by Candace Camp
“Are you mad? What does it matter? We’re talking about your lives here!” He strode over to her, color high on his cheekbones, his eyes bright. “You could have been killed! Don’t you care? Doesn’t it matter that your sisters could have been killed too?”
Mary sucked in a harsh breath, an answering anger surging up in her chest. “Don’t you dare say that! I have looked after my sisters all our lives. Nothing matters more to me than they do.”
She pivoted and marched away. He hurried after her, catching up to her in front of the summerhouse. He grabbed her arm, jerking her through the door into the privacy of the small structure.
“Then why in the bloody hell did you run out here with them?” He was still carrying the blanket, and he flung it down on the floor of the round room, letting out an oath. “Don’t you realize what might have happened? He could have hurt you, kidnapped you. He could have murdered you all!”
“I sincerely doubt that.” Mary faced him, her hands on her hips. “If you will notice, none of those things happened. We considered the possibility that he could be around here, but it seemed unlikely.” She ignored the snort of derision he let out. “We took reasonable precautions. It was daytime, and we were on the alert. There were four of us. It’s difficult for one man to kill four people. Even if he’d had a pistol in each hand, he would have had to reload.”
“So you’re only risking two of your lives.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We took our pistols, and Camellia is an excellent shot. She shot him . Twice. If you were more interested in catching him than in braying about your authority over us, you might send some men to search the area where he ran away. There are probably traces of his blood that could be tracked.”
“Braying about my authority! Bloody hell, woman, do you think I care about my authority? About my control over you?”
“That certainly seems to be what’s concerned you the last day or two—where we go, when we go, who we go with. We’re supposed to ask your permission before we escape the prison of that house. We can’t walk except in the upper gardens. Lady Sabrina kindly offers to take us somewhere, and you object. What is any of that about except your desire to rule everyone?”
“You could have been killed! When they told me where you had gone, I started out here to make sure nothing happened to you. Halfway here, I heard screams and shots. I thought you had been killed. I was afraid that when I got out here, I’d find your lifeless body lying on the ground. And you accuse me of being worried about my authority!”
He took two steps and grabbed her by the arms, staring down into her face with burning eyes. “Damn it, Mary, you will drive me mad.”
Mary stood her ground, staring back at him. She could feel the heat radiating from him and see the fire in his eyes. It matched the flames that danced in her own chest, the frustration and anger that made her blood sizzle through her veins. She wanted to lash out, to hit him, to scream, to … Her eyes flickered down to his mouth.
In the next instant, she was crushed against his chest, his arms like iron around her, his lips sinking into hers in a bruising kiss. They melded together, lips fused and bodies pressing into each other’s all the way up and down. Mary’s fingers dug into the back of Royce’s shirt, balling up the material in her eager fists. She wanted, wildly, to sink into his flesh and merge with him, to lose herself in him.
Royce’s hands went to her hair, pulling it loose from its pins and sending it cascading down, filling his hands and tumbling over her shoulders. Sinking his fingers into the soft mass, he kissed her until she was breathless.
Mary was falling into the vortex of his passion, spinning and tumbling, and she clung to Royce as the only steady thing in this suddenly chaotic world. He kissed her again and again as his fingers made their way down the back of her dress, undoing the row of buttons. Her dress fell open and his hands slid inside, roaming over her back, her skin separated from his questing fingers by only the thin lawn of her chemise.
He trailed kisses down her throat, murmuring her name, and her dress slid from her shoulders, catching at her wrists. Impatiently, Mary pulled the sleeves over her hands and let the frock drop to the floor. Royce raised his head, his eyes darkening as his gaze drifted down her.
His breath rasped in his throat as he took the bow of her chemise and tugged gently. The ribbon slipped undone, the top of the chemise sagging open. Mary watched him, her own eyes gleaming with the same intensity as his. The desire in his face filled her with satisfaction, even joy; she wanted to see the fire of passion consume him.
