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“Come on.” He urged Caro back into the crowd.
She drew a tight breath and stayed close. After a few steps, she said, “So you agree. It must have been an accident.”
From her tone, she was trying to convince herself.
“No.” She glanced up; he caught her eye. “It was no accident—but I agree there’s no point in making a fuss. Whoever fired that arrow wasn’t in the crowd. He was in the forest, and he be long gone by now.”
—
Caro’s chest felt tight, her heart thudding in her throat as they pushed on through the crowd. But more people had arrived; they had to stop and talk as before. Both she and Michael slipped on their polished masks—no one seemed to guess that behind those masks, they were shocked and upset. However, the more they talked, the more they were forced to respond in a normal fashion to those about them, to discuss the gentle vicissitudes of country life, the further the incident, and the sudden fright it had caused, receded.
Eventually, she realized it really had to have been an accident— perhaps some boys larking about in the forest edge, as boys were wont to do, with no idea they’d shot at anyone. It was inconceivable—there was simply no reason—that anyone would want to harm her.
Certainly not Ferdinand. Even Michael seemed to have accepted that.
Only when they reached the far side of the clearing and Michael continued on did she realize she hadn’t, indeed, any idea what he was thinking.
“Where are we going?” Her hand still locked in his, he was heading for the clearing where the carriages and horses had been left.
He glanced at her. “You’ll see.”
Muriel’s stableman was on watch; Michael saluted him and continued on, leading her to where a long line of horses were tethered. He marched along, then stopped. “Here we are.”
Released, Caro blinked at a faintly familiar bay rump. Then Michael backed his big gelding out of the line.
Her instincts jerked to life. “What—”
“As I was about to say before being rudely interrupted by that arrow”—he lifted his head and met her gaze as his hand locked once more about hers—“come with me.”
Her eyes widened with very real shock. “What? Now?”
“Now.” Reins wrapped about his hand, he reached for her—and hoisted her up to sit in his saddle.
“What… but—” She had to grab the pommel, desperately fight for balance.
Before she could manage anything else, he slipped a boot into the stirrup and swung up behind her. Wrapping an arm about her waist, he lifted her, settled her against him, locked her there.
She looked up, fleetingly glimpsed the main clearing and the distant crowd as he wheeled the huge horse away. “We can’t just leave!”
Michael touched his heels to Atlas’s flanks; the big bay surged. “We have.”
He’d planned, schemed, to make this afternoon their time—the only time when his house lay truly empty, no staff about. Everyone was at the fete and would remain there for hours, happy to while away the day.
While he and Caro seized their moment.
As they emerged onto the lane just outside the village and he turned Atlas away from Bramshaw, he was aware of the thud of the horses’ big hooves—and the echo driving through his veins.
How much of the emotion that hardened his muscles, that fired his determination to cling resolutely to his plan and his goal—to grasp the hours he’d promised himself they would share—derived from the incident of the arrow he couldn!t say, couldn’t at the moment even reasonably guess. Some part of it certainly derived from a primitive conviction that he should claim her without delay, make her his and thus secure the right to protect her, yet while the incident might have acted as a spur, deepening his need to bring their wooing to a swift and satisfactory conclusion, the arrow hadn’t given rise to that need.
She had.
She twisted before him, making him wince; she tried to glance back at his face, then back toward the fete. “What if someone misses me? Edward might—”
“He knows you’re with me.”
Leaning forward, she focused on his face. “Geoffrey?”
“As usual hasn’t a clue, but he saw us.” Looking ahead, he negotiated the turn into the lane that led to the Manor. He glanced at her as Atlas lengthened his stride. Raised his brows. “If he does wonder, he’ll imagine you’re with me.”
Which she was.
Caro faced forward. Her heart was thudding again, but with an even more unsettling cadence. He was carrying her off like some knight in a minstrel’s tale, tossing the maiden he desired over his saddle and making off for his isolated keep.
There to have his way with her.
It was a distracting thought.
She blinked back to the present—to the reality before her—when they clattered into the Manor’s stableyard. Michael reined in the big horse, dismounted, then lifted her down. Quickly, he unsaddled the great beast…
Two hours. That’s what he’d said.
She tried to imagine it. Failed completely.
“Come on.” Seizing her hand, he towed her out of the yard and on through the orchard.
She really should protest—shouldn’t she? She cleared her throat.
Over his shoulder, he flicked her a glance. “Save your breath.”
She frowned at the back of his head. “Why?”
He kept towing her along. “Because you’re shortly going to need every last bit of it.”
She frowned harder, tried to peer around and see his face. His jaw was set; the planes she could see resembled chiseled granite. She pulled back, dug in her heels. “Why? And anyway, you can’t simply drag me off like this, like some”—with her free hand, she gestured wildly— “prehistoric caveman.”
He halted, turned, met her gaze, then yanked, sending her tumbling into his chest—into his arms.
They locked around her; looking down, he met her wide eyes. “I can. I have.”
He kissed her; what he’d left unsaid echoed through her brain. And now I’m going to ravish you.
The kiss stated that clearly; it was a storming that left her senses reeling and her wits disengaged.
