She was no innocent and had no regrets over it because her experience made her bold. She smiled as she lowered her hand to his hard arousal straining against his trousers. “I think you need to unsheathe your sword.” Her voice sounded husky even to her ears. Brett grunted, but shed his trousers so quickly she barely had time to blink before he was back beside her and yanked her into his arms.
“Dear God, I love you,” Brett said, warmth and laughter in his voice.
Her world stopped. Then toppled on its axis.
Heart hammering, she fought to draw breath.
Could he . . . ? Did he . . . ? Or was it the heat of the moment?
A myriad of emotions suffused her. Surprise. Confusion. And pure joy. A stunning jolt of it. Her heart swelled with it. She grasped on to that, pushing back the doubts and allowing herself to cherish the moment. To savor the pleasure his words and his touch gave her. To let this beautiful man love her.
She reveled in the touch of his hands as they moved over her. Slowly, tenderly, almost reverently, he caressed her. She curled her fingers over his shoulders, reaching up to twine her fingers in his hair. He gently cupped her breasts and then inched his hands down along her waist, her taut stomach, and over her hips. The butterfly-light touches left a burning trail in their wake.
He lowered his head, and she moaned as his mouth closed over a taut nipple. Oh God. He was clever with his mouth. And his tongue. Her passion flared anew, and her body shivered with exquisite pleasure. She writhed, recalling the moves to a familiar dance. Of passion and lust. She had never perfected the rhythm of all its intricate movements, but it had been exciting to experiment. But it was . . . It was better now.
He lifted his head and kissed her deeply, plundering her mouth. She lowered her hand to curl her fingers over his warm erection, gasping at the soft velvet heat of him. She slid her hand along the firm length of his arousal, smiling when he groaned, reveling in the power her touch had over him.
Yes, much better.
The sound of his response, his breath quickening, was almost as arousing as his touch. Her own moans escaped her when Brett’s fingers slipped between her legs and between her moist folds. She was ready, his caresses having built an aching hunger in her. For him. She moved her hands to clutch his shoulders, needing to hold on to him.
Dear lord, he knew moves she had not experienced before. Her lips parted as he deftly continued his strokes, teasing and thrusting. A rush of heat suffused her, and her body shuddered in a spiral of need. She again reached down and grasped the smooth, warm length of his straining erection, caressing him with more urgency. He was as ready as she.
“Brett.”
His name escaped her in a breathless plea. It had been so long, and she was ready. She needed him. Desperately.
“Emily,” he murmured, and then he gently removed her hand from him and rolled with her so that she lay beneath him. He lifted his head and his eyes met hers, his heavy-lidded with his passion. He held her gaze as he grasped her hips and settled himself deeply within her, sliding into her welcoming warmth.
He paused and she saw his eyes widen slightly. Not wanting to lose the exquisite moment to questions about her innocence, she reached up and drew his mouth to hers, kissing him deeply. Now was not the time for explanations. Besides, there was nothing to say, because she had never been anything but who she was with him. Determined, bold. Wanton. A woman who knew what she wanted. She arched against him, letting her body speak for her.
“Emily.” He broke the kiss, and the ragged whisper of her name was like a cry from his heart. He began to move within her. Deeply. Erotically. Expertly. Delighted, her fingers dug into his back, as she met his thrusts. He groaned as his rhythm increased, his breathing as ragged as hers as their passion climbed.
Her body moved with his into the rhythm of the sensual dance. His sure strokes and the pulsating heat of him as he moved deeply inside her created an intoxicating pressure that built within her. She cried out as his arousal touched her sweetest spot, and then she could think no more. Her heightened senses were alive with passion, yearning, and that delicious, almost torturous anticipation as her body began its slow, frenzied climb to climax. When she could stand it no more, she gasped, and his name burst from her. “Brett!”
Brett’s mouth covered hers, swallowing her cry as he sought his own release. He thrust deep, his hands on her hips. She bent her leg up against his hip to better accommodate him, moved her hands over his buttocks, and relished the guttural sounds escaping him. His body was sweat slicked and hot against hers. She felt his muscles strain beneath her hands. A while later, his body shuddered against hers as he found his own release. And then his body collapsed, flush with hers.
Emily closed her eyes and clutched him against her heart, savoring the feel of Brett’s arms around her, his body pressed to hers. She blinked back the moisture in her eyes.
Later, he summoned a last vestige of energy and twisted his body so that he lay on his side next to her. He drew her back into his arms and cradled her close. Her protector.
She was safe, cherished. And loved. For the moment, she let herself believe it. She drifted to sleep listening to his heartbeat against her cheek.
Chapter Twenty-five
EMILY glowered at the immovable, slumbering lummox beside her. “Get up! You need to go,” she hissed as she shoved Brett’s bare shoulder.
Dawn’s light was not as beautiful as poets penned it to be, nor was day as jocund as Romeo described. It was dangerous, and like Romeo, Brett must “Be gone and live or stay and die.” She slapped his cheeks, desperate to avoid a Shakespearean tragedy.
