He shifted his body over hers and heard her sigh of pleasure.
“Better,” she murmured, swirling her tongue against his shoulder. “A little better.”
He held still while she tasted him, closed his eyes and focused on the soft eddy of her tongue against his flesh. She moved on to his neck, his throat, the underside of his chin, silently asking him for his mouth. Asking, not begging.
“Soon,” he whispered, “soon, my love.” He cruised his lips over her forehead and eyebrows, inhaling the fragrance of her hair, letting her have just enough of his weight so his erection throbbed against her mons.
He captured her mouth, teasing her lips with his own, tasting, pausing, and savoring, then giving her a little more. She opened for him immediately, pleasing him with the feel of her hands sweeping over his back, pulling him into her body. Her legs wrapped around his hips, hugging him so she could rock up into him in a slow, insistent rhythm.
“St. Just.” She drew back enough to evade his kiss. “Not slow, please. Not this time.”
“Not slow,” he assured her, “but not rushed, either. Trust me, Emmie. You’ll have your pleasures.” He drew a hand down her side. “I promise.”
She curled up to seek his kiss again and let one hand smooth over his chest, finding a nipple and feathering her fingertips over it. He tensed then bent his head to kiss her, this time giving her his tongue. She seized on that concession and built the kiss hotter and deeper.
“Managing,” he murmured, his voice redolent with affection. “Managing, demanding, passionate, beautiful, and… delicious.” He bent his head, escaping her kiss, and took her nipple in his mouth, feeling her instantly go still then arch up to him.
“St. Just… Devlin.” Her voice held wonder and such sweet longing, he felt a plundering, physical joy. “Devlin, you have to… oh, please.” She rolled her hips against him again, trying to take him inside of her. He ignored her pleading and switched to the second breast.
“Emmie.” He released her breast and raised his face to meet her eyes. “Emmie, look at me.” Her great blue eyes opened then focused on him. When they would have fluttered shut so she could chase him with her hips, he feathered his fingers over her forehead. “Love, look at me.”
Slowly, he brushed the head of his cock over her mons, once, twice, and Emmie met his gaze. He brushed lower, giving her the freedom to raise her hips to meet his caress. Oh, he’d wanted to put his hands on her, his mouth on her. He wanted to tease and taste and torment, but this would do just as well—better, as his own self-restraint was taxing him sorely.
“There,” she breathed as he fit himself to the opening of her body. “Oh, yes.”
He paused, memorizing the dreamy pleasure in her eyes, the languorous heat of her gaze. This much of him, he thought, she truly did hold dear.
“More, St. Just,” she urged as she almost had him where he could not tease and evade as effectively. “Now.”
He hitched his hips, settling all of his weight more closely around her, then eased just the tip of his erection into her damp heat. Still she met his gaze, reaching up and cradling his jaw with her hand, relaxing her body under his.
St. Just felt her focus shift, from her need and her pleasure to their needs and their pleasures. He sighed his relief and began to move his hips, advancing in slow, sure thrusts as Emmie’s hands drifted over his back. Without warning, her grip became urgent, and she pressed her face tightly against his neck.
“Devlin…”
“Don’t fight it,” he whispered, his pace still smooth and relaxed even as she spasmed around him. “Let it happen, love. Let me give you this.”
She clutched him to her as her body seized with pleasure, and still he kept his cadence almost soothing. The effect of his easy rocking thrusts was to drive her deeper into her pleasure more surely than if he’d tensed and thrust hard in response to her body’s pleading.
“St. Just…” She panted against his shoulder. “I can’t…” Her hands settled on his buttocks, asking him for a moment of stillness, and so he paused, kissing her gently. He nuzzled at her neck, then her jaw, then levered up to regard her.
“I’m all right.” She smiled up at him. “Or as nearly all right as I can be when you love me witless.”
“I do, you know.” He tried to keep the sadness from his voice, from his eyes, from his smile. “Love you.” He dipped his head to kiss her again, covering her mouth just as she inhaled on a gasp.
“You must not say such things.”
“I mustn’t keep it unsaid, but I won’t belabor the point.” He kissed her again but knew he’d blundered—she certainly hadn’t returned the sentiment, now had she? But she deserved the words, and it had been a relief to say them, even if only the once. It had been sheer relief to acknowledge he loved somebody, that he could love somebody other than the people he’d known since birth. She would always have his gratitude for that, if nothing else.
And he wanted to tell her that, too, but the time for words was quickly passing. Emmie again found his nipples, first with her fingertips, then with her mouth.
“Emmie,” he rumbled, “go easy.” She gentled her touch obligingly but did not desist.
“It’s your turn,” she murmured against his chest.
“Our turn,” he corrected her through gritted teeth. She was maneuvering her heavy artillery into place, experimenting with her inner muscles, closing her body around him every time he moved to withdraw and thrust again. She caught his rhythm, turned the slow, relentless push and drag of his thrusts against him by adding her own push and drag to the dance.
