On A Wicked Dawn (16 page)

He joined her; to her right lay the open doors to a dining parlor where a feast was spread. Many of the company were
filling their plates, chattering incessantly; others, plates in their hands, were heading out to the chairs and tables assembled on the lawn.

Relieving Amelia of the plate, he met her gaze, blue eyes wondering. With his other hand, he caught her fingers, raised them and pressed his lips to the tips. Let her, but only her, see the real nature of his hunger in his eyes.

Hers widened. Before she could say anything, he lowered her hand, and turned her to the table. “So what's the most delectable delight?”

Her lips twitched, but she calmly informed him the stuffed vine leaves were particularly good.

They filled their plates, then joined the others on the lawns. The next hour sped by in easy converse. Good company, excellent food, fine wine, and a bright summer day; there were no jealousies or tensions in the group—they all relaxed and enjoyed the occasion.

Eventually, their appetite for food sated, the younger crew—all bar the older ladies, Luc, Amelia, and Reggie—decided on an expedition to the nearby river. A walk through the gardens joined a country path to the riverbank; Simon, Heather, Eliza, and Angelica all knew the way. The party rose in a flurry of pastel muslin flounces and frilled parasols, the young gentlemen eagerly assisting.

“No need to rush,” Louise advised them. “We've hours before we need to leave.”

Smiling, Minerva nodded her own permission.

Most set off in close file through the gardens; Heather and Eliza descended on Reggie.

“
Do
come along—we want to hear all about Lady Moffat's wig.”

“Did it really fly off at Ascot?”

Always ready to gossip, Reggie allowed himself to be led away.

Luc raised a brow at Amelia. “Shall we?”

She raised a brow back, a speculative gleam in her eye. “I suspect we should, don't you?”

He rose and drew out her chair. Neither of them had any
intention of walking as far as the river, yet with every evidence of reluctantly doing their duty and watching over their juniors—who in this company needed no watching—they ambled, side by side, in the group's wake.

They left the lawns behind; when the gardens hid the house from view, Luc paused on a crest in the walk. Ahead, the others straggled in groups of three and four, stretching away toward the golden fields and the distant green ribbon of the river.

Simon's voice reached them; he and Angelica were debating the likelihood of again meeting a family of fierce ducks encountered on their last visit.

Luc glanced at Amelia, waiting beside him. “Do you want to see the river, complete with ducks?”

Her lips curved. “I've seen it all before.”

“In that case, which way is the orchard? Maybe we can identify the tree I fell out of on my last visit?”

She waved to another path, leading to the left a little way along. “At the very least, the plums will be ripe.”

He stepped off the main walk in her wake. “It isn't plums I'm thinking of tasting.”

She threw him a haughty, challenging glance, and forged on.

He smiled, and followed.

The orchard was a seducer's delight—large old trees heavily in leaf surrounded by a high stone wall, it was far enough from the house to ensure privacy, uphill and far enough from the path to the river to make it highly unlikely any of the others would come that way.

Once beneath the trees, they were all but invisible to anyone outside the orchard. Amelia had been right; the plums were ripe. Reaching up, Luc plucked a plump one. He saw Amelia glance his way; he handed it to her, then searched and found another for himself.

“Hmm—delicious.”

He looked at Amelia as he bit in; she was right again—the sun-warmed fruit was heavenly. Eyes closed in appreciation, she swallowed; red plum juice stained her lips.

Opening her eyes, she took another bite. The juice overran her lip, one drop trickling down from the corner.

He reached out and caught the drop on his fingertip. She blinked, focused—then leaned forward and took the tip of his finger between her lips, and sucked lightly.

His lungs—all of him—seized; for one instant, he was blind. Then he blinked, hauled in a breath, managed to lower his hand—and saw, beyond her, the orchard's crowning glory, at least for their purpose.

A small summerhouse, it had clearly been placed in the center of the orchard to capitalize on the privacy. The orchard was on a slope, so the summerhouse had views over the distant fields and river, but the trees all around ensured no one could see in.

