The Darkest Sin (17 page)
Authors: Caroline Richards
Chapter 12
I
t was only when he heard her footsteps recede and a door close in the distance that Rushford exhaled. He swore fluently under his breath, cursing the fact that his feelings refused to cooperate no matter how much he reasoned with himself. It had been so long since he'd acknowledged any feelings other than pleasure that he wasn't certain he could recognize real emotion anymore.
t was only when he heard her footsteps recede and a door close in the distance that Rushford exhaled. He swore fluently under his breath, cursing the fact that his feelings refused to cooperate no matter how much he reasoned with himself. It had been so long since he'd acknowledged any feelings other than pleasure that he wasn't certain he could recognize real emotion anymore.
He'd made the mistake once in a bid to comfort Rowena Woolcott, and he would not make it again. He needed a drink to distract himself, although he questioned the logic of further numbing his already shaky self-control. Striding over to the drinks table, he poured himself a brandy. He should leave, he told himself, instead of lingering a few feet away from the object of his desire like some love-struck schoolboy. But he didn't. Draining his glass, he reached for the decanter placed conveniently on the floor beside his chair and poured himself another drink, at a loss to explain his motives or Rowena Woolcott's irresistible allure. She was young. She was beautiful. But she was definitely not Kate.
No answers came to mind, no easy resolutions except for the guilt that rose like bile whenever he forced himself to think back over a year ago. Bloody hell, she had been so young and had needed him so much. And what had his defense been? He had needed her, he decided with brutal honesty.
No excuse
.
No excuse
.
The irrepressible sun heralded the breaking of dawn, turning the curtains into incandescent flame. Life went on, wasn't that the lesson of the greatest tragedies? He was no further along in solving his dilemma. Worse still, his decision to allow Rowena even the smallest role in his unfinished business with Faron was suspect. If she pressed him further on the morrow, he would give her the truth, or at least a half-truth, about the Rosetta Stone and his original role in ensuring its safety. That is, if she didn't awaken to her own memories, courtesy of her dreams and nightmares, before he could do anything about it. He swore softly. He should leave now. It was simple as that. He inhaled deeply, swallowing the last of the brandy. If only he could.
A low sobbing jerked him out of his stupor and into full awareness before he realized what it was. In what seemed like two strides he was jerking open the door of Rowena's bedchamber, finding the room suffused with early-morning light.
She was sitting up in bed, tears sliding from her closed lids, rocking her body from side to side as though seeking comfort behind a mountain of blankets.
“Rowena,” he whispered, shocked to his soul, guilt swallowing him whole. She did not respond, and he touched the bare skin of her back where the ribbon of her night rail had come undone. He repeated her name again, just as softly, his palm cupping the damp curve of her shoulder. Her eyes remained shut, and the sobs continued. Deeply asleep, she sat with her knees drawn up, reliving an anguish whose contours he knew too well. She had warned him. The nightmares. The dreams. And he realized exactly what they were about.
“Rowenaâwake up.” He spoke quietly but with force, kneeling on the bed to grasp her shoulders and prod her awake. “You're fine, Rowena. You're with me. Wake up.”
Her eyes slowly fluttered open, the torment in them staggering. Her hair clustered around her face, clinging to cheeks damp with tears and sweat as she stared at him, uncomprehending. Then it was as though time unspooled in her mind, and her eyes lit up with the same joy and relief he remembered from over a year ago. It robbed him of breath.
His eyes raked her face, finding her expression calm, the dark blue of her eyes returning his scrutiny openly.
“How do you feelâare you all right, Rowena?” When she didn't answer, he swept a lock of hair back from her cheek, the skin scalding beneath his hand. “Please answer me. Say something.”
“I remember,” she said simply.
Rushford's world shattered at the innocent longing in her eyes, the lush feel of her body against his, weakening his already equivocal resolve, his body automatically responding to her nearness.
