On A Wicked Dawn

  Only when he’d drunk his fill, let his senses wallow, only when he sensed she’d done the same and had caught her breath—only then did he move.

  Or rather, move her. He stood rock-still and shifted her upon him. With her legs so high she had no leverage, had to accept what he did, all he did—all he pressed on her. He moved her only enough to wind her tight, until he felt desire sink its talons deep. Her arms tightened about his neck. She sank her teeth into his shoulder.

  Inwardly smiling, he drew her down again, and stepped out. Walked, slowly, deliberately, working her up and down in his arms, matching that rhythm to his strides.

  Until her breathing turned ragged, until she clung, fingers sinking into his shoulders, until she whimpered—not with pain but desperation.

  Without allowing himself to think, he walked to the head of the bed, turned and sat, shuffling back, supported by the pillows piled high against the headboard.

  She tried to wriggle, to unwind her legs—he tightened his hold on her.

  “No. Stay as you are.”

  She forced her heavy lids up just enough to blink at him.

  “I want to watch you.”

  His gravelly admission sent a quiver of anticipation through her; she licked her lips, her gaze dropped to his, but he made no move to oblige.

  Instead, he lifted her again, brought her down again, and again, working her on him, working himself inside her, deeper, then deeper still. Her breasts, skin flushed, rode against his chest, nipples hard as pebbles, adding another layer of sensory delight.

  Eyes locked on her face, he kept her moving, even when he felt her body coil and tighten, even when her spine arched and she cried out, and shattered, fractured, climaxing wildly on him, about him.

  He paused, held her down, filling her while he savored the tight ripples of her release, savored the lush, rich softness that followed, that beckoned . . .

  But he wanted more tonight. She’d offered. He’d accepted. Tonight, whatever he wished, he could ask for and receive, for she would give.

  And in return, she would know, see, all he’d held close, hidden behind his shield, for he no longer had any shield, any protection—she’d ripped it away, sent it spinning—left him no option but to show her all he truly was.

  In this arena as well as that other.

  He picked up her movements again, let her ride through her climax, didn’t stop, gave her no surcease. When she was once again aware, when her senses again stirred and she opened her eyes, blinked, stared at him, he stopped, held her down. Let her feel his strength buried inside her.

  Amelia licked her lips; her eyes, fixed on his, were wide.

  “I want you.”

  Her answer was breathy. “I know.”

  His lips twisted. “Wrong answer.”

  She felt her lips flicker in response. Her eyes only grew rounder. “How?”

  The midnight glitter of his eyes, the controlled hardness of his hands, of all his body, the reined passion, the potential, the promise of what would come, was nearly overwhelming. She searched the dark turmoil in his eyes, then managed to lick her lips. Deliberately leaned her forearms on his upper chest and leaned close, whispered against his mouth. “Tell me.”

  He kissed her, deeply, one hand rising to cradle her head, holding her still as he ravished her senses. He was hot and hard inside her, sunk to the hilt within her; his probing tongue, hot, insistent, demanding, underscored the fact. Underscored her position, the blatant, unforgiving vulnerability.

  The kiss ended almost savagely.

  From only inches apart, their gazes met, held—their already ragged breaths mingled.

  “Curled over your knees in the middle of this bed.”

  She struggled to breathe, couldn’t think beyond the moment. His gaze dropped to her body; she’d never seen his eyes so dark, never known his body to be so hard, so tense, so coiled. So full of leashed passion. That body would shortly be wrapped about her, driving into her, the passion pouring through her.

  When he joined with her as he wished. Uninhibitedly possessive.

  One hand was in the small of her back, supporting her. The other slid down from her head; he delicately lifted one lapel of her robe.

  “Leave this on.”

  She couldn’t manage a nod; barely able to breathe, she eased her legs from behind his back.