Without stopping to think, she grasped her loosened chemise and pulled it off over her head, tossing it aside. A blush crept into her cheeks at being thus exposed to him, but Mary stood her ground, tilting her chin as she gazed up at him. Royce’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of her bared breasts, and his nostrils flared as if he could not draw enough air.
Almost reverently, he curved his hand over her breast, caressing the satiny skin and lingering over the hard button of her nipple.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, his eyes following the movements of his hands over her pale flesh. “Marigold … you are lovelier than any flower could ever hope to be.”
He bent, surprising her, and spread the blanket out on the floor. Then he swept her up in his arms and laid her down upon it, going to his knees beside her. Untying the drawstring of her petticoat, he drew it from her. He slid off her slippers and stockings, his long fingers lingering over her skin as he moved the plain, practical lisle stockings down the length of her legs. He paused now and again to press his lips upon some entrancing bit of skin he had just revealed, and Mary jerked in surprise even as another tendril of heat uncurled in her abdomen.
His gaze still on her, Royce stood and divested himself of his clothes. Mary watched, both embarrassed and entranced. She gazed at the wide breadth of his chest, the lines of muscles and bones, the softer plane of his stomach, the blond hair that V-ed down his chest and led from his navel down to the proud, pulsing staff between his legs. She glanced away, blushing fiery red.
Mary was not entirely ignorant of what went on between a man and a woman, as many gently reared girls were. She had, after all, spent some of her early years on a farm, and they had lived in a small town, never far from the land and animals, so that she had picked up a general knowledge of how the young came into being. Moreover, she had often enough had to help out in the tavern serving drinks, and though the daughters of the tavern owner were generally treated with more respect than the ordinary tavern wench, Mary had heard enough of the men’s talk and jokes to figure out the basics of the marital act.
Still, she had never before actually seen a naked man—much less one in a state of arousal—and it was a startling sight. But not, she realized as her eyes crept back to look at Royce again, an uninviting one.
He kicked his clothes aside and lay down beside her, propping himself up on one elbow. He gazed at her for a long moment, his hand gliding slowly over her body, sending shivers through her. Mary closed her eyes, basking in the pleasure and heat, loving the faint roughness of his hand on her skin. Her senses were heightened, alive to every new feeling that swept through her.
He bent to kiss her, his mouth moving against hers in a slow, delicious fashion, enticing and arousing her. All the while, his hands stroked and caressed her, exploring the curves of her body. Mary twisted, a small moan escaping her. Royce smiled and began to kiss his way down her body, skimming over the tender skin of her throat and tracing the line of her collarbone, his tongue delving into the delicate hollow. His lips moved ever downward, crossing the quivering orbs of her breasts, coming at last to the nipples. His tongue circled one hard button of flesh, caressing, then lashing it with tiny strokes before his mouth settled on the bud, sucking gently.
As his mouth worked on her breast, his hand slid down her body, caressing her stomach and hips and legs. With each movement he drew closer and closer to the juncture of her legs, until finally his fingers
slipped between her thighs. It did not startle her as much as that night in the smoking room, but the sensation, she found, was even sweeter. Expertly he stroked and teased until she groaned, her legs moving restlessly apart.
Mary swept her hands over his arms and shoulders, wanting to touch him everywhere, her fingers digging in helplessly whenever he brought her to some new height of pleasure. She was panting, her skin slick with sweat, and deep inside need coiled, tight and desperate, aching for release. She could feel the hunger in Royce as well, in the harsh rasp of his breath, the taut contraction of his muscles, the dampness of his skin.
“Please …” she murmured.
His answer was a groan. “God help me, I have to have you.”
He moved between her legs, slowly, gently probing at the tender flesh, moving up until he met resistance. He hesitated, his eyes going up to hers.
“No. Don’t stop.”
He thrust inside her, and Mary let out a small gasp at the slice of pain. He went still, burying his head in the crook of her neck. She could hear his breath rasp in and out of his throat, but he remained motionless until she relaxed. Then he began to move within her again, and the last whispers of pain receded before the need gathering and pushing inside her. Rhythmically he stroked in and out, and with each movement, the hunger, the urgency within her grew.
