Some Enchanted Evening (27 page)

"Look at me." With one finger he traced the outline of her femininity.

The tender contact was almost more than she could bear. She wanted to shout at him to hurry, to go deep, harder . . . oh, God, to
hurry
.

His gaze locked with hers, and he smiled at her, a smile that mocked her flimsy control. He could tame her at any moment, and he knew his power, and she knew it as well.

The silence was profound as his other fingers joined the first, brushing at her hair, then sliding down to open her to the air, and to his touch. He handled her with a surety that sent her fingers groping at the sheets, trying to find an anchor in a world that tilted and threatened to shift out from beneath her. He circled her opening, sank his thumb a little way inside. "Nice," he said in that voice as intoxicating as brandy and just as heady. "Hot. Wet. So wet. Do you want me inside of you, darling?"

"Yes." It was too late to worry about her pride. Not when her muscles lapped at him, trying to pull him deeper.

"Not yet. You'll have to wait."

"How long?" How long could he torment her?

"You're so new." He paid no attention to what she wanted, to what her body demanded. His thumb slipped out of her. His fingers found her nub and caressed it, fondled it. "You don't know that intercourse takes the edge off for a man."

Without her volition her hips rocked, making the motions of intercourse. She could barely form the question. "What do you mean? I thought I felt —"

"This?" He shifted, placing himself between her legs. His erection nudged at her opening. He smiled into her face. "No mistake. I'm so hard I could burst with it. I want you, but I've wanted you since the first moment I saw you."

"Then ... do it for me. . . ." She tried to reach for him, to place him at her opening and bring him inside her.

But he caught her wrists. "No. Not yet. Not until I can't wait anymore." He moved his hips so the tip of him slid along her damp, smooth skin, inciting riots of sensation within her flesh. As if the strength of his arousal caught him unaware, his eyes half closed. "There's a richness to the feel of your flesh, like living silk, and I'll never get enough of it. Of you."

She almost sobbed as she strained toward him, toward mating. "Robert."

Before she could say more, he kissed her again, one of those savage, warrior kisses that ravished her senses, took her breath, created a creature that was his and his alone.

When he lifted his mouth, he chuckled. "You're good, and you don't even know what you're doing. Open your eyes."

She hadn't realized she had closed them. She struggled, raised her lids, found his face right against hers.

"Watch me," he commanded.

He moved down her body. She thought he would kiss her breasts, then her belly. But no. No, he had a darker purpose in mind, and when she realized it, she cried out and struggled.

He placed one large hand on her rib cage to keep her in place.

She tried to close her legs.

He was between them. He nudged her knees up so that her feet rested flat on the sheets.

She writhed, not knowing if she feared him or wanted him. Both, she supposed. Neither. Laboriously she worked her elbows beneath her, sat up, looked down at him, and whispered, "Please."

"Please what?" His mouth nuzzled the crease between her legs. "Please taste me? I intend to."

His tongue separated her nether lips, then caressed the soft, pale, moist inner skin. It felt . . . good. So good. She shouldn't like it. She should be embarrassed. But voluptuous exhilaration overwhelmed everything else. His tongue licked her, a long, slow motion that went from one end to the other. Over and over again he licked as if seeking something — and with each repetition she trembled, her arms threatening to give way beneath her. Exposed to the air and to his caress, her skin grew more and more sensitive. When at last his mouth closed around her already swollen nub and sucked gently, Clarice collapsed against the pillows in a climax that drove all thought from her mind.

It was too much. Too much. Her lungs burned, her blood turned to molten fire. Her skin ached where it rested on the sheets, as if every contact was too much to bear. "Stop," she said. "Please stop."

Robert wanted to laugh at her plea. Stop? No, indeed. He didn't want to. Not yet. Not until he'd thoroughly taught her the lesson he wanted her to learn. He entered her with his tongue, lapping inside her, tasting the sweetness of her climax and driving her on to another one. She moaned, a low, insistent sound that could never be mistaken for anything except what it was — a woman in the throes of undeniable passion. He listened, his eyes not yet open, with the satisfaction of hearing that song from Clarice. From his princess.

And at last, the need — for it was need — became too much for him to bear. Rising over her, he waited until the last crest had swept her, and she reclined, panting, on the sheets. He waited until she noticed he was above her, then reluctantly opened her eyes. Emphatically, ruthlessly, he said, "You wanted power over me. That's fine. You have it. But remember — I have the same power over you."

Her eyes opened wide, as if she were surprised that he had probed her mind as well as her body.

Then, in a single sweep he pierced her, plunging to the hilt. This time he controlled her in every way. His body pressed her into the mattress. His hands and mouth forced erotic sensation on her. His cock probed her depths, and she could do nothing to stop him.

Climax struck her immediately, a warm, wet inner explosion that rolled on and on.

He didnst come. He could wait . . . barely. Just this one time. To make his point.

He paused long enough for her to catch her breath before driving into her again.

She was swollen from their previous encounter, but more than that she was overly sensitive because he had caressed her breasts, ministered to her with his mouth, thrust his tongue inside her passage. Her craving had never stopped, and she was out of control.

She came again and again, the muscles inside her milking him until he was in a frenzy equal to hers.

He loved her excitement. He exulted in her excess. He whispered in her ear, "More. Give it to me. All of yourself. You can't hold back."

And she couldn't. She trembled. She screamed. Tears rolled down her cheeks, yet still she held him, her legs and her arms wrapped tightly around him to keep him close. He led her, setting the pace, their bodies rising and falling in the tides of passion, their blood rushing in their veins, the breath hurrying from the lungs.

At last, at long last, he couldn't wait anymore. His balls drew up, fiercely demanding release, and with a shout he gave himself over, filling her with his seed.

