Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

by Stephanie Laurens

  So he drew the moments out, made every touch, every sliding glide last, strung every second out until the tension drew tight as a wire, until it stretched taut enough to cut.

  He listened to every sound he wrung from her, savored each, accepted that at the end he would have to reach around her and muffle her scream . . . he was determined that she would scream.

  Preferably his name.

  With every slow penetration, every achingly slow impression as her sheath stretched and accepted him, then clamped so tight, delicate and powerful at the same time, he felt something in him rise. With every artful, expert possession, although who was possessing whom was moot, he sensed that novel something grow and swell, a new part of him, a new facet of him that hadn’t been there before.

  That new element, whatever it was, delighted in the pleasure, not just the pleasure he gave and her freely communicated appreciation, but even more the pleasure he received with every caress of her sumptuous body.

  She knew it was him. For her, in this, there was only him, and that was certainly different. That somehow added another, unique and addictive, dimension to their joining—to this act he’d performed so many times before but had never before felt so invested in.

  As she rode his slowly accelerating thrusts, she turned her head enough for him to glimpse her profile—her eyes closed, an expression of sensual bliss in place, a smile of exquisite delight curving her lips . . . the sight made his breath catch.

  And then they were moving faster, harder, striving as together they raced for the peak.

  Heat rose. Need swelled and grew.

  The arousing sounds of their mating enveloped them—the slap of skin against skin, their ragged, desperate breaths, the muted sobs that fell from her lips.

  Passion caught them.

  Held them in an invincible grip and ruthlessly, relentlessly, drove them on.

  Until they were clinging to sanity, desperate, greedy, beyond needy, so close to the sensual abyss yet still not there. . . .

  Pressing deep, her bare bottom riding evocatively against his groin, he bent over her, reached around, slid one palm over her parted lips, filled the other with one swollen breast, found her ruched nipple, gripped and thrust harder, deeper, more forcefully as he squeezed.

  She cried out and came apart, pressing back against him as he continued to fill her, deeper and still deeper. Her sheath contracted, clutched, and drew him irrevocably on—he let go and followed her into the blinding ecstasy, glorying in the moment, in the sheer heat and fury, the mind-melting, bone-dissolving cataclysm of sensation that slammed into him, into them, that set her keening as they crested the final peak.

  They fractured.

  And fell.

  Into a void of indescribable bliss.

  He collapsed upon her, managed to slide to the side enough so he didn’t crush her.

  They were both struggling for breath, helpless and weak, limbs like jelly, nerves unraveled.

  Eventually he gathered enough strength to disengage, then he rolled onto his back the better to fill his chest.

  After a moment, she rolled, too, so that she lay on her back alongside him.

  He glanced at her just as she drew in a breath and blew it out in a huff.

  “That was . . . amazing.”

  He grinned and refocused on the ceiling. Intention accomplished, goal achieved.

  Tomorrow they would reach the Vale, and Richard and Catriona’s roof. As a guest thereunder, he couldn’t in all conscience visit Heather’s bed, so whatever inducements to matrimony he wished to impress on her had to be proffered now.

  And if later she was keen to play further, he was—would be—more than willing.

  In his educated experience, they together—she and he—were significantly more than amazing.

  They nodded off and woke to a handbell ringing downstairs. Rolling out of each other’s arms and off the bed, they quickly washed, straightened their clothes, then headed down the narrow stair to find Mrs. Croft setting down plates on the deal table in the kitchen.

  The aromatic stew piqued Heather’s appetite. Complimenting Mrs. Croft, she took the chair the widow waved her to—the one between Mrs. Croft’s and the stool at the end of the table to which Breckenridge was directed. Mrs. Croft cast him a glance as he sat, then she said a brief grace, and they settled to eat. For several moments, the only sound was the scrape of spoons on the metal plates.

  Heather noted that Breckenridge, as he had before, slumped, slouched, and attempted to draw in on himself. He kept his eyes on his plate, and other than a brief word in appreciation of the stew, said nothing at all.

