Fortune's Lady

by Patricia Gaffney

  “Why what?”

  Courage returned, or foolhardiness. “Why did you marry me?”

  He came toward her, she held her ground. He began to unpin her hair. Her heartbeat accelerated and her breath began to come in rapid, audible gasps. She thought he wouldn’t speak, that his touch was her answer, but she was wrong.

  “Because I wanted to.”

  Everything seemed to get brighter. She had to shut her eyes. She felt as if she were toppling over backwards and was grateful for the warm, steadying pressure of his hand behind her neck. His fingers combed her hair with whispery gentleness, stroking, lifting. He wrapped a shining lock around his forefinger and brought it to his lips. She wanted to touch him, but she couldn’t move. “Look,” he said unexpectedly. He turned her around, embracing her from behind.

  “Oh…” Six cows were craning their mammoth noses over the worn stone wall that separated the yard from the pasture. Enchanted, Cass smiled as a dozen liquid brown eyes stared back at her with unblinking intensity.

  “An audience,” said Riordan. “What does it take to shock a cow, do you think?” He kissed the soft place behind her ear. She shivered, holding his hands still across her bodice. She felt his tongue on her ear, following the convoluted twists of bone and flesh, and opened her mouth in an involuntary gasp. “This doesn’t seem to have much effect on them,” he murmured.

  “They must be eunuchs.” She rested her head against him, loving the rich sound of his chuckle in her ear.

  “Cows can’t be eunuchs,” he told her. One hand stole to the buttons at the back of her dress, and he had them open in a trice. “Mm, they like this. Look at the middle one, there.”

  She guessed he meant the one with the lop ears, but it was hard to concentrate on a cow’s expression when he had her gown pulled down around her elbows and was lightly fingering the thin lace of her shift in front. Her body shook as if it were freezing. She took one of his hands and kissed the knuckles lingeringly. “You touched me once at Vauxhall, long ago, standing behind me like this. I thought I would die from the pleasure.”

  It was Riordan’s turn to tremble. He turned her gently. The passion in her eyes slammed the breath from his lungs. His fingers traced her strong jaw underneath, trailed down to the pulse point in the hollow of her throat. “I remember. People everywhere, and all I wanted to do was hold you.”

  She put her hands to his face for a moment before pushing them into his hair, feeling the cool wetness between her fingers. There were droplets of water still on his beard. Standing on tiptoe, she leaned into him to capture them on the tip of her tongue. His arms tightened hard around her and he lifted her off the ground, holding her heart against his, feeling her heat. When he set her down and drew back, he saw where the wetness from his body had seeped through her shift, outlining her breasts. He put his hands under their gentle upcurves. Her lips parted; delicate pink color stained her cheeks. Watching her, he moved his fingers to her nipples and rubbed them softly through the sleek silk.

  Her nostrils flared. Her hands came up to take his wrists. “I’m so glad, so glad,” she murmured fiercely, staring up into his eyes, watching the expanding pupils turn them almost black. When he kissed her she strained against him and held onto his shoulders. His flesh felt cool and slick under her fingers, in contrast to the warm, rough texture of his tongue sliding across her lips, stroking and coaxing, sending cascades of pleasure through her.

  “I want you so much,” he whispered into her mouth, teasing her with little nips of his teeth. “So much, Cass. Is it all right?”

  “Yes, yes.” But she had to say it. “But you still don’t believe me, do you?”

  “I do. I do believe you.”

  But he didn’t, and now it was so hard to care. She let him lift her and carry her inside, her face pressed lightly to the side of his neck, inhaling the wet, almost wild scent of him. He set her down beside the bed. His breath caught. She looked wanton to him with her gown tugged down in front, her arms bound to her sides in the sleeves. His need for her was becoming desperate, but he forced himself to go slowly. “You’re so beautiful. Let me see you, Cass. I have to see you.” Inch by inch, he pushed her dress down the rest of the way, past her hips to the floor. With a practiced ease that didn’t escape her, he undid the laces of her petticoats and slid them down, too, leaving her in her shift. She was trembling. He took her hands and held them over his heart. “Are you afraid?”

  She nodded.

  “Should we stop?”

