by Candace Camp
A man of honor would not seduce such a woman; marriage was the only option. Even less could he consider it with Kyria. He was a guest in her home; to play fast and loose with her would be doubly an insult. Besides that, she was the sister-in-law of his best friend, a man who had saved his life and for whom Rafe would risk his own. And even if he had been low enough to ignore all those things, Rafe knew that his feelings for Kyria were enough to compel him to stay away from her.
He liked and respected Kyria far too much to do anything to hurt her. Hers was a passionate and loving nature, and he had little doubt that where Kyria was concerned, one meant the other. Where she gave her body, she gave her heart, as well.
And he was no one to whom she should give either.
Rafe knew that others might think him an eligible bachelor. He had fortune and education and was old enough to settle down. Some might think that a family like the Morelands would not consider a common American good enough for one of their daughters, but he had seen enough of the family to suspect that such considerations would not weigh with them.
But the truth was that he was anything but an acceptable prospect for marriage, he thought bitterly. He was an outcast from his home and family, a man whose past lay in ruins. His life had been broken on the shoals of war. Four years of bloody battle had taken away not only his youth, but much of his heart. The aftermath had removed the rest of it.
He was a restless man, the sort who would probably never settle down. He had nothing to give any woman. And Kyria, of all people, deserved much more than a man whose life was built on wreckage.
The only rational course, therefore, was to keep his hands—and his thoughts—off Kyria. Unfortunately, as he was finding out, that was something that was far more easily said than done. No matter how he tried, he could not seem to tear his eyes away from her, could not keep his thoughts from returning again and again to how it had felt to kiss her…
Kyria was as sharply aware of Rafe as she sensed he was of her. The dining arrangement was most intimate, she realized. No man outside her family had ever seen her like this, hair tumbling wildly down around her shoulders. Rafe’s shirt was open at the collar, exposing his tanned, corded throat, and he had undone the cuffs and rolled them up, baring the lower part of his arms. She supposed that this must be how it was for a couple on their honeymoon, and just the thought made her unable to meet Rafe’s gaze. She wondered what he was thinking, if he, too, had considered how near they were to the anonymous beds of the inn’s rooms, private and secluded.
Kyria could not keep her eyes from going to his hands, strong and brown, with the lightest dusting of hair on the back. There was something about his hands that set up a curious trembling in her stomach. Kyria was filled with an inexpressible yearning, a longing that she had never felt before.
She tried to keep her attention on her food, cutting it up and chewing it with determination. It tasted like sawdust. Finally, she set her fork and knife down with a clatter. Reaching for her glass, she took a gulp of wine. She could not stand to sit here this way, thinking…feeling…
Abruptly, she set her glass aside and stood up. Her eyes went to his face. Rafe stood, as well, his eyes going to her face, his initial expression of questioning and concern falling away as he looked at her. He knew, she thought. He knew what she was feeling—the coiling heat and the pulsing urgency—and the realization both embarrassed and aroused her. He was looking back at her in a way that left little doubt that the same sensations were surging through him.
Kyria’s breath caught in her throat and she started to turn away, her heart hammering against her rib cage. Rafe reached out and caught her by the wrist. She looked back at him. She told herself she should pull away from him, but instead, she found herself taking a step forward. Her eyes locked with his, and in another instant she was in his arms.
CHAPTER 8
Rafe’s mouth came down on hers, eager and searching as Kyria’s arms twined around his neck as she clung to him. The taste and texture of him was a delight to her. His skin flamed into heat against her, separated only by the thin cloth of their shirts. His arms tightened around her, and his fists clenched in the material of her shirtwaist and skirt. They were so close, so tightly pressed together that Kyria could feel the heavy thud of his heart through her own body, and the very life force of him heightened her arousal.
Hunger twisted through her sharply, multiplying with every movement of his lips, every touch of his fingers. The quick intake of his breath, the low moan deep in his throat, the enveloping scent of his skin—all vibrated through her like a caress, sending the heat inside her spiraling.
