Chapter Nine

T hey ran like children to the house, hand in hand, up the stairs, down the hall to their rooms. Each step jogged more and more sense into him.

He reached their door first, flung it open, and whirled her inside.

She was laughing as he slammed the door shut and fell back against it, drawing her toward him.

She danced forward, a vision from heaven. In the flickering candlelight from the wall sconces, she fluttered before him like an angel in that pale-blue gown.

How could he do this with her? He'd be a cad to take her when he was here only to keep her safe. Even from me.

Her smile died as she gazed at him, knowledge of his rejection in her eyes. "You question this."

He shook his head, frowning, then cupped her gorgeous face in both his hands. "It has consequences."

"Yes," she whispered, mashing her supple body to his in an urgent plea. In her undulations, he nearly went to his knees as his cock pressed hard and hot against her belly. "Pleasure."

"Pregnancy."

She blinked, surprise in her eyes. "No, I—"

"I want you too much, and I fear I will not be so controlled with you that I can stop when I should. Even then, it may not be enough."

Desperation on her face, she grabbed his cravat and twisted the ends in her fingers. "You don't need to stop."

"I do!" he growled. "If you were pregnant, do you think I'd want you to remain in France wandering, waiting for one night, one morning, when Vaillancourt finds you?"

"I don't wait for him."

"What for, then? Eh?" He clutched her, giving her a little shake. "Pregnant, mine or not, you won't leave France!"

She gave him the endearing smile of a woman who wanted to be ravished. "He cannot find me. Cannot have me. I am with you."

"Oh, my darling." He shook his head, his heart drowning in a sea of misery. "Be sensible. I am your guard, your protector. I am vigilant, but if he finds us, he can be wily, unpredictable. I am no fool, my sweet woman—and, at best, only one man to fight off dozens. Nor am I a tyrant to force you against your will to leave France. Not even, God help me, a magician to spirit you away with a snap of my fingers!"

She tugged him closer, her hard nipples boring into his chest, evidence of her desire for him.

Hopeless, he could not pull away.

"Sweet Ram." She cupped his cheek. "Fear not. Have me as you will. You cannot make me pregnant."

He winced, confused. "That is exactly—"

"No, Ram." She combed his hair from his furrowed brow. "Listen to me. I cannot have children."

"But you said you had been pregnant."

"And I lost the child." Her brown eyes turned solemnly umber in the shadows of the room.

He crushed her to him. How could he do this and not hate himself afterward? "Sweetheart, you've had so many tragedies in your life. I will not add to them. Certainly not by making love to you."

There. He'd used the word that had brooded at the edge of his consciousness. He did love her. Her strength, her resilience. Her dedication. No woman in the world matched her.

But she shook her head to and fro. "Ramsey, darling. Stop. Hear me. I was damaged in the miscarriage, and the physician said I would never bear another child."

He kissed the top of her head, her hair like gossamer against his lips. Her breasts a plush invitation. Her long, lean legs against his, the lure he could not resist.

She nestled close and raised her heart-shaped face to him. "You are what I want tonight. For the joy of us united. For the passion, incomparable. I know we will be perfection."

Part of her statement he believed. All of her was what he wanted. For tonight and for any of the tomorrows he could persuade her to stay with him.

Oh, yes, it was clear to him he could not coax her to do anything she did not first accept for herself. If he now became an opportunist who took when he should refuse, then he would be the one tarnished—and justly so. But he wanted to show her his regard and needed in return all the vibrance of her in his arms. So he would take her for the time he could. Enjoy her for all the hours she gave him. Devote himself to loving each inch of her delectable body and her valiant soul.

He could do all that and hope that in some tomorrow he could not name, she decided that living was a proper choice—and living with him was the best choice. If he were extraordinarily lucky, he could also allow himself to hope that he might be worthy of her love—and that he was all she ever needed to fulfill her life.

"Oh, Ramsey, forget about what separates us and let us create new reasons to remain together. Make love to me."

Her invitation broke him. He sank his fingers into the blue silk sleeves of her gown and slid them down her shoulders. All of her tonight, he would have and hold and celebrate. Tomorrow, she could change, dismiss him, find the fault in all of this. But for now, he was weak enough to take what she offered and hope what he returned would ease the burden of her cares. He knew certainly that what he did now would never change who she was or what she really wanted from her life.

But this was tonight, and the next vibrant hours held promises of bliss they could share to ease the burden of the days ahead. He would make love to her and pray she did not recognize the fullness of his sentiment. For he knew her well enough to realize that once she saw he loved her, she would leave him. Her sense of fairness would demand she go. That she did not love him mattered less to him than that he loved her, now and always. And so he'd have her.

