by Tessa Dare
"Probably," Griff agreed.
And he knew forcing his friends to continue this quest was folly.
"You should turn back," he told the three of them. "Take shelter in that pub we passed a few miles ago. Warm yourselves before heading home. I'll go on alone."
Thorne cursed.
"What my friend means is, this is nothing," said Bram. "We're infantrymen. We marched over the Pyrenees in the dead of winter. Twice." He slid a glance in Colin's direction. "Can't speak for my cousin, though."
"I'll have you know, I traveled the full length of Britain in under a fortnight," Colin said, clearly not wanting to be outdone. "Some of it by public transport. There was mud."
Joking aside, Griff knew that Colin didn't like traveling by night--and for good reason. But he was here out of friendship, and so were Bram and Thorne.
The size of his social circle might have declined in the years since he'd married a serving girl, but the quality of friendship had grown immeasurably.
Thorne said, "Lead on, Your Grace."
As Griff moved to mount his horse, he noticed a light winking at them from the far side of a distant hill.
Fresh tracks of horses and wagons--several of them--led in that direction.
"What's that?" he wondered aloud. "Some kind of inn?"
It would seem unlikely that Miss Browning would take shelter so far from the main road, but there were few stopping places along this stretch of highway. If the weather had taken a sudden turn, they might not have had a choice.
"Might as well have a look," Bram said.
As they approached, it became obvious that the building was some sort of stop for travelers--or had become one, due to the storm. Lights burned in every window, and the hoofprints of several horses led toward the barn. Sounds of conversation and the clink of dishware came from within.
Maybe this was it. Perhaps they'd found her.
And perhaps there would be dinner in it, too.
They tied their horses to a post in front, then stamped the worst of the snow and mud from their boots as they headed for the front entrance.
As they approached the door, Colin sidled up to him. "How about this? The South Sussex Scoundrels."
Griff stifled a groan.
Yes, he was grateful for friends. To a point.
He pushed open the door, leading the way inside. "For the last time, we don't need a--"
The words died in his throat.
They'd entered a large, open room--packed with men grouped in small clusters around tables.
To a one of them, every man in the place went silent, turned, and stared at Griff.
And then they reached for their guns and knives.
A closer look told him the reason. These tables weren't laid with dinner plates. They were heaped with sacks of spices, bolts of silk, casks of spirits.
His eye fell on a small barrel labeled . . . Jerez de la Frontera.
Sherry.
These were clearly smuggled goods--or perhaps a ship had wrecked in the storm, and this was the haul from shore.
Damn. This was no wayside inn. They'd stumbled into a den of thieves.
And all the aristocratic blood in the world wasn't going to rescue them. Even the bluest blood spilled red from a sliced throat.
"What's all this?" A big, ugly mountain of a man rose to his feet. Clearly the leader. His nose and cheeks were pitted with old pockmarks, but his eyes seemed to work well enough. PoxFace surveyed their group from their muddied, expensive boots to their mufflers.
Their stupid, matching striped mufflers.
Colin cleared his throat and addressed the men. "Say, is this not the Ceylonese Mission Society meeting? I'm afraid we've taken a wrong turn, brothers. So sorry to trouble you. We'll just be on our w--"
PoxFace motioned to one of his subordinates.
The door slammed shut behind them. Griff heard the scrape of an iron bar pushing through the latch. A bow and a hasty apology in retreat wouldn't get them out of this.
They'd have to fight their way out. And find a way to take that sherry with them.
Bram cleared his throat, drawing Griff's gaze. His hand went to the pistol at his side, and then his eyes darted in Thorne's direction, indicating that the officer was ready, too.
Colin's hand tightened on Griff's shoulder. "I've a knife in my boot," he murmured. "Bram's saber is yours for the taking."
Griff gave him a tight nod.
"Now," PoxFace sneered. "Who the devil are you lot?"
With a swift, satisfying clang of steel, Griff drew the saber and leveled its gleaming point at the smuggler's pitted nose.
