Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

H awke waited in the foyer for almost twenty minutes. He began to wonder if she'd played him for a fool and meant to leave him standing in the hall for the rest of the day.

"What are you doing?"

He whipped around to see her in a hunter-green cloak tied at the throat, her hands on her hips, her eyes a sparkling mystery.

"I thought I was waiting for you."

"I was waiting for you at the side entrance. I've been there for a quarter-hour. I was afraid you lost your nerve."

He pressed a finger to his chest. "Me? Not likely. And I'm not good at reading minds."

"Or women?"

"Do I hear you saying that women don't have minds? Lovie, you are a contradiction." What she was, was a joy. "Lead the way, my love."

"And you are ill-bred." She threw the statement over her shoulder with an easy air of teasing grace as she led the way down a long corridor to a door that opened onto a portico and a carriage drive.

They walked through gardens of wintering flora, through shrubbery the cold winter color of green, and toward the pastures set apart for cattle. She showed him the stable where the horses were kept and then, farther on, a barn where cattle feed was stored. The grounds were pretty and well-kept. He saw a couple of cottagers' homes in the distance, but mostly they walked along a fence rail through low-stepping grass. The pastureland was spotted with cows, their sleek coats a deep red and a swish of white at the end of their fuzzy tails. They were nose to the ground, oblivious of the interlopers.

She hiked her skirts with every other step, distracting the hell out of him. In places where the cows had not found the greener grass on the other side, she held her skirts high enough for a peek at her white-stockinged calves. Unfortunately, her short boots did a nice job of hiding her ankles. Since she had already called him childish, he decided he owed it to himself to enjoy the view and not just of her calves but her hips as they gently swayed. The outline of her delicious derriere only visible when haunting wisps of breeze lapped at her cloak. Saluting the sun, he looked to the midmorning sky and a trace of clouds that might become something more ominous if the wind picked up.

He ignored them. The solitude with her, the privacy, was too tempting to pass up.

"Lovie?" He used her name to see her reaction and whether she truly meant to allow it or if it was simply obtuseness that caused her to engage him so informally.

"Hm?"

"We're completely alone now, no coachman or footmen, no servants or gardeners, just a man and a woman walking unaccompanied. Against all propriety. Aren't you a little afraid?" He longed for their usual repartee of tongue sabers.

"Not in the least."

"Not afraid of wanting to kiss me again?" He refrained from putting a dare into the inflection, increasing his stride to see her better.

"Don't be absurd." The nervous laugh gave her away.

"What about an attack on your person? You're not afraid I might have my way?" He caught up with her, walking beside her, his hands clasped behind his back, caught between keeping an eye on the trail ahead and watching the emotions play across her charming face. Seeing her ruby-red lips grinning against the chill gave him ideas.

"Out here? And where would you have your way with me? There's no convenient bed around."

"Such daring, Lovie Wright."

She gave him a sidelong glance, her brow knit. "How is it that I am daring?"

"The conversation alone."

"Then change it. It doesn't matter to me." She adopted a carefree gait, rolling her hands in the air as she talked while high-stepping through the higher brush in the direction of a small hill straight ahead.

He couldn't let it go. Playing with her was too much fun. "Are we speaking of the same thing? I just want to be clear." Her pace picked up, but it was of no consequence. She could not outstep his long stride.

"I am keen to your meaning, and I wouldn't expect anything less from you."

He let the slight against him go for a much more tempting subject. "Am I to understand the act is not possible without a bed? All this time, I had it wrong."

She halted her stomping through the brush and looked at him. "Married couples retire for a reason." She said, as if that explained it all.

He raised a brow, waiting for her to continue.

"To bed." With her hands on her hips, she looked at him as if he were addled. "They retire to bed. I'm ignorant, but not that ignorant."

"There are numerous ways of engaging in intimate relations that do not require a bed. Coupling takes many forms, and with an active imagination, the possibilities are endless."

"All right, if I believe you, then I am still safe since I can't imagine you'd want to wallow in the dirt and mud." Her head was tilted in exasperation at what she viewed as his blatant stupidity, no doubt.

He cocked his head, shutting his eyes for a moment and trying not to envision the act at all. "Why not right here, standing in a field?"

"Both people upright? That isn't possible."

Hawke wanted to laugh, but she looked so adorable, with her green eyes huge and round with ripened curiosity. He didn't say a word, just pointed over her shoulder toward the fenced pasture. She turned to see a bull and cow in the throes of matrimony. He clutched his hands behind his back, trying to hold on to the innocence he saw in her shocked expression. If her cheeks were pink from the winter chill, they were certain to be hot now from the blood-pooling conversation. Her soft skin had turned into the color of summer strawberries. She moved her hand to absently grip the fence rail, but Hawke reached out just in time, saving her from being pricked by the barbed wire.

