Beguiled (29 page)

“Later I shall be your willing love slave, but just now . . .”

“I insist.”

His expression turned winsome, and his shoulders slumped. “You're a cruel woman, Agnes MacKenzie.”

“Will you help me down or must I jump?”

He sighed, shaking his head. “I could make much of this moment, you know.”

She opened her palm. “The knife, if you please.”

“Must you?”

“I always keep my promises.”

“You'll leave your robe open so I can see you?”

It struck her as funny. “Why not? I've nothing left to hide from you.”

He jiggled his eyebrows and peeked quickly at her. “A beautiful sight, and a lure that brings out the beast in me.”

“A great beast?”

“Does the word ravishment tell you how primitively my mind is working?”

“Yes,” she said, as chipper as a lark. “It inspires my own. The knife, if you please, Doctor.”

He grasped her waist, and his hands felt warm and strong. In a familiar movement, he set her on the floor. Reluctance shone in his eyes, but he retrieved the dagger and laid it across her palm.

“Must I sit for this exquisite torture, or may I stand?”

An idea inspired her. “Suit yourself.”

“If I did that, you'd still be on the table and rushing toward paradise again.”

She liked his forthrightness, among other things. “Is that the way it always feels to you, like paradise?”

He stared at the healing wound on her shoulder, yet his thoughts were elsewhere. At length, he said, “No, I have not often found paradise, which is why I'm very eager to make love to you.”

“You'll have to wait. But to help you endure this exquisite torture, I could find you a stick to bite on.”

“I'd rather bite on something of yours.”

Feeling confident and eager to test her skills of seduction, she knelt at his feet. Starting at the hem of the breeches, she slid the blade upward. When he told her to hurry, she slowed. When she told him to relax, he stiffened. At the bulging muscles in his thighs, the soft leather stretched as tight as skin, but she worked her fingers beneath it and cut the garment away.

At his groin she paused to look up at him. His gaze was fixed on her. At eye level with his jutting manhood, she glanced there, then at him. “I must be very careful here.”

“And quick about it, lest we revisit that ravishment issue.”

Holding one side of the fabric, she flicked the knife upward and sliced through to the waistband. He sucked in a breath and curled his fists around the edge of the table, but her attention was drawn to what the garment revealed.

Bold male beauty filled her vision. She let the knife clatter to the floor and peeled the other leg down to his ankle. When he lifted his foot to step out of the breeches, he was completely exposed to her, and her hands moved to the parts of him she had not seen. He felt heavy in her palms and strangely vulnerable until her fingers crept upward to cup him fully. He came alive beneath her touch. His hips jutted forward, and his manhood swelled, filling her hands and kindling her desire.

“No more.” With a gentle tug, he lifted her and returned her to the workbench. The slate was still warm, and when he pulled her toward the spike of his manhood, she went eagerly. He positioned himself, then stared into her eyes. Joy and deeper emotions gazed back at her.

She smiled as he nudged inside her. He grinned and called her name. Then his lips took hers in a kiss of possession, of desire, and of soul-deep surrender. She clutched him tighter, and when he moved to join them fully, she cried out in pain.

He stopped, his labored breathing fanning her face, indecision clouding his gaze. “Tell me that is not your maidenhead.”

“And if it is?”

He glanced at the cot. “You should have a soft bed the first time—”

“Not if we have to move from here.”

“You should have fresh linens.”

“But I'm excited by silk and leather and you.”

His eyes drifted shut, but his grip on her waist did not ease. Feeling his distress, she cradled his face in her hands. “I give my innocence to you freely.”

He reached around her again and retrieved a small blue jar that contained a rose-scented salve. With a flick of his thumb, he sent the lid flying. Leaning down, he spread the folds of her womanhood and slid his longest finger inside her. Deeper he pushed. When he stopped, his smile turned to a leer. “Very nice, this maidenhead, but much too intact for our purposes.”

Dipping that same finger into the salve, he parted her again and anointed her maidenhead.

“Thank you.”

“Your sweetness unmans me,” he said.

