“Hard?” His voice was a gentle rumble. “No, not hurt, but there’s a yearning, certainly.”
She paused. “What do you yearn for?”
“You,” he said simply. “You.”
And he drew her down to him, capturing her lips with his. She lay half over him, her breasts flattened to his chest, and she kept one hand on his cock, stroking as he kissed her, his mouth hot and relentless. If this was yearning, she felt it, too—in the ache of her nipples, in the swelling of her sex.
He broke away suddenly. “Take off your chemise, Phoebe.”
He helped her draw it off so that she was as naked as he.
“Come here,” he said, grasping her leg. “Like this.” He pulled her over him so that she straddled him, her sex spread wide. “You can ride me like this if you want.”
“Ride you?” She felt a smile stretch her lips. “Like a horse?”
“Your own stallion.” Amusement was in his voice again.
Strange that at one time she’d thought he had no sense of humor.
Wonderful that he showed it only to her, in their most intimate moments.
“How—?” she asked, her voice catching. There was an emotion welling at the back of her throat, behind her eyes.
“Lift up a little,” he said, helping her to kneel. “Now, carefully, seat yourself on me.”
“On…” She lowered herself and felt his cock at her entrance. She explored with her hands and found that he was holding himself, holding his flesh up for her. She tangled her hand with his and pushed against him.
He began to widen her.
This seemed obscene somehow, on her knees, his cock partially in her, shoving herself on him while he lay there like some indolent pasha.
The thought made her wetter.
She shifted, angling herself, and pushed down again. He slid in, wide and hard, a welcome invader.
“Oh,” she whispered, tears springing to her eyes.
“All right?” he asked her, his voice low. He had one hand on her hip and he traced soothing circles on her skin.
“Yes?” she said. “What do I—?”
“Brace your hands here,” he said, drawing her hands to his warm chest, showing her how to lean a little forward. “Now use me.”
“Use you?” It seemed a scandalous idea.
“Use me,” he repeated. “Ride me until you come.”
Well, when put so bluntly… she lifted her bottom, feeling him slide a little out, then sat back down. She shifted a little, finding her balance, feeling him move within her, tightened her thighs…
And began galloping.
Oh, it was a wonderful feeling! His hard flesh in her, thrusting back and forth as she rode him. His panting breath—though he did no work—the sensation of being in control, of being able to make this man shatter beneath her.
She felt whole. She felt invincible.
“Come here, my little Amazon,” he growled, and pulled her down enough to catch a nipple in his mouth.
That—that single small point of pleasure/pain sent her over the edge, shuddering, grinding against him, completely and utterly out of control. Heat surged through her veins and she cried out at the sensation, feeling as if she’d become a fiery star.
He pulled her down, fully into his arms, as she curled around him, her face pressed to the pillow, gasping in the aftermath of her release. He placed both hands on her buttocks, thrusting heavily up into her.
He grunted, and she remembered, vaguely, his leg, but before she could ask, he stiffened beneath her, still thrusting, and she tightened herself all around him so that she might feel with him. His release.
His joy.
All that Trevillion was.
Chapter Sixteen
The sea horse turned to look at Corineus and he saw that she was ragged and worn. Her sides were streaked with sweat and foam, her delicate legs bloodied and torn, and her once-proud head hung low, her white mane grayed and stringy.
“Very well,” said Corineus. “You have served me faithfully and I shall set you free, my brave faery horse. But I ask a boon of you: will you tell me your name?”…
—From The Kelpie
Late the next morning Trevillion stood in the sunny courtyard and groomed one of his father’s mares. Reed had offered to do the chore for him, but Trevillion enjoyed working with the horses. Old Owen had given him a knowing smile and left him to it. Now the old man was talking to Phoebe, sitting on one of the mounting blocks a little distance away.
A bark sounded and then Toby was galloping up to Phoebe from the house.
Trevillion watched as Toby did his best to climb into Phoebe’s lap despite the fact that he was too big to be a lapdog. She was laughing as the dog licked her face and muddied her skirts.
