He sucked in a sharp breath as her fingers brushed his drawers. “Curious, are you?” he rasped.
“How could I not be?” Unable to meet his gaze, she shifted to kneeling before him, then began unbuttoning. “You teased me about the blasted thing often enough.”
But now she understood why he’d spoken of it like a creature apart from himself. The second the buttons were undone, it sprang free of the stockingette, a wild beast escaping a cage.
Griff wrangled the drawers off, then knelt once more in front of her. “There,” he whispered hoarsely. “Now you know what’s been filling my pockets.”
She stared at the instrument between them in undisguised fascination. How strange to see it so proud and impudent, springing up between his legs like a cocky lad.
Cocky. Dear God. Another blush heated her cheeks at the memory of that day in his bedchamber and what he’d called it. “So that’s where it came from.”
“What?”
“The word cocky. I never realized…”
He chuckled, then caught her hand and closed it around the thick, rigid flesh. “Yes, my inquisitive virgin. That’s where cocky comes from. Men have nearly a hundred terms for their privates. Even your precious Shakespeare uses several.”
“Does he?” She smoothed her fingers over Griff’s privates, delighting in how it pulsed in her hand.
His eyes slid shut and a dark flush rose in his face. “You’ll find…the plays have a whole new…meaning once you know of such things.”
She stroked his intriguing shaft until he groaned. “Oh? For example?”
He frowned, obviously having difficulty thinking. “Remember Petruchio and Katherina? He talks about having…his tongue in her tail? And being a…‘combless cock’ if she…will be his ‘hen’?”
She released him abruptly. “What! That’s what that means? I never dreamed—”
With a growl, he grabbed her hand and guided it back to him. When she wrapped her fingers tightly about him, he shuddered. “Shakespeare isn’t…the least…respectable, my sweet. You chose your…favorite author well.”
She sniffed. “Are you saying I’m not respectable, sir?”
He glanced down at her fingers and raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t dare. Not when you’ve…got my cock in your hand.”
Regarding the warm length of him thoughtfully, she tugged at it.
“By God, Rosalind, you’ll kill me yet,” he protested as he thrust into her fist.
“I don’t like that word, ‘cock.’ I like ‘St. Peter’ better.”
His eyes flamed at her. “Damnation, where did you hear that term?”
“From Mr. Knighton,” she said unthinkingly.
“What?” He shoved her hand away and forced her back onto the blanket, hovering over her as he pinned her hands on either side of her head. “Why in God’s name did he speak of a St. Peter to you?”
This was a strange position indeed, strange and titillating. Her every sense tingled with the awareness of him kneeling between her legs, the tip of his “St. Peter” bobbing against her triangle of hair. His body was poised above her so close she could see the vivid blue irises of his eyes, glowing down at her with a mix of jealousy and desire.
She swallowed. “He and I were talking about you—the parts of you. And how your…um…St. Peter part wants me.”
He relaxed only a fraction. “That’s not the only part of me wanting you, but I’ll admit it’s the most demanding one right now. Is that what all that nonsense about the three parts was?”
Licking her suddenly dry lips, she nodded.
He frowned, as if trying to remember what they’d said. A smile suddenly lit his face. “Which of your parts did you say you should ‘keep firmly in check around me’?”
“Do you have to ask?” she retorted tartly.
His gaze seared heat down her body. “No, I don’t suppose I do. Though it seems you’ve failed in that respect.”
“It does seem that way, doesn’t it?” She was surprisingly cheerful about it. She’d known it would be hopeless if he ever got her alone again. She hadn’t a whit of self-control around Griff.
Besides, now that she knew she loved him, it seemed pointless not to share this with him. Especially since he was going to tell her his secrets and marry her anyway.
Shifting his weight so he could brace himself off her with one elbow, he reached down and fondled her in a very naughty manner, plunging his finger so deliciously deep that it wrung a gasp from her. “When Knighton left, what did he whisper in your ear?”
