A Kiss Before Dawn (22 page)

Jack Barlow could wait.

Peter swept Emily up in his arms and bore her to the soft rug in front of the fireplace, following her down as he took her lips with his once more, plunging his tongue deep into the moist, sweet cavern of her mouth. He forgot the wall between them, the fact that they could never have a life together. He forgot everything except her.

His hands went to the front of her shirt and started to work on the buttons, undoing them with deft speed before pushing the material aside and sliding it down and off her arms. Underneath, to his delighted surprise, there was nothing but creamy skin. The sight of her pale, pink-tipped breasts was enough to set his mouth to watering.

In the meantime, Emily's hands had been busy as well. He was so caught up in the enchanting picture she presented that he didn't even realize she had unfastened the rest of his buttons until she peeled the edges of his shirt back, baring his wide chest and shoulders for her delectation. Her lips skimmed over his flesh, her tongue swirling over his pectorals in a bold, unexpected exploration that racked his body with shudders of need. Her fingers followed in the wake of her mouth, and as she flicked her thumbs over the flat discs of his male nipples, a guttural cry escaped him.

“Bloody 'ell, you're going to be the death of me, you are,” he rasped, burying his face against her temple and winding one hand in the loosened strands of her blond hair, uncaring for once that he had slipped back into the Cockney dialect of his youth.

She emitted an almost feline purr and rubbed against him, her nails digging into his back. “Touch me, Peter.”

“Where do you want me to touch you, darling?” He felt a devilish smile curl his mouth as he let his free hand travel downward, pausing just above the crest of her right breast, hovering in a teasing manner. “Right 'ere?”

“Yes! Oh, yes, Peter! Please!” Emily didn't wait for him to comply, but arched up off the rug, pressing the rounded globe into his palm. When his callused fingers came into contact with her silken flesh, any rationality he might have still possessed vanished. Molding the ripe orb to the shape of his hand, thumbing the hardened nipple, he savored her low moan as he leaned down and captured the tip of her other breast in his mouth, suckling with a savage intensity, nipping at it gently before soothing it with his tongue.

Emily's head fell back and she let loose a trembling cry that made his heart jump. Her hands locked in his hair, holding him to her as he treated both breasts to his loving attentions. She wanted him. His angel truly wanted him!

Unable to wait another second, Peter released her and got to his feet long enough to shed his breeches. Tossing them onto the nearby love seat, he took a moment to relish the picture she made lying on the carpet before him. She looked so beautiful in the lamplight. With her golden hair spread out about her head like a halo, she resembled the angel he'd always thought of her as. Her violet eyes were dreamy, her lids heavy and slumberous-looking, and her skin gleamed like porcelain.

He froze for a moment. He knew he didn't have the right to be touching her this way, making love to her, no matter what she said. It wasn't too late to call a halt.

But as if sensing his hesitation, Emily raised her arms to him in a supplicating manner, looking so win-some and adorable that he was lost once again.

There would be no turning back. Not now.

He came back down over her, naked and thoroughly aroused, his maleness coming to rest against the center of her desire. Her eyes widened and she bit her lip before wrapping her arms around him and rocking against him, sending his senses reeling. They kissed again and their tongues entwined in an imitation of the ultimate act of intimacy.

They were both too anxious to have each other to go slowly. Emily began to tear at the lacings of her breeches, but when she fumbled, Peter gently pushed her hands aside and loosened them himself before peeling them down her shapely legs and discarding them. Fascinated by the triangle of flaxen curls nestled between her thighs, he sifted his fingers through them. Then, a little bit at a time, he inserted the very tip of his forefinger into her narrow feminine opening.

She sucked in a breath, her eyes going wide once again, and he soothed her in a low croon. “It's all right, angel. I promise. I just need to make sure you're prepared for me, that I won't 'urt you.” He had no doubt that she was an innocent, and if he was going to take her, he wanted to make sure she was ready, that there would be as little pain as possible and as much pleasure.

She was more than ready. Her channel was slick with
her juices in anticipation of his claiming. Filled with arrogant male satisfaction, he slipped another finger inside to join the first one, subtly widening the moist passage for his intrusion. His thumb brushed the small nub of her clitoris and she gave a shrill cry, bucking against him, her legs coming together to squeeze his hand almost spasmodically.

“Shhh.” Removing his fingers, he reared up and fit himself against her, pushing the very tip of his shaft just inside her vaginal entrance. It was like gliding into warm satin, and he longed to slide the rest of the way home, but he forced himself to pause, to look down into her eyes. “Are you certain, Emily? There's no going back after this, and I don't want you to regret it.”