He grinned at her as he traced his fingers along the edge of her bodice. Those beautiful breasts he had dreamed of would be his. He glanced down at her breaths expanding the lovely globes of her breasts beneath his fingertips. He bent, holding her still as he swept the tip of his tongue over the heaving tops and dipped into the valley. Her hands went to the buttons of his frock coat and his waistcoat. Her eager fingers shook, and she did a poor job of unbuttoning his clothes. That was fine. He had time. Long minutes, hours to savor every inch of her. He had helped her undress every night for the past few weeks. Tonight would not be a problem. He had patience even if his cock did not.

"Toe off your slippers," he murmured beneath her ear.

She wiggled beneath his hands and lips. "I rather like my stockings."

"Nice, they are," he said of the white fine clockwork he'd bought her in Buzancy. "Leave them on."

She shivered. "You'll remove them," she said, an order and a hope.

"I will." He nipped her earlobe. "With my teeth."

She went still and cupped his throat. Her eyes were wide and black with lust. "I want your tongue."

"Turn around." He chuckled. What else could he do without tearing the clothes from her? "You tell me all you want, and I promise you, you will have it until I no longer breathe."

She rose and pressed her lips to his in a frantic kiss with a need he'd never known from a woman.

He caught her shoulders. She shook back her bouncing curls, and he swept her around to the wall. His body flush to hers, he filled his hands with the bounty of her breasts. It was enough to test the resilience of his cock. He set his jaw. "Listen to me, my darling tease. Let me undress you or we will have each other too quick, too faint, standing against this damn wall."

"The gown is Sophie's," she said.

"I know," he replied, and worked carefully. But agility deserted him. His fingers felt like sausages, fumbling and crude. He was full of nerves, a schoolboy—and he bit off a curse.

At last her gown fell open.

"Step out."

She did, and he swept the pale silk to the safety of a nearby chair.

He scowled, eyeing her corset cover. He had to lift that away now. "God in heaven, women wear too many contraptions."

"All meant to keep a girl warm—and lonely," she murmured, shaking with her laughter.

"A good job of it—fie on it all." He struggled.

She wiggled, giving a laugh he did not share. "Hurry."

"I would, my dear," he grumbled, "if you would not grind your pretty arse into my cock!"

She giggled into the wood of the wall. The one eye she had trained on him winked, and, inspired, he got the corset to fall away. Then he spun her around, and this time, he shared her chuckle.

In a flash, she crossed her arms and tore off her chemise.

The shock of her naked, the beauty of all that perfect skin, stopped him cold. His arms at his sides, he could do naught but stare at all the riches bared before him and shrouded in the shadows. Tomorrow in the daylight, he hoped she still cared enough to allow him the full pleasure of her bare splendor. He would treasure and taste her, feast on and thrill her so that she never forgot him. "Christ," he murmured, spellbound, "what am I to do with all this?"

"Love me," she whispered, and stepped forward to fit all that magnificent beauty against him. Her arms around his shoulders, her breasts huge, her nipples hard, her hips flat against his poor, confined, and begging cock, she rubbed her nose along his jaw and up across his cheek to plant tiny kisses on his lips.

She fit him like a puzzle. Plane to plane, arc to arc, round breasts boring into the many layers of his own clothing.

"You feel wonderful," she whispered. She wrapped her arms around his waist and sank further into his embrace.

Oh, he loved her. Had he not for days, for weeks now?

He could bear no more. He sank to his knees. His arms around her hips and thighs, he nuzzled her bare stomach, and her knees buckled and she would have swooned from her joy of it.

But he had her. She gasped as he spread kisses over the skin above her thatch. She sank her fingers in his hair and twisted. Smiling to himself, he kissed her belly until she squealed. Gasping, she trailed her nails against his scalp. He'd be bald, but he'd love her like this for the next century. What did he care for hair when he could savor her crying his name as he loved her?

He needed more, so stood, upended her, and threw her over his shoulder.

She was chuckling and pinching his ass while he strode to their bedroom and the bed that, up until now, had gotten no good use. Tonight, they would fill it with every fond regard he had for her, and she for him.

At the side of the bed, turned down by their maid while they were at the ball, he stood her up.

He paused, a man caught in time. Now in more light from the lit sconces, he stood still, stunned, reverent of the sight before him. Such beauty humbled him. And he was deaf to the words she uttered, dumb to any frail response he could make.

He had long admired the cut of her silhouette. In form, she was a tall woman with bounteous breasts, fine waist, and long, lean legs.

