by Lara Temple
She looked back, reaching down, and he realised what was wrong. He planted his feet apart and shoved her hand away, grasping her skirt and tugging. The fabric was thick in his hands, scratchy in the water, but his efforts seemed to wedge it even more firmly between the rocks.
‘The dress from hell,’ he cursed, turning his back and pulling her against him as a wave came slamming down on them. He could feel her wriggling, trying to tug at the fabric with rising panic, but instead of joining her he grasped the modest bodice above the row of neat buttons and wrenched it apart. One of the buttons snapped him on the cheek as it flew off and the front of the dress fell open. He dragged the sleeves down, gathering her under her arms and hauling her out of it like a toddler, half-dragging her on to the ledge. The waterlogged dress surged on the wave like an animal carcass, grey and sullen, and then was sucked down as the water crashed into foam.
He kept hold of her, her body now slight and cold with only a soaked chemise as cover. On the ledge the waves were still only waist high and she stumbled ahead with him, the sea dragging at their legs, but no longer in charge. They finally reached the sand beyond the rocks and she stumbled and he sank down on his knees beside her, their breath audible above the roaring surf. He grabbed her shoulders, turning her to him, every other emotion shifting into a rockslide of fury.
‘Are you mad? How dare you? How dare you do that?’
‘Jamie... Oh, God, Benneit... Jamie!’ Her voice came in rough gasps, hardly recognisable. ‘His shoe was on the boulders out there. I tried to reach... Why did you stop me?’
Her fingers dug and twisted into his shirt and there was so much agony in her eyes it cauterised his anger like a fiery brand.
‘Jamie? Jamie is at the castle. Angus and I found him hiding outside the stables. I came to find you and then I saw you head to your death, you little fool.’
‘He is safe? Are you certain?’
‘Of course I’m certain. I told you he wouldn’t go far. Unlike you, he has more sense than to stay in the bay when the tide is rising.’
‘But his shoe...’
‘He told me had thrown them into the sea. It was his sign of protest. You should have realised that.’
She was staring at him, disbelief and hope warring in her eyes. She had not removed her hands from his chest, they spread wide as if to push him away, but she didn’t. She didn’t appear aware of anything but some internal battle; certainly not the fact that she was clothed in nothing but a flimsy and now transparent chemise that clung to her body and left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
It settled one debate at least. Under Celia’s horrors was a work of art. Her breasts were simply perfect, as if a master artist had decided to create a treatise on perfect proportions. The cold had gathered her nipples into two unmistakably rosy peaks under the fabric and he could almost feel how they would fit against his palms—the soft curve of sea-slicked skin and the hard pucker of her nipples pressed to the heart of his palms... Beneath the chilled outer layer of skin he felt a surge of fire, the beating of drums.
He forced his gaze away, but they only swept down, following the sheer fabric as it hugged the curve of her waist and hips and fit snugly over the darker triangle between her legs. Despite everything—his fury, his fear, his shock—his body heated and readied, fixing its attention on this unintended invitation.
Hell. This was the very definition of unwelcome.
‘Thank God.’ She sat back on her heels, covering her face, a shudder coursing through her. Her hair was a matted tangle and a piece of kelp was wrapped around her arm like an exotic bracelet. If not for the goosebumps and the simple chemise, she looked like a figure out of one of Jamie’s tales of the sea. A mermaid cast on to land, a Selkie come to capture a mate.
The wind lashed at them and his wet buckskins were uncomfortably tight over his unwanted arousal. It should have been an effective antidote to the surge of lust, but it wasn’t. He doubted a snowstorm would be effective against the chaos roiling inside him. In normal circumstances he could push aside the increasingly frequent flashes of desire this impossible woman sparked, but now neither his mind nor his body co-operated and this weakness fanned his terror-driven fury.
‘You wouldn’t be thanking the Lord if you knew how much I want to box your ears right now. Have you gone stark, staring mad? If you thought Jamie was in the water, you should have fetched me.’