That cindered every possible protest she might have made.
Her lips parted beneath his, gave before the devastating onslaught. He took her mouth, filled it and her with a heat that was already molten; hot as lava, he sent it flowing down her veins. His hands firmed on her back, holding her so she was acutely aware of his strength, and her relative weakness, then he molded her to him, making no secret of his desire, or his intent.
She clung to him, kissed him back, suddenly wanting as much as he, aware to her curling toes that this—this—was what she needed. This was the right answer—the answer she’d always longed for—to her question. He wanted her, desired her beyond doubt. If only…
As if he sensed her need, her real, impossible-to-state wish, he broke from the kiss, bent, and swept her into his arms.
He strode the last steps to the back door, juggled her and opened it, then strode through. His heels rang on the tiles as he made for the front hall, then he swung around and climbed the main stairs two at a time.
Clinging to his shoulders, she waited to be set down, but he didn’t so much as pause. Glancing at his face, she found it set, his expression resolute and uncompromising. He paused before the door at the end of the corridor; with a quick twist of his wrist, he sent it swinging, and carried her through.
He heeled the door closed; the sharp snap as it shut echoed through the room.
It was a large, airy chamber; that was all she managed to gather as he swiftly carried her across it. To the large bed.
Again, she waited to be set down—again, he surprised her. Effortlessly, he raised her, and tossed her onto the coverlet.
She gasped—gasped again as he joined her, as his weight landing beside her made her bounce—and roll toward him. He helped her along, one large hand wrapping about her hip and pulling her flush against him. W
ith his other hand he framed her face, held her still as his head came down and he covered her lips with his.
Fire. It poured from him into her, and ignited her starving senses. His lips moved on hers; he pressed her into the bed, and his tongue filled her mouth. No languor this time, just a burning, driving need that had her reaching for him, pulling him down to her, sinking her fingers into his shoulders, then spreading them, grasping his clothes, wanting—needing—to feel his body under her hungry hands.
He knew, understood. He drew back enough to shrug off his jacket; still trapped in the kiss, eyes closed, she searched and found the buttons of his waistcoat, frantically undid them. Then she pushed the halves wide and slid her hands over the fine linen of his shirt—over the hard ridged muscles beneath, up over the heavy planes of his chest.
Her touch—the heat of it, the flagrant greedy hunger of her fingers—distracted Michael. Eyes closed, sunk in savoring the wonders of her mouth, he paused…
She froze. Stopped. Suddenly hesitant.
He tore his mouth from hers. Groaned, “For God’s sake, don’t stop.” Then he plunged back into the rich honeyed pleasures of her mouth—and felt her hands attack him again.
Felt her need of him in a flagrantly animalistic way.
Then she found the hem of his shirt where it had come loose from his breeches, and slipped her hands—first one, then the other—beneath.
Touched him. Spread her greedy little fingers wide and tactilely devoured him. He could barely believe the heat, the intensity of the desire she sent raging through him with each evocative touch.
Each evocative claiming.
For it was that. He wasn’t sure she knew it, but he did. In the distant corner of his brain that still functioned, he knew, even as he groaned and urged her on, that he was surrendering—giving himself to her—that he would give whatever she needed to sate her.
Her hunger ran deep—deeper than he’d realized. He sensed it, sensed her response, her powerful yearning, through their kiss. They both held to the kiss avidly, their anchor, their most assured means of communication in a world suddenly full of heated longing that had reduced, drawn in to the limits of their tightly focused senses.
Riding the urgency of her unfurling desire, he mentally groaned and held his own back, let her take the first bite, at least enough to slake the edge from her appetite.
He managed to shrug out of his waistcoat; hands between them, he undid his cravat, then flung it away. Blindly groped, caught enough of his shirt to wrestle it up, then broke from the kiss to drag it off over his head.
She surged up, pressing him back to the bed; he dropped the shirt over the side, gasping, eyes closing the better to savor the feverish urgency of her touch, the way she spread her hands over his bare chest, fingers flexing, searching—as if he were hers and she was intent on possessing him.
He had no argument with her direction.
Opening his eyes, he studied her face, saw delight and something close to wonder in her expression. The sight made him ache. Then she lifted her gaze and her eyes met his. Molten silver, burning bright, then she veiled them, lowered her gaze to his lips.
He urged her more fully atop him; she obliged, then without further encouragement bent her head and set her lips to his.
He was waiting for her, waiting to draw her back deep into the kiss, to anchor her there, caught in the swirling, building heat of interlocking desires, while he set his fingers to her laces.
She drew back briefly to unwind her scarf, then sent it to join his shirt on the floor. His hand firming in the mass of her soft hair, he drew her back down, tongue thrusting boldly, finding and enticing hers, capturing her senses, holding her attention deep in the kiss as he skillfully eased her gown from her.
When he finally drew it free and it, too, hit the floor, he could no longer hold back his own need to touch her, to spread his hands over the lithe curves, to trace the sleek lines of her body with his palms. To fill his senses with her. To learn as she was intent on learning him, to possess as she was intent on possessing him.
