Promise Me Tonight (40 page)

“Did you know she and Davies are sweet on each other?”

“I did, and I think it’s a fine thing, but do you
really
want to talk about your maid right now?”

His eyes had taken on the heavy-lidded slant she had come to associate with his arousal. His desire ignited hers. “No,” she whispered huskily, her pulse beginning to pound. “I don’t want to talk about Becky.”

“What
do
you want, then?”

“You.” She looped her arms around his neck and pressed her body against his. “Just you. Make love to me, James.”

Wordlessly, he led her over to stand before the fire and began to undress her. She closed her eyes, the action heightening her other senses. Her tongue tingled with the sharp taste of anticipation. She felt lightning bolts every time his fingers brushed against bare skin; inhaled the mingled smells of him, and her, and their need for each other; heard the crackling and hissing sounds of the logs in the fireplace . . . and the hitch in his breathing when he reached under her skirts and discovered that she was already wet for him.

He quickly unlaced her stays so she was clad in only her shoes and stockings. “Are you warm enough, my love?”

“Mmmm . . . Positively feverish,” she replied, kicking off her slippers. “And from the look of you, I fear the condition is catching.” She reached for the buttons on his waistcoat. “We must get you unclothed posthaste.”

With four frantic hands at work, the task was completed in record time. Naked, he knelt before her and set about untying her garters and removing her stockings. The amber light of the fire gilded his skin, and Isabella marveled again that he was hers. Determination clearly paid off.

James settled himself down into the nest of blankets and cushions and then drew her down on top of him, guiding her into position so that she was straddling his hips. The stance opened her to his view in a way she found wildly exciting. She reached up and drew the pins from her hair, tossing them aside until the heavy mass of curls tumbled down her back. Now she was a lusty pirate queen . . . a pagan princess . . . a seductive siren. Now—and always—she was
his
.

Isabella gasped with pleasure as James caught her breasts in his hands. He teased the tender globes, kneading her flesh and tweaking her nipples, causing her to squirm about on him. The movement pressed her sensitive, exposed flesh against him; they groaned in unison, and Isabella felt his shaft, throbbing and insistent, against her buttocks. She cried out as he circled a finger about her wet entrance.

“You’re ready for me,” he said with satisfaction.

“And you,” she remarked, boldly reaching down behind her to touch him, “are ready for me.”

“Always,” he rasped. “God, do you have any idea how much I need you?”

She smiled slyly and ran a fingertip along the length of his erection. “Oh, I think I have some idea.”

Grasping her hips, James lifted her up. Their eyes met and locked. “Take me inside you,” he commanded.

Still trapped by that green-gold gaze, Isabella felt around blindly until she captured him. She couldn’t resist stroking him a bit.

“Now, Izzie!” he said through clenched teeth.

She guided him to her aching opening, then slid the tip of him inside her. She waited for him to push into her, but he just held her there, poised to receive him.

“More,” she insisted.

He lowered her another inch.

“More,” she pleaded, wriggling her hips. Her muscles gripped him tightly, trying to draw him in farther.

Another painful, pleasurable inch.

“More, more, more!” she yelled, lifting her hands into her hair and thrusting her breasts forward, utterly wanton and loving it.

“
Yes
,” James growled. He pulled her hips down at the same time as he thrust upward, coming into her so hard and fast and deep, she nearly swooned.

“Are you all right?” he asked in concern.

“Even better,” Isabella assured him. Instinctively, she began to rock against him, and he lay back, folding his arms behind his head, allowing her to discover what she liked.

After a while, she found a glorious, primitive rhythm that soon had them both panting. James cupped her behind, his strong arms supporting her and urging her on, quickening her pace.

Isabella leaned over him, dangling her breasts like ripe fruit before his face. He eagerly drew one into his mouth, suckling strongly, swirling his tongue about her nipple. Isabella felt an echoing response down below, as if the hard bud in his mouth shared some invisible connection to the one at the apex of her sex. She was close to coming undone. Close to coming.
Close.

“More,” she demanded.

It was apparently the signal he had been waiting for. James surged up into her, grinding her hips down on his. He thrust into her over and over, his hips bucking beneath her. She rode him, raced him, reached with him for heaven, and then rejoiced with him when they exploded together and landed among the stars.

They clung to each other afterward, sweaty and sated, happy simply to hold and be held.

“I love you,” Isabella murmured against his shoulder.

He lifted his head and met her eyes. “I love you, too.”

“Promise me?”

“Always.”

She arched up and kissed him, her soul filled with the knowledge that this man and this love—and these kisses—were hers forever. He had promised her “always,” and she believed him with all her heart.

Epilogue

Holding up a hand to shade her eyes from the sun, Isabella slowly made her way down Haddington’s High Street until she finally found the establishment she was looking for. In the three weeks they’d been in Scotland visiting her aunt Kate, this was the first opportunity she’d had to execute her plan. When James had mentioned over breakfast that he planned to spend the day alone with Bride—now two years old and as feisty as her uncle had predicted—Isabella had seized the day.

She had some very wonderful news for her husband, and she knew just how she wanted to tell him. Filled with giddy anticipation, Isabella pushed open the door to the toy shop. But as soon as her eyes adjusted to being indoors, she realized she was too late.

“Mama!” Bride shrieked, pulling her thumb out of her mouth and waving wildly over her father’s shoulder. Clutched in her other hand was her baby blanket, though it looked more like a tattered rag and had faded to an indeterminate gray color. Isabella liked to say it was “well loved.”

James turned around to see what his daughter was fussing about. When he saw her, though she could tell he was as shocked as she, a smile lit his face.

Izzie frowned. “I thought you were spending the day with Bride. What are you doing here?”