He filled her in a way she had never imagined, as though there had been an empty ache inside her that she had never known existed. Yet there was something more, something eluding her, beckoning her, and she felt as if she were running, reaching for it, just beyond her fingertips.
Suddenly the elusive feeling exploded within her, and Mary tightened all over, arching up against Royce, waves of pleasure washing through her. Royce cried out, muffling the noise against her neck, and thrust into her hard and fast. For an instant they were joined completely, lost in some mindless dark realm of utter pleasure, their souls seemingly as entwined as their bodies.
Mary floated in a seemingly timeless moment, gradually becoming aware of the heavy weight of Royce’s body across her and the scratchy blanket beneath her back, the hardness of the wood floor beneath that. Her heart slowed its trip-hammer beat, and she smiled, luxuriating in the tingling pleasure that hummed all through her body. She thought dreamily of lying here in Royce’s arms for the remainder of the afternoon. He would kiss her neck and caress her arms, whisper sweet words in her ear—
Royce rolled from her and let out a groan. “Bloody hell. What have I done?”
Mary’s mind cleared sharply. She was suddenly very aware of her nakedness, and not in the pleasant way she had been a moment before. She glanced over at Royce, who had sat up and was bent away from her, hands plunged into his hair. She gazed at the smooth expanse of his back, the broad shoulders and knobby line of his curved spine. She would like, she thought, to trace that outcropping with her tongue all the way up to his neck, to taste the salty warmth, feel the satiny texture of his skin over the stony hardness of bone beneath. But the chill starting in the pit of her stomach as the silence grew quickly vanquished that urge.
Instead, she sat up and groped for her clothes. How had they managed to get so scattered?
“God, Mary, I’m sorry. I don’t—I should never—”
“Please,” Mary broke in, her voice tight as a coiled spring. She should have known; it had been foolish to think that Royce would react any other way. “Spare me your regrets.”
She had already pulled on her chemise, leaving the ribbons untied, and now she stood up, stepping into her panta-lets, then her petticoat. Her stockings she balled up and thrust into the pocket of her dress, thinking with some bitterness that she always seemed to be stuffing away articles of her clothing around Royce.
“Mary, no. Wait.” He turned to see her dropping her dress over her head.
She put it on backward, knowing it would take too long to fasten the buttons behind her. She had to get out of here now, before the tears that were threatening at the back of her eyes overflowed.
“We have to talk.” He came to his feet.
“No. We do not.” Mary thrust her feet into her half boots, not taking the time to button the sides, and rushed out the door, fastening the remainder of her dress as she went.
“No, wait!” He started after her, then stopped in the open doorway, remembering that he was utterly naked. He turned back, cursing.
Mary flew across the ground, taking the route Royce had come through the gardens. Misery lent speed to her feet and she tore down the path, desperate to reach the safety of her room before Royce, with his longer legs and greater speed, could catch up. Tears streamed down her face. She refused, absolutely refused to let the man see her cry over him.
She had had the most beautiful, thrilling experience of her life, and all Royce could offer was apologies and regrets!
Luck was with her, and she met no one on her way. Opening the back door, she slipped inside and up the back staircase. There was no one in the hall, and she ran along it to her room. Closing the door softly behind her, she turned the key and sank onto the floor, gasping for breath. And, finally, she let the sobs come.
Mary was not sure how long she sat there, knees pulled up to her chin and her head resting on her arms. She heard footsteps in the hall and a soft knock on her door, then Royce saying her name in a low, urgent whisper; he even rattled the doorknob. She set her jaw and said nothing. After a moment, he strode away, and she heard a door down the hall close with a sharp crack.
