Priceless (14 page)

She watched as he put the back of his hand to his forehead like a Drury Lane actress.

“Bronwyn Edana. Here in Madame Rachelle’s, with Adam Keane. I will have to see what can be done about this.”

Chilled and thinking second thoughts, Daphne left him.

He never saw her go.

Adam leaned against Bronwyn’s shoulder as they
climbed the stairs, but she noticed a new agility in his movement. She wondered if he had been exaggerating his pain to elicit an invitation to her room and wondered more that she liked the notion.

She flung the door wide. She’d forgotten the petticoat she’d dropped to the floor, the collection of slippers tossed by a whirlwind around the rug. The branch of candles he held revealed it all. She blushed and apologized, “You’ll excuse the mess.”

“But of course.” He placed the candelabra on her dressing table before the mirror and tucked his walking stick under his arm. Hand under her chin, he lifted her face. “Housekeeping is the province of a wife, and a siren such as you could never fit that dry description of a woman.”

A pang that he so easily dismissed his betrothed zipped through her, but he gave her no time to think.

“’Tis hot in here, for all that the windows are open to catch the breeze. Will you be valet as well as siren?” He stepped back, extending his arm. “
Déshabilles-moi
.”

He wanted her to undress him.

She stared at his outstretched hand. So at odds with the elegance of velvet and lace, its broad, hardened palm and
long fingers betrayed a seaman’s labor, the labor that had made him who he was. It recalled the formidable man she knew him to be and, for some inexplicable reason, thrilled her into obedience. Catching the cuff, she tugged off his coat. He took it from her and tossed it atop her petticoat and indicated the buttons of his embroidered waistcoat. In the carefree fashion of a rake, he’d buttoned it only at his waist. As he leaned against his walking stick, she freed him. His stillness was a hoax, she knew, for he gave the impression of a great cat, reserving its strength as its prey wandered closer.

She wondered at her willingness to put her head in the lion’s mouth, but when he slipped out of the waistcoat, she knew why. His shoulders, clad only in white muslin, recalled Midsummer Eve and the passion in the wood. He promised, implicit in his knowledge, an excitement such as she’d only suspected.

Stepping close, she untied the white lace cravat and spread the neck of the shirt. As her fingers touched the hollow above his collarbone, his palm slid behind her neck. He threaded his fingers through her hair.

For a man who’d only moments before been on the verge of collapse, he gave a gratifying imitation of vigor. He kissed her with a flattering appetite that never diminished even as she yielded. He took her tongue, pushed his way into her, and filled her mouth with the taste of mint. When she was gasping, out of breath, he released her and went to her chin, her cheeks, all over her face. It wasn’t affection so much as a suggestion of ravishment, and the hint of his impatience brought her surging to meet him. As wild as he, she kissed every bit of skin she could reach, amazed at her own exuberance. The experience in the woods had whetted her appetite, she knew. Fulfillment had been promised, but long denied.

Not true, her reason chanted. Not true. Not even her inexperience could disclaim it. When Adam reached for her, they ignited as surely as phosphorus exposed to air.

She thrilled at his fascination with her hair. He kissed every inch of her hairline, murmuring, “
Clair de lune
.” He ran his fingers through it, groaning at its length, its silky texture. He bunched it in his hand. He lifted it to his nose. “
Les fleurs
.” He groaned. “
Votre chevelure sent merveilleusement
.”

“
Oui
,” she murmered with barely a clue to his meaning.

He chuckled deep in his throat and tried to wrap her closer. “Your hair smells wonderful.” The whalebone cage of her panniers fought him, and he set her away. “Let me remove that contraption,” he ordered. “Nothing must come between us.”

He reached for her skirt, and she stepped back in a rush of doubt. Stupid to balk at the idea of him undressing her, yet Bronwyn did.
Bronwyn
did. I am Cherie, she reminded herself. Continental, experienced. What would Cherie do in this situation?

He encouraged, “Remove it yourself,” and it seemed the answer she sought.

With a faint smile, she lifted her silk skirt and petticoat. He watched avidly as her slippers, her hose, appeared. Before she revealed more, she tucked her hands beneath and fumbled for the tie at her waist. The panniers dropped to her feet, then she stepped out.

