“How dare you?” She twisted to face Andrew. “That’s private correspondence.”
“Well?” he demanded, ignoring her protest.
How fitting that jealousy was sometimes called a green-eyed monster. But if Andrew were jealous of Edward, then that would mean... “You know I don’t intend to marry anyone,” she said, her voice quieter. “I don’t—there is absolutely no need, now, for me to marry at all.”
She lowered her gaze so as not to be burned by the intensity of his own. Had that been a flicker of disappointment that crossed his face? Or relief?
“Despite Edward’s worries, I’ll be fine on my own,” she said, the reassurance falling somewhat hollow. “I do not need a man.”
“So you’ve said.” One hand came up to cradle her face. With warm fingertips, he traced the shell of her ear, along her jaw, down her throat, stopping at the place where her pulse beat. A sudden rush of blood surged to flush her skin when she realized he could feel her heart race. And those eyes! He could not help but see. See her thoughts, her fears. Her desires.
“Show me.” When he tipped his chin toward the bed as he spoke, the heat in his voice sent a quiver through her that had nothing to do with fear.
“I—I don’t know what you mean,” she lied. Despite the chill in the air and the layers of fabric between them, she could feel the evidence of his arousal where it pressed into her belly. After that kiss, she could feel her own, too, pooling between her thighs.
“There are some young ladies of whom I might believe it,” he murmured, turning her away from him as his fingers went to the row of buttons down her back. “But you are not one of them. You’re a woman of passion, Tempest.” With each word, another button slipped free, and she could feel the whisper of his breath across her skin. “For some time I suspected Cary of stoking those fires—”
“Edward never—”
Andrew’s lips brushed along the turn of her neck, across the top of her shoulder. “The more fool he.” She offered no resistance as he pushed the blue silk down her arms, over her hips, onto the floor, where it formed an inky puddle around her ankles. Her shift soon followed. “You’re no stranger to your body’s needs, no stranger to pleasure. Such knowledge can only be acquired in certain ways. If not at another’s hands, then your own. So,” he said, stepping away from her, forcing her to stand on her own two feet, giving her the independence she had always claimed to want, “show me.”
Did he really mean for her to pleasure herself? While he watched?
The darkness in his expression, the way his breath rose and fell, left little doubt in her mind.
Could she really do such a thing? No, of course not! Although . . . it would go some way toward proving to them both that she was mistress of her destiny.
With a catch of breath, she scampered to the relative safety of the bed, settling herself among the pillows, pulling the sheets up to her chin, the linen cool against skin that felt almost too warm.
“Shy, Tempest?” He lifted the fragile chair away from the desk and placed it at the foot of the bed, straddling it and leaning forward, intent on the spectacle she was to provide. Behind him, the candle flickered in a draft, and she took some comfort in the way his body blocked the light once more, leaving her robed in shadow. Until, that was, he reached behind him and moved it, casting its glow across the slopes and valleys of the bed. “Go ahead. There’s no shame in it. Or have you forgotten how much I’ve already seen?”
With those words, he dispelled the cold Yorkshire night, replacing it with a memory of the sticky heat of the tropics. As her eyes closed, sensation almost overwhelmed her. Once more the rocking of the ship merged with the thrust of his body into hers. She smelled the spicy scent of his skin, felt the sure stroke of his fingers against her breast.
But it was her own hand that swept over her body now, plucking and pinching an already peaked nipple, then sliding lower, beneath the sheets, to cup her mound. Just one quick press, the heel of her hand against her nub, something to dispel the forbidden ache. No, she could not do this, not while he watched. What must he be thinking?
From some wicked, wayward corner of her mind came another image, his strong hand stealing to the bulge in his breeches, mirroring her movement.
With a gasp, she reached lower and dipped her fingers into her wetness. Ah. Had the groan escaped her lips, or his? No matter. She had indulged her desire for Andrew once, knowing that someday it would come to this—reliving that memory in the dark, lonely hours when she had no touch but her own to ease the terrible throbbing.