How strange it was to be in love. To spend some three-and-thirty years not even aware of the existence of a small, pretty, kind, funny, ferociously stubborn woman; to spend day after day with her, arguing, debating, sitting silently sometimes; all to finally come to this day and the knowledge that she was everything to him. That if he lost her from his world, the sun might as well disappear from the sky.
He wondered if she had any idea at all the power she wielded over him with her tiny palm.
“Toby’ll never learn if Phoebe lets him climb all over her,” Agnes said, walking to his side. She sounded frighteningly like her grandfather.
Trevillion glanced at his niece. She came only to his shoulder, but if she continued to grow at the same rate, she’d top Phoebe soon. He felt a sudden pang. He’d like to be here to see Agnes grow to womanhood.
But Agnes was staring up at him now. “Uncle James?”
She probably thought him soft in the head. “Yes, well, Lady Phoebe for some reason seems to like dogs jumping on her.”
Agnes gave him a doubtful glance. “Are you sure she’s the daughter of a duke?”
His lips twitched. “Quite positive.”
“Hmm.” Agnes hummed doubtfully. “Granfer says you can’t marry the daughter of a duke.”
He looked away, his lips thinning. It was a subject he’d been avoiding thinking about. “I expect he’s right.”
“He isn’t always, though,” she assured him. “He thought for sure Guinevere would foal a colt but instead she had Lark.” She hesitated and then squared her shoulders, as if playing her trump card. “And she likes you, you know, Phoebe does. She likes you a lot.”
He didn’t tell her that “liking” often had nothing at all to do with an aristocratic marriage.
Some illusions shouldn’t be shattered.
Phoebe stood precariously as Toby tumbled off her lap.
Trevillion strode over to catch her arm so that she wouldn’t fall.
“Is Agnes here to show us more?” she asked.
Agnes had been giving them the grand tour of the estate—all of which Trevillion already knew like the back of his hand, but Phoebe had elbowed him sharply in the ribs when he’d started to say that this morning.
He looked at Agnes now. “What’s left?”
“There’s a stone up on the moor,” Agnes said eagerly. “You can see for miles and miles and the wind blows ever so strong.”
“I’ll see to th’ mare,” Old Owen said cheerfully, turning to do just that.
Trevillion watched him go, frowning. He didn’t want to disappoint Agnes, but the ground on the moors was uneven, with clumps of gorse and grass. Not exactly an easy place to walk.
“Lady Phoebe might fall,” he said. “Let’s find another place to walk.”
Agnes’s lower lip drooped. “Oh, but—”
“James,” Phoebe said, placing her hand on his arm. It was the first time she’d called him by his Christian name in front of another. “Let me. I want to experience the moors.”
“I don’t want you hurt,” he said gruffly.
“I know.” Her smile was winsome. “But falling isn’t the end of the world. I may fall, it’s true—in fact, I probably will fall—but really, one can’t li
ve without falling now and again.”
“Phoebe…” he said helplessly. The thought of her being injured was unspeakable. He’d rather be hurt himself.
“Please.”
That one word and the pleading look on her face were like an arrow to his heart. “Very well.”
“Huzzah!” cried Agnes, and Toby began barking wildly. “It’s this way.”
Trevillion followed his niece, leaning heavily on his cane with one hand, holding out his arm for Phoebe to grasp with the other. He wasn’t much good on uneven ground either, he thought ruefully. He was just as likely to take a fall as she.
Agnes led them through one gate into the pasture and then through another gate, and then they were out onto the moor. The gorse was knee-high, some of it blooming with tiny yellow flowers.
“Oh, this is wonderful,” Phoebe said, bending to trail her hand in the leaves.
The wind brought the smell of salt and the ocean and Agnes was right—they could see for miles up here. The sky was an endless blue expanse, a dome encompassing the world. Trevillion sucked in a deep breath and smiled when Phoebe tipped back her face to feel the sun. They continued climbing until they came to a wide, flat area, dotted with gray stones cropping up out of the earth.
