“Never surrender,” she said as she stared toward the ebbing glints of light that filtered through the roof.
“Good,” he replied, as to an obedient pupil. “We should rest awhile,” he said, planting his feet against the farthest wall. “At least until we know they are definitely gone.”
He touched her shoulders and pulled her down to rest her head on his chest. She succumbed to the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart, and her own exhaustion.
When she woke up, it was dark outside as well as in. He touched her arm, lightly, and he placed a balled-up piece of fabric under her head. “I’m going to go out and get some water,” he said. “Rest. I’ll be back soon.”
Before she could clear her sleepy thoughts, he was gone, leaving her with only the scent of him, the warmth where her body had been touching his. Her arm had returned to throbbing in earnest pain, and she wondered how long she could make it without a doctor’s attention. No doubt he’d know what to do, how long she could last.
It startled her to realize just how much of her life she’d placed in his care: her virginity, her future, her safety.
Her … love?
***
The sudden splash of water on her arm woke her. He’d returned, and she burrowed into his chest without even thinking.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, smoothing her hair. Judging by his awkward motions, he’d had little experience with comforting others.
She began to laugh—she didn’t need his inexperienced touch to tell her that—but her laughter turned quickly to sobs as the enormity of what was facing them swept over her.
“There, there,” he murmured. He kissed her head and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her onto the ground on top of him. “It will be fine.”
Mary continued to cry, tears of anger and rage and fear and confusion and hope pouring from her eyes, great heaving gasps of air choking her, as she tried to breathe.
“Mary? Love?” Now he sounded truly anxious. Even more so than when she had stomped on his opium pills. Nearly as upset as when she’d left him … was that only the day before?
She drew back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I am fine. Really. It’s just—” She felt the tears well up again, and fell silent.
He pulled her back into his arms and she allowed herself to be drawn in, smelling his musky scent, the feel of his strong arms around her. If life were only this—the two of them, no addiction, no memories, no ill-willed cousins—maybe things would be different.
Of course they would probably get hungry. And run out of things to wear. Not to mention that they would grow weary of sitting in a woodshed for the rest of their lives.
More tears spilled down her face, only this time she wasn’t crying about the past, but the future.
It was a good thing, Mary thought, that they would have to make their way to London and reclaim their lives, or they might run the risk of being bored. Her thoughts drifted, dangerously, to what they could do to relieve the boredom. She tightened her grip on Alasdair unconsciously. She felt dizzy and warm, focused only on how quickly she could reach his mouth with hers.
What was it about him that made her such a wanton? A few words said over an anvil couldn’t have done it alone—this was just about him, and her, and them.
She was definitely delirious, she decided. Although—she lifted her lips and raised herself up on her hands. If she were delirious, she wanted to feel good at the same time.
The shock of his lips, so warm and firm, brought her back to reality. A reality where all she wanted to do was welcome him inside her, as she had done on their wedding night.
“Let’s clean you up,” he said, withdrawing his arms from around her. She heard the splash of water. The water hit the wound, and stung sharply.
She gritted her teeth. “What will we do now?”
He chuckled. He was so close his breath stirred her hair. “You mean you don’t have a plan?”
She swatted him with her good arm. “No, I don’t. Perhaps you could share yours?”
He finished dabbing at the wound with the water and wrapped the damp cloth around it. “First, we will need to find better shelter and food. Then we’ll find a road and start walking to London. The next time we try to borrow—”
“Steal,” she corrected, humor laced in her voice.
“Borrow a carriage, we’ll make sure no one is there.”
“Well,” Mary said in a practical tone, “chances are good that the villagers will have given up by now. Or if not now, soon. And we’ll be gone entirely within a few days, correct?”
“If we’re lucky.”
“Ever the optimist. A few days, then.”
He chuckled. “You would have made an excellent field marshal. All that planning.”
“You, too. Climbing up into the tree, choosing the woodshed—I never would have escaped without you.”
His arm tightened around her. “I wish I had never been in a situation to warrant such quick thinking.” His voice was strained.
She touched his chest lightly. “How did you get wounded?”
“It’s none of—,” he began to say, then fell silent. A minute later, he spoke. She relaxed in his arms.
“Anthony and I—my brother Anthony and I—were sent out to reconnoiter in French territory. The colonel was a hopeless drunk, the second-born son of an earl who was deemed too loutish for the Church. He’d all but given up on the men, and his second in command thought if he got rid of us—of me—he would be able to control the supplies, make some profit. As if our men were getting plenty to eat.” He sounded disgusted. “The two of them—the drunk and the scoundrel—sent us ahead to secure the area, knowing full well we wouldn’t be coming back.”
He paused. She heard him swallow. “A shot passed Anthony’s head by inches. I was behind him, so I turned around and that’s when the bullet got me. I don’t know how Anthony got me back to camp; we found out later there was a French squadron nearby. Luck, I guess.”
