Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty

Afterward, she slept.

Thorne didn’t.

He couldn’t have slept, even if he’d wished to. Too many thoughts rioted in his skull. He lay awake, keeping one arm curled protectively around her shoulders and watching the smoke from the fireplace draw upward and disappear into the darkness overhead.

It was done now. There could be no undoing it. Now he was resolved to give her everything she deserved. As close to it as he could manage, anyway.

Beside him, she stirred, rousing halfway from sleep. She rolled toward him, nestling close and throwing her arm over his chest. Her fingers toyed idly with the hair there, sifting through the springy tufts and lifting them playfully.

Then her touch swept downward. If he hadn’t been already hard before she started petting him, he was rock solid now.

She whispered, “Make love to me again?”

He stared at her, amazed, and stroked a wayward lock of hair from her face.

Was that what they’d done, just an hour or so ago? Make love? She’d certainly uttered the word enough times, like some kind of incantation. The idea was in him now, and he didn’t know what to make of it.

He rather liked her phrase for bedding, though: “make love.” It made the emotion sound concrete. Comprehensible. Like a product that could be manufactured from whole cloth. Take two lusting, yearning bodies and rub them briskly together, and this substance called love would simply result—simple as striking two flints to make a spark.

Unfortunately, Thorne didn’t think it worked quite that way.

“It’s too soon,” he said. “You’ll be tender. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I am tender, I’ll admit. But aren’t there other ways?”

He lifted a brow, skeptical. “What could you know of other ways?”

She laughed. “Really, Samuel. Women do talk among themselves. And more than one risqué novel has made the rounds of the Queen’s Ruby.”

Thorne choked back a derisive noise. There were heroes of novels, and then there were men like him. Whatever those bawdy stories had taught her, no doubt it was some genteel, delicate imagining of lust—as evidenced by the way she trailed light, sweet caresses up and down his stiffened cock right now.

He fought the urge to take her hand, take control. He could show her how to grip him tight. He could guide her into stroking him hard and fast, relentlessly, until he snarled and bucked like a wild beast. He could put her on all fours and take her like an animal, savagely pumping her from behind.

He doubted any of those scenes were in her risqué novels. They certainly had nothing to do with “making love.”

His own crudeness concerned him, as it never had in the past. Unlike any other woman he’d bedded, Katie had a way of demolishing his self-control. When he’d been inside her, pushing closer and closer to release—he’d felt himself slipping closer and closer to some precipice, too. That was the reason he’d withdrawn. He’d come too close to that divide, and he didn’t know what waited on the other side. It might be a dark, shadowy place. If he fell into it, he worried he could lose himself.

He could hurt her.

He folded his arms behind his head and laced his fingers together, just to forbid them from wandering. Her light, teasing touch was already more than he should hope for. He’d content himself with this.

“Go back to sleep,” he said.

“I can’t. I’m a newly engaged woman, and I’m too busy making plans. Do you think we can be married in St. Ursula’s? It’s such a beautiful church. I always dreamed of being married there.”

He chuckled. “I don’t suppose I was the man standing at the altar with you.”

“I’m not certain. Maybe you were. His face was always rather shadowy. But exceedingly handsome.” She propped herself up on one elbow and faced him, eyes bright and inquisitive. “Did you ever dream about me?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted reluctantly, only because it was obvious she hoped to hear him say yes. “I tried not to.”

“Why would you try not to?”

He stared into the darkness overhead. “Because my dreams didn’t have anything to do with marriage or church.”

“Oh,” she said, drawing a coy touch down the center of his chest.

“It didn’t seem right, to use you that way.”

“That’s absurd.”

She flipped atop him, belly-to-belly, stacking her arms on his chest and replacing his view of the looming shadows with her own radiant, smiling face. Her hair tumbled about them both, making a draped, hidden room to house their kiss.

God. He couldn’t believe this was real. That she was here, and his. He was almost afraid to touch her for fear she’d vanish, so he kept his hands tucked beneath his head and allowed her to kiss him, just as long and as deeply as she wished.

“Samuel,” she said at length, “you have my express permission to dream about me however and whenever you like.” She sat tall, straddling his torso, and jabbed one fingertip into his breastbone. “With one condition—you must tell me all about it when you wake up, so I can make the fantasies real.”

