A Lady of His Own (34 page)

Until she gasped, “Why here? Like this?”

Instinct told her that was important to understand.

“So when you scream my people in the bailey will hear and know of your surrender.”

It took a moment for her reeling mind to digest the implications, to assess the intensity of the sensations buffeting her. “I don’t scream.”

“You will.”

Charles volunteered nothing more, his mind totally engrossed in ensuring she did. Her fantasy, the fact she’d so long ago had the thought of him as her lord…any chance of him retaining even a semblance of control had flown the moment she’d told him. The role she’d created for him was so close to the one he wanted, to the one he needed to claim; had any other lady made the suggestion he’d have thought she was insane to tempt him so, yet with her…it was one of the reasons he had to make her his.

Her breathing had fractured into sobbing gasps; arms braced, she rode his thrusts instinctively, her scalding sheath closing about him, clasping, clinging, drawing every ounce of sensation from each strong stroke, from each powerful penetration. She was close to the edge, the tension inside her coiling ever tighter. He pressed even deeper, freed one hand and reached for her breasts.

Swollen and firm, the heated flesh filled his palm. He played briefly, his thumb roughly circling her aureola, then he caught her nipple between his fingers and squeezed. Hard. Then he synchronized the squeezes with the movement of his hips.

And she shattered.

Screamed.

The sound, purely feminine, intensely evocative, sank into him like a spur and shattered what little control he had left. He thrust harder, deeper, then held still as she convulsed around him; eyes closed, head back, he savored her release.

But it wasn’t enough.

The instant the last of her tension left her, he withdrew from her, letting her skirts fall as he swung her into his arms, then went to his knees. He laid her back on the warm stone before him, arranging her as he wished.

From beneath heavy lids, she watched him, her eyes storm-wracked gray glittering in the aftermath of the tumult she’d just weathered, her lips swollen and parted, her bared breasts rising and falling dramatically. The pulse at the base of her throat throbbed wildly.

Her voluminous riding skirts had spread across the slab, the old gold velvet sheening in the sunshine, the back trapped beneath her, protecting her from any abrasion from the stone. Raising the front hem, he tossed the heavy skirt back, exposing her long legs, the damp triangle of fair curls at the apex of her thighs, the white curves of her hips.

He could hear the blood pounding in his head, could feel it pounding throughout his body, echoing the compulsion that drove through his veins. Grasping her thighs, he spread them wide and knelt between. His phallus rose rigid and urgent from the open placket of his breeches. Running his hands up the backs of her thighs, he gripped her lower hips, and lifted her to him.

Slid slowly into the scalding haven of her body. Watched her as he did, sensed her body rise to meet his, welcoming him in, her softness easing about his hardness, accepting, wanting him as much as he did her. When he’d fully impaled her, he withdrew halfway, then thrust deeply in.

Her breath tangled in her throat. Her eyes locked with his, for one long moment she was with him as he rocked deeply into her, then on a shuddering sigh, her lids fell and she wrapped her long legs about his hips and let him have his way. Let him use her body as he wished for his pleasure, ultimately for hers, too. The time came when she could no longer remain passive, when desire rose again and whipped her back into the dance.

And then she matched him. Strove with him as the dance whirled ever faster, as they joined ever more deeply, ever more completely. As they started up the last rise to the pinnacle, she sobbed and reached for him.

He spread his hands beneath her back and lifted her, let her clutch his arms, then bent his head and feasted on her breasts.

The tempo escalated, then whirled out of control.

She screamed again, clutched his head to her breast, arching wildly. Eyes closed, he clung to her, clung until her contractions faded, then eased her back, gripped her hips in an unforgiving grasp and with a series of short, deep thrusts, joined her. Pumped himself into her.

Untold moments passed; his head spun. Eventually, he withdrew from her, slumped beside her, and let oblivion close over him, overwhelming and complete.

Penny wasn’t sure why she woke; her senses stretched, but there was no one else there, just the two of them slumped on their sides on the stone slab, the sunshine pouring over them in gentle benediction.

Peace and stillness enveloped her. Her body felt limp, gloriously so; the passion Charles had wrung from her had left her deliciously weak. Lips curving, she closed her eyes and let her mind range over their recent engagement. It had been far
far
better than even her wildest dreams.

Gradually other thoughts spun into her mind. Thoughts of him, her unresolved questions, possible answers. In the bliss of aftermath with her mind clear, relaxed, open, it was impossible not to see what the last hour had proved.