He laughed, a sound with no mirth. “I don’t remember much of what happened for the next week or so. The closest thing we had to a doctor by that time was a case of French brandy. Anthony got me drunk while they took out the bullet, and kept me drunk until he was sure I would survive.”
“He was a good soldier, then. He saved you.”
“Actually,” he said, shifting so he was lying on his side facing her, “he wasn’t. That’s how he ended up dead.”
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” She touched his face. His stubble pricked her fingers.
He shook his head. “No, I want to. Anthony was terrible in the field. He was there because he thought he had to look out for me.”
“But he was the heir?”
“Yes, and our parents were furious. But they knew if they tried to stop him, he’d just leave anyway. He didn’t care that he was the heir. He had always followed me, even though he was older. I couldn’t bear to see the blame in their eyes.”
That was the guilt, she realized, that was in his eyes. That must have colored his every action since returning home. And before that his wife had died, and then his parents—small wonder he took refuge in opium’s oblivion.
She couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t banal or conciliatory, and he’d already told her he was tired of people apologizing. There was something she could do, though, to ease his pain. And hers.
She leaned toward him and slid her arms around him, moving her hands up to his shoulders and pulling him toward her. As she did, she arched forward so her breasts were pressed against his chest, her nipples hardening as they came into contact with his body.
“Is this a sympathy fuck?” he asked, his voice harsh.
“Yes. Feel sorry for me that I married such an arrogant, capable, handsome, witty, stubborn, proud man.” She licked his neck. “Are you?”
“What?” he asked in a ragged tone.
“Sorry for me.” She bit him then, a light ni
p at his throat. Her hands slid down his back to his buttocks, grasping and squeezing them, feeling the muscles flex as he moved—involuntarily, it seemed—against her. The rigid length of his cock was pressed against her stomach and she wanted—
“Let’s get out of here,” she said, beginning to untangle her body from his.
“But—”
“I want you to be able to stand,” she replied, tantalizing thoughts of what she wanted to do to him dancing through her head.
If Amelia were here—never mind, that would be very odd. When she saw Amelia, she would thank her for being so … indiscreet in her conversation.
Something in her voice—or perhaps it was the odor in the small shed—must have persuaded him, because he went out into the dark night without argument.
“Well?” She heard the ground crunch under his boots as he shifted, impatient.
She smoothed her gown, even though she knew tidiness was the last thing to which she should be aspiring. Staying out of jail, that was one worthy goal. Keeping her life was another one.
Time enough to think of that later. Now she wanted him.
“Well, this,” she said, shoving him back against the shed and pressing her body up against his. She took his unresisting arms and placed them on her arse, where they immediately began to touch and feel and caress.
“And this,” she said, leaning up on her tiptoes to kiss him. She tucked her fingers into his hair to steady herself, and caressed the silky dark strands as she fell into his kiss.
He let her take the lead, opening his mouth to grant her access. She reveled in the power that he gave her, the feeling of leading him where she wanted.
She skimmed her hand down his strong, firm chest and hesitated for just a moment at his waistband. When she slid his fingers inside his trousers, he uttered a groan that made her shiver. He wanted her, too.
The cold wind blew, stirring the leaves of the trees, a stark contrast to the warmth between their bodies. The dim, eerie light provided by the moon was barely enough to see by, which was fine with Mary; if she had seen what she was doing, she might have lost her nerve. Thank goodness for the clouds.
She stroked the warm, pulsing length of him, enveloping the velvety tip in the palm of her hand. He growled, deep in his throat, and she moved her other hand to his buttons, unfastening them with as much dexterity as she could.
Frustrated, she shoved the fabric aside, running her hand against his skin. He grabbed her wrist with his hand and shoved it further against him. “Please,” he said, his voice no more than a ragged whisper.
She sank to her knees in reply. Grasping him, she pulled and tugged, up and down, skimming her fingers against his balls and caressing the engorged head of his cock. She could only see dimly in the light, but it was enough.
Experimenting, she gripped it hard in her hand, feeling the pulse of blood throb under her fingers. He hissed, and she withdrew, suddenly.
His hand clamped on her wrist again. “Don’t stop,” he begged. “Touch me.”
And she did. Reaching under again, she clasped him at the base of his shaft, sliding her thumb and index finger on either side of his hard, pulsing erection. She cupped his balls with the rest of her fingers.
When she licked the tip of his cock, he gasped. When she opened her lips to take it in her mouth, he inhaled, deeply, and placed his hands on either side of her head, threading his fingers through her hair as she took him further inside her mouth.
“God, Mary,” he gasped, his body shuddering. She smiled and used her fingers to coax him so far inside her mouth that he filled her completely.
He tasted musky. She licked him, tentatively, swirling her tongue around him as if he were a particularly delicious treat to be savored. She was in control. She could make this pained, hurting man feel pleasure. It should have been something no lady would ever think of, much less do; instead, it was intoxicating.
His fingers tightened their grip on her. She eased him out of her mouth almost to the end, licking and sucking the hard length of him, closing her eyes so she could focus entirely on what she was doing, on the power she felt just by doing this to him, making him react so compellingly.
