Chapter 17

Callie's knees went to jelly, and it was all she could do not to lean against the fireplace mantle for support.

"Further," he began.

"Further?" she asked, the word a breathless gasp. What further could there be?

"I could tell you."

A beat passed. "Tell me what?"

"What else I remember from that night."

He pushed off his end of the mantle, and his hand, massive and strong, reached out and stroked the line of her jaw, a gentle, calloused caress. Her breath caught, and her eyes closed. It was all she could do not to sway into his touch, to feel it more fully. He found the back of her head and tugged the pins out of the loose chignon at the base of her neck. Her hair fell about her shoulders and cascaded to the small of her back. His fingers threaded through, drawing the silky red strands forward and allowing them to fall, individual threads catching gold in the flickering light.

"This, a red silken curtain." His words were a velvet rumble in his chest. His fingers tucked beneath her chin. "Look at me."

Her eyes blinked open and found his serious gaze fixed on her, pupils pushing irises into a thin blue ring. She was new to this, but could that be desire? Was it possible this man desired her?

"And I remember the lovely curve that lay beneath your nightrail."

"I don't have curves."

A smile curled about his mouth, and he shook his head slowly. "Whoever said that doesn't know you the way I know you."

"Oh."

She should run, but her knees quaked. They wouldn't carry her far. The fact of the matter was this: she was trapped.

Trapped by his physicality?

No.

By fear?

Not even close.

She stood, frozen in place, trapped by her own desire.

Thanks to the night he recounted more accurately with each tick of the clock, she understood where desire could carry her with this man, and she was powerless to resist its seductive call.

What he was offering, she wanted, badly. How she wished he would reach for her again, her hauteur aching to crumble to bits. What was pride when this glorious man called the curve of her waist lovely?

"I remember something else, too," he spoke into the space between them.

It was such a short distance, less than the length of a stride, close enough for him to reach out and touch her again. Yet she couldn't understand how to bridge those few feet. He might as well have been on the other side of the world.

"You wore a shift." He settled his shoulder against the stone mantle and watched her as if from a great distance.

Silence stretched between them, and it suddenly struck her. This massive, gorgeous man, who refused to release her gaze, was waiting… on her. That night at the inn, when she'd stood uncertain, poised on the edge of flight, he'd done the same and allowed her the option of staying or going.

Whatever came next would be initiated by her. She could go. Or she could stay. But if she stayed there was no doubt where this would lead.

Her fingers found the cinch of the sash at her waist and tugged. Her nightrail fell open, revealing the shift beneath. "This shift?"

His eyes roamed her, and he nodded once, as if words had deserted him. He shifted his stance, and she glanced down, the long ridge of his cockstand visible beneath buff superfine. Her gaze shot up to find an amused smile pulling at the side of his mouth.

Tonight, like the night at the inn, the wanting was mutual.

"I can't be sure if it's the same one."

He was pushing her, this situation, toward its edge. Where was that edge located?

She shrugged one shoulder, then the other, and her nightrail fell to the carpet in a linen puddle. "Can you be sure now?"

His smile fell, his pupils flared. She would take that as a yes. All she wore was the simple linen shift that stopped at the middle of her thighs. A fire roaring between them, both literal and figurative, they stared across the short distance at each other. How to bridge it?

Perhaps she shouldn't think about it too much.

Instinct would be her guide.

Outside herself, the person she knew herself to be, she lifted the strap of her shift off one shoulder and allowed it to fall down her arm. She repeated the motion on the other side and crossed her arms over her chest to prevent the garment from sliding to the floor.

Although his pose against the mantle suggested indolence, she suspected the opposite was true. Tension coiled in the lines of his magnificent body, suggesting tightly held control, a readiness for instant action. All she need do was speak the word.

She released her arms, and her shift dropped to join the nightrail on the carpet. She was entirely nude. Feminine power peaking inside her, she stepped out of the pile of clothing, her feet a slow prowl forward. Separated from him by no more than a foot, she stopped, heat and energy pulsing between them that had nothing to do with the fire roaring at their side. He didn't move a muscle, even as his eyes blazed.

