by Lauren Royal
"We aren't horses," he said low. "And this isn't the first time." A hand skimmed down her body, tracing a sensuous path. "It's another time, another place."
Aye, it was different than last time, but no less glorious. Just different.
"I see what you mean." She squirmed and bit her lip to keep from crying out her pleasure. "I-I've never been in this place before."
"Did I not ask you to be quiet?" he murmured. His mouth started following his hand, trailing little wet kisses down her body. When his tongue swept into her navel, a stab of hot desire arced from there to deep inside. She clenched her teeth, her hands fisting in his hair.
She wouldn't say anything more, not even if—
"Oh, Jase!" His lips were tracing her hipbones and down to her thighs. Warm, oh so warm, and teasingly tender, making shivers ripple through her. "I think no horse has ever done this."
Apparently he was finished dignifying her inane comments with responses. His fingers and mouth roamed her body for long, intimate minutes. Her pulse raced faster and faster, until she feared that she might scream. As he coaxed her legs apart, her fingers clutched at his hair, his shoulders, the sheets.
He cupped her with a hand. And stilled.
Matched by her own, his breath sounded harsh in the suddenly quiet room.
She felt an incredible urgency beneath his fingers.
She waited, and waited, and waited…and when at last his hand started moving, she arched off the bed. Slowly he stroked, ever so slowly and for ever so long. Something was building inside her. Just when she thought she might explode from the pleasure, he slipped a finger inside her body.
"By. All. The. Saints." Astonished, she felt herself pulsing around it. "I—I think," she whispered, "I…think no horse has ever done this, either."
His finger retreated, a slide of exquisite sensation, then plunged deep. Again. Another finger joined the first, and the pleasure built unbearably. She called out his name and clutched at his head and shoulders, the only parts of him she could reach.
"Now," she whispered, begging him to move up and over her, craving his mouth on hers, wanting him inside her. "Please, now."
He answered with but a tiny shake of his head before he drifted down—not up, but down. And his mouth closed over her, impossibly hot, impossibly soft, impossibly thrilling.
"Oh, Jase!" She clutched at air, unable to reach him anywhere. She clutched at the sheets. Her eyes drifted closed as she clutched her emerald and hung on tight, trembling uncontrollably, feeling she might explode.
"I'm—quite—certain," she said in short, hard pants, "a horse—has never—done this." She meant also to ask what made him think of such a thing, but then she did explode, into a million wee pieces.
After what seemed an eternity, somehow the pieces all came back together. She found herself shuddering, gasping for breath.
His mouth curved in an erotic, heart-wrenching smile, he crawled up to meet her and put two fingers to her lips. "Hush now, sweet Cait."
And she did, not only because his mouth claimed hers. She didn't think she could force another word out even if she wanted to. She had no breath left in her lungs.
Tenderly his hands stroked her, calming her…
Except it wasn't calming—the excitement was building all over again.
"Not again," she whispered.
"I said hush."
Over the next space of time, there wasn't a spot on her body he didn't kiss or touch or tease into awareness.
His spicy male scent was intoxicating. Her hands wandered all over him, learning the contours of his muscles beneath his warm skin. His low groans echoed her own mews of pleasure, but his movements remained controlled, agonizingly slow, skillfully bringing her to a fever pitch of passion.
When she reached down, he stilled her hand. "Hush, sweet Cait," he whispered. "This time is for you."
"There must be a way to make you feel—"
"Hush." The kiss he quieted her with was so exquisite, it brought tears to her eyes.
The wanting built and built, until she quivered and cried out, and at last he moved over her and slid inside. Wrapping her legs around him, she arched up, taking him deep…deeper, wishing she could hold him captive.
Wishing she could keep him forever.
He held still for a beat…two…three. Then, "Sweet Cait," he murmured, and began rocking against her, slowly at first, then faster. She'd never thought to feel so close to another, as though they were one and the same. She met each stroke in blissful harmony, her entire body pulsing, clutching him with her hands and her legs, with her arms and her heart. Emotions rose within her, overwhelming her body and soul, pushing her up, up…
"Nay." It was too much, too soon—she couldn't stand it. "Not again."
