Louise Allen Historical Collection (29 page)

‘Meg.’ Ross got up from the chair by the fireplace, dropping his book unheeded on the floor. He was dressed in the splendour of a robe made from some exotic eastern brocade, gold and silver mingling and gleaming in the light of the candles that were blazing all around the room. ‘Thank you for this room,’ he said as she stood there, staring at him. ‘It is full of the sea—it reminds me of our voyage.’

‘Pain and boredom and a distressing break with the past?’ Her back was still flat against the door.

‘Never boredom. How could I be bored with you, Meg?’ He stayed where he was on the hearthrug, watching her. ‘What is wrong?’

‘Nothing.’ How could she touch him without letting him see how she felt? How could she explain to herself that she was staring at the most handsome man she had ever seen? Was it love that turned those harsh features into beauty? Then she realised. He was happy, home at last, and that contentment transformed him, even if perhaps it was only her eyes that could see it.

‘That is a very fine robe.’ Something safe to say.

‘An antique. Perrott has been delving deep into the wardrobes around the house.’

Under the hem of the robe his feet were bare and dark hair showed at the open neck. Beneath the heavy silk brocade he was naked, and the breath caught in her throat at the memory of his body last night. ‘Meg?’ Ross held out a hand and she understood. It was her choice. If she turned around and left, he would not pursue her.

Seven nights, my love.
She walked forwards and put her hand in his, letting him draw her close so she could rest her cheek against the cool fabric. Ross smelled faintly of the sandalwood the robe had been stored in. Meg burrowed her face closer, searching for the real, familiar, scent of him, parting the lapels until she could press her lips against his shoulder.
Oh, yes.
‘Mmm.’

‘Mmm?’ he queried, his lips vibrating where he was running them down the exposed curve of her neck.

‘You taste good.’ Meg touched the top of her tongue to the hot skin, then licked, drawing her tongue along the carved line of his collarbone.

‘So do you, and even better for an absence of salt and sand.’ Ross’s tongue was doing intricate, tormenting, delicious things to the whorls of her ear. Meg wriggled closer, insinuated her hand between them to search for the knot holding the robe closed, then tugged knot and robe open. He was hot, she found, stepping close so her whole length was against him. His skin was hot, his hands were warm, pressing against her shoulder blades through the fine muslin of her nightgown and the cotton of her robe, and the arrogant, heated thrust of his erection against her stomach made her gasp. Was he always so easy to arouse or could she dream there was something about her that brought him to this state?

Her own heat was flooding her belly, aching between her thighs, stinging her breasts as she rubbed, shameless, against him. But she dare not lower her hands from his chest, dare not let them slide over the bronzed skin, down to touch him as she yearned to.

‘This is unequal.’ Ross lifted his head to untie the cord around her robe. He pushed it off her shoulders and then attacked the simple ties fastening her plain and practical nightgown. His fingers were deft with the dexterity of a man able to load and fire a rifle at high speed, and when she stepped back and gave a wriggle the garment slid from her shoulders to her feet.

‘Let me look at you.’ He gestured for her to be still as her hands lifted in the instinctive feminine gesture to shield the delta of her thighs, the erect buds of her nipples. ‘You are so delicate. Why did I not realise that? You held my weight in the river, you coped with all the privations of camp life. Even last night when you were naked, I did not see.’ Ross reached out, stroked gently over the modest curve of her breast, down to the swell of her hip. ‘And I took you, hard and fast and without care.’

‘No. Not without care.’ Meg caught his hand and lifted it to cup one aching breast again. ‘I wanted you just as urgently and you made me feel so good, so very good.’ She had never felt that passion, that rightness before, but she could not say so, it felt so disloyal to the man who had, it proved, shown her no loyalty. She reached out and circled Ross’s erection with one hand, loving the way he closed his eyes at the touch, the sharp intake of breath as she caressed down and then up again using the flat of her thumb to tease the head until he moaned.

‘It will be fast and urgent again if you do that.’ He opened his eyes, dark and hot and full of wicked thoughts that spoke to her own desire.

‘We have all night.’ Meg sank to her knees on the discarded nightclothes and placed her hands firmly on his slim hips. She had never done this before, never wanted to; now all she desired was to pleasure Ross, show him, without words, how she felt.

‘Meg! Oh, my… Meg, stop that.’ Ross’s voice trailed off into a husky groan as she took him fully into her mouth to torment him, tongue and lips and teeth merciless. His hands locked into her hair as she gave herself up to wringing groan after groan from him. His breath was panting now, she could sense his fight to control himself, not to thrust. She was determined to overwhelm him, thought she had succeeded until his hands fastened over hers and he pulled himself free, dragged her to her feet and fastened his mouth over hers.

He lifted her without stopping the kiss, carried her, hands tight at her waist, until he lowered her to the bed, coming down with her to pin her to the heavy satin of the coverlet before sliding down between her legs, angling her with implacable gentleness until he could kneel and part her legs to kiss her, deeply, intimately, while she writhed and sobbed and begged for mercy.

But she had shown him none and now that he had her, Ross was the stronger. Meg gave up struggling, let him take her and drive her into a completely mindless frenzy of delight, once, twice, before she was dizzily aware that his weight was over her again.

‘Ross.’ Somehow she forced her eyes open, looked into his.

‘You are a wicked woman.’ He settled himself between her legs, teasing her with small thrusts of his pelvis that sent shock waves through the sensitised folds he had been tormenting so exquisitely.

‘Stop teasing me,’ she managed to gasp, curling her legs around him to hold him close.

