Till Next We Meet

by Karen Ranney

  His fingers found her again, touched her in demand and desire. None of his actions were designed to dominate. He sought to appease, to extend a finger and gently coax her where he wished, a destination she suspected was as alien to her as the darkness of the passageways.

  Her eyes opened wide, and she moaned once before clamping her lips shut on the sound. As her hips arched off the bed, Moncrief lowered himself and kissed her deeply. Her chest was rising and falling with the effort to breathe, her heart was beating like a thunderous drum, and her fingers tingled.

  He seized her wrists and held them with one hand, and with his other guided himself into her. Catherine closed her eyes, wanting to experience every second of his entry. The tip of his penis touched her outer lips, and she arched her back impatiently.

  “Please.”

  “Anything you wish, anything you want.” Slowly, he entered her, moaning as he did so.

  He sank farther until he was completely filling her. He rested a moment to give her a chance to adjust to his size. Her hips rocked forward, her legs spread wider, her core of heat invited, entranced, beckoned. He slid against her, a gentle movement, an infinitesimal distance that made Catherine shiver, not out of shyness this time, or fear, but a quivering of nerve, and muscle, and skin measuring need and building desperation.

  His rhythm was slow, relentless. She bucked against him. Gradually, his speed increased until he was pressing her into the mattress and she was clinging to him in protest as he withdrew.

  He gripped her by the hips and pulled her onto him.

  He pulled out of her and she gasped, an open mouth expression of loss and wonder and surprise. He bent and trapped her breasts between his hands, scraping his teeth along the edge of both nipples, creating fire with his sucking mouth, branding her with an emotion she’d never before felt.

  She was making sounds, Catherine knew, little noises betraying her body’s surprise and jubilance. She no longer cared. When he slid inside her again, she sighed, a long-awaited sound of welcome. This steadfast invasion was like torture without pain. She felt stretched and waiting, a pulse beat deep inside her body like a drum ticking off the limits of her endurance. She wanted movement, friction, an easing of the building tension.

  “Oh, sweet Catherine. Soon.” He slowed, further teasing her.

  It was the promise of sunlight in the depths of a darkened cave. She wanted the brightness, needed the sun, but he only bent to capture a hard nipple into his mouth, grazing it with tender teeth, sucking at it. It was not enough, even when he kissed her, mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue. She ravaged his mouth, realizing that he kissed the way he spoke, kisses the texture of warm honey, the flavor of Moncrief, intrusive, occasionally demanding, enticing.

  His lips moved to nuzzle in the soft, damp tendrils of hair at her temple. “Catherine.”

  He began to move faster then, and she nearly screamed, the feeling making her hold tight to him, nature and instinct writhing her hips forward to cradle him on his withdrawal, entice him on his return.

  Catherine bit her lip and wrapped her arms around Moncrief’s neck. Her hands shook, her feet tingled, her nipples were hard, painful points, and a flush of heat raced through her body.

  He reached down and teased her with his fingers, urging her to explode with him an instant later. When she did, her vision darkened, and for long moments the world simply ceased.

  Moncrief gathered her close, kissing her eyelids and smoothed his hand across her face down to her throat. For long moments they lay entwined, Moncrief making no effort to move.

  She traced the curves of muscle down his arm to his palm. There was nothing soft about him, yet his touch was so tender she felt as if she were melting with it.

  His chest brushed her breasts, tantalized them with the gentle abrasion of hair, teased them with a soft side-to-side movement. Her hands skimmed impatiently against the skin of his back, her fingertips gently smoothing against his sweat-sheened skin.

  She had known passion before, but never like this. Nothing had prepared her for what she’d just experienced, as if she’d wandered into a world she’d heard about but never seen.

  Slowly, she turned her head and looked at Moncrief. His eyes were closed, his breath quick, his heart still beat strongly against her breast.

  A feeling of sadness suddenly came over her, a sensation so strong that she blinked back tears. Yet she didn’t mourn Harry at this moment, or even her previous life. She grieved, instead, for what she might have felt at this moment if Moncrief had loved her.

  He turned his head, and before he could speak, she kissed him. Wrapping her arms around him, she kissed him again, then again to keep him silent, and then once more because she liked his kisses, and a few more because her lips were warming and her heart beating rapidly again.

  Catherine awoke and stretched and then, as she had for several days, tested the pain in her ankle. It didn’t hurt. Nothing hurt. In fact, she felt glorious. She stretched, her hands going under the pillows.

  Only to encounter a male elbow.

  Moncrief.

  Her hand spread wide, fingers splayed to touch his arm gently before retreating slowly back to her side.

  She turned her head to look at him.

  Moncrief was a sorcerer. He’d made her forget everything—the place, the chilled room, the fumbling embarrassment she’d felt. She closed her eyes, wondering if she were indeed lost to lust to think of such things in the bright light of day. Dawn had come and gone and sunlight was stealing in between the curtains. Yet she was still having night thoughts.

  Dear heavens, she’d screamed. Thank Providence that Moncrief had thought to procure a guest room in an unused wing. Still, had anyone heard her? She eased the pillow from behind her head and placed it over her face.