But standing before him only in her skin and those white stockings, she was the epitome of every woman. Her skin was pale, a red-head's porcelain perfection. Her breasts were large, her huge nipples glossy and faintly pink, hard, and pointed at him in her excitement. Her waist flared at her hips; her thighs were sinuous. The legs he had imagined were trim from riding and dancing were also so nimble that, outside in the road, she had wrapped one around his own.

His mouth watered. His arms ached. His cock strained his breeches. He was a mess of a man, paralyzed by the beauty he dared to take in his arms and hope he could show her how he valued her there.

Her eyes narrowed on him in question, then she reached out and her breasts jiggled. She undid his flies, and his cock could not take the torment.

Impulsively, he stepped backward and found the chair, yanked off his boots and socks, and went back to her. He took her hands and put them to the buttons of his flies. "Be aware, my girl, that I don't want to be sixty when this happens."

Defiant but smiling, she undid each button with a deliberate, slow twist of her fingers. But in a blink, he was standing, his breeches around his ankles.

"Good work," he said as he stepped out of them.

She grinned, her hands on her hips as she appraised his standing penis. "I think you'll do well no matter your age."

"Madam," he said as he pointed toward the bed, "I grow gray waiting for you. Get up there."

She scrambled up on the bed like an eager child. Then she spread herself out on the ivory linens, her arms up, beseeching him to fill them.

He stood, memorizing the moment when the woman he adored was welcoming him to take what he had yearned for—and what he had feared she would never grant.

He loved her.

She wanted him.

For tonight, desire was all she gave.

For tonight, that was enough.

*

She was being so unfair to him. Chiding him to make love to her. But she was starving for him, and he had so many doubts she had to erase.

Her gaze met his. "You stop again?" she asked.

He smiled, though she did not feel his mirth. He reared back on his knees and took a long, satisfying look at her in her nakedness. "I wish to remember you like this."

She knew what she looked like. Maurice had often delighted in admiring her naked, flat on her back, or posing before him in one of her cheval mirrors. From her riot of flame-red hair to the sculpted lines of her heart-shaped face, to her full lips and neat chin, she had known from age fifteen she possessed the licentious looks of a lady of the night. Her height, her long neck, her heavy breasts and large nipples—all created the picture of a woman who welcomed a man to enjoy her.

Maurice had loved each inch of her, with hands and mouth and cock. In none of that was any shame, he said, but a celebration of the human rite of mating. Though he knew she was a virgin when he first had her, he had educated her slowly and persuaded her to show and tell him whatever she preferred of his caresses. Through hot hours of pleasure in his arms, he had taught her that making love was an art. A couple had to work for their full joy in mating. Now with Ram, she was more than eager to take and give whatever she could to ensure he had his fill of her…and she of him.

Still, he hesitated—and she could not bear the wait nor his questioning of what they did. She took his hand and led him to cover her breast. Beneath his hot touch, her flesh swelled. She pushed his fingers to her ribs, her waist, to her wide hips and to the curve of one inner thigh. His molten blue eyes met hers as he threaded his fingers through her thatch of hair. She undulated, straining for more of the heat of his possession.

"You are so beautiful, and I hate the lack of candlelight," he whispered as his tender fingertips played amid her curls.

"Tomorrow in light of day, I will still be yours," she assured him.

The glance he gave her told her he welcomed that statement. "I should not rush, then?"

"Take all of me. I do want all of you, darling Ram."

He tugged at her hair, and she opened her legs wider.

He made an animal sound in the back of his throat.

*

What few bright flames the sconces cast off, he would do with tonight. If he were fortunate enough to enjoy her still tomorrow, he would feast on the sight of her then. For this moment, he would taste her and thrill her so she never forgot him.

He'd take his time, imprint her on his soul to savor for years to come. He was done waiting, wanting, pining. She was his gorgeous work, his irresistible woman, and he sent his open palms down her heavy breasts. He lifted both, kissed one nipple, then sucked lavishly the other.

She hummed her delight, and he plucked her nipple as he wended his mouth down her ribs to spread kisses across her stomach.

He sank to his knees and inhaled the sweet fragrance of her desire for him. With a touch to each thigh, he crooned, "Open your legs, darling."

Her stomach quivering at his command, she did as he asked.

He threaded his fingers through her damp curls. "Wider," he whispered, and she obeyed, tilting up her hips toward him. "Such a good woman, you are," he told her in the silence of the night, where the only sound he heard was her whimper telling him that she approved of his fingers sliding inside her.

Her folds were heavy, slick, and warm. He parted her with ease, found the essence of her with his searching fingers, and bent to draw her pearly sweetness into his mouth. With his lips around her little nub, he flicked his tongue around her so she thrashed in a throbbing bliss. Her cries of delight spurred him on to more.

