A Touch of Sin (15 page)

"I wasn't about to disagree, Ordie." Trixi was amused by the deference Pasha warranted from her housekeeper, who had kept the Irish whiskey hidden from her husband. And come to think of it, from Theo as well, she reflected with an odd start.

"I think Christopher should take some of his new farm animals out to show Will," the housekeeper suggested with a bland smile. "You know how Will would enjoy seeing that Percheron pair you have there, Christopher," she added, brushing some crumbs from the table into her apron. "And the matched bays, too. I'd say he might even have a taste to see those hunting dogs round that fine new stable you and Mr. Duras put together."

"Pasha and me builted it," Chris proudly declared, ensconced on his hero's lap, not inclined to move.

"You'll have to tell Will all about it. Come now with me," the housekeeper coaxed. "We'll find Kate and Janey and everyone will bring those fine animals out to show Will."

Not entirely convinced he cared to leave his new playmate, Chris looked to Pasha for guidance. "It's up to you, Chris," Pasha good-naturedly said, a philanthropic gesture considering his hugely selfish desires.

"You could bring Will that last strawberry cake," Mrs. Orde submitted, knowing the dessert was Will and Chris's favorite.

"Will really,
really
likes cake," Chris acknowledged, his indecision plain. Then a second later he reached for the sweet. "I won't be gone long." He slid from Pasha's lap, the cake balanced precariously on his small palm. "Don't play with any toys until I get back."

"Promise," Pasha said with a smile, his notions of play moving in quite a different direction, with the possibility of a
tête-à-tête imminent. "Tell Will I've a riding quirt from Obdorsk that I'll bring round later for him."

"Is Ob… dork," Chris struggled with the strange word, "far away?"

"
A
month of hard riding away."

"A month?" he breathed, awestruck.

"Give me that cake now, Christopher, and you bring along those Percherons," the housekeeper cajoled.

The horses were gathered up and the hunting pack and for good measure the farmer and his family. "Have you named them yet?" Mrs. Orde was saying as they left the room.

"She must like you," Trixi said into the sudden quiet. "Such blatant matchmaking, though. I apologize for Ordie's lack of finesse."

"I'm not complaining," Pasha said with a grin, the pernicious word matchmaking oddly tolerable in the drawing room at Burleigh House. "And Mrs. Orde's very skillful in persuading Chris."

"Thank you, too, for allowing him an option."

"I remember being young and in adult company. At times it was exciting."

"A roomful of new toys certainly inspires that kind of excitement. And you, of course. He adores you, I'm afraid. I hope you don't find him a nuisance."

"He's adorable, like his mother. And no, I don't find him a nuisance. I'm charmed."

"Thank you again. I find myself forever in your debt."

"You needn't. This is very much a mutual indebtedness. I've never enjoyed myself so much—having tea like this, playing with Chris, your housekeeper's sweet tyranny, Will… It's wonderfully bucolic. So thank you." Not prone to discerning insights from emotions, he didn't question his feelings beyond those general observations. "And," he said, surveying the sunny room, "to add to my gratification, we seem to be
alone
."

"By design, I perceive."

"Is it possible, then, that nap time has finally arrived?"

She hesitated, debating the options and possibilities with her household about. "I'm not sure." Actually put to the test, it was rather alarming to consider making love when any minute someone might appear.

"Anywhere will do," Pasha said, his voice unnaturally constrained, his libido in ramming speed ever since Mrs. Orde exited the room. His gaze swept the room. "That sofa?" he murmured.

Their eyes met across the debris of teatime.

Carnal urgency, heated and potent, struck Trixi like a blow.

"What if they come back soon?" she whispered, apprehensive even as desire flared at the sight of such naked lust.

"Then we'll have to hurry." Rising from his chair, he held out his hand.

"No, no… not here." Coming to her feet in a restless flurry, she abruptly said, "Follow me." She glanced back once as she entered the foyer and his lush smile impaired reason for a moment. Her body responded as if he'd entered her; a melting heat flared deep inside her. Flushed and breathless, she could feel his palpable energy as she swiftly crossed the marbled hall and moved up the stairway, a kind of insensate heat that propelled and roused, licked at her feet and senses, insinuated itself tantalizingly into every pulsing cell and nerve and tissue.

Halfway up the stairs, he scooped her into his arms with an effortless strength, his long-legged stride taking the steps two at a time even under her added weight. And when they reached the top of the stairs, he said, curt and low, "Which way?"

"Lord, Pasha," she equivocated, her nerves on edge, wondering where they would least likely be found and embarrassed. "All the rooms are so accessible."

Past problematical qualms, he moved toward the first doorway in sight. "This one, then."

"No!"

He stopped, his gaze insistent, flame in its depths.

"That's Chris's room."

"What about the third floor?"

"Janey and Kate's rooms."

He inhaled a deep, steadying breath that kept him marginally rational. "Where
were
you going?"