  Perhaps she should simply claim fatigue and stay in her chamber all day. That would give the servants something to discuss, wouldn’t it? They’d think that Moncrief had hurt her while the very opposite was true.

  Where had he learned some of those things he’d done? He’d kissed her in places she was entirely certain were not normally kissed. Not, however, that she wouldn’t care to have it done again. The sensations had been, well, addictive.

  She peeked out from behind the pillow and focused on the ceiling. Plaster cherubs cavorted in the corners, stringing a ribbon around the chamber. They seemed to ridicule her with their smiles.

  Very well, the whole night had been glorious.

  She remembered the first time she’d sampled Balidonough whiskey. The whiskey had burned only her throat. Moncrief had made her whole body feel on fire.

  She pushed the pillow back and looked at him. Moncrief slept deeply, his whole being seeming to focus on rest. His eyelids didn’t flicker, and he looked so blissfully peaceful that she wondered if he had any sins or flaws resting on his conscience.

  Although she had always thought him an arresting men, now she recognized that he was truly handsome. He lay half on his side, curled toward her, one arm curved beneath the pillow, the other resting on his hip.

  She wanted to reach out and place her hand on his chest, thread her fingers through the soft hair there, but doing so would probably wake him. She was not yet ready to greet him.

  Instead, she closed her eyes and enjoyed the softness of the morning, the quiet in the room, and a feeling of lassitude that came not from a good night’s rest as much as Moncrief’s skill.

  He had taught her so much in only hours.

  Could it be possible that she was in lust with her husband? Husband. He was her husband, and she had the right to sleep next to him every night of her life if she chose. There would be no whispers about her doing so, except perhaps the maids wondering at her eagerness for the end of day. But she could return tonight if she wished, and he would think her merely attempting to be an accommodating wife.

  She felt him stir and considered feigning sleep before chastising herself for being foolish. She turned her head and opened her eyes to find him w
atching her.

  “Good morning,” he said softly.

  She smiled in reply, feeling tongue-tied and absurdly embarrassed. She’d screamed and otherwise acted as foolish as a virgin.

  But he did not seem to think so, not with his answering smile and that wicked gleam in his eyes.

  “It doesn’t seem fair.”

  “What doesn’t seem fair?” he asked, reaching out his hand to brush back her hair from her face.

  “That you are so handsome first thing in the morning.”

  “Am I? An entire coterie of Balidonough’s servants has been here to make me look presentable for you.”

  She raised up on one elbow to survey him. “They did a spurious job. I can’t see any evidence of their handiwork. Besides, Moncrief, you have no need of servants.”

  He only smiled, and she realized he was embarrassed by her words. She should have felt, perhaps, a surge of power, but all she felt was tenderness, an oddity in itself. The night before had not lent itself to soft emotions.

  She placed her hand flat on his chest and threaded her fingers through the springy hair there. He gripped her wrist with one hand and gently brought it up to his mouth to plant a kiss against her palm.

  “I have a meeting with Juliana, but I can gladly postpone it,” he offered in a low voice. “My wife comes first.”

  She felt her cheeks warm.

  “Wouldn’t it be decadent to lie abed in the middle of the day?”

  “It’s expected of a newly married couple. Or I could always claim ducal privilege.”

  What sort of power did he have over her that he could suggest such a thing and she’d give it consideration? The idea of making love to Moncrief again was an exciting one. To do so in the middle of the day, however, might be tempting even her newfound licentiousness.

  Before she could change her mind, she sat on the edge of the bed and reached for his dressing gown. She wanted to escape to her chamber before any more temptation was laid before her.

  He raised up on his elbow and watched her, his smile broadening. “If you take my dressing gown, what will I wear?”

  “You give me no choice, Moncrief. You destroyed my gown.”

  “You should sleep naked from now on, Catherine.”

  If the seamstress couldn’t make her another gown, she’d be forced to do that. Or sleep in her ugly black gowns. But she didn’t think that Moncrief would tolerate that.

  “A sheet, perhaps? Or you can simply take the passageway back to your chamber.”

  He glanced up at the ceiling. “I can always walk back to my room naked.”

  “You wouldn’t,” she said, shocked.

  She could very well imagine what all the young maids would be doing as he strode down the hall: looking through their fingers at him, memorizing the shape of him.

  “We would never get any work out of the maids from that moment on, Moncrief. They’d be lusting after you.”

  He only smiled. The silence stretched between them as she realized he was capable of doing something so brazen. Nor would it bother him. He was so perfectly made and so completely comfortable with himself that nudity wasn’t important.

  Just like the men in those illustrations.

  “There’s only one woman I want lusting after me, Catherine.”

  The sheet had fallen to his waist, and she wondered if he was erect, if that was the reason for his wicked, almost promising, grin.

  The deed had been quickly done with Harry. It had been nothing like this moment, with Moncrief singeing her skin with his gaze, with her imagining all sorts of scenes, and her body responding in ways she had felt before but only when surfacing from particularly troubling dreams.

  “If you give me but a moment, I will send your dressing gown back with Wallace.”

