Vanity (16 page)

“It might even things up a little,” Octavia said, trying to respond with a light insouciance, but her voice didn’t sound in the least like her own.

“Come to the fire.” He drew her into the warmth, away from the needling drafts from the window.

Octavia was aware of the heat of the fire on her back, the corresponding coolness on her front. She could feel her nipples prickling as they hardened, whether with the chill, or her own nakedness, or what she was watching, she couldn’t guess.

Rupert removed his clothes with an air of deliberation, and she remembered the other time when she’d watched in disbelief as he’d undressed in front of her as coolly as if she weren’t there. But this time it was
for
her.

As he removed each article, he placed it carefully on a cedar chest at the foot of the bed. He turned away from her as he shrugged off his shirt, and she saw the muscles ripple across his shoulders and down the lean, powerful back. Her gaze clung to the shape of his hips and buttocks outlined in the kidskin britches, the muscular swell of his thighs as he bent to pull off his boots and stockings. Barely breathing,
she listened to the clunk as he unfastened his belt. His hands moved at his waist, and then he pushed both britches and drawers off his hips, stepping out of both garments in one fluid movement.

Octavia examined his naked rear view … the way his broad back tapered into the slender waist and slim hips. She absorbed the neat muscularity of his bottom, the rock-hard thighs and calves. She had only an imperfect image of her own back view, but she was convinced it bore little resemblance to this pared-down masculine version.

He seemed to be giving her ample time for scrutiny, enough time to note the tiny mole in the small of his back, the dusting of dark hair along his spine, creeping into the narrow cleft of his buttocks, enough time for the examination to bring a flush to her cheeks and a quiver of excitement to her belly.

And then he turned to face her. He stood still, a half smile playing on his lips, as he offered himself for her gaze. Her eyes flew over the hard chest, the flat belly, and fixed upon his erect flesh. She had never looked upon such a thing, but her body remembered the aching joy as that shaft had penetrated her own flesh, moved within her, capturing some essence of her self that belonged only to the exquisite joining of bodies.

She took a tentative step toward him, but he moved quickly, taking them both closer to the fire’s warmth. He held her close against him, so that their skins touched at every point and his erection pulsed hard against her belly. Her breasts were pressed against his chest, and she could feel his heart beating as she could feel her own like a crazed bird taking off on some mad flight.

He ran his hands down her back, stroking into the indentation of her waist, sliding round to cup her bottom. His smiling mouth kissed hers, a light, tantalizing brush that made her lips tingle.

“I would like to look at you,” he said.

“I thought you just did.” Her responding smile was tremulous as she placed her hands on his shoulders.

“Not as I would wish. You seemed uncomfortable.”

“Well, it’s not a situation I’m familiar with,” she said candidly.

Smiling, he stepped back from her, taking her hands and holding them away from her body as his gaze swept in a long, leisurely caress down her length. His eyes burned into her as if they would brand her. He let her hands drop to her sides and placed his own on her breasts, cradling the soft mounds in his palms, fingertips flicking lightly at her nipples.

“This pleases you,” he stated. He licked his forefinger and ran it damply down the deep cleft between her breasts. Octavia shuddered, the sharply defined edges of reality, of their surroundings, wavering as every part of her responded to what he was doing to her.

His finger dipped into her navel, then traced a path over her belly. The delicate probe slid between her thighs, and her breath came swift as her body jumped at the exquisite teasing touch. He cupped the mound of her sex in his warm palm, and his fingers danced over the sensitive bud until she could hear her moans in the quiet room as if coming from a great distance and having nothing to do with herself. A wave of sensation so intense she lost every grip on reality, crashed over her, engulfing her, and she would have slipped to her knees if he hadn’t held her to him with a tight encircling arm.

“Lord of hell!” she muttered, hanging limply against him as her eyes focused again and the room came back. “What happened?”

Rupert chuckled richly. “You are exquisitely sensitive, sweeting. I barely touched you.”

She looked up at him. “Could I do something like that for you?”

“Oh, yes.”

Octavia straightened her still wobbly knees and looked down at his body. His arousal seemed to beg for her touch, and she held him gently, exploratively, curling her fingers, feeling the blood pulsing in the corded veins. “Like this?”

“Like that.”

She allowed her fingers to roam, to reach further, to
stroke the hard globes. When she looked up at him, she saw that his eyes were closed, his head thrown back, his mouth curved with pleasure. He’d said he would show her how to give as well as receive the sensual joys of the bedchamber, and she found she was deriving the greatest satisfaction from feeling his pleasure in her fingertips, hearing his breathing quicken, feeling the dampness of his skin as she rested her cheek against his chest while the shaft of his flesh flickered against her caressing hand with a life of its own.

“Stop now!” His voice was a husky rasp of urgency, and he reached down to seize her hands, drawing them away from him. He carried her to the bed, where, holding her against one upraised knee, he pulled back the covers.

He dropped her gently onto the bed and came down with her, leaning on one elbow beside her as he stroked her body, a thoughtful look in his eye. “You have the most beautiful body. So rich and yet so delicate.”

He bent to kiss the fast-beating pulse at her throat, and then his mouth fastened on her nipple, his tongue flicking upward, his lips tugging at the rosy crown, creating a responding tug in her belly and loins, setting loose a rampaging surge of inexpressible need. Urgently, she pulled him over her, stretching her body beneath him, her skin adhering to his, the ridged muscles of his thighs pressing into her own softer flesh.

“I shall be lost,” he whispered in soft protest. “It’s too soon.”

“No … no,” she reiterated firmly, lifting her hips, curling her legs around his waist. “No, it’s not too soon. I want it
now!”

