by Bliss Bennet
“Why? Because your politics are too radical? Ah, did I not advise you not to reveal the depths of your beliefs?”
Kit shook his head. “Even if I had taken your advice, Fee, it would have been in vain. Theo already has another candidate in mind. One whose temper will not be a hindrance to him, as mine always has been to me, as my brother was kind enough to point out.”
“What? Does he not realize that passion is what persuades others to join one’s cause?”
Kit smiled. “Kind of you to term it passion, not temper. But Theo, I fear, is more afraid of alienating old friends than interested in winning new allies. Strong feelings, whatever name you give them, are far more likely to lead to the first, at least to Theo’s way of thinking.”
Fianna jerked to a halt beside the table, slamming her palms down on the stack of papers. “Then your brother is a fool. Was it not my father’s passion that led men to embrace his cause? His passion that led men to dream about a new way to live, to fight for the chance to make a better life? And is it not your own passion that makes you such a powerful communicator? I’d be entirely unable to capture it, my father’s passion, if not for the example you’ve set me every day since we began this project.”
Kit stepped to her side, raising a hand to cradle her face. “Passion drawn to passion?” he asked, his thumb tracing over the curve of her cheek.
“I’ve no passion, Kit,” she said, her words stilling his hand. “Cold and unfeeling, that’s the heart of Fianna Cameron. Cold enough to cozen a man with a kiss, to take another into my bed in exchange for a ticket on the steam packet from Ireland. Cold enough to turn my back on my kin. What sign of passion is that?”
“Isn’t wanting to be loved the deepest form of passion?” Kit returned, his lips pressing against her temple, against her throat, before he pulled back to stare into her eyes. “To shape your entire life around the chance of winning love, from your grandfather, from all your father’s kin?”
“But what if Sean is right? What if the McCrackens never take me to heart, no matter how hard I work to reclaim my father’s good name?”
“What if he is? Might your desire for family be fulfilled by your O’Hamill relatives, then? Have you not rediscovered an uncle you once thought long lost? An uncle who may, perhaps, even help you find the mother who was forced to abandon you?”
“Sean has no idea where my mother is. And while he may take me in, will he ever truly care for me? Love me? Even if he can somehow temper his pride enough to overlook the shame I’ve brought to the O’Hamill name, can I truly abandon my father?”
Kit tipped her head up so he could look deep into her eyes. “But your father has already given you what you so desperately want from him, Fee. His love. He gave his life in the hopes of winning a better one for you. What greater act of love could there be?”
Fianna shook her head, her eyes closed tight. Against tears? When she spoke, he had to bend close to hear her whispered words. “Have I truly been such a fool, then? Chasing after the love of a dead man? What kind of passion is that, to want something I can never have?”
The hurt in her broken laughter tore at something deep and low inside him. How strange, to find that love could rise even more quickly than temper.
He couldn’t stop to wonder at it, though, not until the words roiling inside him had a chance to break free. He caught her face between his palms, tipping her head up so she could not miss the sincerity in his eyes.
“Then stop chasing a dead man. Stop longing for the family you lost, and dream instead of the one you’ve found. A family filled with so much love that even your passionate heart cannot help but be filled to overflowing.”
She pulled away from him, her eyes narrowing. “A family?” she asked. “What family?”
He reached for her hands, pulling them flat against his chest so she might feel how deeply she had dug her way into his heart. “With me, Fianna. Become my wife, and make a family with me.”
“Kit,” she whispered, raising a hand to his oh-so-dear face, her thumb brushing against the evening bristles of his jaw. He’d tried to hide it with that wry upturn of a smile, but his brother’s disloyalty had hurt him, hurt him deeply. And somehow, his hurt had affected her, made her jump to his defense as if it were instinctual. Praising passion not only to pay tribute to her father, but to offer Kit some small comfort for his pain.
And yet Kit, so ready to put the feelings of others before his own, had taken her clumsy consolations and transformed them into a balm not for his own wounds, but for hers.
