The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae (27 page)

Once she was caught, her senses snared, he walked to the bed.

His legs hit the side. Holding her to him, still captured in the kiss, he reached blindly with one hand, felt and found the top of the covers. With one yank he hauled them back and flung them to the end of the bed.

Bracing his legs against the bed's side, he bent forward, pried her hands from about his neck, broke the kiss, and let her fall onto the bed.

She sank into the ivory silk sheets, but her gaze was locked on him. She waved at his clothes. “Take them off.” She started to shift as if intending to curl her legs under her and sit up.

Gripping her thighs behind each knee, he lifted both, tipping her back, keeping her where she was. “No time.” His voice was a gravelly growl. “Later. After.”

Her eyes flared.

He drew her toward him until her hips rested on the edge of the mattress, then he pushed her thighs wide, dropped down to one knee and set his mouth to her.

She shrieked, tried to swallow the sound, then pressed a fist to her lips as he licked and laved, and drove her frantic.

But he was already too far gone himself to take the long road; glancing up, watching her head thrash, her hair spilling from the elegant knot to whip about her shoulders, the drive to be inside her escalated to near-brutal force.

Rising, licking her nectar from his lips, feeling it, an arousing drug, add its note to the clamor of his instincts, he released her legs, cupped her slick flesh, and with two fingers tested her entrance while with his other hand he undid the placket of his trousers.

Breasts heaving, Angelica struggled to fill her lungs, watched, mesmerized, as he released his engorged staff. Her eyes locked on the wide, bulbous head; her mouth watered—she wanted to reach out and touch, claim, to run her fingers down the thick, heavily veined shaft.

Before she could summon enough wit or strength to move, he slid one large hand beneath her hips and raised them as, with his other hand, he guided his erection to her entrance.

She felt him there, through the slickness seeking entry. Her lids fell; her breathing snagged, seized, as her senses focused and she felt him push in just a little way.

Then he shifted; the mattress beside her shoulder sank. Forcing up her lids, she looked up, into his face. He'd splayed his left hand on the bed by her shoulder; arm braced, he was leaning over her, the hand beneath her hips keeping them tilted so he could, inch by inch, impale her.

She watched him as he did. Took in the intense concentration that etched his features as, eyes closing, he eased himself slowly, steadily, into her body. Absorbed the incredible, deeply erotic sensation of him, hot, hard, and heavy, pushing deep within her. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Could only watch and feel—and in some deeply instinctive corner of her soul, know.

Even under his coat, under his shirt, she could tell his muscles were locked, that they'd turned to steel and the control he was exerting to ease into her so slowly—so carefully—was no small effort.

But he did it. Until, at the last, he was fully seated inside her.

Then he expelled a breath, opened his eyes, and looked down at her.

His eyes blazed with a raw need that gripped her, held her, fascinated and mesmerized . . . then he spoke, guttural and low. “All right?”

She looked into those predator's eyes, then gracefully lifted her legs and wrapped them about the solid core of his body, just above his hips. She held his gaze, dragged in a breath, let it out with, “Yes. Now—”

He moved. Flexed his spine, withdrew, then surged in again.

She caught her breath, fought to keep her eyes on his, to meet his burning gaze. He set a slow, deliberate pace, one that escalated as she gasped, as she found the rhythm and rode with him.

Locked together, they rocked, their lower bodies parting and coming together, intimately joining, but other than the brush of his clothes against the sensitive faces of her inner thighs and along her calves, they weren't touching.

Which somehow registered as excruciatingly erotic to her avidly greedy senses.

And he was watching her, watching her every reaction to his increasingly powerful, increasingly forceful possession.

And possession it was. He filled her completely, the hand beneath her bottom holding her body anchored to receive each thrust. To take him in, take him deep.

And she could do nothing but lie there and let him have her. Let him fill her.

Let him possess her.

Her shallow pants filled her ears; her senses reeled, overloaded and overwhelmed.

His thrusts rocked her, would have shifted her on the sheet if he hadn't held her in place.

