The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae (24 page)

As the scalding wetness of her sheath closed around the head of his erection.

A heartbeat later, he met the expected obstruction, but she was already stretched to the limit by his size; one short, sharp thrust, and he was through.

She'd started; pain had flashed through her eyes, but one blink and it was gone . . . superseded by amazement and wonder.

Jaw clenched, muscles starting to quiver, he used what little control he had left to hold himself back from simply thrusting home.

Her gaze raced over his face, returned to his eyes, then her expression softened. She shifted, hips lifting, tilting, pressing nearer. Easing his way as best she could.

He fell on the wordless invitation and pressed deeper. Further. Halfway in, he halted and closed his eyes on a shudder. She was so damned tight.

She eased further beneath him, a welcome and an encouragement impossible to misconstrue.

Opening his eyes, he looked down into hers—and saw her welcome, her acceptance, and her need reflected there.

She reached up, caressed his cheek, then ran her fingers back into his hair.

Locked in her eyes, he pressed on, forged steadily deeper—until at last he was sheathed to the hilt in the hot, wet, wonder of her body.

And she sighed.

A sound of delight, of inexpressible sensual pleasure.

Her eyes a medley of emerald and gold, she used her hand at his nape to rise up enough to touch her lips to his jaw, then brush them across his mouth.

Holding herself there, meeting his eyes at close quarters, the curve of her lips deepened, and she whispered, her breath warm across his lips, “Now ride me. Take me. Show me.” The last word he heard as her lips closed on his was “All.”

And then her mouth was there, offered and surrendered, and he plunged in and plundered.

Withdrew and plunged into her body, and plundered there, too.

And surrendered to her fire and their flames.

Desire beat at him; passion raked claws over and through him, and shredded what remained of his control.

Some impulse even more powerful wiped his mind of all thought—and left only raging hunger behind.

But she was there—there to sate him, to take him in and mate him. To join with him and hold tight as their world spiraled into a frenzy of heat and passion.

She was there, as one with him in their greedy hunger, in the maelstrom they had together unleashed; hands grasped and clung and fingers sank deep as their breaths sawed and passion ignited and burned—all around them, in them, through them—cindering wits and searing their senses.

Until they raced up a peak impossibly high, until their hearts thundered and their senses turned inward and they knew nothing beyond the world bound by their locked bodies.

By their joined desires.

By their linked souls.

Wills aligned, wits long gone, they rode through the flames and headlong into ecstasy.

She shattered beneath him on a breathless scream.

He followed her over the edge, holding her close, reveling in the unprecedented glory as on a hoarse shout, his body emptied into hers.

For long moments, ecstasy held them, bright, sharp, overwhelming.

Then they fell. Into oblivion. Into a sea of boundless satiation.

Chapter Twelve

D
ominic woke to the sensation of a warm female body snuggled against his.

And knew, instantly, even without thinking, who she was.

He tried to tell himself that it was because she was in his bed at Glencrae House, where he'd never brought any other woman, so who else would she be, but that was a lie. His knowledge had leapt from some instinctive place; something inside him recognized who she was. Not Angelica Cynster so much as his mate.

He'd always understood his primitive side, had worked with it all his life; it was the talents of that less civilized self that made him such an excellent hunter. He valued the heightened instincts; they'd kept him alive too often to count.

While that other side had naturally played some part in his previous sexual conquests, never before had that more primitive self stepped forward to claim a woman—to possess her as his. It was usually just the chase that mattered, not the claiming itself.

With Angelica . . . nothing had been all that “usual.”

Certainly not the depth of satiation that later had held him in thrall.

He'd collapsed half on top of her, but she hadn't seemed to mind. Eventually, however, he'd lifted from her, untangled their limbs, found the covers and dragged them over their cooling bodies.

Without a word, she'd crawled back into his arms and settled her head on his chest; he'd fallen asleep with her hair caressing his chin.

She must have stirred and turned during the night. Her back was now to him, her curvy, heart-shaped bottom snuggled against his groin. One of his arms lay over her waist, his hand relaxed beneath her breasts; he could feel the tip of the rose-pink crystal touching the top of his hand.

He breathed in, and the scent of her wreathed through his brain.

Revisiting what had occurred after he'd surrendered and kissed her . . . throughout the engagement, he and she had fought for control, but neither had won. Instead . . . he wasn't entirely sure what had happened instead.

His instincts had warned him that being intimate with her would be different, and, as usual, his instincts had proved correct. That left him . . . not understanding what was going on. Not knowing the pertinent factors, the relevant parameters, not knowing how to exert control.

He was accustomed to controlling virtually everything in his life, and in all things he most assuredly controlled himself. Yet last night . . .

He focused on her red-gold head. Wondered if, the next time he slid into her body, the engagement might be more amenable to his customary mastery.

There was only one way to find out.

A
ngelica awoke to the shiveringly intimate sensation of long, strong fingers stroking between her thighs, sliding over the already slick flesh from behind.

