In Pursuit Of Eliza Cynster

by Stephanie Laurens

  The same feelings rode him with sharpened spurs.

  He pushed on and came to the expected barrier, paused for a bare second, then thrust swiftly, cleanly, through. He sensed rather than heard the small yelp she uttered; trapped between their lips, it didn’t escape.

  Riding the powerful thrust to its natural end, he sheathed himself fully in her bounty.

  She clamped around him, and he nearly died.

  Breaking from the kiss, he bowed his head; his hand, sunk in the pillow beside her head, fisted as he fought for some semblance of control. Eyes closed, he dragged in a slow, tight breath, then eased back, pried himself from the wondrous clasp of her body, then slowly, slowly, returned.

  If he kept the pace slow, perhaps he would manage. Manage not to lose himself totally in her.

  In the glorious body that, after the slightest of pauses, rose beneath him, joined with him and answered desire’s call.

  He withdrew and thrust in more forcefully. Reassured by her urgent and immediate response, he set a steady pace of thrust and retreat, of blatant but reined possession.

  She clung to him and plainly gloried. Eager and wanton, abandoned to the moment, she held nothing back, but went with him, rode with him, into the fire, through the flames, into the heat and the glory.

  Her hair a writhing mass of gold spread about her head, her lips, swollen and rosy, parted as she panted, as the force of his thrusts rocked her and she whispered delirious nothings, all flagrantly encouraging, and her eyes, green fire set in gold, captured him, held him, enslaved him.

  Drove him on through the landscape of their escalating need, her nails sinking into his upper arms as desire and passion melded and tightened, coalesced and strengthened. Until the combination whipped them on and ever on, to the pinnacle of physical desire.

  And further yet, racing, hearts pounding. Reaching, wanting.

  Until they burst through the conflagration to that heart-stopping moment of soaring …

  To the ultimate culmination.

  He reclaimed her lips just in time.

  She shattered beneath him with a soft, keening scream, clinging, then gasping, her lips and mouth surrendered, her body all his.

  He held back as long as he could, for as many seconds as the powerful contractions of her slick sheath allowed him, marveling at the openness, the unadulterated, unshielded honesty of her passion.

  In the instant when the insatiable pull became irresistible and she drew him over the edge, he felt something inside him give, like the link on a chain snapping open, sliding free.

  Then he was flying, too, with her, within her, into the exquisite oblivion that waited in her arms. They closed around him as he broke, as he shuddered and his body emptied into hers.

  He hadn’t intended that, had intended to withdraw and at least spare them that final link in the binding chain, but … some part of him knew, simply knew, that there was no reason anymore. No reason to even imagine that he would — could — ever let her go.

  The small part of his rational mind that still functioned couldn’t follow the logic in that, but the rest of him didn’t care.

  As of tonight, their die was cast, irrevocably and forever.

  They slumped together. He hung over her, his weight on his elbows, his forearms caging her head and shoulders; her arms were wrapped around him as far as they could reach, small hands spread on his back, holding him.

  Their breaths sawed; their lungs labored. For his part, his senses still spun. Finally managing to raise his lids, he looked down into her face.

  And saw glory dawning.

  Her eyes were closed, but as he watched, her lips slowly curved upward in the smile of a well-pleasured madonna.

  That smile was a benediction that touched his soul.

  He drank it in, wallowed in it, enshrined it in his mind.

  Eventually, she sighed, an exhalation of inexpressible contentment, and eased beneath him.

  Holding back his own, too-revealing groan, he gently disengaged, tugged the disarranged covers from beneath them, wrestled the sheets over them, then slumped in the bed alongside her.

  She turned to him, reached for him, trustingly snuggling.

  Settling on his back, he eased one arm around her, watched as she laid her head on his chest, in the hollow below his shoulder. Almost immediately felt the tension in her muscles fall away.

