She sobbed and his mouth softened, whispering against her flesh.
Damnable man. “Don’t you dare do this out of jealousy.”
He raised his head, his cheeks flushed, his mouth reddened from kissing her. “This doesn’t involve anyone else. This is purely between you and me.” He yanked her hand down and thrust it crudely against his breeches.
And she felt him, long and hot, waiting behind his clothes just for her. It was a kind of triumph that she could make his body hard for her. She wanted that. She wanted him. She pressed the palm of her hand against his length.
He groaned and then spun her to face the wall, reaching around her to tear at the ties in the front of her stays. She placed her hands flat against the wall, scraping her nails against the paint; her fevered cheek lay on the cool plaster. This was madness, insanity, and she didn’t care. He wrenched down the sleeves of her gown, more fabric ripping, and she felt cool air on her shoulders. He trailed his hands, large and warm, down her spine. She could feel his calluses, male against her soft, feminine skin. He nipped at the back of her neck, and she closed her eyes. It had been so long. So very long. She was melting. There was no need for him to do any more; she was quite ready for him now, but he seemed in no hurry. Or maybe he was just enjoying her naked and vulnerable. He was kissing her spine now, and she felt the touch of his lips, each moist stroke of his tongue.
She moaned.
He reached her hips, where her gown, chemise, and underskirts were tangled. He must’ve done something truly awful to her clothing then, because there was a prolonged tearing sound, and yards of fabric were at her feet and her bottom was bare. He placed his mouth on the small of her back and kissed her there before moving downward to kiss, actually kiss, her buttocks. This wasn’t mannerly. This was animal and crass and she shouldn’t like it. She shouldn’t.
“Samuel,” she moaned.
“Hush,” he muttered.
He was urging her legs apart, and one part of her mind was thinking that his position relative to hers did not put her in the most attractive angle. Then she forgot any doubts, for he was running his thumb along her crease.
“You’re wet,” he said, his voice deep and dark with male satisfaction.
She lifted her head from the wall and almost pulled away at that. How dare he take her for granted?
But he tilted her hips and then...
Oh, God! And then he licked her. Her cheek fell back against the wall. It didn’t matter anymore, her ungraceful position, his feral nature. She wanted him to continue this forever. His tongue worked between her folds, nudging and licking, and she thought she had never felt anything like it in her life. He pulled his mouth away and blew on the place where it had been, cooling and exciting her at once. Then he was pulling apart her folds with his thumbs and tonguing his way to the very center of her being. She was moaning now, her hips pushing back at his face, and if she thought too hard about what she was doing and what he was doing, she would be completely mortified. So she drove any thoughts from her mind and simply concentrated on the sensation, his mouth against her most intimate flesh. His tongue seeking out and finding her clitoris. She moaned as he found her. Moaned again when he licked delicately.
She felt him wrap one hand about her hip and stroke through her curls. She gasped and opened her eyes to look down. The sight was unbearably erotic. His dark fingers tracing across her white skin and into the black curls above her thighs. He slid his middle finger into her cleft, and she was forced to close her eyes as that finger replaced his tongue on her knot. She felt him lick back, and then he thrust his tongue into her, and she convulsed violently. Her body shuddered and she gasped, scraping the wall with her fingernails, moving her hips mindlessly as pleasure streamed through her. Spasms wracked her as he thrust and thrust again his tongue into her body, while his finger worked over her bud. Her climax seemed endless, a hard, shimmering river of light that went on and on and on.
Finally she subsided, weak and shivering, her knees threatening to give beneath her, her arms shaking as she held herself up.
His mouth left her and she tried to turn, but he held her still. “Bend over.”
She was dazed, her mind in a fevered sexual haze, and she could do naught but obey him, bending at the waist and grasping at the wall with outstretched arms to keep from falling.
His fingers nudged against her wet flesh, and then his cock. She sighed. So sweet, so beautiful. That hard, hot flesh parting her folds, beginning to enter her. This was the best part, the part of discovery. When he was a man stripped to his essentials and she was a woman receiving him. Exploring him and holding him. Discovering how this was with him.
