Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair)

by Stephanie Laurens

She gasped, her body arching against his. Dragging her lips a fraction from his, she breathed, “More. Show me all.”

  He hadn’t imagined she would settle for anything less, but the demand—clear and definite—vanquished any lingering hesitation, and he set himself to obey.

  Kiss by hungry kiss, caress by increasingly desperate caress, they fell victim to the building flames, to the sheer intensity of the illicit intimacy that was simply too potent, too powerful to deny.

  Too scorching to even imagine drawing back from; the conflagration swelled, raged, and took them, cindering all thought, all will, all ability to stand against it.

  Against the power that swelled and rose, an elemental force that drove them both.

  Soft whispers of encouragement murmured through the dark—hers, his—as, with no thought of resisting the offered bounty, they went forward together, all intent aligned, and their hands quested and found, their fingers strengthened and gripped, their palms shaped and kneaded.

  He caressed every hollow, every sleek curve. Never had he been this absorbed, this fascinated. This fixated.

  She, her body, the promise in her dark eyes, held him enthralled. Willingly captured.

  Bold and eager, she returned his gifts, her movements mirroring his, her excitement rising, feeding his.

  Anticipation sank its claws into them both.

  And raked.

  Scored.

  He answered the call, hers and that of the force that was now firmly driving them.

  Wrestling with the soft fabric, aided and abetted by her, he drew off her nightgown and paused, lost, to savor. To learn anew by sight as well as touch, to know even more intimately, to worship more completely.

  To pay homage.

  To trace her bared curves with his lips, to savor her skin with his tongue, to claim each curve, each hollow, and let her intoxicating taste and scent claim him.

  Rose couldn’t catch her breath; it wasn’t darkness that dimmed her vision but need—the focus of all her senses had drawn in, to this, to him, to them and their journey. Passion’s landscape unfurled before her, brought to life by him, and rendered in all the brilliant hues of glittering desire, a scintillating web of sensation created by the artful sweep of his hands over her damp skin, by the pressure of his lips, the rasp of his tongue, the hot, wet heat of his mouth as he closed it over the peak of one breast and suckled.

  She cried out and her body bowed; he played on her senses, on her nerves, a maestro orchestrating a symphony of delight. Of pleasure that filled her, that racked and thrilled her.

  Her senses had expanded, greedily drinking in every sensation—the heat of his hard body, the reverence in his touch, the hunger still burning in his eyes.

  Yet despite the fraught tension that thrummed through them both, leaving nerves stretched and quivering, he treated her with a possessive gentleness that seared her to her soul.

  There was more—so much more—between them than she’d guessed.

  So much more, in this, that he was showing her.

  Teaching her.

  Of herself, yes, but even more of him.

  Of the devotion he so evocatively revealed as he caressed her, aroused her—loved her.

  The need to return the sentiment grew, swelled . . . until she could deny the compulsion no longer.

  She needed more—she needed to love him.

  Summoning her will took effort, but she made it, gave it, finally locked her fingers in his hair, pulled back until he raised his head, drew his lips from the soft skin of her stomach, and met her eyes.

  “My turn.”

  Thomas wasn’t sure that was a wise idea; his control was a thin and fraying thread, and her passion, unleashed, might just cinder it.

  He rose over her and smoothly captured her lips with his, trying to distract her with further caresses, but with a few heated, succinct phrases and a bold caress of her own, she made it clear that she wouldn’t allow him to be the only supplicant. With her small hands and her woman’s wiles, she insisted, persisted, until, reluctant but unable to deny her, even in this, even at this point where passion quivered in the wings, slavering and barely restrained, he clamped a ruthless hand on the reins and paused, drew in a breath, and drew off his nightshirt.

  Honesty; it was a line he’d sworn to hold to, and there was little he might do that was more revealing than to let her see all his scars.

  He’d anticipated some degree of revulsion, of tentativeness at the very least.