Charles lay behind her, deeply asleep, his arm heavy across her waist. She hesitated, then slowly, supplely pushed up from the floor, drawing her legs up and swiveling so she was sitting, her skirts twisted but not yet pulling, still within the circle of his arm, which slid down to cradle her hip.

She looked down at him. For long moments, she studied his face, the features she’d known since childhood, the lines the last decade had etched. It was still a very strong face. She let her gaze roam downward. Still a very strong body, one her own responded to in a flagrantly wanton way. Still.

Slowly, she brought her gaze back to his face, then, drawing in a deep breath, she clasped her arms about her calves, rested her chin on her knees, and looked out over the fields.

How foolish she’d been to imagine she could somehow
suspend
loving him, could somehow keep her heart from him. Her heart had been his all those years ago; it had never changed, never vacillated no matter what her intellect had dictated. Yet she
had
changed.

At sixteen, she’d loved him; she could remember what it had felt like—a mere wraith of emotion compared to what she felt now. In the last hour…connecting past with present had revealed how much her love had matured, into something stronger, more vibrant, impossible to suppress, let alone deny. It might have been born long ago, but it was of the here and now, not the past; it was very much a woman’s love, confident and demanding, not a young girl’s fantasy.

She was no longer afraid that he might break her heart—if he hadn’t destroyed it years ago, then he couldn’t now. The years had changed him, but they’d changed her, too; she was now much stronger.

She refused to regret or in any way step back from what had, this time, grown between them. Last time, she had in effect run away, drawn back from loving him because he hadn’t loved her. Not this time. This time, she’d learned what not just love but
loving
was, how deeply satisfying it could be; she wasn’t going to give up the glory of loving him of her own accord. This time, if anyone was to step back, it would be he.

But would he?

Eyes narrowing, she looked again at his sleeping face, shuttered and closed. She’d assumed that in seducing her he was looking for an affair, a lover for the weeks he was here investigating. She’d stepped into his arms believing that, built her vision of what he was about on that basis.

But her vision was wrong.

He grew suspicious when facts didn’t fit; so did she. The emotional link that had grown between them, that he’d allowed and encouraged to grow between them, didn’t fit with a fleeting affair. Nor did the way he’d dealt with her, until today.

With her eyes, she traced the lines of his face, the sensuous lips, the squared chin. In the last hour, she’d deliberately set out to shake him free of his self-imposed restraint, to see what lay behind it. She’d succeeded well enough to learn what she’d needed to know; the wolf hadn’t changed his pelt for a curly fleece. Regardless of what he allowed to show, underneath he was a conquering French-Norman lord, dominant and domineering, and blatantly, ruthlessly possessive, at least with respect to her.

So why, so consistently over their recent enounters, had he taken the supplicant’s role?

There was only one answer; he wanted something from her. Specifically, he wanted
her
.

The damned man was
wooing
her.

That explanation was the only one that fitted; reviewing his behavior, she could see nothing that argued against it. Indeed, he’d even told her she was his perfect bride. He’d been fixed on marrying her from then, but with her mind flatly disavowing any such likelihood, she hadn’t caught the admission in his words.

At some point, he was going to ask her to marry him. She knew him; he would ask in such a way that she wouldn’t be able to avoid giving him an answer. So how was she going to reply?

Inwardly she swore, relieved her feelings by scowling at him, thankfully still sleeping, then looked away across the fields.

Why did he want to marry her? A critical question to which the answer might be a host of partial reasons. He’d mentioned some in declaring her his perfect bride; none was a reason she would accept.

She loved him, but she didn’t know what he felt for her. If it was some mild, impermanent emotion, affection laced with lust and desire, even now she would rather live the rest of her life an old maid than see affection fade and die, know her love was no longer wanted, and have them both grow bitter.

If they weren’t married, then if and when her love was no longer enough for him, they could part; if they were married, they’d be doomed. She could easily see herself as his longtime lover, but tied to him in marriage? Not without love on both sides.

But did he love her?
Thirteen years ago, she’d been sure of the answer. Now…her uncertainty felt very strange, but it was real. Worse, not knowing—not knowing what gave rise to his emotional need of her—left her trapped, unable to accept him yet equally unable to refuse him, not until she learned the truth—was
love
one of the mature emotions he kept hidden behind his mask?

