Had to, was compelled to, reward him. This man—her man, her one and only “one”—was no more blind than she. Thank heaven. To have had to prod and nudge and work to make him see what would be best…she’d been prepared to do it, but to her soul she appreciated his courage in facing and embracing their truth.
This was what they were. What, for them both, their marriage needed to be. Breaking from the kiss on a laughing gasp, she steered him back toward the bed, along the way helped him out of his coat, out of his waistcoat while he dealt with his cravat. His legs hit the end of the mattress and he halted. Mouth watering, she opened his shirt, pushed the halves wide. Savored with hands and eyes while he muttered and reached around her to undo his cuffs.
Then she slid her hands down, palms to his warm, resilient skin, skating over muscles that tensed beneath her touch, to the waistband of his trousers. Two quick flicks and the buttons there were free. But before she could open the placket and reach within, he uttered a breathless laugh. “Shoes first.”
His voice sounded strained.
Eyes dark with desire, he stepped aside and toed off his shoes, stepped out of them, and reached for her. She flung her shawl aside as she went into his arms, needing his heat, rejoicing as it enveloped her.
She lifted her face, wordlessly offered her mouth. He bent his head and took, claimed, filled. She responded, letting the familiar sensations—the welling desire, the burgeoning taste of passion, rising urgency and hungry need—fascinate and absorb them.
While she plotted, planned.
He’d let her explore before, but the pleasure she experienced when he worshipped her with his mouth made her wonder if this wasn’t the time for turn and turnabout. For her to pleasure him.
She thought it would work, but knew of only one way to know for certain. Without breaking from their kiss, from the increasingly heated exchange, she slid her hands down, around, and sent his trousers sliding down his legs to the floor.
He was busy with the buttons closing the front of her nightgown. She only did them up so she would have the small pleasure of having him undo them, the hunger in his touch fueling her own, racking their desire one notch tighter.
While he was engaged, she reached between them, found the rigid rod of his erection, closed her hand boldly and stroked. Sensed the sudden hitch in his breathing, the momentary deflection of his attention.
But then he swung it back to her with renewed intent, renewed urgency.
Even greater hunger.
He wrenched the halves of the nightgown’s bodice wide, baring her breasts, but instead of bending his head to feast, he slid an arm around her upper thighs, lifted her off her feet.
She blinked, and was on her back in the middle of the bed, with him leaning over her, his hot gaze on her breasts, one heavy thigh pinning her legs.
One hard hand closed over one of her breasts, took possession. Her lids fell; she moaned with sheer pleasure as he worked her swollen flesh, tortured the tight bud…
In less than a minute, she would lose all chance to take charge.
Her hands had come to rest on his shoulders. She slid them down, flattened her palms on his upper chest and pushed.
“Later,” he murmured.
She knew by his tone he meant much later. “No—now.” She shoved. “Roll over.”
He made a guttural sound of frustration, but obliged, rolling onto his back, taking her with him so she ended atop him.
Her eyes met his. “Good.” Before he could use his hands, still on her breasts, and distract her again, she swooped down and kissed him—voraciously, hungrily, greedily. She poured every ounce of heated passion she could summon into the rapacious kiss—and succeeded in dragging his attention to it, succeeded in snaring his awareness and holding it there, deep in the kiss. Succeeded in sliding one hand down his chest, down his side and in, and closing that hand possessively around his erection.
He stilled, and she pulled back from the kiss.
“Just wait,” she murmured, sliding lower in the bed as her fingers caressed, stroked, promised.
While her hand played, she dipped her head and placed kisses—hot damp kisses—across his collarbone. Then she searched the mat of crinkly dark hair and found the flat disc of his nipple, kissed, licked, then nipped.
He shifted beneath her. One hand rose, sliding beneath the fall of her hair to glide over her nape, then lightly grip her skull.
His breathing quickened as she shifted lower still, trailing kisses with abandon, the fingers of one hand lightly razing her path while her other hand remained wholly devoted to pleasuring his turgid member.
When she shifted lower yet, and her kisses reached his navel, Gareth sucked in a breath and couldn’t release it. Couldn’t breathe.
From wanting. From hoping.
Anticipation dug her claws deep, locked him in place—held him helplessly immobile for her.
Expectation was a rising tide within him, urgent and greedy.
Needy.
It had been a very long time since any woman had pandered to him as she was—as she was promising to do. But what held him in thrall, hers to tease and please as she wished—however and for however long she wished—was the simple fact that this was she—Emily, the woman he wanted as his wife—that it was she who was intent on pleasuring him.
Wonder and so much more held him ensnared. Held him captive as she slid lower yet and her lips finally—finally!—grazed the aching head of his erection.
Instinctively his hand tightened on her skull, fingers clenching in the silk of her hair as he fought to remain still, to keep his hips from jerking upward in greedy eagerness.
Head back, he stared unseeing at the ceiling, wondering just what she would do—willing her, hoping, praying…then he felt the wet stroke of her tongue sliding slowly, sinuously upward from the base of his shaft to the sensitive head.
