Love Letters (5 page)

“Do you like that?” he whispered.

Like?
Like didn’t even
began
to describe what she was feeling. Before she could respond, he was licking her again, sucking, tasting. The wind battered the windows, shaking the house, or was that her body trembling? Dear Heavens, she wasn’t sure anymore where her body ended and began.

Brendon pulled away, trailing kisses up her stomach, chest,
neck
. Those brilliant blue eyes met hers and for one breathless moment nothing existed but him. His hair fell tousled around his face, his eyes intense and piercing. This is the man she’d dreamt about for years, the passionate man she’d fallen in love with.

“Tell me your name,” he whispered.

She couldn’t deny his request. “Clara.”

He slid from the bed and quickly discarded the rest of his clothing. Clara had only a moment to study his beautiful body before he was covering her again. His tongue delved between her lips for a quick, but thorough kiss.

“Dear God, you taste sweet.”

He shifted, his knee parting her legs. His arousal, hard and hot, pulsed between her thighs. Clara’s breath caught. She didn’t dare move. Brendon raised his hips so the swollen tip of his erection pressed to her folds. The world suddenly stilled. He rested his forehead to hers, their breaths mingling. His body was trembling and she knew he held back, for her sake.

“Bloody hell, what you’ve done to me.”

Need consumed her, an incomprehensible need to have him, all of him deep within. She lifted her hips. The bulb of his cock slipped inside her. Clara
gasped,
the feeling overwhelming. Her hands found his tight bottom and she pulled him closer as she lifted her hips once more.

“Damn.” Brendon pulled back slightly.

Clara groaned and slid her fingers up his back,
then
boldly she lifted her head and drew her tongue over his lips. He growled low in his throat and she knew in that instant she had him. Without pause, he thrust into her.

A slight sting momentarily interrupted her pleasure. For a brief shocked moment, Clara didn’t move,
afraid
more pain would come. Brendon’s harsh breath fanned across her face, a comforting caress. He shifted. Aching need replaced any sting. Clara closed her eyes, reveling in the feel of Brendon so close.

“Wrap your legs around me,” he demanded and she didn’t dare refuse.

She slid her legs over his muscled thighs, the act taking him further inside. Exquisite pleasure tightened low in her belly, thrummed under her skin beating in time with her heart…his heart. They were together, as one.

“Yes, please.” Clara breathed in their scent, intoxicated by the heady mixture of love making. Brendon’s strong arms held her close as they rocked in a rhythm that brought their bodies impossibly close.

Her insides tightened as pleasure rippled through her body, a flood of release. She arched her back, meeting him thrust for thrust. This is what she wanted, what she’d dreamt of, what she needed. She needed
him.

“Brendon,” she cried out, her nails piercing his back.

Pure white pleasure burst through her being. Vaguely she was aware of Brendon’s entire body going tight, his muscles flexing under her fingers. Vaguely she was aware of Brendon crying out her name as he thrust into her one last time.

Chapter 4

Brendon pulled away from Clara and rolled onto his back, staring up at the dusty beams above. He couldn’t seem to breathe, to think, to feel anything but the vibrant buzz coursing through his body.

Blast it, what had he done? He hadn’t lost control like that in…ever. He was an arse.
A complete arse.
If only she’d protested. If only she’d slapped him. If only she hadn’t kissed him back so hungrily…he could have at least stopped himself. But she hadn’t. No, she’d touched him as eagerly as he’d touched her. And with her bold touch he’d lost all sense of who he was.

He slid Clara a glance. She lay beside him, staring up at those same beams and looking as perplexed as he felt. And even now, he wanted her again, and again and again. Slowly, his gaze scanned her form. Gray slashes contrasted against her pale skin. Dried clay left behind by his hands. On her soft breasts, her flat belly, her rounded thighs…almost as if he’d branded her.

Clara,
she was called. He’d always liked that name. It made him think of past summers, of innocence and purity.
An innocence
she no longer possessed, thanks to him.

Clara
.

Was he so desperate for human contact that he’d bed the first clean woman he came into contact with? Whether she be a virgin or not? And she was a virgin, he knew that much.

She took in a deep, trembling breath as if preparing for some great speech. He could imagine what she’d have to say to him.
Bloody hell.
He tossed the quilt over her body and bolted from the bed. He didn’t need to hear her
words,
he already knew he’d burn in hell.

Naked, he stalked across the room to the small table that held a pitcher of water. He should have been more careful with her. Instead, like the arse he was, he’d rutted her with a need that would frighten most women, even experienced women. He dipped a cloth in the cold water, wrung it, and made his way back to the bed. His hands still shook with the need to touch her, his body still ached with a need to have her. He would not give into temptation again.

Gently he settled on the edge of the bed. Even more gently, he wrapped his fingers around her right wrist and straightened her arm. He didn’t look at her, he couldn’t, too ashamed of what he’d done. Slowly, he rubbed her arm with the washing cloth, erasing signs of the clay, signs that he’d touched her. Finished, he reached for the edge of the blanket, which she’d tucked neatly under her chin. Finally, he met her gaze, just a flicker up, to see her wide eyes watching him, then down again. He tugged the blanket from her grip, exposing her breasts.

