The Perfect Kiss (25 page)

She turned, shocked. “He’s a slave?” She didn’t approve of slaves.

“Not anymore,” Lord D’Acre said mildly. “I actually bought him to save his—man—er, life. I freed him, of course, but he chose to stay and work for me.” He saw the look she was giving him and added, “At a not-inconsiderable salary.”

Grace was intrigued by the way he’d cut himself off. “What was it prompted you to buy him? What did you save?”

He continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “And don’t imagine that outfit is anything you’ll see anywhere else in the world. Abdul has dressed to impress the natives.”

If he had, it was working, Grace observed. People had appeared from everywhere, crowding into the hall, craning their necks for a sight of the enormous foreigner and speculating about him in audible tones. The three Tickel girls stood in a line, eyes popping and jaws agape, smoothing their hair and skirts and sending coy glances the big man’s way.

He never so much as glanced at them. He seemed, in fact, magnificently indifferent to the sensation his arrival had created.

“Part of his tactics,” Dominic murmured in Grace’s ear. “He makes it clear from the start that he’s outside any frame of reference they have; thus he cares nothing for popularity or fitting in. If we were in Turkey now, he’d no doubt be dressed as an English gentleman, only it would be some unique and bizarre arrangement of English attire, so that nobody would mistake him for a genuine Englishman. In Arabia he once dressed as a Russian. The costume varies. Only the mustache is constant.”

“Why doesn’t he want to fit in?”

“He’s establishing his authority.”

“His authority?”

“Abdul is my—there is actually no word that adequately describes his work, but majordomo might cover it. He will take charge of the household. He may take charge of the entire estate—it will depend on his opinion of Jake Tasker’s abilities.”

“Abdul decides?” She was amazed. “Don’t you have any say in it?”

“Of course, but I’ve learned it is better to let Abdul have his way. His methods are unorthodox but invariably effective, and he puts my interests first, last, and in between. He is that rare gem, an incorruptible employee.”

And then Abdul was there in front of them, bowing fluidly before his master. To her amazement, he addressed Dominic in Arabic. Grace was thrilled at the sound. She’d studied the language, but she’d never heard a native speaking it. Unfortunately he spoke too fast for her to understand.

Lord D’Acre inclined his head and said in English, “Welcome to my father’s home, Abdul. As you see, it is in need of your talents.”

Abdul straightened and glanced at the other inhabitants of the room, then returned his gaze to Grace, fixing her with a narrow-eyed piercing look. She raised her chin a little, feeling self-conscious under his scrutiny, and examined him with equal thoroughness. The black eyes sparkled, he looked from her to Lord D’Acre and back, then cleared his throat deliberately.

“This is Miss Greystoke,” Lord D’Acre said obediently.

Grace held out her hand and to her surprise, Abdul took it and, bowing low, carried her hand to his forehead in a reverent gesture. She said in careful, self-conscious Arabic, “Greetings, Abdul. Peace be with you.”

He shot her a surprised look, then his swarthy face split in a dazzling grin. He responded, slowly enough for her to follow. “Thank you,
sitt
, and peace be with you also.”
Sitt
was Arabic for lady.

Grace was delighted. Her first real Arabic and it had worked! Maybe with Abdul, she could practice more so she would be ready for Egypt. She glanced at the man beside her. If she went to Egypt. He’d turned her plans upside down.

After Lord D’Acre had introduced him to Melly and Mr. Netterton, Abdul turned and scanned his surrounds with an enigmatic look, apparently unaware of the audience that had gathered. “You permit?” he asked Dominic.

Dominic nodded. Abdul strode off toward the gawking crowd. Without making a sound and without, as far as Grace could see, making any actions, he swept them all before him, back to the domestic regions like a flock of silent chicks.

“What’s he going to do?” she asked Dominic.

“Take charge,” he responded. “By tomorrow evening he will have inspected the house from top to bottom, will know every person here, what they do, and how. And then he will make it better. And then he will do the same to the estate. He’s a genius.”

“How interesting. And what will you do?”

“Nothing further, thank God. I brought Abdul in so he could bring the estate and house into a state sufficient to make a good profit on its sale. It’s what he’s good at.”