  Letting his head slump back on the pillow, he closed his eyes, intending to think, to consider what had happened, all that had been so unexpectedly different, to analyze and weigh; instead, he found sleep waiting, bliss-filled and deep. It ambushed him and dragged him under, and he went.

  Eliza woke to darkness in the deepest hours of the night. The moon had long gone, yet not even a lark stirred beyond the window.

  For uncounted moments, she simply lay there, wrapped in the warmth of a naked male — her naked male — and marveled. Who would have thought, indeed!

  His lean but steely strength had been a welcome confirmation, the desire that had shone so clearly in his eyes reassuring, confidence building, and the care he’d taken to ensure her pleasure had set the seal on her approval of him.

  As for the unimaginably erotic feeling of him deep inside her, moving so surely, filling her so deeply, that had been utterly astounding.

  Just the memory sent a ripple of awareness coursing through her.

  The event had been more, much more, than she’d expected. More earthy, more physical, more intimate.

  More absorbing. More fascinating, more exciting, more enthralling, and definitely more tempting — the sort of experience that, once experienced, made one want to do it again.

  Which left her wondering …

  Taking stock, she tensed this muscle, then that, and discovered that other than a twinge or two, she’d weathered her deflowering in excellent shape. Better than excellent if one counted the pleasant, oddly glowing feeling that still lingered in every muscle. Satiation, she supposed.

  She could certainly get used to the sensation.

  Which sent her mind shifting to the cause of said sensation. He was lying on his back; she’d burrowed against him, pillowing her head on the wide muscle of his chest. One of his arms lay about her shoulders, holding her in place. The fingers of his other hand rested lightly on her arm …

  Those fingers shifted, then she felt a tug on the chain around her neck.

  “What’s this?”

  She couldn’t see — it was all but pitch dark — but could tell he was turning the rose quartz pendant between his fingers.

  He’d seen it when he’d unwrapped her breasts, but had, gratifyingly, seemed much more taken with her than the pendant.

  Shifting her head, she looked toward where she knew his face to be. “How did you know I was awake?”

  He didn’t immediately answer, then she felt him lightly shrug. “I was already awake. I just knew.”

  Jeremy wiggled the hexagonal pendant. When he’d woken it had been lying on his chest, over his heart. The stone had felt oddly warm.

  “That”— she raised a hand and followed the chain to the pendant and his fingers —“was passed on to me by Heather. She had it through her … ordeal. I suppose you might say it’s a talisman of sorts.”

  He released it. “When I saw it earlier, it looked quite old.” He’d barely glanced at it, absorbed with other things, but he had registered that much. That he hadn’t been diverted by something old said quite a lot.

  “It is.” She shifted and slid the pendant down between her breasts.

  He’d been awake for some time; his eyes were as adjusted to the dark as they were going to get, but he still couldn’t see her as much more than a paler shape amid the shadows. He knew when she settled her elbows on his chest and turned her face to his again more by touch and movement than by sight.

  “I was wondering …”

  So was he. He’d been lying in the dark for the last however many minutes wondering whether he’d made a serious miscalculation over exactly
what the nature of the relationship between him and her was going to be.

  He’d sensed the potential from the instant he’d set eyes on her — or more accurately met her eyes — in Jedburgh. He’d subsequently assumed, given the circumstances of her kidnapping and rescue, given they’d been forced to spend first one, and now three, nights together alone, that marriage was the all but certain outcome. An outcome that would see her as his wife, that, at least in his mind, would subsequently result in children, and them creating a family.

  That outcome, those results, had been entirely to his liking. He’d liked her, and the past days during which he’d watched her cope with the exigencies of their flight had only deepened his regard. His initial view, formed that night in Jedburgh — that even without any social imperative forcing them to the altar, a marriage between him and her would work — had been correct.

  From their admittedly unspecific discussion of the matter, she’d seen the situation in much the same light.

  So what had happened last night? Several hours ago, when they’d taken a step that, in the greater scheme of their already predetermined future, shouldn’t have meant all that much?

