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She laughed, a joyous sound, but shook her head at him. “You won’t know of it—it’s a special place.” They started walking again; after a moment, she murmured, her voice soft, low, as magical as her laugh, “It is a bower of sorts.” She glanced up, fleetingly met his eyes. “A place apart from the world.” Smiling, she looked ahead.
He didn’t press for more; she clearly wanted to surprise him, show him… anticipation flared, steadily built as she led him deeper into the wooded reaches of her family’s property. She had spent her childhood here; she knew its grounds as well as he knew his own. He couldn’t, however, guess where she was making for; he wasn’t lost, but… “I’ve never been this way before.”
She glanced at him, smiled, then looked ahead. “Few people have. It’s a family secret.”
After twenty minutes of strolling, they crested a small rise; beyond, a grassy meadow rolled down to the banks of the stream, here swiftly rushing. The swoosh of the water’s gushing progress reached them; fine spray rose and swirled between the banks.
Caro halted; smiling, she waved ahead. “That’s where we’re going.” She glanced at him. “Where I’m taking you.”
On either side of the meadow, the woods marched down to the stream’s edge, framing a tiny cottage that stood on an island set in the middle of the widening stream. A narrow plank bridge arched over the rushing waters; the cottage was old, built of stone, but was clearly in excellent condition.
“Come on.” She tugged, and he obliging walked on at her side; his gaze remained riveted on the cottage.
“Whose is it?”
“It used to be my mother’s.” She caught his gaze as he glanced at her. “She was a painter, remember. She loved the light out here, and the sound of the stream rushing into the weir.”
“Weir?”
She pointed to the right; as they descended through the meadow, a huge body of water came into sight.
He got his bearings. “Geoffrey’s weir.”
Caro nodded.
He’d known of the weir’s existence, but had never had reason to come this way. The stream bubbled and boiled as it swept into the weir; even though it was summer and the flow far less than in winter, the island in the middle of the streambed forced the incoming water to split and rush past on either side.
Halting a yard from the bridge, he looked around. The stream banks were high, the water level at present much lower than that possible, yet even if the stream did overflow, as it would during a significant thaw, the island was higher than where they stood; much of the meadow flat would flood before the cottage’s foundations got wet.
The bridge was as narrow as it had appeared from a distance, just wide enough for one person. It arched over its span to the island; a single handrail was fixed along one side.
But it was the cottage itself that commanded his attention; it looked to be one large room with numerous windows. The door, shutters, and window frames were brightly painted; flowers nodded and bobbed about a small paved area before the front door.
The cottage was not only in excellent repair, it was in use—not deserted.
“It was originally built as a folly,” Caro said. Slipping her fingers from his, she stepped onto the bridge. “Rather more substantial than most, as it’s such a long way from the house and so isolated. Mama loved it here—well”—starting across the bridge, she waved at the weir—“you can imagine the play of light off and over the weir at sunrise, at sunset, during storms.”
“She came here at sunrise?” Michael followed her onto the bridge, wary at first, but it proved to be solid.
Caro glanced back. “Oh, yes.” She looked ahead. “This was her hideaway—her own special place.” Stepping onto the island, she spread her arms, lifted her head, whirled and faced him. “And now it’s mine.”
He grinned, caught her to him as he stepped off the bridge and backed her up the short path. “You weed the beds?”
She grinned back. “Not me. Mrs. Judson. She was Mama’s maid when Mama first came here—she used to keep the cottage and the garden perfect for Mama to use.” She glanced around, then turned out of his arms and reached for the doorknob. “After Mama died, the others were all grown and gone except for Geoffrey. He had no use for it, so I claimed it for my own.”
Setting the door wide, Caro walked through, then paused and looked back. Michael filled the doorway, his large, strong frame haloed by the sun. With his clothes thrown into shadow, he appeared timeless, paganly, elementally male. A shiver of awareness, of delicious anticipation, slithered down her nerves. Lifting her chin, she locked her eyes on his. “Other than Judson, who spends Friday afternoons here, no one comes here but me.”
