When he didn’t respond, just frowned at the floor, she inwardly sighed. “I’m going to do my rounds. I’ll be back in a moment.”
She headed for the dining room.
When she returned from checking the windows and doors on the ground floor, he was sitting where she’d left him, but was now turning the wooden cylinder over and over in his hands.
He glanced up, then returned to studying the cylinder. “I’ve run into another black wall. What the devil does this thing mean? What have I been doing since Waterloo? And with whom? For whom am I carrying this”—he waved it—“and what does it contain? Or is it just mine, for storing valuable papers?”
He was like a dog worrying a bone. And the intensity driving him was starting to worry her.
“Nagging at things rarely helps.”
When he sent her a black look, she laughed. “Yes, I know, easier said than done, but it’s time to go upstairs. After all our riding, you’ll need your rest.” Or at least distraction.
Grudgingly, he rose, carried the cylinder back to the sideboard, then followed her from the room.
At the top of the stairs, she paused, through the shadows met his eyes. “I’m going up to check on the children. I’ll join you shortly.”
He nodded. As she climbed the next flight of stairs, he walked slowly toward her room.
L ogan stood by the window looking out on the wintry dark. A gap between two of the encirling trees offered a glimpse of moon-silvered sea rippling beneath an obsidian sky.
The more he remembered, the more he recalled of himself, of his past, the better he sensed what manner of man he was. Which, here and now, left him in a quandary. He was an honorable man—tried to live his life by that overriding precept—so was sleeping with his hostess, a beautiful, gently bred female with no effective protector—taking advantage of her, as most would deem it—the action of an honorable man?
To the man he now knew himself to be, the answer was a clear-cut no.
Last night . . . he didn’t know what he’d been thinking. In truth, he hadn’t been thinking; he’d responded to the challenge, the intrigue, the necessity of learning whether the night before had been dream or reality. But in satisfying his curiosity, he’d started something else—something he didn’t understand—for Linnet wasn’t just any woman, not to anyone, but most especially not to him.
The door opened. He turned. He hadn’t bothered to light the lamp.
The soft glow of the candle Linnet carried preceded her into the room. She entered, looked around and saw him, turned to set the candlestick on the tallboy and close the door. Then she walked toward him, the skirts of the fine green woollen gown she’d donned for the evening swaying enticingly about her long legs. The fabric clung lovingly to the sleek curves of breast and hip, reminding him of how those firm curves felt undulating beneath him.
Fisting one hand, he pushed the tantalizing memory aside. She’d made up her mind to be unattainable and, bastard-born, he had his own road to follow—wherever it might lead. There was no benefit to either of them in allowing whatever it was that had flared between them to deepen, to evolve.
He knew that, recognized and acknowledged that, knew that simply ending the budding liaison here and now was the honorable thing to do, yet . . .
She halted, close, too close to pretend that they hadn’t been—weren’t—lovers. Despite the nearness, she was tall enough to meet his gaze easily. She studied his eyes, then said, “I’ve a proposition for you.”
He arched his brows. Felt immediately wary, but whether of her, himself, or what might be coming he couldn’t have said.
Her lips curved. “I don’t believe it will hurt.” She paused, then went on, “I want you to educate me in the ways of the flesh. In every erotic, sinful pleasure.”
Lustful anticipation slammed through him.
Equally instinctive, the honorable part of him held firm. He tightened his jaw, tightened his hold on his baser impulses. “It might, perhaps, be wiser if we didn’t further indulge.”
Linnet’s brows flew high. So he could spend all night obsessing about what he couldn’t remember? “Hmm . . . no. That won’t do. It occurs to me that you are presently without coin or other material means to repay my hospitality.”
His lips firmed. “I’ll help you with your donkeys. And the goats.”
She laughed, her eyes never leaving his. “Not enough—not nearly enough.”
“Throw in the cows—and I’m a dab hand with horses.”
“Now you’re getting desperate—and, if you think about it, just a touch insulting.” She shifted nearer, held his gaze unrelentingly. “Stop arguing.”
His eyes narrowed on hers.
Holding his gaze, she lowered one hand and boldly closed it about the solid rod of his erection.
He hissed in a breath, closed his eyes.
“Tell me,” she purred, “why is it you don’t want to fall in with my plan?”
She knew the answer: Because he was the sort of man the last days had shown him to be, and he would therefore feel compelled to retreat to a position of conventional honor. She’d seen that coming and, discerning no benefit to either of them in his taking that tack, had devised a way around it by making his falling in with her plan an equally mandated act. He would want to repay her; she’d shown him the way.
His lips grimly set, he opened his eyes, looked into hers. “Do you really want that? To be taken, possessed, your body used in ways you’ve never even imagined?” His voice lowered. “Do you truly want to put yourself in my hands, in such a way, to that extent?”
Primitive threat underscored his tone, smoldered in the midnight embers of his eyes, and sent an evocative shiver down her spine. Sadly for him, that had the opposite effect to what he’d intended.
She thrived on challenges, the riskier, the more exciting, the more tantalizing the better. Smile deepening, she tipped up her face, and closed what little distance remained between them. “Yes. Take me.” Her eyes on his, she categorically stated, “However you want, however you wish—take me now .”
