Oh, God, she was breathing too fast, her breasts responding to his touch, her body liquefying with the silky, tempting voice of the devil. “I know how it will be—how I will find you beneath the heavy layers of your skirts.
So wet, Beth, thick and drenched and ready for me to slide inside and make you moan with the pain and pleasure of a climax that I will hold just out of your reach, until,” he murmured, “you call my name and ask me to make you come.”
She was already wet, her breasts heaving at the provocative words. In truth, she was nearly there, and he knew it, felt his knowing smile against the crest of her breast. She frowned, wished she could glare at the man.
“You are positively indecent and insufferably arrogant.”
“I know, and secretly you love it, I think.”
“There is nothing secret I feel for you.” He was about to respond when providence saved her.
Maggie had arrived, making a great fuss as she carried her ointments and potions into the room. Elizabeth heard the thump of linen hit the table. Miraculously, she was able to grab hold of her riotous emotions and hide them behind a steady voice.
“Goodness, we’re not performing surgery, Maggie. It is nothing but a simple cut.”
“It’s begun to drip down your forehead.” Immediately she raised her hand to her head, and only managed to smear it more. “It’s drying.” What a sight she must look. And in front of Iain Sinclair, who no doubt was dressed impeccably and looking far too handsome, while smiling smugly as he thought how easily her body capitulated to his words of seduction. It was enough to make a very composed woman want to scream and pull at her hair.
“Allow me.”
There was nothing else to be done but to sit quietly and permit Iain to fix the mess she had made, especially with Maggie looking on. She heard the cloth being dunked in the water, the drops raining back into the bowl as it was wrung out.
“Sit back, Elizabeth,” he commanded, “and rest your head against the settee.”
She did as he asked, only because she could not possibly manage herself, and to have him sitting there watching her muddle through the painstaking operation would be too much to bear. So she permitted herself to lean back, and allowed him to bend over her and hold the cloth against her forehead.
“There’s ointment here, my lord. A soothing mint salve. I see both her palms are reddened and scraped.
They’ll need ointment, too.”
Contrary as she was, Lizzy curled her fingers, concealing her palms. She needn’t have bothered, for he left the cloth on her head and began to pry her fingers loose slowly, one by one, until both her palms were revealed and his finger was grazing the tender flesh.
“Friction burn,” he murmured. “You must have slid on the carpet before landing on the marble.” She burned. But it had nothing to do with the carpet, and everything to do with the way his finger slowly caressed her palm, making intricate little strokes, erotic circles that started out wide and narrowed into soft little brushes of his fingertips. He had done the same movement before, but it had not been her palm he had stroked so expertly, but the pale pink of her areola, stopping only when he had reached her hardened nipple. She could not fight back the memory or the way her body recalled that illicit pleasure. Did he remember that afternoon, lying beside the brook in the long grass? Did he remember how he had picked up a green reed and watched avidly as he teased the tip of her nipple with the end of it? Good God, she could not forget it, or what had followed!
The ringing of the doorbell made her jump. The cloth fell from her head and onto her bosom with a sloppy wet sound, while her fingers wrapped reflexively around Iain’s hand.
“Oh, God,” she groaned. “What time is it, Maggie?”
“I will see to it, miss,” her companion answered. “You just repair yourself here and I shall set things to right out there.”
“I suppose it could be worse,” Elizabeth muttered, forgetting she was not alone. “He could have been here when I was lying on the floor, splayed out like a felled deer.” Iain’s laugh as he took the cloth and tossed it into the basin did nothing to make her feel better. “Indeed he could have, but then he would have been gifted with the sight of your bottom in the air, and the hem of your gown up around your knees. No man should gain that gift so easily.”
She snorted. He had. And much easier than that, she reminded herself.
“Your forehead has stopped bleeding,” he mumbled as he dabbed her brow once more. “Although it’s bruised.
You might even have a black eye from it.”
“Lovely. I shall tell Maggie to inform my caller that I am indisposed.”
“Coward.”
She went rigid on the settee. She knew he watched her, his dark eyes scrutinizing her face. “I am no coward,” she growled back.
“You never were before,” he challenged. “So why now?”
“Because my forehead is cut, my eye black and no doubt my gown is dirty. It is hardly the way a woman wants to present herself to…to…”
“Her lover?”
Elizabeth swallowed, bristling at the word, uttered in Iain’s velvet voice. “Caller,” she clarified.
“Little coward,” he whispered once more, but this time he said it as he raised her hand to his mouth.
“I am not!” she hissed as she felt him press a kiss into the tender flesh of her palm, then followed it with the supple glide of his tongue.
“Yes, you are. You try to wish for what awaits you outside this room, when you are really wanting what I whispered to you—what we could do here if you allowed me to lay you back and press my body into yours, to put my lips to all those secret places I want to taste, those places you want to hold me to. But you’re too afraid, too cowardly to admit that you wanted it a few minutes ago—wanted it so desperately. And you still do.”
