On A Wicked Dawn (41 page)

That wasn't, however, a bad place to start. The more frequently she gave herself to him like that, the more trusting she became, the closer they drew, the more emotionally attached; even he could sense that, and he was hardly an emotional being.

Her game could further his cause, too.

Her goal might be to bind him to her with lust, hers to command forevermore—his goal was to evoke love to keep her his, now and always.

* * *

Amelia had no real proof her plan was working, but there was a look in Luc's eyes when they rested on her when he didn't realize she knew he was watching that set her heart soaring.

Like now. From his chair at the end of the dining table, he watched as she snipped off a bunch of grapes and laid it on her plate. Luncheon today had been a light meal in deference to the heat outside. It looked set to be a long hot summer.

She popped a grape between her lips and glanced at Luc.

He shifted, looked away, reached for his wineglass.

Hiding a smile, she looked down at her plate. Selected another grape. “How do the hounds fare in such weather?”

“They just lie around, tongues lolling. No runs or training in such heat.” After a moment, he added, “Sugden and the lads will probably take the pack down to the stream later, once the worst of the heat's passed.”

She nodded, but declined to help him out with another question. Decided that her plan would be better served by silence, and by eating her grapes delicately, one by one.

Her plan was simplicity itself. Love existed between them—she recognized it in her, had always believed she could find it in him. But to evoke it, call it forth, not once but again and again until, stubborn male that he was, he acknowledged and accepted it, too—to do that, she needed his emotional shields down.

But they never were down, not ordinarily.

Only when they were physically entwined—only then could she sense the emotions that drove him, the power behind his desire, behind the tumultuous passion. By whipping passion to new heights, she'd hoped to weaken his shields so she could connect with those emotions he otherwise kept so hidden.

And she'd been right. It wasn't only that look in his eyes that had grown stronger by the day. Interlude by interlude, the emotional surge when they came together grew stronger, clearer, more powerful. It hadn't yet broken free, hadn't yet flattened his defensive walls and forced itself on his consciousness,
but victory seemed only a matter of time.

It still amazed her that a man could be so hard, so ruthless, so passion-driven, so dominant and dictatorially inclined, yet when he touched her, there was care, protection, and a devotion in him not even the most ruthless passion could disguise.

That last made her shiver; she didn't try to suppress it. She glanced at him, saw he'd noticed; she smiled. “Higgs told me the grapes are grown here, in succession houses. I never knew you had any.”

He met her gaze, watched her take another grape between her lips, then replied, “They're to the west, between the house and the home farm.”

Her eyes steady on his, she asked, “Perhaps you could show me?”

One black brow rose. “When?”

She raised her brows back. “Why not now?”

He looked at the windows, out at the lawns drowsing under the sun. He sipped his wine, then looked back at her. “Very well.” He gestured to her plate. “When you've finished.”

His eyes held hers—challenge accepted, another issued in return.

She smiled, and applied herself to her grapes.

They left the dining room; she linked her arm with his, and they headed down the corridor and through the west wing. He opened the door at the end and she stepped outside; a warm breeze stirred her curls. She glanced at him as he joined her. He met her gaze; rather than offer his arm, he took her hand, and they set out, strolling across the lawn.

“The most direct route is through the shrubbery.”

He led her through the archway cut in the first hedge. Beyond lay a series of green courtyards opening one to the next. The first held a fountain in a central garden, the second a sunken pool in which silver fish flashed. The last played host to a large magnolia, its trunk thick, its branches twisted with age. A few late blooms remained, pale pink against the green foliage.

She eyed the tree; it was an ancient monster. “I've never been this deep into the shrubbery before.”

“There's little reason to come this way unless you're heading to the succession houses.”

Luc drew her to an archway in the last hedge; she stepped through. Ahead stretched three long, low, elongated sheds with many glass panes in their roofs and walls. Paved paths led to doors set in the nearer ends of each; Luc steered her to the leftmost shed.

