by Liz Carlyle
For some moments, he lingered there, one shoulder set to the door frame in such a way as she was not apt to see him. He wondered if she might not sense his presence, but for once the sole object of her focus was the leather bag, and she had clearly been at it for some time. She was breathing audibly yet not quite panting, the wild curls round her forehead damp with perspiration.
He knew, of course, that it was a trifle impolite to observe someone unannounced. And yet he was enjoying it too much to bring himself to step into the full light of the attic.
Back and forth she went, her slender spine in perfect alignment, attacking the bag as if bent on an elegant, methodical destruction. The rapier was a long weapon requiring patience and methodical timing. Despite her obvious temper, Anaïs appeared to possess both in abundance. He sensed an undeniable poetry in her motion, a fluidity and grace that defied the very violence of her actions.
Beneath the shirt, her round breasts swayed and shifted, clearly as unbound as her temper. The nankeen trousers molded to her hips in a way that was at once decidedly athletic and deliciously feminine.
It was also deeply, carnally erotic.
And on her next thrust, he realized something. Something even more troubling than Anaïs’s barely suppressed ferocity.
He wanted her.
And he was getting tired of it.
He wanted Anaïs in his arms. Beneath him. Arching to meet him, gasping for breath.
Oh, the desire itself was nothing new; he had wanted her at first sight. But the wanting had not waned. No, quite the opposite. Living in close quarters with her these last few days had become sheer hell. Looking at her across the dinner table each evening, an exercise in physical restraint. And knowing she lay alone in bed each night just a few feet away had been torture of the worst sort.
And now this.
Why deny himself? he thought, watching her drive her sword deep into her target again. His old logic was beginning to fray. He was an honorable man for the most part, but he was not yet promised to anyone. And she—well, she was still mourning her lost lover and waiting for her prince to come, that much was plain. And whomever she turned to next—well, it wouldn’t be Geoff, and that was for the best.
But she did desire him, and had invited him to her bed. She had no expectations, and was not without some experience. But even had he been unaware of that fact, the pure physicality of her movements would have told him that she was a woman in complete control of her body. And Geoff had enough confidence in his skill to know that when at last Anaïs cried out beneath him, she would have long forgotten her Tuscan Romeo—at least for a little while.
Against his thigh, he felt his cock twitch insistently. Shifting his posture, Geoff kept his eyes upon her slender form as she moved back and forth across the wood floor. Eyes flashing, her jaw set tight, at one point Anaïs bounced off the edge of the billiard table, spun about, then landed, drawing her blade mid-center across the bag in a perfectly even slash. There was an unaccountable anger in her motions, but it was a carefully contained sort of rage, for Giovanni Vittorio had taught her well.
In her next retreat, she danced backward into the edge of the billiard table, slamming hard against it as if driven back by a relentless enemy. Then she stunned him by springing up and somersaulting backward, literally rolling across the baize tabletop, rapier still in hand, and landing on her feet on the other side.
She came up panting, but perfectly steady.
He stepped from the shadow of the door, slowly clapping. “Bravissima!”
Her chin jerked up, her dark, expressive eyes even larger than usual. “Geoff?”
He walked slowly toward her. “Did Vittorio teach you all that?”
“Some of it.” Her gaze wary, Anaïs watched him approach. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough.”
As he closed the distance between them, she jerked her head toward the wall. “I’m not done,” she said. “Find yourself a blade.”
He cocked one hip on the edge of the billiard table. “My, but you are in a mood,” he murmured, his gaze running over her. “Still, I do have a soft spot for a woman with a lethal weapon.”
Anaïs must have heard something in his tone. She dropped her point, and sashayed nearer. “You do fence, do you not?” she demanded, looking him up and down.
“What do you think?”
She lifted her chin. “Any good?”
He gave a half smile and lifted one shoulder. “I rather doubt I could tumble backward and come up with my blade still in hand,” he said. “But aye, I think I can give satisfaction.”
