He eased her door open. She was reclining on her chaise before the fireplace, a book in her hands. Her hair was loose and spilled over her shoulders. She’d shed her torn nightgown in favor of a light wrapper. She was so lovely she took his breath away.
She sat up and turned toward him, a smile curving those luscious lips. She dropped her book on the chaise as she stood and came forward, the sway of her hips mesmerizing him.
“Adam,” she said, a hint of tension in her eyes.
Odd, how a single word could set his pulse racing. She stopped close enough for him to smell the jasmine scent on her warm skin. He was precariously close to losing what little self-control he’d been able to regain.
“Barrington is in custody,” he told her.
She nodded. “Thank you.”
He dropped his moccasins and reached out to her, then let his hand drop to his side. He couldn’t touch her, couldn’t taint her with the savage part of him. She looked down at his hand and frowned.
“Where is your wristband, Adam?”
“In a courier’s pouch bound for Canada.”
“I thought you would always love Nokomis.”
“I will,” he said, and suddenly realized what she had thought. “But a child’s love is not what I need now.”
“Nokomis was a child?”
“In her eighth winter.”
A flicker of sympathy and pain passed through her dark eyes and when she gazed up at him again, the tension was gone. The pink tip of her tongue wet her lips and she went around him to lock her door.
He closed his eyes for a moment to collect his wits. When he opened them again, she was fumbling with the strings of his jacket. She said nothing of her intentions, but he knew what she wanted. And, God help him, he wanted her more.
She lifted the bottom of his jacket and he helped her pull it over his head. Then she stepped closer, rose on her toes and pressed her lips to the hollow of his throat as her hands skimmed up his sides and across his chest. Her mouth moved lower, to the light matting of hair on his chest. She breathed deeply and he realized he smelled of sweat and leather and horse, and she seemed even more aroused.
She scraped her fingernails lightly over his nipples and then licked at the hardened nubs. The shock of it made him gasp. Lust, pure and primal, swept through him. He tugged the sash of her wrapper and it fell away to reveal her gloriously naked beneath. He could barely move, he was so aroused.
Her boldness intrigued him, all the more so because he knew how truly innocent she was, and that everything she did to him now was experimentation. How far would she go to find her limits? How long before she realized there were no limits? Not for them. Not ever.
No limits, he prayed. Nothing would be forbidden. Nothing held back. He vowed he would devote his life to the search for the things that would give her the most pleasure.
He pushed the buckskin breeches down over his hips and kicked them away, then held her still, his hands gripping her hips as he knelt, trailing kisses down her throat to her breasts and lower to her abdomen. And lower still. He knew she wanted this by her own actions two nights ago.
She tangled her fingers through his hair and swayed as if her knees would give out. He looked up at her. Her head had fallen back, exposing the long column of throat, her eyes were closed and her lips were parted. Her unbound hair swirled around them and he was suddenly reminded of the first time he’d seen her portrait. He’d thought her the most erotic and tightly contained thing he’d ever seen then, but that portrait paled in comparison to the free and unfettered woman standing before him now. This was the vision he’d carry with him through the rest of his life, across continents and oceans, time and space, wherever his duties took him. No matter what happened between them in the future, this portrait of Grace would be his touchstone until the day he died.
“I love you, Ellie,” he said against her stomach. “I love you. I love you.”
She slipped through his hands until she knelt with him. Tears sparkled in her eyes and she lifted her lips to his. “Adam…I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you.”
Her heartbeat hammered against his and it felt as familiar as his own. He’d finally come home.
ISBN: 978-1-4592-3184-9
THE MISSING HEIR
Copyright © 2005 by Gail Ranstrom
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