He lifted his head. "Again," he said, his rhythm below punctuating his words. "Fall for me, sweet Cait."
And she did.
"Oh, Jase!" She plunged over the edge, falling faster when she felt him go with her. The cliff was high, but her landing was soft, cushioned by the man she loved.
They lay still for a long, satisfying minute before he rolled to his side, taking her with him. She cuddled close as she fought to catch her breath.
Like the last time, he'd pulled out at the critical moment. Responsible Jason. It made her a wee bit sad, although she knew she ought to be grateful. Being impulsive and independent was one thing, going home with a bairn in her womb quite another.
But she didn't want to think about going home.
He kissed her on the forehead. "Your arm?"
"It's fine. I forgot all about it." She drew back enough to smile into his clear green eyes. "You made me lose my head."
"Not only that, I almost got you to stop talking." He grinned, then groaned as his gaze wandered to the now-bright window. "We'd best grab some breakfast and ride into London to warn Scarborough."
"Aye," she agreed on a sigh. "I hope I can walk. I feel weak as a day-old bairn."
"Before you try to stand, say it again." Smoothing the hair off her face, he kissed her softly. "My name."
She frowned. "Jason?"
"The other."
"Oh." Feeling her heart swell, she raised herself to meet his lips. "Jase."
"It sounds right from you, sweet Cait," he said before his mouth covered hers.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
"Number twelve. Is that it?" Two hours later Caithren indicated a brand new three-story house at the edge of St. James's Fields. "Crivvens, but Scarborough lives well. No wonder Adam aims to be his friend."
Adam. The man's name made Jason's gut twist. Swallowing hard, he helped Cait down—mindful of her arm—and tethered their horses.
"Someone else is here," she said as they started up the gravel drive. "Or rather, leaving."
A fat-bellied gentleman with an unfashionable brown beard turned from the town house's front door and headed down the steps. Jason nodded at him, but the man didn't acknowledge the gesture, avoiding his gaze as they passed.
"Who do you suppose that was?" Jason muttered as the man hurried away.
Cait shrugged. "Why does it matter?"
"I don't know. Just a feeling." The same niggling feeling he'd had when the Gothards were close by. Shaking it off, he led Cait up to the tall, imposing door.
Their knock brought an aging maidservant to answer. She bobbed a curtsy, her gray curls bouncing beneath a dainty white lace cap. "My lord?"
"I've a matter to discuss with Lord Scarborough. Of some urgency."
"Cuds bobs, you're the second in as many minutes. As I told the other gentleman, Lord Scarborough has left town. He's expected back just in time to attend Lord Darnley's wedding tomorrow."
"That's where Adam will be!" Caithren said excitedly.
Frowning, Jason waved her off. "Who was the other man?"
"I don't rightly know," the maid said. "He didn't introduce himself."
The niggle returned. "Could he have been Geoffrey Gothard?"
Caithren made
a sound suspiciously like a snort, and the maidservant let out a short bark of a laugh before composing herself. "Not hardly. You wouldn't be asking that if you'd seen him." She brushed at her apron. "Mr. Gothard won't be showing his face around here, in any case. Not if Lord Scarborough has any say in the matter."
"He won't be showing his face," Jason repeated under his breath. The man hadn't looked him in the face, either. "Have you an address to reach Lord Scarborough?"
"No, my lord, we do not. Lord Scarborough will be here tomorrow. That is all I have to tell you."
"I sent him a very important letter last week." His arm stole around Cait's waist. Had it been but a week since he'd met her? Eight or nine days, if he was remembering right, but it felt like a lifetime had passed. "Might you know if Lord Scarborough received it?"
The older woman's expression was implacable. "I'm not privy to Lord Scarborough's personal matters. And his secretary went with him."
Knowing he'd get no more out of her, he sighed. "I thank you."
