He’d stilled the instant she’d made contact. Stretching, she reached further, curled her fingers and lightly stroked upward.
He shuddered, softly swore, his breath an exhalation washing over her tortured nipple.
Then he moved.
She just managed to stifle a shriek as he rolled, taking her with him so she landed atop him in a flurry of silk. One large hand palmed her head and he dragged it down, dragged her down into a kiss so rapaciously possessive it literally curled her toes.
His other hand was busy. She only realized when the night air coolly caressed her naked back, then the gauzy blouse parted at the back. His hands helped it slide down her shoulders. She lifted one hand and forearm, then the other, stripped the garment off and flung it away, uncaring of where it landed.
Caring much more about being skin to skin with him, her breasts, full and achingly swollen, brushing, then pressing against the heavy muscles of his chest, her tight nipples tantalizingly abraded by the crisp black hair that adorned it.
She’d barely absorbed that sensation when she felt the tug as the silk harem pants slid down and over her hips.
Expectation leapt; anticipation skittered through her veins.
Nerves tensed, alive to every touch. Waiting as he drew the silk steadily lower, so it no longer screened her belly from his. She held her breath as he shifted, lifting her as he drew the garment down her thighs.
Her mind racing ahead in giddy delight, she remembered the ankle cuffs.
Just as he rolled again, pinning her beneath him.
Hands clutching his arms, she gasped at the sensation of being surrounded, trapped, by hot, hard male, then he kissed her—a forceful, demanding, conquerorlike claiming that left her reeling.
Gareth seized the moment to pull back from her and deal with the cuffs at her ankles, then strip the flimsy harem pants away.
He gave himself only one brief instant to drink in the sight of her lying rumpled and aroused, her rich brown hair disarranged and flung across the pillows, her lids at half mast, her lips swollen and sheening, her body lush and ripe—and all his.
Then he stretched over her and let his body down on hers. Thrilled to the sensation of firm curves, supple skin, feminine softness cushioning him, the demon within all but slavering with delight.
Small hands braced on his chest. He found her eyes with his as she pressed, wasn’t entirely surprised when she protested, albeit weakly, “I want to see you.”
“Not now.” The reply was a categorical growl. He didn’t think he could stand the torment—not without reacting. Not while maintaining the control necessary to go slowly. He’d stake his life she was a virgin, so slowly was mandatory. Not that he’d had any experience in that precise arena—under his code virgins were not fair game—but so he’d always heard.
Despite her state, her jaw started to firm.
“Later.” Inspired, he added, “Next time.” Perhaps.
He didn’t wait to see if she agreed, but bent his head and kissed her again.
The heat between them hadn’t waned in the least—now it leapt to life, flames roaring, then escalating rapidly as hands touched and found nothing but hot dewed skin, as he shifted over her, nudging her thighs apart, as she parted them willingly and he settled between.
As she wriggled, accommodating him, then tipping her hips…
He sank into her, had pressed in the first inch even before he’d meant to.
And then there was no holding back.
She was tight. Tight enough to make him shudder. To back the breath up in his chest as he pressed in, and on. As inch by inch he filled her, and her sheath stretched to take him in.
And sure enough, the barrier was there. Every muscle clenched, locked tight under absolute control, he withdrew almost to her entrance, felt her hands clutch frantically, trying to tug him back.
He flexed his spine and thrust powerfully in, forging past the fine barrier to seat himself fully within her, to press deep, to the hilt.
And stop. Holding himself steady, every sense locked on her.
Beneath him, held trapped in the kiss, she’d made not a sound, but she’d frozen.
An instinctive reaction against a sharp pain. He waited; lips on hers, he prayed he hadn’t hurt her too badly, that she—
He broke off the thought as she eased beneath him. As gradually, bit by bit, the pain-induced tension fell from her.
Beneath it, supplanting it, he sensed something in her that for all his experience he’d never previously encountered. It took him a moment to find its name.
Fascination.
She was utterly enthralled. Not just with his body, but with the sensation of their joining, of him being sunk so deeply within her.
He kissed her gently, and moved, drawing back slowly, then thrusting in again, and sensed her excitement, that fascination, flare.
Instinct, and the dance, took over.
Emily gave herself up to it, up to him, to the swirling exhilaration of their joining, wholly and completely embracing the act. Her mind couldn’t contain her joy, her delight, the inexpressible relief that as last she was here, with him, and it was all so much better than she’d ever imagined, than her sisters had ever been able to describe.
She reveled, and urged him on. Did all and everything she could to meet him, match him, and learn what pleased him, to grasp every chance to share the abundant pleasure he was lavishing on her, and return it.
Loving was a sharing—she knew that to her bones. She threw herself into it, searching for ways to use her body to pleasure him just as he was using his to pleasure her.
And if they wrestled, she suspected he enjoyed it as much as she did. Their lips remained fused, but in the brief moments they parted she delighted in the ragged sounds of their breathing, in the urgency that so patently gripped him, and her, and made them strive, body to body, heart to thudding heart.
