by Lisa Kleypas
Cam’s breathing turned ragged as he pulled the gown lower, freeing her arms, exposing the curves of her hips and stomach. He spread his hands over her body, his fingers and palms translating heat into sensation. He kissed her navel, the ticklish skin around it, the place where the crisp curly hair started.
Her legs tautened against him, caught beneath his weight. Moving upward, he straddled her body. He took the signet ring off, the one she had refused before, and held it out to her.
“You can have what you want,” he said. “But first put this on.”
Amelia focused on the ring. “I can’t.”
“I won’t make love to you unless you’re wearing it.”
“You’re being absurd.”
“You’re being stubborn.” Cam leaned over her, bracing his forearms on either side of her, kissing her sulky mouth. “Just for tonight,” he whispered. “Wear my ring, Amelia, and let me pleasure you.” He kissed her throat, his hips shunting gently against her. She gasped at the feel of him, hard and swollen behind the black silk. His mouth traveled slowly up to her ear. “I’ll enter you, fill you, and then I’ll hold you still and quiet in my arms. I won’t move. I won’t let you move, either. I’ll wait until I feel you throbbing around me … I’ll follow that rhythm deep in your body, that sweet pulse … I won’t stop until you weep and shiver and cry out for more. And I’ll give it to you, as long and hard as you want. Take my ring, love.” His mouth descended to hers in a smoldering kiss. “Take me.”
Fitting himself against her soft cleft, he felt her heat seep through the robe, wetness and silk stretched tightly between them. Her small hand touched his, fingers unfolding … and she let him slide the ring back on.
Cam stripped her naked and laid her back into his discarded robe, her skin startling white in the glimmering pool of black. He kissed her everywhere, the crooks of her elbows, the backs of her knees, every curve and hollow of the smooth feminine territory. She wrapped herself around him, her mouth innocently inquiring as she kissed every part of him she could reach.
He kissed between her thighs, cupping her hips with his hands while the scent of her lit an explosion of fire inside him. He licked into the tenderness, teasing, sucking lightly, until she groaned with every breath and reached down to his head, urging him upward with imploring fingers.
Fighting for self-control, Cam entered her, sliding deep. She moved and arched and nearly drove him insane. “Sweetheart, wait,” he said shakily, trying to calm her. “Don’t move. Please. Don’t…” A laugh rustled in his throat as she hitched up against him desperately. “Be still,” he whispered, brushing kisses across her parted lips. “Hold me inside you. Feel the way your body tightens around me.”
Breathing hard, Amelia tried to obey. Her flesh pulsed helplessly around the invading hardness. Cam made them both wait, their bodies perspiring and tense as they concentrated on that subtle, luscious clenching. Finally he began to move, using himself to pleasure her. He made love to her, all of her, and as he sank into the fathomless dark delight, he was flooded with a fulfillment he had never known before.
She enclosed him in softness and heat, letting him feast on kisses while he rode the swift hot pulse, stroking her inside and out. He looked down with pleasure-hazed eyes, at her face so tenderly confined in the bracket of his hands, and he whispered in Romany, I am yours. He watched her eyes close in the sweet temporary blindness of rapture, he felt it echoing in himself, the waves rushing stronger and stronger until the world caught fire.
Afterward they lay tumbled side by side like the survivors of a shipwreck, stunned in the wake of a storm. When Cam could gather the strength to move—which was not soon—he rolled to his side and nuzzled Amelia’s throat, loving the fragrant damp warmth of her.
Amelia groped for the ring and began tugging and twisting it. “It’s stuck again.” She sounded disgruntled.
Cam pinned her wrist and bent his head, taking her finger into his mouth. She gasped as his tongue swirled around the base, leaving it wet. Gently, he used his teeth to draw the gold band off. Taking the ring from between his lips, he slid it back onto his own finger. Her hand, now bare, flexed as if bereft, and she looked at him uncertainly.
“You’ll get used to wearing it.” Cam smoothed his hand along the plane of her midriff and stomach. “We’ll try it on you a few minutes at a time. Like breaking a horse to harness.” He grinned at her expression.