"I was thinking about… my father's room. No one uses it, but—"

Even in his present rut, such flagrant bad taste momentarily stopped him. "Where were you going to have me sleep tonight?"

"Under Janey's room."

"Show me."

It was decided.

Following her directions, he carried her down the hall to a room tucked under the third-floor stairway, eased two fingers free from under her legs to open the latch, then shoved the door with his foot. Two large-paned windows faced the orchard back of the house. Rows of gnarled fruit trees gleamed green in the sunlight, which bathed the small room in a golden glow as well. It had been a lady's room at one time, the decor faded now, but ruffled and pale in hue, with rosebud dimity-clad chairs and dressing table, the bed small. Too small, he instantly thought.

Although in his current frame of mind, a bed wasn't entirely necessary.

"Shut the door," she whispered, fear prominent in her voice.

Moving toward the bed, he seated her on its center and, returning to the door, quietly closed it. He attempted to turn the key in the rusted lock but it resisted his efforts.

"Put a chair in front," Trixi urged, fainthearted, yet feverish with need. "And hurry."

Glancing up from the chair he was about to lift from beside the dressing table, he saw her trembling, the sight so intensely erotic, all the jaded licentiousness in his past, so familiar and habitual, paled before such chaste longing.

Jamming the chair under the door latch, he was beside her almost instantly, holding her, gently stroking her shoulders, her back, the slender column of her throat. "I'm here," he whispered, soothing her as one might a frightened child. "I'm here."

"There's no time." Agitation, fear vibrated in her words.

"There's time." He lifted his head to glance out the window, rechecked that the chair was against the door, eased her back onto the bed and followed her down, pushing her skirt up so he could slide between her legs.

"I'm selfish." Part entreaty, part demand, her breathless declaration grazed his lips as he bent to kiss her. Her hand moved to his trouser buttons.

"I'm way ahead of you." His voice was rough, his carnal urgency barely under control. Brushing her fingers aside, he swiftly unfastened his riding pants. And a second later, the tip of his penis nuzzled her vulva, rubbed gently, and at her suppressed cry exhorting him to speed, he plunged in.

They both felt as though a long exile had ended.

The bed squeaked loudly under the heated rhythm of their ravenous passions. Speed, haste was in the forefront of their thoughts, all the pent-up longing from the hours past explosive within them.

"Pasha… the bed."

The alarm in her voice registered through the haze of his lust, and he heard the shrill creaking. The small bed was never intended to hold a man of his size. Instantly responding, he put his arms around her, lifted and rolled, landing on the floor on his back, cushioning her with his body. In his current libidinous state, he was immune to the jolt.

Another turn and he lay over her. He held her off the carpet, lifting her bottom to meet his down-thrust, his breath coming in low muffled grunts, intent only on maintaining the rhythm of his strokes. Flushed, feverish, her skirts crumpled around her waist, she met his violent plunging, welcomed it, craving the feel of him, needing the rapturous pleasure he gave. And even as she clung to him, frantically drew him deep inside, felt herself reaching for her shuddering climax, she wondered how she'd survive his absence.

Peaking desire overwhelmed such impractical considerations and as she died away, as her last sighing spasm fluttered through her senses, Pasha withdrew with a practiced precision and came on the warmth of her belly.

Braced on his hands, he hung suspended over her, panting, his dark hair falling in a silken curtain, perspiration gleaming on his face. "Why am I still starved for you?"

His query warmed her heart, even though she knew better than to have romantic expectations. He was talking about sex, not love. In any event, he'd already dismissed the fleeting emotion. He'd reached for a pillow on the bed, pulled the cover off with a jerk, and was about to toss the pillow cover on her belly when she squeaked, "No!"

In midthrow, his hand stopped, the lace-edged fabric dangling from his fingertips.

"Mrs. Orde will notice."

His brows quirked.

"
You
… know."

He wasn't absolutely certain, but regardless her cautionary fears, Mrs. Orde was a servant—which he pointed out directly, adding, "How can it matter?"

"They're not servants, actually, or—well… Maybe they are." She took the pillowcase from him, wiping Pasha's semen off her stomach with a corner of her petticoat instead, which she could handwash herself. "They're more like family," she went on. "They've all been at Burleigh House for years, even though I've not been able to pay them since—well, for a very long time."

"And Mrs. Orde is careful with her pillow covers?" Seated, leaning against the bed, he'd extracted his handkerchief to wipe himself dry.

"No, it's not that, but she starches and irons them all and—" Fascinated, she gazed at his erection.

He looked up when she paused and took note of her attention.

"I don't suppose…"

"No," she quickly replied, shaking her skirt down. "They could return any minute."

"Are you sure?" He glanced down at his rampant arousal and then at her. "You could just sit on me for a minute."

She opened her mouth, her refusal already formed on her lips, but found herself unable to utter the words with such lurid temptation before her.