Until she gasped, “Why here? Like this?”
Instinct told her that was important to understand.
“So when you scream my people in the bailey will hear and know of your surrender.”
It took a moment for her reeling mind to digest the implications, to assess the intensity of the sensations buffeting her. “I don’t scream.”
“You will.”
Charles volunteered nothing more, his mind totally engrossed in ensuring she did. Her fantasy, the fact she’d so long ago had the thought of him as her lord…any chance of him retaining even a semblance of control had flown the moment she’d told him. The role she’d created for him was so close to the one he wanted, to the one he needed to claim; had any other lady made the suggestion he’d have thought she was insane to tempt him so, yet with her…it was one of the reasons he had to make her his.
Her breathing had fractured into sobbing gasps; arms braced, she rode his thrusts instinctively, her scalding sheath closing about him, clasping, clinging, drawing every ounce of sensation from each strong stroke, from each powerful penetration. She was close to the edge, the tension inside her coiling ever tighter. He pressed even deeper, freed one hand and reached for her breasts.
Swollen and firm, the heated flesh filled his palm. He played briefly, his thumb roughly circling her aureola, then he caught her nipple between his fingers and squeezed. Hard. Then he synchronized the squeezes with the movement of his hips.
And she shattered.
Screamed.
The sound, purely feminine, intensely evocative, sank into him like a spur and shattered what little control he had left. He thrust harder, deeper, then held still as she convulsed around him; eyes closed, head back, he savored her release.
But it wasn’t enough.
The instant the last of her tension left her, he withdrew from her, letting her skirts fall as he swung her into his arms, then went to his knees. He laid her back on the warm stone before him, arranging her as he wished.
From beneath heavy lids, she watched him, her eyes storm-wracked gray glittering in the aftermath of the tumult she’d just weathered, her lips swollen and parted, her bared breasts rising and falling dramatically. The pulse at the base of her throat throbbed wildly.
Her voluminous riding skirts had spread across the slab, the old gold velvet sheening in the sunshine, the back trapped beneath her, protecting her from any abrasion from the stone. Raising the front hem, he tossed the heavy skirt back, exposing her long legs, the damp triangle of fair curls at the apex of her thighs, the white curves of her hips.
He could hear the blood pounding in his head, could feel it pounding throughout his body, echoing the compulsion that drove through his veins. Grasping her thighs, he spread them wide and knelt between. His phallus rose rigid and urgent from the open placket of his breeches. Running his hands up the backs of her thighs, he gripped her lower hips, and lifted her to him.
Slid slowly into the scalding haven of her body. Watched her as he did, sensed her body rise to meet his, welcoming him in, her softness easing about his hardness, accepting, wanting him as much as he did her. When he’d fully impaled her, he withdrew halfway, then thrust deeply in.
Her breath tangled in her throat. Her eyes locked with his, for one long moment she was with him as he rocked deeply into her, then on a shuddering sigh, her lids fell and she wrapped her long legs about his hips and let him have his way. Let him use her body as he wished for his pleasure, ultimately for hers, too. The time came when she could no longer remain passive, when desire rose again and whipped her back into the dance.
And then she matched him. Strove with him as the dance whirled ever faster, as they joined ever more deeply, ever more completely. As they started up the last rise to the pinnacle, she sobbed and reached for him.
He spread his hands beneath her back and lifted her, let her clutch his arms, then bent his head and feasted on her breasts.
The tempo escalated, then whirled out of control.
She screamed again, clutched his head to her breast, arching wildly. Eyes closed, he clung to her, clung until her contractions faded, then eased her back, gripped her hips in an unforgiving grasp and with a series of short, deep thrusts, joined her. Pumped himself into her.
Untold moments passed; his head spun. Eventually, he withdrew from her, slumped beside her, and let oblivion close over him, overwhelming and complete.
Penny wasn’t sure why she woke; her senses stretched, but there was no one else there, just the two of them slumped on their sides on the stone slab, the sunshine pouring over them in gentle benediction.
Peace and stillness enveloped her. Her body felt limp, gloriously so; the passion Charles had wrung from her had left her deliciously weak. Lips curving, she closed her eyes and let her mind range over their recent engagement. It had been far far better than even her wildest dreams.
Gradually other thoughts spun into her mind. Thoughts of him, her unresolved questions, possible answers. In the bliss of aftermath with her mind clear, relaxed, open, it was impossible not to see what the last hour had proved.
Charles lay behind her, deeply asleep, his arm heavy across her waist. She hesitated, then slowly, supplely pushed up from the floor, drawing her legs up and swiveling so she was sitting, her skirts twisted but not yet pulling, still within the circle of his arm, which slid down to cradle her hip.