“Don’t say that. You’ve no idea the depravities a man’s imagination can supply.”

“Then enlighten me.”

She braced her hands on either side of his body and leaned on them. Her slight breasts swung forward, taunting him, and the downy curls between her thighs brushed against his belly. His cock arched and strained upward, seeking her softness and heat. With one brisk tug on her hips, he could have her sex cradling his. Then sinking down to sheathe him, so very tight.

He groaned a little. But he kept his hands firmly pinned beneath his head.

“Tell me.” Her voice was a smoky whisper. “Tell me your every last depraved, wicked, carnal desire.”

“We’d be here a week.”

A coy smile tipped her mouth. “I wouldn’t mind.”

He shook his head. No matter how smugly pleased she looked with herself, he knew she was just a few hours past the first blush of innocence.

She sat up straight, tossing her hair back over her shoulders and looking down at him. “I’m serious, Samuel. I won’t have you treating me like some untouchable, delicate lady. Saving your truest, deepest cravings for dreams that feature someone else. I’m jealous. I don’t want to merely appear in your dreams. I want to be the only woman in them, from this day forward.”

He stared up at her, fingers woven behind his head. He’d never considered the matter that way.

If she was truly that determined to learn something of his darkest desires . . . he supposed he could oblige her. But he would keep to the fantasies that didn’t put her in any sort of risk.

Ones that placed her in control.

He unhooked his hands from behind his head. Beginning at her shoulders, he skimmed a touch down her arms until he clasped her hands in his. He took and lifted them to the level of her torso, then fitted her palms over her own pale, smooth breasts.

“Hold these for me,” he said.

Then he reclined to the pillow, once again lacing his hands beneath his head.

She gave him a quizzical look. Then she turned that quizzical expression on her own breasts, plumping them lightly in her hands. “What am I to do with them?”

“Whatever feels good.”

“And you’re just going to lie there and watch?”

He nodded.

Her brow wrinkled. “Truly. This is something men fantasize about?”

“With regularity.”

She laughed and blushed a little, as women did when they were embarrassed. He simply lay there, waiting, and offered no excuse.

Eventually, she shrugged. “As you wish, then.”

With her palms, she gently lifted and shaped the modest swells of creamy flesh. She ran her fingertips around the circumference of each breast. And then she balanced them carefully, like two weights on either side of a scale, and pressed her thumbs to her hardened nipples.

“Like this?” she asked. “Am I doing it right?”

He nodded, unable to answer aloud. His tongue had plastered itself to the roof of his mouth.

As she rolled her own nipples beneath her thumbs, a wash of pink spread across her chest and worked its way up her throat. Her lips fell apart, swollen and red, and she moistened them with her tongue.

“Pinch them,” he scraped out.

She gasped faintly as she obeyed, catching the puckered, berry-red nubs between her thumbs and forefingers. As she pinched and plucked, she closed her eyes and arched her back, thrusting those luscious breasts forward for his view. Her pelvis rocked against his tensed abdomen.

She was already so wet. He was painfully hard.

“I did this once,” she whispered, opening her eyes. Her gaze was dark and glittering, and a shy smile played about her lips. “That night after the outing to Wilmington. I touched myself just like this and tried to imagine your mouth on me.”

Holy God. He’d never heard anything so arousing in his life. His fingers curled like talons, biting into his scalp, but he didn’t move. He didn’t dare reach for her—or before she could whisper a word of caution, he’d be ballocks-deep in her tender flesh, rutting like a beast.

Still, he couldn’t resist wanting more.

“Bring them here,” he said. “Bring them to me. Let me taste.”

She smiled. “Yes, Corporal.”

Her pert response made him wild. Normally, Thorne didn’t care for those power games in the bedchamber. He hated any implication that he would trade on his rank for pleasure.

But she wasn’t ceding to his will. She was poking fun at him for resorting to a stern, military tone. She knew he was desperate. She knew she’d made him that way, and she was already learning to relish her sensual power.

Damn, but she was a quick study. A clever, clever girl.

And he was a lucky, lucky man.

