“I find it unfair,” her voice caught as he slid a finger inside her, “that you are still clothed.” If she were being truthful, it was incredibly erotic to stand naked before him, while his fingers did the most amazing things.
He blew air across one nipple, eliciting a soft cry from her. His tongue flicked out to circle the tip.
“Open your legs, my love.”
Miranda fell back against the bed, her legs parting. He pressed against her until she lay down, settling his large body between her thighs.
Colin leaned over and sucked one taut nipple into his mouth, fingers curling up inside of her as he moved in and out.
Miranda moaned, reaching out to grab his hand and push it shamefully against her.
His mouth left the throbbing nibble. “Right there? I remember.” Then bent to his task again, his mouth sucking and nibbling her breast until she was near mad. He allowed the pressure inside her to build, then retreat, until she heard herself beg him.
Drawing his tongue over her tortured nipple, he murmured. “Now, my love.” He rotated his thumb over the engorged piece of flesh he’d so far ignored.
A cry escaped her lips as Miranda came apart. She bucked against his hand, her head falling to the side as her body moved with each wave of pleasure. Miranda floated up and then fell again as another tremor wracked her body, the whiskey giving her release an even more dreamlike quality.
He entered her suddenly, in one thrust, embedding himself deep in her body before she’d even realized he’d discarded his clothes. A soft moan came from his lips as he sank into her.
Instinctively her trembling legs hugged his hips. Reaching up, she ran her fingers down the length of the scar, tracing the puckered flesh to the place where it met his lip.
“I love you,” she whispered. “I will always love you.”
Colin turned his head and pressed a gentle kiss to her palm.
He moved inside her, thrusting slow and deep as Miranda rolled her hips. He kissed her eyes, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. “Here?” he asked as he turned his body, catching hers.
“Yes,” Miranda whispered, surprised at how quickly the pleasure built again. She didn’t wish this to ever end. “I think perhaps I am dreaming from overindulging in Sutton’s whiskey. But, it’s such a beautiful dream. Go slowly, for I don’t wish it to end.”
Colin smiled and kissed her. “You are not dreaming, my love.”
“Say it again. Not the dreaming part.”
“My love,” he said in a ragged voice.
Flames cascaded over Miranda as her body moved with his. She wanted him deeper, harder. Miranda ran her hands down the sides of his torso, her fingertips dipping into the hollows of his muscles, until she reached his buttocks. “Harder.”
A growl sounded from him. “I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.”
Miranda squeezed the firm cheeks beneath her hands. “Bullocks.”
“Christ, you’ll be the death of me.”
The intensity increased until Miranda writhed beneath him, as if her body was on fire and Colin stoked the flame. When she arched against him, unable to wait any longer, he pinned her hands above her head, lacing his fingers through hers.
Miranda’s body tightened, the damn breaking apart within her. She cried out, feeling the clench of her muscles around the length of him. This time her release was deeper, more intense and the waves shifted and crested madly.
Colin thrust once more, burying his face in her sweat-damp hair, saying her name over and over.
They lay together, entwined on the bed, as their breathing slowly returned to normal. Colin was still buried inside her, his hips pressed against hers. Afraid to break the spell brought about by their lovemaking, Miranda remained silent. Instead, she listened to the beat of his heart, and took in the way their bodies fit together so perfectly.
“Puzzle pieces.” She mouthed the words but did not say them.
Her fingertips traced the outline of every supple muscle on his back, to the hollow at the base of his spine, to the curve of his hip. Gorgeous man.
Colin pressed a kiss to her nose and took his weight from her, ignoring the small squeak of protest she made.
“You’re no good to me if you can’t breathe, Miranda.” His fingers traced the line of her cheek as he pressed a gentle kiss against her lips. “My Marcella.”
“You’re not so heavy. Though you seem to be bigger than I remember.”
Colin wiggled his eyebrows.
“Not there.” Miranda giggled. “You just seem larger. More imposing.” She smiled against his chest. “If I am Marcella then you must be Lord Thurston,” she joked.
