Aching for Always (41 page)

Hugh was waiting for her by a horse tacked for riding. The horse was black and sleek and tall, but Joss only had eyes for the man in the handsome naval coat, with his broad back to her, who seemed almost to paw the ground with simmering energy. She felt a kick of heat in her belly.

He turned when he heard her steps on the gravel, and it took all her strength to keep her chin up. The sun was warm, but the look in those gray-green eyes was warmer. He raked her from head to foot. By the time she reached his side, she felt as if she'd crossed the Sahara barefoot. Her hair was a mess from sleeping, and she touched it self-consciously.

“You look lovely,” he said. “But then, you knew that.”

He caught her by the waist and tipped her back into a scorching kiss. Desire pulsed like a current through her body, and she could feel her nerve endings light up like a thousand tiny lightbulbs. He reawakened her desire with ease.

Breathless, she said, “There are people in the stable.”

“No rules,” he said, and kissed her again. “Been drinking, have you?” He released her and lifted himself easily
onto the horse, using only his good arm. He was a natural horseman. She hadn't known that about him.

“Yes.”

He slipped off his coat and laid it over his knees. “There is a punishment for relying on false courage.”

He did not elaborate on the punishment, which made it worse, for Joss's imagination was very vivid. “I do not require false courage,” she said, hardly above a whisper.

He chuckled and held out his arm.

“I know how to ride,” she said. “I can have my own horse.”

“Not today.”

He pulled her onto the blankets behind him. She had to ruck her skirts and wrap her arms around his waist to keep herself upright. He gave the impression of being built out of barrel staves, so sinewy were his waist and back.

He geed the horse to a trot. The blankets were coarse, and the wool rubbed her thighs.

Within a moment or two, they had reached the bottom of the prospect the house had been built on and were on level parkland half a mile long, edged with gardens that ended at a long reflecting pool, behind which stood the entrance to an ancient stand of oaks. The sun's rays danced on the gold and red foliage. A dog bayed in the distance.

He pulled the horse to a stop. “Loosen your bodice,” he said.

It was useless to protest. She knew the terms she had agreed to. With shaking fingers, she pulled the ruffles lower. Her nipples tightened as the air hit her. She prayed none of the lord's guests were taking an afternoon walk.

“Now pull my shirt free.”

She tugged the snowy linen from his trousers, releasing his warmth.

She knew what he wanted, and she wanted it herself. Without a bodice, this was the only cover she would have. She lifted the fabric and pressed herself against him. In an instant, they were off at a hard gallop. The ride pummeled her bones, and she clung giddily to his chest as the horse's hooves threw up chunks of Lord Quarley's turf. Faster and faster Hugh drove the creature, straight down the center of the park until Joss realized he was going to take the horse over the pool.

“No!” she cried as she felt him urge the horse forward.

The pounding stopped, and for an endless instant the horse rose in the air, carried upward by an unearthly power, Hugh flung himself low over the its neck and Joss flung herself low over Hugh, until the creature reached its apex and descended with a thump, thump once more to the ground. The jolt shook her spine.

Hugh drove the horse through the forest, narrowly avoiding the stout trunks and gnarled roots until they emerged into the sun again on the other side. The flat parkland was gone now, replaced by rolling hills, scattered copses of elms and patches of verdant ferns and ivy.

He pulled to a stop next to a dilapidated fence and lowered her to the ground with a sweep of his arm. As she tugged her bodice higher, he swung himself down and tied the lead. If he noticed her movements, he said nothing. Instead he spread the blanket on a mound of green near a picket, then turned to her and waited. She reclined reluctantly, knowing the next time she stood, the world would be a different place.

He undid his stock and dropped it. Then he stretched out beside her. Without a word, he pulled his timepiece from his pocket and turned the stem. When it rang, he held it so she could see the face, then laid it on a rock. “The time,” he said, “has come, and may I say, 'tis long overdue. This will ring every ten minutes until we are done.”

He lowered his mouth to hers and supped there. She embraced him hungrily, her hips still tingling from the thrilling ride. He stopped for a moment to draw a caressing knuckle down her shoulder, then picked up his stock and dangled it before her.