With one hand, she gripped the headboard for balance and support. She cupped her breast with the other, leaning forward until her taut nipple hovered an inch above his lips. The scent and warmth of her skin were palpable, intoxicating. She was teasing again, waiting for him to stretch and bridge that last distance.

Minx.He could tease, as well.

He pursed his lips and blew, sending a current of air rushing over her nipple. Her skin erupted in gooseflesh, and a delicious shudder traveled through her body and straight into his.

He stretched his tongue—just the very tip of his tongue—and flicked over just the very tip of her nipple.

Then he pursed his lips and blew again.

“Samuel.”

He ached for contact and physical release, but the needy edge in her voice was satisfying in a different way. A deeper way.

She lowered her breast, rubbing its silky weight against his unshaven cheek. He closed his eyes as the sweet, tender berry of her nipple traced his bottom lip. He smiled—a rarity for him—just to stretch his lips and give her more distance to cover.

They spent several minutes like this—teasing, lightly tasting. Each baiting the other in turn. As if acknowledging they had a lifetime to enjoy this, so there was no reason to rush just now.

He lazily mouthed her breasts—first one, then the other. She braced both hands on the headboard and leaned close, so he might alternate at will. Her breathing went ragged and a heady musk filled the air. As he licked at her nipples, she began to rock in a slow, steady rhythm, grinding against his belly. He drew one peak into his mouth and suckled hard, until she gave a low moan.

She responded to him so naturally. He might have been able to make her come this way. But that couldn’t be enough for him now. That moan pushed him past some breaking point, and he craved more.

He let his head fall back against the pillow, releasing her glistening breast to the dark, cool air. He unlaced his hands from beneath his head and grasped her by the waist.

And then he pulled forward, drawing her toward his mouth.

She tensed. “Samuel.”

“You claimed to know there are other ways.”

“Yes, but—”

“You wanted to know my every dark, depraved fantasy.”

She sighed. “I know. It’s just—”

Her words broke off as he lifted her by the waist, resettling her so her knees rested on either side of his broad shoulders. The pose spread her wide. She was pink and dewy and beautiful. Perhaps he shouldn’t push her this far, this soon. But he was out of his mind with lust, couldn’t rest now until he tasted her. All of her.

“Hold the headboard,” he commanded.

“Are you certain this is right?”

“It’s perfect.” Then, more hoarsely, “You’re perfect.”

He parted her with his thumbs, opening her to his kiss. He needed to get his mouth on her, and then she’d warm to the idea.

He began slowly, just as he had with her breasts. First teasing her with his breath, then sweeping light, flickering passes of his tongue all along her crease. He explored her every ridge and fold. When he focused his attentions on the swollen pearl at the crest, he heard a little sob of pleasure catch in her throat.

Yes.

Triumph pulsed through his veins. He gripped her hip, holding her still and close for his attentions. With his other hand, he reached for his own throbbing staff.

Easier this way, he thought. If he tended to matters himself, he wouldn’t be tempted to paw at her afterward. By taking himself in hand, he’d keep his baser needs under control.

It wouldn’t take long, for either of them. As he stroked his eager cock, he kept up a brisk, relentless rhythm with his tongue. With a bit of trial, he found the angle and rhythm that pleased her—one that had her gasping and arching against his open-mouthed kiss.

Yes. Move with me. Come for me.

Her mewling sighs of pleasure drove his own excitement to a dizzying peak. He’d never known anything so arousing in his life. She was so trusting, so completely spread open and vulnerable. So damned delicious against his tongue, positively molten with desire for him. For him. Perhaps he would never make her light up from within, but he could make her burn.

He could make her pant. And sigh. And moan.

This was a fantasy indeed. Lifting his eyes, he could watch her breasts sway and bounce. Her thigh muscle gave a sweet quiver against his jaw, and he knew whatever thin cord of restraint was left to him would surely snap. Soon. Raw, animal need chased beneath the surface of his skin, seeking release.

He gripped his cock tighter, pumped faster. So close.

“Samuel,” she gasped. “Samuel, I can’t—”

She cried out and bucked against his mouth, shaking the headboard with the force of her crisis.

Hearing his name on her lips, in that lusty voice . . . it sent him over the edge. His own climax erupted, wrenching his hips off the mattress. He came growling and shuddering, spilling his seed in forceful jets.