She reached out and caught his hands, lacing her fingers through his and meeting his gaze with a seriousness that stole his breath. “I could never regret anything that passes between us, but most especially not this. I want you.”

“Then take me, angel. Take all of me. And take me wiv you to 'eaven.”

He thrust deep.

The moment was so right that Peter felt his whole body sing with the knowledge that she was finally his. They fit together almost perfectly, and as he set up a slow rhythm, Emily seemed to get past her initial discomfort at their joining and began to move in counterpoint to him. She let go of his hands and clutched at his taut hips, pulling him more closely to her. Her cheeks grew flushed and her head began to roll from side to side, small sounds of pleasure humming in her throat.

Peter could feel his own climax building. It was happening too fast, he knew, but there was nothing he could do about it. He'd wanted this for far too long, and he was lucky he hadn't lost it the moment he'd entered her. Her deliciously peaked nipples were a torment, brushing against his chest in a tantalizing contact as he pounded into her, and the tight walls of her sheath milked him with each thrust. He had wanted so badly to be gentle, but it seemed impossible now. Their passion was driving them, and it wouldn't allow either of them to slow down.

His teeth clenched. God, he was coming, and he didn't want to leave her behind. “Emily, angel—”

Before he could even finish the sentence, he felt her orgasm rip through her with the force of a tidal wave. She threw back her head and screamed her ecstasy, shuddering all over, her fingers digging into his hips.

Her climax triggered his and he exploded inside her with a hoarse shout of his own, spilling his seed deep within her womb.

He collapsed against her, drained, exhausted, and damp with perspiration, feeling as if he truly had been to heaven and back.

E
mily lay cradled in the circle of Peter's arms, her head resting on his chest, listening to the comforting thump of his heartbeat beneath her ear.

She couldn't believe that it had finally happened, that she and Peter had made love. And it had been perfect, everything she had always dreamed it would be. Their coming together had given her more pleasure than she could ever express in mere words. True, there had been a bit of pain at his initial penetration, but she had more or less expected that, and she had quickly gotten past it. He had carried her off to a never-before-imagined world of pure joy, lifting her to the very peak of ecstasy before they had both plunged over the edge together.

She wasn't certain how much time had passed since then. They were still entwined on the floor, naked as
the day they were born, and she seemed to exist in a state of drowsy contentment. Soon after their soul-stirring climax, Peter had slipped free and slid off her to lie at her side, gathering her close with one arm around her shoulders. They might have dozed for a short while, but she couldn't be sure. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, and she prayed it would remain that way.

Her heart gave a painful squeeze. No matter how much she wished it wasn't so, she knew that sooner or later this blissful idyll would have to end. After she had handed over the stolen jewels to the authorities and told them about Jack, she would have to confess everything to Peter. If she didn't wind up behind bars it would be a miracle. At the very least he would never speak to her again.

But she would always have the memory of this night to sustain her.

Dear God, but he'd looked so utterly splendid standing nude before her in all his masculine glory, she thought with a sigh. His long, rangy body was sculpted with lean muscle, his hips and thighs taut and strong, his chest bronzed and sleek. He'd been a golden god, the blond streaks in his tawny hair gleaming in the lamplight.

She smoothed her hand over his chest, but her caressing fingers paused for a moment when they encountered a raised area of flesh. She traced it gently, her forehead furrowing, then lifted her head to study the pale, puckered line that slashed across his lower ab
domen. She hadn't noticed it earlier in the dim lamplight, and she couldn't help but be curious.

Her eyes flew to his face. He was watching her from under lowered lashes, his blue irises glittering.

“What's this?” she asked

“It's a scar.”

She smacked his shoulder in exasperation. “I can see that. Where did you get it? It looks like a knife wound.”

“It is.” Seeming uncomfortable with the topic of conversation, he shifted a bit, dislodging her hand. “Do you remember me telling you about the fugitive I helped to apprehend soon after I first arrived in London?”

She nodded.

“Well, I neglected to mention that he had a knife, one he was prepared to use on the Runner chasing him until I stepped into the middle of things.”

For Emily, the light dawned. Of course. He had gotten in between the knife and the Runner, more than likely preventing the man's death. No wonder he'd been offered a job at Bow Street! Leave it to her knight in shining armor to save someone's life without a thought to his own.