Her hands fell away, her face suddenly fierce.
‘Fetch you? Did you really expect me to leave him to the sea while I made my way to the castle? There was no time!’
‘I expect you to behave with more sense than a four-year-old!’
She closed her teeth with a snap and struggled to her feet. He saw the precise moment she realised her state of undress. Her eyes widened, a flush blooming upwards from the centre of her chest like dye.
‘My dress!’ Her voice cracked, her eyes filling with tears.
It was so absurd he laughed. She had nearly died. They both had, yet the loss of that horror which she admitted hating had the power to reach her.
‘That is the only good thing about this fiasco. It’s gone down to the depths of Hades where it belongs. If you had been wearing one of the new dresses we both would have had an easier time of it. Let that be a lesson to you to be less bullheaded, Jo.’
‘Oh! You are... You are hateful, Benneit Lochmore!’ She stalked away towards the path and he retrieved his discarded coat and followed, watching the way the fabric clung to a posterior as beautifully shaped as her breasts. This woman was made to be clothed in nothing but the sea. It was utterly wrong to be noticing her now, after what they had survived, or perhaps it was unavoidable. Whatever it was, it had him by the groin.
‘And you are singularly ungrateful. You do realise I saved your life, don’t you?’
She stopped, folding her hands over her chest, but did not turn.
‘I do. Thank you. I’m sorry.’
As far as admissions, thanks or apologies went, hers were abysmal, but he kept silent, his mind firmly on other things. Her elegant ankles were peppered with grains of sand and he watched them strain and stretch as she made her way up the path and kept his eyes from straying higher. But just before the crest she stopped abruptly. Unprepared, he bumped into her, his hands seizing the opportunity to clasp her arms. Despite the breeze, her skin was already warmer than his hands and the temptation to see if that warmth was evident elsewhere was so strong he forced himself to step back.
‘I can’t go into the castle...like this,’ she said, her voice still rough and strained.
Like this. God help him, she clearly had no idea how spectacular she looked ‘like this’.
A married woman had no right to be so innocent.
He detached his gaze from the way the wet chemise loved her breasts and reached to remove the strand of kelp that clung to her arm.
‘We could make you a kelp costume but I refuse to climb back down to the bay to fetch some. Don’t worry, my coat will be sufficient cover and you can enter through the tower door. If you are so unlucky as to be seen, tell them the truth.’
‘That I am a fool?’
He smiled at the return of Jo, uncertain he was glad for it.
‘That you were foolish, but very brave. I am not ungrateful, but if you ever do something like that again I will send you to your room for a week with nothing but dry bread and a book of sermons.’
Her laugh became a hiccup and then a sob and she pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes.
‘I was so scared...’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t think.’
‘I know. Hush. You are safe now.’
He didn’t think either as he gathered her to him, wrapping his arms around her. She sagged against him and he felt the shudders of released tension course through her, filling his body with ideas of other shudders it was desperate to explore.
It was madness, unwanted, but it was undeniable. Right now, cold, wet, uncomfortable, exhausted from the strain of escaping the surf, he felt utterly alive and intent only on the sylphlike body pressed against him.
He wanted her.
No, he was starving for her.
It was not so very wrong, was it? She was a widow, experienced. Why shouldn’t they enjoy the little life allowed people in their position, with their limitations.
‘Jo,’ he murmured, and she shuddered again which gave him a perfect excuse to tighten his hold, splaying his hand lower. Too low. It moulded over her backside and before he could even stop himself he raised her against him, her abdomen pressing the cold cloth of his buckskins against his blazing erection. It should have cooled him, but it only added to the erotic contrast and a groan burst from him.
‘Jo.’
