embarrassment, only wonderment at this part of him, as substantial and unyielding as the rest of him. Her heart fluttered and swelled. But instead of speaking, she put every bit of what she felt into the rhythm of her hand, then both hands. She watched his face as his eyes fell closed, as a groan rumbled out of him. As the throes of passion claimed him, she couldn’t look away from the chiseled beauty of his taut mouth, the tortured planes of his cheeks and brow, the hard press of his eyelids. Faster and harder she stroked him. His corded neck pulsed, his nostrils flared.
Then, just as she had done, he arched his back and thrust his fists into the mattress. His mouth fell open, and his groan became a roar. One hand lifted from the bed, found her thigh, and settled again between her legs. Her body responded with an echo of the pleasure he’d given her. With his shaft pulsing between her fingers, the power she held over him at that moment rushed through her like a stormy gale. She closed her eyes and let the potency of the act wash over and through her, and for a blessed instant she felt him to be part of her, joined in spirit: one mind, one intent, one great, billowing release.
Her small cry blended with his rumbles. Then he gathered her against his chest, held her and kissed her until their hearts ceased their mutual thumping.
As she lay nestled against him, her cheek resting in the hollow of his shoulder, she stared into the unfamiliar shadows and felt at home. She marveled at how high they had soared together, how heedlessly they had circled heaven and earth. And then she marveled all over again as she realized that through it all, she had remained a virgin.
Of sorts.
Chapter 20
Warm in the afterglow of their lovemaking, Colin lay against the pillows, one arm bent beneath his head. Holly lay quietly on top of him, though he could tell by her occasional movements that she wasn’t asleep. His other arm draping her, he stroked her hair and absently twined a curl around his finger. “Did it frighten you, what we just did?”
She shook her head against him. “Not at all.”
“Did you know about it?”
Her cheek moved softly against him as she nodded. “Generally speaking, yes,” she said, and then added somewhat indignantly, “I grew up with servants, too, you know.”
“What the devil does that mean?”
“It means that little girls press their ears to doors and hear conversations they shouldn’t, as much as little boys do. Our scullion and laundress loved to trade stories. If Uncle Edward had ever found out, he’d have sacked them instantly.”
“Ah.” The notion of a much younger, saucer-eyed Holly pressing her ear to a door made him tighten his arm around her. “Tell me, what else do little girls do?”
“I don’t know anymore about little girls, but . . .”
Her voice trailed off and her hands took over, accompanied by her lips, conveying exactly what it was about him that most fascinated her. Gently but boldly, she explored his shoulders, arms, and chest, touching, kissing, occasionally tasting until his muscles quivered, his skin burned, and his loins ached to take her—truly take her in the one way he had not.
In the back of his mind caution and logic spoke their piece. He didn’t listen. Not tonight, not here, where he found himself blessedly free from his family, his father, society, and even missing colts. Tonight none of those burdens dangled from around his neck; he wouldn’t allow it. He’d be what he wanted, do as he wanted. For tonight, he very much wished to continue testing the boundaries of pleasure with this extraordinary woman.
His groin tightening maddeningly, he rolled until she lay beneath him, and set about eliciting fresh moans and the occasional squeal, and replying in kind with groans and oaths murmured beneath his panting breath. Sometime in the early hours of the morning, they both fell into an exhausted, satiated sleep.
As he knew it would, the rising sun brought back all the harsh truths the night had concealed. As the first rays speared through the curtains he’d left gaping, he scrubbed a hand across his eyes, eased away from Holly, and struggled into his clothes. He chose another bedchamber at random and rumpled the covers to make the bed appear slept in. Last night he had temporarily donned clothes and gone belowstairs to collect the meal Mrs. Fulsome had prepared for them. He felt fairly certain neither the woman nor her husband had found any reason to climb all the way up to the second floor.
He went belowstairs again now and ordered breakfast brought up to Holly. Then he helped Mr. Fulsome hitch the hired horses to the carriage, with Cordelier and Maribelle tied behind. When the task was done, Colin lingered in the stable yard.
How on earth would he return to Briarview without the colt? How would he re
assure a populace raised on superstition that the loss of the colt—a theft within a theft—would not destroy their lives? How would he convince them he would find the animal when he had no idea how or where to begin searching?