"My lord." With a curtsy, she shut the door in their faces.
Dejected, he stood there a minute, then turned with Cait to head back to their borrowed horses.
"I wonder if the other man learned more," she said.
"He could hardly have learned less. But I cannot shed the feeling that man might have been Gothard, or maybe Wat, or—"
"Have you eyes in your head?" A giggle burst out of her. "It wasn't Geoffrey or Wat."
"It could have been someone they hired."
"It could have been anyone. Do you know many of Lord Scarborough's acquaintances?"
"None," he admitted.
"Then it could have been a friend. Or a merchant. Or a solicitor. And even if it were someone the Gothards hired, you just said the man didn't learn any more than we did."
He nodded thoughtfully. "Judging from that maidservant's attitude, neither will anyone else."
"True enough. Which means no one will learn where to find Scarborough today, any more than we have a clue where to find Geoffrey Gothard."
Maybe she was right. Sometimes a niggle was only a niggle. "Well, I hope Scarborough got my letter, in which case he's already been warned. But on the chance he didn't, I'll come by here again tomorrow."
"We can do it on the way to the wedding." Toward the end of the gravel drive, her feet slowed, then stopped. "If you're willing to take me, that is? Of course, I could go on my own, but…"
A wave of guilt washed over him. "I'm willing to take you anywhere," he said quietly, coming around to face her.
She had no reason to attend the wedding, and he needed to tell her that. His moment of reckoning couldn't be postponed much longer.
Scarborough's red-brick town house loomed behind her, reminding him that he'd be bringing her to his own town house next—and then she'd discover the truth. How much longer could he hold her heart? Before she could see the trepidation in his eyes, he gathered her close and lowered his lips to meet hers.
A strange little sound escaped her throat. Her mouth opened beneath his, and they kissed for a long, melting minute. A kiss of desperation, a kiss of unguarded lust. A kiss so sweet it made him ache, knowing it might be their last kiss ever. Knowing he had to hurt her.
Their time was at an end. He had to explain that her beloved brother was dead and why—shattering all her new and tentative feelings for him. It would break her heart.
It would break them both.
One more night. Despair made him grasp at the thought—he could shield her heart for one last night. A day remained, a night, before her brother was expected in town.
It would be the most bittersweet night of his life, but for her it would be the most magical. He would make it so, no matter the cost to his soul. Before he confessed the truth and broke her heart, he would give her one night to remember him by.
He broke the kiss. "Cait, I…"
"Hmm?" Her eyes were a glazey blue. What shone from their depths was such loving trust…
A weight settled in his chest.
The time had arrived to come clean with it all. Part of the truth she would learn today, and the rest—the painful part—in the morning.
With effort, he mustered a grin. "As I said, sweet, I'd love to take you anywhere. Would you like to attend a ball tonight?"
Her face brightened with a spark of excitement. "A ball? A London ball? I never thought…" Her eyes narrowed. "How do you know there's a ball tonight?"
"There's a ball in London every night," he said dryly.
"And you can gain entrance?"
Her skepticism prompted a smile. "I think I can manage to get us in."
"Aye," she said so slowly he could almost see the gears turning in her head. Her gaze swept over what she doubtless considered his nobleman's costume. "That maidservant assumed you were a lord. You're a master of disguises," she proclaimed with a grin. "It would be a grand adventure. An impulsive, grand adventure. Am I making you impulsive, Jase?" Her eyes sparkled turquoise, the shade he'd decided meant she was happy.
If only he could keep her so.
"And Adam might be at a ball. He must be in town already." Glancing down at her now-bedraggled gown, she lost some of the sparkle. "I've nothing clean enough to wear."
"My sister keeps gowns at our town house. One of them should fit you well enough."
"You have a town house?" Her eyes clouded with confusion. "But—"
He distracted her with a big, smacking kiss, then took her by the hand. "Yes, I have a house here in town. Come along, and I'll show you."
