When her lips skimmed across the hard nub of his male nipple Logan sucked in his breath.
“Oh, did I hurt you? I never wanted for you to be hurt.”
“Nay, if truth be known what you’re about is making me forget there’s any pain at all.”
“Truly?” Rachel peeked up, a quivering smile teasing her lips.
In reply Logan’s mouth closed in on hers, catching her sigh. His tongue filled her mouth, weakening her knees so that she had to hold on to him tighter.
“Oh, God, Your Highness.” His hands tangled in her hair, pulling her nearer. His lips skimmed across her jaw after she said something against his mouth he couldn’t understand. “What?”
“I’m not a Highness you know.” Her words were breathless as she sought again the mindless ecstasy of his kiss.
“You seem like one to me. A sweet, sweet princess from a faraway fairy land.”
Logan tugged at her skirts. She tugged at his breeches. Neither knew where the giant splat of mud came from. But it had them pulling away and looking at each other in laughter.
Logan’s eyes skittered to the barrel and back. “You know, I think the tub is big enough for two.”
Rachel blushed. “I think you’re right.” She reached up to unfasten her stomacher. “Then there’d be no question of who should bathe first.”
“Aye, but you’re a smart one, Princess.” Logan’s fingers closed over hers, the heel of his palm rubbing her nipple as he worked at the tabs.
Rachel moaned, reaching for the placket at the front of his breeches. The hard pressure of his staff and the anxious fumbling of her fingers made the buttons difficult to loosen.
“Perhaps,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper, “we should each undress ourselves.”
So for a moment they did, tossing aside mud-laden stockings and petticoats, stopping at regular intervals to view the other’s progress. When she was down to her shift, he to his breeches, Logan grabbed her toward him, unable to resist any longer the feel of her skin.
He skimmed the ruffled yoke off her shoulders, his breath catching as the soft cotton fabric held tenuously on pearled nipples before drifting to the floor. Logan traced a smudge of dirt along the curve of her collarbone.
“I never knew mud to be so erotic.”
Her own fingers followed a streak to where his breeches yawned open to reveal a thatch of dark, curly hair. “Nor did I.”
Logan swung her up into his arms, then stepped into the barrel. The water, though hot enough to send billowy steam into the cooler air, felt chilly against his fevered skin. Slowly he lowered her till her feet barely skimmed the water’s surface. His hips ground against hers, his sex against the soft cushion of hers.
“Oh, Rachel.” He lowered her further then bent down, scooping a handful of water and pouring it over her shoulder. He followed the crystal droplets as they rolled down her body, tracing the path with his tongue. “Anne says I love you.” He paused, licking the underside of her breast before straightening to face her. To see her expression.
“Do you?” It seemed strange to be standing here with him, both naked and aroused, yet embarrassed by words.
He played with a strand of mud-encrusted hair, meeting her eyes reluctantly. “I’m not sure I know how to.” He gathered more water, watching her head fall back as he let the warm liquid drip over her breasts. “I know I want you. That every time we’re together ’tis like the skies open and I see a bit of heaven.”
This time he didn’t stop as the droplets flowed downward. He followed them over the plane of her stomach, the warmth of his breath turning her legs to jelly. Then lower till he dropped to his knees, splashing water around her legs.
His tongue played her, dipping and lathing, teasing and sending her senses spiraling. She tried to keep some hold on reality. But the effort seemed beyond her. She wasn’t even sure how she ended up sitting on his legs, hers spread round his hips. But his mouth drank of hers, hungry and carnal and she didn’t care.
Hard and thick, his rod pressed against her spread womanhood. Water surged and swelled, seemed to boil around their hips as they both writhed, doing their best to assuage the desire that enveloped them as surely as the steam.
“I want to be inside you.” His words vibrated against her neck, heated her blood till she was mad with want... with need.
Logan’s hands bracketed her hips, lifting, sliding her up along the pulsing length of him. “Twist your legs around if you can. Aye, like that.”