"We're the Lords of Perdition."
Dazed from her fall, Nora attempted to get her bearings. Her cheek was pressed to the floorboards. Her limbs were sprawled at odd angles. Her hair was a righteous disaster.
Lord. She was so, so grateful Dash couldn't see her right now.
"Nora?" The door rattled.
Dash.
Good Lord. While she was here preening, he was still outside.
"Nora!" He rattled the door again. "Nora, are you hurt?"
She tried to respond, but her breath had been knocked from her. As she scrambled to her feet, she heard a muffled oath. Then a crash as he rammed the door with his shoulder.
Apparently, he was back to Plan A.
"Nora, be calm. I'm coming for you."
She pushed herself to her feet and hurried to unlatch the door. She managed this just in time to intercept Dash's next attempt to ram the door.
Which meant he ended up ramming her.
His eyes went wide, and he tried to stop himself, but the momentum was established. He caught her in his arms, and together they crashed to the floor. They landed in a tangle of limbs and linen. His weight atop hers.
And Nora began to think she would never breathe again.
He searched her face with grave concern. "When you didn't answer or open the door? I thought you'd been injured in your fall."
She shook her head.
"Were you injured just now?"
Again, she shook her head no.
"You're distressingly quiet." His hands moved up and down her body, assessing. "We need to get you warm."
Nora wasn't going to object to that.
Dash lifted her onto the small bed, spreading his coat for her to lie upon and heaping the quilt atop her. Delicious warmth seeped into her chilled body--but even better was his intent, competent focus. The firm confidence with which he moved.
She loved how tender he was being. How he fussed over her, in his brusque, unfussy way.
She was reminded of that afternoon he'd taken her hand beneath the schoolroom table. Dash could be stern and haughty at times, no question. But when it counted, his was a caring soul. And that heart . . .
The woman who won that heart would be rich indeed.
As he tucked the quilt around her middle, Nora winced.
He frowned. "What is it?"
"I landed on my hip when I came through the window. It's probably a bit bruised."
Without hesitation--and certainly without asking permission--he pulled the blanket aside and hiked her shift to examine her.
He turned onto her side, exposing the pale slope of her thigh to the firelight, and ran his fingers over the surface of her skin. Her flesh rippled with tiny bumps. Beneath the quilt, she was aflame.
"Nothing broken, I think."
She shook her head.
"You'll mend?" he asked.
"It would take more than that to keep me down."
His eyes caught hers. "Good."
She laughed nervously. Absurdly. Then, even worse, she wet her lips. Out of desperation, she dropped her gaze and stared at his hand on her exposed thigh. Perhaps when he withdrew his hand, she would regain her sense.
But he showed no indication of removing it. In fact, his thumb slid idly back and forth. Cherishing. Thoughtful.
"Now then," he said. "Let's go back to the subject we were discussing ou
t in the snow. Right after that magnificent kiss, and before the slamming door interrupted us."
Nora couldn't begin to recall. There was nothing in her mind but this moment. His touch. His voice. His warmth.
"You'll have to remind me," she whispered. "What subject was that?"
"You were about to tell me you loved me."
CHAPTER NINE
Beneath the quilt, Nora's heart flipped in her chest. "I was not."
"You were. I know you were."
Her jaw moved, but she couldn't make words.
His gaze pleaded with her, both vulnerable and defiant. "Just say it. Doesn't matter if you stopped long ago. Just say the words this once, and I won't ask again. It's only . . . I can't recall ever hearing them before."
Oh, curse him and his shameless appeals to her romantic heart. One sweep of those dark, needing eyes and everything in her melted to liquid.
"Dash, you must know how we all loved you. You were part of the family."
"And you? Did you love me as a brother?"
Her heart pinched. What would the words cost her now, but pride? And they could mean so much to him.
"No," she said. "I did not love you as a brother. I loved you with imprudent, reckless abandon. I loved you with all the heart and soul I knew how to command."