And then they would dive back—into the kiss, into the flames, into the rising indescribable heat. Even if this was her first time, she was eager to make it count, to welcome the glory, make it hers and search for more…
Until it sizzled in her veins, streaking through her, until it whipped the flames racing over her skin to a conflagration. One that sank deep, then coalesced, that drew in and tightened, inexorably, unrelentingly focusing…
He groaned through the kiss and thrust hard and deep, and an explosion of sensation rocked her. Shattered her, shards of pleasure so sharp they glittered flying down every nerve, every vein.
Until she flew, free of the earth, wholly taken by the glory.
For two heartbeats, Gareth savored her release, teeth gritted held desperately on, but the ripples of her sheath, tight and powerful, milked him, and drew him irresistibly on.
Release swept him, deeper than any he’d ever known.
Surrendering, letting his shuddering body have its way, he let go, and followed her into ecstasy.
Bliss. Emily decided there was no other word to describe the sensation.
Lying on her back in her rumpled bed, Gareth a hot heavy weight slumped on his stomach alongside her, she stared at the ceiling, a smile on her face, an unusual sense of peace in her heart.
So this was what the aftermath was like. Her sisters had never been able to find words; they’d told her she’d know when she was there.
Gareth stirred. He seemed to be having difficulty finding the strength to move. She knew the feeling. She sincerely doubted she could lift a toe.
He’d slumped upon her at the end, but had roused enough to move off her rather than crush her into the mattress. Not that she’d minded; she’d rather liked the feel of his body all but boneless on top of hers.
Perhaps because she’d been responsible for reducing it to such a state.
Moving slowly, he propped himself on his elbows, then he turned his head and looked at her, a long assessing gaze. His hair was delightfully tousled, his features still rather slack, lacking their usual focused determination.
She felt her lips start to curve, let herself smile as sunnily as she felt. “That was rather wonderful.”
He looked at her for a moment, then uttered a sound between a grunt and a humph, and shifted onto one elbow the better to look down at her. His expression had sharpened into his customary commanding mein. “We’ll get married when we reach England, of course.”
She held his gaze, not the least surprised by the decree. She’d expected something of the sort—no formal proposal, no down on one knee. Certainly no swearing of undying, enduring love.
But if she’d gained one thing from the night, it was absolute and unequivocal confirmation that he was, beyond all doubt, her “one,” the one gentleman above all others she should marry.
Her response to his decree was, therefore, already decided. However…looking deep into his dark eyes, giving thanks for the strong moonlight that allowed her to do so, she realized that, courtesy of the begum and her seductive outfit, she and he had leapt ahead several steps.
She knew he was her “one,” but did he know she was his?
That was a critical question, one she couldn’t go forward to the altar without answering. Without knowing exactly why he wanted to marry her.
He was a man for whom honor was a real and tangible entity. That he would seek to use honor as a screen for marrying her was predictable, but she wasn’t about to allow him to hide behind it. If he loved her as she loved him, as she hoped and prayed he did, then he should, and would, have the courage to own to it.
If he truly loved her.
For her, nothing else would do.
Eyes on his, she smiled, light and sweet. “Perhaps.”
Lips still curved, she closed her eyes, reached out and patted his chest. “We need to sleep.”
It was too warm for the sheet. She settled in the bed, let her limbs go lax.
Gareth stared at her, then, as she no longer could see, allowed his inner frown to materialize. Perhaps? What the devil did that mean?
To his mind, the matter was simple. He wanted to marry her—he’d known that since he’d first laid eyes on her in the officers’ bar in Bombay—and now she’d given herself to him—all but seduced him—that, to his mind, settled that.
Frown darkening, he turned onto his back, and stared up at the ceiling. She’d been a virgin, she’d wanted him, and had got what she’d wanted. Marriage was the natural end of that tale.
Why perhaps?
His mind circled a thought he really didn’t like, prodding the latent potential sore spot. Had she really wanted MacFarlane, but, when fate denied that, decided to try him as her second choice? Her second best? Was that why she wasn’t sure?
He remembered. Wondered. Finally asked, “Why did you follow me to Aden?”
She answered immediately, without shifting or opening her eyes. “Because I thought that this”—she raised a hand and waved it to indicate them and their state—“might be in our cards, and I needed to get to know you better first. Before.”
Before? He continued to frown. Did that answer his question? His real question?
Opening her eyes, she turned her head to look at him. He wiped the frown from his face before she saw it.
Her expression told him she was still floating in the aftermath.
She studied his face for a moment, then, lips still curved, waved again. “Does this always make one so…lethargic? Sleepy, but not quite the same? I feel as if I haven’t a bone to my name.”
He felt a spurt of satisfaction that was almost pride. “Yes—that’s how it should feel.”
And given she did feel that way, there was no point pressing her for the right response to his decision on their future now. They had a journey to complete, and he knew how to persuade.
Raising his arm, he shifted closer, reaching across to lift her and slide his arm under her shoulders, turning her to him so she settled against his side, her head on his shoulder. “This is how it’s supposed to be.” He may as well seize the chance to establish the procedures he intended to adopt from now on.