  Which admittedly seemed to settle Mrs. Croft. She applied herself to her plate with similarly silent zeal.

  Her own appetite appeased, Heather searched for a topic of conversation. Through the open doorway, her eye fell on a pile of mending in a basket in the sitting room, set beside what was clearly Mrs. Croft’s armchair. “Do you take in mending, then?”

  Mrs. Croft glanced at her. “Aye. There’s quite a few gentry houses hereabouts. Used to be a sempstress at one before I married Croft, so I make my way with it now.”

  “If you like, once we’ve washed the plates, I could help you.” It was the one practical thing she could do—she was an excellent needlewoman.

  Mrs. Croft blinked, but then slowly nodded. “If you’ve a mind to, I wouldn’t say no.” With her head, she indicated the pile in the basket. “I need to get that done as soon as maybe.”

  Which was how Heather came to spend a strangely comfortable evening sitting beside the fire sewing up hems and repairing ripped seams. Breckenridge did wonders for Mrs. Croft’s opinion of him by offering to wash the plates and pot so she and Heather could get on with the mending.

  Later, he stood, ducking his head in the doorway, and asked the widow to point him to the axe and woodpile. “I’ll be up early and get that woodbox filled for you before we leave.”

  By then Mrs. Croft had largely lost her wariness of him. She readily rose and showed him where everything was, then returned to her chair alongside Heather’s.

  Breckenridge followed the widow back into the sitting room. He stood in the shadows and watched for a time—watched Heather’s face as she set tiny stitches in some dandy’s shirt. She looked surprisingly domesticated.

  Hiding a smile, he shifted, attracting both women’s attention. He bobbed his head. “I’ll go up, then. Good night.”

  He included Mrs. Croft as well as Heather with his nod.

  Reaching the stairs, he climbed, smiling again at the tableau he’d left before the fire. He was still smiling when he entered their room.

  Heather felt peculiarly settled as she sewed. Whether it was the satisfaction of doing something active and helpful with her own admittedly small hands, or the knowledge that, once she finished and went upstairs, Breckenridge would be waiting for her in the comfy bed, she wasn’t sure, but she felt happier than she could logically explain.

  Another half hour of dogged industry and between them she and Mrs. Croft emptied the basket.

  “Well!” Mrs. Croft looked at the neatly folded linens, as if stunned they’d accomplished that much. “I have to say, mistress, that you’re quick with that needle. I truly do thank you . . .”

  When the widow’s voice trailed away, Heather looked at her inquiringly.

  Mrs. Croft met her eyes, then tentatively offered, “Your man—he’s a good man, isn’t he?”

  “A very good man.” There was no hesitation in her answer.

  “Aye, well, I had a good man, too—Croft was a simple woodsman, but he had the best of hearts.” Mrs. Croft’s lips pinched. “The one afore that, though—he was a blackguard. All smiles and honey and handsomeness, but he had a black heart. So I know the bad, but I know the good when I see it, too. Your man—he might be handsome as sin, but his heart’s
true. If you’re wise, you’ll hang on to him and not let him go.”

  Heather smiled but couldn’t bring herself to lie. She had every intention of parting from Breckenridge with the same matter-of-fact attitude with which he would undoubtedly view the end of their liaison. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I’d best go up to him.”

  Mrs. Croft nodded. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Heather took the single candle the widow held out to her, then carefully shielded the flame as she climbed the stairs.

  The door at the top had been left ajar. She nudged it open and went in. In the wavering light of the candle, she saw Breckenridge stretched out beneath the covers.

  He wasn’t asleep. He turned his head to watch her as she eased the door shut, then carried the candle to the chest of drawers. Setting it down, she glanced at him. “Mrs. Croft is now convinced you have a good heart.”

  He smiled and looked up at the ceiling.

