by Julia Quinn
He peeled off his breeches with great haste. The fire began to warm him almost immediately. He glanced again at the door. Just to be on the safe side, he lowered the blanket and tucked it around his waist. It looked a bit like a kilt, actually.
He thought again about the expression on her face just before she'd run from the room. Maidenly embarrassment and something else. Was it fascination? Desire?
And what had she been about to say? It hadn't been "I should go," which was what she did say.
If he had stepped up to her, taken her face in his hands, and whispered, "Tell me," what would she have said?
3 July 1819
I almost told him again. And I think he knew it. I think he knew what I was going to say.
Chapter 11
Turner was so busy thinking about how much he'd like to touch Miranda— anywhere and everywhere— that he completely forgot that she must be freezing her backside off in the other room. It was only when he realized that he was finally toasty warm that it occurred to him that she was not.
Cursing himself up and down and ten times for an idiot, he stood up and strode to the door that she had shut between them. He yanked it open and then uttered another stream of curses when he saw her huddled on the floor, shaking with near violence.
"You little fool," he said. "Are you trying to kill yourself?"
She looked up, her eyes widening at the sight of him. Turner suddenly remembered he was barely dressed.
"Bugger it," he muttered to himself, then shook his head in exasperation and hauled her to her feet.
Miranda snapped out of her daze and began to struggle. "What are you doing?"
"Shaking some sense into you."
"I'm perfectly fine," she said, though her shivers proved her a liar.
"The devil you are. I'm freezing just talking to you. Come by the fire."
She looked longingly at the orange flames crackling in the next room. "Only if you stay here."
"Fine," he said. Anything to get her warm. With a slightly less than gentle prod, he pointed her in the right direction.
Miranda stopped near the fire and held her hands out. A low moan of contentment escaped her lips, traveling across the room and punching Turner right in the gut.
He stepped forward, mesmerized by the pale, almost translucent skin of the back of her neck.
Miranda sighed again, then turned around to warm her back. She jumped away an inch, startled by the sight of him standing so close. "You said you'd leave," she accused.
"I lied." He shrugged. "I haven't the least bit of faith that you'll dry yourself off properly."
"I'm not a child."
He glanced down at her breasts. Her day dress was white, and plastered to her skin as it was, he could just make out the dark blush of her nipples. "Clearly, you are not."
Her arms flew to her chest.
"Turn around if you don't want me looking at you."
She did, but not before her mouth fell open at his audacity.
Turner stared at her back for a long moment. It was nearly as lovely as the front of her had been. The skin on her neck was somehow beautiful, and a few tendrils of her hair had escaped her coiffure and were curling from the damp. She smelled like wet roses, and it took all his strength not to reach out and slide his hand down the length of her arm.
No, not her arm, her hip. Or maybe her leg. Or maybe—
He took a ragged breath.
"Is something wrong?" She didn't turn around, but her voice sounded nervous.
"Not at all. Are you warming up?"
"Oh, yes." But even as she said that, she shivered.
Before Turner could give himself the chance to talk himself out of it, he reached out and unfastened her skirt.
A strangled yelp emerged from her mouth.
"You'll never get warm with this thing clinging to you like an icicle." He started to pull the fabric down.
"I don't think…I know…This really…"
"Yes?"
"This is a very bad idea."
"Probably." The skirt fell to the floor in a sodden heap, leaving her clad in her thin chemise, which clung like a second skin.
"Oh, my God." She tried to cover herself, but she obviously didn't know where to start. She crossed her arms, then moved one hand down to cover where her legs met. Then she must have realized that she wasn't even facing him, so she reached around and put her hands on her backside.
Turner half expected her to squeeze.
"Would you please just go away?" she said in a mortified whisper.
He meant to. Dear God, he knew he ought to obey her request. But his legs steadfastly refused to move, and he couldn't take his eyes off the sight of her exquisitely rounded backside covered by her slender hands.
Hands that were still shaking from the cold.
He cursed again, remembering just why he had yanked off her skirt to begin with. "Get closer to the fire," he ordered.
"Any closer and I'll be in it!" she snapped. "Just go away."
He took a step back. He liked her better when she was spitting fire.
"Away!"
He walked to the door and shut it. Miranda remained utterly still for a moment, then finally let the blanket around her shoulders fall to the floor as she knelt before the fire.
Turner's heart thumped loudly in his chest— so loud, in fact, he was surprised it didn't alert her to his presence.
She sighed and stretched.
He grew even harder— a feat he didn't think possible.
She lifted her heavy tresses off her neck and rolled her head around languorously.
Turner groaned.
Miranda's head spun around. "You knave!" she spat out, forgetting to cover herself.
"Knave?" He had to raise a brow at the old-fashioned word.
"Knave, rake, devil, whatever you want to call it."
"Guilty as charged, I'm afraid."
"If you were a gentleman, you'd leave."
"But you love me," he said, not sure why he was reminding her of it.
"You are horrid to bring that up," she whispered.
"Why?"
Miranda looked at him sharply, shocked that he'd asked. "Why do I love you? I don't know. You certainly don't deserve it."
