The Edge of Desire (15 page)

She was, as always, liquid fire in his arms, but this time the fire was contained. The flames licked, tantalizing, tempting, but the fire was banked, controlled. She didn’t burn and sear him, didn’t try to set him afire as she usually did, didn’t fight for supremacy—for the reins—but held back, hung back, and left it to him to stoke their blaze.

So he let their passions rise, but slowly, tiny step by step, so there was no raging inferno to sweep them both away. So
that they stepped hand in hand into desire, then let desire unfurl into full-blown passion.

Let passion escalate degree by degree…until it blossomed into need.

Letitia let him persuade her. For once let him lead her down the familiar path rather than rush ahead, so that for once he had to coax, rather than restrain.

She let him kiss her until her senses were reeling, let him fill her mouth and make her yearn.

Let him seduce her.

Not because she’d forgiven him.

Not because she’d made any decision about him, but because she felt she was owed this.

That for all the long years—the lonely, deadening years—that for all her long ago heartbreak, she deserved recompense—a recognition of the sacrifice she’d had forced on her, by circumstance and him, all those years ago.

So she gave him her mouth and let him claim her, surrendered her body and let him caress her—let him trace her curves, with his too-knowing fingers circle, tweak, press, knead, until she grew breathless, restless and needy.

Let him make love to her.

Let him strip away her gown, her petticoats; with a sigh, she felt her chemise drift away. Felt the coolness of the night air on her skin—a long-ago pleasure she’d all but forgotten—the sensation heightened, gently at first, later excruciatingly, by the heated touch of his hands, followed by the hot brand of his mouth on her throat, traveling slowly on to her breasts, then later still laying a fiery path over her stomach to ultimately taste the soft flesh between her thighs.

Gasping, senses reeling, her skin flushed and damp, she let him, on his knees, hold her before him, his hard hands gripping her bottom, supporting her while, his soft hair tangling with her curls, he worshipped her with his lips, his mouth, his tongue, let him use his expertise to ensnare her completely, then let him drive her up, up and over the shining peak.

Glory broke like the sun over her; heat and pleasure fragmented, washing through her veins as molten delight.

Her legs buckled. She gasped; helpless, she gripped his shoulders. Shuddered as, her senses returning, she grew acutely aware of passion’s lash as at her core he supped, licked. Savored.

She didn’t have strength left to stop him, to do more than gasp as he spun the pleasure out. Eyes closed, she let her head loll back, and with a soft moan let delight sweep through her.

Let the intimacy of his possession sink into her.

At last he drew back; he looked up at her, then in one fluid movement stood and swung her up into his arms.

He carried her to her bed, flung back the covers, then laid her on the cool sheets.

She was restless, but didn’t want to show it. Didn’t want him to know how much she physically craved him. Forcing herself to lie still, through the dimness she watched as he stripped off his shirt and trousers. Naked, he stood by the bed, bathed in faint moonlight; silver gilded the heavy planes of his shoulders, etched the hard lines of his face. He studied her as she studied him, then he stepped closer and climbed onto the mattress.

It gave under his weight. Fully aroused, he came to her, let himself down on her and covered her. Reached down, caught her thighs and spread them wide. Settled his hips between, the blunt head of his erection at her entrance, then, his shadowed gaze locked on her face, with one long, controlled, unrelenting thrust, he joined them.

She smothered a gasp, couldn’t stop her body from arching in delicious reaction. His size still felt new to her, something she might once have known but had yet to grow accustomed to again. Yet to reach the stage where his penetration didn’t impinge overwhelmingly on her senses.

Lips lightly—irrepressibly—curving, she let her lids fall, let her body respond as he withdrew and thrust again, deeper
still, then he settled into a slow, steady rhythm—a long, slow ride into paradise.