He dropped a kiss to her bruised hip. His hand stroked down the length of her bared leg, and he curled his fingers around her ankle.
"And then you left," she went on, "and I felt so stupid for it. It made me question everything I believed about myself. That's why I wrote the pamphlet."
"You needn't--"
"No, I need you to know this. I owe you this much. When I said it wasn't about you, I wasn't being dishonest. If you'd allowed me to finish, I would have explained. It was about me. I was so heartbroken, and so angry with myself for my inability to forget you. I needed to believe that there was something special inside me. Some reason worth continuing on, when it felt as though everything was lost. First Andrew, then you. All my hopes and plans. I was desperate to pull myself together, find a new purpose."
"You did. You did that all, and more. I'm fiercely proud of you."
"And I'm proud of what you've accomplished, too." She touched his hair. "Envious of it, to be honest. But proud, as well."
"I'm glad to hear it. Your opinion means a great deal to me."
"Does it?" She rested her fingers on his cheek.
"More than you know."
And then his lips touched hers.
He dipped his head to kiss her neck, then her chest. He nuzzled back and forth, easing her chemise aside to expose more of her bosom. The linen slipped from her shoulder, freeing the pale globe of her breast, capped by her dark, taut nipple.
He stared down at her for a long, nerve-shredding moment, his brow furrowed and eyes intent. "So lovely."
Then he bent his head and captured her nipple in his mouth.
Pleasure ripped through her, bright as lightning and leaving her equally shocked. He licked and teased her, drawing circles around the aching tip before taking her in his mouth again and suckling her hard.
Nora's back arched as she was racked by the exquisite sensations.
Meanwhile, he skimmed his hand upward, beginning at the calf and slowly climbing to her knee, her thigh, and then higher. His exploration was slow and thorough. Devastating.
He lifted his head from her breast, his fingers paused on her upper thigh--just at the border between Mere Impropriety and Utter Ruin.
His breath stirred her hair. "Tell me to stop if you don't want this."
She wanted this. She'd always wanted this.
And she made a promise to herself, then and there: No shame. No regrets. No thoughts of the future, either. There would be only wanting and pleasure tonight. Whatever happened between them, the fault or credit would be hers, just as much as it was his.
She shifted on the bed, letting her leg fall to the side, giving him freer access.
Offering him everything.
He slid his hand higher, settling his palm over her mound and parting her folds with callused fingers.
Her breathing grew hot, heavy. He stroked up and down, inflaming her with desire and spreading the thin sheen of moisture with his fingertips. A hollow feeling built deep inside. She was aching for him.
She pushed through the folds of linen and quilt to find the hard ridge of his arousal. He twisted his hips to help her as she undid the buttons of his falls, freeing him.
As she skimmed one fingertip over the tip, a low moan escaped his throat.
They turned onto their sides, facing one another. Truthfully, it was the only way they would both fit on the bed. Unless one of them were atop the other, of course, and Nora wasn't quite ready for that part.
She never would have dreamed that she could do this without dying of mortification--staring unabashedly into a man's eyes while he fondled her most intimate places and she stroked his. But it wasn't nearly as awkward as Nora had worried it might be. This was Dash, after all. They were merely two people who'd been acquainted all their lives, getting to know one another in this new, thrilling way. She searched every inch of him she could touch, marveling.
A wicked smile curved his mouth. "Well? How do you find me?"
"Large."
He chuckled.
"It wasn't meant as a compliment." She peered down between them, studying the formidable, thick curve of his erection, arcing up toward his navel. "I knew a man's organ hardened, but I didn't realize it swelled so. Are all men like this?"
"Some are smaller. And some are larger, I'm sure."
"You're so hard." She slid her hand slowly down the full length of him, from tip to base. "But soft to the touch."
He leaned forward, kissing her cheek and ear.
"You're soft, as well," he whispered. His thick finger slid inside her, and she gasped. He pushed in and out, a bit deeper each time. "Sleek. And tight. And wet."
