A Secret Love (51 page)

C
hillingworth let Gabriel and Alathea down in Brook Street.

“I'll go straight home,” Alathea called to Charlie as she went up the steps beside Gabriel, her grip on his arm firm and supporting. “I don't know how long this might take. Tell your mama there's no need to wait up for me.”

Gabriel grinned as he reached for his latchkey. He could just imagine Chillingworth's face. Chillingworth had somewhat curtly offered to drive Charlie back to Marlborough House. That probably entitled him to yet another quota of Cynster gratitude. Given they could never be sure just how incapacitated Crowley had been before Chillingworth shot him, tonight had seen the earl's stocks rise high indeed.

Charlie called an acknowledgment. Chillingworth's horses stamped, then the carriage rattled away. Sliding his key into the lock, Gabriel turned it. Glancing at Alathea, he twisted the knob and opened the door.

This would, after all, shortly be her home. He was simply jumping the gun a trifle. He wasn't, however, foolish enough to sweep her off her feet and carry her over the threshold.

He let her shoo him in, instead, fussing like a mother hen.

Chance appeared at the end of the hall. He was in his shirtsleeves, clearly taken aback to see his master returning so early. When he saw who his master was with, he goggled, and started to silently back away . . .

Alathea saw him and beckoned. “You're Chance, I take it?”

“Hmm.” Chance ducked his head, warily edging closer. “That's me, mum.”

Alathea shot him a sharp glance, then nodded. “Yes, well, your master has been injured. I want a bowl of warm water—not too hot—brought up to his room directly, with some clean cloths and bandages. And some salve, too—I assume you have some?” All the while she'd been progressing down the hall, towing Gabriel with her.

“Umm.” Falling back before her advance, Chance looked helplessly at Gabriel.

“This is Lady Alathea, Chance.”

Chance bowed. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, mum.”

“Indeed.” Alathea waved him away. “I want those items, and I'll need your help upstairs momentarily.” When Chance stared at her blankly, she leaned forward and looked him in the eye. “
Now
. Immediately. Sooner than soon.”

Chance jumped back, all but tripping over his feet. “Oh! Right. Straight away, mum.” He scurried through the baize door.

Alathea watched him go, then shook her head and tugged Gabriel on toward the stairs. “Your eccentricities never cease to amaze me.” She proceeded to propel him up the stairs.

She couldn't have done it if he hadn't been willing—very willing—despite the fact that he hated being the object of any woman's fussing. Her fussing he was willing to endure given that she'd yet to make any formal statement—a clear and unequivocal acceptance of his heart.

He wanted to hear it, but she was perennially stubborn; encouraging her to let her feelings run riot, as they presently were, would make it all the harder for her to draw back, to balk at the final hurdle. So he meekly climbed the stairs, biding his time, letting her imagine he was weak. He did feel a little lightheaded, relieved that it was over, that Crowley was dead, never to darken their horizon again, and eager, buoyed with anticipation like some callow youth at the realization that she was his.

All he needed now was to hear her admit it.

“Here.” He stopped by his door and leaned against the door frame, letting her turn the knob and set the door wide. Without the slightest hesitation, she urged him inside, steering him to the wide bed.

She pushed him to sit on its side. Her fingers going to the improvised bandage, she glanced frowningly at the door. “Where is that man?”

“He'll be here in a moment.” Gabriel stood to ease out of his coat. She stripped it from him and promptly pushed him back down again, then busily set about unlacing his cuffs.

Gabriel twisted his lips to hide a grin. How far would she go if he let her?

“Are you in pain?”

Hurriedly straightening his lips, he shook his head. “No.” He searched her face, drowned in her eyes, in the concern that filled them, the love that gave it birth. “No.” He reached out and closed one hand over hers. “Thea, I'm all right.”

Frowning, she shook off his hand and slapped a palm to his forehead. “I hope you don't develop a fever.”

Gabriel dragged in a breath. “Thea—”

Chance rushed in, balancing a bowl of water on his wrists, a towel over one arm, cloths balanced upon it, with a pot of salve clutched in his other hand. “Is this all you wanted, mum?”