His gaze never left the now revealed shape of her hips as he kicked the cage into a corner. “Your petticoat,” he commanded. “Your stockings.”

“Monsieur, you go too quickly,” she remonstrated.

“Not as quickly as I would like,
ma cherie
.”

He glanced at her face, then hastily turned his head away. Even that brief contact heated her. He created an itch she couldn’t scratch, an urge she longed to comprehend. “Dear God,” she whispered. Suddenly aware of her strength, suddenly a tease, she pretended she was alone. Turning her profile to him, she lifted one foot to the seat of the chair beside her and removed her leather slipper. With both hands, she clasped her ankle and began a long, slow
trek up her leg. Inch by painful inch, the skirt rose. At her garter she hesitated, fingering the rosette decorating it.

“Do it,” he whispered, his voice husky with strain.

Using the greatest of care, she pulled the bow loose and rolled the stocking all the way down her leg once more. Arching her foot, she whisked the hose away. It fluttered to the floor as she put her foot down, lifted her other leg onto the seat. After removing her shoe, she bypassed the garter on the way to her waist. Taking care that the drape of her skirt revealed only hints of thigh and hip, she loosened her petticoat, loosened her garter, glanced at Adam.

His nostrils flared; his face was stiff with control; his hands caressed the knob of his cane. The predatory lion watched her.

That brief glance stripped away the guise of Cherie. Again she became Bronwyn, pinned by the gaze of a starving man.

He sensed her trepidation. His cane clattered to the floor as he sprang forward to catch her before she could withdraw. He replaced her soft hands with his rough ones and rolled the other stocking down.

Now it was he who teased. His hands moved as slowly as hers, but they tickled the inside of her knee. They massaged her calf muscle. They spanned her ankle. And all the while, he flicked her sensitized skin with torrid glances.

What had been hidden from him was revealed. Not well, for flickering candles couldn’t completely conquer the night, but well enough to make her tense with embarrassment and pride.

The stocking ripped as it left her foot, and he stared, amazed, at the silken disaster clutched in his fingers. Taking advantage of his distraction, she tried to push her skirt down, but his hand clamped onto her lifted thigh.

“
Non, allumeuse
, you have teased me, now take your punishment.”

She flinched back, but he stepped between her legs and pulled her close. The warmth of his body replaced the
warmth of his gaze—worse by far, for all he was fully clothed. He wrapped both arms around her, placed both hands upon her buttocks and moved them in circles. The thin silk of her skirt offered no protection. “You see,
ma cherie
, in this way I can acquaint myself with every delectable curve. I can acquaint you, too, with the sensation of silk against your skin.” The circles became smaller, more specific. “Indeed, the silk lends a whisper of decadence, does it not?”

Beyond speech, she nodded.

He bent her back over his arm, leaning to kiss the expanse of her chest. His free hand rotated a path around her hip, up to the bows that both decorated and closed her bodice. One by one, from her waist to her neckline, he loosened the ties. With his fingers, he spread the silk to reveal the front of her corset. He touched each embroidered flower, smiled at the dainty stitchery. Her chemise still covered her bosom, a thin cotton against her skin.

She could scarcely breathe as she awaited his touch. She dug her fingers into his arm, tugging at him.

“A woman who knows what she wants, I see.” He nipped her ear. “A woman who demands her due. A woman most rare.” Boldly he sculpted her flesh. “Is that what you want,
ma toute belle
?”

Speech was beyond her, but he seemed to expect no less. His eyes drooped with pleasure, his mouth half smiled. “A rare thing, to find a woman who doesn’t pad her natural riches with wads of cotton.”

Forming the words with difficulty, she said, “I don’t need it.”

“Too true,” he crooned. “Nor do you need this corset which binds you so tightly.” With nimble fingers, he loosened the string.

Although she wasn’t cold, goose bumps chilled her from toes to hairline.

The agony of it, the pleasure of it, showed in his face. “
Je suis fous
.”

“
Oui
,” she breathed, although she didn’t know to what she agreed.

A small push of his hand had her falling onto the chair. The cushions received her kindly. Her eyes stretched wide as he stood above her. His shirt came off over his head, revealing toasted skin thatched with black curls.

Leaning over her, one hand on the padded chair arm, he took her wrist and placed it on his breastbone. The hair crinkled beneath her fingertips.