The mere possibility of what might have happened was enough to raise the hairs on the back of her neck, and she glared at him. “Don't ever do anything so foolish again. Do you hear me?”

He raised his eyebrows at her, a sardonic smile tilting one corner of his mouth, but she ignored him and settled back down at his side, resting her head on his chest once again. Truly, the man needed a keeper!

They didn't say anything for quite some time, and Emily was just getting ready to drift off into sleep when Peter finally spoke again.

“I'm sorry.”

His voice floated to her as if from a great distance, and she was feeling so lethargic that it took a minute for his words to register. When they did, she craned her neck, straining to see his face in the dimness. “What?”

“I said I'm sor—”

She pinched his arm. “Don't you dare repeat it!” Raising herself to a sitting position, she pushed her tangled hair back behind her ears and glared down at him. “Don't you dare say you're sorry.”

Looking affronted, he rubbed at the spot she'd injured. “How can I not be sorry, Em? My God, I took you on the floor!”

“And I loved every moment of it. So don't you dare ruin this for me by saying you're sorry.” Leaning forward, she stared into his eyes with a piercing intensity, hoping he could read the sincerity in her gaze. “It was the most wonderful experience of my life and I will never be sorry for it.”

Lifting a hand, he caressed the side of her face, his thumb tracing the seam of her lips tenderly. “You're certain? I didn't hurt you? I was rougher than I intended, but I wanted you so much…”

He looked so anxious that she felt her heart catch. Capturing his hand in hers, she bestowed a gentle kiss to his knuckles. “I'm certain. In fact…” A mischievous smile canted her lips and she lifted herself up to
straddle him in a swift motion that had him giving a gasp of surprise. As far as she was concerned, she intended to take advantage of every second they had together. “I want to do it again.”

His hands grasped her waist, and his cheeks flushed with renewed passion. She could feel his manhood already hardening and stiffening beneath her. But still he hesitated. “Again? Are you sure? So soon after the first time, you might be sore.”

She bent over him, her breasts brushing his chest, her teeth nibbling at his earlobe in a way that wrung a harsh groan from him. “I'm sure.”

“But what about your brother and his wife? And the staff? There's no telling when they might return and walk in on us.”

“Then we'd best hurry, hadn't we?”

Pushing herself upright, she shifted her hips and came down over his thickening manhood without a second's pause, seating him to the hilt inside her.

They both held themselves still for a long, drawn-out moment. Emily had to admit she was more than a bit sore, but after giving herself a chance to adjust to his size and the feel of him inside her again, she began to move, rocking her hips languidly, rising and falling in counterpoint to his own slow, steady upward strokes. His eyes fell shut and his strong hands rose to cup her breasts where they dangled above him, his palms kneading and shaping the ripe mounds, his thumbs and forefingers rolling and flicking the distended tips, still slightly damp from his earlier ministrations.

She moaned, her soreness forgotten, and increased
the pace, clutching at his shoulders. He filled her to overflowing, stretching her slick inner walls to accommodate the length and breadth of his pulsating shaft, going deeper with each thrust. To have him so deep inside of her, a part of her, was the sweetest thrill she'd ever known, and the friction began to build toward the ultimate crescendo, carrying her higher and higher. Finally, without any warning, she plunged off the precipice and felt herself shatter, flying apart into a thousand tiny pieces of trembling delight.

“Peter!” she cried out, flinging her head back, pressing her breasts farther into his hands, her nipples stabbing his palms.

At her cry, he grunted and pumped into her one last time before his own orgasm overcame him, his big body shuddering once, twice, then going still.

She slumped against him, panting for breath, her blond curls falling into his face. She was so weak, so tired, and all she wanted to do was fall into a peaceful slumber here in his arms. But there was something she had to say first. Something she had to make sure he understood.

“I love you, Peter,” she murmured as her eyes drifted closed, her lips buried in his neck. She didn't know if he'd heard her or not, and she lacked the energy to even lift her head to find out. “I'll always love you.”

Rolling off him, she curled into his side and instantly fell asleep.

 

Peter stirred from his light doze and cracked his eyes, squinting around at the dimly lit environs. He was over
come by a momentary puzzlement as to how he'd happened to fall asleep on the parlor floor, until the soft, warm weight burrowed against his side shifted and emitted a small sigh that brought it all rushing back.

He'd made love to Emily.

Twice.

Reaching up with his free hand, he pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep, calming breath. Dear God, it had been all he'd ever imagined it could be. And Emily had been a revelation.