Not for anything this side of hell could she let that question lie unanswered. She’d put away her dream of loving him and having him love her, and all the rest her youthful heart had assumed would follow, thirteen long years ago. She’d never found another dream with which to replace it. Until now, she hadn’t had to face what that meant, that being his wife, lover, and friend was still the only future she truly wanted.

Now…eyes fixed unseeing on the distant sea, she felt that reality to her bones.

Eventually, he stirred; the hand lax about her hip tensed, gripped. Turning to him, she put her thoughts away. She had a week or more, until they caught the murderer, before he would ask, and she would have to answer.

His eyes opened; deepest sapphire blue in the afternoon sunlight, they looked into hers, then he smiled. He reached for her and drew her back down, into his arms, into a succession of increasingly intimate kisses—until she drew him over her, parted her thighs, and wordlessly welcomed him into her body.

Into a slow, heated dance, with his weight moving over her, against her, into her, with her clasping him and holding him close, of her fractured cries as she climaxed, of his low groans as he sought his pleasure in her, of the warmth that flooded her when he found it, of the shattering sensations that sped down her veins, then dissipated in pulsing glory.

The glory slowly faded, leaving, as she was learning it was wont to do, her emotions exposed, at least to herself. She’d never had any choice but to accept them; they were immutable, unswerving. Holding him close, idly stroking his hair, she reminded herself she had time to learn his secrets, to find some way of reading, not just his mind, but his heart—before he demanded hers.

T
HEY REACHED THE
A
BBEY IN MIDAFTERNOON
. F
ILCHETT
met them in the front hall and informed them nothing had arrived from London, but that Fothergill had called that morning.

“Very interested in architecture. I took him on the usual tour.”

“Did he ask many questions?” Charles asked.

“Indeed. Quite a knowledgable young man.”

Charles pulled a face at Penny. “Tea in the study?”

Penny nodded.

Charles glanced at Filchett. “Some cakes wouldn’t go amiss.” He returned his dark gaze to her. “We’ve been riding in the fresh air—it’s left me with an appetite.”

Her expression limpidly innocent, she absolutely refused to react.

Cassius and Brutus had come to greet them; they danced around, then circled them, herding them into the study, Charles’s lair. Charles spent five minutes petting the dogs, running his fingers through their shaggy coats and reducing them to ecstasy. When Filchett arrived with the tray, Charles left the hounds stretched at her feet and headed for his desk to sort through the letters and notes piled there while she poured.

Returning to fetch his cup, he filched the plate of cakes. Nibbling the one she’d already selected, she watched as he went back to the desk and settled to deal with all he’d left to pile up while he’d been guarding her.

He steadily demolished the cakes.

Eventually he glanced up, and noticed her smile. “What?”

“It wasn’t that appetite I thought I evoked.”

He held her gaze, took another bite of cake. Swallowed, then said, “It isn’t. This appetite is the consequence of adequately slaking the other.”

“Adequately?”

Looking back at his accounts, he shrugged. “Thoroughly might be more accurate.”

She grinned and left him to his work, content to relax in the chair and let the peace envelop her. The Abbey had always been a contentment-filled house; even his brothers’ unexpected deaths hadn’t changed that. Closing her eyes, she let the quiet claim her; idly stroking the hounds with her boot, she turned her mind to devising some way of learning what the emotion driving Charles to want her was…and found herself dozing.

Sometime later, the hounds got quickly to their feet and shook themselves; she opened her eyes to see Charles push away from the desk. “Done?” she asked.

He nodded. Rounding the desk, he looked at the dogs, amber eyes shining as they patently willed him to take them for a run. He raised his brows at them, hesitated, then looked at her. “Shall we? We’ve time enough for a walk on the ramparts before we ride back.”

She acquiesced with a smile, held out her hands, and let him pull her to her feet. Into his arms. He bent his head and stole a swift kiss, then, closing his hand about one of hers, headed for the door.

The hounds followed, eager and excited. They bolted the instant Charles opened the side door, but returned within a minute to gambol about them before rushing off to follow some scent.

Hand in hand, they walked down the lawns and climbed the steps up to the broad curve of the ramparts. The breeze had turned brisk, plucking at her hair, sending errant wisps curling about her face. Catching them, vainly trying to tuck them back, she glanced at Charles; no matter how strong the wind, his curls merely ruffled, then fell back into place.

She stifled a humph; they strolled on.

They’d reached the middle of the long curve when Charles stopped. He turned to her, looked into her eyes, his face set, his expression serious.

She looked back at him, was about to raise her brows in query when his grip on her hand tightened.

“Marry me.”