“In a manner of speaking.” He gave her a deep languid kiss that Miranda felt to the bottom of her feet and made her toes curl in pleasure.
“You taste of whiskey. And ravishment.” The big hands lazily moved over her body, possessively, caressing every curve and hollow. He worshipped her with his mouth and hands until she begged him for release.
Colin took nothing for himself, only murmuring beautiful wicked things to her as he coaxed her body to pleasure again until Miranda lay limp and boneless. Her body still throbbing from the aftermath of his attentions, Colin pulled her into the shelter of his arms and pressed a kiss to her brow.
“I wonder if we’ve missed dinner.”
Colin merely smiled at her. Picking up a curl that lay across her breast, he absently toyed with it, wrapping it and unwrapping it about his finger.
“Colin.” She was so sleepy. “Don’t leave again.”
Colin gathered her to him and pulled the bedcovers up around them. “Sleep.”
She snuggled closer to the large, warm male next to her, thinking she had never been so happy.
Always.
23
Sunlight glared through the curtains and Miranda swatted at it. She gave a small groan as her muscles protested moving from the bed. Carefully opening her eyes, she took in the rumpled bed clothes and the fact that she was naked beneath them.
Goodness.
A persistent knock sounded at the door.
“A moment.” Her throat was dry as the desert. Temples aching, she wished desperately for a headache powder, but she supposed she would need to answer the knocking at her door first. Whiskey, she decided was not something one should overindulge in often.
Cautiously she turned her head, smiling at the indentation of a man’s head on the pillow next to hers.
Not a dream.
Another knock. “My lady?” Clara, her maid whispered through the door.
Quickly, she smoothed the bedclothes with her palm and reached down to the floor to grab her robe. With a roll, one that sent the room spinning, she managed to slip on the robe and tie the sash, even as her maid, Clara, cracked open the door.
Miranda slid back under the covers, pulling them up to her chin. Only an idiot would miss the smell of sex that permeated the room. Fortunately, Clara was known for doing hair, not being intelligent.
Clara bustled in with a breakfast tray, setting it on the bed. She efficiently poured out tea and placed a small plate of warm raisin cakes next to it.
“Cook made a fresh batch just for you. Just out of the oven. I do hope you’re well enough to eat.”
“How kind of her.” Miranda’s stomach grumbled. She was hungry. Ravenous in fact.
“Should I lay out your clothing?”
“Please.” Miranda couldn’t wait to leave her room.
The maid nodded and began to straighten the chamber and lay out Miranda’s gown for the day. Walking before the fire, she stooped to pick up the discarded Lord Thurston, carefully placing a slip of paper to mark Miranda’s place, before putting the book on the table.
Smearing freshly whipped butter on top of one of the raisin cakes, Miranda took a bite, relishing the taste of the fruit and butter. As she munched away, pausing only to take a sip of tea, her eyes fell to the spine of the Lord Thurston novel.
“My Marcella.” And what had he said the
night in the garden? “I think of you when I write her.”
Surely not. The idea was absurd.
Or was it?
The author of Lord Thurston remained a mystery, the initial “J,” the only clue to his or her identity. Several things flashed through her mind at once. Colin’s forefinger often sported an ink stain. He was a gifted storyteller. He used to scribble away in a red leather journal her father gave him one Christmas. His middle name was James.
And my father was close friends with Lord Wently, who publishes Lord Thurston.
“You’ll wish to bathe, I imagine. Shall I draw you a bath?”
Miranda nodded mutely at Clara. It had been in front of her the entire time and she’d never noticed. This was the business venture her father had helped Colin with so long ago.
“It makes perfect sense,” she giggled. “Marcella. I do rather resemble her. Or she, me.”
Clara gave her and odd look and raised a brow.
Miranda waved her hand. “I’m muttering to myself, Clara. Pray ignore me.”
Clara moved into the dressing room and began to prepare Miranda’s bath. The aroma of lavender and honey filled the air in the bedroom as steam from the water rose in the air.
All she wished to do was see Colin. She needed to know that last night had been real.