Pulling the covers over them both, Cam continued to stroke her. Amelia sighed, nestling against his shoulder and biceps.
“By the way,” he murmured, “the flatware’s back in the silver cabinet.”
“It is?” she asked drowsily. “How … what…”
“I had a talk with Beatrix while we were crushing bees. She explained her problem. We agreed to find some new hobbies to keep her busy. To start with, I’m going to teach her to ride. She said she barely knows how.”
“There hasn’t really been time, with all the other—” Amelia began defensively.
“Shhh … I know that, hummingbird. You’ve done more than enough, keeping all of them together and safe. Now it’s time for you to have some help.” He kissed her gently. “For someone to keep you safe.”
“But I don’t want you to—”
“Go to sleep,” Cam whispered. “We’ll start arguing again in the morning. For now, love … dream of something sweet.”
* * *
Amelia slept deeply, dreaming of resting in a dragon’s nest, tucked beneath his warm leathery wing while he breathed fire on anyone or anything that dared to approach. She was woozily aware of Cam leaving the bed in the middle of the night, pulling on his clothes. “Where are you going?” she mumbled.
“To see Merripen.”
She knew she should go with him—she was concerned about Merripen—but as she tried to sit up, she was reeling with exhaustion, stupefied with it.
Cam coaxed her back down into the welcoming depth of the bedclothes. She fell asleep again, stirring only when he returned to stretch out beside her and gather her in his arms. “Is he better?” she whispered.
“Not yet. But he’s no worse. That’s good. Now close your eyes…” And he soothed her back to sleep.
* * *
Merripen awakened in a dark bedroom, the only glimmer of light coming from the quarter-inch space between the closed draperies. That one sliver was brilliant with the whiteness of midday.
His head ached viciously. His tongue seemed twice its normal size, dry and swollen in his mouth. His bones were sore, and so was his skin. Even his eyelashes hurt. In fact, he had undergone some strange reversal in which everything hurt except his wounded shoulder, which glowed with a near-pleasant warmth.
He tried to move. Instantly someone came to him.
Win. Cool, frail, sweet-smelling, a lovely spirit in the darkness. Without speaking, she sat beside him and lifted his head, and gave him tiny sips of water until his mouth was moist enough to allow speech.
So he hadn’t died. And if he hadn’t by now, he probably wasn’t going to. He wasn’t certain how he felt about that. His usual rough appetite for life had been replaced by shattering melancholy. Probably the aftereffects of the morphine.
Still cradling Merripen’s head, Win stroked her fingers through his matted, unwashed hair. The light scratch of her fingernails on his scalp sent chills of pleasure through his aching body. But he was so mortified by his uncleanliness, not to mention his helplessness, that he shoved irritably at the gentle hand.
“I must be in hell,” he muttered.
Win smiled down at him with a tenderness he found unbearable. “You wouldn’t see me in hell, would you?”
“In my version … yes.”
Her smile turned quizzical, faded, and she laid his head carefully back on the bed.
Win would be featured prominently in Merripen’s hell. The most profound, gut-wrenching pain he had ever experienced was because of her—the agony of wanting and never having, of loving and never knowing love. And n
ow it appeared he was going to endure more of it. Which would have made him hate her, if he didn’t worship her so.
Bending over him, Win touched the bandage on his shoulder, beginning to untuck the end.
“No,” Merripen said harshly, moving away from her.
He was naked beneath the covers, stinking of sweat and medicine. A huge, hulking beast. And even worse, dangerously vulnerable. If she continued touching him, tending him, his defenses would be smashed, and God knew what he would say or do. He needed her to go as far away from him as possible.
“Kev,” she said, her too-careful tone maddening him further, “I want to see the wound. It’s almost time to change the poultice. If you’ll just lie flat and let me—”
“Not you.”
