On A Wicked Dawn (33 page)

That realization had sent her heart—and her hopes—soaring. He was giving an excellent imitation of a man driven, compelled, not by lust, but by something more powerful. Neither the direction nor his goal discomposed him, but rather the degree of his compulsion; he was a man who controlled all things in his life—being driven . . .

That was why, at least in part, he'd been so keen to leave the Place, why he was now so impatient to have her to himself. To . . .

She stopped her mind at that point, refused to think further.
Refused to dwell on the heady mix of curiosity and excitement rising within her.

The clang of her cutlery as she laid it on the plate had Luc glancing around.

Cottsloe immediately whipped away the plate; two footmen whisked away the covers. Cottsloe returned to offer Luc an array of decanters; he dismissed them with a brusque shake of his head. His gaze on her, he drained his goblet, set it down with a soft
clack.
Then he rose, walked down the table, took her hand, and drew her to her feet.

Met her gaze fleetingly.

“Come.”

Her hand locked in his, he led her from the room. She followed, quickly so he didn't tow her along. She would have grinned, but she was too keyed up, too much in the grip of that flaring excitement. The expression on his face had done that. That, and the fathomless darkness of his eyes.

He went up the wide stairs, keeping her beside him. If she was foolish enough to try to pull away . . . glancing briefly at his face, she felt he might even snarl. An animalistic energy poured from him; this close, she couldn't miss it, couldn't stop it from tightening her own nerves, from squeezing her lungs.

They reached the first floor. The main suite filled the rear of the central block, in pride of place, jutting into the gardens behind the house. A short corridor ended in a circular foyer giving access to three rooms via carved oak doors. To the left lay the viscountess's apartments—a light, airy sitting room flanking a large dressing room and bathing chamber. To the right lay similar rooms—Luc's private domain. Between, directly ahead behind a pair of oak doors, lay the master bedchamber.

She'd seen the room—large, uncluttered, with an immense four-poster bed—earlier; she'd explored, enchanted by the position, surrounded by gardens with views on three sides.

Luc gave her no time to admire anything now—he flung open one door, towed her through, paused only to glance around to ensure no maid still lingered, then he heeled the door shut and she was in his arms.

Being kissed—no,
ravished
.

Every link with reality was swept away in that first hot rush. He'd swept her literally off her toes; she was locked so hard against his steely frame, his arms banding her, she couldn't breathe—had to take her breath from him. Had to appease the greedy, hungry kisses, the starving urgency with which he kissed her; she offered her mouth, surrendered, tried to catch up—tried to orient.

He gave her no chance. He turned with her in his arms, took two steps, and set her back against the door—trapped her there. He ravaged her mouth; grabbing hold, her fingers sinking into the rigid muscles of his upper arms, she met him in a clash of tongues, in a hot world of whirling desire. She flagrantly incited, urged him further—wanted more.

Angling his hips, he pressed her to the door, anchoring her as he drew back just enough to strip off his coat and fling it away. She fell on his shirt, popping buttons in her haste, in her need to have her hands on his bare chest. His erection rode hard against her mons; his fingers were busy with her laces.

Then his shirt was open; she wrenched the halves wide and spread her hands over him, over the acres of burning skin, sliding her fingers through the raspy curls. She devoured him with her hands while he devoured her mouth, while he conjured the hot, driving need between them, while he drew it up, and set it free.

Let it rage.

She was suddenly beyond hot; he was suddenly beyond urgent. He lifted his head. Her gown and chemise ripped as he yanked them down to expose her breasts; she didn't care—cared for nothing beyond her wanting, and its satisfaction. He dipped his head, set his mouth to her breast, suckled—and she screamed.

Felt her body arch as he suckled fiercely again, felt his hands on her, hard and demanding. No gentle lover, no soothing caresses, nothing but heat, possessive passion and a driving, urgent need.

A need that drove her, too, that had her gasping, fingers sunk in his hair, blindly holding him to her as he feasted.

Ravenously.