"No," he agreed.
"It doesn't matter, anyway. I don't think I love you anymore," she said quickly. Anything to preserve her battered pride. "You were right. It was a schoolgirl infatuation."
"No, it wasn't. And you don't fall out of love with someone so quickly."
Miranda's eyes widened. What was he saying? Did he want her love? "Turner, what do you want?"
"You." The word was the barest of whispers, as if he could hardly bring himself to say it.
"No, you don't," she said, more out of nervousness than anything else. "You said so."
He took a step forward. He'd go to hell for this, but first he would have heaven. "I want you," he said. And he did. He wanted her with more power, more heat and intensity than he could even comprehend. It went beyond desire.
It went beyond need.
It wasn't explainable, and it sure as hell wasn't rational, but it was there, and it could not be denied.
Slowly, he closed the distance between them. Miranda stood frozen by the fire, her lips parted, her breath growing shallow. "What are you going to do?" she whispered.
"That should be obvious by now." And in one fluid movement, he leaned down and scooped her up.
Miranda didn't move, didn't struggle against him. The warmth of his body was intoxicating. It poured into her, melting her bones, making her feel deliciously wanton. "Oh, Turner," she sighed.
"Oh, yes." His lips trailed along the line of her jaw as he laid her gently and reverently on the bed.
In that last moment before he covered her body with his own, Miranda could only stare up at him, thinking that she'd loved him forever, that her every dream, her every waking thought, had been leading to this moment. He hadn't yet uttered the words that would make her he
art soar, but just now that didn't seem to matter. His blue eyes blazed so brightly, with such intensity that she thought he must love her a little. And that seemed to be enough.
Enough to make this possible.
Enough to make this right.
Enough to make this perfect.
Miranda sank into the mattress as his weight settled atop her. She reached out to touch his thick hair. "It's so soft," she murmured. "What a waste."
Turner raised his head and looked down at her with amusement. "A waste?"
"On a man," she said with a shy smile. "Like long eyelashes. Women would kill for them."
"They would, would they?" He grinned down at her. "And how do my eyelashes rate?"
"Very, very highly."
"And would you kill for long eyelashes?"
"I would kill for yours."
"Really? Don't you think they'd be a bit fair with your dark hair?"
She swatted him playfully. "I want them fluttering against my face, not attached to my eyelids, silly."
"Did you just call me silly?"
She grinned at him. "I did."
"Does this feel silly?" He stroked his hand up her bare leg.
She shook her head, her breath leaving her body in mere seconds.
"Does this?" His hand closed over her breast.
She moaned incoherently.
"Does it?"
"No," she managed to get out.
"How does it feel?"
"Good."
"Is that all?"
"Wonderful."
"And?"
Miranda took a ragged breath, trying not to concentrate on his forefinger, which was tracing lazy circles through the thin silk covering her puckered nipple. And she said the only word that seemed to describe it. "Sparkling."
He smiled with surprise. "Sparkling?"
It was all she could do just to nod. The heat of him touched her everywhere, and he was so solid and heavy and male. Miranda felt as if she were slipping over the edge of a precipice. She was falling, falling, but she didn't want to be saved. She just wanted to take him along with her.
He was nibbling on her ear, and then his mouth was at the hollow of her shoulder, his teeth tugging at the thin strap of her chemise. "How do you feel?" he asked huskily.
"Hot." The one word seemed to describe every inch of her body.
"Mmm, good. I like you that way." His hand stole under the silken fabric and cupped her bare breast.
"Oh, dear God! Oh, Turner!" She arched her back beneath him, inadvertently giving him a bigger handful.
"God or me?" he said teasingly.
Miranda's breath was coming in short gasps. "I…don't…know."
Turner slid his other hand under the hem of her chemise and pushed it up until he felt her softly curved hip. "Under the circumstances," he murmured into her neck, "I think it's me."
She smiled weakly. "Please, no religion." She did not need to be reminded that her actions went against every tenet she'd been taught in church, school, home, and everywhere else.
"On one condition."
She opened her eyes wide in question.
"You must take off this blasted thing."
"I can't." She choked on the words.
"It's lovely and soft, and I'll buy you a hundred of them, but if you don't get rid of it now, it'll be shreds." As if to demonstrate his urgency, he ground his hips closer to her, reminding her of the intensity of his arousal.
"I just can't. I don't know why." She gulped. "But you can."
One corner of his mouth lifted in a knowing grin. "Not an answer I was expecting, but certainly one I endorse." He knelt above her and pushed the chemise higher and higher until it passed her breasts and slid over her head.
Miranda felt the chill air blow over her bare skin, but strangely, she no longer felt any need to cover herself. It seemed perfectly natural that this man should be able to see and touch every last inch of her. His eyes raked possessively over her glowing skin, and she thrilled at the fierceness of his expression. She wanted to belong to him in every way a woman could belong to a man. She wanted to lose herself in his heat and strength.
And she wanted him to surrender to her with equal totality.
She reached up and laid her hand against his chest, allowing her fingertips to brush over his flat brown nipple. He flinched in reaction.