Phoebe lifted her face to him. “Can I walk by myself? Just for a bit? I know you haven’t always liked the things I’ve wanted to do and the places I’ve wanted to go.” She took a deep breath. “I don’t want to deliberately endanger myself, but I also want the freedom to make the choice of what is too dangerous for me. This isn’t, James. I just want to live.”
He started to protest—there were so many obstacles should she wander off the footpath—but he swallowed the words. She wanted her freedom, he knew that—he’d always known that, and as her brother’s man it’d been his job to keep her caged.
But Wakefield wasn’t here. More importantly, Trevillion no longer agreed that the only way to keep her safe was to limit all her movement.
Perhaps Phoebe was right. Perhaps in order to live one had to stumble and fall once in a while.
He wanted Phoebe to live.
He took a deep breath. “Yes.”
She stepped away from him gingerly. Both Toby and Agnes had stopped farther along the footpath to watch. Phoebe inhaled, tipping her face to the sun, and spread wide her arms like a seagull floating on the wind. She took another step and another.
And then she stumbled and fell.
Trevillion stared in horror. She was on her hands and knees and she must’ve at least scraped her palms. And she was shaking.
“Oh, let me help you,” Agnes cried.
But Trevillion shot out his arm, halting her. He took a moment to steady his voice. “Phoebe, do you want help?”
“No,” she said cheerfully, and when she lifted her face he saw she was laughing. “No, I can make it.”
And she did. She stood and felt with the tip of her toe until she found which way the path went and set off again.
He hovered not far behind, of course, constantly checking the urge to go to her. To take her arm and guide her. Keep her safe. But he knew that as much as it mattered to him to keep Phoebe out of harm’s way, it mattered more to her to be free.
Free from help. Free from constraints.
So he followed and watched like a hawk and let her fall. Once. Twice. Thrice. And each time he had to bite down on a gasp, had to stop himself from catching her or pulling her up.
But each time she rose again, laughing. Strong.
By the time they reached the outcropping of rocks he couldn’t stand it any longer.
He caught her arm gently, pulling her laughing face toward him.
“I love you,” he whispered in her hair. “I love you, Lady Phoebe Batten.”
And when she caught her breath, her eyebrows winging up in surprise, he bent and kissed her on those sweet rose lips. Not in a show of passion, but as an offering and a promise.
Which was when Tom Pawley found them, bearing the note from the Duke of Wakefield.
PHOEBE STOOD AT Guinevere and Lark’s stall and listened to the horses. The quiet munching of Guinevere eating her mash, the suckling of Lark taking her own dinner. The stables were quiet and warm, the smell of the horses comforting.
She heard a sharp bark and then Toby was trotting toward her, panting, footsteps following his.
She let a hand fall and was rewarded with a wet tongue over her fingers.
“Do you have to go back?” Agnes asked softly.
Phoebe felt the girl’s little body pressing up against hers. Toby flopped down, leaning on her other side.
For a moment the only sound was that of Lark having a baby gallop around the stall.
“I live in London,” Phoebe said at last. She tried, she really did, but her voice emerged dull and dispirited. It had been so wonderful on the moor. She’d felt so free. And then Trevillion had kissed her and said he loved her and she’d thought her bliss would know no bounds.
It had been the happiest moment of her life.
She’d actually considered pleading with Trevillion to just stay here when they’d gotten the letter. Though it was from her brother, he’d sent it through Alf, Trevillion’s mysterious St Giles informant. Alf had kept their secret, it seemed, and Maximus still didn’t know her whereabouts. Phoebe couldn’t help thinking how frustrated it must’ve made Maximus to have to rely upon a St Giles urchin to communicate with his sister.
If they stayed Maximus might never find her.
Except she knew that was cowardliness. She loved her brother—truly she did—and she’d miss him and the rest of her family if she never saw them again. Besides, she’d hate for her family to worry over her.
