by Lisa Bingham
Seeing her this way, with her eyes dark, her hair flowing, he knew he would never forget this night, whatever the future might bring. He would see to it that the pleasure was worth the pain.
“For once you are far too respectably attired, Master Richard,” she murmured. “Allow me to play the gentleman’s gentleman for the evening.”
Stepping behind him once again, Chelsea slid the garment free. When the shirt finally dropped to the ground, she spread her hands wide, testing the resilient flesh.
He was so firm, so warm. So male.
This was what she’d imagined doing from the moment she had drawn back the coverings in the skiff to discover that Richard Sutherland, heir to the Lindon estates, was more heathen than gentleman. Now that her fantasies had become reality, she didn’t quite know what to do. She supposed she should think of the future. She supposed she shouldn’t allow things to continue. But she found she couldn’t stop the fire that burned within her—wouldn’t stop it. It had been so long since she’d allowed herself to feel valued. It had been so long since she’d felt beautiful and alive. It had been so long since she’d felt cherished.
As she faced him once again, Chelsea had no doubts that Richard desired her. His restraint was tenuous. When he would have reached out, she eluded him. “Not yet, Master Richard.” The fact that he couldn’t understand a word she said didn’t dissuade her from speaking aloud. In fact, his lack of understanding added a boldness, a dangerous flavor, to the evening. She could say anything, speak of her most secret wishes, and he would never know.
Crossing to the fireplace, she withdrew a piece of kindling from a tin mug on the hearth, touched the sliver of wood to the burning coals until it ignited. Glancing at him over her shoulder, she noted the way he stood still, watching her with an overwhelming intensity.
Moving about the room, she lit three candles. One on the hearth, one on the dresser, and the last on the bedside table. Then she blew out the tiny flame, prolonging the simple action so that he absorbed the pursing of her lips, the slow exhalation. Licking her fingers, she watched the flare of reaction he displayed as she pinched the last burning ember into oblivion. Then, without a thought to tidiness, she dropped it onto the floor, reveling in the burst of freedom she experienced at that uncharacteristic act of carelessness.
“Do you want me, Richard? Do you need me?” She expected no answer. She needed none. She caressed his stomach as she passed, then continued on to the bed. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought of this room in relationship to a tryst, but I think—with a little imagination—we can manage.”
She took the silk duvet from the bed and dragged it over the velvet carpet in front of the hearth. The counterpane fell to the ground in a billowing, glistening, down-filled cushion. Richard eyed her questioningly.
“I’m rather fond of Mozart, you know. The Abduction from the Seraglio is one of my favorites.” She pushed a wayward strand of hair away from her forehead, slowly, sensually, aware that he watched the sway of her breasts, the inner curve of her arm. “As part of your education, we really must go to the opera in London. Then you could see why I’m so intrigued. Imagine. An opera about a harem.”
Taking the pillows from the bedstead, she scattered them over the coverlet upon the rug until the area in front of the hearth resembled a sultan’s lair. Next, she draped the sheet at one end, a blanket over the other, artistically arranging the linen and wool with the care of a master painter. “In case we get chilled,” she explained, pausing in her preparations. “Though I don’t think there’s much likelihood of that, do you?”
She didn’t know what had intrigued him, the lulling sound of her voice or her careful preparations, but his eyes burned, glowed, searing into her flesh.
“Do you know what happens when you look at me that way?” she whispered. “I don’t feel very much like a governess.” Standing, she spied the stuffed dog which had tumbled to the floor. Retrieving it, she approached Richard once again. “But then, you don’t remind me much of a child.”
She stopped, a mere fraction of an inch away. So close she could feel the heat of his body being absorbed into her own. “Before you came, Biddy told me about MacDuff. She said once that he kept the beasties of the night away from your father.”
She touched one furry ear to Richard’s chest, feathering it back and forth over the flat copper nipple bare to her view until it beaded into a hard nub. “You won’t be needing MacDuff tonight, Richard. Tonight I’ll see to the beasties. Tonight and tomorrow and the night after that.” Her chest grew suddenly tight, heavy. “In return, promise me you’ll keep the beasties from my door. If only for a little while. Please.”