He should be at the end of his rope by now, nearly frantic with delayed lust, but he went slowly. She felt each inch of his flesh enter hers, widening her until the fabric of his breeches met her bare bottom. He inhaled and thrust once, and he was fully seated. She could stay like this forever, she thought dreamily, holding his hardness within herself, reveling in the feeling of fullness, of connection.
But he drew back, as slowly as he’d entered her, and her inner muscles pulled at him, as if reluctant to let him leave. He thrust suddenly, and her arms bent with the force of the impact.
“Hold still,” he grunted, the words almost unintelligible.
She locked her elbows. And then he gripped her hips and began thrusting into her, hard and fast, the slide of his cock tormenting and wonderful. She angled her hips to more fully receive him.
“Jesus!” he growled.
His fingers were suddenly in her bush again, tunneling and seeking, finding that part of her that ached for his touch. He pressed down firmly in front even as his cock ravished her from behind. She felt a scream build in her throat. It was too much, the pummeling, the pressure of his knowing finger, the ache of her arms holding her up.
He swore suddenly, and then he caught her against himself, her bare back pressed to his waistcoat as his cock buried itself in her and began to spurt. It was an odd angle—and erotic—her feet on tiptoe, her legs wide apart, her breasts and belly bare and displayed, impaled on his cock. She heard him groan and reveled in his loss of control. He worked insistently at her bud, splaying his hand possessively over her cunny as he came inside her.
And then she did scream. Waves of almost painful pleasure coursed through her as she convulsed on his cock. He placed his hand over her mouth to muffle the sound, and she bit him, relishing the taste of his skin on her tongue.
Behind her, he caught his breath. “Little cat.”
He withdrew his flesh from hers and grasped her about the waist, lifting her from behind and dumping her on her back on the bed. Emeline only had time to brace herself and then he was in the bed beside her, the mattress dipping with his weight.
“You’ll probably bite me again, but it might just be worth it,” he said before bringing his mouth down on hers. He kicked her legs apart and shoved himself into her again. And then he just lay there, heavy and hot, kissing her hungrily.
He hadn’t even undressed, she thought hazily as she opened her mouth beneath his. He was still wearing coat, waistcoat, breeches, and leggings, probably even had his moccasins on the covers of her bed. But then that thought fled, and she gave herself over to his tongue, courting and seducing hers. She felt the press of the cold metal buttons of his waistcoat on her bare breasts as he leaned into her.
Someone knocked on the door. Emeline froze. Samuel lifted his head.
“Are you all right, my lady?” Harris, her maid, called.
He arched his eyebrow at her.
Emeline cleared her throat, conscious of his flesh still in hers. “Perfectly fine. You may leave.”
“Of course, my lady.” They heard receding footsteps.
Emeline exhaled and pushed at his chest. “Get off.”
“Why?” he asked lazily. “I like it here.”
But she was feeling a suffocating sense of panic. “My maid will return.”
He pulled back a
nd searched her face. “I find that hard to believe. I’m sure you demand only the best-trained servants.”
She pushed again, and this time he yielded, withdrawing his penis from her as abruptly as he’d placed it there. He rolled to the side. She scrambled off the bed before she could regret the loss of his flesh. “You should go.”
How terribly awkward to stand nude in front of the man she’d just made wanton love to. He should have the common decency—a gentleman’s decency—to leave quietly after the act. But apparently he did not. She could feel his silent gaze as she bent over her pile of discarded clothes, rummaging for something, anything, to cover her nakedness. She pulled out her chemise and held it over her front, but then discovered that it was more rag than cloth. It was too much.
Emeline threw the shredded chemise down and whirled to the man on the bed. “You must go!”