“It’s a secret,” she taunted him. Griff hadn’t told her all of his yet, so she ought to be able to keep a few of her own until he did.
“Is it?” He thumbed her little nub enough to tantalize her, no more. Half-consciously, she tilted her hips up against his hand, then groaned when his fingers danced away. “Tell me, Rosalind,” he whispered devilishly, stroking oh-too-lightly over her damp skin. “Or I’ll tease you until you do.”
“You’re an awful man,” she said, pouting.
“So I’ve been told many times.” He dipped his finger inside her again, leaving her aching for more, so much more. “Rosalind?”
“Oh, all right! He said I should make you keep your St. Peter firmly in check until you told me the truth.”
For a moment, he froze, a black look crossing his face. Then it was gone, replaced by sheer raw desire. “Too late for that,” he whispered raggedly. “Because I’m about to put my St. Peter inside you, my sweet. And you’re going to let me, aren’t you?”
She barely had a chance to register the words or nod in response before he was kissing her again, rich, ardent kisses meant to distract her from what he was doing between her legs. As if that would work, she thought. She could hardly ignore the rigid staff sliding up inside her, filling her with exquisite pressure.
After all his teasing, it was almost too much. She felt anchored to him, joined to him so intimately they were one entity. She liked the feeling…until he kept moving farther in. She began to wonder how he could put so much of his St. Peter inside her.
She tore her lips from his. “Griff, surely you…it won’t fit.”
Obviously he’d reached the same conclusion, for he looked strained and by no means comfortable. Then he shocked her by saying, “Yes, it will, my sweet. Give it a chance.” With a growl, he pressed farther into her. “God, you’re so tight and…and warm. It feels so good to be…inside you at last.”
“It doesn’t feel quite so good to me,” she muttered, for he was stretching her beyond endurance.
“I know, darling, I know.” He thrust a little, then groaned as if he’d reached his limit. “And now I’m going to hurt you, I’m afraid.”
“H-Hurt me?” she squeaked. “How badly?”
His jaw tightened. “Not too badly, I hope. I must pierce your maidenhead.”
That sounded ominous.
“But it’ll be better once it’s done, I promise,” he added. Bending his head, he sucked at her breast, making pleasure shoot through her veins. When her eyes slid shut and she tossed her head back, he murmured, “Forgive me,” and thrust hard.
Something tore inside her, and she moaned at the sharp spasm of pain. But it was over quickly without hurting nearly as much as the words “pierce your maidenhead” had led her to expect. Still, it planted him so deeply, she couldn’t even move without being utterly aware of his flesh filling her up.
She opened her eyes to gaze up into his taut features. “Can’t we go back…to kissing? This is not…quite as pleasant.” She wriggled her hips a bit, and he cursed.
“It will be even less pleasant if you keep that up,” he warned. When she cast him a hurt look, he softened his tone. “You need to adjust to having me inside you. And I need to adjust to being inside you. Otherwise, I’ll never do this right.” He caressed one breast with his mouth, then kissed a path to the other. “Relax, darling. Try to relax.”
Was he mad? How could she “relax” with him plunged so deepl
y inside her?
Then he started pressing tender kisses to her chin and her cheeks, teasing her lips with his tongue, nibbling on them with his teeth. With a melting sigh, she opened her mouth and let him slide his tongue inside.
As he fed on her mouth with growing ardor, he released one of her hands to fondle her where they were joined. A delicious thrill darted along her limbs. The more he fondled and kissed her, the more she felt herself opening up, softening…relaxing.
Then he moved inside her again, withdrawing his St. Peter a little, pressing it back, mimicking the velvet caresses of his tongue in her mouth. Her breath dried up in her throat. Dear God…this felt…carnal. Oh, yes, assuredly carnal.
She wiggled her hips. How interesting. She could make it even better just by undulating a little beneath him.