The action broke the spell, and she looked from his hands to his face, her lips parted, which made him want to kiss her.

"Do you mean to say that people…?" Her throat bobbed, swallowing the rest of her sentence.

He nodded, biting his lower lip.

"You're teasing me." Her voice did not come out accusatory. She sounded more amazed than anything—a healthy curiosity by his accounts.

It dawned on him that she was grossly uneducated in the subject, perhaps even more than most women her age. "You mentioned your cousin is like a brother to you. Are there any female cousins close to you? Does Rochester have sisters?" He asked the question with friendly candor, hoping he hadn't scared her off the subject.

"No female cousins, just Rochester's brother."

"And your aunt? His mother?"

"My aunt died about the time I was born. Rochester's mother and mine were sisters. It's tragic, isn't it?"

No stranger to heartbreak, he grunted. Right now, his interest lay elsewhere. "And he has no sisters, and you have no sisters. Any other cousins?"

"No. Why?" She looked up at him, accusatorially confused—if that were a thing.

"So, you never had a conversation with your mother or aunt, and you have no female siblings or cousins." He made the statement, glancing over her head, watching the bull and heifer finish the task. His gaze fell back to hers, and she wrangled her luxurious auburn hair around her hand as the breeze picked up.

"I know what you're trying to say." She moved around him, walking along the fence, taking surreptitious glances toward the rutting animals as if trying to comprehend. "People? Like that?" She pointed toward the beasts.

The bull walked sluggishly in a way that Hawke fully understood. Meanwhile, he was content to walk behind Lovie as she lifted the soiled scalloped hem of her cream muslin skirt while her cloak lapped at the wind.

He pulled his coat together and looked at the sky. Ahead it was fairly clear, but behind them, as they strolled, a storm brewed in the distance, and the closest structure with a roof was a barn, a good half mile back. "I'm afraid our walk is finished." He could smell the thunderstorm, wet, fresh, with a spark of electricity in the air. Or it was the woman beside him.

She pivoted, releasing her hair to whip about her in the coming storm. "It will be upon us in minutes. We'll be drenched before we get back."

"We could wait it out in the barn." As he said it, the first drop hit her square on the forehead.

She wiped the rainwater from her eyes, searched the nearby grove, then pointed in the same direction. "There's a small woodland cottage. You can't see it for the trees, but it's closer than the barn, and I should think it more comfortable."

He took her upper arm and began briskly guiding her toward the line of trees. Short gusts caught at her skirts, tangling them about her legs when a clap of thunder exploded. A cloud opened up. Water poured from the sky. "Lead the way," he shouted, and to his surprise, she grasped his hand, and they ran for cover. Sure enough, a cottage, painted green like the trees, camouflaged in the cover of leaves, popped out of nowhere. She slammed into the door, pushing on it while he thrust his hand around her and tried the knob. The door fell open with a rusty squeak. She practically fell through the doorway, a chuckle stumbling out of her.

The room smelled like damp wood, nutty and musky like the forest. But not unpleasant.

Her laughter floated toward him like a melody he'd never heard before, but one that his heart responded to. He fought the urge to taste the rain on her lips, to feel her chilled body next to his.

"Don't just stand there like a bumpkin. Take off your coat." Her smile lit the room, and her laughter warmed it. "Here," she said, rounding on him, tugging the heavy wool from his shoulders. "There must be wood in here somewhere."

He mentally shook himself from the fantasies he couldn't afford to have. "You find some candles. I'll work on putting together a fire." Despite the cold that seeped into the threads of his shirt, he felt comfortable as he watched her lay out his greatcoat and then her cloak over two chairs.

"My skirts are wet. How about you? Are you dry enough?"

Like an idiot, he looked down. "I believe I'm not much worse off than you. I'd say we made it just in time."

She briskly rubbed her hands up and down her arms, shuddering with each misty puff of cold air.

"Right, we need wood." He nervously snapped a finger. He might have dreamed of such an opportunity but never expected it to come to anything. The cabin boasted a large room with a wood stove, a closet with a few blankets, and a room with a makeshift kitchen that was fortunately still stocked with wood. There was only one other door, and he assumed it led to a bedroom, so he decided to avoid it like the plague. Other than that, there was a sofa, a table with two chairs, and a modest carpet no doubt as dusty as the bare floorboards.