He groaned and opened his eyes, blinking up at her.
Mesmerized, she watched as his befuddled blue eyes cleared and then softened. Her heart did a ridiculous flip. He looked handsome, lazy, and sinfully satisfied. When he flashed his disarming smile, she forgot all about the time and the dangers it posed.
“Good morning,” he murmured and cupped her cheek.
She expelled her breath. “You sleep like the dead.”
“A naked nymph kept me awake all night, but I have no complaints.” He eyed her robe, firmly belted, and he frowned. “Why are you dressed?” He shifted his gaze to the ribbons of light streaming over the Aubusson carpet, and then he shot to a sitting position. “It is morning.”
So much for her heavy-lidded, lazy Casanova.
“Yes, it tends to arrive inconveniently early, but with consistent regularity.”
He grunted, tossed the covers back, and snatched up his clothes. Interesting. He slept like the dead, but awoke prepared for battle. Well, perhaps with his weapon down.
She grinned as she admired the muscular thighs, firm buttocks, and broad shoulders. Pity that glorious view was all too soon covered. She frowned. “You are good at dressing quickly.” With shirttails hanging loose, buttons misaligned, and his hair deliciously disheveled, the man still stole her breath. “No doubt you are well practiced at fleeing a woman’s bedchamber.”
He sat beside her to tug on his boots. “I promise you, this is a first. My involvement with you has always courted danger. But this is not how I plan to announce our betrothal to my future father-in-law. It could lead to bad residuals come the nuptials.”
The grin curving her mouth froze. “What did you say?”
He glanced at her and seeing her expression, he paused, and then grimaced. “I did not mention that last night?”
Numbly, she shook her head. He ran a hand through his hair, and the chagrined flush staining his cheeks surprised her as much as his words.
“I told you I loved you. I said that much.” When she simply stared, he planted his hands on her shoulders, his voice tender. “I am a cad, aren’t I? I should have done this better. Flowers and candlelight. Romance. Poetry. Lady Emily Chandler, I love you. I adore every clever, delightful, beautiful inch of you. I cannot live w
ithout you. I would like to make our wonderful, strange alliance permanent. Will you marry me?”
She recoiled and tears pooled in her eyes. She shook her head and swallowed. “I . . . I cannot.”
His hands fell from her shoulders. “Excuse me?”
Tears streaming down her cheeks, she jumped from the bed. She needed distance, and a moment to let her pounding heart settle. She swiped at her wet cheeks. “Please, I explained at the beginning that I would not marry—ever. I cannot.”
Brett’s features softened and he spoke gently, as if she were a skittish colt. “Emily, I understand you suffered when Jason died, that you are afraid to love and lose again, but Emily, you are no coward. You are a vibrant, passionate woman, who deserves to live life to the fullest. Who deserves a second chance. Life is full of risks, and you cannot hibernate—”
“Please. It is not about risking love or loss again. It is not! Because I . . . I do love you. I do.” The words burst from her heart, momentarily stunning her. But they were the truth, and he deserved to hear them. To know that she was not cold or incapable of love. That what they had shared was special. She could, at the very least, give him this much.
“I do not want to love you because it hurts so very much, because I have to let you go. I cannot marry you.” He stood and moved toward her, but she held up her hand. “Do not come any closer,” she cried. “It is not about love and loss. It is about me!” She pressed her fist to her heart.
“I do not understand.”
“No, you cannot. I will explain, and then you must go. When Jason died, I went to a very dark place. And it . . . it was bad.”
“Emily, I know about that period,” he said softly, his eyes warm. “Daniel told me about your escape to the Lake District. And I know about your withdrawal from society. You needed time to heal. And it is understandable because . . . after last night, I know that you are not a virgin. That you and Jason—”
“It is not about that!” she cried, exasperated. The man was clearly different if he had no qualms about her past sexual experience. But while it gave her pause, it did not change matters. “That is true, but it is not the reason why I avoided social engagements. I—”
“Emily, I understand.”
“No! You do not. I did withdraw socially. I also discouraged any men’s feelings for me. Unlike you, most English lords looking for a bride are not as forgiving of a ruined young woman, which is what I am.”
“Emily—”
“Listen to me! That was my choice and I do not regret it, but it does not explain my withdrawal or my trip to the Lake District. Julia took me there, not because I was grieving or because I was ruined, but because I was fighting madness.”
Brett stared at her and his expression softened, no signs of aversion to her confidence. “Grief can feel like madness. It can be dark, unrelenting, and all consuming.”
She pressed her hand to her temple and forced herself to continue.
“Grief does not make you cut off all your hair, or slice at yourself with a knife, or—wade into a lake seeking to—to drown yourself. That is madness, in all its ugly, stark, bitter truth. And that is inside of me.” She thumped her chest. “It was in my father, too. When my mother died, he rejected Jonathan for nearly a year and ran away. I am my father’s daughter, and this darkness is in me, hovering beneath the surface and threatening to drown me again.”
“Emily . . .”
