If she waited, social mores would come to his aid. Once at home, it would be difficult for her to refuse his suit, even to delay, if he pressed. She was fairly certain he would. As matters stood, their marriage was no longer in question—it was the nature of said marriage they had yet to resolve.
She glanced at him again—and caught him watching her, rather speculatively, but he immediately looked away.
Was he thinking, imagining, considering, as she was?
She couldn’t imagine the prospect of another interlude hadn’t occurred to him, yet regardless of the prompting of his instincts, she would wager her life he wouldn’t come to her bed. Not unless…
Unless she issued an invitation he couldn’t—wasn’t strong enough to—resist.
The notion tantalized her adventurous side.
So…should she use, indeed capitalize on, the tension, the danger, the stress of the journey to help press her cause? To make it harder for him to pretend that his interest in her was honor driven and nothing else? Or should she—as she was sure he would—play safe?
Reaching the inn, he opened the front door and held it for her. Passing in front of him, she looked into his face.
He was looking down the street.
Stifling a humph, she went inside.
26th November, 1822
Early evening
My room in the inn at Marseilles
Dear Diary,
Yesterday afternoon I announced my intention of taking the air, so of course Gareth came with me. I had intended to use the opportunity to address, in speech, our future, but the instant we set foot outside, the potential danger was thick in the air and his tension so palpable that it affected me. And so, far from resolving anything, I cut short our excursion, considering it dishonorable to put him so on edge, and myself as well, all for nothing.
Clearly, the direct approach is not going to work, not while he feels compelled to look everywhere at once, rather than at me.
Last night, in fairness to him, I lay in my bed and forced myself to fully evaluate the pros and cons of reestablishing an intimate connection at this time, one that will continue throughout the rest of this fraught and dangerous journey, and subsequently on into our married life. I rather rapidly reached the undeniable conclusion that if I don’t, I am unlikely ever to learn what degree of feeling he truly possesses for me. Once in England, he will retreat behind that wall of polite civility that is the hallmark of an English gentleman, and I will never be able to winkle the truth out of him—he is made of such stern stuff, I swear he is near as stubborn as I, so that route simply will not do.
If I am ever to learn what he truly feels for me, I must act, and indeed, this journey is my best chance to learn all. My best weapon is propinquity, for while we race north through France, we will necessarily be in each other’s pockets, and he will not, not for a minute, be able to overlook me.
I therefore resolved to act, however much brazenness that might entail. Faint heart never won all she wanted, and I am determined to have all—everything I dreamed might be once I found my “one.” I have waited too long to make do with half measures—a marriage based on love yet with that love unacknowledged.
Sadly, having reached this point of calm decision, I fell asleep.
So tonight will be the night, dear Diary—wish me luck!
Whatever it takes, I will not be gainsaid.
E.
By dinnertime that evening, Gareth was desperate. In more ways than one, but he sternly forced himself to focus on his mission—on the undeniable imperative that he organize safe passage onward.
He knew what he needed—two fast carriages, with two drivers who understood, appreciated, and accepted the likelihood of attack. He refused to put men’s lives at risk without their knowledge and consent. He’d prefer them enthusiastic.
He, Watson, and Bister had trudged the town, calling at the major coaching inns, but most didn’t like to hire carriages in that way—for the whole journey from south to north coast—and they’d yet to find any who seemed keen enough for the business to trust with their story.
But they needed to find carriages and head north soon, or risk being caught by the cultists, who were indeed methodically searching. Luckily, they’d started in the upper end of the town. It would be a few days yet before the searchers reached their neighborhood.
He’d been silent through their meal. He’d felt Emily’s gaze on his face a number of times, but hadn’t met it. Finally, he set down his knife and fork, pushed his plate away, leaned back in his chair—and raised his eyes to hers.
She looked at him for a moment, then asked, “What’s wrong?”
“No carriages.” He explained the problem, and the increasing urgency.
Her gaze grew distant, then she said, “You asked at the major coaching inns. What about some of the smaller ones?”
He frowned, but before he could reply she leaned closer, laying one hand atop his where his rested on the table. He quashed an impulse to turn that hand and close it about her slim fingers.
“No.” Her gaze slid past him, lingered for an instant, then returned to his face. “I was thinking, for instance, of this inn. It doesn’t have carriages for hire—well, nothing bigger than a gig—but it’s family run. And families have cousins, and uncles, and know other connections in the same business.”
She again looked past him. He realized she was looking at the innkeeper further down the room.
“Why not ask our host?” She looked back and met his eyes. “We’ve been here two days, and they’ve been very good—interested in a nice way, not pushy, and Arnia and Dorcas get on well with the innwife. She helped with a tisane for Jimmy’s headache.” Enthusiasm infused her expression. “It won’t hurt to ask.”
Looking into her face, he tried to remember caution. “We’ll have to take them into our confidence—what if, once we do, they think it too dangerous for us to remain here?”
“They won’t turn us out—not if we explain properly.” It was she who squeezed his fingers. “Come on—let’s try.”
He hesitated for a moment more, then returned the pressure of her fingers, reluctantly released her hand, and rose.
