A Lady's Wish (9 page)

She gripped her sister’s hands. “As Captain Acton said, do not fret.”

She grabbed their cloaks off the hooks. Rain fell in a steady gray drizzle again as they crossed the yard to the street, half boots sinking into mud and hems soaking up puddles.

Aunt Elsbeth was not to be found in any shop. They turned their eyes to the church at the street’s end.

“Perhaps she wished to consult with the vicar on that albatross question?” Callie suggested.

“That must be. You look there, and to be thorough I will circle around the green then meet you back at the inn.” They parted and she picked her way between puddles to the commons flanking the village. In the rain the pasture was a sodden blanket of emerald and brown stretching a distance. She prayed Aunt Elsbeth had not wandered here, trying not to think about the creek that must pass somewhere nearby, or a well, or stile, or any other place in which an elderly lady might come to grief.

Mounds of white rose up in the mists and became sheep. Several turned their heads at her approach, at ease in the drizzle, quite as though it mattered little whether it rained or shone or tempests raged. They stood content in their pasture, life lived without pain, regret, doubt or unfulfilled longings like she had been living with for years.
Years
.

Sheep—stupid sheep—knew better than she how to live life, as a young gentleman had once playfully suggested.

But there had been wisdom in that jest. Not that she must stoically accept life as it rained upon her. No, she had done that for years. Instead she should embrace the life that lived naturally within her, life yearning for a man who made her laugh and thoroughly breathless at once.

She smiled, and felt weak all over, and knew quite suddenly that all along she had not wanted any man with whom to experience passion. She had wanted
him
. Over the years the man who brought her pleasure in every one of her fantasies had rich emerald eyes, a carefree smile, and hands whose touch turned her inside out. Now he was no longer a fantasy. He was real, he had a name, and he had kissed her far beyond her fantasies. Then he had denied her a single night. Because, perhaps, he wished for
more
than one?

He must not disappear again. The mere idea of it made her light-headed with panic.

She turned to follow the bend in the fence. He stood there, mere yards away on the other side. Rain dripped off his hat and onto his broad shoulders. Patricia’s thumping heart hurt so powerfully she pressed her hand to her chest.

The corner of his mouth ticked up, reluctantly, as though he could not prevent it. He gestured toward the sheep. “We must stop meeting like this.”

She released a taut breath. “I am sorry.”

“For exactly what, I wonder?”

“Good heavens, what a perfectly dreadful rain!” Aunt Elsbeth stepped out of the mist. Bonnet flowers bobbing, she teetered toward Patricia. Captain Acton scaled the fence and took her arm.

“Miss Haye, we are happily met again. Tell us if you will, what have you seen upon your perambulations today?” He smiled down at the myopic old lady with genuine warmth.

Patricia found she could not move, but only stare. For five years married to one man she had felt nothing but toleration. Yet two days spent with this man over a decade and her heart it seemed had become entirely his.

She had mistaken his intentions the night before. She
must
have.

“Sheep, sheep, and more sheep.” Aunt Elsbeth shook her head, splattering rain from her hat in all directions. “But it seemed the only way to bring you here.”

“You wound me, madam. You needn’t have lured me to this pasture on a false pretense. I would quite gladly follow you anywhere.” His gaze shifted to Patricia for an instant, sharp and direct.

“Not me, you silly man.” Aunt Elsbeth batted him on the sleeve. “My niece, of course. It is about time the two of you encountered one another amongst sheep again.”

Patricia’s heart tripped. “Good heavens, Aunt, what do you mean?”

“I haven’t any idea.” She shook off the captain’s escort and walked with tottering purpose toward the inn.

His brow creased.

“I never told a soul,” Patricia choked out.

For a moment he regarded her silently. Then, “Of course you did not.” Without another word, he went after her aunt.

Chapter Eight

S
he and Calanthia bathed Aunt Elsbeth, dressed her in woolens, ladled broth into her, and put her to bed. By the time they were free to change their own clothing, the light in the rainy sky was failing. Patricia donned her white muslin gown threaded with silver embroidery and pearls, and arranged her hair carefully with combs.