She looked down at him. For long moments, she studied his face, the features she’d known since childhood, the lines the last decade had etched. It was still a very strong face. She let her gaze roam downward. Still a very strong body, one her own responded to in a flagrantly wanton way. Still.
Slowly, she brought her gaze back to his face, then, drawing in a deep breath, she clasped her arms about her calves, rested her chin on her knees, and looked out over the fields.
How foolish she’d been to imagine she could somehow suspend loving him, could somehow keep her heart from him. Her heart had been his all those years ago; it had never changed, never vacillated no matter what her intellect had dictated. Yet she had changed.
At sixteen, she’d loved him; she could remember what it had felt like—a mere wraith of emotion compared to what she felt now. In the last hour…connecting past with present had revealed how much her love had matured, into something stronger, more vibrant, impossible to suppress, let alone deny. It might have been born long ago, but it was of the here and now, not the past; it was very much a woman’s love, confident and demanding, not a young girl’s fantasy.
She was no longer afraid that he might break her heart—if he hadn’t destroyed it years ago, then he couldn’t now. The years had changed him, but they’d changed her, too; she was now much stronger.
She refused to regret or in any way step back from what had, this time, grown between them. Last time, she had in effect run away, drawn back from loving him because he hadn’t loved her. Not this time. This time, she’d learned what not just love but loving was, how deeply satisfying it could be; she wasn’t going to give up the glory of loving him of her own accord. This time, if anyone was to step back, it would be he.
But would he?
Eyes narrowing, she looked again at his sleeping face, shuttered and closed. She’d assumed that in seducing her he was looking for an affair, a lover for the weeks he was here investigating. She’d stepped into his arms believing that, built her vision of what he was about on that basis.
But her vision was wrong.
He grew suspicious when facts didn’t fit; so did she. The emotional link that had grown between them, that he’d allowed and encouraged to grow between them, didn’t fit with a fleeting affair. Nor did the way he’d dealt with her, until today.
With her eyes, she traced the lines of his face, the sensuous lips, the squared chin. In the last hour, she’d deliberately set out to shake him free of his self-imposed restraint, to see what lay behind it. She’d succeeded well enough to learn what she’d needed to know; the wolf hadn’t changed his pel
t for a curly fleece. Regardless of what he allowed to show, underneath he was a conquering French-Norman lord, dominant and domineering, and blatantly, ruthlessly possessive, at least with respect to her.
So why, so consistently over their recent enounters, had he taken the supplicant’s role?
There was only one answer; he wanted something from her. Specifically, he wanted her.
The damned man was wooing her.
That explanation was the only one that fitted; reviewing his behavior, she could see nothing that argued against it. Indeed, he’d even told her she was his perfect bride. He’d been fixed on marrying her from then, but with her mind flatly disavowing any such likelihood, she hadn’t caught the admission in his words.
At some point, he was going to ask her to marry him. She knew him; he would ask in such a way that she wouldn’t be able to avoid giving him an answer. So how was she going to reply?
Inwardly she swore, relieved her feelings by scowling at him, thankfully still sleeping, then looked away across the fields.
Why did he want to marry her? A critical question to which the answer might be a host of partial reasons. He’d mentioned some in declaring her his perfect bride; none was a reason she would accept.
She loved him, but she didn’t know what he felt for her. If it was some mild, impermanent emotion, affection laced with lust and desire, even now she would rather live the rest of her life an old maid than see affection fade and die, know her love was no longer wanted, and have them both grow bitter.
If they weren’t married, then if and when her love was no longer enough for him, they could part; if they were married, they’d be doomed. She could easily see herself as his longtime lover, but tied to him in marriage? Not without love on both sides.
But did he love her? Thirteen years ago, she’d been sure of the answer. Now…her uncertainty felt very strange, but it was real. Worse, not knowing—not knowing what gave rise to his emotional need of her—left her trapped, unable to accept him yet equally unable to refuse him, not until she learned the truth—was love one of the mature emotions he kept hidden behind his mask?
Not for anything this side of hell could she let that question lie unanswered. She’d put away her dream of loving him and having him love her, and all the rest her youthful heart had assumed would follow, thirteen long years ago. She’d never found another dream with which to replace it. Until now, she hadn’t had to face what that meant, that being his wife, lover, and friend was still the only future she truly wanted.
Now…eyes fixed unseeing on the distant sea, she felt that reality to her bones.
Eventually, he stirred; the hand lax about her hip tensed, gripped. Turning to him, she put her thoughts away. She had a week or more, until they caught the murderer, before he would ask, and she would have to answer.
His eyes opened; deepest sapphire blue in the afternoon sunlight, they looked into hers, then he smiled. He reached for her and drew her back down, into his arms, into a succession of increasingly intimate kisses—until she drew him over her, parted her thighs, and wordlessly welcomed him into her body.
