So she disappeared. Disappeared into her painting, into the world where she only had to create. Create and not think of things that could break her. Would break her.
Two hours passed in silence, Wynne working, Rowen sitting patiently across the room from her, paper in his lap that he had not bothered to read.
The moonlight moved across the room, and as late as it had gotten, she still didn’t want him to leave, was not ready to be left alone with her rambling thoughts when she knew she could not sleep.
It was when her brush was filling in the shadows of Rowen’s neck, making her way down to the line of his collarbone, that her earlier avoidance had waned enough to look at him. Plus, she needed to see him in order to get the nuance of his collarbone right.
Wynne leaned from behind the canvas, her eyes trained on the points where his white shirt met bare skin.
“Why do you hate the duchess?” She asked the question without thought—merely to fill the room with something other than silence—and went back to the canvas, recording the gentle slope of the hard line of his collarbone.
That particular question harbored the one thing she still could not place in Rowen—his hatred for the duchess. For all of his generosity, his kindness to Wynne, he continued to show none of that to the duchess.
The one flaw—the one thing in Rowen that she was having a hard time coming to terms with. Had she never seen the two of them together, sniping at each other, Wynne wouldn’t even think Rowen capable of treating an older woman like the duchess with such disrespect.
It took her a few minutes of painting to realize Rowen hadn’t answered her question.
She scooted left to look at him.
His face had changed from just a moment ago.
Harder. Closed off.
Not what she had intended. And she had thought they were past pretending that Rowen didn’t openly loathe the duchess.
Before Wynne could retract her question, Rowen opened his mouth.
“I think the better question may be why does the duchess hate me? Maybe she should answer that for you. Life has brought both of us disappointments in how we wanted our destinies to unfold. And we have handled our disappointments very differently.”
“In what way?” Wynne did not stop her painting.
“The duchess’s way eats away at her.”
“And your way does not eat away at you?”
“I do not feel the need to try to destroy others to soothe myself. That is her particular way, and I have suffered the brunt of it since I was born.”
Wynne went silent. The clip in his voice was just harsh enough that she realized she had to stop this particular discussion before Rowen stormed out on her.
That was the last thing she wanted at the moment.
Swapping brushes, she swiveled on her chair to the canvas. She made the cut of the V of his shirt, the white paint contrasting with the skin of his chest. She had suggested days ago Rowen wear full dress—coat, vest, cravat, trousers—but he had just laughed and refused. If the portrait was to be the true him, he wasn’t going to show up uncomfortable, putting on airs.
Wynne leaned forward to study the shadow and began to realize the silence was weighing even heavier in the room.
A pop and a crack from the fireplace, and Wynne sighed. She wanted to keep hearing Rowen’s voice—it helped her paint, and that was rarely the case with subjects.
So she grasped onto the first neutral question that popped into her mind. “Do you believe in fate?”
“No.”
The answer came so quickly that Wynne paused, leaning to look at him. “Truly—for all you have done, for being in the right places at the right time to save all those horses, for not getting killed, for becoming a duke—you do not credit fate with a hand in it?”
Rowen sighed. “Fine. I do. It is just that we have had a difficult relationship, fate and I.”
She smirked at his flip. “Why so difficult?”
“Fate was overruled when I was born—I never should have existed.” He folded up the paper that had been sitting on his lap and set it onto the table. “Fate then doled out harsh retributions for my birth—retributions that lasted years.”
“What does that mean—you never should have existed? Why?”
He waved his hand. “It does not matter—I was born, so it bears no consequence. History cannot be changed.”
Wynne cocked her head at the canvas. Rowen was talking in riddles again. “And fate regards you well now?”
“I think fate has accepted the fact that I exist and begrudgingly decided that I may be useful on occasion. But that does not mean fate looks kindly upon me.”
Wynne nodded to herself, concentrating on the arch of a stroke. “Meeting me. Was that an instance of you being useful? You did save me. I appreciated it. Fate was more than generous with me that day.”
Rowen stood, silent, and began to walk over to her. It took Wynne a moment to see him and she jumped to her feet, dropping her palette and brush on the table and scooting around the canvas to intercept him before he could glimpse her work. She was not about to let him see this portrait.
A slight smile played on his lips as he stopped right in front of her.
Without a word, he settled his right hand on her cheek, his fingertips reaching her neck and sending shivers sparking from his touch. “I have begun to think fate had much more in mind than me just being useful when we crossed paths.”
Wynne near swayed with the sudden heat in his voice. The heat in his dark eyes. Her chin tilted up on its own accord and without thought, a whisper came from deep within her. “Kiss me.”
His smile turned serious, and like before, he studied her face, searching her soul.
And then judgment.
“You are not ready.”
She didn’t step away, didn’t look from the silver in his dark eyes. “Do not tell me I am not ready, Rowe.”
“I will not push this, Wynne. I will not take advantage.”
“You are not taking advantage if I want it.” She took a heavy breath, trying to stave off the suffocation in her chest. “Do you not see that I am lost, Rowe? That this—that you are the only thing keeping me sane? I do not have anything else to hold onto. And I need something to hold onto.”
