Miss Wonderful (33 page)

"Mirabel."
A murmur against her eager, welcoming mouth.

"Yes,
yes, yes," she whispered.

Yes
yes yes.

He
pushed dress and corset and chemise over her hips and down, scarcely
heeding what he did, only wanting them out of the way. He shed his
own remaining garments in the same mindless way, caring for nothing
but to taste her mouth again, and her skin, and to learn every inch
of her body with his hands, his mouth.

Perhaps
he was aware, in some distant corner of his mind, of where he was and
who she was and what he'd intended, of what was right and what was
wrong. But the awareness slid farther and farther away while her
hands moved over him, too, as she learnt from him to be bold, as she
discovered how to stir his hunger for her.

Right
and wrong receded and faded while desire blazed ever fiercer and
wilder. Her tongue tangled with his, her fingers dug into his
shoulders, and their bodies tangled, too, as he rolled with her onto
their sides. All the while they demanded more of each other, and the
clinging kiss deepened, into a heated mimicry of coitus.

He
was still aware, in some faraway place, of what he'd intended and
what honor demanded. But she clung to him, and he'd rather die than
let go of her, so warm, and silken soft, and passionate.

He
dragged her up tight against him, and heard her soft gasp.

"It's
all right," he whispered.

It
wasn't. She was an innocent, else his arousal would not have shocked
her.

Stop,
he told himself. Stop now.

But
she didn't recoil. She wasn't afraid, though his swollen membrum
virile throbbed against her belly.

"Oh,
my goodness," she said, her voice a choked whisper. She moved
her hips against his. Then, "Oh."

He
had no thoughts left, only a hot haze of consciousness. "I want
you," he growled. "So very much."

"Yes,"
she said. "Yes, please."

Yes,
please.

He
slid his hand between her legs.

She
made a soft, startled sound, then relaxed and yielded, trusting him.

He
slipped his fingers through the feather-soft curls and gently
caressed her. Again she stiffened, and again, in the next moment, she
surrendered to the intimate touch, moving against his hand, seeking
more. Her soft hands moved more possessively over his shoulders, his
arms, sending rivers of heat coursing down to the pit of his belly,
making a hot darkness of his mind.

His
caresses grew less gentle, and her hands tightened on his arms. "Oh,
yes, please. Oh, yes. Dear God I—" and then she was
shuddering to a climax, then another, and another.

He
felt her pulsing pleasure ricochet through him, felt it course
through his veins and reverberate in muscle and sinew. She was stick
under his hand, and he was half mad with joy and need. She writhed
against him. "Oh, please. Please." She caught her fingers
in his hair and dragged his mouth to hers, and' it was sin he tasted
this time, hot and sweet carnal sin. He needed to drain every drop,
to be inside her, to feel that madly pulsing pleasure from within.

Still
half lost in the tumultuous kiss, he drew her leg up over his hip. He
stroked more deeply with his fingers, readying her, though she was
silky moist already, and his fingers trembled with need. She wanted
him. He wanted her, more than anything in the world.

He
poised himself to enter.

She
slid her hand down his belly, and he groaned against her mouth. She
was murmuring. He couldn't understand. His mind was thick and dark
and hot.

Then
he felt her hand close over his rod. The thick, black world went
blinding white, her touch a lightning strike, blasting through him.
It jolted through muscle and pumped through vein… and he
exploded, spilling himself onto her belly.

HE
took Mirabel with him when he rolled off her and she, mere putty in
those long, knowing hands, went easily. A delirious happiness filled
her being, while pure physical pleasure cascaded over her skin and
through her veins and made her tremble.

He
drew her close and tucked her up against him, her backside pressing
against his groin. She nestled there comfortably and thought hazily
that this was where she belonged, must have always belonged. He was
big and warm and wonderfully solid. She reached back and stroked the
taut, muscular thigh pressed to hers. She felt him wince, and
consciousness stumbled back, and she realized she'd run her hand over
the wounded thigh. What she felt against her palm was a tangle of
smooth, raised scar tissue.

"I'm
sorry," she whispered. "Does it pain you?"

He
made an odd sound, a laugh or a groan or something in between. "No,
sweet, not at all. Another kind of suffering."

He
pressed his mouth to her neck, and she shivered.

"Like
that," he said.

Pleasure.
It pleased him when she touched him. She knew that. She'd felt his
pleasure, an echo of her own, with every caress. It was as though he
were an echo of her and she of him. It was as though they'd always
known each other, been part of each other, but some interruption had
come, separating them for a time.

She
could not speak of it yet. What had happened to her was too magical.
What she'd felt was beyond any words she possessed. To have him touch
her so intimately, to give herself up completely—it was so
wonderful it hurt. If only she'd realized what would happen when she
touched him so brazenly, she wouldn't have done it. She'd wanted him
inside her.

But
no, it was better this way, for both of them. No consequences.

She
swallowed the lump forming in her throat.

"It's
that tyrannical leg," she said. "Always wanting attention.
Let me look at it."