‘Tell me what you want.’ He nudged, pressing just a little, withdrawing, bringing her to the brink again and again.

‘You know what…Ross, please!’

‘Please what?’ Now she could hear the strain in his voice, see the veins standing out on his temples, feel the tension racking him.

‘Fill me. I need you, all of you.’

And then he gave her all, surging into the warm, wet heat that was aching for him, sobbing her name as she clenched around him, hungry for him, sheathing him as he drove her up and over the edge into mindless pleasure, staying with her until she screamed his name and somehow, despite her limbs locked around him, managing to pull free and find his own release, shuddering against her.

Ross heard the clock strike three and stirred, feeling the weight of Meg’s head on his shoulder, enjoying the tickle of her hair as it slid over his chest. His right arm had lost all feeling, her elbow was digging into his side and his body ached. He felt wonderful. And his thoughts were clear, not at all like those of a man who had just roused from the deep, dreamless, sleep that follows passionate lovemaking.

He knew what he wanted, he realised, and it was obvious that it was just under his nose. Literally. It was madness to make himself miserable by marrying a young woman with whom he had nothing in common simply for the sake of marriage and equally foolish to stay unmarried in the hope of falling in love. He was not convinced such a state was anything but a temporary brainstorm in any case.

Ross untangled himself with care. Meg grumbled in her sleep, then settled again as he slid from the bed, pulled on his robe and poured two glasses of claret from the decanter on the chest of drawers. He put one on the nightstand beside Meg, then pulled the coverlet up over her; he did not want those slender curves or the shadowed mysteries he had explored with such dedication to distract him.

Then he sat with his back against the bedpost at the foot of the bed and watched her sleep until the clock struck the half-hour.

‘Meg.’ It took a while, but eventually she woke, one sleepy eye peering at him over the sheet beneath a tousle of hair.

‘Ross.’ She scooted up in the bed and smiled, a ravishing smile of pleasure at seeing him that took his breath. ‘Come back to bed.’ The throaty invitation in her voice had him hardening on the instant.

He shook his head. ‘No. We need to talk.’ Immediately the warmth vanished and she regarded him warily. ‘There’s a glass of wine beside you.’ He raised his and toasted her with it. ‘To my lady.’

Her lips opened, she hesitated, then whispered, ‘To my lord’, and drank.

‘I need to go to London.’

Meg choked and put down the wine glass. ‘When?’

‘The day after tomorrow.’ She closed her eyes and he thought she murmured,
Just two after all.
‘I’ve had yet another letter from my man of business up there about decisions I need to make. It is complex, so better that I speak direct with him and I cannot leave it any longer. Meg, come with me.’

She sat bolt upright, eyes wide open. ‘To London?’

‘Yes.’ Now he had to get this right, this question he had never asked before. ‘Meg, I want you to be—’

‘Your mistress,’ she finished and to his horror Ross saw the glint of tears in her eyes. ‘You want to set me up in a house in London.’

‘No! Meg, listen and do not interrupt me.’ The tears vanished as she glared at him and he almost laughed. ‘Meg, will you come to London and marry me?’

‘M
a…marry you?’ Meg groped for the wine glass and emptied it in one gulp. It might as well have been water. She said the first thing that came into her head. ‘Why?’

‘Because I think we would suit.’ Ross frowned, but remained remarkably calm in the face of this less than rapturous reception of his proposal. ‘I need a wife, we get on well together, and not just in bed. You had no other plans, had you?’

‘Other plans? Not plans like that, certainly.’ Meg gave herself a little shake. She was not dreaming, there was no need to pinch herself. ‘Ross, you do not have to marry me because you have made love to me and I turned down your offer to be your mistress. I was not a virgin, for goodness’ sake! You did not seduce me. Surely your sense of honour does not demand that you marry me?’

‘My honour be damned.’ He was becoming angry now. ‘Is a title, comfort, a home—and let us not forget the damn good sex while we are about it—not enough for you?’

‘Damn good….?’

‘You seemed to be expressing your enjoyment freely enough a while ago.’

‘Yes.’ Meg nodded. Her body still glowed and ached and tingled with the after-effects of this man’s lips and tongue and hands and… ‘It is good,’ she agreed before her heated memories made her blush like a peony. ‘I was just taken aback at hearing it listed so frankly with the other benefits you offer.’ She managed a smile and saw the anger leave him as swiftly as it had come. ‘Have you not thought that you will fall in love one day, Ross? And then what will you think of the imprudence of marrying your housekeeper?’

‘I fell into lust with you. And then I fell into liking. Is that not a good basis for a marriage? If I was married to you, Meg, I would not be looking for young ladies to fall in love with, you should never fear that.’

‘You mean if your belly was full with a good plain dinner you would not be out looking for a banquet?’ She tried to joke while her brain was spinning. Marriage to Ross. A dream, a fantasy she had not even dared contemplate. ‘One day you would hanker for someone to love.’
And my heart would break.

‘I know you married for love before, Meg. I cannot give you that—the innocence of first love, the devotion of a young man off to war, pledging everything to you.’ She flinched and saw him register the reaction. ‘But we have much already, more than many couples going into marriage. I will never betray you, Meg. Not in thought and not in act. You have my word.’

She saw that he was serious and her certainty that she should refuse him, regardless of pain, faltered. But could she tell him the truth about James and watch his face change when he realised what she was?

Could she tell him that she had lived as his wife with a man who was already married, a man who had deceived her up to the day he died? That she had only discovered the truth when the will was opened and she found James Halgate had a wife that he had abandoned, the result of a foolish, drink-fuelled episode when he had left home to sow his wild oats in London?