Cool air caressing her legs, then her thighs, told her he'd rucked up her skirts. For one instant, she wondered if he would take her there, against the door—then he cupped her and she stopped thinking.

His touch was knowing, blatantly possessive. He opened her, thrust one, then two fingers into her, worked them deep. Then his thumb found that most sensitive part of her, and circled it, tormenting, while he worked his fingers within her sheath, matching his rhythm to that of his suckling—

She shattered, fractured—so fast, so intensely, she saw rapture like a starburst on the insides of her lids.

His hands and lips left her—too soon, too quickly. She was empty, aching—boneless, vanquished . . .

Then she was gasping, falling; he swept her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. Laid her upon it and ruthlessly stripped her gown away. Stripped her naked. When she wore not a stitch to hide her from his gaze, black as night, burning with desire, he tumbled the heaped pillows, rearranged them, then lifted her and laid her among them. A sacrifice waiting, displayed.

She had no will to move, no strength even to lift a hand. He stalked back to the end of the bed, stood facing it, his gaze locked on her, traveling her body as if cataloging every last inch, every soft curl as he stripped off his shirt, flung it aside, then set his fingers to his waistband.

His face was graven, the features and planes so familiar, yet not. They'd been lovers before, yet it had never been like this—she'd never been able to taste desire, never been able to sense it like a shimmering aura around him, around her. Something heightened, something more—some meshing of physical and ephemeral needs that was both frightening
and compelling had happened between them.

He kicked off his shoes; in a single smooth movement he removed his trousers, dropping them as he straightened. As he stood there, naked, rampantly aroused and intent, before her.

He knelt on the bed, his knee between her feet. The muscles in his arms and shoulders shifted, bunching like rock, flexing like steel. His gaze, locked on the curls at the junction of her thighs, lifted to her eyes.

“Open your legs.”

A deep, gravelly, command. An outright order.

She complied, not quickly but without hesitation; he'd clenched his fists—hard—to stop himself from reaching for her. She remembered the feel of his hands on her breasts, their driving urgency, the sheer strength in his fingers. She knew, as her gaze fell into the black of his and she shifted her thighs apart, that he didn't want to lay hands on her—not yet.

Not while this sheer, ungovernable force rode him.

The force that, as soon as her thighs were wide enough apart, had him on the bed, poised over her, arms braced, hands sunk in the pillows on either side of her shoulders. He settled his hips between her thighs, ruthlessly forcing them farther apart, wedging them wide.

His eyes locked on hers as the blunt head of his erection probed her slick flesh. Then he found her entrance; she caught her breath, trapped deep in the black fires of his eyes as he entered her—with one powerful, savagely complete thrust—one that stretched her and filled her, that had her arching, wildly gasping, hands gripping his forearms, nails sinking deep, her head pressing back into the soft pillows as he relentlessly pressed in.

Until he'd possessed her. Until he'd filled her so completely her every sense was filled with him.

Then he rode her.

She gasped, writhed beneath him, driven ruthlessly, relentlessly on. Hands spread on his back, feeling the unforgiving flexing of the powerful muscles bracketing his spine,
she clung blindly and surrendered. His arranging of the pillows had had a purpose; they cushioned her, cradled her, tilted her hips and supported her so he could drive into her body harder, faster—deeper.

So her body could withstand his possession, could ride the force and the fury as he took her.

As he loved her.

It came to her in a blinding flash as she watched his face, passion blank, eyes closed, his every sense focused on their joining. The sheer force of his thrusts took him deeper yet; her body gave and she gasped, arched beneath him. He gasped, too, took every inch she offered, hung his head. Bent enough to take the tight peak of her breast, flagrantly offered as her spine bowed, her body supported by the pillows, into his mouth. Blindly, he feasted while his body plundered hers.

Fiery energy spread insidiously through her, down every vein, into her core. She felt it coalesce. Felt it build and swell with every deep rocking thrust, with every lightninglike flash of sensation he sent spearing through her.