She murmured through the kiss; he felt her breath hitch as he closed his hands over her breasts and kneaded. She responded by slanting her mouth over his and pressing deeper, flagrantly inviting. He met her, caught her nipples and squeezed, until her attention splintered and she gasped. Releasing her breasts, still holding her to their kiss, he boldly slid his hands down, proprietorially tracing her sides, her hips, to reach beneath the hem of her chemise and caress the globes of her bottom. He reveled in the dewed flush that sprang to his touch, at the urgency that rose and coursed through her.
She shifted upon him provocatively, quite deliberately teasing his aching erection. Not taunting, but with her sleek thighs exploring its contours, shifting hips and legs to sinuously stroke him.
He nearly broke, but caught his reins in time to remind himself they had hours. Even more than the two he’d promised himself. There was time to play, to savor. And there would be only one first time.
Spearing one hand into the glory of her hair, he anchored her head and kissed her. As ravenously as he—and she—wished, as blatantly, wantonly, primitively evocative as they both desired.
No rush.
He took his time savoring her mouth anew, feeding from her, stoking their passion as, with slow deliberation, he explored her body. Found each hollow and stroked, traced, searched for each point where her nerves fluttered, where any touch, however light, made her breath catch. High on the backs of her thighs—she was excruciatingly sensitive there. The undersides of her breasts, too. Inch by inch, he eased her chemise up, until finally he broke from the kiss and drew the fine garment over her head.
The instant it was free he let it fall where it would, caught her and rolled, pressing her back to the bed, leaning over her, hand splaying over her midriff, holding her down as he sank deeply into her mouth, then drew back.
And looked at the treasure he’d uncovered. Discovered.
At the feminine beauty of lithe limbs and svelte curves encased in ivory silk already delicately flushed with desire.
Wits barely engaged, breathless, Caro watched his face as he examined her body. Saw the austere planes tighten as with his hand he almost reverently sculpted her flesh. Her nerves tightened with an anticipation more delicious than she’d imagined. She felt on the brink of shivering, yet she wasn’t cold.
It was a glorious midsummer afternoon; the window was open—a balmy breeze wafted in to caress them. To add its gentle warmth to the heat already pulsing so hotly within her. And him.
He was burning. For her.
She raised a hand, gently traced the harsh, almost graven lines of his face. His gaze deflected for one moment to her eyes, then he turned his head and pressed a kiss to her palm. Desire glowed in his eyes, turning the soft blue more solid, more intense. It was passion that etched his face, that hardened its lines as he returned his attention to her body.
To drawing fire beneath her skin, with each increasingly intimate caress pulling her deeper into the vortex of her own hungry desire, tempting her need—a need only he had ever evoked. She watched his face, watched his concentration as he loved her, clung to that evidence of his commitment to their goal. The tension investing his large body, which had tightened his muscles to bands of steel, which she could feel through her fingers locked on his shoulder, likewise reassured. Then he bent and took one already ruched nipple into his mouth, and suckled. Deeply.
She moaned; sliding one hand to his head, clenching her fingers in his hair, she wordlessly lifted against him. Felt his rumble of approval as he shifted his attention to the other breast she so wantonly offered him, simultaneously soothing the first with clever fingers.
The path of his orchestrated worship was familar; she gave herself up to it, valiantly trying to mute her cries until he murmured, his tone gravelly and low, “Scream all you like. There’s no one to hear… except me.”
The last two words made it clear it pleased him to hear the s
ounds he drew from her. Just as well; she found it increasingly difficult to mute them, to spare enough wit and strength to do so.
All her attention, all her senses, were caught in the flames, in the pulsing conflagration he was so assiduously building within her.
But when he pressed her thighs wide and touched her, traced the slick folds already swollen and wet, sudden uncertainty gripped her. Opening her eyes, she reached for him, with one palm boldly found, and cupped him.
He froze, sucked in a sudden breath as if her touch were painful; she knew enough—had gathered enough—to know it wasn’t pain that closed his eyes, that locked his features.
Then he opened his eyes, looked at her.
She met his gaze, hazed and burning. Caressed him, through his breeches let her fingers trace, then close about his length. Eyes locked with his, she licked her lips, forced herself to find breath enough to say, “I want you. This time . .
He shuddered; his lids started to fall, but then he forced them up. Impaled her with a burning blue gaze. “Yes. Definitely. This time…”
She sensed rather than heard his inward curse, saw the fight he waged to try to regain his control—then his fingers wrapped hard about her wrist and he drew her hand from him. “Wait.”
He sat up and swung his legs off the bed. Coming up on one elbow, ready to protest if need be, she watched—relief and a surge of giddy anticipation flooded her when she heard the dull thud of one boot hitting the floor. The second followed; he glanced back at her as he worked the buttons of his waistband free, then he stood, stripped his breeches down, stepped out of them as he turned, kneeled, then fell back on the bed beside her.
Her heart leapt, swelled, ached. He was beautiful, fully aroused, elementally male. Her mouth was dry. She couldn’t drag her eyes from him, from the evidence that his desire for her hadn’t, yet, waned. She reached for him, traced lightly, trailing her fingers up the burning, baby-fine skin, then she closed her hand about his length, felt the weight of him fill her palm.