by Lara Temple
She clutched her hands together. Her heart was thudding so hard her ribs ached. ‘And the second possibility?’
‘I could go home.’
‘Home?’
‘Carrington Hall. It is not quite home. But it could be. I am considering staying. For a month. Maybe longer. It depends.’ He took a deep breath, turning the wooden box round and round in a parade of luscious gardens: butterflies and roses, palms and honeysuckle, peonies and willows, orange blossoms and a single red-breasted robin, wings spread.
‘For a month?’ Her voice was calm, which was a miracle, because she was shaking like blancmange inside.
Oh, please. Please, please, please.
‘It depends,’ he said once more.
‘What...what does it depend upon?’
There was a faint knock at the door and Benja’s apologetic voice. ‘Sorry, Captain. We need you for a moment.’
Kit’s jaw tightened. ‘Blast. Wait here, Genny... No, best come with me.’
Genny followed him, still feeling completely at sea. Which proved to be far more than a figure of speech—because the moment she stepped onto the deck, she realised the truth.
‘We’re sailing!’
‘Took you long enough to realise that, Gen.’ He looked up at the sails. ‘Pretty strong against the current, Benja. We’ll need to come around.’
‘Yes. But it will take longer, Capità.’
Kit finally smiled. ‘We have time. Do it.’
For a moment Genny felt a strange welling inside her, almost like grief, but then she realised what it was—joy. It made no more sense than what was happening, but still... The thought that he was taking her away, just the two of them...
But Managing Genny Maitland knew better. ‘Why?’
‘Maybe I’m kidnapping you,’ he said, watching as Benja issued orders to the men.
‘Depositing me on a desert island so I will cease my pernicious meddling with your family?’ she asked.
‘Hmmm...’ he murmured, his eyes on the sails as they wavered and pulled.
Her voice also wavered when she spoke. ‘I don’t understand.’
He glanced across at her, his face turning serious again. ‘Come, we’ll leave the men to it,’ he said abruptly. ‘It’s hard work, sailing into this kind of wind.’
He took her hand again, and this time she felt he hardly noticed he was doing it. She thought of that strange conversation with Lady Sarah. Of her sharp, bitter eyes, catching the tell-tale signs of intimacy.
‘Where are we sailing?’ she asked, her voice hurried.
He stopped and let go her hand. ‘A little south...a little west. Why? In a hurry to return?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I was thinking.’
‘What were you thinking about?’ he asked.
And she shut her eyes and threw herself overboard. ‘I was thinking of that beautiful bed.’
Silence.
Waves splashed, gulls cried, sails flapped and wood creaked—but what she heard was that silence.
She kept her eyes shut.
His hand, warm and rough, took hers.
‘Come. I want to talk with you.’
Talk.
She didn’t want to talk. Talk was sensible. And sensible was what she’d been for so, so long. She wanted to live.
Inside the cabin he pressed her back into a chair and refilled her glass. She drank, grateful for the billow of warmth that filled her icy insides.
‘If amethyst and gold had a flavour, this would be it,’ she murmured. ‘With blackberries too.’
He smiled and touched his glass to hers before he drank. Then he sat and pulled the wooden box towards him, turning it idly in his hands once more as he watched her.
‘This is harder than I thought, Genevieve Maitland. You are a difficult woman to read. Here you are on my ship, and we are sailing, and other than your interest in my bed I am not certain what you feel. That places me in a quandary.’
‘What...what kind of quandary?’
‘My options. If the sum of your interest is in my bed, in theory we could resolve that during this voyage and then you can send me off to France.’
‘But... I... You said you might yet remain at Carrington Hall a month.’
‘Yes. I did. I was thinking... These last weeks have been eventful, to say the least. Quite a great deal has happened... God, this is hard.’ He sank his head into his hands, shoving his fingers into his hair.
She clasped her hands together to stop herself from following suit. Her leg was bouncing from nerves.
He dropped his hands and said, almost explosively, ‘Would you like me to stay at the Hall?’
Like?
Her wide-eyed silence seemed to exasperate him.
‘Do you even like me, beyond your interest in my damn bed?’
‘Of course...of course I do. You must know I like you. I would never have mentioned your bed if I didn’t.’
‘Forget the damned bed.’
‘You mentioned it just now.’
‘Very well—as of this moment, and for the next quarter-hour on the clock, there will be no mention of beds.’ He shoved himself to his feet. ‘What I am trying to say—extremely poorly—is that if you are agreeable I would like to spend the next month at Carrington Hall so that we may become better acquainted. Without my grandmother making mischief and without half the Ton in attendance, trying to suck my Carrington blood. At the end of that month, if you agree, I would like to make you an offer of marriage.’
Genny’s thoughts tumbled in their chase of this speech, trying to make sense of what he was saying.
Better acquainted?
Marriage?
‘If, on the other hand, this prospect does not appeal to you,’ he continued, still pacing, his voice still stilted, ‘I shall see you safely back to the Hall and be on my way. I think we are both mature enough to...’