Would she never reach the bounds of this tender man’s kindness?
That he could imagine being married to a woman as flawed as she! How deeply it warmed her, even knowing that his offer of marriage had been made only in the passion of the moment. Perhaps, even, to avoid his own guilt at playing a part, however so small, in what Sean had so callously termed her “ruin.”
Of course, as soon as the harsh light of morn brought him back to his senses, he’d realize what a mistake it had been to make such an impetuous, impossible offer.
But she’d not give him cause to regret his kindness. No matter how hard her heart had yearned when Sean had mocked her with the mere idea, she’d not accept what he offered. No, Kit would not have that pain, to know himself a man who would be forced to go back on his word.
But neither did she have the heart to burst the bubble of his so very kind intentions. Not tonight, not when he stood there, so proud and determined, so uncaring of how vulnerable his unthinking words had made him.
No, she might not be able to accept his offer. But she could show him how very moved she was by its tendering.
Her one hand joined its mate, then, framing his face between her palms. “You do me great honor, sir,” she whispered. “Will you allow me to honor you in turn?”
To answer the question that rose in his eyes, she pulled his head down to hers, and pressed her lips against his.
The kiss began with reverence, the merest skim of lip against lip. Nudging, bussing, a gramercy in each light touch. But the growl of pleasure that soon began to vibrate through Kit’s throat called forth answering shudders in her own body, veneration transforming into need within the span of a single breath. Her hands moved to his shoulders and gripped tight, as if she might contain her own desire even as she heightened his. Nudging his lips apart, she set her tongue to exploring, searching out the secret places that made his blood pound harder, his breath hitch.
For hours, eternities, there was nothing in the world but this warmth, this closeness, this kiss. Only the scrape of the rough linen on his bandaged hand, caressing against her cheek, brought her back to herself, to her purpose: to give to him, as he’d so often given to her. She stepped back then, just one pace, far enough for his eyes to focus on the finger she slowly raised to her mouth. She licked its tip, then watched his eyes darken, his eyelids lower, as she used it to trace a winding path over his skin, from the nape of his neck to the sensitive valley behind his ear.
How different it was to weave a sensual spell over a man when admiration for his strength, rather than contempt for his weakness, lay at the heart of her. No disgust roiling heavy in her stomach, no shame at the bitterness of her own acts, no, not with a true man such as Kit. Only a bone-deep warmth, radiating throughout her entire body like the rays of the sun in highest summer.
His arms rose to pull her close again, but she grasped his hands in hers, easing them back down to his sides. “No, Kit. You give, and give, and give, all with no expectation of a return. But tonight, for once, you will be the recipient.”
She pressed a finger against his lips before the words of protest could emerge. “Shhh. Would you truly be so unjust as to deny me the chance of bestowing pleasure?”
His arms grew slack beneath her hands as understanding dawned in his eyes. With a nod, she unwound the cloth from about his neck and draped it about her own. His eyes followed her hands as they pushed aside his coat, undid the buttons of his waistcoat,
dragged the tails of his shirt from his trousers. She pulled at the ties of his shirt, then tugged both ends, drawing him low, low enough to allow her to pull the linen over his head, a slow, sensuous drag that raised the color in his cheeks.
Color flooded her own as she gazed upon his naked torso, its thews and sinews so different from her own. Surprised, she was, every time, to discover this taut, tempered muscularity hidden behind such a genial, angelic face. A man of contradictions, he was, of softness and strength, of kindness and courage, all linked together to make a fascinating, compelling whole. Yes, she would give this man what he wanted, even if he had proved too solicitous up until now to ask for it.
Blue eyes winked up at hers, then back down to her hands, as she pulled the length of his cravat taut between her fists. “Most men like to be in command during bed sport,” she said, teasing one end of the linen over one of his wrists, then the other. “To force their will upon a woman, to prove their manly strength. But is it not a sign of courage when a man allows a woman to take the reins?”