“This dress is inappropriate for this weather,” she mumbled as Calanthia fastened her into it. But she felt like herself again, the girl she had been when she first met him, full of the excitement of life’s mysterious offerings.

“You are beautiful,” Calanthia said with unaccustomed quiet. “Almost mystical.”

“Are you well, Callie?”

“If I had not been so foolish, Aunt Elsbeth would be joining us for dinner now, or we would already be at our cousins’ house.”

“Our cousins can wait,” and whatever errand Oliver had set her upon. She would not be dictated to by her husband ever again. Or by anyone else. Beginning now she would follow her heart. “You are the best sister I could ever wish for. Merely young, but that is no crime, nor the feelings that drive you to do what you will now.”

With a bit more spirit Calanthia went with her down to the parlor. The captain stood by the hearth, firelight dancing over the planes of his face.

“Ladies, you are resplendent.” He smiled at Calanthia then turned to Patricia. “How does Miss Haye do this evening?” he only said, but his eyes, warm and focused so steadily upon her, said much more. They said that perhaps he had forgiven her. That perhaps he was no longer angry.

“She does well. You are still here,” stumbled off her tongue.

The edge of his mouth lifted. “I am indeed.”

“As am I, by the way,” Calanthia quipped. “But I suddenly find myself enormously sleepy, and now rather wish to take my dinner in my chamber with Aunt Elsbeth.” Her gaze darted between them. “If you will forgive my hasty departure, Captain? I hope we will see you in the morning before we depart.”

He bowed again and before Patricia could argue, her sister was gone. Then they were alone and her knees went watery. She forced words.

“Thank you for your assistance again, with my aunt this time. One does not wonder that you are an acclaimed hero in the estimation of society.”

His eyes sparkled. “And in your estimation, Lady Morgan?”

“A hero, most assuredly,” she repeated his earlier words.

His look grew cautious. “Because I sink French vessels upon the ocean and rescue ladies stranded upon the road?”

“Because you once showed me that life needn’t be lived according to what others expect, and although I was afraid to live it then, I have held onto that vision for nine years. And because you are here now when you might have left.”

He drew a deep breath. Then another. He did not move, the space between them flickering with golden light.

“I think I have lost my appetite for dinner,” he said.

Oh, God,
would he leave her now?

“Have you?”

“But perhaps I am mistaking it.” His voice was gorgeously husky. “The trouble is, I cannot seem to think at all with you standing there like an angel.”

“Captain—” she whispered.

“Nik.”

“Do not tease me.”

“After eight years at sea I have no true teasing left, sweet Isolde. Only, I need you.”

The breath went out of her. “You—?”

He crossed the chamber in three strides, tilting her face up with a strong hand, and spoke above her lips. “I need you and it is driving me mad. So unless you wish to be ravished presently upon the floor of this parlor, I recommend removing yourself to a chamber with a bed in it, with haste.”

Wide-eyed, tongue tangled, she nodded and drew from his hold. He let her go. But as she reached the second story she heard his tread upon the stair and glanced back. Below in amber lamplight his eyes shone.

“Do not imagine I am allowing you out of my sight again,” he whispered above the noise from the taproom. “Just see where that got me before.”

She laughed aloud. He mounted the steps, grasped her hand, and dragged her through her bedchamber door then into his arms.

It required remarkably little time for him to divest her of gown and petticoat, then shoes and—with deliriously capable hands—stockings. During this blissfully divine activity she apologized.

“I have not done this in some years. You must forgive m—”

He caught her mouth beneath his as his fingers worked at the lacing up her back. She clutched his shoulders, arching against him, and pushed at his coat to rid him of it, then his waistcoat.

But she was not finished apologizing.

“I am sorry I did not tell you the truth immediately.”

Her corset fell away and his hands swept beneath her breasts, cupping her through her shift with perfect command. She gasped and a sound of masculine pleasure rumbled deep in his chest. He kissed her lips, her throat.