Even as her mind locked on the sensation, the fingers probed, testing, then opening her.

Before she'd caught her breath, before her wits had caught up with her senses, Dominic shifted behind her, and the blunt head of his erection parted her folds.

The fingers that had been preparing her splayed over her belly, angling her hips so that he could press deeper and fill her. His other hand had slid under her hip and now held her steady, anchored before him.

Eyes closing on a shuddering exhalation, she let her senses feast on the delicious, indescribably glorious sensations the intimate invasion sent pulsing through her. He pressed slowly, deliberately, in, and her flesh parted, gave way, surrendered—and claimed.

He filled her, and her body delighted.

Finally seated deep inside her, he curled his body around hers, his chest to her back, his legs behind hers. He bent his head; his lips cruised her bare shoulder. “There's no need for you to move. Just lie there, and let me show you.”

He drew back on the words, then surged slowly in again. Sensation rolled in a long, dreamily somnolent wave through her. The feel of his hard body, naked and hot, cradling hers, the abrasion from the crinkly hair that decorated his chest, thighs, and groin as with every surging thrust his body shifted against hers, brought her pleasure, and a subtle, scintillating joy.

Smiling, eyes closed, she did as he asked and gave herself up to his expertise, to experiencing this slower, yet equally intimate, possibly more erotic, dance.

Appreciated what it revealed.

To be as she presently was, her body surrendered, his to use, to fill and pleasure as he would and from which to take pleasure as he willed, required precisely the sort of trust she'd wanted to find. That she'd wanted to learn to have in him.

In their veins, the thud of desire had steadily escalated, albeit, this time, to a measured and tightly reined beat. Lips curving, she felt confident such rigid control wouldn't last, not through the final, cataclysmic moments. Where that confidence came from she didn't know, but it was real and absolute.

Their fire had ignited and flared long ago; passion's flames had raced through them, claiming them both. Their skins were heated, yet still the internal conflagration built.

Soon. The end had to come soon.

She was already panting, nails digging into the forearm he had locked around her. Need raked her. Passion coiled, hotter and tighter, deep in her belly; his increasingly hard, deep thrusts fanned the furnace. She felt the end fast approaching. Could feel the inevitable coiling tension gripping his body, investing the heavy muscles surrounding her, holding her in passionate supplication.

Up to then she'd obeyed his injunction to just lie there, but that was denying herself the pleasure she most enjoyed—pleasuring him. Yet he had her in an unforgiving hold, one she didn't truly want to break . . . his next thrust brushed some point of such sensitivity that she gasped, senses spiking, and instinctively tightened about him.

Remembered she could. She did it again and realized she didn't need to move to caress him, to pleasure him. Blatantly, flagrantly.

He'd stilled at her first experimental attempt, breaking his rhythm of thrust and retreat, but then, at her back, his chest swelled, and he resumed, then picked up the pace, thrusting harder, more powerfully—and she found her own rhythm and matched him.

Head bowed, his breathing harsh, Dominic shuddered, felt the reins slip, tried to hold on. Couldn't. He let them fall, gave up his futile attempt to control the apparently uncontrollable, and let himself—his body, his senses, his all—ride the glorious tide.

Her intimate caresses were the last straw, but the firm press of her bottom to his groin as she accepted each hard, heavy thrust and pushed back to take more of him, wordlessly inviting even deeper penetration, was simply too much.

Too much temptation for him to withstand.

He held her and filled her and their senses spiraled, twining inextricably, merging and converging on some other plane.

Nothing else mattered but this—this pleasured joy, this profound togetherness.

Now he'd tasted it, and knew that it lay within him and her to create such glory between them, he couldn't hold back, couldn't deny his soul this ultimate bounty.

They crested and broke. She went first, but he was only seconds—two deep thrusts—behind her. The familiar cataclysm awaited them, but more intense, almost unrecognizable in its power.

Ecstasy caught them, held them, shattered them.

Utterly. Completely.

Wracked, broken, and emptied—of thought, of will, of self—they floated in that golden glory where the aftermath of pleasure spread like a benediction, soothing, refilling, overflowing.

Then satiation rolled in and pulled them down, into oblivion, and sated slumber.

His last thought before he succumbed shone beacon like in his mind.

He'd bedded Angelica Cynster, his countess-to-be, and life as he'd known it had changed irrevocably.

T
hey left Glencrae House at nine o'clock to walk to the stables in Watergate.

Angelica glanced back at their little procession—Brenda, Mulley, Griswold, Jessup, with Thomas walking alongside one of the footmen, who was dragging a hard-cart piled with their bags, her bandbox perched on top.

Facing forward, she glanced up at Dominic, striding beside her, her gloved hand in his. Not on his sleeve, not tucked into the crook of his elbow, but firmly locked in his grasp.

