Blaze Historicals Bundle II

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  “Why?” To her alarm, he stepped closer, until less than two feet separated them. Her dismay grew when reached out and lightly clasped her shoulders. Dear God, the warmth of his hands felt so good, the heat of them almost melted her resolve. And that could not happen. She could only, would only, give herself to him under the cover of darkness. To do otherwise would only leave her open to rejection.

  “Why?” he asked again. “Why would such an exquisite woman insist on hiding herself in the dark?” When she remained silent, he said softly, “This cannot be due to modesty—you’re far too passionate.”

  “Don’t you mean wanton?” The words came out more harshly than she’d intended, yet they were true. God knows what he’d think of her if he knew the truth—that she wasn’t really a respectable widow, but had spent her entire adult life as a mistress to a nobleman.

  A frown creased his brows and he shook his head. “Not if you’re attaching any sort of lewd or unsavory connotation to the word, and it sounds as if you are. Please don’t tell me you regret what happened between us.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Good. Because I certainly don’t. As for you being wanton…” He touched her face with a tenderness that threatened to undo her. “You are the most exciting, passionate lover I’ve ever been with. I think you are stunning and I want to see you, all of you, when we make love.” He leaned forward and touched his lips to hers. “I want to watch your skin flush and your eyes glaze as you become aroused. Watch as I thrust inside you. Watch you ride me. Watch you come.”

  Her breath caught at the mental pictures his vivid words painted. “I want that too, but…I cannot. We must meet in darkness or not at all.”

  He leaned back and studied her for several long seconds. Then slowly released her. Relief filled her at his acceptance, but it was short-lived, because, rather than stepping away from her as she’d expected, he instead gently clasped her gloved hands and raised them to his chest. She tried to jerk away from him, but he pressed her palms more firmly to him and shook his head. “Your hands are why you don’t want to make love without darkness.”

  It was a statement rather than a question. Anger rushed through her and she had to clamp her lips together to stop herself from snapping out that it was none of his damn concern. She forcefully yanked her hands away from him and stepped back, ignoring the shaft of pain that darted through her fingers. “My reasons are my own.”

  “Tell me,” he said softly. Once again he reached for her hands and to her horror he brought them to his lips and pressed gentle kisses against her gloved palms. His heat branded her skin through the thin kid leather and she gasped. “They felt so good on me last night, touching me, stroking me. Your touch excited me, inflamed me. Pleasured me beyond anything I’d ever experienced. That is something to be celebrated, not hidden. Tell me why you hide them.”

  Dear God, his persuasive voice, his gentle touch, the warmth of his breath beating through her gloves all conspired to evaporate her resolve. Her anger died as quickly as it had flared, replaced by weary resignation. Clearly he wasn’t going to let the matter drop. What difference did it really make if she told him? It wasn’t as if their time together wasn’t temporary. Telling him didn’t mean showing him.

  She pulled in a deep breath. “My hands…cause me pain. The condition is called arthritis. My joints swell and become stiff, making it difficult for me to perform certain tasks. I coat them with a special cream that offers me some relief and therefore I wear gloves to keep the cream intact.” She didn’t add that she hated looking at them, at the daily reminder of why the man she’d been foolish enough to love had cast her aside.

  “Do they hurt now?”

  “A bit, although not too badly today. It’s worse when the weather is damp.”

  He took her hands and very gently massaged them between his. “Does this help at all?”

  “That feels—” Lovely. Knee-weakeningly so. “—nice.”

  “Your hands are why you settled in Little Longstone. To be close to the springs.”

  She nodded. “They offer me a great deal of relief. The pain started several years ago, just as an occasional twinge, but it grew worse over time, as has the swelling.”

  “You’ve seen a doctor?”

  “Several. Other than the springs and the cream, they say nothing can be done.”

  “I’m sorry they cause you pain.” Once again he raised her fingers to his lips. “Take off your gloves, Genevieve. Touch me. In the light. I felt your hands on me last night and they were pure magic. Let me see them touching me.”