“Don’t fight it,” she whispered, a thread of humor in her voice. “We need it.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he growled, his movement becoming more urgent.
She laughed at that and held him closer. “You couldn’t,” she murmured. “Let go, Devlin. I’ll catch you.”
Let go… Something he hadn’t done in any way, shape, or form for years. He hadn’t let go of his temper, his physical conditioning, his grief, his loneliness, his terrible weariness of spirit. Hadn’t permitted himself uncontrolled laughter, a mean drunk, a howl of rage or indignation. Hadn’t… Let go.
Something in him broke free. He gathered Emmie closer, anchored one hand under her tailbone, shifted the angle of his penetration, and hilted himself inside her. His movements became not faster but more intense, more focused. He settled his free hand over her breast and closed his fingers around her nipple.
Emmie tightened her hold on him, and St. Just knew he was moving beyond reason. He would not hear her words, but he would hear her body. She strained to meet him, thrust for thrust, arched her breast into his hand, buried her fingers in his hair and held him to her with all her strength. He found her mouth with his, even as inarticulate sounds of need and arousal welled in her throat, and still he drove her on.
“Ah, God, Emmie love,” he murmured fiercely, and then, “Sweet Christ…”
She exploded beneath him, keening her pleasure into his kiss, writhing with mindless abandon in counterpoint to his thrusts. He chased her into a long, grinding wrestling match with satisfaction more pure, intense, and shattering than anything he’d known. And still, when they were reduced to shuddering in reaction and fighting for each breath, they held each other tightly.
“Ye gods, Em,” he whispered in disbelief, trying to raise himself even two inches off her boneless form. “I can’t ever…”
She placed two fingers over his lips without opening her eyes. “Hush, love.” With her hand on the back of his head, she urged him to lay his cheek against hers. “I just need a minute.”
He, on the other hand, thought he might need a lifetime to recover from what had just transpired. For a long moment in her arms, his awareness had expanded beyond his own body to encompass hers, her pleasure, her desire in addition to his own, and even beyond that. He h
ad been formless and weightless and yet more real than he could ever recall being.
He struggled to his elbows, giving them both room to take deeper breaths, but kept his cheek next to hers. He waited, mind drifting, letting his erection subside, so when he disentangled from her, she would not be uncomfortable.
“You’ll be sore,” he whispered, contrite and concerned. “I’m sorry.”
“I will not be sore,” Emmie murmured without opening her eyes. “Though I might be moving a little slowly tomorrow.”
“Emmie, I am sorry. I never imagined I was capable of such a loss of self-restraint.” He tried to shift off her, but she caught him in a surprisingly strong grip.
“Don’t you dare be sorry,” she said, eyes finally open and glittering in the dim light. “You did not lose your self-restraint, Devlin St. Just. For just a few moments, you let go of the dead weight on your heart and your spirit. Maybe all that sorrow and regret won’t hold you so tightly after this.”
He buried his face against her neck, not knowing what to say. She was right: For a few moments, he’d felt alive and whole and glad to be that way. But those moments were over, she was still leaving him, and sorrow was crowding close once more.
St. Just extricated himself carefully from her body and lifted himself off the bed. Emmie watched while he used some of the warmed water to wring out a flannel cloth then wash off his genitals. He rinsed out the cloth again and brought it to the bed.
“Let me.” He sat at her hip and waited while she raised and spread her knees. “You are swollen,” he remarked, brushing the backs of two fingers over her engorged flesh. Even that light caress caused her to flinch, and he smiled wolfishly at her response. “Swollen and beautiful.” But he covered her gently with the warm cloth and held it against her sensitive skin until he felt her ease.
“Thank you,” she said when he draped the cloth on the edge of the basin. “Would you like me to return to my room now?”
“I do not ever want you to go back to your room or your cottage or your vicar, Emmie Farnum. I thought you agreed to give us this night.” She nodded, and he saw she was shy and uncertain rather than looking for a way to leave him so soon.
“So.” He put one knee on the bed. “You’ll hold me now?”
“Haven’t I been holding you?” Emmie looked hesitant but flipped the covers up so he could join her under the blankets.
“There’s holding”—he eased down beside her—“and there’s holding.” He pillowed his head on the slope of her breast and brought one arm and a leg across her body. “Tell me if I’m too heavy for you.”
Emmie slipped her arms around him, resting her cheek on the tangled mess she’d made of his hair. “You’re not too heavy.”
***
And that seemed to be all he wanted, just to cuddle up in her arms and share a warm, comfortable silence. Once she realized she wasn’t going to be evicted nor expected to make coherent conversation, Emmie let herself enjoy of the privilege of such a trusting embrace. How much more quickly might he have healed if he’d had a place of such pleasure and trust and caring to come to each night?
“What?” he asked, flicking his tongue over her nipple. “You had a thought, and it made your body frown.”
“It did not.” She brushed her fingers over the end of his nose in the gentlest parody of a reprimand. He’d been right, of course. The idea that she wasn’t going to share more such embraces with him, ever, made her frown mightily. He deserved this, he’d earned it, and she wanted to give it to him. Worse, she had a sneaking suspicion that once she left, he wouldn’t admit to such a need ever again, with anybody else.
