And he lowered her legs to hang over the edge. Stepped back and left her, cold and bereft.
‘No,’ she moaned. She sat up, reached for him.
His gaze dropped to the place his mouth had so recently vacated, so raw and aching, the look on his face dark and sensual. ‘Palms on the table,’ he said roughly. ‘Do as I bid or I’ll end this now.’
The words made her quiver and shiver as if he was still touching her with his mouth.
She gasped. Lolling back, too weak and melting to do anything else. A jerk of a nod signified his approval.
His hand went to his breeches. He unbuttoned his falls. She wanted to offer to help. To touch him as he had touched her, but the darkness in his expression kept her hands glued to the table and her breath coming in little soft pants.
He dropped his coat to the floor and dragged off his boots and stockings while she watched, fascinated. No man had ever undressed in her presence before. She hadn’t even seen her husband naked. The few times he’d coupled with her, he’d always blown out the candles before he removed his banyan.
Breathless with anticipation, she watched. She licked her lips as he peeled the pantaloons down his legs, but saw only a glimpse of his thighs as his shirt, released from its confines, fell to his knees.
She made a sound of disappointment.
He went still and her gaze drifted up to his face.
‘Did you speak?’ he asked in rough, hoarse tones.
She quickly shook her head.
His eyes narrowed, but his hands got busy with his shirt buttons. The placket opened to reveal a narrow strip of chest with a dusting of crisp reddish-gold hair. What would it feel like, that hair, against her skin? Her palms tingled with the desire to touch. She kept them pressed against the cold stone while he pulled the shirt off over his head.
The breath left her body in a long sigh. A Greek statue had never looked so beautiful. Arms that she had known were strong were gilded by the sun and warmed by the light of the candle and the fire. They were beautifully formed. Lovely. And she longed to touch the smooth planes, the curve of muscle. She itched to curl her fingers in the crisp hair sprinkling gold dust across his chest, to trace the hard ridges of muscle beneath his ribs.
Fear held her back. The certain knowledge that if she did, he would not be pleased, and she desperately wanted to please him. To feel desirable.
And right now, he did want her. He was aroused. His male member standing erect from a nest of crisp reddish curls, its head dark and glistening.
It stirred under her gaze and she sucked in a breath, her gaze shooting up to his face.
His eyes were hooded, his mouth sultry, yet mocking her with its slight upward tilt at one corner. Her body trembled with anticipation. Ached for what he might bring her.
He stepped between her knees and she looked down to see their hips were in perfect alignment, his shaft brushing hot against her inner thigh.
‘Wider,’ he ground out through a jaw that was clenched as if he felt pain.
She inhaled a shaky breath and complied.
He clasped her hips and pulled her closer. He placed his knuckle beneath her chin, lifting her face with gentle but firm pressure. There was something in his expression she didn’t quite understand. Shame?
‘Are you sure?’ There was no mistaking the desire in his hard-edged voice—it sent wild shivers all the way to her core, hot little pulses of wicked pleasure. An ache tightened inside her. The need for release from the tension of longing.
She swallowed. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. A shudder of anticipation rippled through her at the power he exuded. He made her feel feminine, desired and strangely—protected.
He reached between them, gazing deep into her eyes as if to gauge her response, and guided his hot hard flesh to her core, pressing against her most private place, a hot, deliciously tempting pressure as he rocked his hips.
He stilled, looking down at her, watching her as if testing her resolve.
She panted, wanting to move, to arch into him, to make him... No. He was like a wild animal—one wrong move and he would walk away and leave her with nothing but the shame of being undeserving of what most women took for granted: male desire for an attractive woman.
She shook with the effort of remaining utterly still.
He leaned forward, his body coming over her, his hands unfastening her gown then trapping hers to the table, pressing her back onto her elbows, her breasts exposed to his mouth. She let her head fall back, eyes closed, exposing her throat. Offering her surrender to his will.
A deep dark sound rose up from low in his chest, a feral sound of possession, and his hot breath scorched her cheek, before he took her mouth in a soul-searing kiss. She melted beneath his assault, her thoughts giving way to the sensation of his lips on hers, his tongue exploring her mouth, the feel of his hard body against her naked breasts and the tantalising feel of him between her thighs.
How could she not have guessed how wonderful it could be? Why had she never known?
He raised his head, leaving behind her lips to trail hot kisses down her throat and then first on one breast, then the other. Sensations chased across her skin in rapid succession. The peaks ached and tightened as he licked and nuzzled the sensitive tips. It felt wicked and wildly exciting. Though she tried, she could not stop the sounds of encouragement coming from the back of her throat.
He teased at her nipples with his tongue, with his teeth, and then he suckled.
Inside and out, her body convulsed at the painfully sharp pleasure that arrowed straight to her womb. She cried out with the shock of it.
He raised his head and the chill air across her wet breast made shivers ripple across her skin to settle low in her belly. Then he suckled at the other breast and the delicious torture started all over again.
It was perfect, wonderful, his mouth was wonderful, an instrument of pleasure that worshipped her body. She lifted her head to look at him. Sensing her movement, he glanced up. For a brief moment she thought she saw a flare of heat in his eyes, of desire. But his expression was cold, remote, as if he was only doing this to please her and sought nothing for himself. Felt nothing.