  “Oh, no.”

  His smile of relief looked so heartfelt that she had to laugh, a light, giddy sound. He kissed her fingers one at a time, gazing intently at each one as if he’d never seen fingers before. “A ring,” he said suddenly. “You haven’t got a ring.”

  She shook her head dreamily. “Does it matter?”

  “Not at this exact moment.”

  They kissed, their smiles colliding, fingers coming unclasped so they could touch each other. She pressed her hands to his back and felt the flexing of his muscles as he stroked her. She rubbed closer, enjoying the texture of his wet skin against her chest, her breasts. He kissed her slowly, deeply, until she was limp. She heard the sound of desire in her ears, like crashing waves. She was standing on tiptoe, arms tight around him, wanting to be closer, closer. Without stopping the kiss, he lifted her and laid her in the center of the bed, then sank down by her side.

  He put a hand under one of her knees and brought it up, smoothing the hem of her shift back to the middle of her thigh. He kissed the top of her knee through her stocking, bit it softly, and then began to peel the white silk down, slowly, slowly, over her knee and down her long, smooth calf. She shifted restlessly and wet her lips. The sound of silk sliding against flesh made the blood rise in a hot flood to her cheeks. He smiled when she offered her other knee to him herself. But instead of attending to that stocking, he bent his head to the inner flesh of her thigh and placed a slow strand of open kisses, beginning at her knee and moving up until she stopped him with her fingers in his hair, gasping in fear and disbelief and all but unbearable excitement.

  He raised his head, and his eyes were as black as a night sky. She looked at his mouth, her undoing, and shivered with dread and delight. “Shall I undress you first, or me, Cass?” he asked in an uneven whisper.

  She tried to shrug, but her body wasn’t obeying her mind. His hand rested lightly on her belly. He was waiting for an answer. “Don’t make me choose,” she blurted out, panicked. “I can’t, I can’t—”

  “Shh.” He pulled her up into his arms and held her, burying his face in her hair. Her heart beat wildly. She clutched his shoulders and hung on for dear life. “I only asked because I couldn’t decide myself,” he confessed, kissing the nape of her neck. He felt her laughter bubbling up and hugged her, wondering if he was in love. “Shall we do it together?”

  She nodded. She was beyond shyness, but she couldn’t keep from saying, “It’s so bright in here.”

  He put his mouth to hers and whispered softly, so softly she understood the words more by feel than sound, “But I want to see you, Cass, I’m dying to see you. Don’t be afraid. I would never hurt you, never. Let me, love, let me…”

  She melted. He pressed her back down to the pillow and she took her folded hands away, letting him unlace her shift. “I never wear a corset,” she began apologetically, staring over his shoulder.

  “I know. It’s one of the things I love about you.”

  Her skin felt chilled and charred at the same time; her breath came in painful gulps. He took one of her hands and placed it at his waist, and she remembered they were supposed to be undressing each other. But her fingers wouldn’t work. He was intent on pulling her arms out of the sleeves of her chemise. He moved her motionless hand aside distractedly, pushed his breeches over his hips, and threw them on the floor. Immediately he returned to her shift, and before she knew it she was bare to the waist. She covered one hand with the other and brought them both to her breastbone
in senseless shame.

  Smiling, holding her gaze until the last second, he bent his head and kissed her tense knuckles. She felt his teeth next, then his warm tongue. She knew what he wanted. She obeyed because she wanted it, too. As she slowly dragged her hands away, her fingers grazed her own nipples. Her eyes opened wide. He growled low in his throat and pulled her wrists over her head. She had to have his weight on her, his hard chest against her breasts. Words of wanting tumbled from her lips, half-formed phrases that shocked and thrilled her. He said her name over and over like a chant until it was impossible for him to speak because he was kissing her so deeply. She was frantic for him, her body twisting, thrashing. The rough hair of his thigh teasing against her pelvis was an unendurable agony.