In the aftermath, the only sounds were the crackle of the fire, the muted patter of rain, and the hoarse, open-mouthed rasps of their breathing.

Well. She’d wanted carnality.

As soon as he could regain some strength in his limbs, he guided her aside and helped her settle onto the mattress. She curled next to him with her eyes closed, still working for breath.

She was so quiet for so long, he began to worry. Damn it. He must have shocked her too greatly. She was having regrets, wondering just what sort of beast she’d tethered herself to.

He stroked her hair, teasing out the rain-induced tangles with his fingers. “Are you well?”

“Yes,” she replied. “I’m well indeed. I’m just not sure how to look at you after that.”

After a moment’s thought, he suggested, “With pride?”

She laughed into her pillow.

“I’m serious. You were perfect.”

“You have such a wicked sense of humor. You always make me laugh at the most unlikely moments.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“It’s a wonderful thing.” She propped her chin on his chest. “It’s one of the things I love most about you. And it’s what assures me we’ll be happy together. We’re neither of us perfect people, but we can laugh together and admit our mistakes. And there’s this.” She eyed the mussed bed linens, blushing.

There was “this” indeed.

“After what we just did,” she said, “I don’t suppose I could have a single secret from you.”

“I pressed you too far just now. It’s your first time. I should have been more tender, more—”

“Please. Don’t apologize for giving me unfathomable pleasure. It’s just . . . for a fantasy girl, I didn’t even do much of anything.” Smiling, she touched his flagging erection. “I’d like to help with this part next time.”

A hoarse chuckle lifted his chest. “That can be arranged. Shortly.”

“Do we have a little time to talk first?”

He sat up in bed, pushing a hand through his hair before reaching for his flask. “A few minutes, at least. I’m not a youth anymore.”

At her chirping call, Badger abandoned his quilt and leaped onto the bed. The pup circled a good five times before finally wedging into a space between them. His tail whipped furiously.

“There we are,” she said. “Just like a little family. We’ll be very cozy in America.”

Thorne took a casual draught off his flask. Best not tell her that with those simple words she’d gone and made his wildest, most depraved and outrageous fantasy come true. He’d keep that information to himself. Until after a few more rounds of pleasure, at least.

She dropped her gaze and picked at an edge of the bedsheet. “I’m legitimate.”

He choked on his mouthful of whiskey. “What?”

“Evan and the solicitors found a marriage record. It seems Simon and Elinor—my parents—were married in secret. And the housekeeper from Ambervale identified me by my birthmark. So it seems I’m not just a Gramercy, I’m . . .”

Oh, Jesus. Don’t say it.

She lifted her head and looked at him. “I’m a lady.”

The room tilted. Then the walls began to spin around him.

A lady.

“Please don’t look so overset,” she begged. “It won’t change a thing between us.”

A cloud of frustration blurred his vision. She was the legitimate daughter of a marquess. A lady. How could that not change everything?

God damn it. It was as though every time he dared to reach for her, some cruel, vengeful deity pulled her just a little further out of his grasp. If he found a way around this hurdle, what would be next? She’d be revealed to be a princess? A mermaid?

“We’re still going to marry and go to America,” she said. “That’s all I want, is to be with you. To be your wife.”

A marquess’s legitimate daughter, living as a trapper’s wife in a humble, rough-hewn cabin. In Indiana.

Lady Katherine of the Prairie. Right.

“You’re not angry with me, are you?”

“Angry with you? Why would I be angry with you?” Even as he spoke the words, he was aware that they sounded . . . well, angry.

He forced himself to take a deep breath and then exhale slowly.

She was right; it didn’t matter. Not after what they’d just shared. They must marry, whether she was a charwoman or a fairy queen. He couldn’t waste time feeling worthless or counting all the ways he wasn’t good enough for her.

Whatever sort of woman she was . . . he had to be the man she needed.

Thorne scrubbed a hand through his hair, trying to fit his brain around the notion.

“Of course you’re a lady,” he said finally. He reached for her hand. “You always were, to me.”