And how—God help him, how—would he set Holly free, as he must, without hurting her in the worst possible way? No, not the worst, for he had maintained at least that much control. They had indeed crossed a line last night, a splendid, glorious line, but he hadn’t ruined her. Not in the truest sense. Holly Sutherland could go on to meet and marry a suitable gentleman, one who didn’t have a horror of a father or a family mired in unhappiness; one who hadn’t had to resort to horse thievery in a vain attempt to hold his world together.
Hands thrust in his coat pockets, he rearranged the lines of his face, clearing away the grimness before turning to head back into the house. A good thing, too, for as he glanced up he saw her peeking down at him from her bedchamber window. She raised one graceful hand, and when he thought she would wave, she instead smiled and touched her fingertips to her lips.
Yes, his lips still tingled from their kisses, from the sweet and tangy taste of her skin.
However wrong of him, last night had provided a badly needed respite, a rare taste of normalcy, and a brief but precious sampling of what other men took for granted. Ah, in truth it had been so much more than that. But he didn’t dare dwell on what a night spent holding Holly Sutherland in his arms had meant to him.
He smiled up at her, then continued into the house. Why make these next, last hours together as bleak as they could possibly be? She’d done nothing wrong; it wasn’t her fault he couldn’t offer her what a gentlewoman had every right to expect . . . what she deserved. But once they reached Devonshire, he’d be leaving her almost immediately. After gathering a search party of trusted men, he intended riding out to find the colt.
If indeed the colt was anywhere to be found.
Holly met him at the top of the stairs, fully dressed. “I insist we ride today,” she said in lieu of a proper greeting. “Have Mr. Fulsome arrange to have the carriage returned. We’ll make better time on Cordelier and Maribelle.”
He fought the urge to take her into his arms. Instead, he stood over her and mustered a stern, no-nonsense look. “You were hurt when you fell yesterday. We’ll travel by carriage.”
After a quick glance down the staircase, she tipped her chin and flashed him an irrepressible grin. “In case you hadn’t noticed, my injuries didn’t prevent me from achieving some highly acrobatic feats last night.”
Against his better sense, his arms spanned her waist. “I don’t wish to take any chances.”
“Then leave me here while you search for the colt. You can’t afford to lose so much time. Already he could be miles away.”
He had considered that very strategy, but he’d deemed this house with its two elderly custodians as not nearly safe enough. The colt’s disappearance shed doubts that those shots yesterday had resulted from a badly aimed hunting rifle. But whether highwayman or poacher, if the villain showed up here, the Fulsomes could provide little protection. At least Briarview boasted a house full of servants, including a footman or two versed in the firing of weapons.
She was right, though. They could travel much faster on horseback. He held her cheeks between his palms. “Are you certain you’re not hurting?”
“Watch me.” She eased out of his hold and performed a nimble pirouette. “If anything, I’ll stiffen up if I’m confined to a bumpy carriage seat all day. In fact, Simon’s research in muscular regeneration suggests that motion, rather than rest—”
“I give up.” With a laugh, Colin held up a hand. “I can’t possibly out-argue you, not if you’re going to quote Simon de Burgh at me. We’ll untie the horses from the carriage and be off. But you’re to say something at the first uncomfortable twinge. Promise me.”
She walked back into his arms. “I promise.”
“Why does that do so little to reassure me?” He scowled as he gave in to temptation and kissed her. In many ways he was grateful for her insistence on traveling by horseback, for now there would be no close proximity on an enclosed carriage seat to tempt him further.
As she predicted, they made good time and entered the village of Briarview by midmorning. On a ridge two miles to the north, Briarview Manor, the Ashworths’ ancestral home, glared down like an exacting patriarch at the small collection of farms, cottages, and tiny, rickety shops as if to admonish such underlings to know their place and heed their betters.
Colin felt no joy at this homecoming. On the contrary, his misgivings mounted as, on both sides of the road, the effects of the “Exmoor curse” became more and more apparent.
The fields that had flooded weeks ago had not been replanted, and the surrounding moors threatened to encroach on the cultivated land. The barn roof that had fallen in had not been replaced. Worse, he saw sure signs that all but the most basic labors had ceased. Farming and herding beyond what the inhabitants required for their own survival, as well as local business and trade, seemed to have come to a screeching halt because these people, most of whom could trace their families to this wild, craggy land for centuries back, believed their efforts were cursed.