"When was the last time anyone lived here?" He brought the wood and a handful of kindling from the kitchen.

"I wouldn't know since Hudson and I are rarely at home. We spend most of our time in Mayfair." She crossed his path, and they both gave a nervous smile. "Did you see a lantern in the kitchen?"

"No," he called over his shoulder as he knelt by the wood stove. "Check the utility closet." Lord, he almost felt married. Then again, married couples used beds. He smiled to himself.

* * *

Lovie found the utility closet along with a large blanket, which she stuffed under one arm. The shelf, too far over her head, appeared empty, so she slid her hand along the dusty edge feeling around for anything helpful, like a candle. Instead, she felt the piercing jab of a splinter. "Well, that smarts." As she examined her finger, the floorboards creaked behind her. She felt the warmth of Hawke near as he bent his head over her shoulder, his hair tickling her cheek.

"Let me have a look." He brushed a thumb over her palm and gently stretched her finger flat.

Her heart tripped, and she wondered if he felt her pulse increase.

"There's too much shadow right here."

"I thought to find a candle on the top shelf, but I'm not tall enough to see."

Hawke, on the other hand, had no problem. "It looks like several rolled to the back," he said, retrieving a long tallow candle. "The vase on the stove had a tinderbox and a spill, so at least we'll have a fire. But first, I want to see that finger. Let's get you close to a window while it's still light enough."

She followed him, holding her finger in front of her with the blanket wedged under her arm. When they neared the window, he took the blanket from her and tossed it on the maroon sofa. Despite a fine layer of dust on everything, the cabin was otherwise clean.

"Hold still," he said, trapping her arm under his and tenderly fanning her fingers out. "I think I see it."

It stung a little as he pressed into her skin, trying to expose more of the thread-thin speck of wood. But even the little jabs of pinching pain didn't equal the overwhelming flutter in her chest as his fingers held hers. His hands were large and somewhat rough, attesting to the kind of work he did. She began to wonder what to believe of the story he'd told her about his home. His were not the hands of a banking investor. His grip was too measured, even gentle when need be, and the pads of his thumbs felt like outside, wild, textured, with a tale of adventure about them. She liked the way he touched her, the way he smelled like wood and spice, and maybe a touch of lavender. Fresh and alive. The way she felt when she was with him.

Making his fingers like tweezers, he brought the short nails together repeatedly, working at getting a secure grip around the splinter she couldn't see. He then flicked his fingers, brought her hand close to his face, and stuck the tip of her pricked finger into his mouth. She watched in awe, little shivers running the length of her body in a wave.

He looked at her from under his lashes and broke into a smile that charmed the cynic right out of her. "Forgive me. You were bleeding a tiny bit." He wiped her dusty fingers on his cravat, uncaring of the trail of grime left behind on the white silk.

She pulled her hand back, but he stopped her long enough to bend down and kiss her cheek. She yearned to turn her cheek and find out what would happen if she offered him a true kiss, more than a dare of mistletoe, more than a gentle peck on the cheek, more than anything she'd ever done before.

She licked her lips, raised her eyes to his, and felt a charge as temporal as sin. "Would you like to kiss me?" Her voice, a near whisper, was breathy and out of control.

His gaze devoured her mouth, and he nodded.

"Do your best, Remington." Her voice quavered, belying her confident words.

Less than a quarter inch away, he looked into her eyes. "I want more than your lips for a fleeting moment. More, Lovie. Much more. And this place… it challenges my conscience."

She put a finger to his bottom lip, stroking it to the corner of his mouth.

He took her hand and kissed the knuckles. "There are things you don't know about me."

"I know everything I need to know right now." She knew he was a gentleman, an honest worker, by the looks of his hands, and a very good kisser if last night were any indication. His gaze fell to her mouth. "Kiss me, Remington. You know you want to."

He labored to breathe, and his eyes were a conflict of emotions. "Very badly."

"There's no mistletoe. No more dare. Just you and me, and I want you to kiss me."

Before she could finish that sentence, his mouth crashed into hers. His beautiful hands slipped up her throat and cradled her jaw, and then he crushed her in an embrace that covered every fear, every alone moment she'd ever had after so much loss. He tasted like the future, unknown and wild. Her hands gripped his forearms, hanging on to an erotically tilting world.

His palms sliding over her shoulders created an intense tingling feeling throughout her stomach, not to mention what it did to her pulse. When his hands met her gown, he gripped the layers of fabric, including her chemise, edging them down to where her stays kept it all in place. He stroked the swell of her breasts, never relinquishing her mouth, and she was a prisoner of her own desires now, wanting him to touch her, needing him to touch her.