“I must hurry, Clara. I need to speak to Lord Kilmaire. About a book,” she added. How rich that Colin was the author of Lord Thurston. Wait until she told Alex. Miranda pushed aside the tray and made her way to her dressing room where a steaming tub awaited her.
“Oh, my lady, I fear you’re too late.” Clara’s head popped through the doorway, her hands full of soap and towels. “Lord Kilmaire left for London early this morning, just before Lord and Lady Cottingham departed. One of the grooms saddled a horse for him. I’m not sure why he’d prefer to ride rather than enjoy the comforts of Lord Cottingham’s carriage.” Clara shrugged her shoulders and turned back to the bath.
Miranda froze, her toes curling into the patterned carpet that covered the floor of her room. Her fingers wiggled, begging for something to hold onto as her legs sagged, threatening to drop her to the floor. She backed up to clutch at the bedpost.
“Lord Kilmaire has left Gray Covington? With the Cottinghams? Why,” her voice cracked, “I did not have the chance to say goodbye. What a poor hostess I am.”
Forgive me.
“Lord Kilmaire was in quite a hurry to get to London. One of the footmen overheard him. Apparently Lord Kilmaire had an urgent matter that needed attended to immediately.” Clara blushed. “Begging your pardon, my lady. I shouldn’t like to gossip.”
“You aren’t. And the Cottinghams?” Miranda fell against the bed. The pain in her temples intensified.
“Lord Cottingham met with your brother in the study before he and Lady Cottingham departed for London. Lady Helen,” Clara lowered her voice to a whisper, “was discussing wedding gowns with her mother.”
“I see.” The raisin cakes threatened to leave her stomach.
Forgive me.
He’d whispered it into her hair. Repeated it to her the entire night. She’d been so absorbed in bedding Colin, so caught up in her desire for him, that she’d never asked him what brought him to her chamber.
I fell on him like some sex-starved widow.
“Clara, the washbasin please,” Miranda gestured wildly. How stupid I am. How utterly pathetic of me. He was begging my forgiveness for marrying Lady Helen.
The raisin cakes did not taste half as pleasant when they came back up.
24
Colin flung his reins to a waiting groom and raced up the front steps of Gray Covington. The sun had begun to descend across the sky and twilight was gathering. Even leaving as early as he had, the ride to London and back still took most of the day. His hasty departure was borne of urgency. The need to claim Miranda, immediately, and end Ridley’s courtship was paramount in his mind. Pressing a kiss on her forehead, he left the soft warmth of her body and dressed as the sky lightened to pink. After quietly leaving her room, he washed and requested a horse be saddled. Cook pushed a fresh biscuit in his hand as he strode out, only to glance back at Miranda’s window.
A light, heady feeling coursed through him as he rode. The sun shone on him for the first time in six long years. Happiness, he mused, was something he meant to get used to.
It was not until he reached the outskirts of the city that Colin remembered that in his haste, he’d neglected to leave Miranda a note. It was rather careless. And he had promised himself that he would never again be careless where Miranda was concerned. Nor take her for granted.
During the entire ride to London, he’d thought of nothing but the fact that he would need to tell Miranda about her mother’s machinations and in doing so, confess his own sins.
Bloody Jeanette. I hope to never set eyes on the woman again.
He should have done the honorable thing. Explained the letter and begged her forgiveness for having doubted her. Instead, he’d ravished her. Made sure that she would have no choice but to marry him after he ruined her yet again. For hours. Ruthlessly.
She was well and truly compromised. While he was certain no one saw him leave her room, the same could not be said for entering her chambers. But then, he rather hoped Ridley had witnessed Colin entering Miranda’s rooms.
Standing for a moment on the step, his hand went to the inside pocket of his waistcoat, to assure himself that the items he’d brought from London remained safe.
“I’ll make her happy. I swear that I will.”
The door opened before Colin could knock.
“Good evening, Lord Kilmaire.” Zander, Gray Covington’s butler, narrowed his eyes at Colin, taking in his dusty coat and muddy boots. “I’m afraid you’ve missed dinner.”
“Where is Lady Miranda?” Colin stepped inside, his eyes immediately going to the staircase as if his words would cause her to appear.
