Where the Heart Leads

by Stephanie Laurens

  The faint abrading every time they shifted, however slightly, felt unexpectedly erotic.

  She’d barely absorbed that when he pushed up the front of her skirts and slid his hands beneath. And touched her.

  Sensation stabbed through her, a delicious spike. On a moan, she closed her eyes, felt her spine weaken. He leaned forward and captured her lips, took her mouth in a slow, languorous claiming while beneath her skirts he traced, explored, fondled, and caressed.

  Touched and stroked until she burned with a now familiar longing.

  His hands were magic, pure magic on her skin. Strong palms intimately scuplted her curves, powerful, too-knowing fingers caressed and stroked, penetrated and retreated, until she was afire, until she thought she’d go mad with wanting.

  She didn’t have the strength to pull back from the kiss and issue an order. Her hands were locked on his shoulders, gripping in near desperation; easing the grip of one, she slid it to his throat, found his earlobe, and pinched.

  He drew back from the kiss. “What?” His voice was a gravelly rumble.

  “Now!” She closed her eyes and shuddered as his fingers slid deep and stroked inside her. “Not that,” she hissed. “You!”

  For a moment, she thought she was going to have to drag her lids open and glare, and somehow take matters into her own hands…the notion was attractive—very—but courtesy of their position and her already too-fraught state, she doubted she could—certainly not in the sense of giving the moment its due, and properly learning from it.

  But thankfully he comprehended that she was beyond being denied. She felt more than heard his irritatingly arrogant chuckle, but as he promptly shifted, one hand going to the buttons of his trousers, she decided to ignore it.

  Then the rigid rod of his erection sprang free, effectively claiming her entire attention. He guided the blunt head to her entrance; his hand on her hip tightened, she realized how it would work, and eagerly, enthusiastically—with untold relief—embraced the moment and sank down.

  Slowly.

  The sensation of him filling her, stetching her, all under her control, flooded her mind. With him only an inch in, she drew a huge breath, and opened her eyes.

  She had to see his face, had to watch as, inch by slow inch, she eased him into her body, enclosing him—taking him.

  Not being taken.

  The difference, she realized, eyes locked on his, her senses and all she was locked on the sensation of their joining, was profound.

  Barnaby felt it. To his marrow. He’d never felt the like, not in all his years of similar experiences. He couldn’t count the times he’d been in a situation just like this; he’d never been backward in accepting the diversions the bored matrons of the ton had always been so ready to offer him.

  But with not one of them had it been like this.

  Not one of them had been her.

  It was a battle to keep his eyes open, to focus on her face as she slowly, deliberately, took him in, encasing him in a slick, scalding heat that threatened to cinder every civilized instinct he possessed.

  There was nothing civilized about the way he felt—the powerful gloating triumph that flooded him, that hardened every muscle and flexed in greedy anticipation.

  She. Was. His.

  Despite the steady awareness, the intelligence and will that watched him from the depths of her dark eyes, regardless of that, of anything she thought, he saw the moment as an elemental surrender.

  A sensual sacrifice.

  One in which she pandered to his desires and willingly set herself to sate his hunger.

  His potent, unrelenting hunger for her.

  It only seemed to grow with every day that passed, had escalated dramatically since the previous night.

  She reached the end of her long downward slide, then shifted, pressing lower still to take him all.

  Then she smiled.

  In the dim light, the gesture was veiled in mystery, a quintessentially female smile. It deepened fractionally; still holding his gaze, she started to rise.

  Smothering a groan, he closed his eyes; he understood what she wanted, what she wished…he didn’t know if he was strong enough to give it to her.

  He tried. Tried to lock his body into submission, to stop himself from taking control, so she could ride him as she wished, and experiment.

  She rose up and, once again slowly, slid down, exploring as she did, contracting the muscles of her sheath about his hard length, feeling him.

  The sensation was more potent than if she’d used her hands.

  Eyes shut, he concentrated on not reacting, tried to blot out the barrage of tactile sensations she pressed on him—largely failed. His fingers sank deep, gripping almost desperately, locking about her hips; he’d leave bruises, but he knew without thinking that she would prefer bruises to him taking control. To him denying her the freedom to explore and learn.

  But he could only go so far.

  Could only endure so much of the delicious torture.

  Releasing one of her hips, he cupped her nape and hauled her forward—into a bruising kiss.

  She didn’t recoil, but met him—every bit as hungry as he.

  Not good.

  Control—his or hers—became a moot point. A thing of the past, past and forgotten.

  Not in all his years, in his countless engagements, had he ever found himself immersed in such heat. Engulfed in such an elemental conflagration. It seared through them both, like a wave reared and crashed, broke through them and swept them away.

  Into a raging tide of need, of hungry, desperate yearning. More powerful, so much more needy, greedy, so much more passion-racked that he was lost—as lost as she—equally at its mercy.

  Entirely beyond control.

  Lost in the realm of a deeper need, a more fundamental, more primitive hunger.

  They both gasped, clung, kissed as if their lives hung in the balance. Joined, their bodies slick beneath her skirts, as if reaching the promised paradise was an absolute requirement for continued existence.

  And then they were there.

