“When you said you didn’t want me to kiss you,” he said, his voice a smoky murmur, “I assume you meant on your lips.”
His open mouth glided down the column of her throat, sending gooseflesh dancing over every inch of her. She pressed her eyes shut against a tide of helpless longing.
“Don’t close your eyes,” he commanded, his voice as rough as his touch was tender. “I have a few requirements of my own.”
She obeyed him just in time to watch him lower his mouth to her breast. Her nipple puckered beneath his swirling tongue, accepting both his kiss and the shivering pulses of pleasure it sent through her womb. He shifted his kiss from one breast to the other until they were both glistening and heavy with desire.
Only then did his skillful mouth glide lower, scattering whisper-soft kisses over the sensitive skin along her ribs, the curve of her hipbone, the quivering ribbon of flesh just above the honey-gold triangle of curls between her thighs. By the time he slipped to his knees on the floor and dragged her hips to the very edge of the divan, she was too limp with delight to do more than moan a halfhearted protest.
His big, warm hands parted her thighs, leaving her utterly vulnerable to him, utterly exposed to his hungry gaze. One of the logs shifted on the grate, lighting up the room with a shower of sparks. In that moment, Cecily almost regretted her careless demands. But she had been terrified that Gabriel would recognize the taste of her kiss, the tender rhythm of her body moving against his in the dark.
“You always were so damn pretty,” he whispered, gazing down at her as if she were some sort of sacred treasure.
As he lowered his head, his tawny hair tumbling half out of its queue, she could not stop her eyes from fluttering shut.
“Open your eyes, Cecily.” She opened them to find him gazing at her down the length of her body, his expression fierce, but not cruel. “I want you to watch.”
She barely had time to note a few incongruous details like the fact that one stocking had slipped down to her ankle and she was still wearing her slippers before Gabriel touched his mouth to her, giving her the most forbidden kiss of all. Her whimper melted to a groan. Then there was nothing but the searing heat of his mouth, the maddening flicker of his tongue, the exquisite sensation of melting into a sea of rapture.
As those dark waves crested over her head, making her body shudder with delight and her toes curl inside her slippers, she cried out his name in a hoarse voice she barely recognized as her own.
Through a delicious haze, she watched him tear open the front flap of his breeches. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw how badly he wanted her. Still kneeling there between her legs, he spread her thighs wide and drove himself deep inside of her.
Gabriel heard Cecily’s gasp, saw her eyes roll back in her head, not with pain, but with pleasure. Even as her tight body struggled to contain him, he had to grit his teeth against a savage pang of disappointment. He should be grateful that she was no innocent. That meant he didn’t have to hold anything back; she was woman enough to take whatever he could give her. Curling his arms around her shoulders, he dragged her up and astride him.
Cecily wrapped her arms and legs around Gabriel, impaled on the rigid length of his staff.
I love you I love you I love you. The words ran through her mind like a ceaseless song. Terrified she was going to say them out loud, she buried her face against his throat, tasting the salty warmth of his sweat-dampened skin.
It was just as well that she had denied him her lips. He would have tasted those words in her kiss, just as he would have tasted the helpless tears trickling down her cheeks. She rubbed her face against him, drying them with his hair.
Gabriel slid back down to his knees on the floor, lowering her until she was straddling his lap, straddling the part of him that was buried to the hilt inside of her.
“Look at me, Cecily,” he urged.
Trembling with emotion, she gazed deep into his eyes, seeing in their gilt-fringed depths an echo of the tender madness that had seized her own soul. Then he was moving inside her, she was moving over him, they were moving as one with the flames of the firelight licking at their golden flesh. And all the while, Gabriel never broke his promise, never closed his eyes or tore his gaze away from hers.
He held fast to his vow until the exact moment when the driving rhythm of his thrusts sent them both tumbling over the abyss of ecstasy into sweet oblivion. Only then, with his arms wrapped tight around her and his body surging at the very mouth of her womb, did he throw back his head and squeeze his eyes shut. Only then did a woman’s name come roaring from his throat.