Opening her other senses, she let herself enjoy all she’d missed—his large, hard body, the wide acres of his chest, the heavy muscles banding it, the faint but excruciating abrasion of the crinkly hair that adorned his chest as it rasped her tightly furled nipples. Beneath him, pinned to the soft bed by his much greater weight, she quietly gloried in the indescribable delight of gripping his tight buttocks and feeling him driving into her, feeling the long, heavy weight of his erection thrusting and retreating deep inside her.

Regardless of all else, he knew how to please her—exactly how to pleasure her. How to delight and satisfy her.

She took all he gave her, gathered it in as her due.

Christian felt every nuance, was awake and aware to every racing beat of her heart, every flutter of her lashes, every soft sound that spilled from her lips, every moan he wrung from her. Every tensing of her fingers on his skin.

He’d never made love to any woman as he did to her that night. Never been so conscious of, so focused on, the intertwining of emotion with the physical act. Never had the act meant more, never had he needed it to mean so much, to carry so much emotional weight—the full measure of what he could no longer hide. Dared no longer hide, no longer had any reason to hide—all that he felt for her.

She’d never been passive in her life, yet that night she watched and waited, took, accepted, but held herself back. Not physically but emotionally.

It wasn’t a cold coupling; between them such a thing simply couldn’t be. Yet there was an emptiness within it that, he realized, her love used to fill. Used to fill and overflow.

He hadn’t noticed its absence during their recent interludes; the firestorm of her passions, and his, had concealed the lack. But he sensed it now. And felt the loss keenly.

He looked down at her as she lay beneath him, glorious as ever in her passion; her mahogany mane flung across
the pillows, the faintest of curves to her lips, she rode with him, her hips undulating with each deep thrust, her breasts caressing his chest as he drove harder and harder into her luscious body. Her thighs gripped his flanks, her fingers tensing, sinking into his flexing buttocks, urging him on; within, her sheath, scalding and slick, gripped him and held him, released, then received him.

She was with him, yet not, reserved in some indefinable way that she never had been before, some elemental part of her withheld. He saw it, sensed it as the peak reared before them and they hovered, senses suspended, then they tumbled, fell, plummeted through the void, and in that searing, gasping, mindless moment when their senses imploded and ecstasy roared through and they clung…when they drifted back to earth, they were still two separate people.

Where before there’d always been a sense of shared joy, of complete fusion in the moment, of a loss of self that was somehow glorious, now there was only physical satiation.

Complete, deep and mind-numbing, yet not—for him nowhere near—as satisfying.

He couldn’t believe she didn’t feel the same, that she didn’t feel and mourn that loss.

That she didn’t wish it were otherwise.

He collapsed upon her, too racked to move. His head on her breasts, her shallow breathing in his ear, his heart still thundering in his chest, with the night air laying cooling tendrils over their slick bodies, he fought for breath—and waited.

Prayed.

At last—
finally
—she raised a hand and gently slid her fingers through his hair.

He closed his eyes, swallowed as incalculable relief swept through him. Simply lay there and took comfort in what he knew to be an instinctive, habitual caress.

In his mind’s eye he followed every slide, every flick of her fingers, every little touch that made up that caress.

Wallowed in what drove it.

All was, thank heaven, not lost. Her love—the one thing he now most wanted in life—still lived.

To win it back…all he had to do was convince her to trust him with it again.

Convince her that loving him again would be safe.

Prove to her that he would never again hurt her, never let anyone or anything hurt her.

He remained where he was, hungrily, greedily, savoring the sensations of her sated body cradling his. Clinging to the moment, the quiet glow, he wondered how one went about mending a broken heart.

L
etitia wasn’t easily shocked, but when she woke the next morning to the inescapable sensations of a large, warm—not to say hot—male body spooned around hers, she very nearly leapt from the bed.

She did sit up. Struggling out from under a heavy arm, she stared, mouth acock, then looked across the room to the windows they’d left uncurtained—at the sunshine streaming in.

“Christian!”
She jabbed his shoulder. When he didn’t respond, she jabbed his upper arm, leaning closer to hiss at him, “You have to wake up and go to your room!”