  She quickly stripped, debated whether or not to leave her chemise on, then hauled it off over her head, pinched out the candle, and rushed to dive under the covers Breckenridge helpfully raised for her.

  She burrowed closer, and discovered, as she’d assumed—and hoped—that he was naked, too. All but plastering herself to his side, she sighed as his heat reached out and enveloped her. Being skin to skin with him was soothing on the one hand, pure temptation on the other. She felt rather than heard his deep chuckle, then he raised his arm, slid it about her shoulders, and drew her nearer yet. Pillowing her cheek on his upper chest, she sank against his strength, relaxed into his embrace.

  Heaven. She was quite sure this, in its smallest-of-pleasures way, qualified.

  Breckenridge’s jaw shifted against her hair, then he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Sleep. We’ve another long day ahead of us.”

  She considered the command for all of a minute, considered the subtle tension infusing his every muscle, a tension that had been there since she’d walked into the room, then shifted her head and through the moon-etched dimness looked into his face. “I’m not that sleepy. I’d rather explore more.”

  She remained distantly amazed that she found it so easy to make such immodest demands, yet with him she felt assured, confident in a connection that made such directness acceptable, that made the usual veiled references to passion irrelevant, if not absurd.

  Studying his shadowed eyes, she didn’t doubt that he would be happy to oblige.

  The faint moonlight lit her face. Breckenridge read her expectation in her eyes, the queenly assumption that he would fall in with her suggestion—followed by the shift of her attention inward as she formulated what she would ask him for this time—

  Raising one hand, cupping her head, he raised his and kissed her.

  His turn, this time, but he was wise enough not to give her any chance to debate the point.

  He kissed her deeply, slowly reclaiming the slick sweetness of her mouth, heavily stroking her tongue with his, luring her deeper into an exchange that progressed to the rhythm of their heartbeats.

  Steady.

  Sure.

  An exchange that escalated slowly, keeping time with that elemental beat that built on the rising tide of desire. He fought to hold back the sharp edge of need, of greedy hunger, and give her pleasure undiluted, uninhibited, unrestricted, unrestrained.

  She wanted to know, so he showed her.

  He led her into a landscape of sensual lushness created by touch, by tactile sensation, by long-drawn intimate exploration capped by sexual revelation. He guided her on through valleys of pleasure colored by rainbows of glitteringly sharp delight, onto plateaus where untempered passion ran so luxuriously and deliciously deep that it swamped their senses and left hers reeling.

  His senses were too well drilled to reel, yet even he found his breath catching, found himself momentarily caught in the wonder. By the wonder.

  A glorious, shimmering, glimmering wonder heightened by every erotic caress, every illicit, longed-for, yearned-for touch.

  When he rolled and rose, tipping her beneath him, cradling her bottom and settling her under him, her thighs pressed wide by his, it was all he could do to deny the impulse to let his reins fall and simply gorge . . . but he had his plans, his own agenda, and even as he clung to both and, looming over her, his head bowed as he continued to fill her mouth, kept the tempo rigidly reined, he knew to his soul that this was the way.

  That new entity within him that she called forth glowed like a beacon, a guiding light that led him, that invested every sweep of his hands, every possessive touch, with emotional meaning.

  An emotional element he’d never before played with, worked with, bent to his will. It seemed to flow through him, coloring and heightening, lacing the tantalizing with the riveting to call forth and hold her fascination. To hold her.

  They were both learning tonight. He as well as she.

  The long-experienced lover that was so much a part of him, a cynical, world-weary part, saw and acknowledged that novel element, regarded it with unalloyed suspicion, but the rest of him didn’t care. The rest of him, the better part of him, the part of him that was the man behind the reputation, was too immersed in savoring the sharper delight, the heightened pleasure, the brighter, scintillating glory of their passion.

  His mouth locked with hers, he flexed his spine and entered her, long, slow, and easy.

  She closed around him, scalding and slick, taking him in, hips tipping in wordless entreaty, accepting and ready, wanting and needing.

  Giving, surrendering.