The slick stroke of her fingers became her only focus. She opened her eyes once more, but she saw nothing. She might almost have forgotten he watched if, some moments later, he had not twitched the blankets impatiently aside, baring her to a gaze that heated what the night air cooled. The mattress dipped when he settled beside her, and she felt his naked body stretched along hers, though he did not lay a hand on her.
Better, perhaps, if he had. Her nerves felt suddenly frayed, divided between their awareness of him and the demands of her own body. The muscles of her abdomen clenched as she hungered for release.
“Shhhh,” he soothed, and the sound, the heat of his breath, pulsed through her. “Don’t chase it. Let it come to you.”
“I—I can’t do it.” Her fretful voice seemed loud in the stillness.
“You must.”
Had he spoken? The dark demand seemed to come from somewhere deep inside her.
At last, though, he took pity on her, one long finger moving to trace the delicate bones of her hand where it slipped between her thighs. She could almost, almost imagine his fingertip stroking her straining clitoris.
When she whimpered in frustration at the light brush of his hand, he laughed, low and slightly cruel. “I thought you didn’t need a man for this, Tempest?”
“I—I—” Her short curls scrubbed against the pillow as she shook her head. She didn’t. She didn’t.
Still, when he lifted his hand from hers, she cried out at the deprivation. It was not simply need, it was . . . oh, she had no word for it. Desperation, perhaps.
Andrew slid his palm over her hip, down her thigh, coaxing her legs farther apart. She opened to him on a sigh of relief. Yes. Let him—let him—The pulse beneath her fingertips took up the rhythm of her unspoken chant. Expecting him to brush her hand aside, to ease one finger, perhaps two, into her slick channel, she knew a new torment when he merely circled the opening to her body with the pad of his thumb, the pressure firm but still teasing. Not enough, not enough, not—
The explosion took her entirely by surprise, seeming to come not only from the bundle of nerves she stroked, but the place where he touched her, some deep recess she could not quite reach herself.
A soft cry caught in her throat, parting her lips but producing no sound, as if she were trying to hold this moment within her. When the crisis had passed, she watched as Andrew drew his hand up her body, trailing her wetness in his wake, until his fingers caressed her face and he circled her lips with his thumb. Her eyes widened in shock and flew to his, which were heavy-lidded with desire. Not allowing herself to reason her way into a denial, she darted out her tongue and tasted. More salt than sweet. Heat flared in his pupils as she drew his thumb into her mouth and suckled, satisfaction curling her lips when she felt his erection jerk against her hip in response.
“You greedy minx.” He replaced his thumb with his mouth, jealously nibbling her lips for some taste of what she had enjoyed. When that failed to satisfy his appetite, he moved down her body, following the path of his fingers, licking and laving, leaving a string of love bites behind. How could something that ought to sting produce so much pleasure?
Boneless, she offered no resistance as he rolled her onto her belly and kissed over one shoulder blade and along her spine. Only when he covered her body with his own, enveloping her in his heat, branding her with his arousal, did she stiffen, feeling an answering tremor stir within her once more.
&n
bsp; “Tell me, Tempest.” The words were a mere breath against her ear, stirring her hair. Her scalp tingled. “Do you want this?” he asked, and she felt his sex brush the entrance to her body. “Do you want—me?”
She should say no. She could say no—he was giving her the choice. But that no would be a lie.
Although she shouldn’t, she wanted him, wanted this. One night together had most definitely not been enough. And somewhere at the back of her mind, a doubt niggled at her. What if she were not always free to make this choice—to choose him?
“I want you,” she said, canting her pelvis, inviting him to enter her.
He surged forward on a groan, an invasion that was part conquest, part caress. The pressure at this angle was exquisite, and as soon as he began to thrust, another orgasm rippled through her—or perhaps it was merely an extension of the first, which seemed still to pulse under her skin.
“I need you.”
