His mind shut down. His senses whirled.
He closed his eyes and answered her call, responded to the primal rhythm she set, and joined with her and rode on. He was unable to do anything else, even to pause long enough to ask…a question she clearly didn’t wish to answer, at least, not then.
Not with the fires of passion, finally released and free, raging through them.
Not with need sinking its spurs deep, then deeper, driving them, raking them, forcing them on.
The flames they’d spent the last half hour stoking rose up and engulfed them.
And they rode. She might have been a novice, but she knew the ways of this riding. Knew when to cling and hold him in her body, when to release and let him pull back.
So he could drive into her again, and drive them both on.
Into the landscape of their melded desires, created from the interlocking complementary aspects of their passionate souls.
That they were well matched—in passion, in desire, and, tonight, in need—could not have been clearer.
They moved as one, increasingly confidently, increasingly forcefully, driving and urging each other on.
They gasped, clung, panted; breaths mingling, skins slick, she writhed, he plundered, and they strove for yet more.
To you, I will always bring life.
With crystal-like clarity, he remembered the last time she’d done exactly that, when he’d been running through the forests as Herne, god of the hunt. She’d seen him, known him, and had saved him from a hunter’s bullet.
It seemed, now, that he was running as Herne again—the same ancient, thudding, repetitive beat filled his heart and pounded through his veins—and she was there again, with him again, his goddess come to claim him.
Naked and willingly spread beneath him, she offered herself to him, his to claim in return.
With her passion and her power, she held him to her and urged him on, and he plunged deeper into her fire, deeper into the slick heat of her body, and wild and free, together they raced on.
Together through the heat, the raging flames, through the tumult of their combined desires.
Beneath the skin, she was as wild as he, as unfettered. As unrestrained in her pleasure, as open in her ardor.
Angling his head, he found her lips, supped, then sank deeper, another element of this untamed mating.
And suddenly they were there, teetering on the cusp of paradise.
He hung back for one second, and she sank her nails into his back—in desperation, scored his skin.
He thrust deep and she shattered.
And took him with her.
Straight over the edge into the blinding heat of ecstasy.
And on, on. The cataclysm wracked them, wrung from them the last drops of their passion, then left them limp, clinging to each other as glory bloomed, spread, and dragged their senses down.
* * *
Sprawled on his back with Lucilla slumped across his chest, her long hair in glorious disarray, the tendrils warm where they caressed his body, he slowly returned to the land of the living, his mind swimming up from the depths of satiation.
A satiation deeper than any he’d previously known.
He frowned as his mind fully re-engaged. Eyes still shut, he considered, compared.
He’d never experienced anything remotely similar in his not-uneventful, considerably varied, and extensive sexual life.
He didn’t understand why that should be so; they hadn’t done anything he hadn’t done countless times before, yet…
The notion that the quite startling result might be because it was Lucilla he’d finally indulged in the act with wasn’t one he wished to examine too closely.
The truth hit him like a brick. He’d finally succumbed and had surrendered to the attraction between them, and to her, and let both lead him here, to this. They’d shared their bodies; he was sharing her bed. Very definitely the last thing he’d wanted to do and the last place he’d wanted to find himself.
Yet despite that…he didn’t regret it. Couldn’t even pretend enough to conjure the emotion. Even so…
Opening his eyes, he glanced at her, but her head was tucked down, her cheek resting on his chest; he couldn’t see her face. “That was your first time.” He didn’t make it a question.
“Yes.” The admission sounded…dreamy. She was clearly still awash with pleasure.
He tried not to feel smug, but failed.
Slowly, languorously, she rolled over in his arms until her breasts were pressed once more to his chest. Her still naked breasts; he wasn’t about to complain.
Finally lifting her head, she looked into his face, into his eyes. He couldn’t guess what she saw there, but after several moments, her lips slowly curved, then she patted his chest, turned again, and settled as she had been, her head over his heart.
“My decision,” she softly said. “Not yours.”
He wasn’t sure he liked that; wasn’t sure he liked the implication. He’d been very much an equal participant.
That said, despite the extreme provocation of the situation they’d been plunged into earlier that night, with her so shaken and him so ridden by a protective possessiveness he even now didn’t fully comprehend, he would have done the gentlemanly thing and walked away—if she had let him. His resistance would have held if she hadn’t demolished it with her insistence.
Only hours prior to that, he’d done the right thing and told her, clearly and unequivocally, why he and she could never develop a formal relationship. Why they could never marry. There had been several strands in his reasoning, all contributing to that conclusion, and she’d understood them all. More, she’d said so.
She’d known he and she would never wed, yet she had—as she’d just confirmed—made her own decision to take him to her bed.
To demand he share it with her.
She—and the situation—had made it well-nigh impossible for him to refuse.
He wondered what that meant in terms of where they were now.
She’d relaxed in his arms, but she wasn’t asleep. Briefly, he hugged her tighter to get her attention. “So this is what? Your first fling?”