  Them being intimate shouldn’t have changed anything.

  Yet it had.

  He now felt like he was standing on the brink — no, had already stepped over some unforeseen brink into … a situation he didn’t understand. Didn’t fully comprehend.

  He didn’t feel entirely himself anymore … or rather, he felt like himself but with something added, or perhaps enhanced. As if the otherwise straightforward act of intimacy with her had brought some heretofore unknown and unsuspected part of him to the fore. And entrenched it in his psyche.

  No previous intimacy had had that effect.

  She tipped her head — he saw the paleness of her face move — and he realized she’d been waiting for a response. He replayed her last words. “About what?”

  “About whether, now we’ve … indulged once, given that later today we’ll be at Wolverstone and then doubtless on our way down to London, all in situations where further indulgence might be problematical, whether, given we are both wide awake, we shouldn’t seize the opportunity to indulge again.”

  He couldn’t see her expression, not even a hint, which meant she couldn’t see his. Just as well. God only knew what might be showing in his face.

  Lacing her fingers, she leaned her chin upon them, staring through the darkness. “What do you think?”

  That he might as well be hung for a wolf as a sheep.

  When he didn’t immediately answer, she eased back a fraction. “Don’t you want to?”

  “Yes.” The word came out in a rush, as if something within him was scrambling to reassure her, horrified by the notion that she might get the wrong idea. Regardless, there was no point lying on that score. All she’d have to do was shift her sleek, silken thigh a few more inches over his and she’d discover he was more than ready for another round.

  He’d been half aroused before she’d woken, and hard as a post since she’d first spoken. His body, at least, knew precisely what it wanted.

  Perhaps he should take his own advice and stop thinking so much.

  “Are you sure you’re not too sore?”

  “I’m not.” Eliza was grateful for the darkness; it hid her blush. “And I really would rather know …” Reaching out with one hand, she found his jaw, let her fingers slide further, into his hair, gripped lightly and, using that to guide her, eased up, leaned closer, and touched, brushed, her lips to his. Drew back just enough to breathe across them, “I’d really like to know if the second time will be as good as the first.”

  “It won’t be.” He surged up, flipped her to her back, and came down on top of her, pinning her beneath him. He looked down into her face; she couldn’t be sure, but she thought his lips curved in a distinctly male smile. “The second time —” He bent his head and brushed her lips, a return of the tantalizing caress she’d given him. But then he hovered with no more than a breath separating their lips to state, “Will be even better.”

  He closed the gap and kissed her. Kissed her until her head was reeling, until her wits were waltzing and her senses singing.

  And proceeded to demonstrate that he knew what he was talking about.

  Chapter Twelve

  hey set out immediately after an early breakfast. Eliza sat on the seat of the gig and tried to keep her smile within bounds. She was grateful she didn’t have to sit a horse, but other than a small degree of chafing in a very sensitive spot, she was feeling on top of the world.

  On top of her world, at any rate.

  Jeremy had been rather quiet, as if he had a lot on his mind, but she assumed he was absorbed with thinking through the details of their route to Jedburgh and Wolverstone beyond, and she forbore from teasing him.

  The chestnut between the shafts seemed to have come to some accommodation with Jeremy; the horse paced steadily on, carrying them swiftly down a minor lane that curved southeast to the small town of Newtown St. Boswells.

  “Not exactly a new town at all,” Eliza remarked as the gig traveled briskly down the main street. “Some of these buildings have to date from centuries ago, at least.”

  Jeremy glanced briefly at the buildings, some clearly ancient. “At least.”

  They were soon through the town and rolling along the last section of the country lane he’d chosen, the better to keep them off the main roads where danger might still lurk, when Eliza closed her hand on his arm. “Stop, please.” She pointed ahead to the right of the lane. “Just across from those bushes.”

  He grunted and obliged, without asking why.