Many of Merton's villas had been built by gentlemen for their mistresses; Luc was only too ready to exploit someone else's good planning, especially as he doubted he could keep his hands off his fair companion for much longer, and although the grass beneath the trees grew lush and thick, and little fruit had thus far fallen, grass stains on a lady's gown was a telltale sign.

He gestured to the summerhouse. He didn't have to say anything—she was as eager as he. Turning, she led the way. Lifting her skirts, she climbed the three shallow steps, then smiled and went forward, swinging around to sit on the heavily padded sofa placed to enjoy the view.

She looked up at him, a gentle curve to her lips, a questioning, challenging lift to her brows. He paused in the archway for only a second, then strolled forward and joined her.

Not as she'd been expecting. He didn't sit beside her, but placed one knee on the cushions, leaned over her and, one hand framing her face, tipping it up, set his lips to hers.

He was in no mood for polite playing, for pretending to a distance that no longer existed between them. One thing their shared kisses over the past five days had wrought was the dropping of certain barriers; her lips, and she, were his whenever he wished. He knew it; so did she.

She responded ardently, as she always did. Her lips parted
beneath his, inviting him in, welcoming and warm. She tasted of plum, rich and sweet; he plundered and drank, easing down to the cushions, his hip beside hers.

Her arms twining about his neck, she leaned back against the cushioned arm, back against the arm he slid around her. They were both hungry, frustratingly starved; there was no reason they couldn't now feast.

For long moments they did simply that, appeasing the appetites evoked but left unfulfilled through the preceding days. But that wasn't enough to slake his hunger. Or hers.

He was so caught in the kiss, in the honeyed splendor of her mouth, he didn't realize she'd—once again—taken the lead. Taken it upon herself to open his shirt and lay his chest bare. A fleeting moment of coolness was the only warning he had before her palms made contact—and shook him to his soul.

He drew back from the kiss, struggling to breathe, distracted, his senses caught by the sensate thrill of her bold and brazen exploration.

Her touch was not shy but avid—greedy as she spread her fingers wide and flexed them, pressing into the wide muscle banding his chest, then sliding up, then across, possessively tracing as if he were a slave she now owned.

For one instant, held in thrall, he wondered if that were true.

Then he caught his breath, and took advantage of her distraction to reassert control, to drag his mind free from the drugging delight of her touch. Slipping free the buttons of her straining bodice, he laid bare the firm mounds he'd grown quite familiar with, but only in dim light. He paused, took a moment to savor their perfection, the translucent skin, the blue veins beneath, the pale rose of her lightly puckered nipples. He blew on one, and watched it tighten, then bent his head and feasted some more.

Her breath catching on a gasp as he rasped one sensitive bud, Amelia let her head fall back, one hand still splayed on his chest, the fingers of the other sunk in his black hair. Eyes
closed, lips parted as she struggled to breathe, she gloried in the no-longer-novel sensations, delighted in the simple intimacy, now a familiar delight, and waited, expectant, excited—fascinated—for more.

His hot mouth moved over her breasts, aching and swollen, nipples excruciatingly tight. Heat welled within her, grew and swelled until it demanded release.

She shifted restlessly beneath him, waiting, wanting . . .

When she could wait no more, she drew her hand from his chest, searched and caught his wrist, tugged his hand from her breast, insistently drew it down to her stomach. She didn't need to give him further directions; his fingers tensed, kneaded lightly, then slid farther down to touch her as he had before, teasing the fine curls beneath her gown.

Combined with the play of his lips, mouth, and tongue on her breasts, the tantalizing caress of his fingertips was . . . more than pleasant. But there was still more—more that she'd yet to experience; she knew it, and wanted it—now.

Especially as her nerves were growing tighter, tenser, coiling in some indefinable way . . . until she ached. Yearned.

She lifted her hips, deliberately forcing his fingers deeper between her thighs.

He glanced up from ministering to her breasts; his eyes glinted darkly.

She caught his gaze. “More.” When he didn't immediately comply, she insisted, “I know there's more. Show me. Now.”