  She shattered with a cry, muted by their kiss; in reply, release swept him, fracturing and scattering his wits, cracking his awareness, leaving it open. Receptive.

  To the powerful surge of feeling that came in release’s wake.

  That filled him, gilding satiation in a way he’d never before felt.

  Burgeoning to fill his chest as, replete, a small delighted smile curving her lips, she collapsed against him, into his arms, and he closed them about her.

  Untold minutes later, he sat cradling her in his arms, one hand stroking her nape and back, soothing not just her, but himself.

  The warm weight of her slumped around him, her sheath a hot glove about his semiturgid erection, he wanted nothing more in that moment but to hold her, and feel complete.

  Feel, for the first time in his life, what completeness could be.

  It wasn’t simply a physical sensation. Admittedly his palate had grown jaded with the years, making her innocent delight an intoxicating elixir, yet the joy and untainted pleasure they shared seemed somehow finer, more refined, a culminating experience he’d been unknowingly searching for all his life.

  She was what he’d been searching for all his adult life.

  His arms tightened about her; having found her, he had no intention of ever letting her go. On that, both his sophisticated self and his more primitive nature were in complete accord.

  Leaning his jaw against the sleek silk of her hair, he breathed in—the musk of their lovemaking was overlaid by a scent that was purely her, a fragrance of lilacs and rose, of soft female and indomitable will. How willpower could have a scent he didn’t know, but to him it definitely had a place in the bouquet that was her.

  She stirred, still loose-limbed, relaxed to her toes. He dropped a gentle kiss on her hair. “We have time. No rush.”

  She humphed, and slumped again. “Good.”

  The word, almost purred, conveyed p
leasured content beyond description. He smiled, more than pleased to hear that in her tone. To know it was there because of what they’d shared.

  At long last he understood, fully and completely, why his friends—Gerrard Debbington, Dillon Caxton, and Charlie Morwellan—had all changed their minds about marriage. At one time, albeit for widely differing reasons, the four of them had been firmly set against the wedded state. Yet with the right lady, as each of the other three had found, marriage—to have and to hold from that day forth, forevermore—was for them the true path, their real destinies.

  Penelope Ashford was the right lady for him. She was his destiny.

  That had, to him, been proved beyond doubt. He’d been feeling restless, dissatisfied with his lot; since she’d walked into his life, restlessness and dissatisfaction had been banished. She was the missing piece in the jigsaw of his life; with her in place, his life would form a cohesive whole.

  He no longer even contemplated a life without her; that was not in the cards. So…

  The best, possibly the only, way to ensure she agreed to wed him was to subtly lead her to decide, of her own will, that being his wife was her destiny. That decision had to be freely reached; he might encourage, demonstrate the benefits, persuade—but he couldn’t push. Even less could he dictate. And as the evening’s endeavors had illustrated, allowing her to pursue her own route to that decision meant letting her follow her own script.

  Unfortunately—as she’d just demonstrated—her script might require actions, even sacrifices, on his part that were more than he was accustomed to, more than he felt all that comfortable making. Letting her take him rather than the other way about had shaken him; it had required more strength than he’d known he possessed to even indulge her as far as he had.

  If he wanted to be able to let her follow her own road…he was going to have to limit the byways.

  Or, perhaps, to subtly suggest avenues she might wish to explore—ones that left him in control.

  Eyes narrowing, gaze unfocused, he considered. Under her skirts, his hands cupped her naked bottom, porcelain curves he’d glimpsed the night before but hadn’t had time to visually savor.

  He could easily envision an interlude that pandered to that and associated whims.

  Perhaps, with her, what he needed to do was not minimize his control, but rather make her crave it, desire and invite it, by casting that as a natural part of the game—as indeed it was.

  Curiosity, after all, was her major motivation.

  All he had to do was interest her in the right things.

  15

  ’Ere, ’Orace? You seen this?”

  Grimsby came shuffling from the back of his shop, blinking owlishly at Booth, a jack-of-all-trades who occasionally brought him knickknacks to sell. “What?”

  Booth set a printed notice on the counter. “This. Saw it in the market yesterday—lots being passed around. ’Eard about it, too, in the pub last night.” Booth stared hard at Grimsby. “Thought you’d want to know.”

  Frowning, Grimsby picked up the notice. As he read, he felt the color drain from his face. When he saw the announcement of a reward, his hand shook; he quickly set the notice back down.

  Booth had been watching him closely. “Just thought I’d tip you the wink, ’Orace. We go back a long ways—old friends need to look out for each other, right?”

  Grimsby forced himself to nod. “Aye, Booth—that we do. Thank ye fer this. I don’t know nothing about it, o’course.”

  Booth grinned. “No more’n I do, ’Orace.” He saluted Grimsby. “I’ll be seeing you around, then. Bye.”

  Grimsby nodded in farewell, but his mind was elsewhere. While Booth made his way out of the shop, he picked up the notice and read it again.

  Then, “Wally!”

  The roar brought Wally thumping down the stairs. He scanned the shop, then looked at Grimsby. “What’s up, boss?”