Rafe’s hands stroked down her back and curved over her hips, his fingers digging into her buttocks and lifting her up into him. Kyria could feel the heat and the hard desire of him, and she was filled with a wild urge to wrap her legs around him. An ache blossomed between her legs, bittersweet and longing, so that she wanted to weep and laugh at the same time.
His hand stole between their bodies, coming up to curve around her breast. Kyria quivered at the intimate touch, her breasts seeming to swell in response. His fingers were gentle and skillful, caressing her through the thin cotton of her shirtwaist, skimming over her nipple and cupping her fullness. His thumb circled the hard button of her nipple, lazily teasing it to life. Kyria moaned softly, adrift in a haze of pleasure.
Nimbly he unbuttoned her shirtwaist and let it fall open, his hand sliding down into the opened neck and underneath the soft lace of her chemise. A shudder of pleasure ran through her as his fingertips skimmed over her bare flesh, caressing the soft orb of her breast and teasing the nipple into even greater hardness.
His mouth left hers and began a trail of fire down her throat and chest. Kyria’s breath rasped harshly in her throat, tension tightening in her abdomen, increasing with every touch of his lips to her skin, until she felt as if she might explode.
His lips found the soft flesh of her breast, and Kyria jerked, desire skyrocketing inside her. Heat flooded between her legs, her blood pulsing within her like thunder, and she dug her fingers into his hair. His tongue made lazy circles over the top of her breast and down to the fleshy nub of her nipple.
Kyria gasped, shocked at the things his mouth was doing to her—and even more shocked at the desire that pulsed harder and harder within her at each new intimacy. He drew her nipple into his mouth, tugging gently, and Kyria sagged against him, scarcely able to stand under the onslaught of pleasure.
Her senses whirled. She had never imagined such pleasure. She had never dreamed that she could want the things she wanted now—the fierce, instinctive hunger that wanted to feel him, know him…have him.
With a groan, Rafe lifted his head. For a long moment he stared down into her face, his blue eyes glittering, his face stamped with hunger. “Kyria…sweet heaven, I want you.” He groaned then, releasing her. “We cannot. It would be—”
He muttered a curse and pulled up her chemise to cover her breasts, letting the sides of her shirtwaist fall back together. “I am sorry. I should not have…done what I did.”
He glanced toward the open door. Kyria followed his gaze, and she flushed with embarrassment, realizing that the innkeeper or his wife or anyone else could have just walked in on them. They had been blind to everything except their desire. Whatever was the matter with her?
Hastily she began to button up her shirtwaist with fingers that trembled. She hardly dared glance at Rafe. What would he think of her? She had always been so calm and collected, so much in control. It was a little frightening to realize just how much she had been out of control a few moments before. Had Rafe not had the good sense to stop, she had no idea what she might have done, where their kisses and caresses might have led. Kyria pressed trembling fingers to her mouth and walked over to the fire.
“I cannot say that I regret what I did,” Rafe went on. “I am not that much of a gentleman. But it was wrong of me. I should have…exercised more control.”
Kyria spun around to face h
im, a saving irritation spurting up. “You were not the only one involved, I would remind you! It is not entirely your responsibility. I believe that I had something to say about the matter.”
Rafe looked at her, nonplussed. He had expected her to be weeping in distress or even perhaps frightened by his forceful passion. It seemed that Kyria would never cease to surprise him.
“I am not a child,” Kyria said angrily. “You do not have to protect me from my own weakness! You do not have to accept responsibility for actions that were at least half my fault.”
It was especially galling, she thought, to know that, in fact, he had protected her, that he had been the one who had thought of the consequences and had stopped, not she. Even now, she suspected, if he pulled her back into his arms, she would go willingly—and that was a decidedly lowering thought.