“You are still planning to sell the estate?” Grace asked, shocked.

“Why would I not?” he said, and left the room. Dismayed, she watched him go.

 
 
AFTER A NIGHT OF FITFUL DREAMING, GRACE ROSE EARLY, DRESSED, and slipped downstairs, heading for the stables. The house was so much nicer these days—everyone’s hard work was showing results. Gleaming woodwork, well-beaten rugs, a faint scent of roses in the air. How could he still be thinking of selling the estate?

She saddled Misty in thoughtful silence and rode out into the morning, trailing the heavy weight of dreams behind her, breathing in the chill morning air fragrant with a hint of autumn, making breath steam and noses cold.

She headed for the hills, where the sun struck first. It was going to be another glorious day. The farmers might need rain, but it was hard not to enjoy the sunshine. Sunshine was a gift to treasure.

The sound of hoofbeats coming up behind her disturbed her reveries. She looked back. She watched the mist drifting low in the valleys and a tall man with golden eyes approaching on his big, black horse.

Without thinking she urged Misty to a gallop. Hooves thundered over the fresh, damp turf. It was exhilarating, this unexpected challenge. She loved the sudden call to action and the feel of flying over the fields. She relished the sensation of the horse’s hooves beneath her, thundering over the ground, tossing up clumps of turf and mud, while brisk cold air scoured her lungs and made her skin tingle and her eyes water and her blood sing.

And she loved the sensation of the big, black horse pounding along behind her, gaining slowly, inexorably on the smaller mare.

I’m a Wolfe . . . We choose our prey and hunt it down. Consider yourself warned, Miss Prey.

Laughing, she reached the top of the hill a breath ahead of him. She flung herself off her horse and stood there, hands on hips, panting, laughing, and crowing victory. Dominic leaped off Hex and caught Grace by the waist, swinging her around in an exuberant circle, then pulling her hard against him. And then they were kissing, kissing as if they could not stop, kissing and touching as if it had been weeks, not hours since they parted.

“I didn’t sleep a wink,” Grace told him breathlessly between kisses.

“Me, neither.” He cupped her face in his hands, kissing her mouth, her cheek, her eyelids, covering her with kisses.

After the first rush of emotion, they fell apart and simply stood there, facing each other, panting, and staring into each other’s eyes. “I’ll fetch my coat, shall I?” Dominic said.

She knew what he meant. Her mouth dried. “Yes, the grass is still damp.” She wiped her hands against the skirts of her habit. She wanted this, had tossed and turned all night dreaming of it, but now, suddenly she was nervous.

He fetched the coat that he’d rolled up and strapped to his saddle. He’d planned ahead. Prey indeed. She tried to smile and felt it wobble.

He noticed. “You don’t have to do this, you know.” He looked chagrined. “I promised myself our first time would be in a bed.”

He was nervous, too. The thought relieved her. It was momentous for both of them. She smiled, leaned forward, and kissed him softly on the mouth. “I
want
to do this. I want you, Dominic Wolfe.”

At her words his eyes blazed bright. He spread the coat on the grass, then sat on it and held out his hand to her. “Come to me, love.”

And she came. In silence they kissed and touched and explored. He unbuttoned the jacket of her riding habit and caressed her through the silk shirt she wore beneath it. He unbuttoned the shirt and smiled. “Front-laced stays—clever girl.”

She smiled. “Indeed, but I wasn’t planning for this when I dressed this morning.” She made a rueful moue. “If I had, I might have put on prettier underclothes.”

“I’m all for pretty underclothes,” he told her with a grin, “but I’m much more interested in the person in them.” He planted a kiss between her breasts and started to unlace her corset. She saw how he was looking at her and suddenly her underclothes didn’t matter. He was eating her with his eyes and she felt beautiful. More than beautiful, she felt powerful.

All nerves fled and she sat up and started to unbutton his shirt. And suddenly it was another race. Laughing, their hands tangling and dueling as they flew to undo buttons and laces. She pulled his shirt off at the same instant as he unlaced her corset. They stared. He was more naked than she, because under the corset she wore a light muslin chemise.

“You are beautiful,” she whispered, laying her palms on the hard planes of his chest.