“I remember,” she repeated. “You were the one who saved me,” she breathed. “I wanted you then and I want you now.” She moved her hips against his growing erection. Her eyes were dark blue, untouched by doubt, her mouth inches away from his. He dropped his head slowly, while his hands drifted lower, sliding down her back, cupping her bottom and pulling her hard against his body. Then he kissed her as she sighed into his mouth, confident and greedy in her desire, reveling in his acquiescence. Melting against him, she tasted him deeply.
He dragged his lips from hers to whisper, “You remember. Tell me. I need to hear it.” He gently pushed her away. “It can't simply be gratitude.”
She frowned, a hand on her forehead. “Gratitude? How can you think that when it was so much more?” she asked, all innocence and youth. “I was so cold, so very cold,” she said. “And I heard my sister's voice, calling out to me.”
Rushford sat very still on the side of the bed, watching Rowena limned in the light of the rising sun, the mahogany of her hair catching fire. “Time started and stopped, and then I remember water pulling down my skirts. I tried to swim but I couldn't. Even though I'd learned as a little girl in the frigid lake at Montfort,” she said with a ghost of a smile. “But I didn't sink like a stone. Strong hands found me in the current and held me aloft. And those same handsâ” She broke off.
The silence lengthened before she continued, knowing what he needed to hear. “I dreamed of those hands,” she said with a shaking voice, “saving me, enveloping me in a combination of softness and strength. I heard steps, the door to my room opening, then the warmth of a body shifting beneath the sheets. I felt the heat, like a cauldron, a furnace into which I turned my cold body.” It was as though she was reciting a poem, an incantation. Her voice, low and soft, drifted around him. He fought against his desires, knowing it could lead to nothing but hurt, knowing that he shouldn't give her what she wanted.
When he finally trusted himself to speak, he said, “I was the more experienced. I should not have given in to my desire.” There was an undertone of regret in his words.
She shook her head. “Our desires. Not simply yours.”
“At the very least, I should explain,” he muttered brusquely, struggling against his base impulses. And that's all they were, he convinced himself.
“Later,” she murmured, moving toward the edge of the bed and melting against him, her needs and her terrors driving her, as though nothing mattered but feeling him inside her.
The warmth of her body, the soft pressure of her breasts, her hips, her thighs burned through the fabric of his evening clothes, stripping him of his defenses and bringing back the memories with blinding force. It did not bear thinking of. How could this slight young woman so arouse him, when he knew that the only woman he'd ever loved was dead?
Agony tore through him. Then, before he realized what was happening, all he could smell was her warm skin tinged with the freshness of youth. His mouth found hers, tasting sweetness as pliant lips opened beneath his, allowing his tongue to run lightly over her mouth. Her body was pressed to his, her heart beating against his chest. His arms went around her, his hands spread over her back under the thin lawn of her nightdress, feeling her supple slenderness. For a moment, their tongues played, slowly and sensually, until he moved his hands to grasp her head, holding her strongly as he drove deep within her mouth with a fervor that in some faraway part of his brain seemed long past due. He was not prepared for what was happening. He responded from some deep, passionate part of himself that was not simply mired in lust. He wanted Rowena, to feel her and taste her, as vitally as he had ever wanted any other woman in his life. Including Kate.
He pulled away, regarding her with unsmiling eyes. “Yes,” she said, softly, simply nodding in response to his silent question. His hands went to the ribbons of her nightdress. Forcing himself to slow down, he pulled the silken bows, one by one, until they came undone. Rowena sat motionless under his hands. He then lifted and turned her wrists, unfastening the tiny pearl buttons before pulling the nightgown's sleeves from her arms. The fabric pooled around her waist, and he looked at her, bare in the early-morning light. She remained still for the long, deliberate scrutiny, her nipples lifting and hardening in the cool air.
He held the swell of her breasts in the palms of his hands, his thumbs flicking the nipples, his eyes holding hers before he lowered his head and drew his tongue in a slow, easy stroke, first over the right breast and then over the left. Rowena caught her breath, stilling her voice, as though they were both afraid of breaking the silence that held them in its thrall.