  “No.” She could barely choke out the word. “I…can’t.”

  “Why? I have a number of scars. I’m hardly perfect.”

  She snatched her hands away. “Has anyone ever rejected you because of them?” The question came out in a harsh whisper, and to her horror, she felt hot tears push behind her eyes.

  He studied her for several long seconds with an expression she couldn’t read. Indeed, his only outward sign of emotion was the muscle that ticked in his jaw. “No, but I take it that’s what happened to you.”

  Given her question, her reaction, it would have been ridiculous to deny it. She confirmed his statement with a tight jerk of her head. “My…husband couldn’t tolerate ugliness and came to abhor my touch.” Her husband, her lover, what did one more lie at this point matter?

  Again that muscle in his jaw flexed. “I’m sorry he hurt you. But Genevieve, I’m not him. I’m aching for your touch.” He reached out and took one of her hands. Held it between his as if it were a precious treasure. Then slowly, he slid one long finger inside her glove to caress her palm.

  She gasped at the intimacy of the gesture. Her mind told her to pull away, but the feel of his finger caressing her, the heat and desire burning in his eyes, rendered her unable to move.

  “Beautiful doesn’t mean perfect,” he said softly, “and there is nothing about you that isn’t beautiful. Exquisite. No part of you that I don’t want next to me. This is how badly I want you.” He grasped her other hand and pressed it to the hard ridge of flesh tenting the front of his breeches. A shiver of pure want rippled through her, and when her fingers involuntarily curved around him, his eyes darkened. “Trust me, Genevieve. Please. If you harbor any fear, it shouldn’t be that I’ll reject you, but that I’ll keep you locked in this room with me for the next fortnight.”

  She couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. Staring into his eyes, feeling his arousal pulsing against her palm, his finger stroking her, she couldn’t deny him. Trust me… She pulled in a shuddering breath, then eased her hands away from him. With her insides quaking, she slowly pulled off her gloves. His gaze never left hers, not until she’d dropped both gloves to the floor. Then she stood before him, fully clothed, yet feeling utterly naked. And more vulnerable than she’d ever felt in her life.

  Without looking away from her he pulled his shirt from his breeches then lifted the linen garment over his head and let it fall to the floor. Then he picked up both her hands. Settled them against his chest. Dragged them across his skin.

  His eyes slid closed and he let out a long breath. “You cannot know how good that feels.” He opened his eyes and her breath halted at the fire burning in their green depths. “Again. Do it again.”

  Genevieve swallowed and slowly dragged her palms over his skin. He felt hot and hard and his muscles jumped beneath her fingers. He lightly encircled her wrists and pulled her hands away from him and looked down. Genevieve’s throat tightened and her every muscle tensed as she braced herself for the passion in his eyes to turn to disgust at the sight of her skin, reddened from the swelling, and the joints that were larger than they should have been.

  He studied her hands, gently turning them over. Then, he brought them to his mouth. And gently kissed them.

  Genevieve sucked in a harsh breath. “Magic,” he whispered against her fingers. “Just like the rest of you.” He drew the tip of her index finger into his mouth and slowly swirled his tong
ue around it before letting it free. “Delicious. Just like the rest of you.” He pressed her palm to his cheek. “Beautiful. Just like the rest of you.”

  A sob welled in Genevieve’s throat, one that escaped her in a trio of jerky sounds when Simon turned his head and kissed her palm. His words, the sight of his mouth against her imperfect hand, pleasures she’d never thought to experience again, simply undid her. The dam inside her burst, releasing the moisture that pushed behind her eyes. Tears overflowed, dripping down her cheeks, wetting their joined hands. Without a word he pulled her into his arms and settled his mouth on hers, coaxing her with feather-light kisses. Her shivers turned into shudders of delight and with a moan she parted her lips. He kissed her with a slow exploration that made it seem as if he had hours to do so, and his very leisurely approach filled her with impatience. Desperate urgency filled her and she pressed herself more closely against him. Her skin felt tight and hot, as if it had shrunk. She tangled her fingers in his silky hair and leaned back far enough to whisper against his lips, “I want to see all of you, Simon. Touch all of you. Now. Please, now.”