The last was slurred as his tongue speared into her mouth. The next moment Rachel sank down over the slick rounded tip. Her moan of pleasure mingled with his as slowly, sensually his flesh impaled hers.
She was tight and moist as a mouth and her sheath gripped, massaged. Logan tore his lips from hers. His breathing was harsh, a raw panting, as he fought for control.
“Don’t move,” he rasped as his fingers dug into the soft flesh of her bottom.
“Can’t stop. Oh Logan, please. Please...” She jerked, twisting, begging with each ragged breath she took. Her breasts, hard and so sensitive she could scream, tangled with the moist curls on his chest. Water churned, pumping round where their bodies joined.
Then one hand slid down between her legs, touching her so sensually, so privately. She cried out, unable to stop herself, not caring to. The tremors convulsed through her body, shaking her to the core. She could feel his explosion, savored the feel of his seed spewing into her. The feeling of oneness with him. With him.
It was like this whenever they made love. The barriers crumbled. Their thoughts joined. Their feelings melded.
Rachel collapsed onto his hard chest, relishing the intimacy, wondering if it was as it seemed, that their hearts beat in perfect unison.
How long they remained like that, joined and at peace, Rachel wasn’t sure, but when they finally moved her legs were stiff and the water chilled.
They started quickly washing each other, sharing the small sliver of soap. Logan leaped from the tub, moving the extra pails of water close to the fire before turning back toward the tub. Rachel crouched low in the water, her hair a stiff pile of grayish bubbles, her eyes a smoldering, smoky blue as she watched him.
Logan covered the distance between them in three strides, pulling her to standing and slanting his mouth over hers. She tasted slightly of soap but he didn’t care. “God Rachel, I can’t get enough of you.”
They took turns pouring the warmed water over sudsy slick bodies, rinsing away the rest of the mud. Logan lifted her from the barrel, carrying her to stand before the hearth, kissing her till their desire burned hotter than the flickering flames.
His attempt to dry her with the thin scrap of linen was more caress. But he patiently sat on the braided rug, finger combing her hair till it was merely damp before guiding them both toward the bed.
This time their coupling was slow, exquisite, satiating. Afterward Logan lay on his back, Rachel’s cheek cradled on his shoulder.
“I do, you know.”
Rachel nestled closer. “Do what?” The bond between them vibrated with what he felt... what he was going to say. But Rachel turned from the knowledge. She wanted to hear it from his own lips.
“Love you,” he whispered. “I love you.”
Chapter Nineteen
“Angels, as ’tis seldom they appear,
So neither do they make long stay;
They do but visit and away.”
— John Norris
“To the Memory of His Niece”
Two strong fingers pressed to her lips, keeping them shut when she would have responded to what he said. The room was deep in shadows, the candle by the bedside sputtering in a pool of foul-smelling tallow, the logs nearly spent, sifting through the iron grate. Rachel studied Logan’s face, trying to make out his expression in the grainy light.
“I didn’t tell you of my love to force you to answer in kind.” One finger traced the moist seam, skimming inside her mouth. “’Tis just such a new e
motion for me. Though with you I think ’twas growing from the start.”
“Yet you don’t know what to do with me.” She couldn’t help it. His thoughts were hers. She could not block them out.
He twisted, turning to face her more squarely. “I shall protect you Rachel. With my life, I shall make certain no one hurts you... ever.”
Rachel touched the discoloration under his eye. He feared her mad, and still he loved. Swore to himself that no one would ever take her away. Locking her arm round his neck, she wished it could be so. Wished she could forget her past, the life she had known. To stay with him, cocooned in his arms.
Wished it enough to promise Logan she would let him talk with Lord Bingham on the morrow. “Mayhaps we can discuss this and...”
And what? Logan didn’t know. But he was willing to try for her.
Much later Rachel crept from the bed. Logan slept, his body turned toward her, his hair, tumbling across his cheek. Unable to sleep she’d watched him for hours, till her eyes strained in the darkness. Memorizing every angle and plane of his face. Breathing in his scent. Letting her fingertips skim across his muscled shoulder.