It wasn’t Friday.
His lips curved; for one long moment, he studied her, then, his gaze unwavering, he stepped over the threshold, reached behind him, and closed the door.
Chapter 14
She was waiting for him when he halted before her, waiting, when his hands rose and slid about her waist, to twine her arms about his neck, to step close, stretch up against him, and press her lips to his.
To tempt, taunt, and entice.
To move sinuously against him, soft curves and supple limbs caressing his muscled body in a siren’s call as old as time.
Her invitation was explicit; it was clear in her mind—she wanted it clear in his.
His arms tightened about her, his tongue surged over hers as he accepted, as he relentlessly drew her to him, clamped his hands about her hips, and moved suggestively against her.
She sighed through the kiss, sank, openly seductive, against him, flagrantly invited him to take all he wished, to show her more of his hunger, and hers.
Sunshine shone through the wide windows, bathing the cottage’s interior and them in a soft golden light. As they stood, bodies twining, mouths melding, knowing this was but a prelude—that they had no need to rush, that they had all day to orchestrate as they wished— memories of playing here while her mother painted slid into her mind, another time of discovery, of wonder found in the myriad flowers in the garden, in the variety of leaves, the strange and varied effects made by paint and brushes… it seemed all of a piece.
Today she was intent on exploring a fresh landscape, here, in the place of her childhood.
She arched against him, felt his hands slide up her sides, thumbs brushing her already sensitized breasts. It was his turn to tease, to artfully, skillfully tighten her nerves with caresses that promised, that made her flesh yearn, but which never assuaged.
Relief would come later. Possibly much later. As his hands continued to slide, to stroke her limbs, her curves through the fine muslin of her gown, as if he were learning her anew, she sensed… not a backtracking but a retracing of previous steps, so that he and she could dally at places along the road they’d hurried somewhat precipitously down the day before.
She made no demur, any temptation to impatience overridden by curiosity, by her determination to know all of what he felt for her, all of what he might reveal to her of his desire—for her, for what they, together, could conjure between them.
That much yesterday had taught her, that the power they both craved was created of them both, an amalgam of desires and needs and passions that necessarily required the input of two. Together, they could create the most wondrous whirlpool of sensations, the deepest, most satisfying of emotional connections.
They both wanted that, a shared goal, a mutual desire. As they stood locked together, the warmth of the sun like a benediction sinking into them, and gradually, step by slow step, allowed the kiss to deepen, she knew that beyond thought, beyond doubt.
Their lips parted; they paused to catch their breath. She felt his hands slide around her, felt his fingers tug at her laces. Eyes closed, she savored the moment, drank in every last sensation—the feel of his body, hard and aroused against hers, the steely muscles that surrounded her, that flexed in his arms as he loosened her gown, as he prepared to strip it from her, the aura of strength that, m
ore real than all else, engulfed her, sank into her bones and reassured, the sense of safety she found in his arms.
What if… ?
The thought teased. What if they’d come here years ago, when she’d been sixteen—what would have happened if he’d taken her in his arms then, and kissed her with the slow burning hunger with which he kissed her now?
Impossible questions with no answer; they weren’t who they had been all those years ago. She was who she now was, twenty-eight, confident and assured for so long that those attributes were part of her character, acknowledged and known to her, coloring her relative innocence, allowing her to explore her newfound sensuality, her newfound appreciation of sexual interaction, of sexual intimacy, without guilt or regret. And he… he was the man in her arms. No youth, no young gentleman about town, but a man in his prime. In all his strength, his desire mature, multilayered, and strong, powerful and potent as, her laces all undone and her gown loosened, he drew her back to him, into his embrace, into his arms.