“I must—God, you’re—” He pulled her up to him, yanking her forcefully to his body. He plunged his tongue into her mouth, his kiss scorching hot, branding her with its intensity.
His hands were sliding all over her body—first on her arse, then her back, then her breasts, until one hand slid between their bodies and touched her there, where she was throbbing and aching.
His other hand was at her breast, stroking her nipple with his fingers. Somehow he’d managed to shift her gown so her breast was exposed. The combination of the cold air and his warm fingers made the sensation of his touch that much more astonishing.
“Open your legs for me,” he whispered, gently pushing on her thigh. She obeyed, widening her stance to allow his fingers, those clever fingers, easier access to her core. He delved in, sliding one finger into her slick wetness as he used another to rub gently on the spot that was aching for attention.
“Oh, Alasdair,” she moaned. She clutched his shoulders for support, not certain she could stand on her own.
He kissed her again, his hot, wet mouth playing havoc with her lips, her teeth, her tongue.
She kissed him back greedily, sucking his tongue into her mouth. His hard length pressed against her.
“Just a minute,” he said, pulling back. He removed his coat and spread it on the ground. “Lie down,” he commanded.
She did, the hard ground uncompromising under her back. He knelt down between her legs and pulled her gown up, his expression one of utter concentration. His face tightened when he saw where his fingers had been.
Mary closed her legs involuntarily, and he met her eyes. “No, my love, I want to see it. To see you. You’re beautiful, did you know that?”
She shook her head.
He smiled and folded the fabric of her gown at her waist so she was completely exposed. When he bent down and licked where his finger had been, Mary arched upward, her heels digging into the earth, her hands clenching his shoulders. He chuckled against her and continued his merciless kiss.
She wasn’t sure she could take it—the pleasure was overwhelming, building to a peak of something she thought quite possibly might make her explode.
All thoughts left when she summited that peak.
After, his fingers still touching her lightly at that most sensitive spot, she regarded him through heavy-lidded eyes. “Are you still sorry?” he asked.
She smiled and reached down to clasp him in her hand. “No. Not at all.” She stroked his hard length with her fingers. He throbbed in her hand.
“Come inside,” she whispered, spreading her legs and pulling him toward her.
***
When he entered her, it felt as if he’d come home. Her sheath was so tight it clutched him, and even the simple motion of pushing forward felt as if it were going to send him over the edge. Slow down, he told himself. She wants this.
He thrust into her, burying himself completely inside. She wrapped her legs around his waist. Alasdair raised himself up on his elbows and gazed at her. The moon had brightened, and he could make out the sensual glints in her eyes as she looked back at him, a warm, satisfied look on her face.
She darted her tongue out and licked her lips. He would be a fool to resist the invitation. And he was no fool.
He captured her mouth as he rocked against her. He kissed her hungrily, delving into her mouth with an intensity matched only by what he felt down below. His cock rose and swelled even more. It was an aching need that began in his balls and flowed through his whole body.
His cock demanded and he complied, thrusting in and out of her sweet wetness as he braced himself above her. The fabric of her gown was bunched up between them, and he considered, momentarily, tearing the damn thing off her, until he realized it was the only clothing she had.
She grabbed hold of his arse, u
rging him into her with her hands. He continued to thrust in an inexorable rhythm, the climax building until it was out of his control.
He gave one last final thrust and came, groaning as he did. He collapsed on top of her.
This. This was worth it all. Being with her, watching her come, it was all worth it.
Several minutes later, she stirred.
“Am I crushing you?” he asked.
“No.” She caressed his back and ran her foot up his leg. “Who knew it was like this?” She laughed self-consciously. “Well, you did, you’ve done this before.”
Not like this, he thought. “Yes, but—” He cleared his throat, suddenly afraid of revealing too much. Like how he wanted nothing but this for the rest of his life. “Every experience is different. Unique.”
Judith always wanted him to hurry up and finish. Toward the end it got to where he dreaded going into her bedroom because she’d have that “What is taking you so long?” look on her face.
“Unique,” she echoed. He thought of her doing this with someone else and his jaw tightened.
Thank God he’d been in that pub that night. He rolled off her onto his back and clasped her hand where it lay at her side.
They lay there, side by side, for at least five minutes without speaking. Alasdair was content to just be, in a way he hadn’t allowed himself in years. He was peaceful, satisfied. Happy?
The image of them in London, at his family’s town house, entered his mind. Her, clad in something that revealed her glorious breasts, sitting beside him at the dining table. Him, shoving the dishes aside as he took her on the table.
“Rest. We’re going to London in the morning.”
And he’d be damned—literally—if he allowed anything or anyone to impede them.
Chapter 21
“You stink.” She wrinkled her nose.
He leaned in and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “You smell too, love.” He picked up his coat from where they’d lain on it and tried to smooth some of the wrinkles out.
She watched him, then rolled her eyes and snatched it from his hands.
Megan Frampton Page 18