“No, this, this is beauty,” he said and cupped her breasts, caressing the tight nipples with his thumbs. “You are beauty.” The heat of his hands as they created friction between the thin muslin and her highly sensitized skin soon had her moaning in pleasure. His mouth soon followed, hot, seductive, compelling. He took her aching nipple into his mouth and played on first one, then the other, with his tongue and teeth. She writhed beneath him, hungry shudders racking her body, centering on the hot, aching core of her. Her hands raked his body, kneading, scratching, demanding more.

He pulled off her chemise and she gloried in the sensation of skin against skin: hot, damp. Her legs were thrashing with a need she didn’t know how to assuage.

But he did.

She felt a coolness against her legs and dimly realized he was pushing her skirts up. His hard, warm palm soothed her, caressed her, slid under the cotton of her drawers and cupped her intimately, then slid his fingers across, around, between. She arched against them, whimpering softly with need. His mouth closed over hers and he kissed her deeply, his tongue subtly mimicking the movements of his fingers and she jerked and shuddered around him uncontrollably.

He moved over her and she stiffened as she felt the hot, hard bluntness pushing at her entrance. “Hold fast, love,” he murmured, pleasuring her again with his fingers. She felt herself softening and melting around him again, and suddenly he thrust and she arched in shock and froze, gasping.

“That’s it, love, now relax,” he murmured.

“Relax?”
It came out as a squeak. “How can I—”

His fingers moved again, soothing, pleasuring her as he had done before and she felt her body slowly adjust to the unfamiliar . . . occupant. He was inside her body. She could feel him. She was all around him. And nothing was broken.

Experimentally she flexed her inner muscles and immediately he groaned. His head was flung back in a rictus of agony . . . or ecstasy.

The feeling of pure feminine power surged back through her. She flexed her muscles again. Again he moaned.

“I think you’re relaxed enough,” he ground out and started to move inside her.

Her breath fled as he moved, rocking her whole body with each movement. Without conscious volition her legs embraced him, locking around him, pulling him tight and hard against her, pulling him deeper.

His big, powerful body surrounded her, cradled her, surging into her, carrying her with him as wave upon wave juddered through her, skin to skin, inside and out, blood thrumming. All awareness faded as exquisite tension built and built and built, and it was like his blood was thundering through her, and hers through him, and together they were . . . they were . . .

“Look at me, love.”

With an effort she pulled back from the brink and forced her eyes open. He made one last mighty thrust and she heard, as if from far away, a high, thin scream.

And he held her gaze as she shattered into oblivion around him. And oblivion was pure, incandescent gold.

It seemed like hours later she opened her eyes and awareness gradually trickled back. She was lying, half naked on top of him, her back naked, warmed only by his arms and the morning sunshine. And by the golden glow of his eyes as they watched her come back to her senses.

They flared the moment she realized they were still joined together. Her inner muscles clenched and he jerked within her. He smiled, and the smile was both triumphant and possessive.

“I don’t think you’re ready for me again just yet,” he said softly. He was, she could feel him, hard and hot and ready, deep within her.

“You have no idea how noble of me it is to do this,” he said as he withdrew from her.

“Pooh to your nobility,” she murmured. “I never asked you to.”

He grinned and kissed her. “If you’re not just yet, you’ll be feeling a little bit sore soon enough. The next time I want you to enjoy it even more.”

She was feeling a bit sore, a bit swollen and sticky, too, but she didn’t care about that. She felt too good to care. “There’s more?”

He laughed and refastened his breeches. “Yes indeed, you insatiable wench.”

“Good,” she said. “In that case I’ll agree to wait.”

He stared at her a moment, then laughed and snatched her into his arms, kissing her exuberantly, then tenderly. “My dream.”

Afterward, they rode home slowly, talking in spurts, of small, inconsequential things. And all the way, the attraction hummed between them, powerful and insistent, springing up at a glance, a look, a touch.

For two pins, Grace thought, she’d push him off his horse and have her way with him again. She couldn’t stop smiling. And from the way he kept looking at her, he felt the same.

They reached the crest of the hill that overlooked Wolfestone and by mutual unspoken accord, stopped to take in the view. They could see the castle, the village, Frey’s church, and a myriad of patchwork fields and coppices.