He kissed her; she willingly sank into the caress, into the welling tide. The temptation to simply let go and flow with it, let it and him take her as he would, burgeoned, yet… she’d led him here today; she had her own agenda. Yesterday, of necessity, she’d had to follow his lead. Today… it ought to be her turn.
When his hands rose to her shoulders, she readily shrugged out of her gown. Let him break from the kiss to help her from it; released from his arms, she stepped out of the gown’s folds, took the garment from his hands, shook it out, and, turning, walked the few steps to a chair.
The cottage, outwardly small, contained only a single large room. A dresser stood by the wall near the door, alongside a washbasin and ewer on an iron stand. Other chests and benches and a long artist’s desk were placed around the walls; the fireplace and hearth took up half the wall opposite the door. The center of the room had always been left clear, reserved for her mother’s easel, but that was now folded away and propped in one corner, leaving only the beautiful daybed, two straight-backed chairs, and two small side tables deliberately placed, posed about the tiled space.
Thanks to Mrs. Judson, devoted to her mother and now to her, everything was dust-free, spick-and-span, always kept ready for her use, as was her room in the main house.
Laying her gown neatly over the back of one chair, she turned, met Michael’s eyes across the room. Deliberately, she let her gaze wander down, over the long length of him. Returning her gaze to his eyes, she arched a brow. “Take off your coat.”
Michael felt his lips ease, not in a smile; his features were already too set to permit that. He shrugged out of his coat, ready to play whatever game she wished—as far as he was able.
Her silver eyes gleamed at his obedience; she sauntered, hips swaying, closer; he let his eyes roam over the curves seductively shifting beneath her chemise. She paused before him until his eyes returned to hers, then lifted the coat from his hand. “The waistcoat, too.”
He obliged. Handing the garment over, he asked, “Am I allowed to inquire just what your pleasure is?”
Brows rising, she draped coat and waistcoat over her gown; facing him, she smiled. “You may inquire, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you.” Her smile deepened as she returned to him. “Yet.”
She reached up, boldly cupped a palm about his nape, and drew his lips to hers for a long, slow kiss, one intended to ignite every fire they’d laid and left waiting. He reached for her, hands sliding over skin screened only by diaphanous silk.
Hand splayed on his chest, she pushed back, broke the kiss. Met his eyes directly. “You still have on far too many clothes.” She frowned disapprovingly. “Why is it men wear so much more than women? It hardly makes for evenhandedness in this sphere.”
He fought for a sufficiently languid tone. “True, but there’s hay to be made there, after all.”
As he’d intended, the allusion intrigued her. “From that? How?”
Looking innocent wasn’t easy. “If I could make a suggestion?”
She smiled, as intent as he. “Suggest away.” Her sultry tone indicated she’d seen straight through his ploy, but was interested nonetheless. That message was echoed in the shimmery silver of her eyes as he looked into them, as he paused to assure himself his control was strong enough to, even with her, attempt such sexual games. A sense of anticipation gripped viselike about his chest, an eagerness he couldn’t recall feeling since adolescence infused him. Wound him one notch tighter.
“Once we’re both naked, there won’t be any reason to get dressed before we leave—I seriously doubt either of us will feel inclined to waste the energy. True?”
He arched a brow at her; puzzled, she nodded.
“So if we’re going to harvest some of that hay…” He reached for her again, fingers flexing about her waist before he slowly turned her, then stepped close, his chest to her back, his thighs to her bottom. Sliding his hands around her waist, he locked her to him; bending his head, he nuzzled the hollow behind one ear. “Then we’d better do it now… don’t you think?”
Lids falling, Caro leaned back into him, once again glorying in being wrapped in his strength. His breath wafted the fine curls about her ear; she fought to suppress a delicious shiver. Head back, resting against his shoulder, well aware they were embarking on some sensual game, she murmured, “I think… we should take advantage of every opportunity as it offers… don’t you think?”
His deep chuckle dripped promise. “Absolutely.” His lips traced the side of her throat, then he murmured, “Should we adopt that as our policy?”