He laughed, but his eyes were on fire, the contours of his face smudged with his own desperate desire. And then he was inside her, and it was both as it had been in her dream and quite different. This time her eyes were open in the candlelit room, her gaze fixed on the face above her, seeing the harsh planes of his face softening as his pleasure built, the tautness of his mouth as he struggled to hold back, the corded veins in his neck, arched with effort. Her hands
ran up his arms, cupping the hard swell of the biceps supporting his weight.

This time when the waves of her own greedy hunger built in her loins, she felt the glorious urgency in every fiber, in every pulse of her brain. They gathered strength with each deeply penetrating thrust of his flesh until she seemed to burst asunder in a shower of sparks and she heard her cry ring through the room the instant before his mouth fastened on hers. Vaguely, she was aware that he’d left her body, but his length was measured along hers and she held him to her, linking her arms around his back in a fierce embrace as the sparks settled and her body re-formed.

Now she became aware of the mattress beneath her, her own sweat mingling with his, his weight crushing her breasts, hammering her into the deep feather bed. Glorious languor flooded her, turning her limbs to butter. Her arms fell away from him, the tension in her thighs and buttocks was abruptly released, and she sank deeper into her nest, her eyes closing as her heart slowed.

Rupert kissed her eyelids, the tip of her nose, the corner of her mouth; then with a groan he rolled sideways onto the bed.

She stretched a hand to pat his stomach in the only expression of recognition she could manage. After a minute she said with a great effort, “You withdrew from me at the last.”

“You were so impatient, love, I didn’t have time to don armor.”

But of course, Octavia thought. Pregnancy would certainly ruin their plans … or at least her share in them.

It was a cold little niggle of grim reality that had no place in the warm, satiated languor of the present. She banished it easily, and as Rupert thrust an arm beneath her, she turned her head into his shoulder and slid into sleep.

I
t was pitch-dark when Rupert awoke from a light doze and inched soundlessly from the bed, moving so carefully he barely disturbed the bedcovers. A slight glow from the fire’s embers provided an inkling of illumination, and he padded to the armoire, listening to Octavia’s deep even breathing from the uncurtained bed.

In ten minutes he was dressed. He threw a heavy black cloak around his shoulders, took up a dark tricorn hat and his gloves, and walked softly to the door. He lifted the heavy bar with the utmost caution, then eased up the latch. He opened the door just wide enough to slide sideways through the aperture and then drew it shut behind him.

Octavia sat up the minute she heard the faint click of the closing latch. What was going on here? What was he doing?

She leaped from bed, dragging the coverlet around her, and ran to the door, stubbing her toe on the leg of a stool as she weaved through the darkness. Cursing under her breath, she eased open the door and stepped into the corridor, where a tallow candle in a wall sconce threw a dim, shadowy light. She tiptoed down the corridor until she reached the head of the stairs.

Rupert was talking quietly in the hall below. Ben’s voice answered him, but so low she couldn’t make out the words. They spoke hastily and then moved out of the hall, into the kitchen.

Octavia raced back to the bedchamber and stood at the window, pressing her face to the glass, looking down into the stableyard. A lantern glimmered below, its light swinging across the cobbles, providing a small oasis in the surrounding blackness. The sky was thick with cloud, blocking out both stars and moonlight, but in the faint puddle of golden light she could discern Rupert and Ben, still deep in conversation. Then Ben moved away toward the stables, carrying the lantern, leaving Rupert in darkness.

Octavia stared stupidly down into the black yard, unable to make any sense of what she was seeing. Then Ben reappeared, leading a horse the color of starlight. He carried a saddle and bridle over one arm.

Octavia flew to the armoire. She fumbled through the garments, found a pair of worsted britches and a shirt, and ran to the window with them. Keeping her eyes fixed on the scene in the yard, she dragged on the britches, rolled up the legs until they cleared her ankles, shrugged into the shirt, tucking it into the waist of the britches, and then looked around for a belt. She found the one Rupert had discarded earlier … an eternity ago … and cinched it around her waist. The last buckle hole was too loose, but she tied the leather roughly together. It held up the britches but made a most inelegant muddle around her middle.

Below, Ben had finished saddling the silver horse. He stood back, holding up the lantern, as Rupert sprang into the saddle. In the lamplight, as she pulled on her boots, Octavia could just make out a brace of pistols in saddle holsters and a long whip curled around the pommel.

Rupert leaned down, took Ben’s hand, and shook it briefly; then the horse sprang forward beneath him, disappearing into the darkness through the gate to the stables. Ben turned back into the inn with his lantern.

Octavia knew now what was happening. Lord Nick was taking to the road. She grabbed her cloak and gloves
and left the chamber, closing the door behind her. At the head of the stairs she stopped, listening to see if she could hear Ben moving around below. A line of light showed beneath the closed door to the taproom.

He came out of the kitchen and went into the taproom. Voices swelled as the door opened, then faded as he closed it behind him.

Octavia ran down the stairs. In the deserted kitchen, lit only by the fire still burning in the great fireplace, she raised the latch on the back door and slipped out into the stable-yard. She flitted across to the stables, a dark shadow in the deep gloom. Rupert had ridden out on a horse she’d not seen before. It was reasonable to assume that Peter, the roan he’d ridden from London that first time, was also stabled at the Royal Oak.

She could see nothing inside the stable, although the shuffling of hooves in straw and the occasional whicker told of more than one horse bedded down there. A lantern hung from a hook just inside the door, flint and tinder beside it. It was a risk she had to take if she was to find Peter. Flint scraped on tinder, the oil-soaked wick caught, and the lantern threw long shadows on the wooden walls.