“How dare you!” She snatched back her hand, but Iain leaned forward and recaptured it. This time when he touched her, it was not with his lips or his tongue, but with the soothing salve Maggie had brought.
“I do, indeed, dare much. But you, Elizabeth, are worth it.”
“Such flattery, Alynwick. I have heard it before from you, and have learned it is meaningless. I don’t want to talk like this. I don’t want you speaking to me in such a fashion.”
He shrugged. She felt the movement beside her. “All right, then, we shall discuss something else—for now.
Why were you practicing the waltz?” She sighed, feeling defeated. “Because I thought he might one day ask me to dance, and I wanted to make certain that I could manage it without doing something like this—only in front of a couple hundred peers.”
“Do you not trust him to protect you?”
“Of course,” she said indignantly.
“No, you don’t. Else you would not have tried this stunt by yourself.”
“Oh, do cease talking,” she barked, hating how he so easily consumed her thoughts and strength. “And finish quickly.”
“If me finishing quickly makes your visit to him all the more precipitous, then you may be assured that I shall take my own damn time.”
“Why do you toy with me?” she demanded. “Why, when you come here, can you not leave me be?” His fingers stilled against her palm for the briefest second before he reached for her, trailed his thumb along her jaw, tipping her head until she knew her sightless eyes were settled on his face. She closed her lids, tried to turn away, but he held her still.
“Don’t look away,” he whispered, and there was such anguish in those words that she opened her eyelids—still unable to see—and wished she could barter her soul for the chance to see him looking at her once more. “I can’t see you, you know that.”
“Yes, you can. You can see me sitting here with you, on this settee, our knees touching, my fingers on your pale skin. You can imagine my expression—it’s one of horror, and terror, because I am thinking of you quitting this room, and me, and walking to him. I canna bear it, Beth,” he groaned. “Everything in
side me screams that it’s wrong.”
“It isn’t,” she said, trying to keep her voice from trembling. “The only thing that is wrong is being alone in this room with you. It was wrong when I allowed you in all those years ago. It still is wrong.”
“Nothing is wrong between you and me. It’s been the only right thing in my life.”
He had no knowledge of the pain he had wreaked upon her—the regret, the hatred she had felt for being weak and silly and naive. It had been the worst decision of her life, allowing him to take her body and soul, and yet he sat here, claiming it had felt right to him. Then why had he left? Why had he allowed his wedding banns to another to be read in church? Why had he bedded her, toyed with her and walked away without another glance?
“I believe I am mended,” she said, her voice controlled.
She rose from the settee, slowly, regally, not allowing him to see how much discomfort she was in, or how she foolishly wanted nothing more than to stay on the settee with him. Foolish, impulsive female. She could not fight him like this. She could never withstand the slow, sensual onslaught that had always been her undoing. She would not survive it again when he walked away from her.
So she would resist. She must. Although she never would have believed it would be so easy to find herself falling once again. Not after his betrayal, after the pain he had inflicted upon her. How weak willed she was when it came to him, when he offered her the sweet seduction she still thought about deep in the night when she was alone, her body aching for the affection of another. When she yearned to be touched.
Steeling her thoughts and gathering the strength to stiffen her spine, she said, “I thank you for your assistance, my lord. Good evening.”
As elegantly as possible, Elizabeth picked her way across the room to the door. In her mind she recalled the placement of the furniture, which hadn’t changed since she’d lost her sight—Adrian had seen to that. It was a relief to know she would not make a fool of herself yet again in front of Iain.
“So the little lamb runs from the big bad wolf.” Her hand twisted on the knob, but she didn’t pull open the door. Without turning back she said, “The lamb is little no longer.”
“But she still fears the wolf.”
“No, not fears. She is aware. She knows what the wolf is capable of, and she wishes to give him a wide berth so that he may go his own way.”
“The wolf won’t give up.”
“The lamb will not allow herself to be destroyed by him. She narrowly escaped the last time.”
“Beth…”
How had she not heard him rise from the settee and cross the floor? It was impossible, especially with her heightened hearing, but here he was, his chest to her back, his groin fitted into the softness of her bottom as his palms flattened against the door, closing it with a soft click.
“Last night in Grantham Field, I faced death, and unlike others who have stared it in the face, I did not see my life and what I had done flash before me. I saw you….
Every moment we had spent together, every mental picture I have of you, I saw, and I had an epiphany. I realized that it is your face I see upon rising every morning, and the last thing I see before going to sleep. You are my first thought and my last—of every day.” “Don’t do this,” she begged as she lowered her head and let it rest against the cool wood. “Please.” His hand slid down the door, only to rest against her shoulder while his fingers toyed with the strands of hair that had fallen loose.
“Don’t go to him,” he breathed against her neck. His lips found the pulse there, and he sucked it gently before coming up to whisper in her ear, “Stay with me, Beth.
Let the wolf come to the lamb.”
“So that he may what?” she asked, her voice shaking, her body trembling.
“Taste you.” He kissed her neck, drew his tongue up along her throat. “Place his hands on you and rediscover you. Fit himself inside you and find heaven once more.”