Instantly her rosy nipples beaded. Brendon swallowed hard and rested the cool cloth against her chest. She sucked in a breath, whether from the cold or his touch, he wasn’t sure. Slowly, he made circles against her skin, rubbing away the clay. All the while, she watched him, those beautiful eyes piercing his very soul.

He took her other arm. Still, she didn’t move, didn’t take her gaze away from his face. He clenched his jaw, sweat dampening his skin despite the cool temperature. Slowly, he pulled the blanket lower, exposing the soft curls at the junction of her thighs. He rested his hand on her warm belly. Her muscles jumped. He smoothed the cloth down the outside of her legs, over to her inner thigh, swiping away clay and blood. The proof he didn’t need, but there all the same. She was a virgin. He was a bastard.

The cloth swept across those soft curls. Her lashes fluttered down as she sucked in a breath and arched her back, almost as if…as if his touch felt good. Desire shot straight to his groin, his erection surging forward. He tossed the cloth to a table. He would not take her again. He might be a bastard, but he wasn’t completely evil.

She shivered and opened her eyes. The room was cold, and she was colder. With a sigh, he settled beside her chilled form, stretching out his body next to hers. He could give her warmth, at least. He slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. Almost immediately her stiff body sank into his, as if completely comfortable with him, completely trusting. Without a word, he closed his eyes, reveling for one long moment in the rightness of it all. He missed this…a woman’s sweet scent…her soft body. Clara’s hand crept up his chest, her fingers spreading through the crisp hair.

“Why?” he whispered.

Her hand paused against his heart. She knew the question he asked, he was sure of it. Yet the silence grew.

“Tell me.”

She tilted her head back, her hazel eyes meeting his.
“Because I’ve wanted this for years.”

Her words shocked him.

“Brendon,”
she had cried out, her nails piercing his back as he entered her.

His heart skipped a beat.

Brendon
.

She’d called him Brendon. His butler would never have used his given name, yet somehow she knew. Brendon tossed the covers aside and bolted from the bed. His heart slammed so loudly in his chest that surely she could hear it. Teeth gritted, he jerked on his trousers realizing he’d been duped. Bloody hell, what was going on?

Half-dressed, he spun around to face her, his fingers fisted as he resisted the urge to shake her. “Who the hell are you?”

The confusion in her gaze gave way to wariness. She hesitated,
then
pushed herself upright, clutching the blanket to her chest. “I told you my name. Clara.”

Clara
.

With that simple statement, suddenly he was gone, thrown back in time.

She was looking at him.
Always watching him.

“Clara likes you, you know,” his sister’s voice broke into his thoughts.

He tore his gaze from the dark-haired girl sitting under an oak and smiled at Elizabeth. “I know.”

Elizabeth slid her arm through his and watched him slyly. “And…do you fancy her?”

He rolled his eyes, yet couldn’t help but glance at Clara once again. She was looking away, pretending interest in the garden. She would be beautiful…some day when she was old enough. He knew that. But he couldn’t wait for someday. His father had already picked out his future wife and he wasn’t sure he could ever think of Clara as anything other than a child.

“Well?” Elizabeth prodded.

He tweaked her nose.
“If she was five years older, perhaps.”

“Clara.” He hadn’t realized he’d said her name out loud until she responded.

“Yes?”

It was there. How could he be such a dunce?
Those innocent, hazel eyes.
Those pink, lush lips.
But she was older now…even more beautiful…stunning really. He should have felt odd…terrible…
wrong
having slept with the woman who was his sister’s childhood friend.

He didn’t.

He felt…right.

“Clara?” Legs weak, he settled on the edge of the bed, his gaze scanning every feature on her familiar face. He couldn’t seem to look away.

She focused on her lap and drew the blanket up to her chest, her face flushed,
her
eyes downcast. He didn’t like to see her this way, shy and unsure. He liked her bold, as she had been when he’d kissed her.

He moved closer and cupped her chin, forcing her to look at him. “Clara.”

Her gaze flashed with uncertainty. “Yes?”

He smiled. A smile of half bewilderment, half awe.
“My God, Clara.
How could I have not known it was you?”

She sucked in a breath, her face draining of color. “You remember.”

It might have taken him longer than it should have, but of course he bloody remembered. How could he forget? “What are you doing here, Clara?”

She jerked away from his touch and slipped from the bed. In a flurry of movement, she reached her clothing. “I’m so sorry.”

He surged to his feet, only to hesitate, afraid if he touched her, he’d offend her and she’d run. Hell, he didn’t know what to do. “No, please. Don’t leave.”

She paused, and glanced over her shoulder. There was so much emotion in her hazel eyes that his heart clenched. For one long moment they merely stared at each other.

“Your sister sent me a letter,” she finally whispered. “She told me everything. About your wife…” She dropped her gaze to the floor.

He flinched. He could imagine what she thought of him. The world believed he was a bastard, why not her too? No wife left her husband for another man unless her husband was evil, they whispered. How he wished he could ignore those sidelong glances whenever he went out into public. When she’d died in a carriage accident with her lover, she’d become a martyr, he a monster for making her flee into the arms of another.

“You left everything behind,” Clara continued, having no idea the way of his thoughts.
“Your money.
Your responsibilities.
You’d become an artist, she said.” Clara smiled softly as she pulled her shift over her head. “I remember you drawing…always drawing.”