  Breathing heavily, he stepped back and quickly dispensed with the rest of his clothes. When he stood before her, hair disheveled from her impatient fingers, eyes glittering with desire, arousal jutting, a thrill of feminine pleasure raced through her. She reached out and stroked his erection, immensely satisfied not only by his groan, but by the pearls of fluid that leaked from the engorged tip. She painted the wetness over him, stroking his length with one hand while the other slipped between his legs to cup him, all while reveling in the sight of his avid gaze watching her touch him.

  “I’m not going to be able to stand much more of that,” he said, slowly thrusting into her hand.

  “Neither am I.” Her sex throbbed with need, her own slick wetness coating her folds.

  Her words clearly inflamed him. He looked as if he wanted to swallow her in one gulp, a look that fired her every nerve-ending into burning awareness. With a growl rumbling in his throat, he grabbed her bodice and yanked it down along with her chemise. While he pushed the garments over her hips, she kicked off her shoes. When nothing remained except her garters and stockings, he simply lifted her against him and, with his lips claiming hers, walked to the bed, her feet dangling several inches off the floor.

  He sat on the mattress then lay back, taking her with him. Her body covered his, his erection trapped between them, the hard ridge of flesh searing her. His fingers tunneled through her hair, scattering pins, until long strands surrounded them like a curtain. He looked up at her, his eyes intense, filled with need. “Ride me.”

  Genevieve’s heart stuttered at the hoarse command. She straddled his hips, taking him into her body in a slow, deep, wet impalement that dragged a ragged groan from her throat. Setting her hands on his chest, she slowly rocked against him, lifting up until only the head of his erection remained in her, then sliding down again, loving the way he watched her body swallow him.

  He let her set the pace, and at first she kept her movements slow, luxuriating in sensual sensation. The delicious feel of his length stretching her, the musky scent of her arousal mingling with his. The sound of his harsh breathing enraptured her. And most miraculous of all, she gazed in awe at the sight of her hands skimming over his muscular chest, her fingers sifting through the smattering of ebony curls darkening his skin.

  His strong hands cupped her breasts, teasing the hard points of her nipples, each tug of his fingers shooting exquisite shards of sensation straight to her womb. She threw her head back, saturated in pleasure, her movements quickening, her orgasm a whisper away, a whisper that evaporated when he slipped one hand down her torso, to tangle in the curls between her legs and circle her clitoris. Her climax hit her like a bolt of lightning. She cried out as spasms of pleasure gripped her. Beneath her Simon tensed, her name a guttural groan on his lips as his release pulsed inside her.

  With tiny aftershocks still rippling through her, Genevieve melted against Simon’s chest and buried her face against his neck. At least a minute passed before she could raise her head. When she did, she found him staring at her, as if he’d been waiting for her to look at him. His gaze probed hers, intense, as if searching for something.

  Tucking a curl behind her ear, he said, “Thank you.”

  She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

  His fingertips traced her eyebrows. “For what?”

  She wished she could keep her answer light and breezy, along the lines of “for the very enjoyable romp and much-appreciated orgasm,” but she couldn’t. “For giving me back something I thought I’d lost forever. For not finding fault. For…accepting. And finding beauty where there is none.”

  “‘Beauty is bought by judgment of the eye,’” he quoted.

  “Shakespeare,” she murmured. “Love’s Labours Lost.”

  “Yes. Where you find no beauty, I judge there to be an abundance.”

  His words made the space around her heart go hollow, an unsettling sensation she shoved aside to be examined at another time. “Thank you,” she said softly, then asked, “Why did you thank me?”

  Something flickered in his eyes, something she couldn’t decipher other than to know it looked troubled. It disappeared as quickly as it came, leaving her wondering if she’d imagined it. “For telling me the truth. For trusting me.”

  Guilt slapped Genevieve, and she leaned down to brush her lips over his so he couldn’t see her eyes. Because, while she’d told him the truth about her hands, she’d lied to him about a great deal more. And for the first time in a very long while, her conscience pricked her for being less than truthful.