His hands slid slowly upward until they cupped, then closed about her breasts; it was seriously difficult to draw breath enough to reply, “That seems an… appropriate notion.”
Her hands, loosely clasped about the backs of his, had followed them upward; eyes closing, she savored the flexing muscles as he slowly, subtly kneaded, then she sighed. “So…” Her words were a breathless whisper. “What should I do next?”
His answer came in a dark, deep murmur. “For the moment, all you need to do is feel.”
An all-too-easy assignment; her senses were already mesmerized, caught by the skillful play of his fingers. They possessed, then teased, found her nipples and squeezed… until she gasped.
Releasing her breasts, his hands roamed, tracing the curves and indentations of waist and hips, the sleek upper faces of her thighs, the rounded globes of her bottom.
“Wait.”
She blinked, felt him steady her on her feet. Then he stepped away, to the side; turning her head, she watched him pick up the second chair, and carry it back to where she swayed.
He set it down beside them, in the same movement regathered her into his arms, as before with her back to his chest, her bottom riding against his loins. Splayed, his hands were suddenly everywhere, hot and hard, sending heat pulsing through her. Bending his head, he pressed a kiss to her throat, over the point where her pulse galloped, then slowly traced his lips up the long taut curve; in the end, she turned enough to meet his hungry lips with hers, equally avid, equally greedy.
For long moments, the kiss and all it encompassed held them, then he lifted his head, waited for her lids to rise, looked into her eyes. “Your sandals—take them off.”
So that was the purpose of the chair. She looked at it, shifted her weight, and raised one foot shod in a pretty Grecian sandal to the seat. The winding ties of the sandal wrapped around her ankle and reached halfway up her calf; she had to bend over to unpick the knot.
The movement pressed her scantily clad bottom more firmly against him—an inadvertent, yet hardly unintended invitation—one he was waiting to take advantage of. Her lips lifted as his large hand curved about her bottom, as his fingers stroked, evocatively caressed; she realized how hot her skin already was, how flushed, how tight with anticipation her flickering nerves had become.
Rightly so, it seemed; as she wrestled the leather laces undone, his fingers reached further, found her softness, boldly de
lved. Her lungs locked; bent over her raised leg, she felt increasingly giddy as he probed, as he made free with all, courtesy of the position, she offered.
She had to battle to draw in a huge breath, then straighten, one sandal free, dangling from her fingers. His fingers remained pressing into her softness, his hand intimately wedged between her thighs. She dropped the sandal, didn’t wait for instructions but dragged in another breath, raised her other foot to the chair, and started—as fast as she could—to untie her other sandal.
He shifted behind her. His fingers reached deeper, probing more evocatively; with his other hand, he lifted the back of her chemise, exposing her bottom and back—then he bent and laid a long line of hot, open-mouthed kisses down her spine.
Lower and lower. She realized she’d stopped breathing—couldn’t do more than take a shallow, far too shallow breath. His lips reached the base of her spine; he paused. His fingers still delved, caressing her heated slickness yet not as deeply while his other hand drifted from her, then she felt him move, press closer. His hand returned, wrapping about her hip, anchoring her—as the broad head of his erection, hot and hard, replaced his fingers between her thighs, shallowly penetrating her slick sheath.
She gasped, wanted more, much more of him, but wasn’t sure which way to move.
He arched over her once more, again tracing her spine with his lips, keeping her bent over, open to his play.
And play it was; he pressed into her no more than an inch, if that, tantalizing her senses, making them writhe as he moved in and out. She closed her eyes, heard the soft exhalations that issued from her lips, savoring the sensations, the building urgency—the sheer need rising through her.
On the sensitive skin of her back, she felt his lips curve… realized she’d completely forgotten about her sandal. Summoning wit enough to complete the task was an effort. Opening her eyes, she pulled at the knotted lacings, eventually tugged them free.