She shrugged. “I think you know that move was pure showmanship. In a real fight, it would likely get your throat slit.” Again, she tilted her head in the direction of the wooden rack. “So go on. Let’s see what we can do.”
“Haven’t had enough, eh?”
“Not quite, no.”
He came away from the table and strolled to the rack, snatching the first foil that caught his eye. She followed him, trading her blade for one that was blunted.
“Gracious of you, my dear,” he said, nodding toward it. “A wiser man might just sit you down and make you tell him what has you in such a lather.”
“Another time, perhaps.” Drawing back her left arm for balance, Anaïs jerked up her chin and her blade at once. “En garde!”
“I think we’ve had this conversation before,” Geoff murmured. But he brought up his point all the same.
They went at it like furies for some twenty minutes, Geoff giving her no quarter. He knew better. Anaïs was good enough she would know if he failed to fully press his advantage.
But his only advantage, really, was his height, his reach, and the fact that she was tiring while he was not. Her aggression, however, did not pale. Several times she lunged, and each time he deflected and beat her back. He feinted a flank cut, then went for her throat. She parried beautifully, then came at him with a swift riposte, catching his sleeve. On and on it went, Anaïs often on the defensive but giving up nothing.
And as they danced each other back and forth across the polished oak floor, feet scuffing and thumping, their blades clashing, Geoff realized the truth of one thing Rance had asserted. In this respect, at the very least, Anaïs was as qualified as any to be a Guardian. Not one man in a hundred would have survived her onslaught.
But he was that one in a hundred—or should have been.
For an instant, he dropped his guard and she came at him low, thrusting in the direction of his femoral artery. “Fa’ attenzione!” she barked.
But their blades caught and clashed before the words were out of her mouth.
“Oh, I am,” he replied, circling her blade then pressing her backward. “Do you realize you’re speaking Italian again?”
“I beg your pardon.” She smiled a little viciously and parried again. “But you understand, I see.”
“Sì, signorina,” he said.
Blades striking furiously, the clatter near deafening, he drove her back slowly, his moves heavy and workmanlike, but in the face of her growing fatigue, very effective. She feinted, then went for his cheek, but her timing was just less than perfect. He caught her blade and threw it off, driving her back again.
And it was in that next instant Anaïs made her mistake. She made a swift double retreat, but it carried her too near the thick boxing mat. Her heel caught on the canvas. She tumbled backward, her blade skittering and clanking across the floor. She landed on her arse, sword arm extended, hand empty.
Breathing hard, Geoff came down onto his knee between hers, his blade set across the top of her shoulder.
“Touché,” she said between gasps.
“Non,” he replied, tossing the rapier aside. “Pas de touché.”
“Oh, no.” Her black eyes flashed up at him with warning. “Don’t you dare.”
“What?”
“Don’t cede me an inch,” she ordered, rolling up onto her elbows. “Damn it, not one, Geoff, do
you hear?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Geoff fell onto his hip and elbow alongside her and dragged an arm across the sweat beading on his forehead. “I didn’t give you anything, Anaïs. Sane and rested, you’d likely match me blow for blow.”
She turned her head away from him, her breath calming as she stared into the depths of the room. “Let me catch my wind then,” she finally said. “We’ll start again.”
He slid one hand around her opposite cheek and turned her face back into his. She had lost her hair ribbon, he realized, and her hair was spilling across the leather mat. “Anaïs, what’s wrong?”
Her eyes flashed with warning. “I just feel . . . shut up in this house,” she complained. “Thwarted. I need to do something physical.”
It was his opening, perhaps, to make her an offer he hoped she wouldn’t refuse.
He let it go, choosing instead to gaze into her eyes. The air between them crackled with sensual awareness, and yet he sensed a pain beneath it all that troubled him. He meant to seduce her, yes. But not like this. Not yet.
“Anaïs,” he said again, “what happened?”
“Why must something have happened?”
She jerked as if she might rise, but he held her still, throwing one leg across hers. “My dear, we’ve been living cheek by jowl for days on end,” he murmured, his hand still cradling her opposite cheek. “I think I know what your unleashed fury looks like.”