“I-I am sorry I thought you were the sort of man who could be propositioned.”

Their breaths came fast, only his thumb tracing a languid spiral around her nipple. She ached for him to touch it.

“Is this what you wanted when you asked me for a single night?” Slowly, so slowly now, he passed the pad of his thumb across the sensitive peak. Sweet agony rippled through her.

“Yes.”

He picked her up and bore her to the bed, and dragged her hips beneath him. “This too?” He covered her breast with his palm and moved against her, parting her legs with his knees until she was flush against the ridge of his arousal. “Is this what you hoped I would give you?”

She made a sound like a groaning whimper. It was too good, feeling him. “God, yes.
Yes
.”

He teased her nipple through the thin linen of her shift. She pressed into him and his hand came around her thigh. She struggled for air. He was
touching her
—her skin beneath his, touching his.

“Nik, I—”

“Is this what I would have taken from a gently bred maiden?” He stroked the tender inside of her thigh, his heat and touch all for her, bringing her body to life.

She reached for the fly of his trousers. “You did want this then, didn’t you?”

He grabbed her hand and stilled her.

“I would not have been a man if I had not wanted to make love to you that day. But I would not have taken it if you had offered.”

“Why not? Was I not—?”

“You were perfect.” He traced the line of her lips with the tip of his tongue, stealing her breath. “Perfect.”

She trembled, every part of her aching for him.

“Please do it now,” she whispered. “It has been years, but I should be able to manage . . .” Her words petered out. A smile lurked about his lips. He pulled away and tugged off his boots then his shirt, and began on the fastenings of his trousers.

Air puffed out of her in little bursts.

“Will you blow out the candles now?”
Please God, no
. Oliver had never undressed before her, but even if he had there was no comparison. She drank in the vision of Nik’s muscles, sleek and powerful, and the line of dark hair that drew her attention downward. He was pure breathtaking male, from the jagged scar crossing one shoulder all the way to—

She snapped her gaze away.
Good heavens.
The Americans had gotten it quite wrong. All men were not created equal.

She sought for words, any words. “How on earth did my aunt know about your scar?”

“Soldier. Likely guess.” He spoke roughly, quick. His eyes scanning her seemed molten, his gaze so intense.

“So, will you blow out the candles?” she repeated, voice quite small.

“No.”

“But I thought—”

“I have dreamt of this for years. I will not be denied the sight of you.” He caught her hands and held them to the counterpane, palm-to-palm, then covered her open mouth and came into her with his tongue in shallow, tantalizing strokes. She pressed against him, seeking the sensation of his arousal against hers. His hands moved her hips against his and her need spiraled.

She broke free of his kiss.

“Please, Nik. Please, now.”

Swiftly he pushed her shift up and she wiggled to get beneath him fully. But he did not stop at her waist as she expected, tugging the linen over her breasts and sweeping it free of her arms and hair.

“Dear God. So beautiful.” His hands, large and rough, circled her waist then slipped up and over her breasts.

“
Oh
!”

He covered her with his mouth. She had never imagined it, never fantasized this, never knew such a thing could be. He sucked on her breast, his mouth wet and hot, and stroked the peak with his tongue.
Too
good. Too unbelievably good. She whimpered and strained to him, damp heat throbbing at the crux of her legs. Then he touched her there, and she went wild. He caressed with his beautiful hand like he belonged there, like she belonged to him to do with as he wished. She rocked against him, unable to withhold her cries, all modesty cast off. He took her nipple harder and his caressing tongue made her frantic, the wicked play of his fingers seizing her below, so sweet and hot and unending. She died. She
was
his. He might touch her forever and she would live for this alone.

Gasping for breath, she collapsed into the mattress, pleasure curling through her.

Then came awareness again. And embarrassment.

“What happened?” She retracted her limbs from the man around whom she had wrapped them. “I— Why didn’t you make love to me?”

He took up her hand and pressed his mouth to it, then flattened it against his chest, and laughter came beneath her palm.