Her hands pressed against his chest, as if readying to push away, but she didn’t move. With a slow, trancelike motion, she tilted her head back. Beyond her the sea still roared, but the grey of her eyes was calm and deep, darkened by her dilated pupils. He forced his hands to ease, but her fingers curled into the wet fabric of his shirt, her nails dragging it against his skin. It hurt, his whole body curling around that sensation as if struck, his breath hitching and his arousal hardening in an agonised surge of lust. Her lips parted, her body shifting against the unmistakable sign of his need. His hands caught her waist, trying to still her movement, but somehow they pressed her closer and her lashes dipped, colour blooming over her cheekbones like sunrise. He cupped her cheek in his hand, gathering that bloom against his palm, his voice urgent as he tried to penetrate her trance-like state.
‘You have just given me one of the worst scares of my life and the only thing I can think about with any clarity is kissing you senseless. So go to the castle now, Jo. Please.’ He shouldn’t have added the plea; it sounded as desperate as he felt. Her hands unlatched from his shirt, sliding down to his abdomen and he groaned as his muscles contracted under their passage.
‘You want to kiss me?’ She sounded more shocked by that than by anything that had preceded it and he gave a weak laugh.
‘I want a hell of a lot more than that, but at the moment I would swim a mile in those waves for a kiss from you. Which is why you need to go. Now.’
* * *
Benneit wanted to kiss her. And more.
It made little sense, but the hot, hard length of his arousal pressed against her was undeniable and, as she searched his eyes, she saw it was true. Danger and anger did strange things to men. If she was sensible, she would heed Benneit’s warning and hurry away.
She did not feel sensible. Her body was hot and cold and tingling as if she was too close to a fire after a bath, the hairs on her arms and nape rising towards the heat, her breasts heavy and aching.
They had almost died... He had almost died because of her. But they were alive and he wanted to kiss her, no matter why. That was all that mattered.
Her palms dragged against the chill, wet fabric covering his chest, rising to press against the tense sinews at his nape and into his dark, wet hair. It tickled the skin between her fingers, clinging to her hands as she flexed her fingertips against his scalp, rising on to her toes, leaning into his hard, lean body because hers was shaking with anticipation and fear.
Her lips touched his gently, but the sensation was anything but gentle—it stung her numb lips and set her body ablaze like a splash of oil on fire. For an eternity they stayed frozen, their hands holding each other, their lips touching, the only movement their shallow, careful breathing; she could feel his tension in every inch of contact between them and she knew any moment it would take him away from her. The moment would pass before it truly began.
A kiss from you...
She curled her fingers into his wet hair, latched on to him like strangling kelp and kissed him with every feeling that lived inside of her. She tasted his tongue with hers, loving the contrast of textures—his lips were silk over marble, the rougher rasp of his tongue, firm and demanding against hers, the scrape of his teeth on her throbbing lips sending shivers down to her nipples and to the thudding heat that was expanding between her legs. She had never kissed like this, but she could not stop.
A deep, guttural groan coursed through him and he abandoned his temporary passivity under her caress, his arms tightening and his hands moving over her as if he could absorb her, as unstoppable and threatening as the waves that almost took their lives.
‘I warned you, Jo.’ His voice was a growl of thunder, but she shook her head, trying to press even closer, her hands anchoring in his shirt as if he might escape her. But he didn’t try, he just deepened the kiss, parting her lips again, tasting and suckling her lips and tongue in a searching cadence that had her whole body swaying to a foreign rhythm, like a clumsy child trying to follow a new dance. He was possessing her, encompassing her, drawing her soul out with each sweep and caress of his mouth and tongue, stripping away plain little Joane Langdale and leaving only the hot, live core of her need.
‘Benneit...’