  “This.” With one grimy fingernail, Grimsby poked the notice across the counter. His tone was disgusted. “Who’d ’ve thought hoity-toity Scotland bloody Yard would take an interest in East End brats!” Leaving Wally perusing the notice, he stomped around the counter. “It ain’t right, I tell you.”

  Which was the point that exercised him the most. In Grimsby’s experience, such unnatural occurrences, things that stepped beyond the normal order of life, never boded well.

  Wally straightened. “I…er, did hear a few whispers at the tavern last night—didn’t know it was about this, but I heard people were asking around after boys.”

  Wally’s diffident tone and his avoidance of Grimsby’s eye didn’t escape Grimsby. With a snarl, he caught Wally’s ear and cruelly twisted. “What else did you hear?”

  Wally hopped and wriggled. “Ow!”

  Grimsby twisted a little more and leaned closer. “Were they, by any chance, asking who might be running a burglary school hereabouts?”

  Wally’s silence was answer enough.

  Grimsby lowered his voice. “Did anyone say anything?”

  Wally tried to shake his head and winced painfully. “No! No one was saying anything at all. They was just wondering about the people asking, and why, is all.”

  Grimsby pulled a face; he let Wally go. “Get back to the boys.”

  With a careful glance at him, Wally turned and went, rubbing his abused ear.

  Returning to the counter, Grimsby stood looking down at the notice. The names and descriptions didn’t worry him; the boys hadn’t left the house, and now wouldn’t, except at night. And all urchins looked the same in the dark.

  It was the reward that bothered him. No one had said anything yet, but someone, sometime, somewhere, would. There were those in the neighborhood who would sell their mother for the whiff of a solid coin.

  He read the announcement again, and drew a little comfort from the reward being specifically for information about the boys, not about any burglary school. As the boys hadn’t been seen, not even by his nearest neighbors, he wasn’t, he felt, staring at the prospect of being fingered by the locals just yet.

  But the boys needed to be out on the streets for the latter part of their training. Normally, Wally would have first taken them out during the day to wander around Mayfair, growing accustomed to the layout of the wider streets, learning about possible places to hide, like basement areas and the steps leading to them. Such spots didn’t exist in the East End; good burglar’s boys needed to know the lay of the land they worked.

  Now all that part of their training would have to be done at night, and Wally would be no use for that. Smythe would have to do it all. And even then…

  No matter how set on his plan he was, Grimsby couldn’t imagine Alert would want to risk the whole thing blowing up in his face.

  Yet by his reckoning, they were only a week or so away from concluding their business. Despite the pricking of his thumbs, Grimsby felt reluctant to pull back—especially not with Alert holding a sword over his head.

  And there was Smythe to consider, too.

  Grimsby glanced again at the notice. Had he been acting on his own, he’d turn the boys out, let them find their way home, and wash his hands of the whole business. He was too old for prison, let alone transportation.

  But Alert would be a problem. He was a toff, and arrogant with it.

  Smythe, on the other hand, knew the ropes.

  That afternoon, Penelope lolled in Barnaby’s big bed, and couldn’t remember ever being so content. So at peace.

  Outside the windows, the gray November afternoon was quiet, dull and subdued. It was Sunday; there was little activity on the streets, a nippy breeze carrying the scent of winter keeping even the more hardy within doors.

  The room was cozy, warmed by the fire burning cheerily in the hearth opposite the end of the bed. Slumped on the pillows, she snuggled under the covers, warmed to her bones and similarly relaxed, all of which owed little to the fire. The bed curtains had been loosened; although only partially drawn, they created a sense of enclosure, transf
orming the bed with its deep, cushioning mattress and numerous soft pillows into a cave of secret pleasures and illicit delight.

  It was the pleasures and delight that had melted her bones.

  After an early luncheon she’d told her mother she was going to deal with Foundling House business, then had taken a hackney to Jermyn Street. While they’d been readjusting their clothes in Lady Carnegie’s parlor the previous night, Barnaby had mentioned that Mostyn had Sunday afternoons off. Barnaby had therefore opened the door to her knock—ready to welcome her, and entertain her.

  Thoroughly.

  “Here.”

  She turned to see him standing by the bed—gloriously naked—offering her a glass of sherry. Smiling in transparent appreciation, she freed one arm and reached for the glass. “Thank you.” She could do with the restorative; it was early yet and, as she’d learned the previous evening—and had had confirmed over the last hour—she still had a great deal to learn.

  To experience and absorb, not least about herself—how she reacted to his patently expert lovemaking and, more important, why.

  She’d had no idea the activity would prove so enthralling. So engrossing. So demanding not just physically but in ways she didn’t fully comprehend.

  Certainly there was more than physical communion involved.

  And that only intrigued her all the more.

  She sipped, from beneath lowered lashes watched as, after checking the state of the fire, he prowled back to the bed.

  Picking up his glass from the bedside table, he lifted the covers and climbed in beside her. His weight bowed the bed; the nearness of his hard body, always so warm, the promise inherent in his naked presence beside her, no barriers of any sort between, sent tendrils of anticipation snaking through her.

  Now that she had a much better idea of what that promise entailed, the anticipation had only grown sharper and sweeter. She sipped, and savored.