His lids fell. He locked his jaw. But then with the tip of her tongue she traced the excruciatingly sensitive rim, and his lungs seized.
Her breath, soft and sultry, washed over his damp flesh. Every nerve, every particle of awareness he possessed was locked on her, on what next she would do.
The sensation of her soft lips and luscious mouth sliding over him, taking him in, drawing him deep into that slick heat ripped a groan from him.
Which was all the encouragement she needed. She set to work with the devotion, the abandon, that characterized everything she did. She might have been a novice, yet in short order she reduced him to a state of clamoring need. Both hands sunk in her hair, his breathing increasingly ragged, his heart pounding, blood surging, he clung to sanity—to some semblance of control—while she sent wave after wave of pleasure crashing through him.
While she shredded his reins and stripped away all pretense and left raw need and primal passion blazing through him.
Emily sensed the change—the escalation of tension, of that passion-driven strength that invested the muscled body on which she lay.
Gloried in it. This was even better than she’d imagined. She hadn’t realized pleasuring him would bring her so much joy.
Bring her so much satisfaction, a very feminine triumph in knowing it was she who had done this to him—that she held the power to drive him wild.
And wilder. He groaned again as, experimenting, exercising her newfound power, she curled her tongue about his length and slowly stroked upward, then took him in again and settled to suck, something he seemed to especially enjoy.
How far could she take him? She put her heart and soul into finding out.
Only to have him gutturally declare, “Enough!”
He eased a finger between her lips, withdrawing from her mouth and then grasping her shoulders, lifting her and rising in one smooth movement. She expected him to tumble her onto the bed and follow her down. Instead, he set her back on her knees; coming up on his, he seized the folds of her nightgown and lifted it off, over her head.
She drew her arms from the long sleeves. Her hair tum
bled over her face; she brushed back the long strands so she could see.
The bed rocked around her. She nearly tipped over, but a steely arm around her waist caught her, held her up—she saw her nightgown drifting to the floor beyond the bed, and nothing else—and realized he’d come up on his knees behind her.
His arm about her waist held her steady as he shifted nearer, closer, until, head rising, spine straightening, she could feel his heat like a flame from her shoulders all the way down her back, all the way down the backs of her thighs.
His head dipped; his lips cruised her ear. “You can be my houri any day, any night.”
There was a promise in his words that sent a shiver of expectation dancing down her spine. His warm breath washed over the side of her throat. His lips followed. Eyes closing, she felt the familiar heat rise.
Felt the insistent prodding of his erection, hot as a brand, against her bottom as he pressed near. One hard hand clamped over her hip. His arm about her eased, shifted, that hand drifting lower to splay over her belly. Then he raised his head, murmured close by her ear, “And like any good master, I’ll enjoy my slave.”
Her breath hitched. One of her hands had come to rest on the arm he’d wound around her. Her grip tightened, nails sinking in as he held her against him and the hand over her belly slid lower, fingers seeking.
Finding. Stroking. Probing.
Pressing in and possessing.
Until she was arching against him, sobbing and panting, wanting so much more.
Holding her hips against his, he pressed her shoulders down until on a gasp she braced herself on her arms.
And he slid into her from behind.
Her eyes opened wide, unseeing, her senses trapped, wholly focused on where they joined, on the feeling of fullness as his shaft stretched her sheath, as he thrust in and filled her to the hilt.
She heard a shuddering gasp, followed by a low moan as he slowly withdrew. But then he thrust in again and she nearly sobbed.
The friction was acute, the sensations of him filling her, taking her, claiming and possessing her, all so much more primitively, passionately real…her reality spun away into a furnace of primal heat, her wits suborned by the overwhelming need to mate, by a tattoo pounding through her blood, driving her—and him.
His hips thrusting steadily, repetitively, Gareth leaned forward and filled his hands with her breasts. Kneaded, found the tight peaks and squeezed.
Her head threshed alongside his. She was so close, almost there.
He felt his own release inexorably rising. Reached down with one hand, found the throbbing nub of flesh between her thighs and stroked, pressed.
With a barely muted scream, she fractured, her body molten fire in his arms—her sheath clamping scalding hot about him, her womb a beckoning furnace…with a long-drawn groan he thrust deep and let go. Let release have him, wash through him, hips bucking hard against her bottom as he spilled his seed deep within her.
She collapsed and took him with her. He sprawled over her, unable to move, his heart thundering, his mind an utter blank, his senses purring.
His more primitive self slumped, sated to its toes, satisfied beyond imagining.
With an effort, he disengaged and slumped on his side beside her. She turned her head his way. Moss-green eyes glinted beneath her lashes.
Then she smiled. “I rather think I like being your houri.”
Nineteen
19th December, 1822
Very early morning
My bedchamber at Mallingham Manor
Dear Diary,
I am huddling under the covers scribbling madly before Dorcas arrives with my washing water. Gareth has just left—and what a night, and a morning, we made of it. But the essential news I have to impart is that we are in accord—utterly and completely!—over our future life.
He saw the possibilities, too, and wants that type of married life as much as I do.