An unnerving quiet permeated the air. No clangs of the hammer rang out from the smithy. No pungent tanning fumes clashed with savory aromas from the Dancing Mare Tavern. The only scents Colin could make out were those of rotting crops and general decay, oddly mingled with fresh wisps of the heather clinging to the surrounding hills.
The first nudges of true fear crept up his spine. Was he too late to reverse a self-fulfilling prophesy?
“What’s wrong with this place?” Holly asked in a whisper.
He had opened his mouth to reply when he noticed the faces peering at them from either side of the road, gaunt silhouettes gathered in the windows of cottages and shops. As they passed the greengrocer, the shop door opened. The proprietor, a bull-faced man named Harper, stood in the doorway and gazed out without any trace of the deference Colin had been used to receiving from these villagers. Another door opened, and then several. In every case, men, women, and children spilled onto front stoops and stared, their fears and worries evident in the shadows beneath their eyes.
“What is this?” Holly whispered again. “What does this mean?”
“The colt,” he whispered back. “They are the reason it must be returned.”
“What can a colt have to do with—”
A shout pierced the air. “Where is it? Where’s the Exmoor? By God, what have ya done with ’im?”
“The Exmoor?” Holly twisted round in her saddle to view the stout farmer wearing rough woolens and threadbare corduroy. “What is he talking about?”
A chorus of disgruntled voices joined in the jeering; a forest of fists waved in the air. When something—perhaps a packed ball of dirt, perhaps a small rock—sailed across the road and thudded to the ground close enough to make Maribelle stumble, Colin tapped his heels to Cordelier’s sides.
Both horses broke into a canter, a pace Colin didn’t break until they reached the gates of the manor. There they were forced to stop and wait for the gates to be opened, and Colin tossed many a cautious glance over his shoulder to see if they’d been followed. An indignant frown creased Holly’s brow, and she looked as though she were practically choking on the questions she longed to ask. Colin guessed that only the gatekeeper’s presence checked her tongue.
“Thank you, Oliver,” Colin said to the man as they turned onto the drive.
“Milord.” Oliver Long, a burly man somewhere in his fifties whose father and grandfather had also occupied positions on the estate, dragged his cap off his head. But he didn’t smile or offer the enthusiastic greeting Colin had come to expect from him over the years. He didn’t ask after Colin’s health, or inquire after the rest of the family. He didn’t relate the latest news, as he’d always done after one of Colin’s absences. Except for an initial glance, Oliver kept his eyes averted, his
thoughts shielded by the sooty sweep of his lashes.
They moved past him, past the stone gatehouse and upward along the open expanse of drive. Before them, the home’s austere facade looked out over fields and moors, and down at the village behind them, its stone and thatch structures reduced by the distance to a collection of insignificant dots.
Holly brought Maribelle to a halt. A few yards ahead of her, Colin also stopped and wheeled Cordelier around. “What?” he asked, but by the look on her face, he already knew what she would say.
He was not surprised, then, when her chin came up and her delicate eyebrows arched. “I’m not budging another inch until you explain what the blazes is going on here.”
“No more putting it off.” Holly injected into her tone an obstinacy she hoped would intimidate the truth from him. But she nearly laughed at the thought of anyone ever intimidating Colin Ashworth. The very way he sat his horse, tall and proud, his strong profile etched against the stark noonday sky, declared him a nobleman very much in command of his world and his fate.
Oh, but not completely so, she remembered. What happened in the village had momentarily shaken his authority; she had seen the crumbling of his confidence, however briefly, in the dimming of his blue eyes, usually so bright and sharp. In that moment she had sensed that the loss of the colt had stripped him of whatever plan he had devised, and that presently he steered his course one small step at a time.
She moved Maribelle up alongside Cordelier and reached to place her hand on Colin’s wrist. “You need help, and I am here.”
Heightened color suffused his face. His fingers tensed, but his hand didn’t move to clasp hers. “Do you know what an Exmoor pony is?”
“I’ve read about them.” She glanced up at the granite facade of the house, catching the flick of a curtain up on the first floor. She couldn’t see in, but she felt certain a gaze met hers. Then the curtain fell back in place. A servant? Puzzled, she returned her attention to Colin’s question. “An ancient breed, England’s purest native pony. Surely the colt isn’t—”
Recklessly Yours Page 23