Lady Beware (22 page)

T
hen he said, “Ah,” and pulled her through a door and closed it behind them.

Darkness slowly softened because of three small windows high in the wall to her left. They showed only squares of gray but were enough for her eyes to slowly perceive a long narrow room and shapes on either side, dark and pale. The smell of the room sorted this out—lavender, pennyroyal, and mint, and that distinctive smell of clean sheets.

“Linen room?” she whispered.

“Linen room.”

She heard a click. He'd locked the door.

“There was a key on the inside of the door?” she asked, suddenly nervous despite herself.

“There was a key left carelessly on the outside.” She heard humor and warmth and that mellow timbre that had struck her at first meeting but become so familiar that she'd ceased to be aware.

He came toward her, found her helmet, and gently raised it. “Not as good as a bed,” he said, “but a distant relation, perhaps?”

“We don't need a bed for a kiss.”

“We don't need a room like this for a kiss, Thea.” He lifted the helmet away.

She nervously fingered her pinned hair. “That's such a relief. It's not so much uncomfortable as oppressive.”

“And a goddess should never be oppressed.”

She reached for him, but he unhooked her girdle so that it tinkled to the floor. Her robe slithered after it. He turned her and felt for her laces again. Thea knew she shouldn't permit this, but how could they truly kiss with a solid barrier between them?

He found the bow and tugged. The knot came loose and then he patiently loosened the cross-lacing all the way up, his fingers sending shivers of pleasure up and down her spine.

Thea braced her hands on the wooden shelves in front of her, inhaling the smell of clean sheets and herbs, aware of every touch and of him, behind her in this tight room. His costume must have been stored for many years. It, too, retained a hint of herbs, blending with the essential smell of him. A smell she recognized, though she'd been unaware of that, too, before this darkly mysterious moment.

The bodice came loose enough to remove. She raised her arms and he lifted it off. She turned, feeling shockingly naked with only the silk shift covering her upper body, especially when her nipples brushed against his braided coat.

He unfastened the ties holding up her armored skirt and it fell to the floor with a rattle. His hands lingered on her waist, strong, warm, and a little rough, catching on the silk.

His mouth pressed against hers then, a brief greeting before complete possession. She grabbed for his jacket, found it wasn't there. He'd shed it, and his waistcoat stood open. Her hands clutched cotton lawn, smooth and fine over his muscular torso. She had never felt such a potent body before or pressed her own almost naked body to one. What a tragedy that seemed.

And they kissed and they kissed and they kissed.

She'd built such hunger throughout their sparring encounters, and then through the long days of brief or nonexistent meetings. Now every part of her leapt for this, for this, for more. She wouldn't care now if she were in the ballroom, observers all around—

Yes, she would!

She tensed and resisted.

“Hush,” he said, or gasped, his breathing ragged. He drew her into his arms again, but tenderly, holding her, rocking her. He stroked down her back and she arched slightly.

“Like a cat,” she gasped in surprise.

“Don't scratch,” he said as his strong hands settled on her bottom, circling hands drawing the silk high and higher. Exposing her.

Legs quivering, even fearful, Thea knew she wasn't going to object or try to escape. She simply couldn't. If ruin was the price, so be it.

His right hand trailed up beneath the shift to her front, to her breast, to cup, to gently squeeze, to thumb. She jerked in shock, in pleasure, and in recognition. She gripped his hand and held it there, savoring the feverish pleasure of her most wicked dreams.

Clever hand still playing with her, he kissed her again. A whimper escaped and she gripped his waistcoat for support, moving her knee restlessly up and down his satin breeches, aching deep inside, thrusting her hips.

He froze, head against hers, breathing as deeply as she. Then he stepped back. Before she could protest or grab for him, she realized he was pulling sheets off the shelves and throwing them to the floor.

“Oh, the poor laundress,” she gasped, but she helped and then they sank down onto the nest of cool linen.

His waistcoat had gone. His shirt was out of his breeches. Her hands could invade and touch his hot, silky skin.

His hand teased her other breast as he kissed her, but then his mouth traveled to where his hand had been, nibbling at her through silk. Her head seemed to be floating, far away from her hot, hungry body. He found the edge of her shift and drew it up, his fingers teasing up her thigh.

And then between.

Thea tensed, but then her driving hunger opened to him and his touch there was everything she'd ever wanted.

“The Great Untouchable…,” she whispered on a laugh.

“Ridiculous,” he agreed. “Relax, Thea. Trust me. I won't ruin you.”

“
This
isn't ruin?”

His laughter was warm and gentle. “Only if we're caught, and the door, remember, is locked.” He pushed her shift all the way up, so her breasts were uncovered, and then he cradled one and kissed it, then licked and sucked.

“Oh, dear heaven.”

He laughed again and his fingers slid between her welcoming thighs.

This was not what she'd expected. From her rudimentary knowledge of the matter of a man and a maid she'd expected something more forceful, more violent. Something involving pain. Not this gentle, almost teasing attention and this building fever of desire.

Won't ruin her.

Not take her maidenhead.

What was he doing, then? She didn't care. Astonishing sensations swirled within her, then tightened throughout her, more and more. She was gasping, almost panicked.

Violence. Ah, now it was. And pain of a sort, that built and built…

Into explosion.