“They haven’t told anyone yet,” she said. “Only the family and the solicitors know. Evan’s made arrangements with Sir Lewis to host a ball at Summerfield next week. It’s supposed to be the Gramercys’ parting gift to Spindle Cove, but they secretly plan to introduce me as their cousin that night. From there, we were meant to go to London.” She reached for his hand. “But I’ll explain to them that we’ve reconciled and plan to marry, as soon as possible.”

He held up a hand for silence and listened. “The rain has slowed. The hour isn’t even that late. We can dress, and I’ll take you down to the rooming house. Then I’ll explain matters to Drewe.”

She paled. “Oh, no. We can’t go to him like this. Not tonight. He has a famous temper. There’s no telling how he’ll react if he knows we’ve—”

“If he’s any sort of man, he’s out searching for you already. They could be pounding at the door any moment.”

“Then I must go.” She scrambled from the bed, wrapping one of the sheets about her torso for modesty.

He rose from the bed as well—making no such modesty attempts. “Katie, I won’t let you walk home alone.”

“You must. Otherwise, it will be obvious what’s happened between us, and Evan would . . .” She pulled her shift over her head. “Samuel, there’s a very real chance he would try to kill you.”

Kill him? Thorne couldn’t help but chuckle at that. His lordship was welcome to try.

“Just let me break the news gently,” she said. Her fingers worked desperately to do up her buttons. “Please.”

He swore, despising himself for causing her such obvious distress. Of course she wanted to break the news gently, because there was no way in hell a family of aristocrats—no matter how eccentric and unconventional—would rejoice to see their legitimate cousin marry a man like him.

Even he couldn’t rejoice at the idea. The two halves of his being were at war—the half that wanted the best for her, against the half that simply wanted her.

He gathered a pair of loose trousers and pulled them on.

“I think I’ll have a little money,” she said, rolling a woolen stocking up her leg and tying it off with a simple garter. “That’s the good news. We can buy ourselves a fair slice of America.”

Smiling, she reached past him to take her frock from the screen. He took the garment from her hands.

“Turn away,” he said. “Arms up.”

He helped her into the frock, taking time with all the buttons and laces. His right hand was still clumsy, so several moments passed.

When he’d finished, he put his hands on her slender waist. “Katie, how can you truly want that life? How can you want me?”

She swiveled to face him. “How could I want anyone else?”

To be sure, she said such sweet things now. But in time, he worried she’d come to resent him. A solitary life on the American frontier would give her far too many quiet hours to ponder all she’d left behind. A comfortable, lavish home and every convenience money could purchase. Her pupils, her friends. The family she’d waited her whole life to find.

“You will miss them.”

She nodded. “I will miss them. And I’ll be happy with you. The two conditions can coexist.”

Not knowing what to say without contradicting her, he instead bent his head and took her mouth in a kiss.

What started out tender quickly became passionate, feverish. He clutched her tight against his body and swept his tongue between her lips. She opened to him readily, no hint of shyness or restraint, and he kissed her as deeply as he could. Probing, searching. Desperately seeking the reassurance that would give his guilt-stricken soul some peace.

Convince me. Make me believe I can make you happy.

Light up for me.

When they broke apart, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were glassy. But he couldn’t exactly say that she glowed. Damn.

“Samuel, I won’t claim loving you is easy. But it’s scarcely the hardship you’re making it out to be, either.” She stretched to touch his face, rubbing the spot between his eyebrows with a single fingertip. “I want to iron this flat. Stop fretting so.”

“I’m not fretting. Men don’t fret.”

Men acted. If he saw a problem, a real man addressed it. He took bold risks, made life-altering changes.

“I’ll let you go home to the Gramercys tonight,” he said, “on one condition. Don’t tell them anything just yet.”

“But I’ll have to—”

He shushed her by placing two fingertips to her soft pink lips.

“Not a word of this. Not yet.” He caressed her cheek. “I want to ask for you properly. I must speak to Drewe myself, Katie. Man-to-man. You cannot deny me that.”

She swallowed and nodded. “I understand. Will you come down to the village tomorrow?”

He shook his head. “I need to return to London. I need some time to make arrangements first.”

“Will you be long?”

“A few days, that’s all.”

Her eyes shimmered. “Promise you’ll return?”

“You have my word.”

She had his word, his heart, his soul, his life. Always.

And he had a few days. A few days’ time—to change his life and place a wild, reckless wager on the future.