Cecily collapsed against him, awash in both pleasure and triumph. In that moment when Gabriel had surrendered to the darkness, it had been her name, not Samantha’s, in his heart and on his lips.
Gabriel awoke with Cecily in his arms. Her tousled curls tickled his chin and each soft breath from her parted lips stirred his chest hairs. He had spent so many lonely nights imagining this moment, never realizing how bittersweet it would be when it finally came.
As a gentle snore escaped her, he sifted his fingers through her curls. It was no wonder she was sleeping so soundly. Her body was probably exhausted from his greedy attentions. He had made good on his vow not to waste a single moment of his last night on dry land. He had used Cecily’s tender young body to indulge his darkest desires and her sweetest fantasies all through the long hours of the night. The huge log he had tossed on the fire was already crumbling to smoldering embers. But there was no reason to add another one. The muted glow of dawn was seeping through the gap in the heavy velvet drapes.
He reached down to draw her velvet cloak over her, just beginning to realize what a fool he had been. He had deluded himself into believing that the night had been about revenge, that he could punish her with pleasure, make love to her without loving her, then just let her go. But that was going to be much harder than he had anticipated. He touched his lips to her curls, wondering if it was possible to love two women at the same time.
She stirred and lifted her head, blinking up at him with drowsy blue eyes. “So how many diamond earbobs have I earned so far?”
“A king’s ransom.” He gently stroked her cheek, feeling a sharp twinge of regret. “I should have never said such a spiteful thing. I was only trying to frighten you off.”
“It didn’t work.”
“Thank God,” he whispered, tightening his grip on her.
But she slid out of his grasp, taking the cloak with her. The tantalizing softness of her breasts glided down his body. By the time they brushed his manhood, he was fully aroused. Again.
Tangling his fingers in her hair, he tugged her head up so she could meet his gaze, his breath coming short and fast. “What in the devil do you think you’re doing, woman?”
“Trying for a ruby pendant,” she murmured, smiling sweetly before lowering her head to enfold him in those luscious lips of hers.
When Gabriel woke again, a dagger of sunlight was slanting through the gap in the drapes and Cecily was gone.
He sat up, his bleary gaze raking the drawing room. The fire had died to ash, leaving a stark chill hanging in the air. Except for the half-empty glass of scotch on the mantel and his own clothes scattered across the floor, the drawing room looked much as it had when he’d come home last night. There was no crumpled chemise, no velvet cloak, no Cecily.
If not for the taste of her lingering on his lips, he might have thought the entire night had been nothing more than a feverish, scotch-induced dream.
“Not again,” he muttered, swinging his legs over the edge of the divan and burying his head in his hands.
What was he supposed to do now? Go out and comb the streets of London looking for her? Drive himself half mad wondering why she had loved him so tenderly, then left him without so much as a backward glance? At least Samantha had taken the time to leave a note before walking out of his life forever.
“Damn her.” He lifted his head, feeling the chill in the air settle deep in
to his heart. “Damn them both.”
Chapter Twenty Four
My dearest Gabriel,
There’s no place I would rather be than in your arms…
Cecily gazed out the carriage window at the passing meadows and hedgerows, achingly aware that every revolution of the vehicle’s wheels carried her farther away from London. And Gabriel.
Given that her last journey to Middlesex was made in a public coach with a squalling infant spitting down her bodice and a stout blacksmith standing on her foot, one would have thought she would appreciate the extravagant luxury of the Carstairs’ town coach. But she was as oblivious to its plush cushions and brass fittings as she was to her friend’s worried gaze.
Estelle’s natural exuberance was no match for the shroud of gloom that enveloped her. As the coach rumbled over an arched stone bridge, it seemed only fitting that the low-hanging clouds would start to spit the first snowflakes of the season.
“I still can’t believe you were bold enough to propose to him,” Estelle said, shooting her an admiring look.