Lie flat. As if that were even possible, with the roaring erection that had sprung to life as soon as she had touched him. He was nothing more than an animal, wanting her this way even when he was ill and filthy and still drugged from morphine … even knowing that to make love to her was like signing her death warrant. Had he been a prayerful man, he would have begged the pitiless heavens never to let Win know what he wanted or how he felt.
A long moment passed before Win asked in a perfectly normal tone, “Who do you want to change the poultice, then?”
“Anyone.” Merripen kept his eyes closed. “Anyone but you.”
He had no idea what Win’s thoughts were, as the silence became heavy and prolonged. His ears pricked at the sound of her skirts swishing. The thought of fabric moving and swirling around her slender legs caused every hair on his body to rise.
“All right, then,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone as she reached the door. “I’ll send someone else as soon as possible.”
Merripen moved his hand to the place on the mattress where she had sat, his fingers splayed wide. And he fought to close his heart, which contained too many secrets and therefore could never be shut all the way.
* * *
Descending the grand staircase carefully, Win saw Cam Rohan coming up. She felt a spasm of nerves in her stomach. Win had always felt a bit twittery around unfamiliar men, and she wasn’t quite certain what to make of this one. Rohan had assumed a position of influence over her family with astonishing speed. He had stolen her older sister’s heart with such adroitness that she didn’t even seem to know it yet.
Like Merripen, Rohan was a big, virile male. And like Merripen he was a Roma, but he was so much easier with it, infinitely more comfortable in his own skin. Rohan was smooth and prepossessing whereas Merripen was secretive and brooding. But for all Rohan’s charm, there was a subtle edge of danger about him, a sense that he was acquainted with a side of life the sheltered Hathaways had never been exposed to.
He was a man who harbored secrets … like Merripen. Those identical tattoos had caused Win to wonder at the connection between the two men. And she thought she might know what it was, even if neither of them did.
She stopped with a timid smile as they met on the stairs. “Mr. Rohan.”
“Miss Winnifred.” Rohan’s unnerving golden gaze moved across her white face. She was still upset from her encounter with Merripen. She could feel the color burning across the crests of her cheeks.
“He’s awake, I take it,” Rohan said, reading her expression far too accurately.
“He’s cross with me for tricking him into drinking the tea with morphine.”
“I suspect he would forgive you anything,” Rohan replied.
Win rested her hand on the balcony railing and looked over the edge absently. She had the curious feeling of wanting, needing, to communicate to this friendly stranger, and yet having no idea what she wanted to say.
Rohan waited in companionable silence, in no apparent hurry to go anywhere. She liked his company. Having long been accustomed to Merripen’s brusqueness, and Leo’s self-destructiveness, she thought it was rather nice to be in the presence of such a levelheaded man.
“You saved Merripen’s life,” she ventured. “He’s going to get well.”
Rohan watched her intently. “You care for him.”
“Oh, yes, we all do,” Win said too quickly, and paused. Words gathered and flew inside her as if they had wings. The effort to hold them back was exhausting. She was suddenly glassy-eyed with frustration and desolation, thinking of the man upstairs and the untraversable distance that was always, always between them. “I want to get well, too,” she burst out. “I want … I want…” She closed her mouth and thought, Good Lord, how must I sound to him? Feeling chagrin at her loss of self-control, she passed a hand over her face and rubbed her temples.
But Rohan seemed to understand. And mercifully, there was no pity in his gaze. The honesty in his voice comforted her immeasurably. “I think you will, little sister.”
She shook her head as she confessed, “I want it so much, I’m afraid to hope.”
“Never be afraid to hope,” Rohan said gently. “It’s the only way to begin.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Amelia was at a loss to understand how she could have slept until after luncheon. She could only attribute it to Cam, whose mere presence in the house caused her to relax. It was as if her mind automatically handed over worries and cares to him, allowing her to sleep like an infant.
She didn’t like it.
She didn’t want to depend on him, and yet she couldn’t seem to stop it from happening.
Dressing smartly in a chocolate-colored gown with pink velvet trim, she went to visit Merripen, whose surliness didn’t dampen her joy in his recovery.