  Claiming.

  What followed was nirvana, pleasure beyond pleasure.

  Heather followed blindly where he led. She was no longer herself but a creature of passion, infused with it, awash with it, buoyed by it as she rose to his call and embraced him, took him in and rode with him, clung and shared the indescribable delight . . . with him.

  They moved together, joined in passion, wrapped in heated desire, linked by a seductive ribbon of emotion stronger than forged steel.

  If she’d been able she would have examined that binding, that elemental linkage, more closely, but her senses weren’t hers and her mind was suborned by the cataclysmic pleasure of his loving.

  His mouth remained locked on hers, drinking in her inarticulate moans. He’d taken his weight on his elbows, his shoulders and heavily muscled upper arms caging her beneath him. His chest, the raspy hairs that adorned it, abraded her tightly furled nipples with every powerful, surging thrust. His hips were wedged between hers, pinning her to the bed, her body surrendered, his to fill, his erection, heavy, rigid, hot silk over steel, buried deep inside her; with every repetitive, rhythmic motion, he withdrew only so far, then pushed solidly, forcefully, powerfully back, filling her more deeply, and ever more deeply.

  Relentlessly rocking her to ecstasy.

  Breathing was beyond her. Nothing mattered but the sensual communion. The meeting of the physical and the sensual in which she and he were so deeply engrossed.

  Never had Breckenridge experienced such absorption, such depth of sensual abandon. Normally he always had a part of his awareness monitoring his surroundings, on watch, keeping guard . . . not tonight.

  Not with her.

  He was as ensnared as he knew her to be.

  They moved together in an intimate harmony he’d never before known, never before experienced, never dreamed could be.

  Beneath the covers, they danced in the darkness, bodies joined in hot, slick, breathless desperation as passion escalated in a rising crescendo.

  Long, voracious, rapacious kisses built their hunger until it was raging.

  Explicit caresses, intimate and uninhibited, drove desire higher still, until passion became a whip.

  Until possession reared and seized. Gripped and held.

  And hurled them to the peak.

 
Desperate and yearning, striving and wanting, they shuddered and clung, his body plunging one last time into hers.

  Glory erupted. Scintillating and brilliant, it flashed down every nerve. Pleasure indescribable surged through every vein.

  And they shattered.

  Fractured.

  Lost touch with the physical plane.

  Lost themselves in the void . . . then ecstasy swept in and claimed them.

  Renewed and remade them.

  Leaving them floating, slowly sinking back to earth, to a reality that had altered, changed.

  Head bowed, he hung over her, their kiss finally broken, their bodies slowing, then halting, muscles quivering.

  In that instant he knew, had a moment of blinding clarity. Through the sound of his sawing breaths, her softer pants, he heard the inner truth. Knew it.

  He’d intended her to be caught—to be captured by the sensual delight so she would yearn for it, want more of it, so that when he offered for her hand, when he offered the prospect of constant indulgence, she would agree.

  He’d intended to fashion a net from the silken ropes of passion, one with which he might hold her.

  He’d intended to trap her.

  He hadn’t intended to become ensnared, too.

  Yet he was.

  Even as the knowledge resonated in his brain, satiation slammed into him, rolled inexorably over him, heavier, denser, and laced with contentment, with that simple peace he’d never known.

  Resistance wasn’t possible.

  With a muted groan, he summoned the strength to lift from her, disengaging only to slump half over her, still wrapped in her arms.

  His place.

  Where he should be.

  Closing his eyes, he surrendered.

  The moon was riding the sky when McKinsey walked Hercules into Kirkland.

  He’d picked up the trail of his fugitive pair at New Bridge. They’d turned off the Glasgow Road there, and for some godforsaken reason had headed this way. Luckily, given how late it had been by the time he’d found their trail, the lane they’d chosen had had few turnoffs and had been bordered by numerous small crofts and farms all along the way. He’d been able to verify the pair’s progress without having had to waste too much time.