Especially as, at the moment, she seemed entirely amenable. She wriggled and settled, then relaxed.
He felt the tension that had returned to him leach away.
He looked down at her head, then dropped a kiss on her hair. “Go to sleep.”
He felt more than heard her soft humph, but she complied. He listened to her breathing slow.
Head back, he closed his eyes and inwardly smiled. They were going to be together for several more weeks. And, he vowed—a quiet vow in the fading moonlight—that by the end of their adventure she would be his. He wouldn’t be letting her go.
Not ever.
Twelve
19th November, 1822
Early morning
Still in my bed, but now alone
Dear Diary,
WELL! It happened. Finally. And yes, I can enthusiastically report that lying with a man—the right man—is every bit as wonderful as I’d imagined. Indeed, my imagination was sadly lacking in several pertinent respects, but no matter—the reality was better than my dreams.
Of course, there was—as my sisters have indeed warned me so often happens when dealing with a man—a caveat. A matter that did not go quite according to my plans. Namely Gareth’s consequent declaration, not of undying love, but that we will marry.
Yes, we will—that being my now unwavering goal given the night confirmed beyond question that he is indeed and absolutely my “one”—but before we face any altar, I am determined to gain some assurance that he knows he loves me, some acknowledgment that in the same way he is mine, then I am his, that the emotion that binds us is mutual, and not all on my side alone.
I am hopeful that that is indeed the case, however, his declaration of last night stemmed from honor, at least he couched it in those terms, and thus it tells me nothing of what he feels.
He will need to do better than that—especially now that I have made my own declaration so plain. I have given myself to him, and actions, as we all know, speak much louder than mere words.
So that is where we stand. I am now his regardless and forever, but before I allow him to put his ring on my finger—my ultimate goal—I require his love to be declared. Simply stated aloud will do.
As you know, dear Diary, I am bound and determined to achieve my ultimate goal. I go forward in hope.
Indeed, with a spring in my step, for I am sure I am halfway there.
E.
By noon that day, they were on Captain Dacosta’s xebec and crossing from the Lake of Tunis into the Mediterranean on their way—at last—to Marseilles.
Gareth strode the deck, feeling more confident than he had for some weeks. He was pleased he’d made the effort, and wasted the days, looking for Dacosta, the captain Laboule had recommended. Like Laboule, Dacosta had been happy to meet his requirements; neither the captain nor his small crew would draw back from a fight.
With luck, there wouldn’t be one, given they’d sighted no cultists since Alexandria. Although at the time he’d been sure the attack on him and Mooktu on their first day in Tunis had been the work of the cult, he was no longer so sure. All had been uncommonly quiet subsequently, which was very unlike the cult.
Pausing by the prow railing, he scanned the horizon. There were ships out there—this was the Mediterranean—but none seemed to be taking any inordinate interest in them. More, the horizon itself was clear. The weather was fine and looked set to remain so for the immediate future.
His lips curved as he realized the same could be said of atmospheric conditions on his personal front. Emily was in a sunny mood, and while only he knew the reason for the quite notable smile that now inhabited her face, he suspected some of the others, at least, had guessed. Her maid for one; Dorcas had leveled a very strait look at him when he’d assisted her onto the gangplank.
He wasn’t entirely certain whether he was glad or not that this was a typical xebec, on this voyage fully loaded with amphoras of fine cooking oil, and consequently
space was at a premium. There were no private nooks anywhere, nowhere he and Emily could repair to for a private interlude.
On balance, he suspected that was just as well. He would use the time to Marseilles to work out his approach—his plan to get her agreement to their wedding, to being his wife, without any further discussion of his motives or feelings. The latter would prove difficult regardless; he had no firm idea what his feelings for her truly were, but he knew the outcome—that he needed her as his wife—and that was enough.
Probing further…
After a moment, he suppressed a grimace, shifted his shoulders, then left the railing and resumed his progress around the deck.
No soldier, no swordsman, no commander, ever exposed a vulnerability willingly. He was all three, and he had no intention of violating that unwritten law. He wanted to marry Emily. In the circumstances, neither she, nor he, needed to know more.
The lone cutlist sent to watch in Tunis carefully packed his bag. He had carried out his orders, and while he hadn’t been able to capture the major, he had performed the most vital and imperative task laid upon him.
Once he’d sighted the major’s party, he’d ensured word had gone out on the very next tide.
He hoped his master would be pleased.
Closing his bag, he looked around the small room, then, bag in hand, turned and walked out of the door.
19th November, 1822
Evening
Once more in a shared cabin on a xebec
Dear Diary,
We left Tunis today on a fair wind, which I have been informed by Captain Dacosta is likely to remain with us all the way to Marseilles. Dacosta is much like Laboule, and thus like Gareth, too, which brings me to my point.
Men of action, like Gareth, our xebec captains, Berber chieftains, and the like, appear to share certain similarities of character, especially in a personal sense. I have been mulling over the wisdom the older Berber women—who have spent a lifetime observing such men—deigned to share. In taking guidance on the matter of Gareth Hamilton, I could do far worse.
The Elusive Bride Page 21