Suddenly she felt his hand directly on her chilled skin, her chemise a damp tangle about her waist, his fingers splayed on her thighs as he raised her, pressing deep into her soft flesh. She tried to draw back, shocked by her own hunger, but his other hand was deep in her hair, his fingers splayed against her scalp as his mouth sank to her throat, suckling and sending unbearable shivers down her body like streaks of lightning—sharp and slashing. His lips followed their path, but when his breath swept over her breast it became unbearable and she squirmed, trying to meet or fight the crashing sensations. He did not let go, teasing her hardened nipple into a frenzy of pleasure with his lips and tongue and the subtle scrape and pressure of his teeth. Between the thud of surf below and the keening of a gull above she heard her own whimpers of need, as foreign as the sensations gathering inside her, beating at her nerves like the waves had beaten at her body. She wanted to act, but she could only cling to him as he unravelled her, afraid that if she let go she would plummet off a cliff of her own making.
‘Benneit...’
It was hardly more than an agonised moan, but she should have kept silent because he stopped, his hand burrowing deeper into her wet hair, his fingers twisting as he pulled her head back, his eyes narrowed and gleaming like one of the mythical beasts she imagined prowling the mountains high above the clouds. If she could have thought, she would have tried to shield herself from that gaze because surely he saw everything. Then his gaze shifted, moving slowly over her face, resting on her parted lips, making them throb harder. She felt his breath on the damp heat of their bruised surface, imagined the sting caused by her hair as the wind whipped it against his lean cheeks, as if she were taking part in the battle evident in every inch of the body pressed against hers, in the tension along the fingers that cradled her head, that were cupped over her bottom, holding her to him. Alfred had never touched her there, had even hesitated before his hands closed on her breasts, and she felt ashamed at how much she liked Benneit’s touch, his fingers pressing deep into her flesh there, how vivid and scorching the sensation of his mouth on her breast through the dampness of her chemise. How right it felt...he felt...
Her shudder became a moan, half of need and half of shame at the foreign forces beating inside her. He breathed in, his arms tightening and finally his head sank back to hers, but as his lips grazed hers with the impact of steel on steel he froze. Then she heard it, too.
‘Lochmore! Where are ye, lad?’
Angus’s voice carried above the sound of the surf and she pulled away, shocked and scared.
‘Angus, mac an diabhal,’ Benneit cursed in Gaelic, his voice as raw and shaky as she felt inside.
He picked up his coat from where it lay discarded, and draped it over her shoulders, closing it with one fist. He did not look at her as he spoke.
‘The guests must be a
rriving. I will go ahead and send Angus back and then you can slip in by the tower stairs.’
She stayed where she was as he disappeared up the path, hugging his coat to her. It smelled of him, warmth and musk and the sea. She shuddered, the cold reaching up from the ground straight into her heart and she pressed her face into the fabric to stop the tears.
‘Oh no.’
Her words were a whisper, but all her longing and the feeling of hopelessness were in those two syllables. She was not fool enough to read emotion into Benneit’s passion. Danger did odd things to men—even usually placid Alfred reacted strangely when she was once thrown from a horse—it had been the only time they had made love outside the bedroom and before bedtime. But then they reverted to the almost decorous ritual of coupling he had established on their wedding night—in bed, in the dark. She should not be fool enough to read anything into Benneit’s kiss.
She pressed her face into the soft folds of his coat to breathe the warmth of his scent, knowing the coat had a better chance of a future with him.
Oh God, but her heart ached.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It had to be done. And swiftly. Leaving a thorn in the flesh led to festering and rot. In a few short hours he must face his guests and his future. But right now he must face the consequences of his abject stupidity on the cliff path. He remembered all too well Mrs Langdale’s discomfort in the ballrooms of London. It would be unfair that the first time they met after his transgression would be in the Great Hall surrounded by all his guests. It might be easier for him, but it would be the coward’s way out.
He knocked on the door of her parlour, steeling himself.
‘Enter.’
She was seated in the embrasure, holding a book and the afternoon light was so bright about her that he could not make out her expression. It made this easier.
‘Mrs Langdale.’
‘Your Grace.’ Her voice was as flat as the first day they met, but now he knew how unnatural it was. He cleared his throat and launched into his speech.