Her eyes flew wide; her jaw dropped. “
W-what?
”

His gaze hardened, the line of his lips thinned; the dominant and domineering Norman lord looked down at her. “You heard me.”

She managed to catch her breath. “That’s not the
point
!” She tugged and he released her; she put both hands to her head, as if she could hold her whirling wits down.

He was the only person who could throw her so off-balance; it took her a moment to steady her thoughts. She stared at him. “I only realized this afternoon what you were about, what you’ve been leading up to—that you were going to ask—but I thought you’d wait at least until after your investigation is ended and this horrible murderer was caught!”

“So I thought, so I intended, until you favored me with your recent revelations.”

His accents were clipped, his words uninflected. She eyed him, increasingly wary. “What have my recent revelations to say to anything?”

Dark blue eyes bored into hers; he wasn’t amused. “You cannot expect to tell me you’ve fantasized for years about being my lady—
and
in such an explicit way—and
not
expect me to suggest that, in the circumstances, marrying me would be a good idea.”

In this mood, focused and intent on gaining victory, he could be quite devastating; the scent of leashed aggression—leashed at his whim—was strong. Feeling very like his prey, she blinked at him. “I haven’t had time to think—”

“You don’t need to think, just answer.” He stepped toward her.

“No!” She held up a hand, pressed her palm to his chest. “Wait, just
wait
!” He stopped; she caught a quick breath and stepped back—put enough distance between them so her wits could function—and shifted her gaze from his face. “I have to think.”

His response to that, muttered beneath his breath, wasn’t complimentary. She ignored it, but had to fight to ignore him, to dim the effect of him at close quarters in his present mood. Her senses flickered, acutely alert; she was supremely conscious of the steely purpose in him, and that it was directed, fully, at her.

He was much more forceful, more potent, than he’d been years ago, battle-hardened, but also battle-scarred; to her, the latter only made him more interesting, more compelling, not less. Their attraction now operated on multiple levels, direct and indirect, physical and emotional; refusing to meet his eyes, she drew in a deeper breath and tried to reach past it.

His need of her was real; she didn’t question that. For it, he’d been willing to play the supplicant to seduce and persuade her; he’d asked rather than demanded or, worse, commanded—which, she knew, he could have done. But he’d wanted her to give herself, and been willing to give himself to gain that…was his need for her a symptom of love?

She glanced at him, but could see nothing beyond hard-edged impatience in his face, and an intensity of emotion in his dark eyes that took her breath away…she hurriedly unfocused. Even so, she could feel that emotion focused on her; whatever drove him, whatever compelled him with respect to her, was strong and immensely powerful.

Was it love? If he loved her…did he know? Even if he did, and she asked, would he acknowledge it?

All she had were unanswerable questions, but she needed an answer, now. What was it to be? No?

The instant the word formed in her mind, her inner self rose up and dug in its heels. After all these years, to have all she’d ever desired, the future she’d always wanted and still so desperately yearned for, dangling before her…how
could
she refuse without knowing if the prospect was real? She wasn’t such a coward;
no
wasn’t an option, not yet.

Regardless, she wasn’t about to settle for anything less than love; on that, her conviction had never wavered. So she couldn’t say
yes
either, not unless she was sure…

Drawing in a tight breath, she refocused on his eyes, felt his instant attention, the honing of his senses. “
If
you give me what I want, then yes, I’ll marry you.” She held his gaze steadily, lifted her chin. “As soon as you like.”

Something leapt in his eyes at her “yes,” but he quickly concealed it, screened it. He didn’t immediately respond, but searched her eyes, then flatly asked, “What you want. Am I to take it that’s the same thing your other suitors didn’t know to give you?”

“Didn’t know, didn’t know how to give, or couldn’t or wouldn’t give.” She nodded. “Precisely.”

Exasperation flared in his eyes as he considered her; she could see him assessing his options. Then he nodded—once, determinedly—and caught her hand. “Agreed.”

She blinked.

Charles raised her hand to his lips, kissed, and searched her eyes again; she hadn’t yet seen the truth, hadn’t yet identified his motive. “Until I discover what this thing you want is, and give it to you, we continue as we are—as lovers.”

His tone made it clear there was no question, not one he would countenance; after a moment, she nodded. “I never was one to slice off my nose to spite my face.”

His lips twitched; he hurriedly straightened them, but the fraught tension that had enveloped them nevertheless eased.

She studied him, puzzled, suspicion dawning in her silver-gray eyes.