She kept her eyes lowered as she raised his hands to the level of his waist, then looped the cravat about his wrists, once, then again. She bit her lips, struggling to contain the heady mixture of fear and desire that the pound of his pulse under her thumbs set flying. She’d thought to give him pleasure through such an act, but the ardency of her own response shocked her.
Would he be disgusted by her forwardness? Or would it please him, accepting pleasure at her hands? Taking a deep breath, she dared a glance, then found herself transfixed by the fierceness of the desire firing his eyes.
Drawing her small body up to its most regal height, she turned her back to him and stepped toward the passageway, one end of the neckcloth tight in her hand. The cloth drew taut, stopping her for a moment in her tracks. Before her heart could sink, though, the neckcloth fell slack as he followed her lead, the cool wintergreen of his soap and the hot whisper of his breath pricking at the hairs on the back of her neck. She smiled, pulling it tight once again.
The only light in his bedchamber came from the moon, which painted the carpet and the edge of the bed with traces of silver. She led him to the bed, pushed lightly against his chest. He fell back without demur, his lithe body sinking heavily into the mattress beneath him.
Fianna scooted across the bed, tugging on the neckcloth, drawing his arms above his head. His fingers grasped at her skirts, but once she tied the end of the cravat to the side rail, she was able to pull free with ease. She smiled at the groan of frustration he could not quite smother. Before this night was over, she’d make him do far more than groan.
She skirted round the bed, eager to gaze on her handiwork. Kit lay half-clothed, his chest rising and falling so temptingly, her fingertips actually tingled in anticipation. His usual smile was nowhere to be seen; instead, his mouth set in a stern line, as if it took all his will to keep his body from fighting against its restraints. No fear marred his face, only the starkness of desire aching to be fulfilled.
She set out to map every inch of his fascinating body, using just the tip of a finger to tickle against the light hair covering his skin. To tease and torment, not out of contempt or fear, but so he would know how much he was valued, how worthy he was of each second she spent at the task.
Down the back of his arm, up its tender inside, a light whorl amidst the curls, darker than the ones on his head, that lined the hollow beneath. Retracing the same path with tiny kisses, then again with a swirling tongue, forcing herself not to rush, not to give in to the pants and moans that her touch drew from between his lips.
“Tell me what you want, Kit,” she whispered, one hand soothing circles across his chest, the other teasing at the band of his trousers. “Tell me, and I’ll give it to you.”
“You.” His voice cracked, even on just that one short syllable. “You, Fianna.”
“But I’m right here, sir,” she answered, leaning down to lick against the taut nub of a nipple. “Ready and willing to meet any demand.”
He groaned, shaking his head from side to side like an untamed horse fighting against the bit. But she would not give him satisfaction, not until he found the courage to speak his own desires. To acknowledge that he, too, wanted, that he, too, had needs.
“You,” he finally bit out, his voice more of a croak than fully enunciated speech. “No clothes.”
“Ah, me naked, is it? But it hardly seems fair, when you yourself remain half-dressed. Shall we do something to remedy that?”
His hands, jerking hard about the twisted cravat, made the bed creak as Fianna slithered down to the floor. She pulled off his boots, then his stockings, then laved the same attention on his muscled calves that she had given to his arms. He lasted far shorter, this time, before groaning his resistance, jerking his knee away from her mouth. She laughed as he reached about her waist with his strong legs and tugged her back up to the bed. Next time, she’d have to remember to tie his ankles as well as his wrists.
She would not think about that, that there might not be too many more next times. Instead, she took pity on him, slipping free the buttons of his trousers and lowering the fall. He planted his feet on the bed, raising his body so she might pull his remaining garments free. She did it slowly, tauntingly, her hands stopping to shape the muscled curves of his arse, to skim the tips of her fingers over the head of his wide cock.
“Naked. Now,” he growled. She shivered at his tone, half sweet prayer, half guttural curse.