Zander lifted a brow. “Lord Cambourne instructed the staff that if you returned to Gray Covington you were to be escorted directly to his study.”
“I would see Lady Miranda first. Is she in the gardens?” What did Zander mean if I returned?
“I do not know the current whereabouts of Lady Miranda, my lord. However, as I’ve explained, I have very specific orders that you be escorted to Lord Cambourne.” Without waiting for an answer, Zander started down the hall towards the Marquess of Cambourne’s study, marching away as if a stick had been shoved up his arse.
Bloody little tyrant.
“I should at least change clothes. I’ve been riding all day.” Colin said, waving a hand down his wrinkled riding coat. “And I smell of horse.”
“This way, Lord Kilmaire.” Zander’s tone was curt. Stopping before the large mahogany doors, Zander rapped with his knuckles and poked his head inside. He said something in a low tone, then ushered Colin through the doorway, before stepping deftly to the side.
The first blow from Cam’s fist hit Colin squarely in the jaw, splitting his lip and knocking his head back.
“What the bloody—”
The next punch landed in the middle of his stomach, doubling Colin over and knocking him to the floor. He fell sideways, his head lolling against the fine Persian carpet.
Blinking to clear his vision, Colin attempted to focus on the pattern of blue and green swirls he lay upon, stupidly wondering whether the swirls were supposed to be flowers. He thought they looked like teardrops.
“You bastard.” A pair of boots landed squarely before Colin’s nose. “Get up.”
It occurred to Colin as he studied the carpet, that while it was certain that his friend had not known of Colin’s relationship with Miranda before, Cam sure as hell did now.
Zander’s lack of welcome should have given Colin ample warning. His observation skills aside, Colin was mainly concerned that one of his closest friends was about to beat him to death.
Christ, he hits hard.
Blood trickled down the co
rner of his mouth as he pushed his tongue against his lip, wincing a bit at the pain. He’d been in many a brawl. After all, he’d grown up with two older brothers, but he was not going to fight Cam. Cautiously Colin stood, bracing himself against the door.
Cam rolled back on his heels, fists clenched, ready to beat Colin to a bloody pulp at the slightest provocation.
“Cam,” Colin held up his hand in a gesture of supplication. “Where is Miranda? I can explain—”
Pain exploded in his temple and cheekbone. Colin’s head swam a bit, and for just a moment, he saw two furious Lord Cambournes standing before him.
“Bloody hell, Cam. Stop for just a moment.”
“No.” Cam’s grunted with a snarl. “Stand up. Fucking Irish—”
“There’s no need for insults,” Colin replied a bit flippantly. “Besides, even your grandmother agrees I am only a quarter Irish.” He wiped at the stream of blood dribbling down his chin, anger flaring at Cam’s words. “Are you trying to ruin what’s left of my looks? You never could tolerate any man being as pretty as you.”
Cam made a sound like an enraged bull and moved forward but halted as a voice emanated from the large leather couch facing the fireplace.
“Sutton,” the imperious voice commanded, “I insist you stop this instant. I’ll not have Lord Kilmaire’s blood all over the carpet. The rug was quite expensive and a favorite of your father’s. As it is, I fear Zander will never be able to get the stain out. And your language. You’ve forgotten yourself speaking so in front of me.”
Colin stared in disbelief at the couch.
The Dowager peeked around the side, her gloved hands wrapped around the head of her cane, expression bland as if she watched Cam engage in fisticuffs every day and tolerated the spectacle. A silver brow raised as she noted Colin’s regard, and there was no welcome for him in her face.
He moved a step towards the couch.
Cam snarled at him.
Next to the Dowager, sat Miranda. He swayed with the urge to go to her.
The ebony locks of her hair were pulled back and tied with a ribbon, allowing a cascade of dark strands to curl over her shoulder. She was busy twisting the sprigged muslin of her dress, wrinkling the fabric. Deep emerald eyes gazed at him without the slightest hint of mercy.
MY WICKED EARL: The Wickeds Book 3 Page 27