Logan’s lips were on hers, his tongue plundering her mouth, his hands fisted in her hair before he’d thought. And then . . . he couldn’t.
Think.
All he could hear were the words of her taunting order.
Take me now.
Indeed he would.
However you want, however you wish . . .
As he held her face steady and ravaged her mouth, he remembered he was supposed to teach her, to repay her . . . by opening her eyes to all that could be within the realm of sensual pleasure.
She’d tied his honor in knots, so not even that could excuse him denying her.
So yes, he would do as she commanded. But how?
As per her sultry order, he consulted his fantasies, swiftly rejecting this one, that—those he couldn’t envision her in. Couldn’t imagine placing her in; she might have agreed to every erotic and sinful way, but she was a relative innocent with no real idea of what that encompassed.
But . . . yes, that one. He immediately knew it would work—that she would enjoy being taken, possessed, like that.
Wrenching his mouth free, he looked down at her face for a brief instant, then grabbed the hand still cradling his erection and towed her—dragged her—across the room. After one shocked gasp, she caught up her skirts and kept up easily enough.
Reaching the end of the bed, he yanked her to him, raised his arm over her head, and twirled her, twirled her—then brought her to an abrupt halt before the cheval glass in the corner.
He looked over her head at the reflection revealed in the glow from the candle she’d left burning on the tallboy.
The light washed over her, enough for them both to see her wide eyes and the soft flush tinting her alabaster skin, while he, in dark coat, black breeches, and black boots, with his black hair and tanned skin, appeared as little more than a dark presence behind her.
Perfect.
“This is a performance.
” Closing his hands about her shoulders, he bent his head and pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the point where her exposed nape met her shoulder. Head still lowered, he lifted his gaze to the mirror, trapped her eyes. “An erotic performance, and you are the one who’ll perform.”
She drew in a huge breath, breasts swelling beneath her dinner gown. As she opened her lips, he laid a finger across them. “First rule of this classroom—no talking from you. I will give orders, and you will obey. Other than that, you may moan, sob, even scream—and believe me, you will—but at no point will any word pass your lips. Not even my name.” He held her gaze, then softly asked, “Do you understand?”
She opened her mouth, saw his rising brow, closed her lips and nodded.
“Excellent. So let’s begin.”
The first thing he did was pull pins from her hair. Linnet expected him to take all of them, but no—he picked out one pin here, one there, concentrating on laying first this tress, then that, over her shoulders, trailing yet others to drape her neck. She stood and watched him in the mirror; she could only see what he was doing, where his darkly tanned hands were heading, once they came forward of her shoulders. Only then did the light reach them well enough for her to see.
She was wishing she’d brought up a candelabra rather than a single candle when he lost interest in her hair and focused on her breasts. She felt the shift in his gaze, felt the heat on her breasts—felt them tightening, peaking.
In the mirror she watched her nipples pebble beneath the fine wool of her gown.
“Undo your bodice.”
This is a performance, an erotic performance, and you are the one who’ll perform.
She finally understood. Even as her hands rose to do his bidding, she wondered what she would learn from this lesson. Her green gown fastened down the front, a row of pearl buttons closing the bodice; she slipped the first free, eager to find out.
His gaze followed her fingers as they worked steadily lower. She paused when she reached the raised waist—looked at him.
“Keep going.”
She could feel the heat of him down her back, sense the solidity, the strength, the masculine power, all held in check mere inches behind her. Primed, ready for action, but utterly controlled. She wouldn’t mind breaking that control, splintering it, fracturing it, but that, she suspected, was a lesson for another day. Tonight . . .
Reaching the end of the row of buttons, level with the line of her hips, she halted. Went to ask “What now?” but remembered in time.
“Slide the gown off your shoulders, free your arms and hands, and let it fall to the floor.”
She did as she was told; as the gown slid to puddle about her feet, she realized why he’d let only a few tresses of her hair free. Her hair was long, nearly reaching her waist, and thick and wavy; if he’d let it all down, it would have screened her upper body from his sight.
Merely having her naked clearly wasn’t his aim.
His next order came. “Take off your shift, and hand it to me.”
Her shift reached below her knees. She bent to grasp the hem and her bottom met his groin. He didn’t shift away. Losing the contact as she straightened and drew the shift off over her head, a strange frisson of awareness streaked through her.
Her arms free of the garment, with one hand she offered it back, over her shoulder. He took it, his fingers brushing over hers as he did.
Another odd shiver threatened.
She expected to be told to remove her chemise in the same way, but instead, he drawled, “Now, let’s see. . . .”
Her breasts were already swollen, achy, even though he hadn’t touched them, not even brushed them. Her nipples were furled so tight they hurt.
“Open the buttons.”
The chemise had a front placket that reached to her navel, closed by tiny flat buttons she never bothered undoing. One by one, she slipped them free. The placket gaped as her hands descended, revealing the creamy whiteness of her skin, the valley between her breasts.
By the time she reached the end of the line, her nerves had tightened, expectation gripping.
“Draw the sides apart and show me your breasts. I’m your audience—display them for me.”