He guided her along the line that led down and disappeared into his breeches. There she stopped, uncertain, but he urged, “Go on, little
allumeuse
. Show me the skills of a Frenchwoman.”

The breeches had to come off, she supposed, and she supposed he expected her to remove them. Very well, so she would. But if she was Cherie, with the skills of a Frenchwoman, then she should pay special attention to the bulge that resided therein. Seduction, she remembered, was her game.

In a rush, she pressed her hands to his groin. He jerked. She explored with her fingertips. He groaned, a harsh sound torn from him. His pleasure brought a rush of pleasure to her, and when he stood she whimpered an objection.

“You push me too far.” He jerked his open breeches, removed his garters and stockings and everything in one furious sweep. “You deserve—”

He stopped, arrested by her gaze. She hadn’t known a man would be so large, so swollen with impatience. For the first time she knew this wouldn’t work, and she shook her head silently.

“You deserve…damn, I’ll give you what you deserve.” The wrath disappeared from his tone, but not the threat. He tossed a fringed pillow on the floor and lowered himself
before her where she rested on the chair. Some reflex made her press her knees together tightly, but he made no objection. He only stroked her belly with his hands until suspense made her quiver. He touched the corner of her mouth with his fingers, separating her lips, and leaned into her. Now he kissed her as she remembered, and she couldn’t speak.

Then she didn’t want to speak.

He tasted her, moved his lips on hers, sipped at her mouth. Their breath dueled, their tongues stroked sweetly. Bronwyn was swept away for hours, for years, lost in the darkness and reveling in it. What he had taught her before was nothing compared with this, and when his mouth retreated, she followed, murmuring complaints.

He sat back on his heels and found her ankle beneath the hem. Stroking the bone, he asked, “
Tu veux que je mets ma langue dans la chatte
?”

Rich with promise, his voice persuaded her. “
Monsieur? Ah, oui
.”

Lifting an eyebrow, he smiled and pointed to his tongue. “
Vraiment! Ma langue
?”

Anything involving his tongue would be heaven, she was sure. “
Oui, oui
.”

“
Tu m’ embête
.”

Trepidation touched her. “
Oui
?”

“Very much
oui
. You make me a beast with your daring.” He fondled the back of her knee, then placed it on his shoulder. “Most women wouldn’t agree to such a thing, not even with a lover of long standing.”

Before she could ponder such an enigmatic observation, he lifted her skirt and slid under it.

In the mirror the reflection of the candles flickered and glowed.

Like that flame, his tongue singed her flesh as he neared it.

It burned. She burned.

His mouth touched her, kissed her in a way she’d never imagined. She closed her eyes.

She wanted to push him away; she wanted to hold him close. She flexed her hands, curled her toes. She opened her eyes, and he rose above her, so close his shoulders blocked the light.

“
Tu as le sang chaud
,” he said.

She made no mistakes this time. She didn’t agree, only reached out and wrapped her trembling arms around his waist.

“
Tu veux coucher avec moi, oui
?”

She stared, uncomprehending.

“You must agree to make love with me,
ma vie
.” He laid his cheek against hers. “I’ll not have you denying your consent later.”

“I would not.” Her indignation was weak, but only because her body waited and trembled. Still he stroked her, waiting, and she croaked, “I will make love with you.” She pushed his head back and glared at him, even though he lowered his gaze. She insisted, “Now.”

“A demanding woman,” he marveled.

Shaking his shoulders, she insisted, “A frantic woman.”

He refused to move with the speed she instructed. Almost as if he wanted to punish her for some trespass, he slid slowly to his knees on his pillow, pulled her to him, and positioned her. With all the time in the world, he fit them together as she watched anxiously.

He pushed inside her.

Her flesh burned. He hurt her. He was too large, just as she’d thought. “Please,” she faltered. “Don’t.”

He lifted his gaze and looked at her. Really looked at her for the first time that evening.

Reality struck her like a blow. He was Adam, the Adam as she’d known at Boudesea Manor.

And she was Bronwyn.

She’d never deceived him. He’d always known who she was, and he possessed her like a man intent on establishing
a claim. No wonder he’d avoided looking at her—the truth was written in his eyes. “No,” she whispered.