He opened the door; a gust of warm air, rich with the scent of soil, leaf mold, and rampantly growing greenery washed over them. A veritable jungle lay before them. Amelia entered; as Luc followed and closed the door, a faint ruffling of leaves high above drew her gaze. Slats in the roof were open, letting the breeze waft through.

She looked around, eyes widening at the sheer magnitude of the greenery. Then she realized. “It's summer.” She glanced at Luc. “Everything's growing.”

He nodded. A hand at her back, he steered her on. “There's little to do at present but harvest the fruits. Later, it'll be cut back, but right now, everything's left to run riot.”

Riot indeed; they had to duck and weave to follow the paved path down the center of the shed. The jungle denseness extended to the door at the other end. Jettisoning any thought of an interlude in the succession house—there was barely room to stand—Amelia led the way out.

They emerged into a small paved area partially surrounded by low stone walls; shaded by large trees, the spot was distinctly cooler than the shed. Unexpectedly, it afforded a view over the shallow valley before the Chase. She glanced around, orienting herself. The home farm lay beyond the shade trees, with the kennels and then the stables farther back to the right. To the left lay the valley, slumbering in the summer heat.

She walked to the low stone wall beyond which the ground dipped toward the front lawn. Close by the shed, steps descended to a path leading to the front drive. “I
thought I knew most of the grounds, but I've never been here, either.”

Securing the shed's door, Luc glanced at her, then crossed the flags, halting directly behind her. Over her head, he surveyed the valley, the sight as familiar as his mother's face. “You'll have plenty of time to become acquainted with every facet of the estate.”

A quiver of awareness shot through her; she hadn't realized he was so close. She went to turn; he stepped closer, trapping her between him and the thigh-high wall.

She caught her breath, went very still.

Raising his hands, he curved them about her shoulders, bent his head. He might have to dance to her tune; that didn't mean he couldn't lead.

He touched his lips to the point where her shoulder met her throat, and she shivered. Head lifting, tilting, allowing him access, she let herself lean against him, but she was far from relaxed.

Releasing her shoulders, he slid his hands down her arms, then slipped beneath to push his palms across her waist and lock her lightly against him. Paused for a moment to savor her body, supple and curvaceous, pressed to his, then, his jaw to her temple, he murmured, “Why?”

After an instant, she murmured back, “Why what?”

“Why are you, for want of a better word, seducing me?”

She seemed to consider. “Don't you like it?” Her hands came to rest over his at her waist.

“I'm not complaining, but you could do with a few lessons from an expert.”

She laughed, interdigitating her fingers with his. “What, then?”

“When you trap your quarry in a room with seduction in mind, it's a good idea to lock the door.”

“I'll bear that in mind.” There was laughter and something else in her voice. “Anything else?”

“If intending to use any exotic location, it's wise to reconnoiter first.”

She sighed. “I'd no idea a succession house could be so crowded.” After a moment, she added, “Anyway, it's too hot.”

“You still haven't told me why.”

Amelia recognized the undertone in his voice, knew she would have to answer. “Because I thought you'd like it.” That was at least partly true. “Don't you?”

“Yes. Do you?”

She blinked. “Well of course.”

“What do you like best?”

When she didn't immediately reply, he elaborated, “When I touch your breasts, when I suckle them, when I touch you between your thighs—“

“When you come inside me.” She'd already been warm; she was getting hotter by the minute. “When you're deep inside me and I can hold you there.”

A long pause greeted that. “Interesting.”

She wasn't going to let the chance slide. “What do you like best?”

After the most fleeting pause, he answered, “Having you.”

“But how? Do you prefer me clothed, or naked?”

His laugh was short, gravelly. “Naked.”

“And you? Clothed or naked?”

He appeared to have to think. Eventually, he said, “Either. It depends. But if you want to know what I prefer above all else?”

“Yes.” She made the word quite definite.

“I prefer both of us naked, in our bed.”