Reaching up, she pushed the halves of his coat aside, spread her hands on his chest, then gripped his sides and tried to tug him down, but he didn't budge.

He briefly shook his head. “Not this time.”

She slumped back, looked up at him, and saw his lids lower. Felt the hand beneath her tighten, gripping harder. Sensed the change, the escalating urgency of their joining, recognized the start of the climb.

If he could watch her, she could watch him.

Could—between fighting for breath, between panting and writhing and riding her own race, between clenching the sheets as passion and desperate desire welled and ecstasy beckoned—watch him gasp, watch him shudder, watch the flow of expressions, dramatic and intense, cross his face as he thrust harder, deeper, ever more powerfully.

Her inner dam broke. Distracted with watching him, it caught her unawares, an explosion so shattering she lost touch with the world.

Her body bowed, a breathless scream on her lips, and then she couldn't see.

All she knew in those instants of searing pleasure, of incandescent heat, was the feel of him within her, the need to have him there, to hold and grip and caress and keep.

He gave a hoarse groan. With one last, shockingly powerful thrust he buried himself inside her, then shuddered.

Glory closed around her, smothered her wits, gilded her senses. Her heart thundered in her ears; she felt his heartbeat, solid and strong, an echo deep inside her. Pleasure rolled over her in boundless waves.

A minute passed, and all she could hear was their labored breaths.

Unable to open her eyes, she reached up blindly, with her fingers gently traced his face.

He turned his head and pressed a long, slow kiss to her palm, then, moving very slowly, he unwound her legs, let himself down alongside her, and drew her into his arms.

T
hey rode out of Perth as the sky started to lighten, Dominic riding alongside Angelica, Hercules pacing easily beside Ebony.

After half a mile, Dominic nodded at the filly. “She's settled more rapidly today.”

Angelica leaned forward and patted Ebony's neck. “She's learned to keep pace with Hercules, I think.”

Just as, in the space of three lessons, her mistress had learned to keep pace with him.

“She's a fast learner,” she proudly informed him.

He nodded and looked ahead, and prayed his day wouldn't again be peppered with unintended double entendres; he most definitely didn't need the distraction, especially after last night. He couldn't recall being so driven to be inside a woman, not since his distant youth . . . in fact, not even then. He'd gone into the engagement with no thought in his head beyond sinking his member into her body and finding the fastest, most satisfying route to heaven. Which he'd found; the intense pleasure and consequent, unbelievably deep satiation had been the stuff of male dreams.

But he was used to being in control of his appetites, not being controlled by them. He was accustomed to tempting and pleasuring his bed partners until they begged him to take them; with Angelica . . . if she'd held back, he would have been the one begging.

Luckily, she'd been driven by her own desires, her own fierce passions, and had been no more in control than he.

Last night . . . had matters been normal, he would have had her at least once, if not twice, more. Instead, after their admittedly cataclysmic effort, he'd eventually stirred enough to withdraw from her, strip off his clothes, shift her so she lay with her head on the pillows, then he'd stretched out alongside her and dragged the covers over them both. She'd turned to him, pushed her way into his arms, settled her head on his chest, then pressed a kiss to his skin and slid back into slumber. He'd followed her under, dragged deep by satiation more complete than any he'd previously known, and had slept like the proverbial baby until Griswold had tapped on the door at five o'clock.

He and she had woken, blinked sleepily, then she'd grumbled something about having to leave so early and tossed back the covers. With her gown in ruins, she'd commandeered his robe; he'd dragged on his breeches, shirt, and boots, then checked the corridor before seeing her safely into her room.

After a sizeable breakfast—she'd eaten rather more than her usual tea and slice of toast with jam—they'd gathered their bags, and the others, loaded the horses, and set out.

They rode on as the sun climbed the sky; the day remained fine, with high clouds screening the bite of the sun and a cool wind blowing off the Obney Hills.