“I did not mean that!” Rafe snapped, his own irritation rising at her rejection of his apology. It had been damned difficult to stop, with lust thrumming through him, and here she was, throwing it back in his face as if it were nothing. “Of course you don’t have to be protected from yourself. But, dammit, I am older and more experienced than you, and—”
“How do you know?” Kyria asked, lifting her chin defiantly. “How do you know that you are more experienced? Maybe I have kissed dozens of men. Or more than kissed them!”
She looked so beautiful, standing there with her eyes blazing and her color up, her hair tumbling wildly around her shoulders and her shirtwaist buttoned up wrong, that Rafe wasn’t sure whether he would most like to kiss her or shake her.
Instead, he gave a low growl of frustration and jerked his jacket off the chair, shoving it on as he strode toward the door. “I’ll have the horses saddled.”
He marched out the door, closing it sharply behind him, leaving Kyria glaring impotently at the door. She would have liked very much to have heaved something after him, but years of breeding would not allow her to break any of the inn’s crockery. So she simply seethed to herself as she twisted her still-damp hair into a knot atop her head and pinned it as best she could.
She didn’t know who she was more furious with, herself or Rafe. The man had not even suggested as an excuse that he had been so swept away by her beauty that he had lost all control! And how could she have behaved so unlike herself?
Kyria pulled on her jacket and buttoned it up to the top, then schooled her countenance into some semblance of composure, so that when Rafe came back into the room she was able to meet him with a polite and calm, if somewhat chilly, greeting.
The rain had stopped, although the sky was still gray, and he asked her if she would prefer to ride or to hire a carriage and tie their horses behind it. Kyria quickly opted for riding. She could not imagine being cooped up inside a carriage with Rafe all the way home. She would prefer being exposed to the possible rain.
They said little on the way back to Broughton Park, the silence between them chillier than the October air. They kept up a good pace, which had the advantage not only of expending some of their pent-up feelings, but of shortening the ride and making the lack of conversation less awkward.
Rafe cursed himself silently all the way home. He had messed the whole thing up royally, and he wasn’t sure whether he could make it right. The truth was, he knew that he should not even try. He should simply take his leave of the Morelands and go on with his tour of Europe.
It was obvious that he could not control himself around Kyria. If he stayed, he would be putting himself into exactly the sort of situation he should avoid. And yet, even as he thought the words, he knew that leaving was the last thing he wanted to do.
Kyria’s emotions were just as turbulent and perhaps even more confused. What had happened between Rafe and her had been electric. She had never been in such a situation, and she didn’t know what to think. She was stunned and amazed and more than a little unsure of herself.
She had acted in a way that was completely unlike her, and that bothered her. She was usually so calm and in command of herself. No man had ever disturbed her senses or shattered her control. That Rafe had—and might do so again—was frightening. And yet she could not help wanting to feel once more that wild, explosive pleasure, more intense than anything she had ever known.
What had it been like for him? What had Rafe felt? She could not help but remember his words: he was more experienced than she. Had he found her lacking? It had seemed to her that Rafe had been as filled with passion as she had been; she remembered the surge of heat in his body as they kissed, the tightening of his arms, his labored breathing.
Kyria swallowed, realizing that passion was welling up in her again, just remembering what they had done. She flushed with embarrassment and glanced over at Rafe, relieved to see that he was not looking at her.
The rain held off until they reached Broughton Park. Kyria took the reliquary straight to her father, and Rafe excused himself and went up to his room. Kyria was a little surprised that he did not go with her to the duke, but she was relieved to be out of his presence for the moment. Yet she could not but feel a sharp twist of hurt that he seemed as though he could hardly wait to get away from her.
The duke was eager to hear all the details of Jennings’s assessment, and before they were through, several other members of the family, including the twins, had heard of her arrival and slipped in to learn the outcome. It was quite late before they finished talking and her father locked the reliquary away in his collections room. Yet despite the late hour, Kyria felt not tired, but curiously on edge.
She had difficulty falling asleep. She kept remembering what had happened between her and Rafe at the inn. The very thought of it sent heat curling through her, and she wondered how she would be able to face Rafe tomorrow, how she could talk to him as if nothing had happened. She was afraid that as soon as he looked at her, she would turn red and go weak in the knees, and everyone around would know that there was something wrong.