  He kissed her hairline and her cheekbones, trailing his wet tongue down to her jaw, her throat. His body was as taut as a bowstring; he was shivering with the effort of restraint. A light sheen of perspiration skimmed his chest and neck; under the black hairs of his beard his face was flushed a hectic pink. He slid his hand down inside her shift and stroked the back of her bare thigh, her buttock. That she still had on any clothes at all seemed crazy to him all of a sudden. He pushed at the bunched-up cloth impatiently, and she kicked it down the rest of the way herself. Instantly his hand found her soft mound, his fingers sinking gently into the silky hairs, softly rubbing.

  Her head went back. Eyes closed, teeth clenched, she tried not to call out, but it was useless. She couldn’t catch her breath. Then his mouth circled her nipple and her cries turned to moans, her lips petulant, eyelashes fluttering. He was making her open her legs and his fingers were slippery and stroking and he was putting them inside her. Her thighs were clenching in some new way, at once defensive and urgently encouraging. He didn’t know whether she was saying “No” or “Now,” but he was past caring. Murmuring passion words in her ear, he parted her legs farther, farther, using his knees.

  The first touch sent shudders of wanting through him. If he didn’t slow down it would all be over. But he couldn’t stop, couldn’t wait, he needed to possess her. He took her mouth in a fervent kiss and sank into her. Her nails digging into his shoulders didn’t warn him; his senses were concentrated elsewhere. She was hot and wet, but she was so tight, she felt like heated velvet. He thrust higher and heard her frightened gasp.

  “Cass?” A sudden sick chill prickled across his skin. Oh no, oh no. Her stomach muscles under his were knotted and hard. He drew back to see her face, and froze. “Oh, Cass. Oh, love.”

  “It doesn’t hurt, I like it.” But her eyes were shut tight and tears glistened on the lashes.

  He rested his forehead on her collarbone, his breath ragged. His only coherent thought was that Quinn would pay for this.

  She shifted under him, pressing upward hopefully. “Do it,” she whispered, “I want you to.”

  But he could only hold her. He felt as if his chest was burning. Remorse tasted like salt on the back of his tongue.

  “It’s all right.” She stroked him softly with both hands, soothing him. “I’m perfectly all right. It was just for a second, and I think if you would continue—”

  He raised his head and gazed down into her sweet, solemn face. “Don’t, Cass,” he said bitterly. “Don’t forgive me so easily.” His smile was tight and full of self-loathing. “You could hold this against me for years, for the rest of our lives.”

  She laughed softly. “Why ever would I want to do that?”

  “You could, though. How many times did you try to tell me?”

  “Not very many.” She trailed her thumbs across his cheekbones. “It doesn’t matter now. Do you think we could talk about it later?”

  “Of course it matters. Cass, I never wanted to hurt you, I swear it. I’d rather hurt myself.”

  “Hush. It’s enough. I’ve forgiven you whether you want me to or not. I only know of one thing you could do now that would be truly unforgivable.”

  “What?”

  She smoothed the tense line between his brows and whispered. “Leave me like this, still wanting you so badly. Kiss me again, touch me the way you did before. Love me, Philip, make love to me. Make me yours.”

  His breath hissed through his teeth. He had something else to tell her, but she was offering him her mouth and he forgot it in the enveloping heat, forgot everything but the soft, exquisite feel of her lips and the taste of her tongue. He kissed her slowly, as if for the first time, and he meant it as a promise, a beginning. “Tell me if I hurt you.” He was afraid to move. “Tell me, Cass.”

  “No, no, you don’t hurt me.” She was dying for him. There was no pain, only fullness and heat. She wrapped her legs around his and arched her back, bringing him closer, higher. The intimacy of this act took her breath away. He went slowly, slowly, watching her eyes. But it was too intense, she couldn’t bear to let him see her. She pulled his head down and kissed him frantically. He breathed her name into her mouth in rhythm with his slow, steady strokes, over and over, feeling her tightness gathering.

  “Philip, Philip!”

  “Let it happen,” he grated, helping her.

  Her fingers gripped his arms and her mouth opened on the hard flesh of his shoulder. The pulsing convulsions that rocked her tore away the last remnants of his self-control. Even as he took her, fierce and wild, he knew this was no raw act of possession. What he gave her with such tender savagery was the essence of himself. Afterward she lay beneath him, limp and vanquished. But in his heart he knew, for good or ill, and for all time, he was hers.