She found his mouth and kissed him with all the fiery lights going off in her head, kissed him with all the rippling, seething wonders of her body, entangled sweatily with his.

She slid off the kiss, not exhausted but replete, and simply lay there. Until he took her limp hand and pressed it against something hot and hard.

For a moment she wanted to pull away, but he said, “A goddess might be grateful.”

Heat and smells cocooned them in their nest, and darkness permitted anything. “What would gratitude involve?” she whispered.

“A return of favors? Explore me.”

She cautiously curled her fingers around the wood-hard shape. Why had she never thought about the mechanics of all this?

“It can't be like this all the time,” she said, feeling the length of it. Good Lord!

“No. It needs reducing.”

“How? You said you wouldn't ruin me.”

“Your hand can do it.” He felt relaxed beneath her and sounded as if he were talking about whether she should bake a cake or not. “Or mine. But I thought you might enjoy a new adventure.”

“Will I?” She ran her palm up and down.

“I don't know.”

She was fascinated by the warm hardness of him, but alarmed by the idea that this was designed to penetrate a woman. Forceful and violent, indeed. Perhaps she wouldn't marry at all. Her hand tightened and he shivered, a ripple throughout his whole body that she recognized as violent pleasure and need.

She snatched her hand away.

“It's all right,” he said. “I can do it for myself.”

But he wanted her to do it. He would enjoy it, perhaps as much as she'd enjoyed what he'd done for her. She curled her hand again. “Show me.”

He pulled her hand from him and pressed it between her own thighs, to the place still exquisitely sensitive and, she felt, very moist. He rubbed her there and that potent pleasure stirred again.

Not now.

Not yet.

He drew her hand back to him and now she was slick against him. When she moved her hand, it slid. He moved her hand up and down, and then at the top he pushed her thumb to go over the smoother tip, where she felt new moisture.

He shivered again.

“You like that?” she whispered.

“Exceedingly.”

He lay back, a sprawled shadow against pale white sheets, but she knew dark eyes were looking at her. Could imagine them beneath heavy lids. Could feel the need in him.

She leaned down to kiss his parted lips, continuing the actions he'd shown her. “Am I doing it right?”

“You are, as always, perfect, my goddess.”

She played her fingers up and down him, as if playing the piano. “And that?”

“Too gentle for now, Goddess.”

So she gripped him tighter and moved faster, sensing his tension, hearing his breathing, imagining that building, feverish madness. It built in her, too. She hooked a leg over his thighs so she could press against him as he thrust against her.

He grabbed part of a sheet and pushed it over himself and her hand. Spurts hit the sheet, some splashing hot on her hand. She rubbed that fluid onto him, eager to carry on, but he captured her hand, stilled it, and drew it away. She collapsed over him, both of them steaming with heat and sweat and surrounded by a heavy, musky smell.

If he'd wanted to put himself into her then, she'd have rejoiced.

Breathing calmed, heat simmered down.

“We must be making a terrible mess,” she said.

He laughed. “Don't be a lady, Thea. Not tonight.”

He played sweet magic down her back, massaged her bottom, teased down the back of her thigh.

She squirmed, but lazily. “I never knew how many sensitive places there were on a body.”

He stroked up again and slid between her legs from behind. “Especially here. Yes?”

Her body leapt and she rolled off him onto her back. “Oh, yes.”

His mouth found her breasts again and his hand that sensitive place. She arched instantly to him, repeating, “Oh, yes!” and this time he was forceful and violent, shooting pleasure through her, burning her up, driving her to pound against his hand. She would have been shrieking if she'd had breath. She only knew that she was going to die soon and wanted to.

And then she did.

She came to on his chest, in his arms, warm, safe, the perfect place to be.

I want to marry you.

The thought didn't make it into words, and she was glad of that, but it was true. She'd never thought the physical act a very important part of marriage. Liking, admiration, suitability of temperament, shared interests, and a comfortable equality of social standing—those had always seemed the necessities for a good life.

She didn't discount them, but now these earthy matters were important, and they were for him and her.

And she did like him. She liked the feel of his skin beneath her stroking hand, and his callused hand on her, but she liked his company and admired his virtues—his courage, his resolve, his staunch dependability. They weren't alike in temperament, but perhaps they complemented. The thought of life by his side, even with the challenges of his family history, was good. So she must make it so.

“What do I call you?” she asked, tracing a circle on his shoulder.

“Lord and master?”

She poked him. “I am a goddess, sir, and have no master.”

“Tell that to Zeus.”

“You want me to call you Zeus?”

He simply laughed. She remembered thinking about a cat, and that's what he seemed like now, here in this hot darkness. A big cat, content to be stroked, enjoying being stroked.

“I need a true name for you,” she said, stroking down his flank, his thigh. “Darien doesn't seem suited to a situation like this.”

“You intend there to be many situations like this?”

Yes. Don't you?
But she said neither. This was a delicate joy, needing tender care.

“I don't like Canem,” she said. “It's fine for your friends….”

He captured her hand and raised it to his lips. “I had hoped we could be friends.”

“Your men friends.” She inhaled, savoring his deep, warm smell, their deep warm smell, rubbing her thigh against his stronger one. “Doesn't Canem remind you of that incident? It has to carry pain.”

He nibbled gently at her fingertips. “I've made it my own, and I have no warm feelings for the name Horatio.”

“What did your mother call you?”