His voice was so tender it nearly broke her. “You deserve someone whole. Someone strong. Someone who can give you children without the fear of those children carrying this stain of madness. You deserve that second chance, but I can only give it to you by . . . by letting you go,” she cried, cursing the hitch in her voice. She blinked at the tears blinding her.
He was quiet for a long time and then shook his head. “I know you believe these things. And I know it must frighten you. But I see someone entirely different.” His gaze was steady on hers, bright and warm. “I see someone brave and strong. I see a courageous woman who loves so deeply that she had to fight to go on living when she lost that love, but she found the strength to do so.”
Stunned silent, her lips parted and she simply stared at him.
“I see someone who, despite fears and a darkness she fights against, seeks to redress a wrong done to a man she loved—no matter what the cost or the danger is to herself. I see a woman who is a warrior, whether or not she is fighting to save herself, or someone else she loves. I see the woman whom I have fallen in love with, completely and irrevocably.”
She blew out a breath and shook her head. “You are speaking like a love-struck fool.”
He grinned. “I prefer besotted, because I was a fool once in love, but no more. You are the woman for me, and you said you love me. I will hold on to that for now. We can figure out the marriage part later—or not. Either way, I will not give you up.”
Just when she regained her footing, the man kept tipping her world askew. “You . . . you will stay with me even if I refuse to marry you? What about children?”
“I hope to have them. And I hope they have your blue eyes and obduracy. Well, maybe a diluted version of that trait. But until I can convince you to marry me, they can wait. And so can I. I am not going anywhere.” He walked toward her.
Too stunned to retreat, she could not tear her gaze from his, nor did she protest when he drew her into his arms and cradled her against his heart.
“Everyone deserves a second chance. You are not some mad Ophelia. Ophelia drowned. You did not. You are very much alive.”
She sniffed. “I tried, but Agnes would not let me. She dragged me back to shore.”
“Well then. I owe Agnes my most sincere apologies for every bad thought I ever had about her. She deserves an increase in her wages and will have a position in our household forever.”
She snorted, and the sound of it in this bittersweet moment appalled her. If she was not mad already, the man was driving her to it.
He pressed his fingers under her chin, lifting her face to his. “Not to belabor the point, but I usually do achieve what I set out to accomplish. Once you become tired of my asking for your hand in marriage, I have faith that you will say yes. I suggest you decide if you want to reside in England or sail to America, and think about our wedding. After all, you are good at planning.”
“You would live in England permanently?”
“I will live where you are. I am not bound to either country. Home is where you are.”
Her heart leapt. She needed to free him, but he had her so muddleheaded that she could not think straight. Weddings? Where to live? The man was madder than she. “I will . . . I will think about it.”
“I would expect you to do no less.” He kissed her on the lips, and then drew away. “Now as much as I wish to stay, I best go so that your father is not arranging our nuptials before you agree to them.” He winked and then left her alone with her baffled thoughts.
She frowned at the door. The man was a besotted fool. She may love him, but she could never marry a fool. Most men would be delighted with a lusty affair. But he had to talk of love and marriage and make her waver in her convictions.
She crossed to her bed and dropped onto it, staring blindly at the floor. The clock chimed and she shook her head, hoping to clear it of her jumbled emotions. A slip of paper on the carpet caught her eye, and in a daze she bent to retrieve it. Curious, she read the ink scrawl and all thoughts of love and romance fled. She shot to her feet, crumpled the note in her fist, and swore.
Drat and blast him!
The man was a fool all right, a duplicitous one at that! If Brett thought he was meeting Winfred without her, he could very well think again.
All the more reason she could not marry the man. They would kill each other before the year was out.
Chapter Twenty-six
BRETT cursed the pending shipment that was ke
eping him tied up at the office. He needed to delegate more. It was time to trust in Jenkins’s management, but relinquishing responsibility did not come easily to Brett. After his debacle with Janice Wentworth, building his company had saved him. For Emily, her escape to the Lake District had abetted her recovery.
They had both escaped their pain in different ways, but Emily was still running. Running from herself. From something she feared percolated deep inside of her, waiting to boil over.
He blew out a breath. He had suspected Emily hid something, but he could never have fathomed what it was. He recalled her nerves during those first few forays into society, and he had seen her crumble when she received Little’s news about Jason. But these were but cracks in her fortitude. She had always shored them up, lifted her chin, and forged ahead. Daniel had recognized her strength, conceding that having a single-minded purpose had been good for her.
Why couldn’t Emily see that?
And if she truly loved him, she should want to fight for him as she was fighting for Jason. Brett frowned, because there was the true sting in her rejection—that she was willing to give him up.
She believed he deserved better. Well, so did she. He rubbed his temple, a headache sneaking in as another pesky thought disturbed him. Emily had said she loved him, but maybe . . . maybe it was not enough. Could it be Janice all over again?
And once again, he was a fool.
His heart lurched in denial. Emily was not Janice. He just had to convince Emily to fight for them. For me.
He did not have time to brood over the matter, because his office door swung wide and Daniel entered.
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