Ah, God… Missing him was too tame an expression for the need clawing at her. They needed to talk, they needed to gain perspective on their situation, to reach an understanding as to its temporary and inconsequential—
His tongue teased at her lips, delicately, gently, and Sara couldn’t hold her miserable, prudent, painful thoughts in her head. She kissed him back, letting every scintilla of her passion for him show in her response.
“Better,” Beck growled, smiling against her lips. He abandoned the pretense of gentility and ravished her mouth, then shifted to his side and set his hand to plundering across her breasts and torso even as he continued to kiss, nuzzle, and bite.
“Beckman…” Sara tugged at his hair and got no response, so she tugged harder, until he did pause, frowning at her in the moonlight.
“You’re fertile now,” he said. “I know. But I’ve missed you.” He regarded her more closely. “I wasn’t going to do this, you know. I was going to let you decide whether to come to me, but I fear your stubbornness is the equal of my own. I haven’t seen you, haven’t kissed you, haven’t held you for almost two weeks.”
He’d kept track of her cycle, better track than Sara had herself. “I’ve missed you too,” Sara said, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “How was the funeral?”
“Must we?” He rolled to his back but brought her with him by virtue of the arm he’d slipped around her shoulders.
Yes, they must. They must also talk, for his sake at least. “That bad?”
“No, not really that bad. In some ways it was good, because we were all nine of us, even Ethan, together. Nick has married a very sweet woman who will, I think, end up being his salvation.”
“You’re happy for your half-crazy brother?”
“Cautiously.” Beck trailed his fingers over Sara’s face, making her recall that she’d missed the exact feel of a callused hand on her cheek and jaw. “He’s damned stubborn, but there’s been much ground recovered between him and Ethan, and between me and Ethan, for that matter.”
“You sympathize with your brothers,” Sara said. “They’ve both been prodigal in some way, and so have you.”
“Touché.” He traced her lips with a single finger. “May I please swive you silly now?”
Please, God, yes. “You may not.” Sara rustled around under the covers to straddle him and cuddle down onto his chest. “Nor will I ravish you just yet.”
“My disappointment defies description,” Beck murmured, stroking a hand over her back. “No one else has asked about the funeral, though North inquired generally after my family.”
“North has been preoccupied of late.”
“How much of his past do you know, Sara?”
The question was reluctant, an intrusion of practical concerns and a possible test of Sara’s loyalty.
“He carries an impressive title,” Sara said, “but has for some reason stepped away from it. I don’t know why, but I trust him, Beck. He was the first man about whom I could say that in many years. Polly and Allie trust him too.”
“As do I, though I have to wonder if he’s cut off from all family.”
As Beckman had often been? “Such a fate strikes me as unbearably bleak.”
“Bleak.” Beck angled his chin, so she could get his earlobe in her mouth. “So he stays busy and tries not to think about family. When did you acquire this little trick?”
She was alternately biting and suckling on his earlobe, inflicting on him attentions he’d inflicted on her.
“I’ve been storing up things I’d like to try with you if you came back.” Sara eased off and curled up on him.
“If I came back?” Beck’s frown was audible.
“I don’t have plans for you beyond this night, Beckman.”
A long silence ensued, during which Sara tried to make herself leave his bed. She’d notified two hiring agencies of her availability for a post in the West Riding. Not even Tremaine would think to look for her there.
“What are your plans for me, then, for this night?” Beck leaned up and kissed her temple, as if he’d kiss her thoughts.
“To have my wicked way with you, except, given I might conceive, I’m not quite sure how to go about it.”
“I have a few suggestions,” Beck murmured, his hand moving around to the front of her and finding her naked breast. Within minutes, Sara was gliding her wet sex over the hard, hot length of him, while Beck plied her breasts with mouth and hands.
“This is…” She was panting, aroused, frustrated, and determined all at once.
“Hmmm?” He took a nipple in his mouth, as if he could play with her for hours.