Her arms trembled with the strain of holding herself in place, but before she collapsed, one hand left hers to support her nape, while the other went between them, stroking her centre in strong, slick motions that made her gasp and cry out. Gently he parted those folds and guided himself to the entrance of her body until she felt herself opening and flesh give way. She felt his flesh enter her a fraction, intrusive, hot and delicious.
He shuddered as if under some great strain. A warm hand stroked her thigh behind her knee, lifting it, and he pressed deeper inside, stroking her inner flesh with small rocks of his hips.
She wanted more. She lifted the other leg, wrapped both of them around his hips, opening herself fully, bringing him closer to her sweetly aching centre.
Without warning, he drove forward, hard, to the hilt. Uncontrollable pleasure washed through her in a searing surge. She cried out.
A growl of warning rumbled up from his throat, a feral sound laced with torment. He nuzzled at her neck first nipping, then soothing with his tongue. He nibbled at her ear all the while driving into her. He filled her and left no room for anything but raw sensation: the rhythm of their panting breaths loud in her ears; the sound of their bodies joining; the sensations of one hand on her breast, the other holding her up so his mouth could feast on her lips, her tongue; and the slapping of his hips against her inner thighs.
Then he swirled his tongue in her ear. His hand left her breast and went to the tiny straining numb buried in the soft folds of her female flesh, expertly rubbing and pressing and...
She shattered in a fountain of heat forced up from her core that blazed along her veins like a forest fire caught by the wind. Her body went limp and she collapsed backwards on to the table.
He groaned softly and withdrew from her body. He hung over her, his hands either side of her, hi
s breath coming in harsh, raw gasps hot against her breasts and his head hanging low. He looked like a man in the throes of terrible agony.
Because... Because he had not found his release. Her heart slowed. Where there had been heat, there was ice.
He had been unable to... She had not been enough for him. She wanted to weep.
Instead, she took a deep breath and sat up. With unsteady fingers, she eased her gown up her arms and over her shoulders, covering her breasts.
He moved away, turning his back while he hastily pulled on his trousers and fastened them over his arousal with a wince.
She pulled her skirts down over her legs. Before she could jump down from the table, he turned back and helped her, holding her up when her legs threatened to buckle.
Never had she felt so languid, so wonderfully relaxed...or so inadequate.
He brushed her hair back from her face and peered into her eyes. ‘Satisfied?’ he asked in a mocking voice.
‘Yes,’ she admitted, but wishing she’d been enough of a woman to bring him to completion. For breathless minutes, she had felt like a siren. Now she knew her husband had spoken the truth. As a woman, she really was a failure.
In silence, he finished dressing, picked up his coat and walked out into the night, leaving her to shiver in a blast of cold air.
* * *
What on earth had just happened? Clearly she was not the woman he wanted. He’d found her inadequate. Undesirable.
Why would she feel surprised? Or hurt? Deeply hurt. No man, not even her husband, wanted her in that way. She just wasn’t the kind of woman men found appealing and she’d pushed him into doing something he hadn’t wanted.
And now he was gone. Out into the night. Leaving her feeling sickened by shame.
She stared at the door.
Her heart stopped still in her chest. What if he never came back?
No. She wouldn’t believe he would abandon her out here in the wilderness. He’d been angry. He’d gone to cool off. To settle his temper. To take care of his needs. Mortification washed through her that she wasn’t enough.
He would come back.
He had to.
* * *
The hours of waiting passed interminably slowly, and while she had lain down beside the fire and huddled under her cloak, she didn’t sleep. It was fear making the time crawl.
Finally, she gave up pretending and rose and folded the blankets. She put more peat on the fire, coaxing it into a blaze. Lit the candle, wishing there were windows that would spill light out into the night and welcome him back.
Inside she trembled.
What if he didn’t come back?
He had looked so disgusted. So appalled. Even in the little light given off by the fire, and the single candle, she had seen his revulsion. As if what had happened was her fault.
She should have fought him the moment he touched her. Fought him? That was a lie. She should have fought herself. While she could still not believe the strength of her climax, something she would never forget, her heart ached for the loss of their growing friendship. He’d laughed with her. And she’d spoiled it all by throwing herself at him like some frustrated spinster.
No wonder he’d walked out with that look of disgust on his face.
She let go a shuddering breath and paced around the small room. Walking to keep warm and to dispel the fear inside her, the burgeoning panic. And as she walked she could not help looking at that door. Waiting for him to return.
But he didn’t.
And when she couldn’t bear it anymore, she peeked out. The sky had lightened. It was morning. And he hadn’t returned. Had he taken his horse?
The idea robbed her of breath.
If he had ridden away, did that mean he wouldn’t return? Her heart pounded hard in her chest. She picked up her cloak and pulled it around her.
His horse would be there. He would not have taken it unless he planned to go far away. He wouldn’t do that. He had promised to see her safe to the duke. Swallowing the dryness in her throat, she opened the door wide and peered outside. The wind tugged at her cloak, trying to rip it from her clutching hand as she took in the view. The clouds still lowered over the hills, obscuring their tops. And it had snowed again during the night. There were no tracks.