“I wasn’t proposing. I was accepting his proposal. Unfortunately, it had been retracted.”
“What if he had agreed to elope to Gretna Green? Just when were you planning on telling him you were his long-lost Samantha?”
“I’m not sure. But I’m certain the appropriate moment would have arisen someday. After the birth of our third child, perhaps, or while celebrating our fiftieth year together as man and wife.” Cecily briefly closed her eyes, haunted by children’s laughter she would never hear, joyful days in her husband’s arms that would never come.
Estelle shook her head. “I can’t believe he’s going back to sea.”
“And why is that so hard to believe?” Cecily asked bitterly. “He wants to be a hero for his precious Samantha. The last time he sailed, it almost cost him his sight. I wonder what it will cost him this time. An eye? An arm? His life?”
She leaned her cheek against the window, fighting despair. She had encouraged Gabriel to be a hero when she was the worst sort of coward. She had run away from his love in the beginning, afraid to trust in the steadfastness of his heart. Then she had run from the hospital because she couldn’t face the consequences of her cowardice. She had run from his arms in Fairchild Park and now here she was, running again.
Only this time she would have to keep running for the rest of her life, even if it meant never getting anywhere.
“No more,” Cecily whispered.
“Pardon?”
Cecily sat up on the edge of her seat. “Turn the coach around.”
“What?” Estelle asked, still struggling to follow.
“Order the driver to turn the coach around! Right now!” Too impatient to wait for her friend to catch up to her racing thoughts, Cecily snatched up the cane in the corner and began to bang on the silk-lined panel at the front of the coach.
The vehicle rocked to a halt. The panel slid open and the driver’s bewildered face appeared, his nose ruddy with cold. “What is it, miss?”
“I must return to London. Turn the coach around immediately!”
The driver shot Estelle a wary look, as if wondering if he should cart her wild-eyed friend straight to Bedlam.
“Do as she says,” Estelle commanded, her own eyes shining with excitement. “Whatever she says.”
He gave Cecily a reluctant nod. “Where to, miss?”
“To the docks at Greenwich. And hurry! A man’s life may very well depend upon it!”
The coach lurched into motion, sending Cecily tumbling back into the seat. Desperately needing a thread of hope to cling to, she reached over to squeeze Estelle’s hand, a tremulous smile curving her lips. “And a woman’s life as well.”
Lieutenant Gabriel Fairchild stood before the mirror in the study of his townhouse in his uniform. As he adjusted the dark blue stock at his throat, the forbidding slash of his scar drew down the corner of his mouth, a mouth that looked as if it had never known a smile.
It was not a face an enemy would care to see on the wrong side of a rifle, sword, or cannon. It was the face of a man born to make war, not love. No one would have guessed that those stern lips, those powerful hands, had spent most of the previous night tenderly coaxing a woman to one shuddering release after another.
“My lord?”
At the sound of iron wheels rolling across carpet, Gabriel turned. No one would have recognized the man sitting straight and tall in the invalid’s chair as the emaciated beggar Gabriel had found in the rain nearly a month and a half ago. His lips had lost their bluish tint and both his cheeks and his chest had filled out. With his excellent penmanship and head for figures, Martin Worth had turned out to be the most able secretary Gabriel had ever employed. He completely trusted the former midshipman to manage his household while he was at sea.
Gabriel had been quick to brush aside Martin’s effusive gratitude. If not for a quirk of fate, he could have been the one sitting there with only half his legs, the one destined to spend the rest of his life in an invalid’s chair.
Swiping a shiny brown fall of hair out of his eyes, Martin said, “There’s someone here to see you, my lord.” Before Gabriel’s heart could take a treacherous leap, he added, “A Mr. Beckwith and a Mrs. Philpot.”
Gabriel frowned, unable to imagine what urgent errand could have dragged the loyal servants away from Fairchild Park. After trolling the city’s dark underbelly with Gabriel while looking for Samantha, Beckwith had sworn that he didn’t care if he ever set foot in London again.