“Wrists or eyes?”

Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest. “What do you mean?”

“You understand how this works, surely? With the wrists held immobile, a woman convinces herself she is unable to stop what the man is doing and is thus relieved of any guilt she might otherwise—”

“I
know
what it's for.”

“Then I repeat my question: wrists or eyes?”

She dared not let him see the flurry of terror he was stirring in her. “Eyes,” she said, and damned him for the curve that rose at the corner of his mouth.

He wound the fabric around her head and fastened the fabric with a quick knot. With the world plunged into a dim blankness, the sounds as he moved on the blanket and the loamy smell of the ivy seemed to grow more distinct. He kissed her, this time sweetly and slowly, skimming his lips over her cheek before settling at her mouth. She took in the scent of his clean-smelling hair.

His hand trailed down her neck, past her collarbone
and over her breasts. She was covered now, and he teased the tight flesh through the fabric. The feel of his hands on her was exhilarating. She thought about those sturdy shoulders and that hard, hard waist, lost herself in the heat of his soft, probing tongue.

Lacking the canvas of his face, her sense of him came entirely through the touch of his hands and the way his body seemed to mold around her. He was a swirling eddy of need and desire, but there was a filter somewhere—something he was holding back. She caressed the rough stubble of his cheek, and he seemed to withdraw, but that must have been an illusion, for his arms held her tight.

“It
is
an adventure,” she murmured. “Isn't it?”

“One you shall never forget.”

“I hope not.”

He found her knee and then the inside of her thigh. His long strokes made her sigh with pleasure. Then he found her bud and rolled it slowly. She could feel his breath on her cheek, like the wings of a butterfly. Even though she couldn't see him, she knew he was watching her closely.

In the distance, on her right, she heard the thumping of many hooves. “What is it?” she whispered, wary. The hoofbeats dissipated, only to return a moment later.

He chuckled. “Fearful, are you?” His fingers continued their slow circle.

“What is it?”

He bent to her ear. “Hunters, lass. Don't fret yourself. They have seen this sort of larking before.”

The place where he touched her burned with a steady fire. She rolled her hips to keep pace with his movements.

“Is it really hunters?”

“Oh, they've spotted us,” he said, amused. The hoofbeats slowed and stopped.

They couldn't be more than thirty yards away.
“Hugh, please.”

“Please what?” His rhythm quickened, and she braided her fingers into the ivy to hold herself steady. “They're a good distance away,” he said. “I very much doubt they could identify your face, though they have certainly identified what we are doing. 'Tis a matter of some interest, it appears.” His mouth hovered outside her ear. “Lower your bodice.”

“Hugh!”

“We are trespassing on their land. The least we can do is give them something for it.”

She strained her ears for the sound of voices. Nothing carried on this very clear day. “You're lying,” she said. “There
are
no hunters.”

“In that case, the dress shall come down to your waist.”

Breathless, unknowing who if anyone was watching, she guided her arms out of the sleeves and drew the bodice below her breasts.

“They approve,” he whispered. “And so do I.” He caught one of the dress's hanging strings of pearl trim and rolled it over a nipple. “'Tis very fine,” he said, admiring, “like a large, tawny pearl itself.”

He tugged her bodice. “Lower.”

She brought the fabric to her waist, then lifted her arms above her head, determined not to let the unseen eyes of a pack of hunters, or, more specifically, of Hugh's conjured pack of hunters, deter her.

She was moving now, her hips undulating to a regular
beat. He was a practiced guide, and his fingers slowed and quickened in breathtaking rhythms.

“Shall we give them what they've been waiting for?”

“Yes,”
she whispered, her mouth like a desert.

“Then you don't mind their eyes upon you?” He began pulling her nipple with his free hand, bringing a small gasp with each tug.

“No.” She wanted him to do more. The wave was rising in her, but she needed more, more.

