Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

  Grinning to himself, he shrugged on his evening coat, settled the sleeves, then followed Catriona to the door.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Hours later, arms crossed behind his head, Breckenridge stretched full length beneath crisp linen sheets, luxuriating in once again being in a bed that could properly accommodate his length. Relaxing with a sigh, he waited for Morpheus to make an appearance.

  His mind drifted back over the recent dinner, taken with the rest of the household in a great hall that seemed to have changed little over the centuries, with the family and guests gathered about the high table, raised on a dais at one end, and the rest of the household, chattering and cheerful, spread about tables on the floor of the hall.

  Revisiting the scene, he found himself smiling, remembering the warmth, the affection, the sharing of life that had flowed so effortlessly around and about the high table, about the hall in general, effervescent streams of ephemeral connection glimmering with laughter and smiles. Even he, an unknown entity, had felt included, bathed in the glow.

  His own family, the Brunswick household, interacted in a manner that he recognized as similar, but here in the Vale, the joy and the simple pleasure of family were more easily perceived, more openly expressed.

  It had been an interesting evening.

  In more ways than one.

  His mind ranging further, he sifted through the myriad conversations, examining the undercurrents, both over the dinner table and in the two hours they’d later spent in the drawing room. While he wasn’t surprised by Richard’s standing down, as it were, what he now sensed from his host was . . . something more akin to sympathy.

  Which seemed strange. Richard feeling sorry for him because he was being forced to trade his rakish freedoms for marriage to a Cynster female simply wouldn’t wash. All male Cynsters viewed their female cousins as akin to princesses of the house; Richard and the others would see any man who married one of the girls, no matter the circumstances, as being honored, rather than being an object of pity.

  Richard eyeing him with sympathy made him uneasy.

  Contributing to that underlying unease was Catriona’s confident, embracing acceptance. She knew that he and Heather would have to marry, yet he’d detected no disapproval of such a socially dictated union.

  Catriona had been Richard’s wife, and thus within the Cynster fold, for more than nine years; it was difficult to believe that she hadn’t yet been infected with the “Cynsters only marry for love” creed.

  Especially given her connection to her mysterious “Lady.”

  What had rung more true was Catriona’s veiled warning that, once Heather was reminded of the social reality, of what society would expect and demand, she might jib.

  Just the thought . . . he felt his muscles tensing, tried to relax them again.

  Tried to push the disturbing notion away, tried to bury it, but the prospect of having to let her go rose like a specter—and hardened his resistance. He didn’t want to let her go—couldn’t imagine how he could live with such an outcome. How he could meet her and pretend nothing had changed. He could prevaricate with the best of them, but that would be beyond him. The idea of him retreating to his previous distance—of allowing her to once again view him as an uncle—was laughable.

  He shook himself, then resettled in the bed. In the interests of finding sleep that night, he focused on the positive—of what would come once they married. They’d use Brunswick House when in London, but other than the obligatory times when they would be looked for in the capital, he rather thought they’d spend their days at Baraclough. His father would like that, and so would he.

  The truth was he’d like a chance to build a home—not just the house but the family to inhabit it—along the lines of what Richard had here. Richard was patently at peace, and if this life suited Richard, it would suit him. Would satisfy and fulfill him.

  He hadn’t thought of it before, but that was what he wanted. What he wanted to achieve—the road he wished to follow for the rest of his life.

  The only hurdle, it seemed, was getting Heather to accept that she had to marry him in the absence of any protestations of love. Luckily, in that he would for once have society, and the grandes dames in general, on his side.

  Lips curving, he closed his eyes, composed his mind—and tried to find slumber.

  It should have been easy; the bed was more than comfortable, and with the stone walls so thick, no sounds disturbed him.

  He tossed. And turned.

  Sat up, thumped the pillow, lay down again.

  In the end he lay on his back and stared up at the ceiling. He was tempted to get up, find his fob-watch, and see how long he’d been lying there, but while it felt like hours and hours, by the distance the moonbeams had traveled across the room, it hadn’t been more than one.

  He knew of one activity guaranteed to lead to sleep, but the convoluted tenets of gentlemanly honor forbade him to seek Heather’s bed, not while under Richard’s roof.

  Besides, he didn’t even know where her room—

  The click of the door latch had him turning his head. Had every muscle in his body snapping taut.

  Heather eased the door open as silently as she could, relieved when the hinges remained blessedly silent. She’d guessed which room, which turret, Breckenridge would be in, but she’d had no idea if she was correct.

  She’d had to wait until the entire household had retired, wait until her eyes had been well adjusted to the darkness that prevailed in the manor’s corridors, but at no point had she imagined simply passing the night in her room, in her bed, alone.

  Tonight, or if she was lucky tomorrow night, would be her last chance to sleep in his arms. She saw no reason to pass up the opportunity. Once he made up his mind to leave . . . she was determined she wouldn’t cling but would behave with the sophisticated savoir faire he was no doubt accustomed to in his lovers.