"It
isn't pretty," he said. "But what do you care? You see the
beauty in the black moorlands, where others see ugliness and
bleakness. And anyway, you're a countrywoman. You've no doubt watched
cattle, sheep, and pigs give birth. You must have a wonderfully
strong stomach."

"Women
are not so squeamish as men," she said.

"Squeamish?"
He laughed.

She
turned in his arms, paused to kiss his neck and shoulder, then
regarded the damaged limb.

The
injury was more extensive than she'd imagined. Not one, but a large
tangle of scars spread from his hip nearly to his knee.

"It
must have been a fearful wound," she said. "Wounds, I mean.
It is amazing you were able to keep the leg and live."

She
felt him stiffen.

"Shall
I change the subject?" she asked.

It
was a while before he answered, his voice very low, "The
surgeons said they must take it off. I wouldn't let them. I was…"
A long pause. "I'm not sure I was rational at the time. But
Gordy was, and he seconded me."

"You
must have lost a great deal of blood," she said. "That
would make it hard to think clearly."

He
buried his face in her hair.

"And
your having lost so much blood would make it very risky to amputate,"
she went on. "I hadn't thought of that. I suppose the surgeons
did not know what else to do. Neither would I, come to that. I don't
know how you found the Turkish healer, but he—or she—seems
to have saved your Me. You were fortunate your friend was there. Lord
Gordmor."

She
owed this magical interlude to her enemy, then. She'd soared to the
stars and back because of him. The man aiming to destroy her world
had saved this man's life.

She
would not think about it.

She
stroked over his chest, over the silky hair. "There's more
gold," she murmured.

"There's
what?"

"More
gold in the hair on your chest than on your head." She looked up
and met an unreadable amber gaze. "I have paid very close
attention to these little details," she added.

She'd
been memorizing him, so that later…

She
put that thought aside, too. She wanted to concentrate on now. It
would be over all too soon.

Now
she was warm and content and safe, and still at one with him. Soon…

Soon.
Oh, Lord, how long had she been here?

Pleasure
and warmth began to dissolve as reality slithered back in, the snake
in the garden.

She
looked up at him. "I must go," she said.

His
arms tightened about her.

"I
must leave now," she said. "I cannot stay all afternoon…
though I wish I could."

His
gaze darkened. "We need to talk first," he said.

"We
can talk another time," she said.

"About
us," he said.

"There
isn't—won't be—any 'us.'"

"I
think we must talk about marriage," he said.

Her
heart skipped and fluttered, exultant and fearful at once. Mad and
sane at the same time.

She
drew in a long, steadying breath and let it out, and rested her head
upon his chest. "I'm a countrywoman, as you pointed out,"
she said. "I know how animals are impregnated. You did not
impregnate me."

He
gave a short laugh. "It was not for want of trying. But you—Gad,
with you I have all the control of a homy schoolboy."

She
lifted her hand and laid the palm against his cheek. "I regret
nothing," she said. "You must not, either. You are not
responsible for my virtue. You did not trick or deceive me. I knew
what I was doing."

"It
doesn't matter," he said. "I knew what I was doing, too—or
thought I did. I never meant for it to go so far."

"I
did," she said.

"That
makes no difference," he said.

"Don't
tell me it's a question of honor."

"Not
simply honor," he said. "Honor and affection. I care for
you."

It
came then, all unbidden, the memory: William, storming through her
ravaged plantation, pulling her into his arms. I love you, Mirabel.
Don't ruin two lives. Don't make me go away without you.

She'd
held firm then, though she was so deeply in love, because too much
was at stake.

This
was mere infatuation, she told herself. Yielding to it would render
everything she'd done pointless. She would have sacrificed William's
love for nothing. All these years of working to save the place she
loved, the place her mother had loved—all for nothing.

She
tried to wriggle free. The powerful arms did not give way one iota.
"Mr. Carsington," she said.

"Alistair,"
he said.

"Mr.
Carsington," she said firmly. "Pray use your head. Marriage
is out of the question. In a very short time we shall be at odds, and
you may be certain I shall fight you, mercilessly, with every weapon
at my disposal. This—this interlude, as agreeable as it has
been…" She trailed off, honesty getting the better of
her. "Not agreeable. It was… perfect. And I care for you,
too, but I do not see how any woman could help it. I cannot allow
these feelings or our… intimacy to influence me."

He
kissed her forehead.

She
wanted to cry.

"I
refuse to believe the situation cannot be resolved more happily,"
he said. "We have not even had a proper discussion about it."

"There
is only one feasible route for your friend's canal," she said.
"Believe me, I've searched for alternatives. There aren't any."

"The
route can be shaped in various ways," he said.

"The
result will be the same," she said. "You will make a public
highway through my peaceful, backward world, and it will change
beyond recognition and beyond recall. I cannot let that happen. To an
outsider, Longledge is like a hundred other rustic places. But to me
it is unique and precious."

"My
dear, I understand that."

The
gentleness of his voice nearly undid her. Tears itched at the corners
of her eyes. Her throat ached.