Curling her fingers in the fine material, she boldly, brazenly, drew the sides wide, baring her breasts to his hot gaze. She could feel it moving over her exposed flesh.
“Keep your eyes on your body, not on me.”
She obeyed, shifting her gaze from the darkness behind her to the white glow of her breasts—and found the peculiarity of seeing and feeling simultaneously strangely arousing. She saw the light flush spread beneath her white skin, felt the telltale warmth spread, saw her nipples tighten even more as sensation heightened and her breasts grew heavy.
“Very good.” The raspy murmur washed over her ear. “Keep watching.”
His hands came around her and lightly cupped her breasts. Too lightly at first, but within a minute his touch had changed—to one of flagrant possession. His tanned hands and fingers stood out in stark contrast against her white skin as they surrounded her breasts, as he captured her nipples, rolled, then squeezed—and her knees went weak.
“Stand straight—don’t lean back.”
She swallowed and tried to comply. His body was close behind her—mere inches away, given the heat bathing her back. His strong arms reached around her, a steely cage, yet only his hands—those wicked, hungry hands—were touching her.
She wanted more, her body burned for more, yet for long minutes his hands remained on her breasts, kneading, increasingly explicitly claiming, spreading fire beneath her skin, turning the taut, swollen mounds rosy—until, head tipping back, she moaned, careful nevertheless to keep her eyes on the mirror. In truth, it would have been hard to wrench her gaze away; a fascination she’d never imagined might exist kept her eyes locked on her body.
On his hands making free with it.
A shiver slithered down her spine.
“It’s time to show me what else you’re hiding beneath your chemise.” The gravelly whisper tickled her ear. Briefly, his lips cruised the delicate whorl, a trickle of fire, a promise of more. “Use both hands and lift the hem. Show me.”
Her heart thudding heavily, she did. Drew the fine fabric up, exposing her upper thighs, then higher, revealing the red-gold fire of the curls at the apex of her thighs.
Dragging in a breath, she raised the hem still higher, to the curve of her belly.
“Excellent.” His purr was almost guttural.
She still had on her garters, stockings, and slippers, but he didn’t seem concerned with those, and in truth, neither was she. She couldn’t tear her gaze from his hands. While one continued to play, firmly and possessively, with her breasts, the other skated down, over the rucked edge of the chemise, to stroke her curls.
He touched them, ruffled them, played until she hauled in a tight breath and shifted. Then he chuckled and said, “Let’s see.”
He angled his hand so she could watch as he pressed one long finger into the shadowed hollow beneath her curls.
She dragged in a quick, too-shallow breath, held it as the sensation of his touch, of each successive deliberate caress, married with the vision in the mirror.
The impact only escalated as she instinctively eased her feet wider apart, and he reached further, deeper, and the combined stimulation rolled in wave after wave through her.
She bit her lip against another moan, saw the flush of arousal deepen and spread until her skin glowed rosy in the candlelight. Felt the dew of desire break like a fever across her exposed skin.
And still his hands worked her flesh—her breasts, the swollen slickness between her thighs. And still she watched, unable to look away as the fires inside grew, as he stoked them relentlessly.
“Put your hands on mine.” The gravelly command was barely comprehensible. “One on each—close your palms over the backs of my hands and feel what I’m doing to you.”
She obeyed—because she had to.
Because she couldn’t stand not to, not to know what might come.
She wasn’t prepared for the instantaneous heightening of her senses—through his hands, their tensing movements, she knew what would come an instant before it happened. Now she knew, saw, felt; anticipation was added to the sensual tumult burgeoning inside her.
Gasping, panting, barely able to remain upright, she couldn’t take much more . . .
His hands slowed. “Tsk, tsk—you still have your stockings and slippers on.”
Because he hadn’t told her to remove them yet. She bit her lip against the tart rejoinder she suspected he was waiting for.
His chuckle said she’d guessed aright, but then he said, “Release my hands.”
She did. To her dismay, he drew his hands from her. She felt bereft to have lost the contact.
“Pull your chemise off over your head.”
She rushed to do so, realizing as she did that he’d moved. Even as she refocused on the shadows behind her, he set the straight-backed chair that had stood beside her dressing table down on her left, its seat toward her.
She stared at it. Before she could figure out what he would have her do, he rapped out, “Face forward. Keep your eyes on your body.”
Yes, he’d been a cavalry officer. She snapped her gaze back—and felt something inside quiver. She rarely used her mirror, had never used it to view herself naked.
“Drop the chemise.”
Realizing she was still holding the garment in her right hand, she released it, forgot it as it floated to the floor.
Forgot everything as she looked at herself—naked and on display—as the knowledge he was doing the same washed over her. A shiver she couldn’t hide racked her.
“Are you cold?”
Despite the fire burning in the nearby hearth, she should have felt the air’s chill, but the heat in his gaze, the warmth suffusing her skin, left her immune. She opened her mouth, then remembered and shook her head.
“I didn’t think you would be.” Experience, knowledge, rang in the words.
His hands appeared on her shoulders, lightly touching. Then they moved.
Over her. He touched, caressed, stroked, explored—every inch of her skin, all he could reach.