Into a slow, heated dance, with his weight moving over her, against her, into her, with her clasping him and holding him close, of her fractured cries as she climaxed, of his low groans as he sought his pleasure in her, of the warmth that flooded her when he found it, of the shattering sensations that sped down her veins, then dissipated in pulsing glory.
The glory slowly faded, leaving, as she was learning it was wont to do, her emotions exposed, at least to herself. She’d never had any choice but to accept them; they were immutable, unswerving. Holding him close, idly stroking his hair, she reminded herself she had time to learn his secrets, to find some way of reading, not just his mind, but his heart—before he demanded hers.
CHAPTER
18
THEY REACHED THE ABBEY IN MIDAFTERNOON. FILCHETT met them in the front hall and informed them nothing had arrived from London, but that Fothergill had called that morning.
“Very interested in architecture. I took him on the usual tour.”
“Did he ask many questions?” Charles asked.
“Indeed. Quite a knowledgable young man.”
Charles pulled a face at Penny. “Tea in the study?”
Penny nodded.
Charles glanced at Filchett. “Some cakes wouldn’t go amiss.” He returned his dark gaze to her. “We’ve been riding in the fresh air—it’s left me with an appetite.”
Her expression limpidly innocent, she absolutely refused to react.
Cassius and Brutus had come to greet them; they danced around, then circled them, herding them into the study, Charles’s lair. Charles spent five minutes petting the dogs, running his fingers through their shaggy coats and reducing them to ecstasy. When Filchett arrived with the tray, Charles left the hounds stretched at her feet and headed for his desk to sort through the letters and notes piled there while she poured.
Returning to fetch his cup, he filched the plate of cakes. Nibbling the one she’d already selected, she watched as he went back to the desk and settled to deal with all he’d left to pile up while he’d been guarding her.
He steadily demolished the cakes.
Eventually he glanced up, and noticed her smile. “What?”
“It wasn’t that appetite I thought I evoked.”
He held her gaze, took another bite of cake. Swallowed, then said, “It isn’t. This appetite is the consequence of adequately slaking the other.”
“Adequately?”
Looking back at his accounts, he shrugged. “Thoroughly might be more accurate.”
She grinned and left him to his work, content to relax in the chair and let the peace envelop her. The Abbey had always been a contentment-filled house; even his brothers’ unexpected deaths hadn’t changed that. Closing her eyes, she let the quiet claim her; idly stroking the hounds with her boot, she turned her mind to devising some way of learning what the emotion driving Charles to want her was…and found herself dozing.
Sometime later, the hounds got quickly to their feet and shook themselves; she opened her eyes to see Charles push away from the desk. “Done?” she asked.
He nodded. Rounding the desk, he looked at the dogs, amber eyes shining as they patently willed him to take them for a run. He raised his brows at them, hesitated, then looked at her. “Shall we? We’ve time enough for a walk on the ramparts before we ride back.”
She acquiesced with a smile, held out her hands, and let him pull her to her feet. Into his arms. He bent his head and stole a swift kiss, then, closing his hand about one of hers, headed for the door.
The hounds followed, eager and excited. They bolted the instant Charles opened the side door, but returned within a minute to gambol about them before rushing off to follow some scent.
Hand in hand, they walked down the lawns and climbed the steps up to the broad curve of the ramparts. The breeze had turned brisk, plucking at her hair, sending errant wisps curling about her face. Catching them, vainly trying to tuck them back, she glanced at Charles; no matter how strong the wind, his curls merely ruffled, then fell back into place.
She stifled a humph; they strolled on.
They’d reached the middle of the long curve when Charles stopped. He turned to her, looked into her eyes, his face set, his expression serious.
She looked back at him, was about to raise her brows in query when his grip on her hand tightened.
“Marry me.”
Her eyes flew wide; her jaw dropped. “W-what?”
His gaze hardened, the line of his lips thinned; the dominant and domineering Norman lord looked down at her. “You heard me.”
She managed to catch her breath. “That’s not the point!” She tugged and he released her; she put both hands to her head, as if she could hold her whirling wits down.
He was the only person who could throw her so off-balance; it took her a moment to steady her thoughts. She stared at him. “I only realized this afterno
on what you were about, what you’ve been leading up to—that you were going to ask—but I thought you’d wait at least until after your investigation is ended and this horrible murderer was caught!”
“So I thought, so I intended, until you favored me with your recent revelations.”
His accents were clipped, his words uninflected. She eyed him, increasingly wary. “What have my recent revelations to say to anything?”
Dark blue eyes bored into hers; he wasn’t amused. “You cannot expect to tell me you’ve fantasized for years about being my lady—and in such an explicit way—and not expect me to suggest that, in the circumstances, marrying me would be a good idea.”
A Lady of His Own Page 37