Upon going downstairs, she was told by the housekeeper that a pair of gentlemen had just arrived from London, and Mr. Rohan was meeting with them in the library. Amelia guessed one of them was the builder whom Cam had sent for. Curious about the visitors, she went to the library and paused at the doorway.
The masculine voices stopped. There were men grouped around the library table, two seated, one leaning casually against it, and another—Leo—lurking in the corner. The men all rose, except for Leo, who merely shifted in his chair as if the courtesy were too much effort to be bothered with.
Cam was dressed with his usual disheveled elegance: well-tailored clothes but a conspicuous lack of a cravat. Approaching Amelia, he took one of her hands. He raised it to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss to the backs of her fingers in a territorial gesture not likely to be lost on anyone.
“Miss Hathaway.” Cam’s tone was polite, while a heathen glint danced in his eyes. “Your timing is perfect. Some gentlemen have arrived to discuss the restoration of the Ramsay estate. Allow me to introduce them.”
Amelia exchanged bows with the men: a master builder named John Dashiell, who appeared to be in his late thirties, and his assistant, Mr. Francis Barksby. Dashiell had gained a sterling reputation as the builder of the Rutledge Hotel several years earlier, and subsequently carried out private and public projects all over England. He and his brother had established a prosperous firm with the relatively new concept of employing all his subcontractors internally, rather than hiring outside workers and craftsmen. By keeping all his employees under one roof, Dashiell maintained an unusually high degree of control over his projects.
Dashiell was a large-framed, ruggedly attractive man with a ready smile. One could easily imagine him in his early days as a carpenter’s apprentice, hammer in hand. “A pleasure, Miss Hathaway. I was sorry to learn of the Ramsay House fire, but very glad everyone escaped alive. Many families are not so fortunate.”
She nodded. “Thank you, sir. We are grateful to have your judgment and insights, and to find out what can be made of our house now.”
“I’ll do my best,” he promised.
“Mr. Dashiell, do you employ an architect at your firm?”
“As it happens, my brother is quite proficient at architectural design. But he is rather occupied with work in London. We’re searching for a second architect to manage the surplus.” He cast a quick glance at Leo, and turned back to Amelia. �
��I hope to persuade Lord Ramsay to accompany us to the estate. I would welcome his opinions.”
“I’ve given up having opinions,” Leo said. “Hardly anyone agrees with them, and if someone does, it’s proof he has no judgment whatsoever.”
But somehow, by some verbal equivalent of a sleight-of-hand trick, Cam managed to get Leo to accompany them to Ramsay House. Later in the day Cam described it to Amelia in private, the way Leo had mumbled and sulked for most of the visit while Mr. Dashiell had made notes and sketches. But there had been moments when Leo had seemed unable to resist commenting on his abhorrence of baroque trimmings and flourishes, and how the house should be designed with symmetry and proportion.
“Did you mention to Mr. Dashiell that Mr. Frost is currently staying in Hampshire?” Amelia asked.
They walked slowly along a path that led into the wood, the sky blushing with the advent of evening. A brisk wind sent leaves skipping and whispering over the ground. Cam adjusted his stride to match Amelia’s shorter one. Drawing off one of her gloves, he deposited it in his pocket and kept her bare hand in his.
“No,” he replied, “I didn’t mention him. Why would I?”
“Well, Mr. Frost is a very accomplished architect, and as a friend of the family, he has offered to give us the benefit of his expertise—”
“He’s not a friend of the family,” Cam said shortly. “And we don’t need his expertise. There’s no way in hell he’s going to have anything to do with Ramsay House.”
“He wishes to make amends. He was very kind in offering his services, if we should need—”
“When?”
Disconcerted by his tone, the word fast and sharp as a rifle shot, Amelia blinked. “When what?”
Cam stopped and turned her to face him, his face hard. “When did he offer his bloody services?”
“He came to visit while you were gone.” Having never seen a display of temper from him before, Amelia pushed uneasily at his hands, which were gripping her shoulders a shade too tightly. “All he wanted,” she continued, “was to offer help.”