“And the lamb will be left then, the wolf satisfied, free to roam as he pleases. No, Iain,” she whispered. “I did that once. I won’t do it again. What we had…” She swallowed. “Well, it wasn’t good enough to allow me to make the same foolish mistake twice.” He growled then, nipped at her neck, tugged with the tips of his teeth on her earlobe. “We were young then, inexperienced. We’re adults now, Elizabeth. I assure you, I can make it so damn good for you that you will want to come back to me again and again.”
“A lamb led to the slaughter. No, Iain. I am through dying a silent death every night. I have forgotten you.
And you… Well, you forgot me, too. Our futures are different and separate.”
“If you go to him, Beth, I swear I shall never give you a moment’s peace with him. He won’t have you. He cannot give you what I can.”
She laughed, a small, bitter sound that escaped her throat. “I hope he cannot, for I have had enough of shame and heartache. And that, Iain Sinclair, is all you ever gave to me.”
Shocked, he loosened his hold on her, and she used the moment to open the door and slip out to the hallway, where Maggie was awaiting her. “It wasn’t him, luv, but a messenger he sent with a note, conveying his apologies that he could not visit. Business to attend to, he claimed.
But he sent by a book for you. He thought you might enjoy it. I’ll read to you, if you like,” Maggie whispered.
“Now let’s get you changed. Are you well?” she queried.
“You do look pale, and your breathing isn’t at all right.”
“Just get me away from him,” she gasped as she took Maggie’s hand and held on tightly.
“Who?”
“The wolf in the room.”
CHAPTER NINE
THE BRISK MORNING WALK and the bracing November wind did nothing to cool his ardour or his mind’s wander-ings, Iain thought irritably. He hadn’t been able to sleep, his dreams consumed with images of Elizabeth hurt and bleeding—replaced only by the memories of how she had looked when her breathing changed, her lips parted and that arousing flush spread over her décolletage when he had said those erotic things to her. Not even the fact that she had injured herself practicing the waltz for Sheldon was enough to dampen his arousal—for it had been Iain who had reduced her steady breaths to hard rasps. His suggestions that had fueled the images Elizabeth hid from him behind her sightless eyes. But they had been there, mental pictures of the two of them locked in an amorous embrace. She longed for it, the reunion of their bodies, the reconnection—rediscovery—of a passion that had been too long denied.
Making love to Elizabeth had been a pleasure he had never experienced again. Making love to the woman she now was would be something he knew would shatter his soul.
There was more to this fixation. The passion, yes, the desire would never wane. But there was a need to know her as he had never taken the time to know her before.
He wanted more than a physical connection with her. He wanted a bond. A friendship. He wanted to know her soul as intimately as he had once known her body.
He had no idea where to begin, how to forge a meaningful relationship. He was essentially a loner. A man who kept his thoughts and feelings private. Who preferred to hide behind meaningless sex and empty passion, for fear he had nothing to offer anyone, least of all Elizabeth. He had his love, an inner voice reminded him, but what use was it when that love had caused her nothing but pain?
Strolling along Bond Street, lost in his thoughts, Iain absently nodded in acknowledgement to the familiar faces that seemed to swim before him. It was sunny, al-beit cold. There was a bitterness in the air, the kind that was common during harsh winters in the Scottish Highlands. A storm was brewing, he sensed as he tilted his head back and inched his hat higher onto his brow so he could see the slate-grey sky above him. The clouds were almost black, the blue skies of summer replaced with a grey backdrop that only made the clouds more ominous looking. It was the sort of morning that made one want to linger in bed, listening to the crackle of a fire in the hearth w
hile making slow, lazy love to a woman. Not just any woman, he thought as he paused to look into a store window, but one who was a constant presence in his life.
A woman who would be found in his bed every night.
Who would live with him, share the ups and downs of life. The pain, the pleasure, the sorrows, the joy.
A slow, relaxed loving was only achieved with a partner whom you could turn your most intimate secrets and dreams over to. A woman you believed in, trusted. One you didn’t have to keep up your guard around, but who allowed you to sink into her with no other thought than pleasure, and connection, and the sharing of bodies and whispers, and love. Love… Yes, he wanted it, and it scared the hell out of him, because he knew it might be too late for him to find love with the one woman who made him want to reach out and taste it. Who had made the surly Iain Sinclair wish he still possessed hers.
Beth’s innocent love. He’d possessed it once, and he hadn’t cared enough to keep it safe, hadn’t thought for one second that he might bitterly regret its loss. But he did. His regret ran to unfathomable depths. He’d lost himself, his humanity, when he’d turned from that love, and now he wanted nothing more than to crawl from the depths and search for the love he knew had never died between them. It was there, tangled and entwined like the roots of an ancient oak, reaching deep. Anchoring to the ground. He was bound to Elizabeth in the most elemental of ways, just as she was to him.
He knew it, acknowledged it. Now he needed to find a way to make Elizabeth see it, to make her take that blind leap of faith into the world that awaited them, and forget the past.
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