“Indeed.” Alathea nodded approvingly. “Just bring that table nearer. And the lamp, too.”

“Oooh! Lot of blood there.” Chance moved the table closer. He glanced at Alathea. “Perhaps you'll want some brandy, mum? To clean the wound?”

“An excellent idea!” She lifted her head. “Is there any here?” Her glance fell on the decanter on the dresser.

Gabriel stiffened. “No! That's—”

“Perfect!” Alathea enthused. “Bring it here.”

“Thea . . .” Horrified, Gabriel watched Chance dart to the dresser and bring back the decanter filled with superbly aged French brandy. “I really don't need—”

“
Do
be quiet.” Alathea stared into his eyes, peering into one, then the other. “I keep worrying you'll start raving any minute. Please—just let Chance and me fix this. Then you can rest. All right?”

He looked into her eyes—she was perfectly serious. Gabriel bit his tongue, glanced at Chance, then nodded.

For the next fifteen minutes, he suffered their combined ministrations. He'd forgotten that Chance had reason to want to repay him with kindness. Sitting silent on his bed, he was smothered by kindness, by concern, by love. It was pleasant, even if he felt a fraud.

With Chance's help, Alathea stripped off his shirt, then gently tended his wound, apparently unaffected by the sight of his bare chest. Gabriel itched to change that, but . . . Chance was still in the room. Alathea lovingly cleansed the long cut, then bathed it.

He kept his gaze glued to her hair. Despite all she'd gone through, the three blooms were still firmly in place, his declaration acknowledged. He wasn't about to remove them, not intentionally. Not until he'd had their promise converted into words. Multiple times. While she fussed over his arm, he fell to rehearsing all that was to come, and how best to wring from her the words he wanted to hear without disturbing those blooms.

Leaving his arm to dry, she straightened and stepped closer, the warmth of her breasts bare inches from his face. He tried not to breathe while she investigated the bump on his head.

“It's the size of a duck egg,” she pronounced, suitably horrified.

Gabriel shut his eyes as she probed, and tried not to groan. The cool cloth she laid upon the bump helped, easing the dull ache in his head. There was only one remedy for the ache in his groin. When she finally turned her attention to binding up his arm, Gabriel caught Chance's eye. It took a moment for Chance to understand his message. When he did, he looked shocked, but when Gabriel scowled, he hurriedly collected the cloths, towels, and bowl and eased himself out of the door.

The click of the latch coincided with Alathea's benedictory pat to the knot she'd tied in the bandage around his arm. “There.” She lifted her gaze to his face. “Now you can rest.”

“Not yet.” Gabriel clamped his hands about her waist and took her with him as he fell back on the bed. Her surprised yelp was smothered as he rolled, shifting them further onto the cushioned expanse, simultaneously trapping her beneath him.

“Be careful of your arm!”

“My arm is perfectly fine.”

She stilled beneath him. “What do you mean, it's ‘fine'?”

“Just that. I did try to tell you. It's only a surface cut—I'm not likely to die from it.”

She scowled at him. “I thought it was serious.”

“I know.” Bending his head, he nibbled at her lips. “That did become apparent.”

He surged over her; the sensation of her long, supple form tensing beneath him sent a wave of primitive possessiveness through him. A possessiveness colored by desire, by need, and by another emotion almost too vital to contain.

Still frowning, she braced her hands against his bare chest. “It must hurt. Your head
must
be throbbing.”

“It aches, but it's not my skull that's throbbing.” He shifted suggestively, thrusting his hips to hers.

Her eyes widened slightly as she shifted beneath him to cradle his erection at the apex of her thighs. Confirming his state. The look she sent him was the epitome of feminine—wifely—resignation.
“Men!”
With renewed vigor, she pushed him back and struggled to sit up. “Are you all the same?”

“All Cynsters, certainly.” Gabriel rolled to the side, watching bemusedly as she reached for her laces. She was doing it again—taking a tack he hadn't foreseen. It took him a moment to fathom the why and wherefore, then he decided to follow her lead. He reached for her laces. “Here, let me.”