She didn’t immediately answer. Then she shrugged the shoulder not pressed to his chest. “It is what it is.” She paused, then more quietly added, “And I’m content with that.”
He couldn’t think of anything to say in response—nothing that he wanted, at that point, to say.
And while there were several other pertinent questions he wanted to ask—such as whether she would consider indulging again later—he didn’t feel now was the moment for such inquiries.
He thought, then murmured, “I’ll stay until dawn.”
“Yes. Please.” She settled deeper into his embrace. “Until then…at least.”
Another statement he saw no reason to challenge. Closing his eyes, he let his senses sink back into the satiation that still had a firm grip on his body, and was waiting, still, to snare his mind.
* * *
Lucilla left her room and headed for the dining room, eager to discover what effect the events of the night would have on more mundane interactions between Thomas and her.
She’d spent a lifetime following her instincts, even when they’d urged her to acts that, on the face of it, had at first led to what seemed like disasters. In the clearer light of hindsight, said disasters had always proved to be turning points leading to the correct path—not just for her but for all those involved.
Last night, she’d followed her instincts. They’d spoken loud and clear, and she’d surrendered herself to their guidance. She’d followed their insistent compulsion without question, without hesitation.
And had reaped a glorious reward. A reward that had been a great deal more than she’d expected.
She had thought she’d known, that she’d understood, but the clinical explanations and whispered confidences hadn’t prepared her for the sheer, glorious physicality of the act. At moments—such as when he’d first
joined with her—her senses had nearly overloaded; she hadn’t had any notion of how it would feel—what it would feel like to have him inside her like that, stretching and filling her like that, with such strength and weight, such raw male power.
And the sensations associated with that fabulous muscled power had rolled on through the ensuing intimate engagement.
Lips curving, she paused at the head of the stairs as the memories rolled through her, leaving remembered warmth beneath her skin. Thus far, her instincts had proved correct, and a lifetime of experience reassured her that, in this instance, too, her instincts’ directives had started her and Thomas down the road they needed to take.
She didn’t know the details of how matters would work out, only that they would.
Serenely assured, and in exceedingly fine fettle, she swept down the stairs and on toward the dining room. She and Thomas had slept until dawn, then they’d woken and indulged in another bout of lovemaking, one much slower and gentler, yet regardless, the moments had left her feeling as if sensation had been lavishly burnished over every inch of her skin.
When she’d woken again, not long ago, he’d been gone. While she’d been washing, she’d heard his door open and close. His footsteps had paused outside her door, but then he’d walked on.
Now, seated at his usual place at the table, he’d heard her footsteps; he was looking at the doorway when she walked through. His gaze locked on her face, searched her features.
She smiled—for one instant, let all the effervescent joy and delight bubbling inside her show—and saw his gaze—indeed, all of him—still, then he blinked. Then, eyes widening a fraction in warning, he glanced at Niniver and Norris, who were seated at the table with their backs to the door.
By the time Niniver turned and smiled a shy welcome, Lucilla had muted her smile to one of mere contentedness.
“Good morning,” Niniver said. “Did you sleep well?”
Lucilla turned to the sideboard to mask her grin. “Excellently well, thank you.” She laid two pieces of toast on a plate. “And you?” Turning, she glanced at Niniver—then raised her eyes and met Thomas’s gaze.
Niniver shrugged. “I always sleep well, but it is my own bed. I thought you might have been more unsettled.” Niniver moved the teapot to within reach of Lucilla’s chosen place as, circling the table, she took the chair Thomas rose and held for her—the one beside his.
She settled her skirts, intrigued to discover that her awareness of him, of his nearness as he resumed his seat, although still strong, seemed to have a softer edge, a more gentle impact.
Niniver stirred her tea. “I wanted to ask…have you seen Papa yet? Was he improved by your tonic?”
“I haven’t yet seen him.” Lucilla glanced at Norris, but other than a vague nod in her direction as she’d sat, he seemed thoroughly absorbed with the food before him. If he had any interest in his father’s health, she could see no sign of it. Transferring her gaze to Niniver, who was much more transparently concerned, she went on, “The Burns sisters’ funeral is to be held this morning—I expect I’ll examine him before we leave for that. I’m sure he’ll want to attend, and indeed, I hope my tonic will have done enough overnight to make the occasion easier for him.”
Thomas relaxed beside Lucilla and listened with one ear as she and Niniver discussed the details of the joint funeral. Niniver knew the clan’s habits as well as all those involved…Thomas knew, too. He didn’t really need to refresh his memory. That left him free to continue puzzling over all that had happened since he’d retired to his bed the night before.
So much had changed between then, and when, this morning, he’d returned to his room, albeit not to his bed. Lucilla and he…he still couldn’t quite understand why he’d acquiesced to her necessity, acceded to her demands and stepped so far from the path he’d been so determined to tread.
What he understood even less was why, even now, even recognizing what had happened, he still did not feel the least perturbed.