  Instead, with not the slightest hint of rejection in her eyes, she viewed the mangled skin below his right shoulder and the mass of twisted, ropey scars that laced his left side, running down to the knot of darker scars over his left hip, which trailed away into raised ridges down his weak left leg. She saw, surveyed, then reached out and traced.

  The flesh was damaged; he’d thought the areas would be unresponsive. Instead . . . he felt every gentle brush of her fingertips over his ravaged skin.

  He held his breath as, with unwaveringly open intent, she claimed even that—the most damaged part of him.

  Then she lowered her head and kissed. Lovingly traced the ridges and knots . . .

  The sensations speared through him. He closed his eyes and trembled.

  She continued her ministrations, and he was utterly lost, his mind awash in sensation, his wits swept away by his swirling emotions, swamped by the tumultuous tides.

  Tides she evoked, that together they fed.

  He’d never experienced anything like this, but the man he now was had never been with a woman before. He’d never before opened himself to this glory.

  To this shattering understanding.

  To this elemental intimacy that reached to the soul.

  He’d had no idea such a shining glory existed, could ever be.

  Finally, their now-mutual need burned too brightly to resist; the compulsion in their blood grew too heated to ignore, to delay.

  It used to be such a simple act, but his twisted hip made him awkward. Without words, with just a touch and a subtle shift, she compensated, curving one lithe leg over the back of his thighs, beneath his buttocks, then urging him on, in.

  Unable to breathe, much less think, he thrust into her heat, into the tight embrace of her body.

  Didn’t realize, couldn’t halt in time, and cleaved through the barrier he hadn’t imagined would be there.

  What was left of his mind seized in shock as, beneath him, she arched, tensing and tightening about him, clamping about his rigid erection now buried deep at her core. Head back, a whimper of pain escaped her; her nails sank into his upper arms.

  Rose couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe—could only feel. So much, she felt utterly overwhelmed. She’d assumed . . . clearly, she’d been wrong, but that wasn’t what was important now.

  The feel of his body, skin to skin against hers, had been a tactile shock, one she’d absorbed with heady, breathless anticipation. His weight settling upon her had felt equally right, equally desirable. Entirely promising.

  She’d adored the heat, the fevered dampness desire had slicked over their skins.

  As for the rigid, corded length of his erection, when she’d closed her hand around it and he’d groaned, she’d felt like a goddess.

  And she’d wanted him inside her, had finally understood the urgent need that drove women to lie with men, the yearning that swelled like a yawning emptiness, one that positively burned to be filled.

  She’d helped, almost frantic with the moment so close upon her, needy and desperate with a hunger only he, it seemed, could assuage.

  And he had.

  She’d urged him on, and with one powerful thrust he’d forged into her body and filled her.

  Completely, utterly.

  The heavy intrusion, the shocking stretching, the sharp pain . . .

  She hadn’t expected any of it, much less the searing intimacy—she now understood the meaning of the word as she never had before. It was that intimacy in all its myriad aspects that h
ad swamped her mind, that now held her captive.

  The pain faded, swiftly changed, overwhelmed by something quite different.

  By a different wanting, a sharper need, by the sensation of being so close to something desired beyond all else.

  She could feel him, hard and unyielding, within her, feel his heat, the muscled strength of his body, all around her, caging her, pinning her.

  Merging with her.

  Two thudding heartbeats passed, then she eased. Fractionally.

  Then, in dawning wonder, she eased her muscles a little more.

  Braced above her, every quivering muscle locked, ruthlessly holding to stillness, Thomas stared down at her . . . and couldn’t think enough even to know what he felt.

  As if she sensed his gaze, her lids rose a fraction, revealing dark eyes glittering with unslaked passion.

  Releasing her grip on one of his arms, she laid her palm against his cheek. Whispered, her voice hoarse with need, “Later. Please . . .”

  He knew what she was asking, and couldn’t deny her. Couldn’t deny the pounding need in his blood.

  Bending his head, he brushed his lips over hers. “Later,” he agreed, then he eased back, then pressed in again, and swept them both into the fire.

  Into the waiting heat and the spiraling pleasure.