He didn’t speak, but his hand clamped around her wrist. He threw the dog aside. Chelsea knew that she had pushed him about as far as his control would allow. But she didn’t care. She exulted in the fact.
“Richard,” she managed to whisper mere seconds before his lips slammed over her own and he took her mouth, ravaged it, savored it, gentled it.
A storm of emotion rumbled through her. She responded to him just as greedily, then just as tenderly. For each caress he bestowed, she offered one of her own. For each kiss, she added another, until they were both clinging, straining, struggling to grow closer.
He pushed her away. He stared at her as if he didn’t know what to think, what to feel. Chelsea knew it was because she responded too eagerly, too passionately. A woman was supposed to be reticent, to acquiesce to a man’s desires, not respond in full measure.
“I surprise you, don’t I?” Her tone was ragged. “You don’t know what to think about me, what kind of person I am. Don’t think. Don’t sort my parts, my attributes, and my foibles and stuff the findings into a little cubbyhole. I’m me.” She rubbed the dip of his navel. She didn’t know why that part of his anatomy seemed to fascinate her so. Perhaps because it was surrounded by taut masculine flesh. Perhaps because it was forever bare to her view in the heathenish costume he continued to wear. Perhaps because it was unseemly for a woman like her to want to touch it. Or the woman she pretended to be.
“I’m me,” she said again. “Maybe for a little while tonight … I’ll be a part of you.”
He gripped the fabric of her night rail. Then he was moving, lifting, drawing circles around, over the dainty curve of her shoulder.
The convulsive movement caused the cloth to lift, shift, tease. Shuddering, she leaned into him for support as the batiste whispered over the sensitive tips of her nipples, teasing, taunting, caressing. Never had she thought that an action so simple in intent could have such earth-shattering results. The fire she had purposely banked suddenly raged. Her breathing quickened, her pulse slammed through her veins.
His fingers laced through her hair, bringing her up for his kiss. Then there was no time for words. Mouth clashed with mouth. The silence of the room was split with the sharp tear of cloth as Richard rent the garment from neck to waist.
Chelsea gasped, surrendering to the torrent of sensation. When he released her to tug at the fastenings of his trousers, finally releasing the string that held them to his waist and pushing the garment free of his hips, she did not demure.
Glancing down, she noted that he was aroused, ready, barely contained by the scrap of cloth that covered him. While she watched, he released the knot of his loincloth, that tempting, tormenting, tantalizing garment, freeing him to her gaze. Large. Powerful. Completely male.
Then he was crushing her to him. Chest to chest, hip to hip. She had barely the time to gasp at the intimate contact before he took her lips with his own. He lifted her, holding her close, so tightly that their pulses beat as one, feeding from the frenzy of their need.
Breaking their kiss, he knelt upon the nest of blankets she had formed on the floor. He laid her down with a gentleness that was at odds with their haste. But when she touched the sensitive rope of muscles at his flanks, the fierceness flared out of control. Taking her lips, he rested his upper body over hers.
He cupped her breast, kneaded it, molded it.
A hot bolt of pleasure sank deep into her belly. She hadn’t thought a man’s lovemaking could ever make her feel so charged, so overwrought. She didn’t think she could take another minute of this unbearable pleasure.
Still, he continued. His thumb dipped into her navel, much as she was wont to do to him. She gasped at the sharp burst of sensation.
He continued his search, measuring the span of her hips, the sensitive hollow, the prominent bones. She grappled with a fistful of his dark, silky hair as it spilled over his shoulders, silently bidding him to stop. But Richard didn’t abandon his intimate foray. He merely smiled against her throat, kissed her there, painting the spot with his tongue, while his blunt, nimble fingers delved lower, seeking, testing, finding.
Unable to hold still, she clutched his hips, sinking her nails into the flesh and bucking against him.