The confession escaped her lips on a sigh of breath. A dangerous admission for a woman who had never craved a man’s possession, could never imagine reveling in what she once would have called powerlessness.
No sooner had the thought crossed her mind, however, than she realized she was far from helpless. Catching his rhythm, she pressed her buttocks against his groin, lifting her hips as much as she could to meet his thrusts and clenching her inner muscles around his hardness. A low grunt of pleasure rumbled in his chest.
No, not powerless at all.
He countered by catching her hands in his and stretching her arms upward, pressing her into the downy softness of the bed, blanketing her with his weight. Pinned beneath him, able to do little more than receive the pleasure he was intent on giving her, she surrendered to sensation. Yes. She needed him. She did not think she would ever stop needing him. He rode her mercilessly, then. As another climax racked her body, she muffled her cry in the pillow. She was lost, utterly unmoored, floating through space.
I love you.
The words echoed inside her head. Had she spoken them aloud? Behind her, Andrew stilled, and she held her breath, waiting, as if expecting some reply.
Abruptly he withdrew. Liquid heat spilled onto the sheets and across her skin before he collapsed atop her, breathless, sinking her still further into the snowy depths of the warm featherbed.
She should be grateful he had thought to spare her the burden of worrying once more over possible consequences. Or at least had thought to spare himself.
So why did she feel inexplicably like weeping?
Chapter 20
Andrew awoke to the sound of a pistol being cocked beside his ear.
He should never have allowed himself to fall asleep, but after four days—and three nights—on the road, exhaustion had overtaken him. Nor should he have made love to Tempest again. But in both cases, her body had been warm and gloriously soft, the darkness so inviting . . .
Once more, he had let his base needs trump the terrible risks to her. He had promised her safety, and left her more vulnerable than ever.
Selfish. Irresponsible.
“Get up!” Delamere growled, pressing cold steel against the base of Andrew’s skull.
Beneath him, Tempest stirred. Andrew squeezed her shoulder, silently willing her to stay put, snugging the blankets around her as he rose, shielding her bare skin from Delamere’s prying eyes.
I love you.
He should have told her weeks ago, if only he had been willing to admit it to himself. Would it be cruel to tell her now, when he was about to die? His death had never before been much cause for regret to anyone, except perhaps his mother.
Now he found himself wondering if Tempest, too, would mourn.
“That’s right, Corrvan.” Delamere nodded as Andrew came to his feet beside the bed. His dark eyes glittered in the feeble light cast by the dying embers of the fire. The candle must have long since guttered. Beyond the window, the first streaks of a gray dawn were brightening the sky. “Now, put some clothes on, for God’s sake—I won’t have it look as if I came too late to rescue this innocent girl from some marauding rapist.”
As Andrew bent to snatch his breeches from the pile of discarded clothing on the floor, his mind whirled. Where were his boots? His knife? He had to save Tempest from Delamere somehow, whatever the cost to himself.
“Stand over there against the wall,” Delamere hissed, gesturing toward the corner with the pistol. “I have a premonition I’m about to shoot an intruder.”
“Just what do you think you’re doing?”
The eyes of both men snapped to Tempest. As soon as she had been freed of the weight of Andrew’s body, she had risen up on her knees in the center of the bed, drawing the coverlet over her as she moved, thinly disguising her own nudity. As Delamere paused to devour the sight of her naked and kneeling before him, Andrew tried not to imagine how long the man had fantasized about just such a moment.
When Andrew took a single step toward him, however, hoping to use the man’s distraction to his advantage, Delamere turned back and leveled the pistol, sighting along its barrel. Though his eyes remained focused on Andrew, when he spoke, his words were for Tempest.
“You have been adept at denying me a private moment to make my suit, my dear. But I am not above creating opportunities when I must.”
“I have already heard—and rejected—your suit,” she said, rising from the bed and wrapping the sheet securely around her. As she spoke, she moved closer to Delamere. Andrew did not know whether to admire her courage or despair of her good sense. “You needn’t have come four thousand miles to make it again.”