She leaned her head back with a sigh and rested it against the door. She would have liked to crawl into bed and not come out for the rest of the day—but Mary Bascombe did not give up or give in. And she certainly did not hide in her room feeling sorry for herself. She also would have liked to pour out her heart to someone, but she could not tell Rose, her usual confidant. It would shock Rose—who had been too shy to mention the kiss Sam Treadwell had given her!—down to her toes. Even worse, Rose would probably go running straight to Royce and give him a piece of her mind, even demand that he marry her sister now that he had committed the sin of deflowering her.
Mary allowed herself a small smile at the thought of Rose shaking her dainty finger in Royce’s face as she rang a peal over his head. But that, of course, was the last thing Mary wanted. She didn’t need a husband, certainly not Royce. She would be fine; she didn’t need his apologies. And she would just have to get by without putting her troubles on her sister.
As she sat there, it struck her that the second floor was awfully quiet. She did not hear her sisters in their rooms or in the sitting room down the hall. And on the heels of that thought came another—she could hear the faint sound of voices drifting up from downstairs. A moment later, she heard the lower rumble of a masculine voice. She stood up and cautiously opened the door a crack.
A woman’s laughter, not one of her sisters’, floated up gently, followed by Fitz’s voice.
Cousin Fitz was here! And he had obviously brought someone with him. No doubt her sisters were down there, chatting with them. Mary closed her eyes and let out a sigh. The last thing she needed was to have to meet people and be polite. But, she realized, it actually offered a perfect opportunity. With Fitz and the others around, it would be far more difficult for Royce to talk to her in private—or to make some sort of a scene. She had to face everyone sometime, and this was probably the best chance she could have.
Quickly Mary undressed and washed, then put on a fresh frock and pinned up her hair. She stood for a moment, doing her best to put the past few hours out of her head, then sallied forth. Following the sound of voices, she made her way to the drawing room, where she found her sisters sitting and chatting with Lady Vivian Carlyle and Cousin Charlotte. Fitzhugh Talbot stood before the fireplace, one arm propped negligently on the mantel.
He turned and smiled. “Cousin Mary! How happy I am to see you.”
He came forward to bow over her hand in his carelessly elegant way. Mary greeted him with real pleasure and turned to
Charlotte and Vivian, seated together on the sofa.
“I am so glad to see you. I had not expected you so soon.”
“London was growing boring,” Charlotte told her gaily. “Then we found out that Fitz was coming up before Oliver, so we decided to join him.”
“Although I fear poor Fitz was none too pleased.” Lady Vivian smiled slyly, cutting her eyes over at Fitz. “With us along, he had to come in a carriage and leave his curricle for Oliver to drive. I am surprised he didn’t refuse to bring us.”
“Nonsense. I would prefer to escort two lovely women anyway. But, Mary, where is that brother of mine? Your sisters told me the two of you were taking a stroll about the garden.”
Mary did not dare glance at her sisters. “We were… .”
“Do not tell me that he abandoned you. Surely even Royce is not so graceless.”
Mary could not help but smile. It was impossible not to like Fitz, and even harder not to relax in his presence. “No, he did not abandon me. I fear ’twas the other way around.”
Fitz grinned. “Was it, now? Well, I am sure it served him right.”
“Indeed, it did,” said a masculine voice, and they turned to see Sir Royce entering the room.
Mary noticed sourly that he looked as neat and calm as ever.
Royce bowed to Charlotte and Vivian, then reached out to shake Fitz’s hand. “I’m glad you are here.”
“As am I.”
“The earl did not come with you?” Mary kept her eyes on Fitz, not glancing at Royce as he joined his brother at the fireplace.
“No, Oliver still had some business to attend to in the city. I had grown quite weary of London, though. It sounded much more amusing to spend time with my new cousins than to hang about in London watching Oliver meet with his man of business and his solicitors.”
“We are very glad you did,” Lily told him emphatically. “Now we will have another dance partner. It will make it ever so much easier.”
“Yes, and you will have a far better one as well,” Fitz teased, casting a laughing glance at his older half brother. “Royce has two left feet, I understand.”