“Perhaps you rather like it. They see, but they cannot possess. Oh, you will haunt their dreams tonight. They will take their wives in their arms, but when they plunge, it will be between your tender thighs. Do you like that? A dozen men longing for your—”

His fingers moved faster and faster, and she cried, her body racked with a storm of lightning and heat. She clutched his hair, not wanting that hand to stop. And it moved and moved, drawing the final bolt into a scorching, unending charge of pleasure.

She tore off the stock and scrabbled to her elbows. A half dozen horses chewed grass in a corral on the next hill and a dozen more ran in bounding half circles. There was not a human being in sight. “Liar.”

He rolled onto his back, grinning, his desire unhidden. “Had the story not had such a salutatory effect on you, I might apologize.”

A tiny bell sounded.

“Your ten minutes is up,” she said haughtily, pulling up her bodice at least far enough to be proper. “It's my time now.”

“How may I serve?”

Damn the laughter in those eyes.

“Take off your clothes,” she said.

“This time you speak for yourself.”

“Slowly,” she added. “There. Near the rock. So you are available for the viewing pleasure of those in as many directions as possible.”

He kicked off one boot and then the other. The socks followed. She had to admit, she was sorry to see those boots go.

He grabbed the collar on the back of his shirt, then pulled the whole thing over his head and tossed it to the side. She gazed at the wide back lined with scars, and the muscular chest.

“I do believe you've traversed this land before,” he said.

“Not quite like this.”

He loosened the trouser buttons with a single hand. The flap dropped and the buff-colored fabric fell to the ground.

And there he was, just like that day on the security camera monitor. With one very big difference.

The generous swath of chestnut hair on his chest narrowed to a tight dark line that traveled down his muscled belly to an extraordinary patch between two firm, tan thighs. That he was uncircumcised didn't surprise her. That he was considerably larger than even Rogan did.

He was a ruggedly handsome man, and the hard-muscled arms and back reminded her he was also a man of action. If only the eyes weren't so guarded. A small voice warned,
Be careful what you bestow on a man who hides a part of himself from you.

“If this is the only use you are to make of me,” he said, “may I suggest you are wasting your ten minutes?”

As far as she was concerned, ten minutes of gazing at this maritime Adonis could never be considered wasted. “What do you look for in a woman?”

He blinked at the question, unprepared for the game to take this new direction, but apparently reflecting on the rule of no rules, he answered. “Honesty,” he said coolly. “Faithfulness. Relationships with others that aren't motivated solely by self-interest.”

She squirmed at “faithfulness.” She had hoped for “spirited” and “courageous.” That's what he had called her before. And there had been the hint of something else in his words. . . .

“Did you sleep with Fiona?”

“Aye.” His eyes flashed, and she wondered if she'd dare ask more.

“She is driven almost entirely by self-interest.”

“You asked what I look for, not what I'd take.”

“Sounds like a bit of self-interest at work to me.”

He said nothing, and the obscuring haze across his eyes got thicker.

“Perhaps you could use a lesson in altruism,” she said. “Is your mouth as capable as that hand?”

The haze lifted, and he dropped to a crouch. “Better.”

She crossed her arms behind her head and shivered as he spread her legs. She had just finished and thought it unlikely she'd reach a second peak so soon, but the sight of him as a supplicant made her wonder.

“So close,” she said, seeing the look in his eyes and the quiver of his hardened flesh. “It's too bad, really, I'm the only one who shall enjoy this.”

He bent to her dark, willing triangle and laved it. The
touch sent a divine tingle through her still-sensitive flesh. Then he lowered his body to the grass, groaning as his erection bent under him.

“If you do well, I might help you with that,” she said happily. “Otherwise, I'll make you take care of it yourself.”
That should hold the horses' attention. I know it would hold mine.

She raised her skirt until she had both the sun on her belly and an unobstructed view of Hugh's dark waves as he bobbed.

Up and down, she thought, imagining the moment he would take her virginity. He will disappear into my thighs and those luscious, hard hips will do their work. She pushed aside the worry—both for the pain and the thought she might be making a mistake—and let his mouth lead her on a starkly imagined journey. In her mind, he laid her on a gleaming white bed among a hundred white pillows, whispering words of love in the candlelight.