“As you wish, sir.” Returning to the bed to kneel astride his muscular thighs, she reached behind to free the buttons of her gown. Her breasts, raised high by her task, seemed to transfix him, his blue eyes open wide, refusing to blink. As she shook the fabric down over her shoulders, the involuntary jerk of his hips nearly toppled her to the counterpane beside him. She caught herself with a hand on his shoulder, then pulled back before his greedy mouth could capture the prize of her newly bared nipple.
“Words, Kit,” she reminded, her hand curving around her own breast. “Is this what you want?”
“Lord, yes. I’ll go mad if you don’t let me taste you.”
“What else do you want?” she asked, dipping close, but still just beyond his reach. “Tell me, before your mouth becomes otherwise occupied.”
“Oh, Fee, please.” His groan sent a shaft of tingling pleasure straight between her legs. But she waited, until at last he acknowledged his own desires. “Your hand. On me. On my cock.”
Shuddering, she lay beside him on the bed, pulling his leg over her hip to bring his beautiful cock within reach. Her fingers circled round the edge of its head, once, again; then she slid one finger down its length, marveling at its tensile strength. Ingestrie’s demands that she touch him like this had always filled her with revulsion, but she only wanted to draw Kit closer, grasp him tighter, reward him for allowing her to explore this most vulnerable part of his body. Her hand grasped his base, giving an experimental squeeze.
He swore, then buried his head in her chest, as if he could no longer stand to be the only recipient of pleasure. His lips and teeth seemed already to know the most tender spots, the spots that made her moan deep in her throat. His clever tongue swirled about her nipple, and she allowed herself to become lost in the mind-numbing pleasure of it, just for a few moments. She came back to herself only when she felt her own hips begin to move against the hard, furred thigh that had somehow snuck its way in between her legs.
Panting, she pushed his hips to lie flat on the bed. How could she punish him for making her forget herself so? How could she make his pleasure even greater?
Kneeling between his legs, she took his cock in one hand, his tender cods in the other. Her fingers dipped and circled, teasing, tormenting, then drew to a halt as the most lascivious thought darted into her head.
“Are hands enough, Kit? Or do you want my mouth? Here, on you?” She skimmed her lips against his very tip.
He cried out, a sound that nearly undid her. But then he pulled away
. “Fee, no, please.”
She lowered her eyes. Had her boldness disgusted him?
He took a deep breath, then spoke, his words far steadier than the body that trembled below her. “Fee. Look at me. It’s you I need. Just you. Take me inside you, now, before I burst out of my very skin with want.”
Kneeing her way up the bed until her hips opened wide above his, she took him in hand and guided him to the slickness of her entrance. With her own moan, she lowered her body, filling herself with his heat and width.
He bucked and thrust against her, his fingers yanking against the neckcloth that bound his wrists. Her hips moved to meet his, pressing ever faster as she found she could angle her body on every downthrust so that the top of her nether lips shocked against the base of his cock. She’d never heard such sounds come from her own throat.
His jaw clenched, though he kept his eyes wide open. Close to spending, he was. The sight set her own body tight and trembling. She snaked a finger down her belly, eager to push herself to her own release, but his was there before her. Together, they circled her most sensitive flesh, driving, driving, until she stilled and shuddered, throwing herself over the edge. With a guttural cry, he threw his head back and his hips forward, following her into the abyss.
She came back to herself to find Kit’s arms about her, one hand stroking down the curve of her spine, the torn neckcloth trailing from his wrist.
“God, how I love you, Fianna,” he whispered, quiet and reverent, as if they stood in a churchyard rather than lay together in a bed.
As if love were the only thing that mattered. . .
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Kit guided Fianna into the clamoring Bishopsgate building, a protective hand at the small of her back. He smiled as her nose wrinkled at the less-than-pleasant smell. Had she never been inside a printer’s shop? He’d visited Sam and his uncle here so often he’d become accustomed to both the thump of the press and the stink of the soot, linseed oil, urine, and heavens knew what else they used to make the inks and clean the metal type. Perhaps he should have warned poor Fianna.