"Did I hurt you?" she whispered anxiously.
He shook his head. "Again," he rasped.
Imitating his earlier caresses, she caught the very tip of his nipple between her thumb and forefinger. It hardened under her touch, causing her to smile with delight. Like a child discovering a new toy, she reached out to play with the other. Turner, realizing that he was rapidly losing control under her curious fingers, clapped his hand over hers, holding it immobile. He stared down at her for a full minute, his blue eyes fierce. His gaze was so intense that Miranda had to fight the urge to look away. But she forced herself to keep her eyes level with his. She wanted him to know that she wasn't afraid, that she wasn't ashamed, and most importantly, that she'd meant it when she said she loved him.
"Touch me," she whispered.
But he seemed frozen in place, his hand still holding hers to his chest. He looked odd, torn, almost…afraid.
"I don't want to hurt you," he rasped.
And she wasn't sure how she had come to reassure him, but she murmured, "You won't."
"I— "
"Please," she begged. She needed him. She needed him now.
Her impassioned plea broke through his reserve, and with a groan he pulled her up against him for a hard kiss before lowering her back to the bed. This time he came along with her, the hard length of his body pressing her breasts flat. His hands were everywhere, and he was moaning her name, and each touch, each sound seemed to stoke the flame within her.
She needed to feel him. Every inch.
She yanked at his makeshift kilt, wanting to get rid of the last barrier between them. She felt the friction of it sliding away, and then there was nothing there…except Turner.
She gasped at his arousal. "Oh, my God."
And that made him chuckle. "No, just me." He buried his face in the hollow of her neck. "Told you that already."
"But you're so…"
"Big?" He smiled against her. "That's your fault, sweetling."
"Oh, no." She squirmed beneath him. "I couldn't have done that."
He pressed himself more firmly against her. "Shhh."
"But I want to…"
"You will." He silenced her with a hot kiss, not even sure what he'd just promised her. Once he had her moaning again, he dragged his mouth away from hers, forging a searing path down to her navel. His tongue traced a circle around it and then dipped scandalously inside. His hands were at her thighs, easing them open, spreading her for his invasion.
He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to devour her, but he did not think she was ready for such an intimacy, so instead, he pushed one of his hands up…
And slipped one finger inside.
"Turner!" she cried, and he could not help but smile with satisfaction. He flicked his thumb over the soft, pink folds, reveling in the way she was writhing beneath him. He had to hold her hips firmly down with his free hand just to keep her from rolling off the bed.
"Open for me," he groaned, dragging his mouth back up to hers.
He heard her let out a little cry of pleasure, and her legs seemed almost to melt, sliding farther apart until the tip of his arousal was pressing against her, probing her softness. Turner moved his lips to her ear and whispered, "I'm going to make love to you now."
Breathless, she nodded.
"I'm going to make you mine."
"Oh, yes, please."
He moved slowly forward, patient against her tight innocence. It was killing him, but he was going to restrain himself. He wanted more than anything to plunge into her with hard, furious strokes, but that would have to wait for another time. Not her first.
"Turner?" she whispe
red, and he realized he'd held still for several seconds. Gritting his teeth, he slowly withdrew until only the very tip of him remained inside her.
Miranda clutched at his shoulders. "Oh, no, Turner. Don't go!"
"Shhh. Don't worry. I'm still here." He moved back in.
"Don't leave me," she whispered.
"I won't." He reached her maidenhead and groaned at its resistance. "This is going to hurt, Miranda."
"I don't care." Her fingers bit into his skin.
"You may later." He pressed a little farther, trying to go as gently as possible.
She arched beneath him, moaning his name. Her arms were wrapped around him, and her fingers pressed spasmodically into his back. "Please, Turner," she begged. "Oh, please. Please, please."
Unable to control himself any longer, Turner plunged forward to the hilt, shuddering at the exquisite feeling of her squeezing around him. But Miranda stiffened beneath him, and he heard her wince.
"I'm sorry," he said quickly, trying to keep still and ignore the painful demands of his body. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Does it hurt?"
She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.
He kissed away the tiny tears forming in the corners of her eyes. "Don't lie."
"Just a little," she admitted in a whisper. "It was more surprise than anything else."
"I'll make it better," he said fervently. "I promise I will." Propping himself up on this forearms to keep her free of his weight, he began again to move— slow, sure strokes, each bringing a jolt of pure desire with its sweet friction.
And all the while, his jaw was clenched in concentration, every muscle in his body tight and coiled with the strain of keeping himself in check. In and out, in and out, he chanted to himself. If he moved off rhythm for even just a second, he'd lose control completely. He had to keep this good for her. He wasn't worried for himself— he knew he would reach heaven before the night was through.
But for Miranda…All he knew was that he felt an intense responsibility to make sure that she found bliss as well. He'd never been with a virgin before, so he wasn't certain how likely this would be, but by God, he was going to try. He was afraid that even speaking would set him off, but he managed to say, "How do you feel?"
Miranda opened her eyes and blinked. "Good." She sounded surprised. "It doesn't hurt anymore."