“Beck…” She slid a hand behind his head. “I want… I want you inside me.”
“No, you don’t.” Beck shifted his hips against the mattress when she would have tried to slip herself over him. “You want to come, and you’re having to do more of the work yourself this way. Allow me to remedy the situation.” He pulled her down to kiss him, kept one hand on her breast, and slipped the other between their bodies.
“Yes…” Sara felt his thumb on the seat of her pleasure and slowed the undulation of her hips to find a rhythm with him. In moments, she was rocketing up, climbing toward satisfaction.
“You too,” she whispered, teasing her fingers over his nipple, feeling him arch into her hand. She cast off first, hanging over him, keening as she moved on his cock and his fingers, her hair falling forward as passion washed through her. When she lay spent and panting on his chest, he gathered her hair and brushed it to one side.
“Again,” he whispered, “but easy.” He moved slightly under her, and Sara knew she should be doing something—kissing him, petting him, synchronizing her hips to his—but she was too undone. His hands shifted to her hips, and his grasp there provided her the encouragement she needed to join the languorous slide and pull he’d set up.
“No more than that,” he said. “Let me do the work.”
She sighed, content to feel him moving easily against her sensitized sex. Without her making any effort, she felt arousal gathering again, fueling her to more enthusiastic movement.
“No.” Beck slowed his tempo more. “You let me.”
She relaxed, and like a long, slow wave coming to shore, he built their arousal until it broke over them, gently and at length, bringing a deep sense of pleasure, satisfaction, and joining, though he hadn’t even been inside her.
A sense of coming home, Sara reflected when he’d tidied her up—the prodigal returning.
“Go to sleep,” Beck rumbled, his voice resonating against the ear Sara had pressed to his chest. “I’ll get you back to your own bed before the household wakes up.”
Sara forced her eyes open despite the appeal of that offer. “Beckman, there are things we must discuss.”
He spent a moment considering then reached around to tuck the covers over her bare back. “This is probably the only place we have privacy, and you have my undivided attention.”
“They’re difficult things.”
“So let’s tackle them now, when we have some time and we’re in charity with each other. I am in charity with you, in case you couldn’t tell.” He hitched his arms more snugly around her, and the sense of being treasured and protected almost cost Sara her resolve.
But he was right; his bed was the best place they had for this discussion.
“I am ready to end this aspect of our dealings, Beckman.” A beat of silence followed, then Sara felt his fingers circling gently on her nape. “Beckman, say something.”
“Do you have my successor picked out?” Beck asked, his tone almost amused. “Somebody less inclined to interrupt your sleep, perhaps?”
“There is no successor. It’s just… I have a daughter, and cavorting with you sets a bad example for Allie. I simply haven’t had the discipline to resist.”
“I pride myself on my irresistibility.” Beck drew the covers over her again. “But you aren’t making sense, love. I intend to be underfoot here for the re
st of the growing season at least, and having enjoyed my attentions, I doubt your self-discipline will keep you out of this bed—and don’t think I’ll make it easy for you. And, Sara? I’m going to propose again, too, so man your defenses as best you can. Or woman them.”
“Don’t tease me,” Sara wailed quietly. “I’m serious, Beck. You have to leave me alone.”
“Reasoning with you hasn’t gotten me very far, and you are a very reasonable, rational, self-disciplined sort of lady. I’m not teasing you, Sara. Who is Tremaine?”
Sixteen
At first Beck thought Sara was stiffening with indignation, but then he realized she’d started to cry, softly, miserably, making him regret the shot he’d taken in the dark. But having gotten a response from her, he decided to press his advantage, though North had already told him Tremaine was Sara’s deceased husband’s brother.
“You must be very upset, Sara”—he stepped around the word frightened—“to be casting me aside like this. Talk to me, and I’ll listen. I promise.”
He kissed her crown and prayed she’d believe him.