He smiled, The smile of the victor. The invader. The savage. In a single motion that made her overtly aware of his overpowering masculinity, he shifted, rolling onto his back and drawing her over his stomach so that her legs cradled his hips.
She arched her torso at the intimate friction. Male to female. Hard to soft. Tensile to pliant. Then she bent, her back rounding, her hair spilling about them in a tangled curtain.
Never had she thought that anything could feel so sweet. A heavy wave of pleasure-pain thrummed through her veins. Pressing her mouth to his, she kissed him with all the pent-up passion she’d denied for so long.
He rolled over, bringing her with him. Looking into the intensity of his eyes, eyes as green as a roiling river, she knew the last thread of his control had snapped. The savage would have his way.
Sensation crowded upon sensation, hot and fast and strong. Richard propped himself on his elbows as she held him tightly around the waist. His fingers slid low to test her, finding her more than willing, more than ready. Gasping against the gentle caress, she reached down to urge him on.
She had no more than brushed the sensitive ridge of his manhood before Richard moaned and tore her away. Twining their hands together, he crushed her lips with his own and slowly thrust into her, a little at first, then all the way.
The reflexive cry that tore from her throat at the rending of her maiden’s barrier was swallowed by his mouth. But when he would have drawn away, she clung to him, wrapping her legs around his waist. She felt him inside her, large and heated. Strong.
Opening her eyes, she met his look of concern. Smiling, she murmured, “Continue, heathen. I defy you to finish what you’ve begun.”
Acknowledging her mock-challenge to prove he could pleasure her now, mere moments after rending her asunder, he began to rock, slowly at first, then faster and faster. Harder. Until both of them were straining, yearning for some faraway goal.
Just when Chelsea didn’t think she could bear any more, it began. A violent implosion of sensation, a rippling shudder of pleasure. Dear heaven, she’d heard stories, but she’d never thought, never dreamed, that they could actually be true—and yet so false, so inadequately expressed.
This was what saints had sinned for. This was what martyrs had died for. This was why women throughout the ages had been willing to throw caution and propriety to the wind. Not just an animal act, not just a blending of bodies, but a searing meld of heart, mind, and soul.
She savored the trembling release. The last few after-shocks. Sighing, she forced her eyes to open. She saw his face. Taut, expectant, triumphant.
“Chelsea,” he whispered against her cheek. He kissed her jaw, her neck. Then, to her infinite surprise, he began again, moving slowly, drawing back, hesitating, easing forward.
She swallowed in surprise. She hadn’t thought, hadn’t known that a man could continue so, without taking his own pleasure. Especially after the way she’d brought him to the edge of insanity.
Ignoring the heavy ache of her body, denying the twinge of pain, she allowed him to lead her again.
This time, there was a languor to their intimate dance. A savoring. This time, Chelsea was aware not so much of her own body as of his. She wanted to give him joy. She wanted to give him satisfaction. She absorbed each texture, each whispered sigh, each silken caress. She studied his movements and copied them, exploring, kissing, tasting, giving.
Soon their pace increased, intensified. Richard’s features adopted a grimace of sweet agony.
“Give in to me,” she urged into his ear. “Surrender.”
He growled against her neck. No longer gentle, he moved more boldly, more quickly.
Chelsea hadn’t thought it possible, but her body quickened, the taut string of passion grew tighter, tighter. Straining with him now, she gripped his buttocks, urging him to linger, withdraw, return.
Sensations began crowding in upon her in a heated frenzy. She grasped at the pillows, the blankets, anything that might provide some sort of stronghold. She moaned his name, mouth open.
One last time, he plunged into her. Her body responded by convulsing again and again and again. Sweetly. Tormentingly.
He tensed. He clasped her hips, holding her tightly, firmly. Then he shuddered, taking his own release and forcing the hot tide of his seed into her body.
“Chelsea, dear sweet bloody hell, Chelsea. I can’t get enough of you. I can’t get enough!”