He rose, proud and eager, his breathless lover with her dark, reverent eyes upon him. He took his cock in hand. He glanced down, placed himself at her entrance, and sank slowly, deeply, sweetly inside.

His eyes closed. His heart surged. She was his. Tight, hot, and wet.

She groaned and wrapped her legs around his hips. She had him captured, hers, spellbound. He was in, lost to her, found in her.

Instinct flooded him. He thrust into her and began a rhythm that left him blind to all but her and how she fast held him. The glorious end came with moans of delight and sighs as they collapsed into each other's care.

*

Their legs entwined, his arms about her, one hand claiming one breast, she grinned and kissed his chest.

He chuckled—and she felt his joy ripple through her own body like an erotic invitation to more loving.

Loath to separate from him, she hugged him closer. "In bed each night before you realized I was against you, I felt the wonder of your body against mine."

"I knew," he admitted. "I was a rogue and dallied there longer than I should have."

She put a kiss to his cheek. "You are no rogue to me."

"I wanted to be a perfect gentleman. What we have done here tonight shatters that fa?ade like the glass it was. I would not have you scorn me later for this."

She put her hand to his jaw. "Ram, never will I criticize you for this. I am many things, dear man, but I am no coy girl who changes her views of her lovers with the change in the wind."

"I did not mean you are—"

"I know you didn't. You wish only to quell your fear. I didn't take you easily. You are only my second lover."

He sank his nails into the skin of her arms. "My darling woman, I want you however you wish to come to me."

For lust. She gave him a watery smile, admitting that she came to him for the same reason. Of that, she was not proud. "I am grateful." He would take her for what she gave. To seek more would not serve him well—and he knew it. What he did not know was that her desire for him held so much more than mere wanting. And that yearning grew tonight with each moment.

She shook her head, running out the budding idea that if she could leave France, she could love him, need him, and aspire to years of blissful peace with him.

She held her breath, hoping that he was so instinctive that he could imbibe that in his touch. As he crawled up from the foot of the bed to hover over her, she panicked. But his warmth spread through her like fire. She ran her open palms over his sculpted chest and sighed. Against her hip, she felt his renewed interest in loving her. "You are the most marvelous creature." Selfless and honorable.

At such praise, he laughed. Humility, she'd learned, was one of his assets.

She drew him down to cover her. The thrill of his skin to hers was exquisite torture.

He supported himself on his elbows as he dropped kisses to her cheek, her throat, and the hollow between her breasts. He cupped each breast and laved one nipple to ripe, aching torment, then took the other to do the same. "I cannot stop. I must taste each inch of you."

She squirmed, alive beneath his homage. Her arms around his back, she arched up against him and sought to encompass all his strength and ardor. But she failed. They were boundless. She had welcomed his dedication to her cause, lived to learn each day how potent his promise to her safety was. But here with him, undressed, uncovered to her in so many ways, he became more than the guardian of her body, but the steward of her serenity—and of her joy.

She undulated with fulfillment. He left no part of her untouched, un-treasured. Her ribs, her hips, her inner thighs. His lips were swift to capture her, his mouth generous and demanding. And at her core, he opened her with reverent fingers and found the part of her that yearned for all of him.

He was deliberate and maddeningly attentive. He licked and sucked her until she vibrated with need for his possession and her fingers dug into the muscles of his back.

She moaned. As if her mewls gave him incentive, he parted her heavy folds with his fingers and gave her lush swaths of his tongue. She melted and, mindless, spread her legs wider.

With two fingers, he plumbed her wet depths and dipped inside her with his talented tongue. He was thorough, torrid, sweet or soft. She was gone from this world until he rose, took her fingers, and put them to him to let her guide him. As he slid inside, the delirium turned to heaven.

He paused. His kiss to her lips was a blessing. When he began to move inside her, her head lolled upon the pillows. Lost again somehow in this newest rapture he created, she followed him. Release came, swift, flashing, and hard. He remained for long minutes, their union full of pulsing, pounding aftershocks.

Languid, she lifted her hand to run her fingers through his hair.

He smiled, euphoria in his twinkling eyes.

This was what she had needed to complete her trust in him. He was a careful and unselfish lover, just as he was a careful and generous man.

"One problem," she said, and raised a finger, a grin on her face.

His head came up. Appalled and curious, he stared at her. "What?"

"I still have my stockings on."

He slid a hot hand down her thigh to her calf and stuck his finger in the ribboned garter. "Give me two minutes, sweetheart, and you'll never want a stitch of clothing again."