He felt a slight smile curve the corner of his mouth in spite of himself as he recalled the way she'd ridden him to completion that second time, her supple body poised and taut, her head thrown back, her passionate moans echoing in his ears. His innocent angel had become a wanton, wringing the most powerful climax from him he could ever remember having.

But she had deserved better than a cold floor and a quick, clandestine coupling for her first time. She should have had a soft mattress and satin sheets. Her initiation into the world of erotic pleasure should have been slow and leisurely, lasting all night long.

And it should have been with her husband, something he could never aspire to be.

But she had said she loved him.

Easing his arm out from underneath her head, he rose up on his elbow to gaze down at her, looking so peaceful in slumber. He was well aware that, in the end, their feelings for each other didn't matter. They were too far apart in station, and society would never let them forget that. Regardless of what she thought, there
could never be anything further between them. For her own good, he had to let her go.

Yes, their lovemaking had been a mistake. But somehow he couldn't quite bring himself to regret it. Emily had given him a night he would never forget.

Unable to help himself, he leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. She tasted like warm, sweet honey, and for a second he was tempted to take the kiss deeper. But he resisted. This had to end. Now.

With a feeling of regret, he pushed himself to his feet and crossed the room to retrieve his shirt and breeches. He still had work to do this night, and there was no more time to waste.

He had a thief to catch.

As he stepped into his pants, he cast a glance at the clock in the corner and was gratified to note that it wasn't as late as he'd surmised. It had barely gone ten. There was still every chance that he could make it back to the gamekeeper's cottage and commence with his investigation even before Jack returned from his evening at the Hawk's Eye.

Peter slipped into his shirt and quickly buttoned it, then sent Emily an indulgent look. He supposed he'd better wake her before he left. He doubted she would want one of the staff to return—or God forbid, Tristan and Deirdre—to find her sleeping naked on the parlor floor.

He started toward her, scooping up her shirt and pants as he went, shaking his head. He had to wonder how she'd even gotten hold of such clothing. If her
brother ever found out she had a pair of men's breeches, much less wore them in public…

At that moment, something about the material he held struck him as familiar and he halted in the middle of the parlor, staring down at the pair of pants in his hands. He held them up so he could examine them more closely, and as he did, a light clicked on in his brain, filling him with stunned recognition.

No! It couldn't be!

Fumbling for his pocket, he shoved his hand in and withdrew the small scrap of fabric that he had discovered at the Tuttleston estate. It was the same color, the same material, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. Surely there were many pairs of men's trousers that were made from the same sort of cloth?

But as he turned the breeches over, holding them up to the light of a nearby lamp, its glow illuminated a gaping hole high up on the right leg.

And when he compared the scrap to it, it matched exactly.

At first, his mind refused to process what his eyes were seeing. When it finally registered, a burning, agonizing pain stole over him, gripping his chest and tightening with every ragged breath.

There had to be another explanation, another reason a torn scrap from Emily's pants had wound up in the tree outside of Lady Tuttleston's bedroom window. But if there was, he didn't know what it could be.

His sassy, stubborn angel was the Oxfordshire Thief.

 

Emily's eyes fluttered open to find Peter sitting on the floor next to her, his back against the love seat and his arms resting on his upraised knees. Fully dressed, he watched her with an unfathomable expression.

She yawned and stretched, unable to suppress a slight wince as the muscles in her body protested the movement. The floor was most certainly not conducive to sleeping comfortably. Pushing herself to a sitting position, unconcerned with her nudity, she sent Peter a small, seductive smile as memories of their lovemaking washed over her.

He didn't smile back.

Puzzled, she reached up to push a stray curl back behind her ear and scrutinized him with curiosity. What on earth could be the matter? Had she done something wrong? Had she failed to please him somehow?

The thought had heat rushing into her cheeks. Surely that couldn't be the case? Of course, she was far from experienced, but he had seemed more than satisfied to her. The joyous, blissful look on his face when he had climaxed beneath her that last time had said more than words could.

Perhaps he was feeling guilty. If so, she had to find a way to make him see that there was no reason for him to do so. She wasn't sorry for any of it. Not for a moment. If two people loved each other, there was nothing wrong with expressing that love. They—

She froze, squeezing her eyes shut for a brief moment. He had never said that he loved her. She had told him more than once, but he had never given the words back to her. The reminder was enough to make her
heart ache. He might want her, but Peter would never allow himself to love her again. As far as he was concerned, tonight had been about satisfying their cravings for each other, and love didn't come into it. She had to remember that.