  They were lovers, nothing more. Circumstances had brought them together, and circumstances would soon part them. She’d known how it would be when she’d seduced him; she wasn’t foolish enough to believe that he’d fallen in love with her in the space of two days.

  Through the hours of two richly physical nights.

  The door was finally open enough for her to step into the room and peer through the moon-washed dimness at the bed. . . .

  He was there.

  Her heart leapt. Literally leapt in her chest, which seemed quite silly of it, but she definitely felt it.

  He lay on his back, bathed in soft, silvery light. The sheets rustled as he came up on one elbow to look at her . . . the sheet slid down, exposing his chest.

  Her mouth went dry. Her lungs slowed.

  Then she remembered what she was about—she’d have time for staring later. Whirling, she shut the door as silently as she could, then turned and padded over to the bed.

  He watched her draw near, as she halted by the side of the bed asked, “What are you doing here?”

  She met his eyes, in answer tugged loose the tie of her robe, then shrugged the garment from her shoulders, let it fall, the silk sliding down her naked body to the floor. “You’re not going to argue, are you?”

  His gaze had fallen to her breasts. After an instant’s hesitation, he murmured, “No. Of course not,” even as, his eyes still locked on her, he raised the covers.

  She slid under them, scooted closer as he let them fall.

  Caught her breath at the delicious sensation of skin meeting skin. His was so much hotter, his body so much harder.

  So potently male.

  He reached for her, drew her to him, beside him, half under him as he bent his head and she tipped up her face and their lips met.

  Curious . . . even though his lips met hers, moved over hers until they parted and his tongue slid within, heavily stroking with his customary expertise, she sensed he was holdin
g back, was somehow aloof . . . he was thinking.

  But then he refocused, intent as well as assured as he pressed closer, closed one hand, knowing and sure, about her breast, and took possession of her senses.

  And the dance was different again, a delicious, delightful waltz of the senses as their bodies met, pressed together and parted, as his hands played over her flesh, and his mouth drifted, paying homage before demanding his due.

  She rose beneath him, restless and seeking, yet his control never faltered; with faultless execution and experienced command, he orchestrated a consummate performance that, exactly as she wished, educated her senses, opening doors on a different sensual plane, leading her further, leading her on—

  Into passion that stole her breath.

  Into need so powerful she ached.

  Into heat that flowed effortlessly beneath her skin and burned.

  Into desire so sharp she felt cut free from the world, cocooned in his arms, in the soft billows of the bed, surrounded by him and the beauty he wrought.

  Held, willingly snared, by the pleasure he lavished upon her.

  The pleasure built, threatening to sweep her away, but she had her own agenda. She fought, held back the tide, managed to snatch breath enough to gasp, “No. My turn.”

  It took several long minutes of heated wrestling to convince him that she was in earnest, that she wouldn’t let him sway her, but, eventually, on a muted groan he consented to roll onto his back, and let her have at him.

  Let her caress and have her fill of him.

  Let her drench her senses, drown them in him.

  She might never have another chance at this, and of all men, she wanted to learn this with him.

  To learn what pleasured him, which caresses built his tension in the same way his built hers. Which slow strokes most teased his senses, which pulse points were most sensitive to the pressure of her lips, to the rasp of her tongue, to the soft suction of her mouth.

  She learned quickly, learned well. In those heated moments, his body was hers, surrendered to her wishes, to her will. Hers to explore, to know, to delight in.

  She drank her fill.

  Breckenridge struggled to hold on to any semblance of control. His fingers locked in the silk of her hair, he endured the exquisitely erotic possession, one he rarely allowed.

  That he’d allowed her of all women, innocent as she was, to pander to his fantasies in such a way defied all logic. She was one of the few who had ever challenged his control, ever threatened to strip his civilized veneer from the primitive male beneath.

  Chest tight, every muscle tensed to rock, he lay back and, jaw clenched, hung on . . .

  Until, predictably, she went one step too far. The instant he felt her delicate fingers drift to his scrotum alarms sounded in his head—rising to a screech when she torturously slowly drew the hot haven of her mouth from his aching erection, then angled her head—

  Before her mouth, her kiss-swollen lips, could make contact he surged up, flipped her over, and had her flat on her back beneath him again, pressing her heavily into the soft mattress as he angled his lips over hers. And took over.

  Took charge, took control.

  He wasn’t interested in giving it back.

  Once he was certain her wits were reeling, once her hands lost their questing intent and lay passive against his chest, he drew back and slid down the bed, grasped her thighs, lifted them wide, and set his mouth to her softness.

  Turn and turn about.

  She’d given him this chance; he fully intended to use the engagement to bolster his hold on her.

  He focused all his considerable expertise on taking her where she hadn’t yet been, and was rewarded with a soft, breathless, mindless scream as she climaxed.

  For the first time. He wasn’t of a mind to skimp on the night, yet continued to be aware of the primitive male within—the being she called forth, drew forth so effortlessly that primal needs beat just beneath his skin.