As it turned out, there was nothing to worry about. She came down to breakfast the next morning, having spent a great deal of time on her grooming and several minutes more schooling her face into just the right expression of calm beauty, only to find out from Thisbe that Rafe had ridden out this morning with Cousin Albert.
“A nice young man,” the duchess commented. “He has been quite helpful, hasn’t he, Kyria?”
“What? Yes, I suppose he has.”
“The twins adore him,” Thisbe put in.
“Too bad he’s an American,” Lady Rochester said. She had finished breakfast long ago, but it was her habit to remain at the breakfast table for ages every morning, thereby managing to put a damper on the good spirits of as many people as she could.
Thisbe cast a sardonic look at Kyria, then said, “I can’t imagine what that has to do with anything, Aunt Hermione.”
Lady Rochester turned her gimlet eye on Thisbe. “Can’t you? Humph.” She pointed her spoon at Thisbe and went on, “Then you haven’t been seeing the way he looks at Kyria.”
“Aunt Hermione!” Kyria gasped.
“You think I don’t see things?” the old lady asked contentiously, her face ablaze with triumph. There was nothing she liked better than stirring things up. “That jumped-up Yankee’s interested in you, mark my words.”
“He’s not a Yankee. He’s a Southerner,” the duchess told her. “He explained the difference to me the other day. I rather like him—he’s a young man who stood up for his beliefs. And,” she added on a note of relief, “he has helped keep Alex and Con occupied since their tutor left. It will take me weeks to find them another tutor.”
“He even took Cousin Albert off our hands,” Thisbe said with a grin. “That is the work of a saint.”
“Don’t be facetious, Thisbe,” Lady Rochester told her, and plowed ahead. “But one has no way of knowing what his family is. They could be anything.”
“Actually, I think his father was a schoolteacher,” Kyria offered.
“You see? That is what I mean.”
/> “I see nothing wrong with his father being a schoolteacher,” Kyria’s mother said, stiffening.
“He is well educated,” Kyria went on. “He was studying for the law before the war.”
“At an American college,” Lady Rochester retorted, her tone leaving little doubt of her opinion of the value of such an education. “Besides, what difference does that make? It isn’t as if one would welcome a barrister into the family.”
The duchess stared at her husband’s aunt blankly. “Who said anything about welcoming him into the family?”
“Really, Emmeline, it would do you well to pay a little attention to what is happening right under your nose. I just told you that he has been looking at Kyria in a way that—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” the duchess snapped. “Half the bachelors in London look at Kyria that way—and far too great a number of married men, as well, I’m sorry to say. Men are always falling in love with her.”
“Yes, but does she usually look back?” Lady Rochester parried.
The duchess’s fork clattered to her plate and she looked at the older woman with narrowed eyes. “Exactly what are you implying?”
“Aunt Hermione. Mother. Please,” Kyria said, a flush rising in her cheeks. She cast a significant glance toward the footmen standing at either end of the sideboard, doubtless listening avidly to their conversation. “I assure you that you are mistaken, Aunt Hermione. Mr. McIntyre and I are mere acquaintances.”
Lady Rochester cocked an eyebrow and proclaimed, “Hardly looks that way when you go jauntering off about the countryside with him.”
“Mr. McIntyre was a perfect gentleman,” Kyria said flatly, returning the old woman’s steely gaze.
“Doesn’t matter what happened. What matters is how it looked,” her great-aunt retorted.
One look at the duchess’s flushed cheeks and bright eyes told Kyria that her mother was about to let loose with her opinion of Lady Rochester’s statement, so she quickly said, “I am sure that no one could find any exception to it, Aunt. You must be getting tired,” she went on, turning a significant look on Lady Rochester’s daughter and put-upon companion. “Cousin Rosalind, don’t you think it’s time for Aunt Hermione’s morning nap?”