“Oh, is that your Gift?” she muttered, her gaze dropping to his mouth. “The ability to poke that perfect, Anglo-Saxon nose of yours in someone else’s business and leap to a conclusion?”
“Until this mission is finished, my dear, it’s our business,” he said, lowering his head to hers. He brushed his mouth over the little swell beneath her eye.
In response, she pushed him away. “Leave me alone.”
But Geoff was not in a cooperative mood. He was frustrated—in more ways than one. “Oh, I think we’re done with that strategy,” he murmured.
And he was. If she wouldn’t talk, then he’d tame her, this wild, fierce thing. He yearned to hold the flame to his breast, even to be burned by it. And suddenly, Anaïs’s best interests, Lady Anisha’s breathtaking beauty, even Lord de Vendenheim’s wrath—none of it seemed to matter.
Rolling the weight of his body over her, he slid his fingers into the hair at her temple and opened his mouth over hers. This time he did not hesitate, kissing her instead in the most carnal of ways, sliding deep on his first thrust, then setting a slow, steady rhythm that made plain what he wanted of her.
As if to protest, Anaïs raised her right knee and shoved at his shoulders with the heels of her hands. Undeterred, Geoff caught her hands in his, then urged them above her head, holding them palm to palm as he continued to thrust and taste.
Trembling beneath him, she was like fire and quicksilver all at once, hot and vibrant and hard to hold. He wanted to lose himself inside her. To make her bend to him, in the way a woman gave to a man. Already his head was beginning to swim with her scent, his ballocks tightening dangerously.
Beneath him, Anaïs squirmed and made a little sound of indignation, rubbing his swollen cock through the fabric of his trousers as she thrashed again, leaving him hard enough to hammer nails.
He slanted his mouth over hers one last time, then reluctantly lifted his head. “Is that stop, love?” he murmured. “Seriously?”
Her eyes flashed, but already they were dark with desire. “Would you?”
“Not willingly,” he managed. “But aye, if the lady wishes it.”
He rose up to see that Anaïs lay beneath him like some wanton earth goddess, the throat of her shirt pulled open to the breastbone, her inky curls fired with a thousand tiny diamonds in the sinking afternoon sun. He looked at her and his heart ached with a longing he did not understand, and it brought home to him the powerful certainty that—at least in that moment—he might well do anything she asked.
She did not speak again. His heart sinking a little, Geoff shifted his weight, but the glint of satisfaction in her eye stopped him.
He cursed beneath his breath, then set his forehead to hers, his breathing still rough. “You said you wanted Mr. Right-for-Now, love,” he rasped. “And that’s what I’m offering. Do you want me to beg?”
“No,” she whispered, her voice dark and suggestive. “I want you to ask—no pretty words, mind. Just say what you want. And then I want you to make me beg.”
She was going to drive him mad.
He was sure of it. He clasped her hands tighter, and pushed them higher over her head, holding her captive beneath the weight of his body. “Anaïs, I want to fuck you,” he said. “There. Plain and simple enough? I want you so badly I can’t breathe. And yes, I can make you beg. I’ll make your eyes roll back in your head.”
“Hmm,” she said. “Now that is plain. Keep talking.”
His eyes searched her face—her beautiful, remarkable face. “Sometimes I can’t sleep for knowing you’re in the next room,” he whispered. “If I do sleep, I feel the heat of your body in my dreams. I feel the press of your breasts against my chest, and I feel your hair tangled in my—”
She cut him off with her mouth, lifting her head to kiss him as her eyes closed, feathering impossibly black lashes over her cheeks. He released her hands and took his weight onto his elbows, cradling her face between his palms as he tasted her.
“Anaïs,” he murmured, skimming his lips up her cheek. “You are so beautiful.”
“Don’t say that,” she replied, her hands sliding down his shoulders to settle at the small of his back. “Geoff, you don’t have to say that.”