They’d dined relatively late, and the other diners—locals for the most part—had already left. Only three men remained, sharing a jug of wine. The innkeeper was amenable to joining Gareth and Emily at a small table in one corner. At Emily’s suggestion, he summoned his wife to join them. She came, curiosity in her eyes.
Gareth commenced by explaining he and most of their party were English, which came as no surprise, yet with Napoleon’s defeat only seven years past there were formalities to observe. Luckily, most Frenchmen, especially those in trade, had reverted to treating the English with their customary, occasionally arrogant, tolerance. Nevertheless, Gareth omitted to mention his part in the earlier war, saying only that he’d been serving in India until recently, and was presently on a mission coinciding with his return to England.
In the sparsest of terms, he outlined their journey, and explained the existence and the intent of the cultists.
Eyes wide, the innwife asked about the cult. Leaning forward, Emily replied. Before Gareth could reassert control, she’d taken over relating their tale.
Her descriptions were more colorful, her answers more direct, and rather more sensational than his. He wasn’t at all comfortable with her tack, let alone her openness, but one glance at the innkeeper’s and innwife’s faces and he shut his lips, and let Emily hold the stage.
And it was a performance. She seemed to know just what to say, and how to respond to the innkeeper’s many questions. It wasn’t just what she said, but how she said it; her attitude seeded theirs.
All he was required to do was sit back, look suitably serious and sober, and offer corroborative nods and words when appealed to.
By the time Emily reached the point of explaining their requirements, the innkeeper and his wife were their devoted supporters. Their party may be English, but t
he cult was heathen, and violent and vicious. The innkeeper was in no doubt as to where his duty lay.
Gareth had considered Emily’s notion that the innkeeper’s family connections would be sufficient to get them what they needed a long shot, but she’d been right. Spurred by their story—indeed, clearly thrilled to have been trusted and asked—the innkeeper summoned his sons and dispatched them hither and yon.
An hour later, numerous uncles and cousins had gathered, and the noise in the now otherwise empty front room had escalated as people exclaimed and shouted suggestions. Gareth had never seen the like before, but within a surprisingly short time, two fast traveling carriages had been organized, along with two experienced drivers who were very willing to offer their services in defeating the so-alien cult.
He shook hands with the two grizzled war veterans who had volunteered to take the reins and drive them to the north coast with all possible speed. “Thank you.” They’d discussed and settled on their payment. “There’ll be a bonus at the end, too.”
“Heh!” one said, making a very gallic gesture. “The money is one thing, but to be part of an action against a worthy enemy again—that is a better incentive.”
The other nodded emphatically. “But yes. Life has grown boring, you understand. A little excitement—this is what we seek.”
With the good wishes and enthusiastic support of the innkeeper’s family, their departure was organized for the day after the next.
“So you will have only tomorrow to get ready,” the innwife yelled. She flung out her arms in an all-encompassing gesture. “No matter—we will help.”
The gathering turned into something of a family occasion. Gareth took his lead from Emily, and they remained for some time, chatting with those who had come at the innkeeper’s summons to so readily offer them aid.
He was still somewhat stunned that they had, but they were sincere in wanting to assist him and their group against the cultists, and he was equally sincere in his gratefulness.
Eventually Emily bade the company good night and retired. Shortly afterward, he did the same, climbing the stairs to his room. The din from downstairs faded as he closed the door. Crossing to the small side table, he lit the lamp upon it, then quietly, still pondering the garrulous warmth of those downstairs, he undressed.
He’d doused the lamp and was lying on his back, stretched naked beneath the covers, arms crossed behind his head, staring up at the dim ceiling, when the handle of his door turned.
He came instantly alert, but in the same instant, somehow, he knew.
Sure enough, the door opened and Emily, clad in white nightgown and cloak, whisked through, whirling to shut the door quietly behind her before turning to peer at the bed.
The room was cloaked in shadows, but she saw him, and relaxed.
Even more alert, and distinctly intrigued, he watched as she clearly debated, then elected to walk to the side of the bed further from the door.
Muscles all but imperceptibly tightening, he waited, unmoving and silent, to see what she would do, say.
She halted when she was close enough to meet his eyes. She narrowed hers fractionally in warning. “Don’t say a word.”
He wondered why she’d thought he would argue.
Letting her cloak fall, she reached for the covers, and slipped into the bed. He shifted to give her room. His greater weight bowed the bed, and with a muffled squeak, she rolled into him.
Just as he lowered his arms and closed them around her, gathered her close. Bending his head, he nuzzled her hair, breathing deep and feeling the essence that was her sink to his very bones. He found her ear with his lips, lightly traced the outer whorl. Sensed her shiver. “What now?” he breathed.
She dragged in a breath. “Now…” She lifted her head, looked into his face, one small hand rising to frame his jaw. Then she levered up on one arm, rising above him. She looked down into his eyes. “Now this.”
And she kissed him.
He kissed her back, took a long moment to savor the sweetness she so flagrantly gifted him with. Sensing she wished it, he let her keep the reins. For now.