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
"I've never seen so many people!" As Caithren and Jason jostled their horses through the teeming streets, she found herself astonished at the city called London. It seemed to sprawl forever, building after building crammed together. The streets were clogged with animals, vehicles, and pedestrians. Gaudy signboards hung overhead from heavy wrought-iron brackets, appearing to block the air and the sun.
"London stinks," she added. "And it's so noisy!"
Street vendors cried their wares from every corner and in between, making mundane goods like matches, rat poison, and razors sound colorful and exciting. Customers clustered to purchase eatables and drinkables of every sort from the criers' laden barrows. In a span of less than a minute, Cait's ears were assaulted with invitations to buy hot eels, pickled whelks, asses' milk, and a singing bird. In the midst of the deafening hubbub, performers danced on stilts to the beat of tambourines.
Above it all, she heard a man singing lustily to a gathering. Dazed, she stopped to listen. "What is he doing?" she asked when Jason noticed she was missing and rode back to her.
"Teaching them new tunes. He's a ballad seller." A carriage squeezed by, nudging his horse up against hers. "When he's finished, they'll buy sheets with the words for half a pence."
Caithren was amazed. Songs were old, passed down through the generations. She couldn't remember ever hearing a new song. "What if they cannot read?"
"Then they'll memorize the words. Running patterers sing news ballads to report murders and executions. But this fellow is selling the latest popular songs."
A flower girl strolled by with a basket over one arm, reciting a list of her posies in singsong rhyme. Bewildered, Cait shook her head. "How can anyone think in this city, with this din? Does anyone get anything done?"
Jason laughed, and they rode on, weaving through the tumult. She followed him around a corner and onto a street bordering a busy parkland. When he stopped before a large, four-story brick house, she was confused. "Is he tired?"
"Who?"
"Hamish. Your horse. Why are we stopping?" Looking around, she glimpsed a vendor hawking fat brown sausages in the grassy square across the street. "Oh, of course. You're hungry."
Jason laughed again. "We had breakfast not two hours ago." He slid off his horse and lifted his arms to help Caithren down from hers. "No, I'm not hungry." His hands still resting lightly at her waist, he took a deep breath. "I…have something
to explain to you."
She stared up at him. "Aye?"
Releasing her, he swept the red wig off his head and finger-combed his hair. "I've been less than completely honest with you, and—"
At the same time a liveried stableman rounded the corner to take their horses, one of the brick home's double front doors swung open. A tall, thin butler poked his nose out. "Lord Cainewood—what a surprise."
He couldn't possibly be as surprised as Caithren was when Jason answered to the name. "Yes, Goodwin, I've found myself in town for a few days. I apologize for failing to send word."
"No problem a'tall, my lord." The butler eyed Cait with interest. "And the lady—"
"The lady will be lodging here as well."
"Jason?" she whispered.
Jason was…a lord?
And this was his town house?
She'd fully expected his "town house" would turn out to be a garret in a questionable neighborhood. This house had several garrets of its own. Both tall and wide, its face was divided by columns and studded with big rectangular windows, each crowned with a triangular pediment.
Her mind reeled.
Goodwin held the door open wide, and Jason ushered her inside. She stopped dead on the threshold, staring at the home's interior. The enormous windows made it lighter inside than any house she'd ever seen. Carved flowers and ribbons festooned the pale painted plaster walls. A wide staircase curved gracefully up to the next floor.
She turned to Jason. "What kind of a lord are you? A prince?"
"Nothing so exalted." He offered her an apologetic smile. "A marquess."
She blinked, trying to absorb it all. Her legs felt shaky. "You'll excuse me if I need to sit for a moment." Spotting a pair of brocade chairs in the entry, she made her way over and lowered herself to one of them.
A marquess. Her head spun at the mere thought. She certainly couldn't picture her very-Scottish self the object of an English marquess's love. Not that Jason—Lord Whoever—would ever really love her. The blasted man didn't believe a word she said.
She looked over at him, struggling to focus her eyes. The room seemed too bright. "Who are you? The Marquess of What?"