He was wet, too. Just a little bit, at the tip. She touched her finger to the bead of moisture and spread it in widening circles. He groaned.
With a muttered oath, he flipped her onto her back, pushing her chemise to her waist and then drawing the garment over her head and casting it aside. He shucked his trousers as well, shaking them off one leg to land on the floor.
"My shirt," he directed, bending to kiss her. As their tongues tangled, she grasped the linen by the hem and pushed upward, helping him disentangle one arm, then the other. He broke the kiss just long enough to pull the garment over his head, then bent to kiss her again.
"Wait," she said, pressing her hands flat to his chest. "Let me touch you."
"If you insist."
He stayed like that, straddling her waist as she skimmed her hands over the sculpted planes of his chest and shoulders. Running her palms down his strong, sinewy arms.
"You must tell me what you like," she said.
"I like"--when she brushed her thumbs over his nipples, he sucked in his breath--"that. I like you. I like everything."
"No, I mean . . ." She gathered the courage to meet his eyes. "I'm not experienced, of course. But I want this to be good. Perfect."
"Nora." He moved his weight forward, balancing on his elbows. "Let's address this right now. It's not going to be perfect."
"But--"
"It's not. We can't be other than we are. You, being you, are already setting unrealistic expectations. You'll likely act on bad assumptions. And I, being myself, am liable to be rash and overbearing." He nestled his hips between her legs, pushing her thighs wide. His lips touched her forehead. "I may hurt you, when the last thing I want is to cause you pain."
"I know."
"So it's not going to be perfect. That doesn't mean it can't be good."
She bit her lip. "I think I promised magnificent."
His laugh was husky and warm. He lowered his body to cover hers.
His strong, hairy leg twined with her smooth, slender one. She kissed his neck, and his shoulders
tensed. His hardness pulsed at the cleft of her legs. She could sense how heroically he was struggling to hold back.
Nora reclined against the satin lining of his cloak.
No more conversation.
It must be now.
He reached between them, positioning the broad head of his arousal where they both wanted--no, needed--it to be.
Then his hips flexed, and he pushed inside her, just a bit. An inch, perhaps.
Again. Another inch.
Again, and again.
Each time, she gasped for breath. Her fingernails dug into his arms.
He was killing her by increments, filling her and stretching her and hurting her and giving her all of himself. Everything she'd been missing for so long. It was bliss and torture all at once.
At last, he was completely within her, and his heartbeat pounded next to hers.
A sense of rightness settled all the rioting sensations of pleasure and pain. No, it wasn't perfect.
It was exactly what she'd always wanted it to be.
Dash, you idiot. You've made a grave mistake.
Just staring down at Nora's breathless, flushed face, he could have kicked himself. The sensation of her body surrounding his, hugging him in the tightest, most intimate embrace . . . The pleasure was enough to drive him mad. He was thrusting into her, mindless with bliss and years of pent-up need, pushing himself ever closer to the brink.
And he was hurting her, badly.
Which perhaps was unavoidable from the first, but he should have made certain she found pleasure first. Now there would be no chance of her reaching climax.
Unless . . .
Unless she hadn't been lying about the passion in her fingertips.
"Touch yourself," he said.
"What?"
"Touch yourself. Where it pleases you."
He tried to make this voice a deep, dark command. So that she wouldn't even think to question--just assume his to be the voice of experience.
Tentatively, she slid her right hand from his shoulder and worked it between them, settling her fingertips right where their bodies joined.
"Yes?" she breathed.
"Yes." He plunged deeper. "God, yes."
He levered up on his arms and sat back on his haunches, try to give her more room. Well, and also to give himself more space to watch.
What a picture she made. Her fiery hair, her smooth skin. Her long, elegant fingers working between her legs, and her full breasts rolling to the rhythm he set.
Damn. He'd never seen anything so arousing in his life.
It was almost too much. He had to close his eyes for a few strokes.
Think about ice, he told himself. Wind and sleet. Squalls off the Cape of Good Hope. Anything to cool the surging crisis in his loins.