“You are not ready, Wynne.” His hand dropped from her face as he shook his head, but he did not move from her. “You do not know what you are asking.”
“You think I am too fragile?”
“Yes.”
“I am not.” She stepped into him and raised both of her hands, her fingers going along the line of his jaw. “I had hoped you would find answers in Tanloon.”
She searched his face. “Maybe if you had…I…I am more lost than ever, Rowe.” Her fingers moved up to lightly trace the scab above his eyebrow. “That you would do this for me. I am lost, Rowe—floating, except for you. You I know. You I can feel. You are the only thing I know that is true. In the storm of all that has—is happening to me—you are there in the middle…solid…real. Since the moment we met.”
“Wynne—”
“No—you do not get to tell me I do not know what I want, Rowe. I damn well know what I want. And I want you.”
He closed his eyes to her, but she could still see the battle in his mind reflected in his face. He wanted her. She knew it. He was trying to deny it, trying to save her from herself, but he wanted her.
And she wanted him.
If she knew nothing else in life right now, she knew that one fact. She wanted Rowen. Needed him.
Hell—she loved him and there was no denying it.
And she needed his hands on her skin. His mouth on hers. She needed to be his. Needed to hold onto the rock he was.
Her hands tightened on his face. “I want you, Rowe. You. Even if I was back on my mountain—if my mother was alive, if my grandfather was alive, if everything was different—I would still want you, Rowe. You. Deep in my soul—it is you.”
The growl surfaced from deep in his c
hest before he opened his eyes.
When his dark gaze cracked to her, the depth of the fire in his eyes made her gasp. A gasp that was swallowed in the next instant, his lips covering hers, his hands instantly behind her head, molding her into him.
The kiss deepened, Rowen tugging on her bottom lip, gaining entrance to her mouth, exploring. Wynne’s fingers went upward, getting lost in his dark hair, her palm scraping along the stubble on his jaw.
She felt pins fall from her hair, freeing her head to Rowen’s roaming hand. His fingers twisting in her hair, he tugged her head back and left her mouth, his lips trailing down her neck. Hot breath on her skin, his tongue tasted her, sending the core of her body twisting, aching for more.
His fingers traced a line down her neck and his thumb slipped behind the fabric on her chest, reaching downward to find nipple. His forefinger joined in, and rolled the nub, plying pleasure from her.
Rowen’s lips still on her neck, Wynne’s head fell backward, gasping at the sensation. The sound only urged Rowen on, and he shoved her dress further down, freeing her skin to the air. His mouth followed his hands, travelling down the slope of her chest, landing on her nipple.
The shock of his wet mouth, of his flickering tongue, sent her legs shaking and she lost her footing. Rowen’s arm went around her back instantly, supporting her.
He moved her backward, lifting her and setting her on the table, her legs hanging off the side. Her knees a barrier, his hands went down, grabbing them and spreading her thighs wide as he both stepped forward and pulled her body to meet him.
Settled solidly between her legs, the heat of him warming every part of her, his left hand came up to the back of her head, clasping it. He pulled his mouth away from her nipple.
He waited, not moving, until she opened her eyes to him.
“Wynne. Make me stop.” His voice so rough she wondered how the words made it from his throat. “I will stop. Heaven help me, I will stop.”
His body already covering hers, she arched her hips up into him, tighter, the simple movement creating friction that sent deep vibrations into her body.
Her hands went to his temples, clasping, her fingers curling into his hair as she tried to catch her breath. “I do not want you to stop, Rowe. I want this. All of what you are doing to me. Please. All of it.”
It was what he needed.
His mouth came down on hers again. Claiming her. Claiming what he was about to do. One hand holding her head, his right hand went down, tugging her skirts upward as his fingers ran along the back of her calf, behind her knee, and along her inner thigh.
Without warning, his thumb reached her core, spreading her folds. Wynne jerked at the touch, gulping a scream as she pulled herself up onto Rowen at the spasm it caused. She hadn’t known—hadn’t expected this—to be aching so harshly for what Rowen drew from her.
His mouth on her neck, a heated chuckle escaped him. “Damn, Wynne. You are already ready for me.” His thumb flickered again, this time moving along her slickness until his finger entered her. “Damn ready.”
A raspy scream tore from her throat and she clawed further onto his back, desperate for more of what he was doing to her. His shirt pushed halfway up his torso, he stopped to grab the back of it with his free hand, yanking it off his body.
The quick movement left her abandoned, gasping, and the second he was free, Wynne grabbed his right wrist, placing his hand back on her bare thigh.
Another satisfied chuckle, and Rowen traced his tongue along her neck as his fingers went up her leg, finding her core again. He kept his fingers deep in her, teasing her. Making her body pitch against him. Hands wrapped to his shoulder blades for stability, Wynne didn’t know what she needed, but she knew Rowen could give it to her.
His right hand suddenly left her skirts again and it took a moment for Wynne to realize he was unbuttoning the front flap of his buckskin breeches. Too slow. Her hands dropped from his back and she pushed his hand aside as she worked the rows of buttons.