There was something going on behind those dark devil's eyes; despite the light, they seemed almost black. Quite impenetrable.

Then he raised one brow; he shifted, deserting her breasts to lean over her once more.

“If you insist.”

The growl feathered her lips in the instant before he took her mouth again. She hadn't been expecting it, didn't have a chance to brace herself against the sudden onslaught. Not physical but sensual, a powerful tide that whirled her wits
away, that left her incapable of doing anything beyond feeling and reacting.

Beyond sensing the altered tenor of the kiss, the shift that had left him blatantly dominant, seizing and claiming as he wished. Each deep slow thrust had her shuddering, yet in a different way; the shift of his coat and shirt against her bare breasts was a new sensation. Then he angled his chest, pressing close for an instant, and the intervening fabric was gone, pushed aside. The heat of his chest, the crinkly, raspy black curls met her swollen breasts.

Sensation speared through her; he shifted again and the peaks of her breasts turned fiery with delight, one step away from pain as he deliberately abraded them.

It was then she felt his hand on her thigh, and realized he'd flipped up her skirts. Cool air touched her calves but she cared not at all, her every sense intent on the gentle caress of his fingertips upward along her inner thigh.

He touched her curls and she shivered; he ran one fingertip down through them, and her nerves leapt. Then his lips firmed, and he drew her back into the kiss; she tried to resist, to let her mind follow his fingertips instead, but he ruthlessly captured every last shred of her awareness and anchored them, her, in the passionate engagement of their lips and tongues, the increasingly intimate merging of their mouths.

When he finally allowed her to resurface, not completely but just enough to sense again, her thighs were parted, his hand was between, his fingertips sliding over heated flesh that was swollen and quite wet.

It was a shocking discovery, one of dizzying delight. He didn't release her lips, but kept her with him in the kiss while his fingers played. But it wasn't just play; beneath the drugging sensuality, the consistent delight, lay a possessiveness, a primitive drive that she sensed despite his efforts to disguise it. To keep it veiled, concealed—hidden.

It was there in the tension that held him, that locked his muscles and left him rigid. There in the heavy weight of his
erection against her thigh, in the steely power in his hand as he parted her folds and caressed her. She sensed it in the building heat he held back from her, kept screened from her, as if to protect her from the flames. Flames he was accustomed to dealing with, but which she had yet to experience.

If the choice had been hers, she would have asked for the flames—they beckoned with an addictive glory. But she could do no more than accept what he gave her, take what he offered—what he allowed.

She was too desperate to argue, too caught in the sensual web he'd woven. She needed more. Now. He seemed to understand. He parted her slick folds and opened her, gently probed the entrance to her body until she thought she'd scream, then slowly, boldly, slid one long finger into her.

In some dim part of her brain, she'd expected the penetration to ease her need, and for some few minutes it did. But then the subtle friction of that probing finger, sliding languidly back and forth, ignited another want, another need—one even more desperate than the last.

He purposely built it, stoked it, until she was clinging, her nails sinking into his arms, her body arching under his. A captive, certainly, one ready to yield, to surrender.

And she did.

The implosion of sensation, the sudden release, the tide of sensual heat that engulfed her, took her unawareness, caught her up, whirled her high, into some sensual heaven.

The ease, the physical peace that suffused her, was unfamiliar, yet she embraced it eagerly and relaxed in his arms, only dimly aware when he withdrew his hand and flipped her skirts down.

His lips remained on hers, hard, too knowing, yet the heat was dying; she could sense him bringing the barriers down, shutting her off completely from the furnace and the flames.

When he finally lifted his head, she was waiting. Raising one hand, she speared her fingers through his hair, and held him near. Forced her weighted lids to rise, studied his eyes.

Even from this close, she couldn't read them.

“Why did you stop?” His gaze dropped to her lips; she tightened her hold on his hair. “And if you mention time or timing, I'll scream.”

His lips curved, then he met her eyes. “Not time. Temples.” He put out his tongue and ran the tip along her lower lip. “We haven't reached that temple yet.”