What he felt was…a curious hiatus. As if he were living in a different world, on a different plane, in some other, alternate reality to that of his life in Glasgow.
As if this life with her and that one did not connect, did not touch, did not impinge on each other.
Stay and be my protector until dawn.
Here. With me. In this bed.
That isn’t a request.
This—you and me like this—is as things should be. Life for us as it needs to be.
It is what it is, and I’m content with that.
All words she’d said, and every one had held the ring of truth. For all her inexperience, she seemed to see this—whatever it was that had grown and then flared so powerfully between them—more clearly than he did.
Given that, given the unwavering self-assurance he could feel radiating from her with respect to him, her, and them together, he was fast coming to the conclusion that, for however long their liaison lasted, his best way forward might well be to follow her lead.
The thought brought him up short, made him mentally blink.
For the last twenty years, ever since his parents had been taken from him, he hadn’t followed anyone else’s lead, had allowed no one to arrange his life for him. He’d followed his guardians’ advice not because they were his guardians but because that advice had furthered his own self-determined ambitions.
Yet now, even though he stood at a pivotal point in his wider life, he was contemplating—more, advocating—following Lucilla’s lead.
He turned his head and looked at her. Studied her face as she spoke to Niniver, and wondered what spell she’d worked on him.
Sensing his gaze, she glanced at him. She searched his eyes, then faintly arched a brow.
Suppressing a frown—he could detect no sign that she was intent on bending him to her will, nor could he see any reason why she should be—he shook his head slightly.
“So…” Niniver was frowning down at her hands and had missed their exchange. “When will you start the next stage of Papa’s treatment?”
Looking across the table, Lucilla replied, “Assuming I examine him before we leave for the church, then when we return after the funeral, Alice and I will make up a restorative—something he can continue to take that will build on the improvement I hope he’ll have experienced overnight.”
She placed her napkin beside her plate and glanced at Thomas as she pushed back from the table. “Which reminds me that I should check with Alice in the still room.”
Thomas rose and drew back her chair. She met his eyes and smiled—a private smile between them.
He held her gaze. He hesitated, but then nodded. “Have them fetch me when Manachan calls for you. I’m sure he will before getting ready for the funeral.” His lips twisted wryly. “Either he will, or Edgar will remind him.”
She smiled and inclined her head. “Indeed.”
Entirely satisfied with how matters were progressing on all counts, with a nod to Niniver, she left the room.
* * *
Thomas quit the dining room shortly after Lucilla. He resisted the urge to reassure himself that she was safe in the still room; at his suggestion, Ferguson had stationed a footman in the lower passageway within sight of the still room door, with orders to go in and sit inside once Lucilla arrived.
While she remained on Carrick lands, until they solved the mystery of whatever was going on, and until he understood who had come to her room last night and why, she would be watched over.
Going out of the front door, he circled the house to the side terrace, where he could be assured of privacy while he paced.
Lucilla seemed to have shrugged off last night’s attack—if it had been an attack. He’d got the impression that, as in the end nothing had happened—and indeed, the incident had given her the opportunity to indulge in an activity she’d clearly wished to embrace—in her view all was… How had she put it? It is what it is, and I’m content with that. Although she’d been speaking of what lay between th
em, the same words seemed an accurate reflection of her attitude to the man who had crept up on her while she’d slept, a cushion clutched in his hands.
Thomas felt his face harden. It had to be comforting to have such faith and belief in fate, for want of a better term, but he was much less sanguine. He remained deeply unsettled by the incident. And, even more, by how it might connect with all the other odd things that had been, and apparently still were, going on.
Yet as he’d told her, the man could have been any clansman; everyone knew the manor doors were never locked, and most knew the layout of the house well enough to look for her in that particular wing.
But had the man actually intended to harm her —or had he come hoping to speak with her, perhaps to warn her, but he hadn’t wanted her to wake and scream?
That notion might seem far-fetched, yet Thomas knew of several men in the clan who were…unsophisticated enough to have thought that way.
Halting, he sighed. Turning, he looked out unseeing over the stretch of coarse lawn. The incidents were accumulating. While they yet lacked the evidence necessary to prove it, all the previous incidents up to last night had clearly been acts of malicious intent. The odds favored last night being another.
Which, in turn, suggested his inner conviction that Lucilla herself was in danger, that she, specifically, might now be in the perpetrator’s—a murderer’s—sights, could very well be true.
He remained staring, unseeing, out over the lawn as the minutes ticked by, then, his face feeling more like stone than flesh, he turned, walked back to the front door, and re-entered the house.
CHAPTER 11
Lucilla returned from the Burns sisters’ funeral, which had been held at the small local church in the village of Carsphairn, in a carriage with Thomas, Niniver, and Norris.
She spent the short journey finalizing the composition of the restorative she planned to make for Manachan. He’d summoned her to his room a bare half hour before they’d been due to leave the house, but five minutes had more than sufficed to convince them all that his vigor had been almost magically improved, courtesy of her boosting tonic.