  He lifted her from him. Set her on her knees. Wasting no time on trying to form a thought, she turned, moved to the middle of the wide bed, sat back on her ankles, freed her robe from under her. Seizing the moment to catch her breath, with unimpaired dignity she arranged the robe about her, fully open but draping from her shoulders to pool around her, concealing her back and feet. That done, she spared not a glance for him but bent from the waist, curled down, folding her arms in front of her knees, relaxing into that position.

  She felt him shift as she did—when she peeked through the curtain of her hair he was no longer sitting against the pillows. His weight bowing the bed told her he was kneeling behind her; she felt his heat as he drew near, but he didn’t, immediately, touch her.

  Whether he intended to wind her nerves tight with expectation, or was simply clinging to his own tenuous control, it didn’t matter. Her body started to pulse with that familiar emptiness; her skin flushed with the need to feel him wrapped about her.

  She sensed, through the fine barrier of her silk robe, when he settled close behind her, knees widespread, when he reached out toward her head.

  With one hand, he gathered the wild jumble of her curls, the thick fall that lay covering her nape. He gathered, then, slowly, deliberately, wound his hand in the massed locks.

  Gently drew her up, back, until she was kneeling almost but not quite upright. Releasing her hair, his palm slid beneath, cupping her nape, his long fingers cruising, caressing, up and down the slender column of her neck.

  He reached around her, ran his other hand, possessively assessing, from the base of her throat to the damp curls between her thighs. Although the fall of her robe covered her back, in front, she was naked, exposed to the night, to his touch.

  His hand rose, to explore, to possess. To trace, tweak, knead her breasts until they were swollen and aching anew, until her nipples were so tight any touch was close to painful. His hand drifted down to splay across her stomach, to knead evocatively until she moaned, then, his other hand lightly gripping her nape, he sent his questing fingers sliding down, spearing through her curls to find her, pressing between her thighs to expose and circle the throbbing flesh, to stroke and probe until she arched, gasped.

  “Please.”

  His hands left her.

  The sudden loss of his touch left her reeling. Disoriented.

  “Bend down.”

  She did, eagerly, sinking down over her knees, heart thundering, pulse hammering. Wanting.

  Simply wanting.

  He lifted the back of her robe to her hips, exposing her bottom. Both hands spread, touched, reverently traced. Firmed, became more possessive as he stroked, fondled, caressed, lit fires beneath her already dewed skin. The contrast of heat against the cool air sent shivers up her spine while poised behind her he surveyed her as if she was his slave.

  She wished she could see his face, wondered if he’d chosen this position so she wouldn’t be able to. Wondered, fleetingly, why.

  Then his fingers traced her cleft, slid down between her thighs.

  Her thoughts fled; her lungs seized. She closed her eyes, nerves tightening with expectation.

  He found her swollen softness and opened her. Probed, then he shifted, muscled thighs surrounding her, trapping her. His hands closed about her hips, holding her, anchoring her; the broad head of his erection nudged into her.

  Then he sank home. Deep. Then deeper still. Filling her body, filling her senses.

  Her sigh shivered through the night. Pure relief. She closed her eyes, laid her head on her forearms.

  Prepared to be ravished.

  And she was.

&nb
sp; Fundamentally, elementally, profoundly. He demanded her body and she gave it, surrendered it without reserve. Without reserve he claimed her, every inch of her, his hands tracing, possessing even while he rode her.

  Hard, fast, deep. Into an oblivion so all-consuming long before they reached the crest there was no sense of him and her, no separation of their souls as they traversed the sensual landscape, as, uninhibited, they flew higher and higher.

  The end, when it came, was beyond even glory, steeped in much more than sensation. It was as if, together, they’d reached some place, some plane they hadn’t before attained—that hadn’t before been open to them.

  When finally he withdrew from her, turned her into his arms and slumped back on the bed, they were still there, still floating in that blessed peace.

  In that place where the world couldn’t touch, and only fused souls could reach.

  Gasping for breath, chests heaving, they both simply lay, touching, hands searching, fingers twining, struggling, both of them, to understand.