“Come.” He closed his hand about hers, whistled for the dogs. “We can leave the dogs in the stables. We’d better head back.”

Frowning, she let him turn her; hand in hand, at his direction, they walked briskly back along the ramparts—too briskly to talk.

He’d got what he wanted; his impulse was to crow and dance, but he reined in all expressions of triumph—time enough for that when this was all over and the murderer caught.

She’d been right about that; it would have been wiser to wait and ask her then, but as usual between her and him, wisdom hadn’t featured—it had flown the instant she’d told him she’d indulged in erotic fantasies about them all those years ago. Even now, with victory assured, although he accepted the impulse, and on one level—a purely male, highly possessive level—understood it, he wasn’t thrilled that it had been strong enough to
compel
him to seize the moment and ask her to marry him, outright, without any preparation.

He was also not thrilled over the way she’d replied—
yes
would have been much neater—but at least she hadn’t said “No.” “No” hadn’t been an option; he was mildly relieved not to have been forced to point that out.

But he’d achieved what his conqueror’s soul, that part of him she’d so efficiently stirred to action, had demanded—her agreement to marry him. To be his countess, to be always by his side, his anchor in this world, the mother of his children; his list of the facets of her role was extensive. He’d already decided he’d give whatever it took to make her his—she already had his soul, even if she didn’t know it—and he had a very good notion of what the “thing” she wanted was.

If he’d wished, he could have given her the words there and then, and convinced her of their truth, but they did still have a murderer to catch, and until they did, he’d keep the news of his surrender secret.

Too much knowledge could be a bad thing. He didn’t know how the game would play out, what the next days would bring, but if she knew he loved her with all his heart and would give her anything, he could foresee scenarios where doing what he knew to be right and necessary to protect her would only be more difficult. Even more nightmarish were those imagined scenarios where the murderer realized just how much she meant to him and thought to use her as a hostage.

A mental shudder racked him. For one instant, the vulnerability of loving her shone bright as crystal and pierced him to the heart. Yet he couldn’t stop; all he could do was grit his teeth and bear the consequences.

He’d involuntarily tightened his grip; he felt her hand, delicate bones, feminine warmth and softness, enclosed in his, let his senses reach farther and registered her supple, svelte form beside him, her long legs keeping pace, and felt the momentary apprehension fade.

He smiled, nearly laughed, then remembered and abruptly sobered. He glanced at her, and caught her now openly suspicious scowl. He met it with blank innocence and looked ahead.

They reached the stable. Their horses were waiting; he lifted her up and held her stirrup, then crossed to where Domino stood and threw himself into the saddle. The triumph buoying him was almost too great to hide. Across the stable yard, he met her eyes, and waved to the entrance. “Let’s ride.”

Side by side, they thundered up to the escarpment. Then they flew.

Nicholas, exceedingly pale, wan yet transparently determined, joined them in the dining room for dinner. By unspoken accord no mention was made during the meal of the revelations he’d promised to make, but when they were finished, they all rose and repaired to the library.

Penny led the way to the armchairs grouped before the fireplace. She sank into one; Nicholas went to the other. Charles picked up a straight-backed chair, set it beside her armchair, and subsided in his usual graceful sprawl.

He looked at Nicholas, and raised one black brow. “So—where do you propose to start?”

Nicholas met his gaze, hesitated, then said, “At the beginning. But before I say anything, you need to know that no real secrets were ever sold, traded or in any other way given to the French, at least not by any Selbornes.”

Charles studied him for an instant, then quietly said, “You aren’t going to tell me that this whole business—my involvement, my ex-commander’s, even the murderer’s—is, for want of a better phrase, wide of the mark?”

“Oh, no.” Nicholas’s lips twisted. “The murderer certainly knows the right score. Even you and your ex-commander—everything you’ve been investigating is perfectly real, not any conjuror’s trick. But you and he have throughout been ignorant of one vital element.”

Charles grunted. “That much I’d guessed.”

Nicholas nodded. “So…” He leaned back in the chair, rested his head against the padded back and fixed his gaze on them both. “It started in the 1770s. My father was a junior aide at our embassy in Paris. Paris in those days was the city of civilization; everyone who was anyone lived there much of the time. Howard, your father”—he looked at Penny—“like mine, was as yet unmarried. He came to visit my father and stayed for some years. During that time, my father was approached, oh, at a very friendly level, to, I believe they termed it
advise
the French on a minor matter of English-French diplomacy.