As quietly as she could Rachel built up the fire... as he’d taught her. Then she gathered up their mud-laden clothes and dipped them in the icy water in the barrel. She swished and washed as best she could, rinsing and wringing out his shirt, draping it across the chair back. She took less time with her petticoat and gown, only bothering at all because they belonged to Caroline.
Building his fire, washing his clothes, Rachel could pretend, could almost believe things were as he wished them. That she was his woman, and he her man. That the Fates hadn’t played such a dastardly trick on them.
When everything was hung by the hearth to dry, Rachel slipped into the other shift and gown Caroline lent her, then searched through Logan’s knapsack for his knife.
The dull clank of metal sounded loud to her ears but when she cast a nervous glance over her shoulder Logan still slept. His words this night had proved one thing to her. He would do what he must to keep her safe. And in doing so would endanger himself.
She could never allow that.
And protecting Logan had little to do with concern for returning to her former life. She cared about him... deeply. As she crept along the dark hallway toward the Duke of Bingham’s rooms, she finally accepted that. Today, when she thought the guards would kill him, her own fate never entered her mind.
It was Logan she worried about.
Him she cared about.
And he was the reason she tiptoed past the guard, whose thick lips flapped open with each gurgling snore. Lord Bingham would never have stood for such sloth-like servants in England. The wretch didn’t even awake when she slipped the key from his coat pocket.
Inside, the only light came from the banked fire. But she could see enough to tell that Lord Bingham’s servants had decorated the sitting room with many of his belongings, candlesticks and tapestries, armchairs and a small writing desk. Vestiges of his wealth and position, that he carried with him.
Which would all amount to nothing soon, Rachel thought as she inched open the door to his bedroom. Bringing a taper from the other room, she lit a branch of candles on the bedside commode, then bent down toward him. He didn’t come immediately awake. Not even with the knife blade resting a heartbeat away from his neck. It took her gentle whispering of his name to bring him from sleep’s embrace.
His strangled cry was quickly quieted by the slightest pressure of her blade. She could see the whites of his eyes as he stared up at her. Could feel his panic and relished it, remembering all too well the expression on Elizabeth’s face moments before Bingham’s ball exploded through her body.
“Lady Rachel.” His voice cracked as he tried to swallow and found the honed edge of the knife.
“Ah, so you do remember me after all. Earlier I could swear you had no recall of me... or of the night you killed your wife.”
“How did you survive? I saw you fall into the lake.”
“And rushed to my rescue, too, I’ll wager.” Rachel tightened her grip on the ivory handle. She had to force herself not to slice through his neck immediately. To remember how she wished for him to squirm and beg for mercy first.
“Actually, Lord Bingham, as in the case of Elizabeth and Geoffrey, I did not escape the death you gave me.”
“But... but...”
“Yes, l know. I do seem very much alive. Assuredly I look and feel as I did before you ended my life. But it is all an illusion. You see, I am an angel.”
“Who lands in mud puddles and plays with knives?”
“I’m not playing Bingham. What I have in mind for you is no game.”
“I never meant for you to be hurt, you know. You weren’t supposed to be there. Only Liz and her damn cuckolding lover were to die. I honestly felt remorse when I saw you by the lake.”
“Unfortunately, I won’t be able to return the emotion.”
The knife slipped lower. “Know that this is for Liz. Because you saw fit to snuff out her life, I shall do the same to you.”
He lay there, vulnerable, his throat white and exposed. She hated him, for what he’d done to Liz and Geoffrey. For what he’d done to her. Her knuckles hurt from the death grip she held on the carved bone handle. And still she could not bring herself to thrust downward through his flesh.
Then her chance was gone.
From behind someone grabbed her arms. Rachel screamed and watched helplessly as the knife clattered to the floor. She yanked, doing her best to break free of the iron grip, but her efforts proved futile.