All my hopes have come true—all my dreams are hovering, about to become reality. Admittedly, he hasn’t yet declared he loves me in words, out loud, but after all I have learned from the Berber women, and from Clarice and Leonora, about how to interpret the actions of men like him, the truth could not be clearer.
We know what we must do, how we need to go on to secure everything we want our joint life to be.
All that stands in our way is that wretched Black Cobra, but after tomorrow…after that, we will be free to pursue our shared dreams.
I am eager beyond bearing.
E.
They left at first light, as the dark skies turned a paler gray and a chill east wind whipped snow from the lingering drifts bordering the roads.
Inside the carriage, tucked beneath traveling rugs and with two warm bricks beneath her boots, Emily watched the winter landscape slip past, watching for any hint of cultists. Gareth, seated beside her, his hand wrapped around hers, looked out the other way. They were all on edge, on the one hand ready to repel any attack, but on the other believing that while they might be followed, the cultists were unlikely to engage until they crossed the Thames.
“Aside from all else,” Tristan had pointed out as they were preparing to start out, “the forests north of the river provide much better cover, and places ideal for an ambush.”
He and Jack were on horseback, somewhere out in the wintry chill.
They’d been traveling for hours and, according to signposts, Gravesend was close, when Emily leaned nearer the window and peered out. “I haven’t seen Jack or Tristan at all.”
“You won’t. I suspect they’re old hands at this sort of thing. They want to spot any cultists trailing us, but don’t want to be seen themselves. You might catch a glimpse when they pass us at Gravesend.”
As arranged, they halted the coach at the Lord Nelson, a large coaching inn, and went inside to take refreshments. They wasted a tense half hour over a teapot and scones, allowing Tristan and Jack to go ahead to the jetty north of the town.
When, once more in the carriage, they reached the jetty, Jack and Tristan were nowhere to be seen, but a ferryman was waiting with his ferry to take them across to Tilbury, on the north bank. He confirmed that the gentleman who bespoke his services and his companion had already crossed on another barge.
The crossing was short, but difficult, the flat-topped ferry rocking perilously, but the ferryman and his crew took the choppy, rushing river in their stride. They reached the Tilbury jetty, not far from the richly decorated watergate of Tilbury Fort, without incident.
With the coach once more on dry land, Gareth helped Emily back inside, then, shutting the door, went to help Mooktu calm the restive horses. Mullins was already on the box, checking the pistols stowed under the seat while he held the reins.
Bister had gone scouting ahead. He came pelting back as Mooktu climbed up to his position beside Mullins. Gareth paused by the carriage door.
Snapping a salute, Bister went past, grabbing the straps at the back of the carriage and swiftly climbing to the roof. “Spotted three of ’em—there might be more. They’re watching from a rise outside the town—lots of forest behind them.”
Brows rising, Gareth opened the carriage door and climbed in.
Given that news, they dallied over luncheon in Tilbury’s main inn, giving Tristan and Jack plenty of time to ease their appetites and, mounted once more, get into position behind the cultists.
After another hour had passed, Gareth, tapping the scroll holder he’d reclaimed from Watson that morning and now carried in his greatcoat pocket, followed Emily back into the carriage, and they set off.
This was the leg on which they thought an attack might come. The road wended through marshes north of Tilbury, then climbed to higher ground.
Gareth snorted as the road leveled off. “That was a perfect spot for an ambush—just as we crested that rise.”
“They might not want to be seen by others.” Emily gestured to a carriage going the other way.
“True. The further north we go, em
pty stretches of road will become more frequent. Maybe that’s why they haven’t yet attacked.”
However, as they traveled unhurriedly through the afternoon, often along stretches where the forest closed in on both sides of the road and other conveyances grew few and far between, still no attack eventuated. At one point, Bister, riding on the roof with their bags, hung down the side of the coach to report that although they were definitely being followed, he’d seen no indication of the cultists moving to flank them or get ahead to a position where they might ambush the coach.
Gareth frowned. “That must mean something.”
“Perhaps when Jack and Tristan join us, they’ll know more.” Emily leaned forward, looking ahead to where roofs could be glimpsed across open fields. “I think that’s Chelmsford ahead.”
It was. They rattled into the town, rolling up the High Street past the large church to the inn Wolverstone had instructed them to stay at overnight. Once again, they were expected. From the flurry of activity that enveloped them the instant Gareth made himself known, it seemed likely Wolverstone himself had made the arrangements.
Once he saw the rooms assigned to their party—a set of four chambers on the first floor comprising all the rooms in that wing and overlooking both the front and the rear of the inn—Gareth felt even more sure the duke had taken a hand. Before the light faded, he, Mooktu and Bister prowled outside, noting hiding places, checking for windows and doors through which attackers might gain access.
The inn was built of stone, with a sound slate roof, and was remarkably secure—another comfort. Although Gareth wanted nothing more than to engage with the cultists and reduce their number, satisfying that part of his decoy’s mission, he was unable to forget he had Emily with him. Mission or not, he wouldn’t willingly wish her in danger.