The Taste of Innocence (39 page)

Sarah blinked. How ironic that he, so stubbornly determined to ignore their love, could see that, let alone put it into words.

Her lips firmed. If there was one thing Edith had taught her it was that when it came to people and emotions, there were symbols, words, and actions—and of those three, it was actions that spoke the most clearly, and most truly.

Her palm on his chest, she pushed back enough to lift her head and look at him. Enough to search his eyes and read his sincerity.

Enough to confirm that the vulnerability she’d sensed in him was real. That what she’d been fighting for, that link between them, hadn’t been lost. That no matter what else, neither she nor he could lose it.

Wriggling her arms free, she reached up and framed his face. “Yes. You’re right.” She studied his blue eyes for one instant more, then she stretched up and kissed him.

With all the pent-up passion in her soul. There was no point in pretending, no point in holding back. She knew what she felt for him, and what he felt for her; that knowledge infused her actions, every languorous sweep of her tongue against his, every artful shift as she rose above him the better to share the kiss, the better to give her love free rein and incite and enjoy his.

He responded as she knew he would, and if on one level she gloried in his helplessness in that, in his inability to remain apart from her and their love at this level, she also appreciated every subtle nuance, every evidence of his desire, every scintilla of delight she felt as his hands gripped her waist, supported her, steadied her, then drifted to her breasts to plea sure her.

Until she drew her legs up, pressing her knees into the bed on either side of him, straddling his hips. Between their bodies, she reached down, and found him hard and ready, hot and heavy in her hand. Her nightgown had slithered down over her hips; his fingers left her breasts to tangle in the fine fabric, pulling it up again, then slipping beneath. His palms cruised her naked flanks, then curved about her bottom. Breaking from the kiss, one hand braced on his chest, she pushed back, with her other hand guided his rigid staff to her entrance.

Feeling him there, the blunt head caressing her slick flesh in blatant promise, made her shudder with sheer anticipation. From beneath her lashes, she watched his face, his eyes, as she rose a fraction higher, edged back a little more, and slowly, savoring every hot steely inch of him, impaled herself on him. Filled her body and her senses with him.

The raw hunger in his face told her all she needed to know; the all but quivering restraint he held so ruthlessly over his own strength, his own impulses, allowing her her way, allowing her to take the lead and script their engagement as she wished, was evidence enough of his commitment.

Lids falling, she leaned forward, braced both hands on his chest, and gave herself over to riding him. To savoring all, every last iota of the plea sure she derived from him, pleasuring him in return. Eyes closed, senses heightening, she concentrated on the heavy slick slide of his body into hers, on the alien but welcome penetration, on the repetitive rocking of her body over his, the rhythmic flexing of her thighs against his flanks. The burgeoning, building, overpowering physicality of their joining.

His hands had returned to her breasts, caressing, sensually massaging, tweaking her nipples into tight buds. Then her nightgown was open and he rose beneath her; she gasped as his hot mouth closed over one aching nipple while his clever fingers ministered to the other, sending shards of delight streaking through her, followed by waves of heated plea sure that pooled and coalesced low in her body. In her womb.

For long moments, head back, slowly riding him, she let sensation rule, let her senses expand and fill her mind. All but overwhelmed by sensual delight, by an awareness of her body and its potential for pleasure more extensive and more compelling than ever before, she slowed.

He growled, a guttural sound that sparked a completely different awareness. An instant later, even before she could lift her lids, he rolled, taking her with him, trapping them both in a welter of covers. Cushioned in the billows of the bed, he held her beneath him and thrust—hard, deep. With a cry, she arched; as he thrust again, even deeper, she desperately caught her breath, then wrapped her arms about him, lifted her legs and gripped his flanks, and raked her nails across his back as she joined him in frantic urgency as he rode her.

Hard, fast, desperate for fulfillment, willing to surrender all just to reach that peak.

And then they were there, panting, wanting, reaching, stretching for the glory.

It broke upon them, swept them up, shattered them, then on a gust of deep, mindless plea sure, surged through them and left them wracked.

Wrecked with plea sure. Smiling sillily, dizzy with delight, softly laughing, they slumped in each other’s arms, and let the moment cradle them.

A bare hour later, dressed in her riding habit, Sarah clattered like a hoyden down the main staircase on her way to the breakfast parlor to catch Charlie before he had a chance to ride out. He, his resistance to their love, was weakening; now was the time to push just a little harder, and she’d realized how to do it.

She’d ask for his help. Charlie always responded when anyone asked for help; that response was an intrinsic, inherent part of his nature. If there was some trouble at the orphanage, who better, or more natural, for her to turn to?

Running down the main corridors wasn’t ladylike; her habit’s train over her arm, she hurried as fast as she could—and through the open doorway ahead saw him setting aside his napkin and rising from the table.

He was later than usual; the knowledge that he’d stayed in bed longer than the norm to hold her and comfort her over the diary—and to make love to her—buoyed her. Smiling brightly, she met him in the corridor outside the breakfast room. He met her smile with his usual cool demeanor, but she couldn’t believe he’d already forgotten why he was late.

“I was hoping that you could ride out with me to the orphanage.” Tilting her head, she looked into his eyes. “There’s something going on there, and while I don’t know what the problem is, I know I’d value your opinion.”