Shifting her gaze ahead, she kept her smile within bounds. This morning when Griswold had tapped on the bedroom door, then called to wake them, Dominic had grunted, but had made no attempt to hurry her back to her rooms or to hide her presence in his bed. He'd risen, donned a robe, waited until she'd reclaimed her own robe and the slippers that had slid under the big bed, then had shown her the private door that connected their suites. After waving her through, he'd shut the door. She'd listened, and had been pleased that he hadn't relocked it.

The first and biggest hurdle in getting him to fall in love with her had, she judged, been successfully overcome.

Further heightening her excellent mood, her emerald velvet riding habit had lived up to her expectations; when she'd swept into the breakfast parlor arrayed in it, Dominic had paused, rendered momentarily speechless by the sight, then had complimented her, patently sincerely, before continuing with his meal. The modiste who'd supplied the severely cut habit, with its contrastingly delicate, frothy, lacy blouse, would remain on her list of Edinburgh modistes to be favored with her patronage.

Reaching Cannongate, they turned toward Holyrood Palace. In society's terms, it was still early; there were few people about in the more well-to-do streets, few to see their little procession marching along.

She looked around, breathed deeply, then exhaled. The morning was fresh and clear, with a light breeze scudding fluffy white clouds across a cerulean sky. According to Jessup, the weather looked set to remain fine through their days of riding to the castle. All in all, she was looking forward to the day, to the start of this last leg of their journey.

They reached the stables to discover their horses saddled and waiting.

Dominic checked the girth of the sidesaddle on the prancing black filly, then lifted Angelica up. Having her lithe body between his hands instantly evoked memories of the night; grimly blocking out the distraction, he set her in her saddle, then held the bridle, watching as she efficiently curled her leg about the crook, slipped her feet into the stirrups, then rearranged her skirt.

Picking up the reins, she nodded, the feather in her cap bobbing above one eyebrow. He released the bridle, holding himself ready to seize it again if she couldn't manage . . .

The filly sidled but, without apparent thought, Angelica brought the skittish black under control, then turned her and walked her to where the others were gathering.

Jessup appeared by Dominic's shoulder; eyes shrewd and keen, he nodded at Angelica. “Thought you'd taken leave of your senses, but she has excellent posture, and her hands are good and steady.”

“Hmm.” Dominic watched for a moment more, then said, “I'll keep a close eye on her nonetheless.”

Jessup nodded and headed for his own horse.

After checking that all the baggage—including her bandbox—had been loaded securely on the sumpter horses, Dominic accepted Hercules's bridle from Griggs and swung up to the saddle.

It felt good to settle into his own saddle again.

To, at least in this, be in control again.

Picking up the reins, he had to admit that, despite the not-entirely-to-his-liking outcome of the night, he was feeling remarkably positive. That said, he couldn't understand
why
he was feeling so damned at ease. Last night hadn't been a victory, not for him, yet his instincts were reacting as if they'd stumbled on some new, unexpected, but excellent way forward and were now focused on exploiting what had fallen into his hands.

Even though he was, clearly, going to have to learn to share reins that, until now, had been solely his.

Inwardly shaking his head, he walked Hercules toward the other horses.

Angelica turned; her gaze swept over Hercules, then slowly rose over Dominic, until she met his eyes. She smiled. “He really is a magnificent specimen.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, but inwardly preened.

Her smile deepened and she turned back to the others.

Drawing Hercules up alongside her, he spoke to the group. “We'll go down Holyrood Road onto Cowmarket, then on through Grassmarket and past St. Cuthbert's.”

Everyone nodded. Wheeling their mounts, the others fell in behind as, with Angelica beside him, he led their company out of Edinburgh.

T
en miles out, they reached South Queensferry on the banks of the Firth of Forth.

Riding beside Dominic as they picked their way down a steep street running from the High Street to the shore, Angelica said, “I read about Queensferry. It was named after your Queen Margaret, the one who married one of the Malcolms. She was very religious and used to go back and forth from Edinburgh to Dunfermline Abbey, and so set up the ferry. Hence, Queensferry.”

Dominic nodded. “It was originally operated by monks.”

They emerged from the street onto the road following the shoreline. Several piers were located at various points around the cove.

“There.” Dominic pointed to where a large ferry was tied up at the farthest pier. He nudged Hercules in that direction. “They use whichever of the piers best suits the prevailing conditions.”

The ferry was still loading. Dominic bought their fares, then their small cavalcade dismounted and walked their horses on.

They didn't have long to wait before the ferrymen cast off and the ferry started its slow journey across the choppy waters.

Standing at the railing beside Angelica, Dominic glanced down at her. Small hands gripping the rail, she was looking ahead, the brisk breeze whipping loose tendrils of her hair about her cheeks. Her face glowed with eagerness.

The ferry pitched. Catching her elbow, he steadied her, anchored her. The ferry righted and forged on; he released her, but shifted closer, locking one hand on the rail to one side of her and angling his body so that if she lost her grip, she'd bounce against him and he could catch her.