“You?” She stared at his engorged manhood. “If you call that unmanned, the king is a bloody Turk.”

“Then I shall try to make you mine without too much discomfort.”

“The thought of waiting distresses me more, Edward.”

A lopsided grin was his reply, but the lightheartedness was short-lived. Joining their mouths again, he kissed her with purpose and claimed her for his own.

She shifted to deepen his possession, but he would not allow it. “Go cautiously, love. We've time aplenty.”

The wanton in her ruled. Holding his gaze, she slowly scooted closer, drawing him more fully inside. He sucked in a breath and a heartbeat later said, “Chivalry is much overrated, aye?”

“Very much so.”

He enveloped her, one arm around her back, the other tunneling beneath her bottom to lift and draw her closer. She felt wedged into his loins, pressed into a union so powered by lust that her wanton soul rose to meet him. He groaned, deep in his chest and throat, and the vibrations hummed against her breasts and belly.

“Slowly, now,” he said into her mouth, and began a steady rhythm of thrust and withdrawal.

From that instant on, he varied the depths of the strokes, but never the cadence, and with each movement he brought her closer and closer to ecstasy. When it danced before her, shimmering like the very essence of life, she begged him to go faster.

He stilled and broke the kiss. “I should not, not yet.”

Through a haze of delirious wanting, she said, “But you must.”

His chest heaved and his eyes were glassy with need. She raked her fingernails down his chest and willed him to get on with it. Again his gaze dropped to where they were joined. His hair fell over his brow, and he swallowed hard. As if entranced, he watched himself move in and out of her in a roundabout stroke. Then he looked up at her and smiled. When she returned the smile and purred, his expression changed.

“Lift your hips and move with me.” He clenched his jaw; his nostrils flared. He quickened the pace, and she followed his lead, pressing and pulling, gasping and moaning. Lust churned in her loins, demanding release, until she could think of nothing save the true harmony that awaited her. When she reached the rapture, she went weak with the wonder of it, gasped, and cried out her pleasure.

As the final wave washed over her, she felt his release begin. Sealing their bodies and the union, he pulsed within her until the last of his passion was spent. Weakness curled her spine, and she reclined on the cool slate. Equally exhausted, he rested his forehead on her breast. Her oversensitized skin tingled at the silky touch of his hair.

When their breathing slowed, he withdrew and lay full upon her. Against her leg she felt his manhood, now sated and soft. Employing a gentle touch and tender kisses, he brought her back to the present. She stretched, feeling gloriously complete.

“Rest awhile.” He carried her to the cot.

Agnes closed her eyes. He extinguished the lamp nearest the cot, casting her into partial shadow. She languished, reliving every moment of his lovemaking.

She must have dozed, but not for long. According to the clock, it was almost three, and she was alone on the cot.

Gloriously naked, Edward Napier sat on a stool near the new engine, the leather breeches in his lap, a needle and pink thread in his hands. A stitch made, he stared at his machine. Stitch. Stare. Stitch. Stare. Then his focus turned inward.

The clock ticked once, twice, a dozen times. He put aside the sewing and moved to the end of the workbench and the repair of her necklace. Using the tips of his fingers, he manipulated the string and the clasp, but the jewelry did not hold his attention, for he constantly gazed at the engine.

His head came up, and he looked at Agnes's feet, her knees, her hips. She closed her eyes. Feeling sublime, she feigned sleep and watched through slit-ted eyes. He continued the pattern of stitching his breeches, repairing her jewelry, and watching her. But through it all, she knew he was thinking about his machine. Occasionally he'd rummage through the stack of drawings and consult a particular page.

Half an hour later, Agnes felt ignored. Still pretending sleep, she writhed languidly and rolled onto her back. Through the veil of her lashes she saw him look her way. His winsome smile pushed her to devilry.

The robe was belted, not tightly but enough to hold the garment together. That wouldn't do. So she waited until he settled into his routine, and when he walked to the workbench, she carefully tugged the knot from her belt. When he abandoned her jade necklace and returned to the stool, she writhed on the cot. The robe fell open.