He faltered and stopped in front of a painting of a long-tailed bird sitting on a branch heavy with cherry blossom. She could hear her heart thumping. Great big thuds echoing in her ears.
Marriage.
It wasn’t wrong to want that, was it? They were friends, could be lovers... And if he wasn’t in love with her, as she was with him, it could still be good...for both of them. She could give him something he lacked—something she felt he needed. She knew he was not asking lightly, or out of consideration for honour, and yet...
She wanted so, so much more.
‘I would like you to stay,’ she blurted out.
He turned and she hurried on, stumbling over her thoughts and her words.
‘I would like you to stay and for us to be able to explore our...our friendship. But I think it is wrong to establish in advance that it must lead to a...a marriage of convenience. The truth is...the truth is I don’t want to marry you for propriety’s sake, Kit. You shouldn’t want a marriage on those terms.’
‘I don’t.’ He turned back to address the painting and for a long while neither spoke.
Finally, she couldn’t bear the silence. ‘Where does that leave us?’
He shook his head without turning. ‘I don’t know.’
She swallowed. Any minute now he would put her back in that longboat and...
‘This isn’t something we can resolve right here, right now,’ she said.
‘No. Probably not,’ he replied, still in the same empty voice.
‘Will you stay at the Hall a little while longer, then? Or will you sail?’
She saw his jaw tense but still he didn’t turn.
‘Stay. I don’t seem to have much choice in the matter.’
She didn’t quite understand what was happening here, whether to be happy or scared, and so she settled on both.
She had been prepared for the worst, but now Kit was to stay a little longer
, and she was precisely where she wanted to be—alone with him in his cabin. She would concentrate on that and on her objective.
If she’d known she was to be kidnapped she would have worn something far more appealing, but at least her morning gown was easy to remove. It took less than a minute to slip off her dress and her stays. Her chemise was sheer muslin, with two thin straps, and ended about her knees. She debated making away with that as well, but lost her nerve. She went to the bed and sat down. The silk was warm and viscous, almost liquid. She rested her hands on it.
‘Now that we have settled that, do you wish to join me? Or shall I put my dress back on? Your choice.’
He finally turned, his blank gaze coming into startled focus. ‘Genny, what are you doing?’
She spread her arms, a little confused by his confusion. ‘You agreed.’
He stood dumbly for a moment, his gaze moving over her, but already she could see the heat entering his gaze as it lingered over her form, moving down to her feet and then back, slowing as it went.
He took a step closer and stopped. ‘Definitely better than my imagination,’ he murmured.
A hitched sigh of relief escaped her and his eyes rose to hers, intent now. He took her hand and turned it over to touch a light kiss to her palm.
‘Your hand is cold,’ he murmured against her, his tongue testing the ultrasensitive skin of her palm and sending silvered shocks down her arm and sparking over her breasts. ‘Are you nervous?’
‘Terrified.’
‘Don’t be. I won’t hurt you.’
You will.
‘I need you to warm me,’ she moaned, and the words were smothered as he bent to fuse his mouth with hers, pressing her back against the cushions as he lay beside her.
‘I’ve been on fire ever since you ordered me into the ballroom,’ he said urgently, and that strange distance that had so confused her was completely gone now. ‘I’ve dreamed of stripping you bare, spreading you out on my bed, tasting every inch of you...’
She shuddered at the image. The contrast between his words and the languorous progress of his fingers as they moved over her, tracing the sweep of her hips and thighs and rising to stop just short of her aching breasts, had her stretched tauter than piano wire, vibrating as she waited for another chord to be struck.
‘I didn’t think you would agree...to this...’ she said.
‘I can’t seem to help myself...’ His laugh was shaky and it spread heat over the swell of her breast as he slid down the strap of her chemise, very gently exposing her breast, like an archaeologist extracting a precious find. ‘I need to touch you...’
Cupping it in his large warm hand, he bent to brush the swell with his lips in hot, feathery kisses, never settling. Then his teeth scraped very gently over the sensitised peak and a wave of heat surged through her. Even in the haze of desire the intensity of her need scared her. But not enough to stop. And not enough to keep her words safe inside her.
‘Kit... I want you. I need you.’
He groaned, his erection surging against her thigh. He caught her hip, holding her against him so she could feel the full pulsing heat of him against her. His mouth hovered above her nipple, his breath teasing it, taunting her.
‘Say that again.’
She drew breath, her chest rising to scrape her erect nipple against his lower lip, but he didn’t move.
‘I want you...’ she repeated obediently, and his indrawn breath dragged cold air over her nipple, adding pain to pleasure.
‘I need you...’ he prompted, pulling down the second strap and raising her so that the chemise slipped to her waist. He leaned back a little, his hand gathering her breast and brushing the tense peak with a feathering caress.
‘Oh, God... I need you...’ she breathed.
‘I need you, Kit...’ he coaxed, but his voice was hoarse.
He pulled away, abruptly discarding his own clothes and then slipping back onto the bed, pulling the wine-coloured silk over them as he gathered her full length against his body with a broken groan.