  Into carnal bliss of a sort he’d never experienced, and he knew it was because the woman in his arms was her. Rose.

  Intimacy had never been this physical, this able to impinge on every scintilla of his awareness, to claim every last dark corner of his soul. To rip every screen and veil away, leaving him stripped to the bone, exposed and so vulnerable, aching with need . . . a need to which she surrendered herself, that she slaked with her passion, with an open directness, a simple sincerity—her own honesty offered in recompense for his.

  Eyes locked with his, she reached up, locked her hands behind his neck, stretched up, and fused her lips with his. Added her passion to his, her body freely and flagrantly riding each thrust, meeting him, matching him, joining with him and sharing in every desperate moment, spurring him on, recklessly racing onward.

  She cloaked his naked need with her passion, fed his raging hunger with her desire.

  And he did the same for her, openly, honestly, without reservation or hesitation giving. Simply giving.

  And in that she followed his lead, and they gave and took and gave again with ever-increasing abandon.

  Until the thunder in their blood was all either of them knew.

  Until desperation raked, and they gasped, and reached, and drove each other on.

  Until the peak rose before them and they hurtled over and beyond, driven and fused, senses awash with the glory, minds overwhelmed, suborned by bone-deep pleasure.

  One last thrust, one deep penetration, and ecstasy broke, a piercingly bright wave shattering over them, blinding their senses.

  He drank her cry of completion, felt his answering groan reverberate through them both.

  And they fell.

  Into a void of indescribable bliss where nothing beyond the beat of their hearts existed.

  They shook, trembled, as the intensity of the climax slowly, so slowly, faded.

  Moments passed, filled with their ragged breathing and the slowing thunder of their hearts.

  Eventually, he dragged in a shuddering breath, eased his weight from her, then withdrew from the clinging heat of her body to slump alongside her.

  She curled into him; he hesitated for only a second, then drew her close.

  And let satiation have them both.

  Later, his mind stirred, but his senses informed him that she was still asleep, sunk in sated slumber. That she remained tucked against him. Trusting.

  His.

  An errant thought drifted across his languid mind: Was this, too, a part of his penance?

  Was this—and he wasn’t fool enough to indulge in self-deception about what the power that had risen between them and had driven their acts, infusing their intimacy with such cataclysmic force, actually was—all a part of his task?

  Was loving Rose part of his atonement?

  On one level that seemed . . . a self-serving conclusion. Yet . . .

  Now that he loved her, now he knew he did . . . what would happen, how would he feel, when he completed his penance and Fate, or God, passed judgment on his soul?

  Rose’s mind drifted into consciousness just enough to register the warmth and comfort enveloping her. She reveled in the sensations for long minutes, but, gradually, her mind rose through the lingering mists of slumber, and she remembered . . . where she was, and in whose arms she lay.

  And why.

  A torrent of feelings flowed through her, a river of silver and gold, crystal memories of the moments they’d shared—so many achingly fragile, so laden with feeling, that just the recollection left her touched, humbled. In awe.

  So much had happened. So much had changed.

  Her body, admittedly, felt different, somehow humming, completed, content. But that was the least of the impact, the lingering effect.

  She’d had no idea that such a degree of feeling, such a depth of connection, could be achieved between two people.

  But she’d felt it—in his touch and hers—had seen it in his eyes, had felt it rise through her, compelling her; she’d heard it in their ragged breathing.

  They’d fused physically and emotionally, had been linked in a way that was both undeniable and unbreakable.

  And she couldn’t regret it; knowing she’d lived to experience such glory made her rejoice in her decision to come to his room.

  But now she’d touched him, now she’d known him intimately and through that had allowed all the rest to bloom, to burgeon and come into being, real, a steady, unwavering force that, she was quite certain, continued to live within them both, a source of inner strength and certainty beyond anything she’d dreamed . . .

  She wasn’t going to let it, or him, go.

  He, and that wonder, were too precious.

  Instinctively, she tightened her arms, as if to hold on to him.

  He shifted, and she realized he wasn’t asleep.