  X

  THEY AWOKE AT THE SAME moment, sharing the pillow blinking into each other’s faces. Identical expressions of confusion, recollection, and gladness strayed over soft gray and dark blue eyes in unison. They might have been looking into mirrors. Then the realization of what had woken them made them smile, again in harmony. Through the open window came the strains of a serenade, sincere but profoundly unsteady.

  “Our dear friends,” Riordan murmured sleepily.

  “Mmm.” Cass rubbed her cheek against his knuckles with drowsy pleasure.

  “I suppose I’ll have to go out and say something to them.”

  “Mmm.” She twined her fingers in his and brought his hand to her lips. “But I don’t want you to go.” She loved the lazy way the corners of his mouth turned up when he smiled.

  “But the sooner I do, the sooner I can come back and make love to you.”

  Gray eyes darkened to slate. “In that case, what are you still doing here?”

  He meant to give her a peck on the nose, but before he knew it he was wrapped up in her arms and legs, and kissing her as fervently as a soldier bidding his wife farewell before setting off to war. Laughing and breathless, they let each other go. She watched while he went to his portmanteau and drew out a jade-green dressing gown. Knotting the sash, he padded barefoot to the door, opened it—causing the serenade to break off in a sudden rising cheer—and closed it quickly behind him.

  Cass stretched hugely, extending a limb into all four corners of the bed. She turned her face into the pillow and breathed the faint, fresh scent of her husband’s hair. Her husband. Radiant, unexamined happiness washed over her in a dizzying gush. She sat up, unable to contain herself. Outside the voices were growing raucous again, and presently she could make out the words: “We want the bride! We want the bride!” She giggled and put her fingers to her lips, considering. Then she threw her legs over the side of the bed. If they wanted the bride that badly, they should have her.

  She put on her old robe of worn apricot silk, wishing she had something finer. But then, she hadn’t known six days ago when she’d set out from London that she would soon be a married lady. Consciously avoiding the mirror, she went to the door.

  Riordan had planted himself sturdily in front like a sentinel; he glanced back in surprise when he heard the door open. A ragged hurrah went up from the small clump of well-wishers gathered in front of the cottage. Wally and Tess and Tom and Cora were there, as well as ha
lf a dozen sympathetic revelers drawn to the celebration by the powerful incentive of free beer. It was almost dusk; the slanting sun on the pond had turned it a bright gold. Birds called across the evening sky, signaling the end of the day. The air was as soft as a lover’s breath.

  The cheering died away to stunned silence. Sleepy-looking and tousled, her skin flushed, Cass smiled a sweet smile and slid her arms around her husband’s waist. Riordan didn’t need their envy, but it was an undeniable pleasure to know there wasn’t a man there who wouldn’t have given a great deal to be in his place. He smiled down at his bride. She was the most desirable woman he’d ever known, and particularly so at this moment. Her lips were pink from his most recent kiss and there was a dreamy look in her eyes. Her hair was loose and hung around her shoulders like a dark cloud. Her long white toes poked out, bare and vulnerable, from under the hem of her robe. Squeezing her close, he addressed himself to the crowd, hoping to dispatch them quickly.

  It worked. But then, he’d rarely been more eloquent, not even on the floor of the Commons. With a satisfied smile he watched them trail away, full of mellowness and good will toward everyone, over the bridge and back to the inn.

  “Wally!” he called out, remembering. “I’ll only be a second, love.” He kissed the top of her head before walking out to meet his friend, who waited for him beside the bridge.

  Cass watched them speaking, unable to hear the words, her eyes on her new husband. The sunset was fiery on his skin, turning his face ruddy. The color of his robe complemented his dark-blue eyes so handsomely, she wondered if a woman had given it to him. That brought a little stab of pain. Followed by a slash of guilt. He’d given up so much in marrying her, and now he was doing a heroic job of making the best of a tragic situation.

  She ought to have stopped the wedding. Oh, she knew it, she knew it. But she hadn’t wanted to, she’d wanted him any way she could have him. All the nonsense about upholding his honor or sparing him embarrassment had only been an excuse. Selfish, selfish. But she loved him! Was it so wrong to reach out and take your heart’s desire when it was handed to you?