Over all the times they’d made love, she’d never spent the night in his arms. Never woken to find him beside her.

Exasperated—and not a little panicky—she jabbed again, and he moved—but only to wrap one huge hand about her fingers.

And draw her inexorably back down….

“No!” She tried to pull back, but had no purchase. “We can’t!”

He rolled over. Looking sinfully sleep-tousled, he cocked a lazy brow at her. “Why not?”

He continued to drag her closer, until, frustrated, she let herself tumble across his chest. All but nose-to-nose, she glared at him. “Because my maid will be here with my washing water and I absolutely refuse to be discovered in flagrante delicto with you in this bed.”

He smiled, slow, sensual, teasing. “Don’t worry.” He reached for her nape. “I locked the door.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, swiftly replayed his stormy entrance the previous night. “You did not. You slammed it.”

Large and warm, his palm caressed her sensitive skin. “I got up during the night and locked it.”

She blinked. “You did?” She frowned, trying to imagine why he’d thought to do so. Why he’d planned…

He gripped and drew her head down. “Stop thinking. Come and enjoy something you never have.”

She found herself lowering her lips to his. She halted just before their lips met. “What?”

He lifted his hips and she felt…his morning erection.

Her eyes widened. “Oh.”

“Indeed.” He drew her down the last inch, into the kiss.

She let him, wondering, tantalized. Seduced.

She’d heard about men’s proclivities in the morning, but as she’d never shared a bed all night with him—and had actively discouraged Randall from spending one more minute with her than he absolutely needed to—she’d never had a chance to experience…the different, strangely compelling sensations of making love when they were already warm and relaxed beneath the covers.

When there were no clothes to remove, no barriers separating their warm skins, so that from the very first touch they stepped onto a higher level of intimacy, yet one that, presumably because the outcome of their tangling naked limbs was all but preordained, held much less urgency, much less driving need—much more simple, tactile pleasure.

Sensual pleasure of a depth and breadth she hadn’t previously known. She let him show her, let him settle her astride him, lift her and ease her down so she took the rigid length of him deep, let him lie back and fondle her breasts as she—clinging to the lazy languor of the moment—rode him slowly.

The end, when it came, was lazy, too. Warm pleasure, bright as the morning sun, welled and spilled down her
veins, the glory heightened when he locked his hands about her hips and thrust upward, again, and again, then on a long groan joined her.

One hand tangled in his hair, she lay in his arms, and let the warmth and the peace of the morning hold sway—for just a little while.

But outside the door, locked or not, reality waited.

She stirred, pushed against the weight of his arms across her back. He held her for an instant, pressed a kiss to her temple, then helped her up. Without further argument he rose, found his clothes and donned them, then, passing her on the way to the door, he caught her to him for one last, sweet kiss, then with a salute, left her.

Eyes narrowed, she stared at the closed door for a full minute, then shook her head and crossed to the bellpull to ring for Esme.

Twenty minutes later, in yet another black gown, this one of fine silk crepe, she descended the stairs and headed for the breakfast parlor. She swept in, inclining her head gracefully to Hightsbury in acknowledgment of his bow—and only then remembered that her father invariably breakfasted in his library.

Leaving her to entertain his guest.

Blotting his lips with a napkin, Christian rose and, with an easy smile, drew out a chair for her—the one next to his.

She hesitated. His eyes challenged her. Chin tilting, she swept forward and sat. After resetting her chair, Christian resumed his seat beside her.

Hightsbury had anticipated her needs; tea and toast magically appeared before her. She smiled at the butler, then, bending to the pressure of a large knee against hers, said, “Thank you, Hightsbury. We’ll ring if we need you.”

Evincing no surprise at being dismissed, Hightsbury bowed and left them.

She turned her gaze on the far less predictable male alongside. “What?”