It was just… going back to London. Going back to her old life.
Could one voluntarily return to a cage once the door had been opened?
“You could live here,” Agnes said. “We’ve lots of room.”
Phoebe let her head rest on her arms, which were crossed on the top of the stall door. “I truly wish I could.”
“Then stay. The house is huge—why we don’t use even half the bedrooms! Granfer says you can’t marry Uncle James, but if you did, you’d be his wife and you could both live here. It’s better with you here. It’s better with Uncle James here, too.”
Phoebe’s mouth quirked at her hopeful tone. “There’d be quite a lot of shouting if your uncle and your grandfather lived together permanently. I’m sure you wouldn’t like that.”
“It was awful quiet before you both came,” Agnes said thoughtfully. “We could put cotton wool in our ears at supper.”
Phoebe laughed wearily at that. “I’d like to stay, but you see it’s not my decision. My brother has summoned me back to London and it’s the way of the world that gentlemen are the ones who make these decisions.”
“That,” Agnes pronounced, “is very silly.”
“It is rather,” Phoebe murmured. “But even if he didn’t have the power to force my return, I suppose I’d have to anyway. I’ve friends there, you see, and family, too.”
“You do?” Agnes sounded astounded that Phoebe apparently had a life outside Cornwall.
“Yes. I’ve two baby nephews and I shouldn’t like to never see them again.”
“Could they… could they visit here, do you think?” Agnes asked hopefully. “I like babies and we could show them the horses.”
Phoebe smiled sadly. “It’s a rather long trip for babies, love.”
“Will you be visiting again?” Agnes asked in a very small voice.
“I don’t know,” Phoebe said with something like despair, just as she heard a snuffling quite close by.
“Oh,” Agnes whispered. “Lark’s come to the door.”
Very slowly Phoebe held out her hand and in another moment a tiny soft nose nuzzled her fingers, blowing warm air gently.
She stood still, not wanting to frighten the little foal—and she wished with all her heart that she could stay here in Cornwall forever.
“HIS GRACE WRITES that the kidnapper has confessed and is safely locked away in Newgate awaiting trial,” Trevillion said, leaning on his cane. “He asks that I return with Lady Phoebe as soon as is possible to London. We’ll leave at once.”
His father stood with his back to the room, ostensibly looking out at the view from the library window. “And you intend to take her back.”
“It’s her home,” he said without inflection. For the ax to fall so suddenly had been a terrible shock—one that he should’ve been better prepared for. After all, he’d known that Wakefield would eventually capture the kidnapper.
That he would have to deliver Phoebe back to her family someday.
He wished, though, that it weren’t today.
“And you?” His father didn’t turn, but his back seemed to straighten even more. “Is London your home now, too?”
“Are you asking if I’ll return?” he asked cautiously. His father’s question caught him off guard. He hadn’t been thinking of anything beyond Phoebe and London.
But of course there would be something beyond that. He’d have to go on living without her if it came to that. He’d be in need of a job in any case.
“You could,” his father said slowly, “now that Faire no longer seeks to have you imprisoned.”
Trevillion waited a beat, but his father said nothing more. “That isn’t exactly an invitation from you.”
Finally the old man swiveled to look at him. “Is that what you need, Jamie? An invitation to come home?”
Trevillion looked him in the eye. “Perhaps.”
His father blinked, his lips tightening fiercely in his lined face. “I never blamed you, Jamie, not ever. Oh, I know I might’ve yelled and said things when it first happened, but that was anger. It wasn’t your fault, I know that.”
Trevillion looked down. Hadn’t it been?
His father groaned quietly and sank into a chair. “A man makes many a mistake in his life, some small and inconsequential, some that change the course of everything. The trick is leaving it behind you and going on anyway. Because if you become stuck in the past, in things that can’t ever be changed, well then, you’re done for.”
Dearest Rogue Page 24