His free hand shot out and caught her wrist in a vise-like grip. “Did you really think I would just let you leave?”
“Why, my lord?” she whispered. The light of the fire behind her made every curve, every tremor, visible. “Why are you so determined to marry me?”
Delamere gave a sardonic laugh. “Haven’t you figured that out by now?”
“My fortune, I suppose, but—”
“Revenge.”
“Revenge?” Both Tempest and Andrew echoed Delamere’s answer, she in shock, he in horror at the discovery he shared the man’s bloodlust, as well as his obsession with a woman who would never be his.
“I ought never to have followed her to Antigua,” Delamere said, sounding far away. The gun shifted, drooped in his hand. Stretching out one leg, Andrew slowly drew his discarded boot closer, almost within reach. The knife hilt poked from its hidden sheath.
“My mother.” Tempest’s voice was flat with shock.
“You cannot imagine the torture of watching your beloved’s belly swell with another man’s child, to know his hands have . . .” His gaze wandered over the tangled bed linens. “What makes a woman turn down an alliance with good breeding, pure blood, in favor of dallying with someone so—unrefined? It’s like choosing muscovado when you might sweeten your tea with sugar instead. Though it does seem that certain women are drawn to the darkness,” he said, shooting a glance toward Andrew, a murderous gleam in his eyes’ depths, before focusing once more on Tempest. “In any case, when you were born and grew to be as lovely as your mother, I began to see a way to make your father understand his error, a way to make him pay.”
Tempest swallowed hard, visibly struggling to regain her composure before she spoke. “You intended to use me to punish my father?”
Delamere tilted his head in acknowledgment. “And though he did not live to see his judgment,” he said, gesturing with the gun as if waving away a matter of little consequence, “I shall still enjoy every minute of dispensing it. I was in the village earlier. It’s all arranged. Our nuptials will be solemnized this morning.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Oh, but it is,” he said softly, and Andrew could see her wince as the man tightened his grip. With agonizing care not to catch Delamere’s eye, Andrew lowered himself, his fingertips straining for the weapon secreted in his boot. Why in God’s name hadn’t he driven a blade into Delamer
e when he’d first had the chance?
“I purchased a special license when I passed through London,” explained Delamere. “Being the son of a duke, even a disgraced one, does have its advantages.”
“You may have a license, but a legal marriage also requires a willing bride,” said Tempest, “and that you’ll never have.”
“Don’t be so sure, my dear,” Delamere whispered, pulling her closer until his body was flush against hers, pressing his lips against her ear. “Besides, as I told you once before, resistance has its own appeal. I enjoy watching you struggle almost as much as I’ll enjoy seeing you succumb at last.”
“You beast,” she spat out, striking a stinging blow across his sneering face with her other hand.
Despite the slap, the man did not flinch. “Ah, love, come tomorrow, you’ll pay for that,” he murmured, sounding almost pleased. “Tit for tat.”
With Delamere’s dark eyes focused squarely on Tempest, Andrew took a chance, grabbing for his knife, his fingers brushing against the leather of his boot.
“Drop it, Corrvan,” Delamere said, never turning from Tempest, although the pistol found Andrew nonetheless. “And back up a bit. I’d hate for your blood to spatter my bride.”
“Your bride,” Tempest repeated, as if testing the words with her tongue. She no longer twisted against his hold. “Was it never about Harper’s Hill, then?”
“Your inheritance was never my primary motive,” Delamere agreed, “but I cannot say that it has not added a certain spice to my desire.” One brow lifted suggestively. “My own fortune is regrettably small. I always knew I would have to marry well. I thought I had formed just such a match once. I won’t let a second slip through my grasp.”
Tempest eyed the gun but did not look at Andrew. “All right,” she whispered. “I’ll do it. I’ll marry you, my lord—”
“Tempest, no!” shouted Andrew.
But she ignored him, hurrying on before he could interrupt. “On one condition.”
To Tempt an Heiress Page 25