Fabric loose, he spilled out hard and throbbing into her hands. Startled at the size, her hands moved away, but Rowen caught the back of her right hand immediately, entwining his fingers into hers. He pressed her hand forward, wrapping her palm, her fingers around his member. The groaning shudder that overtook his body at the touch sent her eyes wide.
Every muscle in his arms, in his chest, in his neck strained as she moved her hand. It only took a moment before Wynne instinctively took over, stroking, watching in amazement as her every slight movement sent ripples along his skin.
Just when she could sense he could take no more, he grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand from him and setting it on his shoulder.
Confusion flooded her face for a moment, until he pushed her skirts further up her waist, fully exposing her legs, her core to him.
With a deep-chested rumble, he grabbed her hips, lifting her to the edge of the table. He set the tip of him shallow into her, and then he stopped, his eyes on her face.
His thumbs moved inward along her thighs, reaching into her folds. It sent her body writhing once again and she dropped her chin, her forehead on his bare chest and her fingernails in his shoulders.
“Look up. Open your eyes, Wynne.”
His voice reached through the pounding, fiery haze in her mind.
“I need to see your eyes, Wynne. See what this does to you.”
She tilted her head upward as her eyes flew open.
Rowen met her look, his dark eyes holding hers, their breath heavy and mingling. He plunged. Sharp pain cut across her core. She gasped. But she could not close her eyes to him.
His grip on her hips held her solid against him as he settled deep within her. Slowly, he withdrew, and new, exquisite sensations replaced the pain. His thumbs moved inward again, slow and fast in her folds, nudging her even further to the depths.
She pitched against him, her legs wrapping around him, demanding more. Demanding he release her from the exquisite torture he was creating.
“Rowe—” She couldn’t get more than the one breathless word out.
“Trust what is happening, Wynne. Trust it. Trust me.”
His thumb sped in a mad circle as he dove deep into her again.
She let go, screaming.
Rowen’s mouth captured hers, silencing the sound. But it didn’t stop her body from shattering, twisting against him as agonizing release reverberated from her core.
Even through the ebbing shocks, through his strokes, she could feel Rowen expand even larger within her. With every plunge he reached deeper, until he pulled from her lips. Burying his head into her neck, a ragged groan ripped through his body. Every muscle in him went hard under Wynne’s hands.
He collapsed on her, sending them both flat onto the table.
On her, but holding his full weight back from crushing her, Wynne could feel his wild heart against her chest.
It wasn’t until they both had regained control of breathing that Rowen untangled his arms, and withdrew from deep within her. He pushed himself upright from Wynne and the table.
“That was not right,” he mumbled, voice gruff.
Wynne sat up, immediately yanking her muslin dress up to cover her breasts and pulling her skirts over her lap. Her body was still quivering—did regret truly come that quickly?
Her eyes went to the floor. “Did I not do something correctly? I…I thought it…I mean it felt right…”
He grabbed her chin, forcing her gaze upward. “Hell, yes, it felt right.” His voice still thick, he grabbed the back of her head, leaning down to kiss her hard. The intensity of it made her toes curl under the table. When he pulled away, his face had softened. “It is not you, Wynne. It is me. I did not intend for that to happen.”
“You did not? Ever?”
“No—well, yes, I did mean for that to happen—eventually. But not on a table. Not rushed. Not without care.”
She exhaled, relieved. “I feel very well cared for, Rowe, if it makes any difference.”
>
That brought the smallest smile to his face. “It does.” He slipped a finger under the top of her dress, righting into place the bit of lace that lined the top.
Wynne watched his face, concentration on even this smallest task evident. Very well cared for, indeed.
A brown spot of paint from her ring finger, the one she smudged colors with, had made its way onto his cheek. She licked her thumb, reaching up and rubbing it clear.
“Paint.” She smiled at his questioning look. “It was still wet on my finger.”
He nodded, stepping closer to her again, winding a lock of her hair along his forefinger. “I like your hair like this.”
“Down? Mussed?”
“Yes. And in the pins instead of your braid—it is easier to set free that way.”
“I will be sure to continue the habit, then. It is how my mother always liked—” She cut herself off mid-sentence and could instantly feel the blood draining from her face.
Her mother.
She had forced herself to not to think about her mother when she was with Rowen.
But at that moment—that moment clarity hit her.
This was what her mother did.
Allow men to touch her. Allow men to…
Wynne jumped to her feet, scooting out along the table past Rowen.
He grabbed her arm before she took two steps, spinning her back to him. He held her still, staring into her eyes.
Seconds slipped by.
And then he grabbed her other arm, pulling her into him. He engulfed her, tucking her head onto his chest.
“You are not your mother, Wynne.”
Her head whipped up. The exact thing she was thinking.
This man saw too deeply into her.
She drew a shaky breath, setting her chin on his bare chest to look up at him. She couldn’t force the tiniest word out.
“This is just the beginning, Wynne. Hell, this is well past the beginning.” His hand came up, brushing back the hair from her forehead. “You have to trust me, Wynne. Trust me.”
It was the exact thing she needed to hear. She nodded.
Lord of Fates: A Complete Historical Regency Romance Series (3-Book Box Set) Page 15