Her hand, trembling and certain, reached up and flicked open the top button of his shirt, then another and another, until the fabric fell open to his waist, the golden dusting of hair on his chest narrowing to a thin trail below his navel. She touched light, brazen fingertips to the tattoo over his heart, the one she sensed was somehow more special than the rest, fine hairs tickling her palm.

"I remember this." She smoothed her hand across his chest to the defined muscles at his right shoulder, pushing his shirt off to reveal another tattoo. "And this."

"You like them?"

"Oh, yes," she said, her voice dark and husky and utterly unlike itself. "I would like to see more."

He shrugged off the garment and tossed it aside. He stood before her magnificent, the fire between them dimmed by the glory of him… Viking… Warrior angel.

Her fingers again felt him, drawn like a magnet to a lodestone. This time, they trailed lower, down his defined, ridged stomach until they reached the waistband of his trousers, the rigid length of his manhood a simple inch away.

She stopped. Something didn't feel right. It felt delicious and like everything she wanted, but not right. His words returned to her. Lady of the manor looking for a man who can service you right.

Was that who she was? Instantly, she knew. If she crossed this complicated inch, she would be. If she used whatever strange, ineffable sway she held over him, this way, in this moment, how wouldn't she be?

Her gaze met his, and she saw wariness there. "Is something wrong?"

She grew shy of him, of this power she held, of the path she would pursue. With her decision not to touch him, the moment had grown more intimate. "It's just that I remembered something else I liked."

She moved forward, her chest separated from his by the slimmest molecule of air. Anticipation vibrating through her, she reached up and cupped the back of his head, silky, blonde hair weaving through her fingers, and rose to her toes. Her head arched back, and she closed her eyes, even as her mouth closed the distance to his, his breath a soft whisper across her mouth.

One more press of her toes against soft wool, one tug of his head lower, and she touched her lips to his. It was a kiss, sweet, tender, undemanding. It was the kiss of girlish fantasy. On a baritone groan, he pressed forward, leaned into her space, and the kiss transformed into something more, deeper. His tongue touched her lips, a light, seductive flicker, a suggestion of the pleasures awaiting her.

"Callie," he murmured against her mouth.

Her true name, spoken by this man, stole the breath from her. A petal protecting the closed bud of her core separated and peeled back.

He moved back an inch and eyes of the bluest sky held hers. "Callie," he repeated, and another petal lifted away. "I need to touch you."

Goose bumps scattered along her skin. What a thing to say… to her.

His hand brushed around her waist, tentative, a tremble in them. A tremble provoked… by her.

A shift, seismic and ineffable, occurred inside her.

His head slanted into the curve of her neck. Humid breath ran along her collarbone. Hot skin touched skin. Her hands clutched his shoulders, her legs jelly beneath her. His fingers tightened at her waist as he swiveled their bodies around like dancers until her back pressed against the wall next to the fireplace, the heat of it at her back, the heat of him at her front.

"I remember something else you like." His hand trailed along the curve of her hip, down her thigh, and anticipation gathered with every beat of her heart.

Instinctively, her leg lifted and wrapped around his hips, his fingers, calloused, strong, held her in place. She'd never been more open, more vulnerable, and, oh, how she ached with it.

She wanted his sweet, slow kiss. She wanted the carnal, hot him.

She wasn't the only one who ached. The ache of him stood erect and ready beneath the confining fabric of his trousers. She stroked its length, and his eyes drifted shut in pleasure. Emboldened, she worked the closure, flicking open, one… two… She was on the third button when his fingers wrapped around hers, stilling them.

"Not like this," he rumbled deep in his chest.

Every cell in her body rioted in protest. "Why not?"

"Trust me."

In a quick, efficient motion, he swept her off her feet and into his arms. When they reached the center of the Persian rug, he lowered her and sat back on his heels. She rose to her elbows and watched his gaze rove the length of her body. There shone appreciation, yes, but something more, something that invited another petal to peel away.

Lust.