He took care to spell the horses, walking them more frequently now the road had started to climb. They passed through Dunkeld in good time; when they were clear of the town, and the dark stretches of Craigvinean Forest closed around the road, he picked up the pace.

Angelica shifted Ebony to the longer stride, taking care not to let the filly imagine it was a race. There was plenty of energy under the glossy black hide; she suspected the horse had a good dose of Arab in her.

As she drew level with Hercules, Dominic caught her eye. “We'll ride straight through the forest. It's usually safe, but there are clanless men who call it home.”

She nodded and looked around. The road they were following was straight enough, but the forest was thick, and back from the road grew sufficiently dense to prevent much light from penetrating. They'd crossed a ridge of hills outside Dunkeld; since then the road had been steadily rising. Leaning toward Dominic, she raised her voice over the drumming of the horses' hooves. “Have we crossed into the highlands yet?”

“We passed the boundary a little way back.”

Resettling in her saddle, she surveyed the country with greater interest. The highlands were frequently described as dramatic and romantic; she was looking forward to judging for herself.

Dominic noted her expression and felt one of his concerns ease. Not every lady would view an excursion deep into the highlands with eagerness. Looking ahead, he tried to see the scene through her eyes, tried to imagine what was going on in her head . . . admitted he had not a clue. But as the road rolled beneath their horses' hooves and the way ahead remained clear, he increasingly felt infected by her buoyant, expectant mood.

He could count on the fingers of one hand the few whose moods had ever swayed him—Mitchell, Gavin, Bryce . . . and now Angelica. Somehow she eased him; she brought sunshine into his day and made his heart lighter.

She teased him and made him smile, reminding him he'd almost forgotten how to do so spontaneously. The years after his father had died, and Mitchell and Krista soon after, had been filled with hard work and few reasons to smile or grin. The last six months had been hellish. When with the boys, he made an effort, but the fact he was conscious of it told its own tale.

That Angelica had such an effect on him, had grown that close to him so easily, so quickly, and courtesy of her need for intimacy, was daily growing closer still, was, beneath his apparent outward acceptance, making him increasingly uneasy.

He didn't know why she wouldn't yet agree to marry him, didn't know what she had in mind regarding their future union. He still didn't know what, with respect to him, had from the first motivated her, why at the soiree she'd set out to hunt him even before she'd met him.

Those questions, and the uncertainty they spawned, were there, in his mind, yet while he rode beside her, even with the metaphorical clouds he could see massing ahead, while she remained content he was willing to leave tomorrow's problems until tomorrow, and instead enjoy the day by her side.

They emerged from the forest and he slowed, once again walking the horses. Pulling out his fob watch, he checked the time. Tucking the watch back, he saw Angelica's questioning look. “We're making good time. We'll be early into Pitlochry, but we'll stop for lunch regardless.”

“As I recall from the map, we've a long afternoon's ride.”

He nodded. “On to Blair Atholl and up the length of Glen Garry, but after that the pass at Drumochter will slow us significantly. Where we spend the night will depend on how soon we can get over the pass and out on the other side, so the sooner we leave Pitlochry the better off we'll be.” After a moment, he added, “You'll be seeing the real highlands from Pitlochry on.”

She smiled. “I'm looking forward to it.”

A hare, startled, skittered off the verge. Ebony pranced, but Angelica immediately drew the filly in.

He hesitated, then said, “Your sister Eliza.” When she met his gaze, arched a brow, he asked, “Exactly how far does her antipathy toward horses extend?”

Angelica laughed, the sound like bells pealing. Eyes shining, she replied, “Let's just say that you should feel extremely lucky Jeremy rescued her. Some deity was looking out for you that day.”

“She really can't ride?”

“She can sit a horse and is comfortable enough at a walk—which is really all she needs in London. She might manage a slow trot for a short distance in the Park, but at a brisk trot, she'll gradually lose confidence, and then she'll panic, and that sets off the horse, and”—she waved—“disaster ensues.” After a moment, she added, “Mind you, she's always been lucky and as far as I know has never truly been thrown.”