“Aye, then, I’ll show you,” he rasped, just before kissed her again. And he did show her, with his tongue, and his hands, plumbing her mouth slowly and sweetly as he weighed one lush, perfect breast in his palm, stroking her nipple with the ball of his thumb.
She sighed with pleasure and he rose up, astraddle her now, and stripped off his shirt. “I’d best lock the door,” he whispered.
“Yes,” she said, her eyes trailing down his chest. “But Geoff, I—”
She stopped, and swallowed hard. He bent to kiss her again, threading his fingers through her glorious mane of hair. “What is it, Anaïs?”
She winced a little. “It’s been a long time for me,” she said. “And I’m just not that . . . skilled. Not like the women you’re used to.”
“Anaïs, love, a woman like you doesn’t need skill.” He brushed his lips over her forehead. “It’s been a while for me as well. But I think I can remember how it’s done.”
“How long?” Anaïs looked at him earnestly.
He thought about it, and could barely recall. It was as if she had already displaced all others from his mind. “A few months, I suppose,” he said. “I’ve never been the sort of man, Anaïs, to keep a string of mistresses.”
“There is no one else, then?” she said with a muted smile.
He shook his head. “No,” he murmured. “And when I look at you, Anaïs, I wonder if there ever was.”
“Liar,” she said. But she smiled all the same; a low, sensuous smile that suggested the possibility of a long night to come. Then she held up her arms. “Undress me, you beautiful liar.”
He bent his head, and did as she asked, drawing off her clothing slowly and purposefully, kissing away her faint blushes as he did so. In gradual increments her perfect, pearlescent skin, was laid bare, Geoff pausing to touch and stroke at will. Her breasts were more beautiful than he remembered, not that he’d ever seen them quite this exposed. Her legs, not surprisingly, were long, and more muscular than thin, which oddly pleased him.
Her hair had fallen completely free from its braid. It ran like silk through his hands, and made him think of the night he’d held her on the Jolie Marie—of all he had burned for. Of all he had feared. That this woman was different.
That this one might cost him dear.
The sun was fading now, and Geoff realized dimly h
e had lost track of time. He shucked off his own drawers last, and watched in male satisfaction as her eyes widened with disconcertion, then warmed again.
He turned and came down on top of her.
Anaïs drew up her knees, cradling him intimately as she tilted back her head. “I want you,” she whispered. “Geoff. I ache for you inside.”
The simplicity of it touched him to the heart. He kissed her on the mouth again—he thought he could die a happy man from just kissing her—then slowly trailed his lips down the long, supple column of her throat. He kissed her along her collarbone, then set his mouth to her nipple, suckling gently.
Anaïs felt Geoff’s mouth close around her breast, and cried out at the intimacy. Spearing her fingers into his hair, she tilted her head back and gasped at the sensation. She could feel that exquisite longing go twisting through her, pulling and aching, all the way to her womb.
Lightly circling with his tongue, he stroked and teased her nipple to a perfect, hard peak, then turned his attention to the other breast.
“Geoff.” She tilted her pelvis invitingly. “Geoff, please.”
“I’m supposed to make you beg, love, remember?” he whispered, spreading a row of little kisses down her belly.
“That . . .” She paused to gasp. “That wasn’t begging?”
“Not even close.” He stroked the tip of his tongue round her belly button, then trailed lower.
“Geoff?” she whispered uncertainly.
He set his lips to her inner thigh. “Shall I?” he murmured.
Dimly, she understood what he asked. She was not naïve—not entirely. She set her hands flat against the canvas mat and clung to it.
“I don’t know,” she finally whispered.
He kissed the other thigh. “Ah,” he said. “Then we must find out.”
As gently as one might a flower, he opened her with his thumb and forefinger, then let his tongue slide into her warmth, drowning her in desire. The ache that had curled inside her began to well up at once. He touched her lightly, delicately, teasing her in a way so intimate she would have died of embarrassment if it hadn’t felt so exquisitely wonderful.