“Damnation, Rosalind,” he tore his mouth from her to growl. “Yes…yes like that…yes…oh, sweet Christ, you’re…priceless…”
So was he. With the sun setting behind his head, she could hardly bear to stare into his beautiful face with its stark, devouring look, a golden griffin swooping down to plunder her. Her griffin. There was something so…intense about being plundered. He was inescapable, thundering into her. His musky scent mingled with the smell of grass and spilled wine, his feverish breaths kissed her face, and his sweat-slick body surrounded her and was inside her, too, igniting wildfire in her loins, making her ache for the unknown, for him, for the two of them together.
His hands had freed hers and were firmly planted on either side of her as he thrust into her, building the excitement, driving her mad again. She gripped his shoulders and arched her body into him, mad with the need he provoked so rampantly inside her.
At last she understood—why lovers trysted. Why women risked all for their men. Why people spoke of the two becoming one. It was for this enthralling dance, this fiery union.
The union meant to be between a man and woman who loved each other. Tears leaked from her eyes. She couldn’t stop them.
Then she felt his lips brushing her tears away. “Don’t weep, my sweet,” he said in a voice of aching tenderness. “I don’t want…to hurt you. I…can withdraw—”
“No!” She dragged his head down to hers. “No. Just kiss me, Griff.” Though his body thundered inside her, he kissed her with a gentleness that melted her heart.
I love you, she thought as he drove into her. I love you, Griff.
“You’re mine now, Rosalind,” he growled with the fierceness of a griffin hoarding his treasure. He pounded into her as if to impress his claim upon her. “Mine forever.”
With those words, the flood inundated her, waves of hot pleasure that made her cry out and writhe beneath him, digging her fingernails into his shoulders, straining up against his lean body. She was still drowning in the ecstasy when he plunged to the very heart of her and found his own release, crying out her name.
Then he collapsed on top of her. She hugged him fiercely to her as tears poured down her cheeks. Mine, she thought, as greedy as he to lay claim to her dark lover. He wanted her for his own. He hadn’t spoken of love, but he wanted her for his own, and surely that meant something?
They lay there in perfect stillness as their breathing slowed, and their blood resumed a more natural rhythm. The sky above them was a miracle of shot silk in plum and rose and gold, the sun’s own final ecstasy before it found its bed in the horizon. All lay still in the woods around them, as if even the birds hushed themselves before both miracles…the one in the sky and the one on the ground.
With a sigh, Griff nuzzled her neck, then pushed himself off her to fall limp on the blanket at her side. Then he tugged her into his embrace, so she lay half-sprawled across him, her head resting against his chest. Feeling shy with him now and terribly exposed lying naked in the woods, she couldn’t bring herself to look into his face.
Yet she so wanted to know if he’d had the same heart-wrenching reaction to their lovemaking. She drew circles on his belly with her finger. “Griff?”
“Mmm?”
Oh, how did one ask such a thing? “Nothing.”
He tipped her chin up so he could see her face, then frowned. Brushing his thumb along the corners of each eye, he wiped away the remnants of her tears. “Why did you cry, darling? Did I hurt you?”
The endearment resonated deeply within her. “No,” she whispered.
“I tried not to. But I wanted you so desperately…”
“So did I,” she reassured him. “I’ve thought of nothing else for two days.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “You seemed to have another man on your mind earlier.”
She laughed. “You’re such a jealous fool. All we did was talk about you. Your employer was determined to convince me you cared about me. I remained unconvinced.”
“You talked to him about me?” he said incredulously. “But…you planned to marry him. Didn’t you think he might take that amiss?”
“I hate to tell you this, for it’ll swell your head, but I never planned to marry him.”
“What? My God, you practically offered yourself on a platter to the man!”
His jealous tone made her smile. She pushed up on his chest to stare down into his face. A giddy joy seized her at the thought of marrying him. “I’ll have you know that Mr. Knighton is far more perceptive than you. He guessed at once I had no intention of marrying him. I only wanted to delay him somehow, and I thought if I agreed to marry him, I could lengthen the engagement indefinitely.”
“You’re saying it was a pretend engagement.”
“Precisely.”
“Then why did you let him kiss you?” he growled, temper flaring.