He'd fantasized about peeling the white-and-gilt gown from her; in it, he could easily see her as some priestess, some pagan female designed to be worshipped. As he eased the gown from her shoulders, he worshipped, his lips anointing each silken inch of skin revealed. She shivered. Surging up beside her, he filled one hand with her breast, the soft flesh firming at his touch, heating as he kneaded. His other hand rose to cradle her head, long fingers searching for the pins that anchored the tight knot of her hair, careful not to dislodge the three white flowers adorning her crown—the evidence of his adoration. Her hair fell loose; his fingers tightened about her nipple. On a moan, she let her head fall back, offering her lips. He took them, took her mouth greedily, hungrily, aware there was no longer any need to hold back. She was with him. The same need drove them both, a fervent desire to hold, to possess, to reassure their souls they had survived the threat whole, still hale. To take a first tantalizing
taste of the future, of the freedom to love that they'd won.

His plans degenerated into a sweet, reckless flurry of searching hands, of incoherent, breathless moans, of sweet caresses and heated kisses, of urgent fingers and quivering flesh. They stripped each other of every last stitch, content only when they lay skin to skin, long limbs entwined, cocooned within the chaos of his covers. He gathered her to him, moving over her, surrounding her. With one stroke, he sheathed himself in her heat.

She gasped and welcomed him in, her body arching, tensing, easing, then melting about him. Her surrender was implicit. Gabriel held tight to their reins. Tonight, he wanted explicit. So he rode her slowly, joining with her in long, slow, rolling thrusts, melding their bodies as they would meld their lives—deeply, completely. When he would have risen over her, she clung to him, holding him to her. He acquiesced and stayed, their bodies in contact from chest to knees. She undulated beneath him, all shifting silk and velvet lushness, a glory of womanly need.

He filled her again and again, until she gasped and clung.

He stilled, savoring her glorious climax, luxuriating in her satiated sigh. He waited until she'd softened fully beneath him. Then he moved again.

Still slow, still unhurried. He had all night and knew it. Not even this—the glory of her giving—was going to distract him tonight.

It was a minute or two before she stirred, before her body instinctively searched for, then found his steady rhythm. Her lids lifted, just enough for her to stare at him. Her tongue touched her lips; he delved deeper and she arched.

A glint of surprise glowed in her eyes.

An instant later, he felt her hands trailing, gently questing down the planes of his flexing back, down to caress his pulsing flanks.

She caught his gaze. “What?”

His grin was partly grimace, over gritted teeth. She was warm and soft and so inviting beneath him. “I want to hear you say it.”

The words were low, gravelly, but sufficiently distinct. She didn't ask what it was he wanted to hear.

Beneath him, beneath the steady, relentless onslaught, she stirred. “I have to go home.”

He shook his head. “Not until you say the words. I'm going to keep you here, naked and hot and needy, until you admit you love me.”

“Needy? It's not me—”

He cut the words off with his lips. When he'd wiped them from her tongue and her brain, he drew back, rising up on his braced arms to drive deeper into her slick heat.

She gasped, panted, bit back a moan. Writhed just a little. “You . . . you know I do.”

“Yes. I know. Even if I hadn't known before, I'd certainly know now, after your performance tonight. Now even Charlie and Chillingworth know.”

Her state made her slow to respond. She stared at him, blinked, then weakly asked, “
What?
Why should they think . . . ?”

He couldn't grin, although he wanted to. It was hard enough to find the strength to answer. “You half killed a man to save me tonight, and for the last two hours, you've been fretting and fuming over what anyone could see was little more than a scratch. You nearly made poor Chillingworth bilious.”

Alathea wished she could summon a glare, but her body was prey to the sweetest heat, her senses far too interested in the glory building between them. Her mind was clinging to sanity by a thread. “I didn't know it was just a scratch. I was being led by the nose—”

“You were being led by love.” He lowered his head and found her lips in a kiss laden with sensual promise. “Why don't you just admit it?”

Because she'd only tonight come to a full understanding of what this joint love of theirs entailed. The shared joy countered by the fear of loss—the sudden desperation when he, her life, had nearly been slain before her. There was a lot more to loving than she'd imagined. Loving this deeply was a frightening thing.