She walked around to the back of the bothy. Her horse raised its head and pawed at the ground. Drew’s mount was nowhere to be seen.
If his horse was gone, then he had left. And she was now on her own. Alone in the Highlands and no idea where to go for safety. Her knees weakened. Threatened to give way.
She forced herself to stand straight, took a deep breath and glanced around at the white landscape. If only she had looked at the map before they left. She had left it all to him. Trusted him to see her there safely. There was nothing to tell her which way to go.
Should she go and risk getting hopelessly lost? Or stay and freeze once the peat for the fire ran out?
Quite the conundrum. The sort of problem she sometimes set for her pupils as an exercise in logic for their young minds. In the warm comfort of their schoolroom it hadn’t seemed quite so terrifying.
But whereas she might want to be mastered in her fantasies, in real life she needed to be strong. She’d sooner die trying to rescue herself than simply wait for the end. And that meant she’d have to gather up her belongings and try to find her way to a village. Or back to McRae’s inn.
The inn would be closest, if she could only remember the way.
Downhill. She would head downhill away from the bothy. She strode back inside. The heat inside the little house felt blissful on her chilled face. She went to the fire and stood over it, revelling in the warmth percolating through her clothes. It would be hard to leave such lovely heat and head out into the unknown with only hope and a vague sense of direction as her guide. She looked at the pile of peat against the wall. It might last another day. Perhaps she should wait. Trust he would come back.
And set out if he did not.
Her stomach growled.
If she was hungry now, she would be worse later. She crouched down and ransacked his saddlebag. There was the handful of oats, the bread roll, a tinder box, a handkerchief and a pouch of coins. In the bottom she found the little bag of tea leaves. And beneath that she felt a small book. Not her business.
She frowned as the thought occurred that he’d taken nothing with him. He must have meant to come back.
Perhaps something had happened to him? Her stomach roiled. Could he have run into the smugglers and come to some harm? Were they even now on their way here? If so, she’d be a fool to remain.
Whatever those men wanted, they had meant nothing good.
She looked at the tiny hoard of victuals spread out on the blanket, wishing she had also thought to bring food. She broke a piece of the crust and chewed it slowly. And then another piece. And then half of it was gone and her stomach ached for more, urging her to finish it all. She forced herself to put it back in the saddlebag, stuffing everything back inside. She might need the rest of it later. Although a few tea leaves in hot water would help with her hunger. And warm her, too.
She would make tea, and then she would leave.
The door opened. Cold air filled the cabin.
Surprised, she sat down on her rump with a bump and stared at the tall figure in the doorway.
Drew. He’d come back. He stared at the saddlebag and then up to her face.
Relief flooded through her, chasing away the fear. Followed swiftly by anger. ‘Where have you been?’
He dropped a bundle of fur on the floor. Rabbits. ‘I went hunting.’
‘How dare you leave without a word?’
Anger blazed in his eyes, like the rage of a cornered beast.
She’d said too much. She turned away, her hands clenched together, searching for words that wouldn’t have him disappearing again. ‘I thought you’d left for good.’
There was a long silence. And then the door opened. She swung around, heart in
her throat.
He paused in the doorway, looking back. ‘I’m going to clean these wee beasties so we can cook them.’ His voice was harsh and raw. He went out with a slam of the door.
She closed her eyes. He had come back.
* * *
Outside, behind the bothy, Drew skinned and eviscerated the rabbits. Even that act of violence wasn’t enough for the rage deep inside him. He wanted to hit something.
He was rock hard. Again. He’d thought he’d dealt with that problem. He’d walked away to distance himself. To get himself back under control. Then he’d come back and done exactly what he said he would never do again.
Let himself be seduced by a woman. Her frightened face had left him wanting to hold her. And to use her again.
Guilt swirled in his gut. He’d used her as if he was some sort of animal. He could see from the pain in her face that he’d hurt her. He’d shamed her. Forced her to submit to his disgusting fantasy. As if she was her.
And she wasn’t. She was a strong, brave woman who deserved so much better.
At least she wouldn’t trouble him anymore with her sweet smiles and soft eyes and the temptations of her sweet body. It would not happen again.
He quartered the rabbits, then sliced the meat thin. It was little enough, but it would fill their stomachs before they set out. He walked a little distance off from the bothy and hid the remains under a few rocks. Foxes or other scavengers would no doubt find it, but it wouldn’t be obvious to any casual observer that it was human killed. He’d retraced their flight from the previous evening for a good long way and, as far as he could tell, the smugglers had not followed them, which didn’t mean they wouldn’t, but it did mean they had time to eat before they set out.
Steeling himself for more of her anger, he went back inside to discover that she had put water in the pot and it was already beginning to steam.
‘Good thinking,’ he said gruffly.
He was not surprised that her smile was small and painful, as though it hurt. She gestured to the bit of bread he had brought from the inn. ‘I ate my half while you were gone.’
The Regency Season Page 34