  To comprehend.

  A declaration without words, unspoken but absolute. When, at last, they turned to each other, when, at last, their gazes met, they didn’t need words to assure themselves of that.

  Just a look, a touch, a kiss.

  A trust. Given, taken, reciprocated.

  Amelia curled into Luc’s arms; they closed about her. Closing their eyes, they slept.

  The sleep of the exhausted. Luc might have suspected he was growing old—Amelia was once again awake and out of bed before he’d stirred—except he remembered, very clearly, all that had happened in the night.

  Lying back on the pillows, arms crossed behind his head, he stared unseeing at the canopy. About him, the bed lay in utter disarray, vivid testament to the physicality of their union.

  But it wasn’t that—not only that—that colored his memories of the night.

  She’d given herself to him, joyously surrendered, not just physically, not even just emotionally, but in some deeper, more profound way. And he’d taken, accepted, claimed. Knowingly. With the same unswerving commitment.

  Because she and all she offered was all and everything he would ever want.

  That much was clear. What was less easy to assimilate was the conviction, based on no logical earthly fact, that the past night had been scripted, that it was part of some ceremony, part of their marriage, and would have needed to occur at some point.

  As if their actions—her offering, his accepting—just as they had at the very start, in that moment in his front hall in London when those same actions had sealed their fates, were the true underlying reality of their relationship.

  And she knew it. Even though he’d said not a word, she understood . . .

  Had she taken the lead again?

  Voices reached him—Amelia talking to her maid. Grimacing, he threw the sheets back, rose, found his robe, then stalked to his dressing room.

  His impatience to tell her what he needed more than ever now to say had scaled new heights, but the day was going to be a long one—there was no way he could wring from it time to tell her, not properly, not until all the rest was settled.

  She—and he—deserved better than a distracted, “Incidentally, I love you,” while hurrying down the stairs.

  Dressed, he returned to the bedroom just as she, ready for the day, came through from her rooms. She smiled, met his eyes. He waited by the door as she approached. Held her gaze when she halted before him. Saw blazoned in the blue of her eyes a serenity, a confidence.

  Her decision, her commitment—her understanding of him.

  The certainty rocked him; he drew a tight breath.

  The chatter of maids in her rooms, clearly waiting to tidy the bedroom, reached him; he glanced toward the connecting door, then looked down, met her eyes. “Once this is over, we need to talk.” He lifted a hand, briefly traced her cheek. “There’re things I need to tell you, things we need to discuss.”

  Her smile held the essence of happiness. She caught his hand; her eyes on his, she touched her lips to his palm. “Later, then.”

  The brief contact sent heat racing through him. Her smile widened and she turned to the door. He opened it; she stepped out into the corridor.

  He watched her hips sway beneath her blue day gown, then drew breath, took a firm grip on his impulses, and followed her.

  Chapter 22

  The day flew. No one stopped for luncheon; Higgs set out a cold collation in the dining room and people helped themselves when they could. Restrained pandemonium reigned, yet when six o’clock struck and the first of the guests arrived in the forecourt, everything was in place. Higgs, beaming, hurried to the kitchens while Cottsloe strode proudly to the door.

  Amelia rose from the chaise on which she’d only just sat. She’d been on her feet the entire day, yet the excitement in the air, which had laid hold of the whole household—the look in Luc’s midnight blue eyes as she took up her stance by his side before the fireplace—were more than worth the effort, quite aside from trapping the thief.

  The guests rolled in, guided through the front hall and into the drawing room to greet Luc and herself, and then be introduced to the rest of the family, both immediate and extended, standing and sitting about the huge room. Minerva, Emily, and Anne were primed to take over the introductions so Amelia and Luc could concentrate on welcoming the steady stream of their neighbors and tenants. Phyllida stood near Emily, ready to lend assistance should the younger girl encounter any difficulties, while Amanda did likewise with Anne, shy but determined to carry her role.