His body was fire against hers, and his hands and mouth were doing wonderful and dreadful things. She clung to him, surrendering utterly to the storm he whipped up about her, inside her. The whole universe was only this—nothing else mattered.
‘Tell me.’
His words were harsh, but even through the fog of pleasure she knew them for the plea they were.
‘I need you, Kit.’
I love you.
She managed to keep those words to herself, but she thought them again and again as he continued his voyage over her body. Her hands tangled in his hair as he moved with infuriating slowness over her body. The air was cool against her heated flesh, and everywhere his mouth touched her skin leapt as if branded.
She floated in a haze of confused pleasure until his hand slipped between her thighs, easing them apart. Then her hands tightened in his hair, trying to pull him away.
He raised himself onto his elbow, his eyes warm and slumberous as he smiled at her. ‘Freckles.’
‘What?’ she whispered hoarsely.
He trailed his fingers along her thigh. ‘You have freckles here. I knew I’d find some.’
She laughed, embarrassed and strangely pleased. ‘Were you looking for them?’
He shook his head, his fingers tracing up and down, just teasing the soft inner flesh and stopping short of the pulsing need between them.
‘I’m not looking for anything. I’m exploring this wondrous new land where everything is beautiful, and lush and...’ His fingers grazed the soft curls at the apex of her thighs and another flare of almost unbearable new sensation made her body clench and her knees press together. ‘And very, very responsive,’ he continued, his voice hoarse.
‘I can’t seem to stop it,’ she said apologetically. ‘It’s like those frogs.’
‘Frogs?’
‘Emily took us to an exhibition about electricity once. The man was making frogs’ legs dance with a voltaic cell and... And I should be quiet now, shouldn’t I?’
‘No, don’t stop.’ He grinned down at her before sliding lower on the bed again. ‘Do tell me all about electricity and frogs’ legs while I continue counting freckles. Here is one,’ he murmured, his mouth brushing the skin just above where he held her knee. ‘And two more here...and another here...’
He worked his way up, slowly smoothing aside her legs with teasing licks and kisses. His hand was on her breast too, his thumb teasing the sensitive peak and adding to her agony.
She didn’t continue her discourse on Galvanic impulses. She couldn’t. She couldn’t seem to do much of anything other than lie there, one hand anchored in the silk cover and the other biting into his shoulder as he drove her higher and higher on a wave of agony.
‘You can touch me...you can touch yourself,’ he murmured against her thigh. ‘You can do anything you want, Vivi.’
Without thinking she released the silk sheet and tentatively touched his hand where it stroked her breast.
‘Yes...’ He breathed warmth against her. ‘Show me what you like.’
‘This. I like all this. Only more.’
He laughed, and his breath finally feathered over the centre of her heat. She pressed her head back against the cushions, trying to twist her hips away—or into the sensations he was unleashing. She’d never, ever imagined anything like this.
Her whole body rose in the shock of pleasure. It crashed through her body, connecting all his assaults like veined bolts of lightning. Suddenly it was unbearable, impossible, beautiful. She gave a long, tense cry and he rose to catch it against his mouth as she shattered inside.
* * *
Genny woke to the sensation of his fingers trailing slow circular patterns over her abdomen and she smiled without opening her eyes. She stretched, testing the strange new awareness of her body. He’d
rearranged her...no, they’d rearranged her. It felt so much better...truer.
She finally opened her eyes to his smile.
She could become addicted to that smile...no, she already was.
‘That was amazing, Kit.’
‘It was.’
She frowned as her scattered senses gathered. ‘But I don’t think you... Did you?’
‘Did I what?’
He was teasing her, but she didn’t mind. Not when he looked at her like that.
‘You know perfectly well what I mean. You didn’t...have pleasure.’ She cringed at how stilted she sounded, but he didn’t seem to mind.
‘You have no idea how much pleasure it gave me to see you like that, Genny. If I had to trade my pleasure for the privilege of watching yours I would do it without regret.’
She shook her head, embarrassed and pleased. ‘That is a very gallant thing to say, Kit.’
He kissed the corner of her mouth and drew back, inspecting her. ‘I knew you would look beautiful in my bed,’ he murmured. ‘These are the colours you should wear...all the shades of wine and warmth.’ He drew the edge of the silk cover over her midriff, moulding it to her. ‘Yes, we could make do with you wearing nothing more than this for a month at the very least.’
She smiled, brushing her fingertips over his exploring hand. ‘I didn’t realise mistresses were required to go about in nothing but sheets.’
‘You aren’t my mistress; you are my lover. That is a whole different matter.’
She warmed from head to toe. ‘Is this what it is like? Having an affair?’
* * *
An affair.
The words caught Kit like the swipe of a cat’s claws—sharp and stinging, scattering the slumberous satisfaction of bringing her to orgasm. She had such a casual ability to cause pain, and the worst thing was he never knew when it would strike, or how.
She looked so beautiful—her cheeks flushed from lovemaking and sleep, her hair a tangle of honey and wood. She looked beautiful. Vivid and utterly unique.
His Vivi.
It was time to make it perfectly clear what this was and what this wasn’t.