  She threw him a grateful smile. As soon as the gig rocked to a halt, she slipped down to the road. With an “I won’t be long,” she rounded the gig, crossed the lane, and pushed through the bushes; the clump was high and thick enough to hide her from anyone on the road.

  The reins in his hands, Jeremy looked forward, to the junction with the main Jedburgh road just ahead. Fifty yards, and then they’d have to dash. He intended to drive as fast as he could south, all the way to the border. Once over it, the turnoff to Wolverstone wasn’t all that far.

  He tried to keep his mind on the journey, but within seconds his obsession with what was developing between him and Eliza had reared its head and snared his thoughts. Somehow, some element he hadn’t foreseen had slipped into the mix, and now he didn’t know what sort of cake they were baking. Certainly not the marriage of calm reason based on mutual affection that he’d thought had been in his cards.

  His recipe had mutated.

  Somehow.

  Last night.

  Yet this morning, when they’d woken late and rushed to get downstairs in time for the breakfast Mrs. Quiggs had promised them … everything had seemed so normal. So stable and settled. Eliza had been so happy and content that he’d found it easy to go along, to follow and smile … as if nothing had been awry at all.

  Perhaps nothing was.

  Confusion wasn’t normally his middle name.

  On the other side of the bushes, Eliza rose, much relieved, and wrestled her breeches back up her thighs. This was the one activity that was distinctly more difficult in breeches than in skirts. Still …

  Her thoughts halted as she stared down at her boots. At the sliver of light that was playing over them.

  She looked up, aghast. Searched in the direction from which the beam had come. And saw, not far ahead, not far away at all, a man sitting a black horse.

  “Scrope.” The word came out in a hoarse whisper. She stared for a second more, then turned. “Oh, God!”

  She fought her way back through the bushes to the lane. Wrestling with the buttons at her waistband, she pelted across it. Raising one hand, she pointed. “Scrope! He’s waiting just ahead — along the main road on the right.”

  Jeremy lifted the reins as she scrambled up beside him. “Did he see you?”

  “Yes! The damned man had a spyglass. That’s
why I noticed him — I saw the reflection.”

  Contrary to her expectations, Jeremy made no move to turn the gig. “Will he know it’s you? You’re still in disguise.”

  She blinked, then met his gaze. “I think it’s safe to say he’ll have realized I’m not a youth by now. He wasn’t that far away.”

  “Ah.” Despite his stoicism, Jeremy’s mind was racing. It took no more than a few seconds for him to see and weigh all their options.

  And decide that none were good.

  “Scrope will have seen you racing back — he’ll already be on his way.” He caught Eliza’s gaze. “Can he come directly across country to where we are now?”

  She thought, then shook her head. “No. I don’t think so. Not unless he can jump a very high hedge. He was on a small hill beyond it.”

  Jeremy faced forward. “So he’ll come for us via the road — for him, that’s more sensible anyway. He’ll be at that junction and coming for us at any minute.” He shoved her with his elbow. “Out! Get the bags. Quick!”

  The instant she lifted the bags from the boot, he turned the horse and gig, looped the reins, leaving enough play for the chestnut to run with, then jumped out of the gig, slapped the horse’s rump, and raced to Eliza. The horse and gig went rattling back along the lane, going faster as the horse realized and relished the lack of weight.

  Jeremy took the saddlebag Eliza held out to him, swung it over his shoulder, and grabbed her hand. “Come on!” He leapt across the narrow ditch, waited until she joined him, then pushed into the line of trees bordering the lane.

  The bushes beneath the trees were thick enough to hide in if they crouched. Half bent, they raced across the narrow strip of land to the edge of the main road. Jeremy halted in the cover of the bushes. “Wait,” he murmured. Releasing Eliza, he edged forward, looking down the main road, the highway to Jedburgh.

  There was a curve just beyond, hiding the entrance to the lane they’d been driving down. He didn’t see Scrope come thundering up and veer into the lane, but he heard him.