  In the midst of them all, Helena sat beside Minerva on the chaise, her pearl-and-emerald necklace resplendent, displayed to advantage against a deep green silk gown. With her dark hair streaked with silver, her pale green eyes and her inherent presence, Helena drew everyone’s gaze. No one was the least surprised to learn she was the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives.

  Watching her aunt exchange nods with Lady Fenton, a haughty local matron, and then make some remark, very much in the grande dame style, instantly reducing Lady Fenton to dithering nervousness, Amelia had to look quickly away. Smiling widely, she turned to greet the next of their guests.

  Portia, Penelope, and Simon patrolled before the long windows, open to the terrace, efficiently herding those with all introductions complete out into the gardens where the first act of the revelries would take place. Within an hour, a goodly crowd had gathered, eagerly sampling the delicious morsels provided by Higgs, washing them down with ale and wines.

  When the incoming tide slowed, the front doors were shut; a stablelad sat on the portico steps to direct any latecomers around the house, and thus to the festivities. Together, Luc and Amelia led their assembled families out onto the lawns to mingle with their guests.

  The sun was slanting through the trees, just gilding the tops of the shrubbery hedges as they went down the terrace steps. The air held the warmth of a summer’s day; the breeze was a caress wafting the scents of grass and greenery, of stocks, jasmine, and the multitude of roses blooming throughout the gardens.

  Luc caught Amelia’s eye, lifted her hand to his lips briefly, then released her. They parted, each strolling into the crowd, exchanging greetings with their tenants and the villagers, the majority of whom had walked to the Chase, bringing their families as suggested to join in the fun.

  While he chatted, Luc kept Helena in sight. She was easy to pick out in her gown, the solid hue distinctive. Amid the lighter, pastel colors, she was a dramatic highlight; as intended, she was the cynosure of all eyes.

  She carried off her role with shameless abandon; no one watching her would suspect her primary aim was to display her necklace rather than boost her haughty self-importance. The fact there were always two of their ladies flanking her, like acolytes attending a master, only emphasized the image of commanding arrogance she projected.

  As he tacked through the crowd, he saw the others—Martin, Lucifer, Simon—like him, scanning the throng. On the outs
kirts, Cottsloe kept watch from the terrace, while Sugden stood in the shadow of the shrubbery, keeping an eye on Patsy and Morry, and on everything else.

  The dogs were greeting countless children. Luc headed that way, intent on asking Sugden if he could identify a number of men he himself could not. Nothing immediately worrying about that—all invited had been told to bring any houseguests. It was summer, and many country families had friends or family from London or elsewhere staying.

  Moving through the crowd, Luc saw General Ffolliot standing to one side watching the fiddlers play. He changed course and joined him, nodding genially.

  “Just watching our two.” The General indicated Fiona and Anne, arm in arm, watching the dancers.

  Luc smiled. “I’d meant to thank you for allowing Fiona to spend so much time with us in London. Her confidence is a boon to Anne.”

  “Oh, aye—she’s confident enough, is Fiona.” After a moment, the General cleared his throat, and somewhat diffidently asked, “Actually, I’d meant to have a word myself, but that business of the thimble distracted me.” He shot Luc a glance from under his shaggy brows. “You haven’t heard anything about Fiona having dealings with any man, have you?”

  Luc raised his brows, genuinely surprised. “No. Nothing.” He hesitated, then asked, “Have you reason to suspect she has?”

  “No, no!” The General sighed. “It’s just that she’s . . . well, changed since she’s returned home. I can’t put my finger on it . . .”

  After a moment, Luc said, “If you like, I could mention your concern to my wife. She’s close to both Emily and Anne. If Fiona has mentioned anything . . .”

  The General studied his daughter, then gruffly said, “If you would, that would be most kind.”

  Luc inclined his head. A moment later, he parted from the General, and continued to where Sugden stood, Patsy’s and Morry’s leashes in one hand.