  “I think it would be quicker if I took the passageway. Can I carry you back to your chamber, duchess?”

  She could imagine being in Moncrief’s arms, naked.

  “My ankle doesn’t hurt this morning. I think I’ll walk.”

  He pulled the covers back to expose his glorious erection. She glanced away before she was tempted to reach out her fingers and stroke its length. She hadn’t touched him the night before, and now she wanted to almost desperately.

  “If you think that’s the best solution.”

  “I do,” she said, and escaped the room before her own desires overcame her.

  Catherine walked back to her chamber in Moncrief’s dressing gown, holding her head up high as if it were an everyday activity she was performing. Several young maids polishing the brass of the door handles glanced at her as she passed, but she didn’t hear their giggles until she reached her room.

  She pressed on the handle and stepped into the room quickly, placing her back against the closed door. Looking up at the ceiling, she sighed, and wondered if she should summon Wallace after all. But Moncrief’s voice speaking to a footman in the next room made that errand unnecessary.

  Catherine clutched the silk of the garment to her and went to sit at the vanity. Staring back at her in the mirror was a woman with flushed cheeks and swollen lips, whose hair was mussed and whose eyes still reflected the passion of the night before. A heavy pulse beat between her legs, as if her body were somehow summoning Moncrief, as if she needed only the thought of him to feel desire.

  She laid her head down on her arms, wondering how she could wait until night fell again. Her hand cupped her own breast beneath the silk, and the sensation was one she wanted to share with him. How was she to get through her duties today feeling this way?

  She felt both weak with pleasure and hungry for it.

  If she had known that bedding Moncrief would cause such feelings, she wouldn’t have fought it with such intensity.

  She raised her head and looked in the mirror, feeling like a foolish, foolish woman.

  Chapter 22

  Life at Balidonough assumed a normal pattern, at least on the surface.

  The cleaning of the castle continued. Once the maids were finished with one wing, they began on the original one again. Catherine couldn’t conceive of Balidonough ever being so filled with people that it would feel crowded. In fact, there were times during the day that she saw no one at all except for an industrious maid or a bored footman.

  Balidonough was filled to the brim with those items Moncrief’s ancestors had collected over the centuries. Most of her time was spent cataloging all the various furniture, china, tapestries, and paintings. Catherine took pleasure in the restoration of several valuable pieces of furniture from the attics. She had them repaired by the castle’s carpenter before being stained and polished. She wished she knew of someone to consult about the tapestries, as well as someone knowledgeable about several Chinese vases she suspected were priceless.

  If nothing else, she would be known by future generations for her neat handwriting and the journals that were being filled with list after list of Balidonough’s treasures.

  Their conversations at dinner were lively enough, with Hortensia, Moncrief, and herself in attendance. They discussed all manner of things, some of them no doubt disapproved of in polite society. She was learning, however, that Moncrief made the rules rather than following them. Catherine did not doubt that anyone welcome to their home would realize that within the first two minutes of his arrival.

  He treated the servants as if they were troops under his command, expecting a great deal from them but willing to treat them fairly in return. Yet the distance he maintained from people, even Peter, indicated that he was familiar with being in charge and not uncomfortable with an aura of aloofness.

  Moncrief instituted a rule that the footmen were not to stand at attention five deep down the hallway like marionette soldiers. Instead, only a pair of men were to remain at the end of each corridor unless summoned by a guest or family member. They were released from duty at ten at night and were not expected to appear before eight in the morning. He gave similar orders that the maids were not to be on duty past nine, and n
ot to be on the main floors until seven. Even at Colstin Hall, the servants worked longer hours.

  Hortensia had questioned him one night about his leniency toward the servants.

  “Do you not think it a bad thing to set such a precedent, Moncrief? After all, none of the other estates allow their servants such latitude.”

  “Why should I demand more of a man than I need? We’re not at war. Balidonough will suffer no hardship if a man spends an hour less at work.”

  Catherine couldn’t help but wonder how his childhood memories of his father’s autocracy or his service as a colonel had molded him into the man he was today. Both no doubt had a place in making him Moncrief, just as her childhood and her marriage to Harry had altered her to become the woman she was now.

  Whoever she had become. Whoever Catherine, Duchess of Lymond, was. A confused woman, certainly. But feeling that way was to be expected around Moncrief.

  He’d awakened something in her, long dormant or never used. Moncrief had always been honest about his need and his desire. She found such forthrightness both startling and amazingly exciting.

  She discovered her days were less disturbing if she was busy. She didn’t want to think about her relationship with Moncrief, complicated as it was. During the day, they were perfectly amenable to each other, courteous and polite, the epitome of ducal restraint.

  At night, they were wild.

  During the last month, Catherine was very much afraid that the wildness would begin to seep over into the days as well. When he wasn’t around, she found herself thinking of him. What was he doing? Where was he? When would he return?

  When he was near her, she couldn’t seem to stop touching him. She’d find a way to brush his lapel, or put her hand on his sleeve, or be close in some way. She hadn’t moved from her place at the table and sometimes during dinner he would reach to his right and place his finger on her hand. Such a simple thing but it stole her breath.