  When she crested again, driven by his fingers buried deep within her sheath, he could hold back primitive impulse no longer. He positioned himself, and sank into her.

  Gloried in the way she accepted him, not just so deeply into her body, but into her arms. They reached up and around, grasping all of him she could as she rose beneath him, her breath all but sobbing as she wordlessly urged him on, tipping back her head to offer him her mouth . . . he hauled in a breath and dived in.

  Took, claimed.

  Not just her mouth but all of her.

  He pushed her, cajoled, demanded, wrung, and seized every last gasp of her passion.

  Every last sob, every last evocative moan—he wanted it all.

  And she gave.

  Without reservation, with no inhibition.

  He knew the difference, valued the gift.

  Treasured it.

  Closed his eyes, held it to his heart as she shattered beneath him, and this time he let go and allowed himself to follow her into oblivion.

  Where satiation ruled and bliss rolled in on a long slow wave, and pulled them under.

  Wrapped in each other’s arms, they slumped in the bed, and surrendered to bliss-filled dreams.

  He woke sometime later, summoned enough strength to disengage and lift from her. She turned with a murmured protest, snuggling back into his arms, settling against him, her softness a blessing, her nearness a comfort.

  Slumping beside her, half beneath her as she seemed to prefer, he let sleep drag him back under . . . but just before it did he realized what had previously kept him awake.

  Clarity often came in moments like that, on the edge of consciousness.

  He hadn’t been able to fall asleep because she hadn’t been in his arms.

  Obvious.

  Lips gently curving, relaxed to his toes, reassured to his soul, he let consciousness slip away, and slept.

  Heather woke to pleasure, to sensation so sweet her toes curled.

  To whispers of seduction.

  Unable to resist, unwilling to draw back, she let him sweep her away.

  Let him take her, have her, slide deep into her body and fill her. Complete her.

  From behind, he slid deep, and thrilled her.

  Then he rocked her to paradise.

  And followed, muffling his hoarse shout in the hollow of her throat.

  Hand sunk in his hair, her body arching in his hands, she held him deep inside and gloried.

  As the golden tide slowly washed through them, then receded, pulled back and left them racked, she listened to her heart thud, felt the echo of his heartbeat at her core, and clung.

  To the closeness.

  To the intimacy.

  To the indescribably joyous sense of being one.

  Slowly their muscles relaxed, their wits returned to them.

  She had no regrets that she’d become his lover.

  Her only regret was that their time would soon end, and she would lose this—this chance to forge such an incredible connection, one that transcended the physical and edged into the spiritual.

  Eyes closed, she felt him draw back, disengage. Felt the connection break, fade.

  He slumped, heavy and hot at her back.

  For long moments silence reigned while their heartbeats slowed and their breathing evened, and they drifted back to the here and now, to the glow of predawn lightening the sky beyond the windows, to the distant sound of larks heralding the dawn.

  His arm lay heavy across her waist, the long fingers of one hand gently cradling her breast.

  She felt him stir, then he settled again.

  Then he spoke, his voice deep, still edged with passion’s rasp. “We need to face facts.”

  She tried to frown, but her muscles were still too lax. Reluctantly she started marshaling her wits. “What facts?”

 
“We need to get married.”

  She jerked away from him enough to turn and stare. “What?” She couldn’t have heard aright.

  But he was wearing his impassive mask, and his gaze, all gold and green, remained steady. “There’s no other way—we need to get married, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “What?”

  She pulled away, pushing away from him, her expression one of shock, if not horror; Breckenridge fought the urge to grab her and haul her back. To hold her. He forced himself to lie still, kept his voice calm, his tone uninflected. “You can’t possibly be that naïve—you know our world. Given we’ve been away, together and alone, for so long, then a wedding is the prescribed outcome.”

  Her eyes had flown wide with—he would swear—sheer and utter surprise. Now they darkened, the soft blue-gray clouding, roiling with emotion.

  “No.” Her chin firmed. She scrambled out of the bed, grabbed her robe, and started shrugging into it. “This is what comes of letting Richard talk to you alone.”

  He started to sit up.

  Robe gaping, she pointed an imperious finger at him. “No—don’t try to deny it. He spoke to you, and told you you had to offer, but—”

  “He didn’t.” Despite his best intentions he was speaking through clenched teeth. “Yes, he asked what I thought, and I told him I would marry you, and that’s the sum total of the words we exchanged on the subject.”

  Cinching the robe’s tie, she narrowed her eyes at him. “Richard might not have dictated, but he’s good at intimidating—all of them are.”

  “No one had to intimidate me—”

  “What you and he have failed to understand is that I do not wish to marry you—not you or anyone else! Yes, I seduced you, but that didn’t mean I expected you to offer for my hand, and I most assuredly never meant for us to marry!”

  Why not? He bit his tongue, refused to utter the too-revealing words. Drawing his knees up beneath the sheet, he leaned forward, loosely clasping his hands around his calves . . . wondered if he could lunge and grab her . . .