“Remarkable as it seems to me,” he said roughly, “I am still making love to you.”

She stiffened. “I-I don’t understand. Are you
bored
?”

He pulled her under him and she felt him entirely, his hips against her soft inner thighs and his hot, hard shaft where she throbbed.

“Rather, I am overly eager.” With slow thrusts he caressed her and it was heaven, scandalous and sensuous. He did this to her, with her, making her want him more than she thought possible, and she moaned, feeling him with her body. Oh, God, she felt him
everywhere
. She threaded her fingers through his hair, thoroughly abandoned to the pleasure.

“But— W-what are you waiting for?” she managed to utter.

Flames leapt in his emerald eyes. “For you finally to tell me your name.”

Her breaths failed.

“Patricia,” she whispered. “My name is Patricia Ramsay.”

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Patricia Ramsay.”

She was his. Finally, after nine years, he took possession of the woman who had filled his dreams without ceasing. Muscles straining, Nik pressed forward then retreated, with each stroke delving deeper, and finally he entered heaven in a woman.

He could not control his shaking. He had thought he wanted her before. Now embedded in her he knew raw need so powerful it seized the air in his lungs. But he could not go on. She was beautiful, her exquisite breasts, her legs and her hot, wet womanhood dragging him in deeper.

But she was entirely immobile.

“Patricia.” The word came out ragged.

Her eyes flickered then opened, two hazy pools of blue. Swiftly the blue turned bewildered.

“Nik?” Her voice quavered.

He swallowed hard, pressing his lips to her damp brow.

“You may move.” Dear God, if circumstances did not alter swiftly he might end up finishing matters before they even got started. The sensation of her thighs about his hips and her belly beneath his had him paralyzed, all but the rush of blood to one place.

“I may?” she peeped.

“You may. In fact it is especially encouraged.” Knowing he was probably making a grave mistake in terms of his diminishing self-control, he slipped his hand along her shoulder and over her breast, trailing his fingertips around the peak he’d had in his mouth minutes earlier. Her eyelids fluttered and her hips shifted. He sucked in a breath and moved against her. He caressed her nipple again, then stroked slowly and steadily into her. She moaned softly, her back arching, sinking him deeper. He struggled for command.

She stretched her head back and sighed. “Oh, Nik. This is sublime.”

If she was still able to speak, it was not yet sublime enough for her. He trailed his tongue along her throat, kissed her sweet, swollen lips, and thrust to his length. She gasped. He pulled out and thrust again. This time she met him.

“
Ohh
.”

“Like that.”
Dear God
. Again. “
Patricia
.” And again. He rode her and her hands grabbed at him, pulling him in hard. She was perfection, sweet and hot, her pliant body, her cries, his name upon her tongue.

“Nik, I want—” She took him in completely, her damp lips parted. She pressed her palms to his back. “I want this.” He drove into her, meeting her core, caressed by her until he was mad to fill her. Yet still she took from him, fingertips digging into his muscle, forcing him to her over and over, making him pleasure her while he held on beyond insanity. She hooked her strong, slender leg about him and her heel dug into his backside, trapping him. If she desired, he would be trapped forever. But his need could no longer wait. He grabbed her hips and dragged her against him.

“
Never
,” she uttered. “Not like this,” and with stuttered cries shuddered beneath him. He released deep. Hard, sudden and blinding. Just as he had fallen in love with her—hard, sudden, blinding.

He sucked in air, grappled for his mind, his sanity, his very person. But they were not to be found. He had lost them. Again. To her. This time eternally.

He pushed onto his elbows and her grasp on him loosened. He stroked damp-darkened tendrils of hair from her brow. Her eyes closed, lips curving into an infinitely sweet smile, and silently they shaped the words
thank you
.

A grin tugged at his mouth, but for what did she thank him? Her single night of pleasure?

“Rather, thank you,” he murmured, kissed her tempting lips, and pulled himself off her. She curled up on her side, tugging the coverlet to her chin, her smile lingering.