Chapter 16
“Damn you,” she hissed. “Damn you!”
The stunned mixture of guilt, exhaustion, and wariness she found on his features gave witness to the befuddled accusation of her brain. The accent she’d heard might be odd to her ears, but there was no denying the fluency of the phrase. He had spoken to her in the heat of passion. In English. English!
Filled with a sudden rage, she pushed him away, pummeling his shoulders with her fists. Scrambling to the far side of the blankets, she stabbed him with open accusation.
A weary curse slipped from his lips. One arm lifted to cover his eyes, and he took a deep, jerky breath. Time hung brittly about them. The annoying grate of the cuckoo clock in the corner only seemed to underscore the sudden silence.
Chelsea didn’t know how long they remained that way, trapped in some indefinable morass of emotion. She only knew that enough minutes spilled into the silence to steady her pulse and cool her ardor.
Realizing she sat bare before him, naked, vulnerable, Chelsea took the sheet from the floor and wrapped it tightly around her body. “You’ve understood me all this time, haven’t your?”
He raked his hands through his hair and rolled to a sitting position. “Chelsea—”
“Haven’t you?” she demanded more forcefully.
“Yes.”
“For the entire time? Or did you have a day or two when you honestly couldn’t remember English, or … or the drugs kept you from speaking.”
“The entire time.”
A slow chill seeped into her expression. “Damn you. Damn you! Were you so lacking in entertainment that you needed me to play the fool?”
She pushed to her feet, and he lunged to stop her. “No!”
“How could you have done such a thing? Are you completely devoid of honor and compassion? Or were you just amused by the entire situation? By your grandmother’s plight?”
“I didn’t know her. I didn’t know you. Bloody hell! I was forcibly taken from my home and imprisoned aboard ship. For weeks I was kept in a cramped cell below deck and drugged like an animal. How would you react?”
“With honesty.”
“Oh, really,” he drawled. “Are you quite sure that word is in your vocabulary?”
She jerked as if she’d been slapped. Unspoken between them were the feelings that she had tried to deny, tried to push away, but which she’d displayed most eloquently and most brazenly only minutes before.
“At least I never deliberately hurt you.” She scooped to retrieve the remnants of her night rail, then tried to dodge past him, but he caught her and forced her to turn.
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br /> “What do you mean by that?”
“You never planned to help Biddy, did you? Even today, after you finally met her, you were willing to walk away. She was just another old woman in dire financial straits, but no one who should require your aid.”
Sullivan didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Not when the truth jammed in his gullet like a stone.
“I can’t believe I fell for your tricks. I can’t believe I could have been so gullible.” Striking out, she hit him with the side of her fist, then again and again. When he tried to pin her arms to her sides, she wrenched free and retreated to the opposite side of the room.
“Damn, damn, damn you!” She kept repeating the same phrase, so angry she couldn’t find a more punishing imprecation. Grasping a book from the table, she threw it at him, then another, and another. He dodged her missiles, but she came up empty of weapons. He prowled toward her.
“Stop it. Just stop it!”
When he would have held her, she slapped him away. “Don’t you dare touch me. Ever,” she hissed. Drawing the sheet around her like a queen’s robes, she marched toward the door.
But she couldn’t leave him. Despite the anger, despite the embarrassment, despite the abused pride, her most overwhelming emotion was disappointment. Her head rested against the smooth mahogany in abject defeat. “Why couldn’t you trust me?” she whispered, so softly the query was nearly swallowed whole by the darkness.
He didn’t answer her right away.
She finally peered at him over her shoulder. “Why?”
He sighed, raking his fingers through his hair. “Sit down, and I’ll—”
“No.”
“This would be much easier if you would—”
“No.”
He threw his hands into the air as if to say “Fine.” Pulling a towel from the warming rack next to the fireplace, he wrapped it around his hips with utmost care before speaking. “Thirty years ago, my parents were sent away from England in shame. My father was accused of treason, my mother of coercion. No one fought to prove their innocence, no one believed their pleas.”