Like a whip, his gaze lashed her. Then he ambled across the room and stood beside the cot. To her dismay, he sighed in resignation, closed her robe, and retied the knot. As he turned to go, she hummed a sleepy moan. He stopped, his buttocks high and tight with well-formed muscles, his manhood rising to attention.

Desire for her was not enough, for he returned to his stool and his stitchery. Twice more she untied the belt, twice more he came to fasten it. Neither time did she open her eyes. Years of training had heightened her perception. She could hear the familiar sequence of his actions: the dull rustle of leather, the clicking of jade beads, the shuffling of paper. The heady awareness of his desire. The silence of his concentration.

The stool scooted on the stone floor, alerting her to his next task—the jewelry. Secure in the knowledge that his back was momentarily turned as he moved to the workbench, she reached for the knot in her belt. A hand grasped her wrist. Her eyes flew open. He loomed above her, a very confident man, wearing leather breeches with a seam of pink thread marching down one leg.

When had he donned those breeches, and how had he moved the stool from across the room? The latter he'd accomplished by tying a string to the leg of the stool. The former was a mystery.

“You've been pretending sleep.”

“Lot of good it did,” she grumbled.

The scoundrel looked at his machine. “I was inspired.”

“I had hoped for a more personal inspiration.”

It was his turn to grumble. “I thought you would congratulate me. Your presence played a part in my success.”

What was he talking about, and why did he keep gazing at that contraption? Unless . . . “Your engine will work now?”

“Yes, I think so.”

Troubled by her selfishness, Agnes considered the ramifications of what he'd done. “You'll be free of Throckmorton.”

“Not only the Napier Mill will be free of him. Every textile concern with money and a thought for the future will be free of him. The people of India will have to slave at something else besides spinning thread.”

Captivated by the knowledge that she'd witnessed his greatness, Agnes couldn't contain her joy. “How? Tell me what occurred. Was it a revelation? Did it come upon you slowly?”

He demurred with masculine grace. “Nay, the curve of your hip was the catalyst.”

She huffed in disbelief and rolled to her side. “Go on with you.” He was teasing her.

“Truly. The irregular vacuum stems from the bulbous shape of the pressure chamber. Mechanically speaking, all that's needed is an angle iron of sorts.”

She couldn't stop staring at the manly bulge in his mended breeches. “A what?”

“How can I explain it simply?” he said, more to himself than to her. “Ah, I have it. Imagine, if you will, that your body is the engine and your legs are the pulleys. You do know what a pulley is?”

“Like a windlass?”

Raising an arm, he exclaimed, “Precisely!”

She felt petted, praised.

Then he returned to business. “Now that we've established that part, add to the equation an angle iron.” He touched her hip. “Roll over on your back again, and I'll show you.”

She wasn't sure she trusted him, not with that lovely bulge pulling at the new seam in his pants and playing havoc with her concentration. But she did as he asked.

All attentive and bright male, he touched her leg. “You see, a perpendicular brace is the key.”

“I thought 'twas the angle iron.”

“Not on it's own. Bend your knee and turn it out a bit. That'll make it clear. Yes, like that.”

Cool air teased her private parts, and the yearning in her belly grew. He leaned over her, sighted the engine, then checked the position of her leg. “Lift your leg a little more . . .” Again he followed an imaginary line between the machine and her. “No, that's not quite it.”

Moving quickly, he returned to the pallet, picked up a short, stout board, and held it at a right angle to the engine. “This is your leg.” With the same detachment he employed when doctoring her, he gauged the position of her leg with the stick. Frowning, he motioned for her to spread her leg more. “But keep it bent. That's the crucial element.”

She complied, exposing her femininity. He was unaffected, save the thickness in his breeches. Growing more uncomfortable, she asked, “What's a perpendicular brace?”

As if he were addressing a student, he said, “It's a thrusting wedge, so to speak. You've really grasped my theory, haven't you?”

“I'm confused about two things. How can a piece of wood be likened to an angle
iron,
and what is the perpendicular brace?”