There had never been a woman like Clarice. She was light to his darkness, and as he sank over her, pressing her into the bed, enforcing his possession in one last act, he wondered — what would he do when it came time for her to leave him? Would he let her go? Or would he keep her ... by any means possible?

"Come on, darling, you have to go back to your bedchamber." Robert urged Clarice to her feet and tossed her gown over her head.

He buttoned it while she swayed, her knees ready to buckle, so worn out with hedonistic delight she could scarcely stand. Outside, the sun had risen over the summits of the hills to touch the tops of the trees. "It's light," she muttered. "I hope no one sees me." Because after last night, there could be no doubt what she'd been doing. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she saw a woman with swollen lips, with hair impossibly tangled, with a glow that could be described only as carnal. Or perhaps embarrassed, for she had done things she had never imagined were possible, and reveled in them, and with . . . with him. With Robert.

His gaze met hers in the mirror, and the way he looked at her made her want to squirm. With shyness. Or perhaps with desire. Which surely was impossible. She was sore between the legs. She couldn't accept his possession again. Yet her body clamored for him as if it hadn't a bit of sense, and right now she wondered if it had. For if Robert pointed to the bed again, she would climb in and give herself to him without a thought to her pride or her control.

"When you get to your bedchamber, I want you to have a tray brought up to you. Then you should sleep."

"I don't think I could." For as tired as she was, a jittery excitement held her in its grasp. The exhilaration of flaunting her upbringing, she supposed. Of taking a lover.

But her lover said, "You must. You want to be fresh tonight, to charm Colonel Ogley, then be alert enough to change your gown in a rush, to disguise your face, and make it look like Carmen's, and when you see Colonel Ogley, to play the scene as his dramatics demand it be played."

"I know. You're right."

"Waldemar is depending on you. Justice itself is depending on you. And I ... I have every faith in you." The tips of his fingers tenderly brushed her neck. "I've never met a woman as clever or as talented or as beautiful. I want to take care of you for the rest of your life."

Oh, God. She loved him.

Well, of course she did. There was never a doubt she loved him. The emotion she felt for him had pulled her, almost unresisting, into this situation fraught with peril and deception. She didn't truly know Robert, but she burned for him, and that was dangerous. So dangerous.

And she loved him, and that was the most dangerous of all.

"I'll do as you wish. I'll sleep as long as I can, and be at leisure for the rest of the day."

"Good, for I kept you awake long after you should have been asleep."

Color flooded her face. She had been more than awake. She had been overwhelmed.

In that deep voice that turned her blood to honey, he said, "Now we'll go back. I'll make sure no one sees us."

"Sees us?" Alarmed, she tried to twist around and face him. "You can't take me back. If someone saw you with me, that would be disaster."

Looking deep into her eyes, he asked, "Do you really think I would let you face the perils of returning across the lawn and through the corridors on your own? After all that has passed between us?"

No. No, certainly not. He hadn't ruthlessly enforced his will on her, marked her with his passion, for another man to see. He would escort her to her bedchamber, and with his skill, no one would see them.

Pray God no one would see them.

As he went to get the all-enveloping brown cape, she tried to comb her hair with her trembling fingers, and tried to stop herself from asking the question that clamored to be asked. But as he wrapped her up and pulled her close, she couldn't stop herself. "Why did you do that to me? Last night? Why did you take me like . . . like some Viking marauder on a raid?"

Tilting her chin up with his finger, he gazed into her eyes and gave the one answer she never wanted to hear. Echoing the words she had given him on the floor of his study, he said, "Because you needed me. Because
you
needed me."

Larissa's mouth twisted into her most scornful sneer. She knew it, for she practiced that sneer in the mirror for best effect. That grimace successfully undermined other debutantes when they imagined themselves in the role of society belle, and put amorous, unsuitable,
poor
young men in their places. Right now, as Larissa watched Lord Hepburn stroll across the lawn, Princess Clarice wrapped in his cape and tucked under his arm, the sneer felt utterly natural.

Princess Clarice. That bitch. No wonder she had had the nerve to refuse Larissa. She was sleeping with His Lordship. Rolling around on his sheets like a strumpet in heat, taking money for her abilities, no doubt. Well. Larissa would save this information until the proper moment, and somehow she would make her royal hoity-toity highness pay for her insolence.

Oh, yes. Princess Clarice would pay.

Chapter Twenty-three

Love is like the ague.

The more afraid ye are, the more likely yell suffer it.

— The Old Men of Freya Crags

Clarice couldn't sleep. She wanted to. She knew she was exhausted physically and mentally. She knew she needed to be alert tonight. But unbidden, doubts and an inexplicable exhilaration ran through her mind.

Not so inexplicable, really. She smiled at the fat cherubs who decorated the ceiling of her bedchamber. She was in love. For the first time in her life, she was madly, deeply, truly in love.

And with Robert MacKenzie, the earl of Hepburn! Of all the unsuitable men!

Unsuitable. Oh, yes. That was where the doubts came in. She could almost hear Grandmamma.
Of all the unsuitable men! What were you thinking, Clarice Jayne Marie

Nicole? A mere earl? You are a princess, and not just any princess, but a princess of Beaumontagne!

Wincing, Clarice flipped her pillow, found a cool place to rest her cheek, and tried to ignore the echo of Grandmamma's autocratic, stiffly correct voice.

Which brought her back to Robert. Her body was sore, but it was a good sore, as if she'd spent a day of absolute freedom riding Blaize through the meadows and over the hills.

She chuckled. Robert would not appreciate the comparison. But she loved him, and when she thought of him — his deep voice, his blue eyes fringed with sinfully long, dark lashes, his smooth, black hair — a thrill rocked her body unlike any other she'd ever experienced. She couldn't stop smiling. It was shameful. She was shameful.