Before she could ask her next question, he bent his head; his lips caressed her ear, then skated lower.

“Anytime, night . . . or day.”

The words hovered in the air about them; the afternoon was peaceful, silent, still. The atmosphere was heavy with the sun's warmth, weighted with unvoiced suggestion.

It was difficult to breathe, not just because his hands lay heavy at her waist, not only because she could sense his strength, and that overwhelming sexual power he commanded,
already surrounding her. She was already his captive in that regard; the challenge had been issued, but there was no decision to be made—she had to answer, had to accede.

“Yes.” She breathed the word, felt his hands, his fingers, briefly tighten.

Then he raised his head; hands sliding from her, he stepped back. Took her hand as she turned to him. His gaze, dark as night, touched her eyes, lowered to her lips, then he glanced at the house.

“Come.”

He led her down the steps, along the path to the drive and around to the front door. Unhurriedly. Far from easing her unaccountably tight nerves, his apparent lack of urgency only wound her tighter. His attitude was one of having the right, and the whole afternoon, to do with her whatever he wished.

As, indeed, he did.

They entered the front hall and heard distant voices—servants working in the cool of the house, busy and cheerful—but as they ascended the stairs, all sounds fell away.

Silence engulfed them; they neared their room and the world retreated.

This house was his, she its mistress. It was indeed their bastion, its walls designed to protect and nuture them. He opened the door, drew her into their room, shut the door behind them. The snib of the lock was a soft echo, a note signaling intent.

The curtains were drawn against the heat and the sun. Golden light filtered through, illuminating a haven of stillness, not hot, not cool. Theirs.

Amelia walked to the bed, stopped, and glanced back.

Luc followed, but halted a yard away. He shrugged out of his coat, dropped it, then started on the buttons of his shirt.

His eyes held hers. With a faint arching of one brow, she followed his lead.

By the time her chemise hit the floor, he was already
naked, lying stretched on the bed, leaning on one elbow watching her. He'd pulled the covers to the bed's foot, dispensing with most of the pillows, leaving a wide expanse of silk sheet.

Stepping around the bed, she ran her gaze from his bare calves to his shoulders. Her lips curved; she suspected he knew how magnificent he looked, fully aroused, shamelessly masculine. She felt his gaze on her body, on her breasts, her thighs, as she knelt, then climbed onto the bed.

He reached for her hip, drew her down to lie beside him.

Met her gaze, seemed to weigh the moment, then he raised his hand, and set his fingertips to her breast. His eyes locked on hers; he touched, traced . . .

The afternoon dissolved into golden hours of delight, of profound sensual bliss. He led, she followed, yet who sat in the driving seat changed several times, turn and turnabout.

It was too hot to lie body to body, in full contact, for long. In the drawn-out, extended exchanges when she had him under her hands, when she took him in her mouth and pleasured him, for the first time in their lives she knew she had the whip hand. Because he allowed her to have it, to take it—to take him as she wished.

And she returned the favor, without reservation. Without intent beyond the giving.

It was too hot for either to think, to watch for hints of the other's thoughts, the other's motives. By unspoken agreement, one she was as conscious of as he, they set aside all outward desires, disregarding their day-to-day hopes and fears, the needs and wants that drove them outside the doors to this room. By a deliberate joint act of will, they devoted themselves unreservedly to the moment, to the sensual, the physical, and what lay beyond.

The hours stretched, and they came together in simple, achingly sweet pleasure, again and again. They gave no thought to anything but that, the delight their bodies could give and receive. The only sounds to disturb the heavy stillness were their pants, their moans, groans, the faint, rhythmic
slap of skin against skin, the soft shushing as they moved upon the silk sheet.

Outside, all lay still, slumbering under the relentless sun. In their room, heat swirled, and danced across their skins. Tongues lapped, languid and slow, bodies arched, bowed, limbs slid and shifted, fingers traced, drifted, hands cupped, caressed, touched, possessed.