“I
am
spending the day with Bride. She wanted to see about having a special blanket made for her little brother or sister.”

“You know,” Isabella whispered. Then her voice rose. “You
know
?”

James laughed and pulled her to him with his free hand. He dropped a kiss on her mouth, which was still hanging open in shock.

She gathered her wits back around her. “How long have you known?” she demanded.

“About a fortnight.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“Why didn’t you?” he countered.

“Because,” she huffed, “I had this ridiculous notion of surprising my husband with a gift, for once!”

“I appreciate it, my love, but I shall tell you what you once told me. I don’t need presents.” He rested his hand over her abdomen. “For the rest of my life, you and our children are the only gifts I need.” He kissed her again, long and slow and sweet, drawing away only when they heard the shopkeeper’s soft chuckle.

Isabella gasped and raised her hands to her burning cheeks, mortified at being caught sharing such intimacies in a public space. “I am so sorry—,” she began.

“Och, lassie, never be sorry fer lovin’,” she said, and then turned her attention to James. “This is yer wife?”

He nodded.

“I was right. Yer wife is a lucky woman.”

“That she is,” James replied, drawing her even closer against him. “But I am an even luckier man to have such a wife.”

Isabella sighed. Was it any wonder that she loved this man? Then she grinned like the minx he often accused her of being. She intended to remind her husband just how lucky he was every night—and some mornings and afternoons—for the rest of their lives.

Turn the page for a sneak peek at Olivia’s story,

Tempting the Marquess

Coming from Signet Eclipse in June 2010

O
livia stood before the castle’s thick wooden portal, inwardly bracing herself against what lay in wait on the other side. Freezing rain had plastered her shabby traveling gown to her body, and the biting wind whipped at her sodden blond ringlets. She thought wistfully of her blue velvet pelisse with the ermine trim, but she had left the garment—and the elegant, easy life it represented—behind when she had chosen to run away rather than marry the lecherous Duke of Devonbridge. And now she was a lowly governess, dependent on the kindness and goodwill of her employers—and her new master was purported to have little of either.

A lone wolf howled somewhere out on the misty, moonlit moors that stretched for miles around the isolated edifice. She shivered with cold and fright, wondering whether she might not be safer with the wolves than inside the castle’s walls. A different sort of beast lay within that impenetrable stone fortress. A caged beast, confined not by chains but by his own despair.

The villagers called him the Mad Marquess, for he had been crazed with grief since the death of his wife some four years prior. He eschewed all company—not that there were many eager to subject themselves to his foul humor. In the past year alone no fewer than eleven maids had resigned their posts at Castle Arlyss. She’d heard rumors, too, of a centuries-old curse. . . .

Olivia raised her face to the heavens, searching for a sign that this was indeed the path she was meant to travel—that she was meant to save this tormented soul and show his son a mother’s love. Lightning flashed and crackled through the night sky, setting her hair on end. The angry rumble of thunder followed close behind.

Stiffening her spine, Olivia raised her fist to knock. Then, all of a sudden, a strong gust of the wind snatched at her sleeve, as if trying to stop her. The air swirled around her, rustling through the dead leaves underfoot.

It seemed to whisper a name.

Livvy
, it murmured.

Livvy . . .

A Carriage Bound for Castle Arlyss Pembrokeshire, Wales

December 21, 1798

“Livvy!”

Olivia opened her eyes and stared unseeing out the coach window. She blinked at the few rays of sunlight that dared penetrate the winter gloom lingering over southwest England. She shook her head. The wild, stormy night had vanished, and she was back in her aunt’s well-sprung carriage.

A wistful sigh escaped her. The dream had been so real . . . but now she was back to being ordinary Olivia Weston.

She turned her head to look at her young cousin Charlotte, who was tugging rather insistently at her sleeve.

“Livvy!”

“What is it?” Livvy asked in as understanding a tone as she could muster. The journey from Scotland to Wales had already taken close to a fortnight, and though she loved Charlotte dearly, the boundless energy of a five year old was ill-suited to the close confines of a carriage. Not that Olivia was any stranger to small children. As the third of seven siblings, she knew all about them.

The little girl frowned, pulling at one of her glossy dark ringlets, then shrugged. “I forget.”

Livvy bit back a groan and stifled the urge to tear at her hair which, to her everlasting disappointment, was neither curly nor dark. Neither was it blond and straight. Olivia’s hair was a very ordinary, indeterminate shade of brown, and it had just enough of a wave to always look unkempt.

“Livvy?”

“What, Char?”

“I remembered. I had a secret to tell you.” Charlotte crossed her arms over her chest and flopped back against the plush squabs with a satisfied smile.

“And . . . ?” Olivia prompted. She waited for further elucidation, but none was forthcoming. “Did you wish to tell me this secret you remembered?”

Charlotte thought a moment before shaking her head. “I’ll tell Queenie instead.”

Queen Anne, a doll in lavish court dress, was Charlotte’s most prized possession, a distinction held since being unwrapped a few weeks past. Yes, Livvy thought, she had been replaced in her cousin’s affections by an inanimate object. How distressing! She consoled herself with the knowledge that her conversational skills far surpassed those of Queenie. Then again, so did a squirrel’s. As was her wont, she began composing a list in her head:

Ways in Which I Am Superior to Queenie

1. I can read.

2. I can write.

3. My head is not made of wood.

4. I can breathe.

Hmm, perhaps that last should have been first on her list; it seemed a fairly important distinction. Of course, squirrels also breathed. Maybe she ought to list the ways she was superior to squirrels instead. . . . She stopped herself, wondering whether it was possible to go mad from boredom.