Christian raised his brows at her bald query. “I thought,
all things considered, that you might wish to know my intentions.”

Lifting her teacup, she opened her eyes wide at him over the brim. “You have intentions?”

“Indeed. And as you feature prominently, I thought I should mention them.”

She searched his eyes, unsure whether to encourage him or not.

He didn’t wait for her to make up her mind. He looked down at his hand, resting by his plate, at the gold signet ring on his little finger. “I was wrong—wrong not to tell you about my peculiar commission, wrong to leave you without any means to reach me.”

Her gaze locked on his face. He had her full and complete attention.

Forcing himself to sit still and not squirm, he went on, “Twelve years ago, when I was younger, and, yes, caught up in the romance of being a spy, I made that mistake. I adhered absolutely to the ‘tell no one more than they need to know’ rule. If I had the time again, I’d act differently, but I can’t rewrite history.”

Glancing up, he met her gaze. “You said fate had thrown Randall in your path—now it appears fate has stepped in and removed him from your life. Which leaves the way open for me.”

Her eyes flashed.

He held up a staying hand. “Before you erupt, know this—I freely admit to the mistake I made twelve years ago, but I’ll be damned if I pay for it for the rest of my life.” He caught her gaze. “And I’ll be damned if I let you pay for it any more than you already have.”

Her eyes slowly narrowed to slits. Her lips thinned. After a long moment she inquired, in her sweetest voice, “Don’t you think that’s rather presumptuous? Just a touch overarrogant, even for you?”

He held her gaze and bluntly replied, “No.” After a second, he went on, “My service to our country cost us both,
but you far more than me. But the war is over, my service is past, and now Randall’s dead, there’s no reason for either of us to keep paying in any way whatever.” He hesitated, then went on, grasping the thistle of complete exposure, “The future we envisioned twelve years ago—it’s still there, waiting for us if we wish to pursue it. I intend to.” He paused, then, his eyes still locked with hers, said, “No more secrets between us—I wanted you to know.”

Once again he couldn’t read her eyes. Couldn’t see her thoughts in her expression.

A full minute ticked by, then she looked away, sipped, and set down her cup. “Times change.”

“True, but people like us don’t. What used to be between us is still there—not exactly the same perhaps, it’s evolved as we have, but the strength, the depth, the power of it is, if anything, even greater.”

She drew in a slow breath. “Perhaps, but…I no longer know if that—the future we envisaged twelve years ago—is what I, now, want.”

He’d expected that, had known she wasn’t likely to throw her arms around his neck and encourage him to speak with her father then and there. And if the implied rejection still stung, he told himself it was far less than he deserved for, as she’d correctly termed it, deserting her.

Regardless, he wasn’t about to accept any dismissal, certainly not yet. Reaching for his coffee cup, he evenly replied, “I’m prepared to wait for however long it takes for you to make up your mind.”

He sipped, aware of the sharp, frowning glance she leveled at him.

Sometime last night he’d made a decision, one that had kept him in her bed. That morning, he’d sought to draw her back to him; instead he’d discovered how elusive she could be, how much her own person.

Discovered how independent and strong-willed she’d grown.

Discovered that she was no longer someone he could
dominate and lead, but instead—given she was his goddess and, courtesy of their past, he was cast as a contrite supplicant—he might very well have to follow.

Regardless, he’d never been more certain of his path.

She continued to regard him suspiciously as she crunched her way through a piece of toast.

He clung to silence. He’d said all he had to—told her his intentions and that he would wait, that he wasn’t going away. The ball was in her court; the next move was hers.

Pushing away her empty plate, she patted her lips and goddesslike decreed, “I believe I should speak with my brother.”

Letitia hadn’t requested any escort on her walk to the old lodge, yet given Christian’s statement—of his intentions, no less—she wasn’t surprised that he was ambling beside her, easily keeping pace as she marched along.