With the sleeves of her gown pulled so low, they held her arms practically pinned to her sides, preventing her from running her palms up his chest. Her hands rested on his middle, and she suddenly felt too confined. She pushed free, turning her back to him, pointing over her shoulder as far as the confining fabric allowed. "The buttons. The stays. I assume you know how they work."

His arms snuck around her waist, just under her breasts, pulling her back against his chest. His fiery branding kiss on her neck made her light-headed, faintly dizzy. "Let me start the fire first."

But he already had. Inside of her burned a need so hot she could not imagine anything could quench it.

Cold air whispered over her back where her skin had been hot against him a moment before. She felt him move away. With her eyes closed, she blocked out every word that would discourage her from what she knew would happen next because she wanted it. She wanted him. She shyly turned to see him kneeling by the small fireplace, setting the kindling, creating air for it to breathe, which just seemed odd since she was having a devil of a time catching her breath. She saw the blanket on the sofa. The outer folded part of the wool had a little dust, but when she opened up the fleece, the inside was clean, and she laid it over the sofa. Remington didn't even blink, just gave her an unprincipled, roguish grin, but his gaze was soft and warm.

With her back to the hearth, she reached behind and started working the buttons of her gown, then felt his warm finger tracing a tingling path down her spine, popping one button and then another. He freed the ribbons of her stays, too, and she dropped her arms, leaning back against him with a sigh. He made a pleasing sound, warm against her neck, and his palms moved from her shoulders to her elbows and wrists, removing her clothing until she stood naked from the waist up.

There was no shame in her when she wrapped her hand around his neck, her breasts exposed to the cool air, her nipples pulled tight against the chill, and all on display for his leisure. He caressed her torso and her stomach with feathery strokes. His hands cupped her breasts, and those wonderful thumbs teased back and forth across her nipples while he bit her neck. It was her turn to moan now. Her knees were jelly, and her insides a spring collection of fluttering butterflies.

She felt weak and slack in his arms. He must have sensed that she would fall if he let her go because, just then, he scooped her up and laid her on the sofa. He pulled at the knot in his silk scarf, the dirt from her finger smeared across the front. Next, he pulled his shirt tails from his breeches and tugged it from his glorious body. His stomach looked every bit as hard as it had felt under her hands. His musculature rippled. It may have been a trick of the candles and fire, but his skin glowed like bronze. This man did not work in an office at a desk lifting nothing heavier than a quill. She wanted to shut her eyes, but she didn't dare. The sight of his gleaming biceps enthralled and excited her. Even his neck, which had been draped with a knotted cravat every time she'd seen him, was tanned. She wanted to bury her nose in the curve of his shoulder and smell him.

His gaze ran the length of her, starting with her passion-filled eyes, down her body, and then she saw him smile like the devil as he kneeled on the floor and began removing her boots.

"You shouldn't have any problem because mine are always on the right feet."

He looked at her under his lashes with one smartly bent eyebrow. After he dispatched her shoes, he clutched her calves, sliding his hands upward, and she thought he would remove her stockings, but instead, he teased a finger under the ribbon and then relinquished them to finish removing her skirts, which he did with surprising ease.

She reached down. "Do you want me to remove my stockings?"

He grinned wickedly. "Oh, no, darling. I want to feel those against my skin." He leaned a knee between her legs, bending over her. "And around my waist."

She raised both eyebrows.

He nodded, his hands pressed into the cushion beside her head. He kissed her lips. "Do you doubt me?"

She shook her head. "You clearly know more than I." Then she smiled when he sighed and placed his head against her collarbone. She took the opportunity to run her fingers through that curly head of nut-brown hair. Teeth nipped at her shoulder. "This sofa is too small. That much I do know."

He tweaked her sides, and she giggled, wriggling under him, making it clear that they would not fit because he still had one foot on the floor. "If I didn't know better, I would pin you against the wall and show you how it's done standing up."

"Why can't you?" Her brow knit with confusion. "Am I too short?"

He chuckled. "No."

"Too heavy? I can walk there myself. I'm certain my legs have recovered."

He chuckled harder. "No," he said louder.

She started to sit up. "Then why?"

His eyes closed on a long sigh, and he sat on the end of the sofa while she pushed herself into a sitting position, folded her legs underneath, and leaned toward him. She interlocked her fingers on his shoulder, resting her chin there.

He eyed her. "Lovie, you don't understand."

