Chapter 12

They had, of course, been extraordinarily intimate. He thought, had thought even at the time, even while it was happening, that he would never as long as he lived forget that night, their conversation, the instant connection that had sprung to life between them and led – inexorably, as if nothing else could ever possibly have transpired – to her kissing him with such passion, to her pressing her gloriously lithe body against his, and then to him falling to his knees and… God. God. He groaned and rested his suddenly hot forehead on the windowpane, welcoming its soothing coolness. Tam seemed to sense his agitation and raised his long grey head in enquiry, whining a little, but then subsided when no further sound was heard from his master.

Gabriel was forced to admit that, while he had in all conscience been uncomfortable enough with his bizarre situation before the Pendlebury ladies had arrived, the recognition of just exactly who had come into his home had disturbed him more than he was able to articulate, even to himself in his most private of thoughts. It had been difficult at first to comprehend what she was doing here, but he had known even in that first instant that she was horrified to see him, and had had not the least idea who he was prior to that moment. She had lied to him once, for reasons he only partly understood even now, but there was no trickery in her. She had not come here with any ulterior motive. God knows she had betrayed no desire to use the secret that they shared as any kind of leverage. Very much the opposite, and most unflatteringly so, in fact.

And her presence had thrown all his plans into confusion.

Gabriel was still not entirely sure why he had opened the secret panel in the cupboard at the base of the tower and climbed up to see her last night – what he had hoped to achieve by it. He wanted her, of course. Still wanted her. It would be futile to deny that. His attention had been piqued as soon as he had set eyes on her, so out of place and yet so stubbornly refusing to leave, and he would not have been human if those long legs in the clinging red breeches, that expressive little face and tempting mouth beneath the lace mask, had not intrigued him. A girl, a beautiful blue-eyed girl in boys' clothing – what man would not want to know more? But he could see that she was not safe in that house, did not belong there, and he would have been happy – he told himself he would have been perfectly happy – to help her make her escape and never see her again. One virtuous action in a life that had been full of sin: a feather on the scale.

That was not what had happened: she had refused the chance to escape when it had been offered to her, and for that she must take some share of the responsibility. At least he could comfort himself with the undeniable fact that he had not so far lost his senses as to do anything that she had not asked of him, despite the desire for her that had almost overmastered him. And what she had asked of him…

It did no good at all to think of that now. He had spent enough nights reliving every word, every expression, every nuance of their kiss, every hesitation and sigh, the feel of her finger in his mouth, her bravery when at last she had let him know what she wanted from him. And then most of all, most of all, the sight of her on that sofa as she waited for him to pleasure her, still masked, half-naked, lips parted in desire and anticipation. And then when he had put his mouth on her, good God… the softness of her skin, her exquisite responsiveness, the little gasp of surprise and arousal she had let out when he had bitten her tender thigh, and the delicious wetness of her most secret places when he had buried his face in her and felt her opening to him like a flower, like… like a revelation.

He made a soft noise of disgust at the tenor of this thoughts. He was no poet. He despised high-flown sentiment, always had. One of the main aims of poetry, as far as he could see, and his classical education had confirmed as much, was to persuade women into your bed who otherwise might not agree to go there, and make everyone think you were a devil of a fine fellow, rather than a hopeless libertine, while you were doing it. A clever trick, or a cheap one, he was not quite sure. Both, perhaps. He'd never experienced the urge to versify. He had made love to women before, more women than he cared to count, and never felt a need to describe the lips, the hair, the eyes, the breasts, the taste of any one of them. He did not want to describe it now; he wanted to experience it. To taste her again, to kiss every inch of her body and caress the parts of her he had not yet seen and burned to see. If he must be crude – and it really did seem that he must – he wanted to be inside her, for his cock to follow where his tongue had so unforgettably been. But first he wanted to make her come again so gloriously, for her tenderest and most private places to quiver uncontrollably and then soften and relax deliciously because of what he, he alone, could do to her. And he wanted that almost – almost – more than he wanted to spend himself in her in his own unstoppable climax. And then he wanted to do it again, and again, and again, until he tired of it, or she did. Which, he had already known that night and knew now, would not be soon.

And she had been right, of course, hideously so; it was unconscionable to feel such powerful desire for a woman who was staying under his roof and still contemplate even for a moment wooing, proposing marriage to, announcing his engagement with, any other woman in the world. It was much worse than unconscionable – he had done unforgivable things before and probably would again – it was bloody stupid. And it was unnecessary.

Because there was an obvious solution to all of these difficulties.