“Thank you, Martin. Send them in.”
A footman rolled Martin away and Beckwith and Mrs. Philpot came bustling into the study. After greeting him warmly, they sank down on a brocaded sofa, making a painstaking effort to keep a respectable amount of distance between them. Gabriel remained in front of the hearth.
Mrs. Philpot removed her gloves. “We weren’t certain if we should trouble you about this matter—”
“—but you did tell us to keep you apprised if anything unusual was found in Miss Wickersham’s bedchamber,” Beckwith finished.
Miss Wickersham.
The name jabbed like a hot needle through the ice around Gabriel’s heart. He locked his hands at the small of his back, feeling his jaw go taut. “I was going to send word that you were free to burn her belongings. She obviously has no intention of ever coming back for them.”
Beckwith and Mrs. Philpot exchanged a dismayed look.
“If that’s what you w-wish, my lord,” Beckwith said haltingly, “but I think you should take a look at this first.” He drew a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his waistcoat. “Hannah and Elsie were turning the mattress in Miss Wickersham’s chamber when they found it.”
Gabriel tried not to remember the night he had shared that ridiculously narrow mattress with her, the way it had forced their warm bodies to nestle together like spoons in a drawer.
He gazed down at the paper in Beckwith’s hand, oddly reluctant to examine it. “Surely she didn’t leave me another note. Her first was quite eloquent. It hardly required any embellishment.”
Beckwith shook his head. “That’s why we found it so peculiar, my lord. It’s not a letter to you. It’s a letter from you.”
His frown deepening, Gabriel accepted the folded letter from Beckwith’s hand. Bits of old wax still clung to the ivory linen. It was even more worn than the letters he had carried into battle next to his heart. It appeared the paper had been stroked often and lovingly by tender fingers.
Gabriel unfolded it, recognizing with a start his own bold hand, his even bolder words.
My darling Cecily,
This will be the last missive you will have from me for a very long while. Even though I cannot post them, please know that I will write words of love for you on my heart every night we are parted so I can read them to you when we are reunited.
Now that I have taken your counsel and signed away my vain and useless life to His Majesty’s Service, I hope you will not
laugh your merry laugh and accuse me of shipping off to sea only to prove to my tailor how dashing I can look in a uniform.
During the long months when we are parted, I will strive to become a man worthy of your affections. I’ve made no secret of my fondness for gaming. Now I am gambling to win the most precious stakes of all—your heart and your hand in matrimony. Wait for me, I beg you, and know that I will return to you as soon as I am able. I carry your letters and all of my hopes for our future next to my heart.
Ever your,
Gabriel
Gabriel slowly lowered the letter, surprised to discover that his hands were shaking. “Where did you get this? Did you find it somewhere inside this house, on the stoop outside?”
They both blinked at him as if he’d lost his wits.
“No, my lord,” Mrs. Philpot said, stealing a worried look at Beckwith. “We found it exactly where we said we did. Beneath Miss Wickersham’s mattress.”
“But how did she come to be in possession of it? I don’t understand…”
But suddenly he did understand.
Everything.
Closing his eyes against a rush of raw emotion, he whispered, “There is none so blind as he who will not see.”
When he opened them, everything in his life was suddenly crystal clear.
Tucking the letter inside his coat, next to his heart, he gave Beckwith a ferocious scowl. “So tell me, Mr. Beckwith, when are you going to make an honest woman out of Mrs. Philpot here?”
Although they were afraid to look at each other, the two servants both began to blush and stammer.
Beckwith drew a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and mopped at his brow. “You know, my lord?”
“How long?” Mrs. Philpot asked, wadding her gloves into a tiny ball.
Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Since I was about twelve and spotted the two of you kissing in the apple orchard. I nearly fell out of the tree and broke my neck.”
“Are we to be allowed to keep our positions?” Beckwith asked, growing bold enough to reach over and take Mrs. Philpot’s trembling hand in his.