Until she ignited, burned. Exploded. Until she lost every sense in the mindlessness of heat and wonder.

This time, he didn't leave her, but with guttural commands urged her on. Forced her on, begged her to stay with him.

And she did. Held to him, clung, senses wide-open, her body all his. Caressed him, eased him, offered herself to him. And he took, again, and again, and again—

A crash from outside echoed their gasps.

Outside the storm broke; inside, the wild energy swirled.

Beyond the windows, the wind lashed the trees and lightning cleaved the sky.

Inside, the rhythm of their loving escalated, step by relentless step.

Energy sparked through them, alive in shards of sensation, shimmering emotion, the brilliant colors of passion and desire. It grew until it was almost real—an incandescent glory. Intensifying, drawing in, it tightened about them—tightened their nerves, locked every muscle.

Then imploded.

And they flew. High on a crest of sensation that shattered every perception. High to a plane where emotions formed the sea and sensation the land. Where feelings were the winds and peaks grew from delight. And the sun was pure glory, exquisite and unshielded, an orb of power so intense it fused their hearts.

And left them beating as one.

When had it ever been like that?

Never.

Why had it come now? Why with her?

Imponderable questions.

Luc lay on his back amid the pillows, Amelia curled by his side, her head pillowed on his arm, one small hand spread over his chest. Over his heart.

The night was mild in the aftermath of the storm; he hadn't bothered to cover their cooling bodies. To hide their nakedness.

Fingers toying with her hair, he looked down—at her, at her naked limbs twined with his, at the smooth, alabaster curve of her hip over which his other hand lay possessively draped. Felt something within him clench, then, very slowly, release.

It seemed so strange—that it was she, a female he'd known as baby, child, and girl. A woman he'd thought he'd known so well—yet the woman who'd climaxed beneath him last night, who'd taken his every thrust, who'd closed about him and taken him in, who'd accepted him no matter the raging power, who'd stayed with him throughout their wild ride on that tumultuous tide of desire . . . he didn't know her.

She was different—an elemental mystery, shrouded and veiled, familiar yet unknown.

Tonight, there'd been no gentle kisses, no gentling caresses, only that wild power that had driven him—and her. That she would like it—nay, covet it—that she would welcome it and so gladly let it swirl through her as it had
through him, so it could sweep them both away . . . that had been a surprise.

From beyond the window came the light patter of rain; the storm had moved on.

Yet the power that had flowed between them and brought them together with such cataclysmic force was still there, but dormant. Quiet, yet still alive. It breathed as he did, flowed in his veins, possessed him.

It would until he died.

Did she know? Did she understand?

More imponderables.

Doubtless if she did, he'd know tomorrow morning, when she woke and started trying to manage him. Trying to wield the power that was, indeed, hers to command.

Letting his head fall back against the pillows, he listened to the rain.

Surrender.

Men were always so sure that women surrendered to them.

Yet men surrendered, too.

To that unnameable power.

Miles to the south, the winds of the storm bent the tops of the ancient trees surrounding the Place. Those stalwarts were too old, too established, to be made to bow in anything but a token way; the winds instead piled clouds before the moon and set the topmost branches lashing, creating a bleak landscape of violently shifting shadows.

The mansion lay in darkness. It was after midnight and all those residing under its wide roof had retired to their beds.

Except for the slight figure who emerged from the side door, struggling to close it against the wind, then fighting to pull the heavy cloak she wore tightly about her. The hood refused to stay up. Leaving it back, she set off across the narrow side lawn, quickly ducking under the trees; her reticule swung and bumped against her legs, but she ignored it.

Skirting the lawns, she headed for the front of the house—to the summerhouse at the edge of the trees facing
the front facade, from the shadows of which Jonathon Kirby stepped.

She was breathless when she reached him. Without a word, she halted, caught her reticule, opened it, and drew out a slender cylinder. She handed it to Kirby, then glanced back, fearfully, at the house.

Kirby held the cylinder up to the fitful light, examined the intricate chasing, hefted its weight.