“Because we knew you were spying on us, you ninny, and he wanted to goad you. Besides, it took me quite by surprise.”
He clasped her neck, drew her down for a long, drugging kiss, then whispered, “There will be no more surprises like that, do you hear? Because you’re mine now, my sweet. And if I ever catch Daniel kissing you again—”
“Daniel?” she asked, perplexed.
Griff froze, his face draining of color. “Damnation.”
“Daniel? Who is Daniel? Wait, isn’t your real name supposed to be—”
“Yes. I suppose it’s time I told you what I’d come out here to say in the first place.” He sighed. Moving her gently aside, he sat up. “If we’re to be married, you probably ought to know my real name.”
Fear startled to life in her breast. Why did she sense she wouldn’t like this?
He ran his fingers through his hair in distraction, then gazed at her. “The man you know as Mr. Knighton is actually Daniel Brennan. And I’m not called ‘Griff’ because of the griffin. I’m called Griff because of my middle name, Griffith.”
His long shuddering breath struck dread in her soul. “My entire name is Marsden Griffith Knighton. I am your cousin, Mr. Knighton.”
Chapter 17
He that knew all that ever learning writ Knew only this—that he knew nothing yet.
Aphra Behn, English playwright, The Emperor of the Moon
Griff braced himself for her anger. At least now everything was out in the open. He’d always believed in plunging right in, and this was a matter he could no longer avoid, especially if they were to marry.
He would marry her, no matter what her reaction. Making love to her had sealed his determination. He’d never experienced such a joining with any woman—never. It still struck him with awe, with untrammeled wonder.
And with a fierce desire to make sure he didn’t lose this precious connection with her.
He rose and jerked on his drawers, watching her warily. She’d already sat up, twisting herself into a tangle of limbs that hid the private areas of her body. Looking dazed, she drew the blanket up around her. With a twinge of guilt, he saw that it was stained with her virgin blood.
“Rosalind, say something,” he growled as she stared sightlessly past him. “Call me a bastard, rage at me, anything.”
“How can I call y
ou a bastard?” she said in a small voice. “If…you’re…telling me the truth, then you aren’t one, are you?”
If ever he’d needed proof that she knew nothing of her father’s plans, this was it. And she’d given him the perfect opening to spill out the rest of the tale.
He couldn’t, though, not yet. How could he when she sat there so still and quiet, her silence putting the death knell to all his plans?
“Oh, but I am a bastard,” he said hoarsely. “I should never have lied to you about who I was.”
She shook her head as if to clear it. “You really are Marsden Knighton? My cousin?”
“Distant cousin,” he reminded her.
A groan rolled from her. “I’ve been such an idiot. I should have seen it all along. The way you acted, the way you talked. I always wondered how Mr. Kni—How your man of affairs could put up with your insolence. It wasn’t insolence, was it? You’ve always given him orders. You were merely acting as his employer.”
Gratified that she finally understood that at least, he nodded.
She rose as if in a trance, tucking the blanket about her. “And his coarse manner—” Her gaze shot to Griff. “He is the son of the highwayman, not you. He’s the one who lived in the workhouse for a time.” A look of horror spread over her face. “Or was that a lie, too?”
“The only thing I lied about was my identity.” Though I haven’t yet told you a hundred other things. “I gave myself Daniel’s past and he took mine, but the details of our backgrounds are all true and they all match the names. It’s only that what I said about myself belongs to Daniel and what I said about him belongs to me.”
He could see her working it out in her mind, which alarmed him. Rosalind operated on emotion. She attacked with swords, she impetuously offered herself in marriage to save her sister…she threw herself passionately into lovemaking. To see her thinking the matter through instead of hurling the picnic basket at him worried him.
“So you’re the one who went to Eton?” she asked.
He nodded curtly.
“You’re our cousin.” She scrutinized his features. “Yes, of course you are. I only saw the miniature of your father once, but from what I recall you look much like him. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.”
A Dangerous Love Page 23