This man, this glorious Viking angel warrior, this god among men, lusted after her.

His gaze met hers across the length of her body. "You are a glory."

He reached out and pushed open one knee. Alarm shot through her, and she closed it tight against her other knee.

"Do you trust me?"

It hit her: she did. With every fiber of her being. She nodded.

A smile, full of knowledge and promise, tipped up one side of his mouth. He tugged one knee, then the other, open and moved into the open space until he lay flat on his stomach between her legs. He dipped his head.

What was he?—

Oh.

The hard, velvet tip of his tongue ran along her?—

Oh.

Sensation, sweet and aching, flared from the point where his tongue touched her. No longer able to support herself, she fell onto her back, her knees now spread as wide as they would go as pleasure washed over her with every stroke, every butterfly flicker, of his slick, talented tongue. The sweetness and the ache began a slow coil, an interminable build toward something… something… just out of reach.

Out of her mind with need, she clutched his hair in a tight fist and pulled, spurring him on, her body winding tighter, all sensation pouring into her sex, into the place where his tongue licked, laved, stroked her, as she strove toward a destination her body demanded she reach, but she hadn't a map. How, oh, how was she to get there?

His eyes met hers across her body, and, frustrated, she cried out. He'd stopped.

"You don't have to control this." A smile that could seduce the delicates off a nun curled about his mouth. "Let it happen to you."

Muscle by muscle, she relaxed onto her back, and she let go. He bent his head and touched his tongue to her in a soft, direct brush, and a shudder raced through her, then another brush of his tongue, and another shudder, as she lay back and did nothing but feel.

Again, sensation pooled deep in her sex, coiling and expanding at once, until, at last, it broke through and washed over her. She cried out to the ceiling as her body shuddered in exquisite release, abandon sweeping through her and carrying her along its reckless tide as the hard tip of his tongue softened into a caress.

On a sigh, she fell back to earth, and her eyes fluttered open. His eyes fast upon her, he rose to his elbows, then to his palms and eased his divine, massive form forward. Poised above her, their breaths mingling, their gazes locked, he reached between them and positioned his hard cock at her slit.

Oh, how she ached for him, how it was all she could do not to lift her hips and take him in greed. Her fingers wove through his hair, and in one sure stroke he entered her, penetrating her to the core. He buried his face in her shoulder, his skin slick against hers.

"Callie," he breathed into her ear.

He was so big. How was it possible she could accommodate his girth, much less enjoy it. But, oh, how she did.

He gathered her into him, one hand at her back, one at her bottom, angling her hips so she could accommodate, oh, moreof him as he stroked inside her, at first, gentle, restrained, until a relentlessness, a demand, began to build. His face slanted and his lips found hers, the taste of him sweet and male and her, too.

Oh, wicked thought, and, oh, how much more wicked that it increased her lust, her pleasure, tenfold. Her tongue tangled with his, him driving into her, her hips meeting his in reckless abandon, stroke for stroke.

He groaned into her mouth. "Oh, Callie, I can't hold on much longer."

Her mouth found his ear, licking it, eliciting another groan from his firm lips, a more punishing stroke from his hard cock.

"Then, don't," she whispered reveling in the wild abandon that was overcoming the glorious man above her.

His strokes became somehow more direct, more focused, and she felt it, whatever it was, springing to life inside her again. Her fingernails dug into his back, and her legs wrapped around his waist, one foot catching on the other ankle, squeezing him to her, insisting she never let go.

"Callie."

The spring released inside her, and she cried out her pleasure to the ceiling above, her quim clenched in sudden climax, the tight bud at her core blossoming like a flower, hot, wild, effulgent. The rhythmic exhalations of his effort sounded in her ear as he thrust and drove inside her, his manhood a rhythmic slide and drive.

"Callie, I must?—"

He arched back and broke free of her legs, pulling out of her, taking his manhood in hand, his fist stroking his long length, his eyes roving across her body, the muscles of his neck and shoulders straining. His climax crashed in on him, and he groaned his release on a low, wild rumble.