"You told me that anyone with an imagination could couple standing up."

"Yes, that's true. And if I thought you'd ever done this before, I would not hesitate. God only knows why I am now because you're perfectly naked, and I can feel your breasts stroking my arm." He looked into her eyes, and she didn't blink. "You don't know."

"But you do. So, tell me."

He licked his lips. "Because I don't want to hurt you."

"I see. Because it hurts the first time. And you think I don't know that."

For a long second, he was speechless, staring at her. "You… I assumed because of our conversation." He stopped, started to speak again, then quit trying when nothing came out.

"Now, who is the ninnyhammer?"

"Me?"

She giggled while kissing his cheek. "I understand the mechanics," she whispered in his ear and was satisfied when his neck flinched and gooseflesh appeared. "I simply don't know all the possibilities."

He turned his head and kissed her. "By the fire. On the blanket."

"Like a picnic."

He almost choked on a cough.

"What did I say now?"

"I'll tell you later." He stood, putting out a hand to help her up.

The fun of the conversation disappeared as he looked down at her while she unfolded her silk-clad legs and stood before him.

He made quick work of the blanket. "Do you mind?"

She shook her head as he undid his breeches. It was on the tip of her tongue to say something sarcastic or funny, but then he peeled out of his drawers, and she was caught up staring at his magnificent body. A wry smile tugged at his mouth as he threw his clothes on the sofa.

He reached for her, gathering her into his arms, and a firestorm, like she'd never known, lit the room beyond anything the hearth could hope to do. Her nipples grazed his chest. The feel of his hands on her bare back, crushing her to the length of him, sent a shiver through her. He knelt before her, kissing her navel, kneading her buttocks, and he groaned into the crease of her hip. All this left her aching, her head too fuzzy to make sense of any of it, just wanting more and more and more. And then his tongue flicked her there, between her thighs, and she felt a jolt of wanton desire as his tongue teased her.

When he stopped, it took a few seconds to realize the panting breath she heard was coming from her lungs. Her eyes had been squeezed shut, but now she looked down at him, and he stared at her with longing. No roguish grins, no smiles that coaxed and played. There was only wanting, almost animal-like, and every instinct in her said yes, and more, and yes. She knelt beside him and pulled him down to lie with her. And he worshiped every inch of her until she wanted to scream, just like he'd said when he teased her about shouting his name. If she did that now, what would he do?

Whimpering moans racked her like sobs of ecstasy.

"Remi…" her breath broke on a sob, and she couldn't get the rest out. He teased her body with his hands and kissed her with full intention. She opened her legs for his caress, pressing into his hand while he pushed one, then two fingers inside her. His tongue was hot against her nipple while he worked a rhythm between the thrust of his fingers and the pull of his mouth on her breast. Without a thought, she reached down and grabbed his wrist, working with him toward something that felt so delicious, so incredibly powerful that she abandoned herself to reaching for it.

On another gasp, she cried out as waves of pleasure came over her. And he held her there until her breathing settled and the erotic beat between her legs slowed. They looked at each other. "Kiss me, Remi," she finally said.

He swallowed hard and took her mouth, searing her with his own passionate response, but he did not finish. He did not put himself inside her, just groaned against her mouth, and she knew he was purposely abandoning his own need.

Lovie reached between them, taking him in hand. The length of him was harder than she expected, and the skin smoother than she would have guessed. He clasped his hand over hers and worked in the same rhythm as he had just shared with her. But this wasn't what she wanted.

"I want you inside me."

"No," he panted against her mouth. "No, love."

Then she remembered what he said about her stockings, and she rubbed her silk-clad toes up his thigh, her legs making room for him, and he groaned. Encouraged by his response, she wrapped both legs around his hips, lifting hers to meet him.

"Yes," she whispered, placing her hands on his cheeks. She brought him down, letting her thighs tempt him, her silk stockinged feet work away at his resolve. And he finally gave in.

At first, he went slowly, but his fever for her was already in a frenzy by the time she taunted him to continue.

"I'm so sorry, love," he said just before he thrust hard.

She swallowed a gasp because she didn't want him to regret this, to feel bad for her. His movements quickened, and the pain, although it was still there, made it all feel real. A desire to please him bloomed inside her as he surrendered to his own pleasure. He drove into her once more, then buried his head against her collarbone with a loud sigh.

She gloried in the sound of him, the smell of him, the feel of him in her, around her, over her. He rested on his elbows, and the weight of him was like a dream. It felt like heaven. There were no consequences that existed. Not yet. Not while she was falling in love.