“Tremaine is Allie’s uncle,” Sara said, levering up to reach for a handkerchief on the night table. Beck forcibly restrained the urge to take the ripe fruit of her breast into his mouth, because they were—God help them—talking.
“Has he threatened you in some way?” Beck didn’t see any point in subtle questioning, and given the recent events at Three Springs, he was quickly coming to conclusions of his own.
“He has not.” Sara sat back on his lap, and Beck obligingly raised his knees to support her. “Or not overtly. He’s written to inquire regarding Allie’s well-being, and Polly’s and mine, and suggested he’d like to take a more active role in Allie’s upbringing.”
“I’d do the same should Nick’s countess be widowed, but Allie’s been without her father for several years now. What has Tremaine been up to?”
“He says only that he’s been putting the family finances in order.” Sara tossed the handkerchief back to the night table and leaned back against his knees, closing her eyes. “In truth, I think he’s been looking for us, and it took him this long to find us.”
“Tell me about Tremaine St. Michael, love.” Beck smoothed her hair from around her shoulders, leaving her breasts exposed to his gaze. That she didn’t notice was a measure of significant upset.
“I wish I could.” Sara rolled off him and tucked herself along his side. “I’ve met him only three or four times, when we came across him on the Continent. He’s like Reynard, and not like Reynard.”
Beck angled an arm under her neck and drew her closer. “Explain.”
“Reynard was wily, conniving, and determined,” Sara said, “but he also had a pragmatic streak. If the prize became too costly, he’d shrug, mutter a curse or a joke, then find some other scheme to focus on. Tremaine is wily too, but he’s… quiet. No Gallic bursts of temper, no little slips or asides to give away his game. He’s cold, Beck. Not just reserved, but cold.”
“And why would such a man take an interest in a niece?”
“Because she’s a prodigy. She paints as well as Polly ever did at her age and even better. She paints too well.”
“He’d exploit that?”
“Reynard would have. He exploited me, and he exploited Polly.”
“So here I am,” Beck said, “trying to get under your skirts while this Tremaine may be trying to take your daughter away?”
“I’m not wearing skirts.” Sara had smiled against his shoulder, thank God. “But yes, should Tremaine decide to impose on us here, I cannot present a picture of maternal devotion while I’m stealing into your bed.”
“And he’s on hand, this Tremaine, to keep track of who’s sleeping where?” Beck brought her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it, then her palm, then her wrist.
“He could show up at any point,” Sara said, her cheek heating where it touched Beck’s arm. “I told him we are doing quite well here at Three Springs. I did not tell him I’m looking for a post in the north.”
The hell she was. “Why not invite him here?”
Beside him, Sara went still. “I very nearly have, and now I think he’d like nothing better. He’ll charm Allie and tantalize her—she still recalls our trip to London when she was little more than an infant. Tremaine could take her back there, promise her lessons and ponies…”
Beck shifted to cover her. “Hush. Tremaine has no legal claim on the child, and you are a good mother. A wonderful mother, and Allie will not choose him over you.”
She clung, and she didn’t argue. Beck took both as progress. “Sara?” Beck’s nose was against her temple.
“Beckman?”
“I’d rather he be right here under our noses, where we can keep an eye on him and know what he’s about.”
He’d used the word we, used it as carelessly as another man might have referred to his favorite horse as a he, not an it—then he waited to see if she’d object.
“I honestly don’t know what to do,” Sara said. “If he can be convinced Allie is thriving here, and a lawsuit for guardianship of her would be unavailing, then he might take himself off and at least wait until Allie is an adult to attempt his schemes with her. Polly says female artists are becoming less and less accepted, at least as professionals.”
Beck silently cursed the departed Reynard, because even from the grave, the man’s perfidy was ruining Sara’s happiness. “Sara, you have to have considered that Tremaine could snatch her from under our noses and pack her off to the Continent, claiming she’s his child or that he has guardianship of her. Court orders can be forged. Would he do such a thing?”