She was held immobile, tears of frustration swimming in her eyes as Bingham scurried to the far side of the bed.
“It took you damn long enough to come to my rescue,” he yelled, bunching up the blanket to cover the wet spot on his nightshirt. “I could have been slain by this madwoman.”
The guard mumbled something in explanation, which Rachel couldn’t understand and doubted Bingham could either. But the duke seemed more interested in hiding the fact that he’d wet himself and dismissed the hapless guard with a sweep of his hand.
“What should I do with her?”
“Kill her,” came his lordship’s exploding reply. But he must have thought better of the order, for he twisted around to impale Rachel with an icy stare. “No. I don’t think we shall. Not at this moment at least. The ferryman said the river should be down enough to cross today. Roust him. We shall take the madwoman with us.” He stepped closer and Rachel could smell the stench of urine. “Mayhaps I can think of a more fitting punishment for one so fair.”
~ ~ ~
Damp, black-trunked pines stood skeletal against the pearling sky as they left the inn. For one so vain about his appearance, it surprised Rachel how quickly the duke could manage his toilette. It seemed hardly any time after she was tied, gagged, wrapped in one of his voluminous capes, and bundled off to the coach, until he joined her.
The shades were drawn as they were ferried across toward Wilmington. Rachel could not see or be seen... except by Bingham. His cold eyes never left her face as the coach dipped and swayed with the current.
Once on dry land, he stretched across the space separating them and roughly yanked away the strip of silk covering her mouth. His fingers gentled as he brushed a strand of hair off her cheek. There was a light in his eyes that turned Rachel’s stomach. She was pleased to extinguish it.
He jerked back against the soft leather squab, wiping spittle from his face with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. His expression was a study in rage, though it didn’t take long for the cool facade to resurface. He stretched out his long legs, kicking hers aside in the process.
“Now Lady Rachel, that wasn’t very... angelic.”
“You obviously aren’t familiar with avenging angels.”
“Obviously not. However, I’d be willing to wager that you are no more saintly than I.”
“My conscience isn’t blotted by murder,” Rachel said,
her chin rising.
“No?” Bingham’s fingers steepled and he smiled slightly, a gesture that made Rachel’s skin prickle. “But then you were stopped before you had the chance.” One finger strayed from formation to point her way. “It would be interesting to see if you had the nerve to actually kill someone.”
“Return my knife and I shall be glad to satisfy your curiosity.”
His chuckle was unnerving. “Ah, Rachel. My beautiful, clever Rachel. Would things have been different if I’d followed my... shall we say baser instincts and wed you instead of your cousin?”
“I would never have married you.”
“Now, now, never say never. As I recall you were tilting your skirts around Prince William. The king’s brother to be certain, but hardly more influential or wealthy than I. And certainly less able to pleasure you.
She tried to hold his gaze, but thoughts of him touching her, of doing with him what she did with Logan, made her physically ill. But he wouldn’t allow her even the smallest courtesy of looking away. His fingers clamped over her jaw, forcing her to meet his eyes.
“You’re under my power now Rachel.”
“I’ll never be under your power.”
He sat back, his narrow face pensive. “We shall see. We shall see.”
As they rode on in silence Rachel tried to formulate some plan. Her hands were still tied, and though she tried her best to wriggle them free, she couldn’t. At least not without drawing attention to herself. There was nothing she could do until her hands were free, and even then... The only thing she was thankful for was that Logan was not here.
“I am puzzled.”
Rachel was thinking of Logan, lost in memories of the previous night when Bingham spoke again.
“How did you manage to escape those waters? I’m quite certain I saw you go under.”
“I found the same escape you shall.”
His smile deepened. “Ah Rachel, we would have made a good pair. ’Tis a pity I chose Elizabeth and her fortune. And her cuckolding ways.”
“I daresay most anyone would be tempted to forget their vows of fidelity married to you.”
Christine Dorsey - [MacQuaid 02] Page 28