  When she was certain her lies wouldn’t show in her eyes, she lifted her head and offered him a smile. “You’re welcome. And now that I’ve had my wicked way with you, how do you propose we spend the rest of the day?”

  His hands slowly smoothed down her back to cup her bottom. “I can think of half a dozen things we could do.”

  She cocked a brow. “Half a dozen? That’s quite a few.”

  “And that’s without even trying.” He leaned up to kiss her. “And before luncheon.”

  “Oh, my. But I thought your pantry was bare.”

  “There are biscuits. And jam. And honey.”

  “It just so happens I’m very fond of biscuits. And jam. And honey.”

  His smile could have melted the soles of her shoes, had she been wearing any. “I don’t know when I’ve heard better news. I think honey would go well right here.” He drew a lazy fingertip around one of her nipples then dipped his head to lave the sensitive peak with his tongue.

  “To start,” she murmured. And with that he rolled them over, and the magic began all over again.

  14

  THE SUN was close to setting, the autumn sky streaked with fiery fingers of red and gold, when Simon and Genevieve, pulled along by an energetic Beauty, neared the path that led to his cottage. Simon deliberately slowed their footsteps, knowing that very soon Baxter would be returning from Genevieve’s home and their day together would be over. And he wasn’t ready for it to end.

  For the past quarter-hour, as they’d strolled along the wooded path from the springs after Genevieve had soaked her hands, he’d tried his damnedest to recall the last time he’d spent such an enjoyable day, only to finally conclude that he never had.

  How was that possible? How could it be that in nearly thirty years of living—a life filled with privilege, friendships, lovers, parties, passion and adventure—that this day, with this woman, out of all the days he could recall from a lifetime of days, was his favorite? He didn’t know, but there was no denying it.

  They’d spent hours in sensual exploration, their bouts of lovemaking interspersed with laughter, conversation and a picnic of biscuits, jam and honey on the hearth rug in his bedchamber—a meal that led to an even more delicious pastime of painting honey on each others’ bodies. After licking off the sweetness, they’d made love again, their skins wa
rmed by the fire and bathed in flickering golden light. Genevieve was not only beautiful, she was witty and intelligent and an exciting, adventurous and generous lover. He’d found himself unable to stop touching her, and was consumed with the unprecedented desire to wrap his arms around her and never let go, to meld their bodies so tightly together they couldn’t be separated.

  There were women he’d known for years with whom he didn’t feel so comfortable, with whom he didn’t share such an easy rapport. And never had there been one who set his blood on fire as Genevieve did. Every minute spent in her company only served to further convince him that she hadn’t been, in any way, involved in Ridgemoor’s death. Indeed, he was convinced she didn’t even know her former lover was dead. Surely a woman who’d trusted him enough to remove those gloves, to show him, share with him that which she considered her greatest shame, was trustworthy. He’d asked her to trust him, and although she had no real reason to, she had.

  And damn it, that kicked at his conscience—a fact that both unsettled and alarmed him. It had never bothered him in the past to coax confidences from people while feeding them a sack of lies. It was all part of his work. After all, he could hardly announce to suspects, “Good afternoon, I’m a spy for the British Crown, come to unearth all your secrets. But if you’d simply tell them to me, it would save me a great deal of time and trouble.”

  Yet because he was not telling her who he was, why he was here, each lie was beginning to taste like a dose of bitter medicine. Which could only mean that the stirrings of discontent he’d experienced over the past months were more pressing than he’d believed. If he couldn’t stomach telling lies, then his days as a spy were truly numbered. Indeed more than once today he’d considered telling her the truth, but his mind warned him to be cautious, that he didn’t really know her, that while she’d shared one secret with him, she had others—the fact that she’d been a mistress, and her secret identity as Charles Brightmore. But his heart…his heart which had never before been so engaged told him her secrets regarding her past were only to protect herself and her reputation in Little Longstone. They were not for any nefarious reasons.