Despite his forthrightness over said intentions, she had no real belief that she understood his motives. Being well acquainted with his baser traits, she knew it was possible that he was acting out of protectiveness and using their connection to keep her close, to help manage her as matters unfolded.

In men like him, protectiveness toward women like her was ingrained, and while in the past it had grown out of his possessiveness, she could no longer be sure that was still the case.

Could no longer be certain he truly wanted her.

Could not be certain his “intentions” weren’t simply a reflection of what he thought he ought to do, ought to feel. How he thought he should now behave with respect to her, the lover he’d effectively jilted.

She wasn’t at all pleased with Justin for telling him her secret; whether if left to herself she would ever have told him, she honestly didn’t know. That point was now moot because Justin
had
told him—but she didn’t, she’d realized, know what else her idiot brother had seen fit to reveal.

Reaching the lodge, she swept through the door with considerable force. Christian followed rather more slowly.

Her gaze fell on her brother, seated at the table, about to tuck into a heaped plate of ham and eggs.

She pinned him with a narrow-eyed glare. “How
dare
you?”

Justin eyed her measuringly. “How dare I what?”

“How
dare
you share details of my private life—including the reasons behind my marriage to Randall, which you swore never to reveal—to
him
.” She flung out a hand toward Christian, now blocking the doorway.

Justin shrugged. “Randall’s dead. Christian isn’t.” With his knife, he pointed as if directing her attention. “He’s here.”

“I
know
he’s here, but that gives you no right—I gave you no leave—to divulge my personal secrets!”

Justin frowned, his temper rising to match hers. “Well, someone had to. You hadn’t bothered to tell him. Not even after Randall’s death!”

“I would have told him
sometime
, but that’s not the point!”

“So what is the point?”

“The point is—”

Christian walked forward and pulled out a chair. He didn’t wait for permission from Letitia—certainly didn’t wait for her to sit—before settling at his ease. Leaning back, patient, he waited.

Letitia paced along one side of the table, raging at her brother across the expanse. Glowering, Justin tracked her movements, his cutlery unused in his hands.

Arms and hands flying, Letitia ranted; scowling blackly, Justin gave as good as he got. For his part, Christian said not one word, far too wise in Vaux ways to attempt to intercede; far better for both to air their tempers, to let the pent-up emotions free. While Letitia might be berating Justin over his “disloyal revelations,” that was only her principal complaint; if it hadn’t been that, she would have been upbraiding
him over his attempt to deflect suspicion from her by encouraging it to fix on himself. Justin, meanwhile, although dogged in his defense of Christian’s right to know the long-ago truth, was equally irritated by her refusal to accept his grand sacrifice.

Eventually, Christian knew, they’d run down. Letitia, he estimated, had at most a few minutes more left in her. Justin might have greater stamina—not that he would wager on it—but he wasn’t truly angry, more irritated with her for calling him to account for a fault that, in his eyes, was hers.

Christian focused on her face, faintly flushed, eyes sparkling. Despite her protestations, he did wonder if she would ever have told him of her own accord. Knowing her pride, knowing how deeply she’d despised Randall, he doubted it.

As he’d predicted, she eventually sighed, and rubbed the center of her forehead. “This is getting us nowhere.”

Justin opened his mouth, caught Christian’s warning glance and grudgingly shut it. Tightening his grip on his knife and fork, he looked down at his plate. Only to discover that his man, Oscar, clearly a veteran of Vaux affairs, had slipped a cover over the dish.

Without a word, Oscar reached past Justin and whipped the cover off.

Justin grunted his thanks and cut into an egg. “There’s no point carrying on. What’s done is done—now we have to deal with it.”

Having run out of steam, Letitia plopped down on the chair Christian pushed out for her. “I still can’t believe you thought I’d killed Randall.”

“If you’d been able to hear yourself that night, you wouldn’t have any great difficulty.” Justin shoveled in some ham, studied her while he chewed. He swallowed and said, “At least Hermione’s safe from any further matrimonial machinations.”