  She sensed him tip his head to look down at her. Opening her eyes, through the night-dark shadows, she met his gaze.

  He regarded her for a moment, then asked, “Whose children are Homer and Pippin?”

  Rose blinked, tried to frown, and discovered the expression still beyond her. “How . . . oh.” Warmth stole into her cheeks. Then she forced herself to meet his eyes. “Given my age, I didn’t think it would still be that obvious.”

  His brows slowly arched. “That you were a virgin?” When she pressed her lips into a warning line, he softly snorted. “Obvious enough.” He paused, eyes once again studying hers, then he said, “Now we’ve come this far with our mutual revelations, I think it’s time you trusted me with the rest.”

  Rose held his gaze and waited for her usual, rabid protectiveness to rise up and shut him out, but, instead, she discovered she agreed with him. He’d protected and cared for the children in myriad, not-always-obvious ways and had only yesterday blatantly lied to keep them safe. He cared for them; she didn’t doubt that. She trusted him, had that night trusted him with her body, and even if he didn’t know it, had already trusted him with her heart. “All right.”

  She paused, and Thomas waited.

  Eventually, turning partially onto her back and settling more comfortably, she said, “They’re my mother’s and my stepfather’s children.” She glanced up and caught his eyes. “My mother and stepfather are dead—murdered—although I doubt many are aware of the latter fact.”

  Thomas inwardly stilled, then directed, “Start at the beginning. What’s your real name, who were your parents, and where were you born? When did your mother remarry?”

  She sighed, but obliged. “My full name is Rosalind Mary Heffernan. My parents were Gareth and Corinne. My father was gentry-born, and my mother was, too. I was their only child, and we were happy
and content, living in our house in Ashby Folville in Leicestershire, until my father died unexpectedly of a fever when I was fifteen. My mother mourned him, but she was still young. Four years later, she fell in love again and married Robert Percival, Viscount Seddington, of Seddington Grange in Lincolnshire. I liked Robert and he liked me. The three of us got along well.” She paused. “There’s not much more to tell on that front.”

  “You mentioned your age, implying it was advanced. How old are you?”

  Her sigh was more definite this time. “Twenty-nine. And before you ask, yes, I was paraded around the ballrooms as Viscount Seddington’s stepdaughter, but I quickly learned that my birth, gentry rather than aristocracy, meant that, in that social circle, my would-be suitors saw me purely as a pawn through which they might secure wealth, as well as a connection to the Percivals. I wasn’t impressed.”

  She left it at that. Accepting the line her tone had drawn, Thomas shifted to the more immediate question. “Why do you think your mother and stepfather were murdered?”

  Her gaze shifted, drifted; she seemed to be focusing on something distant. “Robert was an enthusiastic sailor, and he had taken Mama for a drive to Grimsby that day. Mama wasn’t strong. William’s birth had affected her health, and Alice’s birth made it worse. Robert did all he could to cheer Mama up—he often took her out driving. So them going to Grimsby wasn’t a surprise, and as Robert kept his yacht there, for him to have gone sailing also wasn’t odd—but Mama getting on any boat was.” Rose glanced briefly at Thomas. “Mama suffered terribly from mal-de-mer. She could barely set foot on a boat without becoming wretchedly sick. As soon as I heard they’d been found drowned in the capsized yacht, trapped in the sails, I knew something was wrong, but . . . what with the shock, the sadness and grief, and the children to comfort, I didn’t get a chance to think things through, much less raise any questions—and even if I had, with Mama and Robert gone, no one would have listened to me. They would have thought I was hysterical with grief.”

  Thomas said nothing, and after a moment, Rose continued, “But then, on the evening of the funeral, after William had been declared the ward of my stepfather’s brother, Richard Percival, I overheard Richard talking to one of his cronies—he was describing how he had poisoned my mother and stepfather, then had staged their deaths to appear to be due to a yachting accident.” She drew breath and went on, “As Robert’s brother—his only brother—Richard is William’s heir. And I heard Richard state that his aim was to kill William, too, so that he would inherit the estate.”