He was lounging on his side, propped on one elbow, watching her as she knew he’d be. His hair was still tightly braided, his clothes rumpled but otherwise the same. But his mouth had relaxed into a sensuous, wide curve, his eyes half-lidded and sleepy-looking. He hadn’t even the tact to button the flap of his breeches. Her gaze was drawn helplessly to his manhood, shining and thick, and the only nude part of him. His cock should’ve been limp and little by now, a thing to be pitied, but it wasn’t. Quite the contrary, it lay arrogant and half-erect as if willing to do the whole thing over.
The sight enraged her. “Why haven’t you left?”
He sighed and sat up. “I had hoped to lie with you a time, my lady, but evidently that does not meet with your pleasure.”
She flushed. Emeline actually felt the heat invade her cheeks and neck. She knew she was being surly and unreasonable. She knew she should display grace and perhaps an indifferent sophistication, but she couldn’t.
She simply couldn’t.
“Please go.” She crossed her arms over her breasts in an inadequate defense and glanced away.
He stood and buttoned the flap of his breeches without hurry. “I’ll go now, but this is not over.”
She looked up in horror. “Of course it’s over! You got what you wanted; there’s no need to...to...” She trailed away because she really didn’t know how to voice the thought. Oh, if she’d only been one of those sophisticated widows! The ones who took discreet lovers and made liaisons where both parties knew the rules of behavior. But she’d had to care for Daniel and Tante Cristelle and then Reynaud had died and, well, she’d never felt the urge before.
While she’d been thinking about her woeful lack of experience, he’d finished putting himself to rights and strolled over to where she stood like a rather aged dryad. He bent and brushed his lips against hers, softly, tenderly, the touch almost making her weep.
And then he stepped back. His eyes were narrowed and thoughtful. “Yes, I got what I wanted—and what you wanted as well—but I’m not quenched. I’m coming to you again, and you can either let me in quietly, or I will knock your door down and in the process summon the whole household.” The corner of his mouth quirked upward, but he didn’t look amused. “I may not be fully aware of all the niceties of your society, but I think that you won’t want that.”
Her mouth had fallen open during this arrogant speech, but now as he turned away, she found her voice. “How dare you presume—”
He caught her by the shoulders, making her indignant sentence end on a squeak. He bent his head and spoke fiercely into her ear. “I dare because you welcomed me into your body not a quarter of an hour ago. Your body rained your pleasure all over my cock, and I want that again.”
He covered her mouth. But this time his kiss wasn’t gentle or soft. It spoke of a man’s desire. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and angled his head so that his lips all but enveloped hers, and her silly body arched into him. She wanted this. She craved this. Intellect and reason fled her brain.
He stepped back so suddenly she nearly fell. His face was hard and flushed. “Let me in tonight, Emeline.”
He left her room before she could reply.
As she sank into her pile of ruined clothes, she had a blinding realization. She’d lost whatever control she’d ever had over this affair.
“CRADDOCK HUNG HIMSELF a month ago,” Lord Vale said later that afternoon.
Sam dragged his thoughts away from Emeline—her skin, her breasts, the fact that she didn’t want to see him again—and focused on the problem of the 28th. “You’d think that Thornton would’ve known that Craddock was already dead.”
Vale shrugged. “Thornton didn’t say when he’d last seen the man.”
“True.”
“Who’s next on your list to question?”
Sam grimaced. “No one.”
It was raining outside, which had sent their hostess into a flurry of despair. Apparently, Lady Hasselthorpe had planned an afternoon expedition to view the ruins of an abbey, a famous local sight. Sam was privately relieved at the rain. He would never have been able to hike over the hills today, not at least without a good deal of pain, and making an excuse would’ve drawn Rebecca’s attention. He was beginning to realize that his sister saw much more than he’d given her credit for. Having to explain to her why his feet were in ribbons would’ve been awkward indeed.
But instead the majority of the house party had retreated to a large sitting room at the back of the house. Emeline was noticeably absent, of course—she was obviously avoiding him—but most everyone else was in attendance. Some of their number amused themselves playing cards; others were reading or talking in small groups.