He collapsed onto her, and she closed her eyes. For a swift moment of time, for all eternity, it was only he and she suspended beyond universal laws that no longer applied to them. Only they knew this place.

The cadence of their breath, heavy and humid, and the rhythm of their hearts, pressed against one another, joined in a pattern that slowed with every beat, were the sole reminders that they still existed on the physical, rather than astral, plane.

From the far reaches of the room rang a single chime of the grandfather clock, shattering the moment, announcing reality. One o'clock in the morning. The dead of night. It turned out the laws of the universe did apply here, escape an impossibility.

Covered by his solidity, his warmth, she gathered what little will to obey reality and wiggled out from beneath him. She rolled onto her side and pushed herself upright, each movement easier to negotiate than the last. It was as if her body didn't want to separate from his.

Well, her body didn't know what was good for it. Or did it?

"This mustn't happen again," she spoke into the room silent except for the odd pop and crackle of burning wood, now nearly reduced to embers so late the night had grown. "You're a sailor. A wench in every port, correct?"

His brow furrowed. "Something like that."

"Then you must find a different wench for this port." She was hardly able to believe the words falling out of her mouth.

"I could, but—" He hesitated.

"But?" She uttered the syllable on a breathless inhale, her heart a hammer in her chest.

"What if the wench I've found in this port suits me fine?"

Her breath hung in her lungs in a strange limbo between an inhale and an exhale. Had this man, this glorious, Viking angel warrior god, just spoken those words… to her? She swallowed in a futile attempt to moisten her parched throat. "Can't you see that you and I don't suit at all?"

Bitterness replaced vulnerability in the twist of his mouth. The eyes that stared out at her went hard and unknowable. "Of course, my lady. Have I your permission to leave the room?"

"Since when do you need my permission to do anything?" she asked around the lump that had formed in her throat.

Before her unblinking gaze, he jerked his clothes onto his body and strode from the room without another word, without even another glance her way. She gathered her shift and nightrail and came to her feet by slow, automatic increments. An odd mixture of confusion, despair, and relief swirled through her. Had what just happened really happened? The sweet ache between her thighs left no doubt. And she'd let him go?

It was no use dwelling on that. She hadn't a choice.

It was better to concentrate on the relief that she'd pushed him away. She'd had the opportunity to tell him the full truth tonight, that Lord St. Alban had a second buyer in mind, him. And she'd withheld the information.

More and more, she was resorting to underhand means in her endeavor to keep the Grange.

Less and less, it sat well with her.

She'd always gotten what she wanted through hard work and honesty. But of late? She'd made a deal with a pirate, and now she'd omitted the full truth about St. Alban's offer to Nylander, the man she'd done that with… twice.

Could the end possibly justify these means? Had she truly thought through the cost it would be to her?

It seemed her desire developed a will of its own when it came to Nylander, and it wouldn't allow her to reason it away. Wild, unruly, willful, it was reason's opposite, its enemy. She must squelch it for it couldn't happen again. She'd committed to a course, and she must stay it. Even if… this was difficult… she was cheating to get what she wanted.

She'd never been this kind of person, driven to the point of ruthlessness, like… oh, even more difficult… like Father.

She clenched her eyes shut, as if she could shut out the truth as easily as the room around her. Could it be the truth, though? It seemed so. The end—her possession of the Grange, the future stability and prosperity of its tenants—would justify the means—her deception of a man who really had no business here in the first place.

Her father's single-minded drive had always been for himself. He'd ever denied this, saying he was conquering his small corner of the world for the family, for its future prospects, when, in truth, it was for his own vainglory.

Her motivation was different. It was for the benefit of others, and she wouldn't falter or fail them now. She was pursuing the correct course, even if the means were underhand and wrong. Some things were right and wrong at the same time.

What if the wench I've found in this port suits me fine?

She swallowed back a sob of ache. She couldn't allow herself to consider those words. Or her response to them.

What else could she have said? It was fact: they didn't suit. Given the chance, he would steal the life she'd built from little more than nothing from her, which had to be the very definition of them not suiting.

She would be a fool to give him that chance.