He’d soldier on, riding his horses only to sell them, raising another man’s child, making a routine that wasn’t a life, two hundred miles from the people who loved him.
“Don’t cry, Em.” He leaned up and brushed a kiss to her cheek. “Whatever it is, we still have tonight.” She nodded, but in his words was the tacit admission tonight was all they had, and to her surprise, she was able to start to talk about what came next. Needed to, in fact.
“Winnie will want Gany and Io,” she said when he’d turned her on her side to rub her back. And they tiptoed through more that needed to be said.
“Have you any miniatures of your aunt or yourself that Winnie can keep?” That he could keep for Winnie.
“There’s a portrait up in the playroom of Winnie’s father on a pony,” Emmie recalled. “She might like it in her room.”
“Was Winnie’s mother or father musical? Will you write to her?”
“Will you encourage her to write to me? Will you at least let me know how she goes on if she’s too upset to write to me?” And she did not ask: will you let me know how you go on?
Then conversation would drift off to the meaningless intimacies of lovers.
“Is this a bruise?” He traced a finger over a slight discoloration on her shoulder.
“Winnie’s birthday is at the end of February, and she will be seven.”
“The age of reason,” St. Just murmured. “And when is your birthday?”
But as those painful questions and thoughts slipped out between other less painful exchanges, it became apparent to St. Just that Emmie was not truly thinking through the upcoming separation. She would not—or more likely, could not—organize the practicalities while she suffered under the weight of the emotions.
He’d been so angry with Emmie and so confused by her insistence on leaving, he had not measured her heartache against his or Winnie’s. Holding her, listening to her dance around a wound too painful for her to even clearly admit to herself, he realized, of the three of them, Emmie was the most unlikely to recover from her decision to leave.
The least he could do was manage the transition for her. His years in the army prepared him to do that, much as elderly relations understood the practicalities of organizing a funeral.
But first he would complete the gift of this one night, he thought, spooning his body around hers. He entered her gently and let her drift easily from one peak to the next before withdrawing and rolling her to her back. Throughout the night, he let her alternate between dozing in his arms and being treasured with his loving. He used his mouth, his hands, his cock, his every resource to give her pleasure upon pleasure.
This should have been our wedding night, he thought as he gazed at her in sleep. A clock chimed three times downstairs, and Emmie’s eyes fluttered open.
“Go back to sleep.” He kissed her forehead. “You are forbidden to set foot in the kitchen this day. It’s your turn to have a cold.”
Lying on her side facing him, she met his gaze and reached out to stroke a finger down the side of his cheek. “Devlin?”
“Here.”
“I need to go,” she said, swallowing, “from Rosecroft and Winnie. I can’t seem to make myself do it.”
He wanted to close his eyes so she wouldn’t see the pain in them.
“I’ll interview the top three candidates for governess, Em. Let’s plan on moving you back to the cottage at the end of next week, and I’ll have your choice of the three start the week after that.”
Her eyes filled with tears, but she just nodded and crawled into his arms to cry herself to sleep. When she was truly beyond awareness, he lifted her into his arms and put her in her own bed. Because the sheets were cold and her fire burned down, he climbed in with her, warming her with his body until she was again deep in slumber.
And how tempting it was, to be discovered in her bed, to take away the option she most wanted to exercise and give himself the one he wanted for himself. That, he sternly admonished himself, would not be the way a man showed he cared for a woman in difficulties, though; so he pressed one last kiss to her forehead, built up her fire, and returned to his own bed.
There to toss and turn until the sun came up two hours later.
Fourteen
“Anna Mae can do it, I suppose.” She blinked, looking puzzled. “I can lease her the cottage or give it to her.”
“You don’t want the cottage held in trust for Winnie?” St. Just suggested, sitting beside her on the sofa.
“Oh. I suppose I could do that, couldn’t I?”
St. Just resisted the urge to wrap her in his arms. She didn’t look as tired and pale and wan as she had—he was insisting she sleep more—but she looked even more lost. “Have you spoken with Bothwell about this?”
“He is off at Ripon. There’s some gathering of the clergy of the West Riding, and he won’t be back for at least a week.”
“I see.” For a woman on the verge of a very estimable match, Emmie did not seem to care that the vicar had left the area. “And how did you learn of his plans?”
“Anna Mae told me,” Emmie replied, missing entirely the consternation on St. Just’s face. He’d considered Bothwell was not calling at Rosecroft in a display of tact, and had not concerned himself with how the man was communicating with his intended.
Tried not to concern himself, anyway. It appeared there was no communication, at least not lately, and there were no plans to transition Emmie’s thriving business.
“Emmie, have you thought about a trousseau?” he asked gently. “Where you’d like to be married? When?”
“No.”
Just that, one word.
“Are you pregnant?” he asked, bewildered. How could a woman be so set on a plan and be doing so little to implement it?
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