Like Vale and Sam.
“You don’t have anyone else to question at all?” Vale looked incredulous.
Sam grit his teeth. “I’m happy to take suggestions.”
Vale pursed his lips. “Ah...”
“Assuming you have any ideas of your own?”
“Well...” Vale found a sudden interest in the rain-drenched windows.
“Thought not,” Sam muttered.
Both men gazed at the windows as if transfixed by the terrible weather. Vale drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair in an incredibly annoying manner.
Finally, the viscount inhaled. “If Thornton was the traitor, he’d have to have a reason to betray the 28th.”
Sam didn’t take his eyes from the window, strangely unsurprised that the other man’s thoughts had run along the same lines as his. “You definitely suspect him, then?”
“Don’t you?”
Sam thought of the unease he’d felt since meeting Thornton again in London. He sighed. “I might suspect him, but I can’t think why he’d betray the entire regiment. Any ideas?”
“Haven’t a clue,” Vale said. “Perhaps he was growing weary of all the peas porridge we had to eat on that wretched march.”
The viscount seemed to like him. There was something villainous in pretending friendship with a man when you’d just made love to that man’s fiancée. Sam would’ve avoided him, but Vale had sought him out as soon as he’d entered the sitting room.
“There’s always money, I suppose,” Vale mused, “but I don’t see how killing an entire regiment would benefit Thornton unless he was paid by the French.”
“Does Thornton speak French?” Sam asked idly.
“Haven’t a clue.” Vale drummed his fingers for a moment, apparently considering Thornton’s linguistic abilities. “Not that it matters—the note was written in English, you said. And besides, plenty of French speak English.”
“Was he in debt?” Sam watched as Rebecca tilted her head to listen to another girl. She’d found at least one lady to talk to.
“We should find out. Or rather I should find out. Haven’t been much help to this investigation so far. Ought to lend more of a hand, what?”
Sam looked over at Vale. The other man was watching him with his earnest, hangdog eyes. What kind of a man would betray a friend like this?
“Thank you,” Sam said gravely.
Vale made one of those mercurial transform
ations that he was sometimes capable of. He grinned and his funny, homely face lit up, his almost iridescent blue eyes sparkling. “Don’t mention it, old man.”
And Sam looked down, no longer able to meet the other man’s eyes. He should in all honor resolve to never see Lady Emeline again. Which must make him the most dishonorable man alive.
For he fully intended to find her and make love to her again tonight.
Chapter Thirteen
The giant wolf leapt for the baby’s cradle, its jaws gaping wide. But Iron Heart ran at the beast, his sword upraised to protect his son. Then what a battle commenced! For Iron Heart must remain silent—he could not call for help—and the monster wolf was a test of all his strength and skill. Back and forth across the room the combatants raged, smashing the furniture to splinters. The babe’s cradle was overturned and he began to wail. Iron Heart gave a mighty blow and struck the wolf’s hind leg. The beast howled with pain and lashed out, flinging the man against the wall with a crash that shook the castle. Iron Heart’s head hit the stone wall and he knew no more....
—from Iron Heart
She’d argued with herself all day, even as she’d been careful to keep to her rooms for fear that she might see him. The reasons were well worn by now. They were of different classes, different worlds. She had a son and a family to think of. He was too intense, a man not easily led. She wouldn’t be able to hold the upper hand with him. And yet...
And yet...
Maybe it was because she’d spent all day debating and redebating herself. None of the arguments seemed to hold sway anymore. She shrugged them aside because they paled in comparison to her need. She needed to feel him inside her once again. Shocking, how animal she’d become. She’d never done this before—pushed reason aside, let her physical self rule. It was a frightening thing, to give herself solely over to the sensual. Frightening, and exhilarating at the same time. She’d always held herself in strict control, been the one in control. Someone had had to—all the men who were supposed to hold the family together had left. First Reynaud, then Danny, then six months later, Father, leaving her alone.
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