Sara was quiet for a moment, likely adding new fears to her already long list. “I don’t know him well enough. I was always too busy getting ready for the next performance or wondering what Reynard was about to fret much over Tremaine when he made his rare appearances. Polly thinks I’m overreacting, but she has her reasons for wanting to minimize the cause for alarm.”
And then it became time to ask a difficult, if obvious, question.
“Do you suspect Tremaine of instigating all the trouble we’ve had here lately?”
She did not hesitate, and that in itself was daunting. “It would serve his interests to unnerve us. It would put us in a frame of mind to believe his promises of providing for Allie, keep us off balance and uncertain.”
This was hardly a ringing endorsement of dear Uncle Tremaine. Beck considered what was at risk and considered how frightened Sara was.
Also, how far away the West Riding lay during its interminable winters.
“You could marry me, Sara.” He brushed her hair back as he spoke. “I’m a match for any damned half-French, agitating, wastrel uncle. Allie and I get on well.”
“Damn you.” Sara’s voice was soft, pained, and barely audible because she’d buried her nose in the crook of his neck. “The heir to an earldom does not marry a housekeeper, Beckman.”
“I’m only an heir in a technical sense. Nicholas will be anticipating a blessed event in no time, mark my words. Besides, this is England, and I can marry whomever the hell I please, assuming she’s willing.”
And not too stubborn for her own bloody good.
“Marriage to protect Allie is a noble offer, but we’ve both been badly burned by holy matrimony, Beckman. Allie will be grown and likely married herself in a few years, and then where will we be?”
“Married.” Beck dipped his head and kissed her. “Hopefully in a bed very like this one, attired as we are now and not wasting time chatting the night away when we could be making our own family.”
She kissed him back, likely to shut him up.
“You’ll at least consider it,” Beck pressed when he eased back from the kiss. “Promise me, Sarabande.”
“Considering guarantees you nothing.”
This was not true. The knowledge that Sara would consider his marriage proposal, even if only to protect her daughter, guaranteed Beck an
endless supply of sleepless nights and difficult days.
He turned his head so his cheek rested on hers. “Considering gets me your honest attempt at thinking things over, and I’m after your promise, not your answer.”
“Then, yes.” Sara wiggled so she fit more closely under him. “I will consider your offer as a means of keeping Allie safe from her uncle’s machinations, I promise.
“Good enough,” Beck said, shifting them so he was spooned around her. “Go to sleep, love. We’ll sit down with the entire household in the morning, and things will look brighter.”
“Now you worry about rest.” Sara fitted her bottom to his groin as he wrapped his arm around her waist. “You weren’t so worried about sleep before, Mr. Haddonfield.”
“We needed the other too.” Beck kissed her ear. “And I can guarantee you we’re going to need it again before morning.”
* * *
“Is there anything more conducive to producing bodily misery than a solid bloody week of haying?” Beck stretched out his weary body in the lovely heat of the springs, the hotter end of the pool suiting him wonderfully.
“War, perhaps,” North suggested from his spot on the submerged ledge. “Childbirth, one supposes.”
“A hangover I had the first night I landed in Baltimore.” Though Paris made Baltimore look like a romp. “Did we bring soap?”
“You brought it,” North said, but he sloshed his way to the bank and fished it out of their pile of towels and clothes, then tossed it to Beck. “And you’ve grease on your back from trying to prop up the wagon when the axle broke, Hercules Haddonfield.”
“It didn’t break,” Beck said, scrubbing off with the soap. “Or did you see something I missed?”
“I was too busy watching all the help from Sutcliffe flirt with our cook,” North intoned darkly. “You are correct, though, the axle was cut most of the way through, which is a considerable sawing job.”
Beck made thorough use of the soap and lobbed it at North, who caught it one-handed.
Beckman: Lord of Sins ll-4 Page 25