Rushford caught her waist and lifted her effortlessly from the mattress, sliding the nightgown off her legs. Slowly, he unfastened the tapes of her pantalets, pushing them along her hips. Then he rose and looked down at her as she lay on the bed, vulnerable in her nakedness. He had never seen her in daylight, he realized; his hands had been those of a blind man. Now he saw her long limbs and the gentle curve of her hips, the surprising fullness of her breasts, high and firm.
He swiftly took off his coat and neckcloth and pulled his shirt over his head, memories, honor, and scruples a spot on the far horizon. He reached for the buttons on his breeches, greedily drinking in the young woman before him, hair tumbling on her shoulders, trembling in her eagerness. He slid the buttons free and slipped his trousers over his legs, stepping out of them. Then sitting down beside her, he lowered his head to lightly kiss her lips, pushing her hands away, easing her thighs open. Trustingly, she closed her eyes and eased herself into the cushions while he slipped a finger between the sleek moistness between her thighs, gently stroking her pulsing flesh.
She arched her hips against the sensation and sighed against his lips. He eased his fingers in another small distance, watching the play of emotion over her face. She moaned softly, and he massaged her with practiced skill, slowly sliding deeper, touching and stroking. She kept her eyes shut, lost in sensation, floating in a blissful sea of concentration centered between her legs. The tempo of her breathing increased, and she moved her hips in a slow undulation, reaching for a pleasure point, lifting into his hands for his heated touch.
Rushford had done this hundreds of times with all too many women, but never before had he watched so closely the flush of arousal color a woman's skin or observed so scrupulously the panting gasps as he slowly penetrated and withdrew, taking careful note of the increasingly frantic arching of her slender hips. He kissed her again, inhaling her whimpers while stroking her fevered flesh, wanting her with a fierce violence that was foreign to him. His self-control had been tested over the years but never like this. Schooling his impatience, he murmured against her mouth. “No more bad dreams, Rowena, only this. You'll feel me deep inside, sliding infinitely slowly, filling you.” His hands continued cupping and stroking and as he spoke, the heat inside her burned higher with each hot word. “But this time you will remember every instant, with every nerve in your body.”
She arched a final time into his hands, her climax tensing every muscle, a low moan escaping her mouth, the breath hot on his lips. They lay that way for what seemed an infinity until finally the cadence of her breathing slowed and she lay replete, eyes shut, a small smile on her lips. “I knew there was something about you, something familiar . . .”
“I suppose my vanity should be pricked that you'd forgotten.” His voice was teasing, his arms still around her.
Her eyes slowly opened and her smile widened. “Don't make fun, Rushford,” she said, reaching up to touch his hard chest. “I remembered in some part of me, how your body felt so right next to mine, your scent, the way you made me feel safe.”
“What else do you remember?” he asked carefully.
She turned her head away, stretching with unalloyed pleasure against the sheets. She was finely boned and taut, the years of riding and outdoor pursuits honing her body to perfection, he thought, with none of the easy plumpness of women of leisure and rank. “I do not wish to speak of it right now,” she said, “particularly when I sense we're far from finished here.”
“As long as you're sure this is what you want.”
“I knew the first time,” she murmured without hesitation. “I would have died without you in my arms. Don't ever forget that.” Once again, he was struck by her startling honesty, totally without pretence.
“Why didn't you tell me?” she asked, breaking her own promise not to delve further. “When I first came to you that night in Belgravia Square?”
The bare bones of the story were all he was prepared to reveal. He stroked the silk of her cheek. “In some ways your fractured memories were a giftâwhich I did not want to destroy.”
“And why you continued to push me away?” She frowned. “Even as I thought you a complete stranger, I sensed that you were not telling me everything.” Pausing, she plucked the linen sheet. “We have much to discuss.”
“Later.”
Her eyes shone, her mood quickly transformed. “At last we agree on something wholeheartedly.” She wriggled beneath him enticingly.
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