She leaned into him, all soft, warm curves and slender, feminine lengths. Lying on his back beneath her, something within him purred. Closing his hands about her waist, he lifted and shifted her more fully upon him, settling her so her taut belly lay over his abdomen, the haven between her thighs just above the head of his engorged erection—both promise and torment, temptation and salvation. He vaguely recalled he’d decided to forgo her and this for the present, while they were traveling, but he could no longer remember any pressing reason why.
No convincing reason why he should decline the heaven she was so blatantly offering—and she’d come to him, after all.
She was already his—that was beyond question—so there was no reason he shouldn’t indulge.
So he did.
Increasingly ravenously.
It gradually dawned that while she’d initiated the exchange, and had chosen the position, she didn’t know quite how to proceed.
He showed her. Urged her up so she was on her knees straddling him, reached up, stretched up, and helped her draw her nightgown off over her head.
She flung the garment to the floor. She was already heated, already breathless and panting, already aching for him to fill her. The look she flung at him—eyes blazing fire in the night—said it all.
Before she could reach for him, and make matters that much more complicated, he hauled in a breath, locked his hands about her waist, positioned her, then nudged past her slick swollen folds and eased into her.
Eyes closing, her expression one of fraught bliss, she took over and sank down. Down.
Wriggled at the last, and then, wonder of wonders, she’d enclosed him all.
He sucked in a tight breath, closed his eyes in sheer lust as experimentally, she tightened about him.
Then she settled to ride him.
By the time he’d recalled her reportedly wild and expert ride down from Poona, she’d reduced him to a state of ravening urgency almost impossible to deny.
But he wanted more.
Eyes closed tight, her entire concentration locked on where they joined, Emily felt the heat, the stoking friction, well, swell and rise, taunting and beckoning, tightening inexorably…then she felt him shift beneath her.
She cracked open her eyes as, releasing her hips, he locked both hands about her breasts.
And played until she was gasping.
Then he rose up, leaned forward, took one tightly furled nipple into his mouth—and suckled.
She only just managed to mute her shriek, but that didn’t deter him. He feasted—there was no other word for it. With lips, tongue, teeth and greedy mouth, he caressed, then blatantly possessed.
Eyes closing, she continued to rise up and slide down, increasingly intently, wanting, reaching, so tight she thought she would shatter, so hot she could feel the flames licking over her, sliding beneath her skin.
He released one breast, slid his hand down, tracing the curves of her waist, her hip, in almost languid, distinctly possessive appreciation. Then that questing hand veered inward, slid between her thighs, and touched her—there, where she was most sensitive, where suddenly her whole being seemed to reside.
With one hard fingertip he toyed, then pressed at the same time she sank fully down and he thrust in hard—and she imploded. Lost all touch with reality as searing delight and incandescant pleasure erupted and lanced through her, streaking and sparking down every nerve before melting and merging into molten streams that flowed down every vein to pool in her throbbing womb.
He held her as she savored, as if he savored, too.
Then he turned. Taking her with him, he rolled, and pinned her beneath him.
A smile on her lips, she wound her arms about his neck, then arched beneath him, head falling back on a gasp as he thrust deeply and heavily into her.
To her immense surprise he withdrew from her, pulling back onto his kne
es.
Before she could react beyond opening her eyes, he grasped her knees and pulled them wide.
He looked down at her, at her most private place. Even though the shadows lay heavily upon them, she blushed, but she didn’t try to close her knees, didn’t try to inhibit his view.
The blood still pounding in her veins, she waited to see what he wanted, what he would do.
He bent his head and set his lips to her there, and she very nearly screamed.
Pleasure—different, sharper, headier—streaked through her. He pressed deeper, lapping, then probed with his tongue and in desperation she whispered his name—but what she wanted she couldn’t have said. His tongue circled, then probed. She caught her breath, and clutched at his head, but her fingers, tangling in his hair, had no strength.
His exploration, his flagrant tasting of her, sent her senses soaring.
She was his—she knew it, and clearly he did, too, at least on this level.
That was undeniable as he feasted as thoroughly as he had earlier, his hot mouth a brand searing her, his experience trapping her senses, making them and her whole body—her nerves, her skin, her heart, every curve—his.
His to plunder, to savor as he wished.
Head helplessly threshing, she could barely breathe when she whispered his name, an outright plea—she couldn’t take much more of the soul-wringing pleasure.
He heard, thank God. With one long, last lap, he lifted his head, gazed at her for a moment, then unhurriedly surged over her. Fitting his erection to her entrance, he thrust in, slow and relentless, deep and sure, impressing on her every inch of his length, then he sank home, reached down and raised one of her knees, hooked that leg over his hip. Poised on his elbows above her, he looked down at her face through the darkness, his expression a mask of intent, his features locked in the grip of a passion so intense she could feel its heated wings beating against her skin. Then he withdrew, and thrust home.
Again and again, harder and harder, deeper and deeper, until she sobbed his name, then, arched beneath him, fingers locked about his upper arms, nails sinking into his skin, she felt herself literally come apart.