Not a glimmer of the gentle smiles they’d shared only an hour before showed through his expressionless mask. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

She blinked. Oh, no, no, no—they weren’t going back to this. To his distant, coolly aloof attitude to her, and everything to do with her. She drew in a deep breath. “Charlie—”

“I don’t think, my dear, that you comprehend the situation.”

His tone brought her up short. This was the earl speaking, not Charlie, her husband, the man who regardless of his wishes loved her, but the feudal lord accustomed to being obeyed without question.

He went on, calmly, the steel in his voice unsheathed, “I have no interest in the orphanage. It’s specifically yours and as such is no part of my life, not part of my responsibilities.” His eyes held hers, and she couldn’t see past the soft summer blue. “I have no connection with it, have had none in the past, and do not wish to involve myself with it in the future.” He paused, then softly said, “I trust I make myself plain.”

Her temper erupted; chill fury slid through her veins. She raised her head. “Eminently.” She held his gaze, let him see her rage. Her muscles were quivering with the need to swing on her heel and storm off—before she said something she’d regret—but this time, she wasn’t leaving so meekly. This time, she wasn’t letting him escape.

She drew breath, and even more coldly than he, stated, “I understand perfectly. However, I had thought—” Her thoughts literally choked her; she broke off, then went on, if anything the ice in her voice even more intense. “I suspect you recall that in agreeing to marry you I insisted our marriage be a passionate one. If I remember aright, your answer was that you saw no impediment to that. Fool that I was, I believed you. I honestly believed that our marriage—all of it—would be more than a hollow shell.”

He’d held her gaze throughout. His lashes had flickered once; his already clenched jaw had tightened even more.

She sensed the effort it cost him to maintain that rigid control. She quivered on the brink of saying more—of lashing out even more—but sanity returned enough to remind her of her aim—her unwavering goal.

Lips setting, she swung on her heel and stalked slowly, regally, away.

Charlie watched her go, and for the first time in his life understood what having his heart break felt like. His chest literally ached, as if some sword had cleaved him in two. His mind seemed detached; he realized she was heading for the stables—his immediate thought was that she hadn’t breakfasted and should eat before riding out…but what was he going to do? Call her back and order her to eat?

He’d just resigned his right to care for her, or at least she would think he had.

Hearing a clatter behind him, realizing that Crisp was in the breakfast room and would without doubt have heard every word, he forced his legs to carry him to the library. Opening the door, he entered, and shut himself in.

Familiar comfort surrounded him, but brought no ease to the wounds inside. He felt as if his heart had been scoriated, clawed, and ripped. He knew—had lectured himself for the past hour let alone all the hours before—that this was how things had to be in order for him to function as he must…but increasingly some part of him, some surprisingly strong and fundamental part of him, was refusing to accept that. Refusing to make do with that.

Refusing to make her make do with only that.

Walking to the long windows, he stood and looked out. Unseeing. He’d known that she held a different, as he’d thought more feminine and flowery, expectation of their marriage; he hadn’t known, when he’d told her he saw no impediment to theirs being a passionate marriage—that he was prepared to give her that, a passionate union—that by “passionate” she’d meant a union where love was freely and openly acknowledged.

He understood that now. Then…when she’d spoken of excitement, thrills, risks, and satisfaction, he’d thought she’d been referring to sexual passion.

Yet even if he’d understood her meaning, completely and clearly, at the time—and how could he have when he hadn’t, then, understood what love was?—even if he had comprehended her meaning, he would still, regardless, have married her. Because by then he’d already known that she was his—his rightful wife, the lady he needed as his countess.

She still was. Nothing had changed; if anything, his conviction had only deepened. His commitment to her was deepening by the day—witness his difficulty with his feelings yesterday, and this morning. They—those emotions she stirred—were only growing stronger, more powerful, less governable.

Yet his first duty wasn’t to her, but to the earldom. He’d been taught that from infancy, conditioned to, should any clash arise, place his own comfort and needs second to that duty. But…what of the vows he’d made before the altar in the church at Combe Florey?

To honor and cherish. As most would translate that, to love and protect. In part, he’d made that vow in bad faith, never intending, never imagining adhering to the first part of it. But regardless of his battle on that front, the second part of that vow was a promise he couldn’t not keep—was incapable of not keeping. He couldn’t not cherish her, and he certainly couldn’t subdue or subvert the imperative to keep her safe. He hadn’t comprehended how it would be before they’d wed, but now she was his, cherishing and protecting her were such fundamental instincts that he could no more stop himself from reacting in that way than he could stop the sun.

Letting out a painful, frustrated sigh, he dropped his head back and stared at the painted ceiling. This morning, after the hours they’d spent in their bed, he’d steeled himself to rebuff what ever renewed effort she might make to, figuratively speaking, open their bedroom door and weave love into their daytime interactions. He’d suspected she’d read those hours as proof he was weakening in his resolve to keep a sensible distance between them, and she had.

But the orphanage. Of all things to hit him with, she’d chosen that. His heart had literally leapt to accept her invitation and join her, to take care of what ever little problem they had—to see her with the children again, to join in…but he’d never be able to corral, to keep close and under guard, what he felt for her in that setting.

The effort to deny her—and his other self—had nearly slain him. He literally felt as if he were two men—that she and all he felt for her had driven a wedge through his heart, mind, and soul and split him in two. And the two halves were now locked in battle.

It couldn’t go on. Aside from all else, the balance between those two halves was shifting, changing. The part that wanted her love and would surrender all and anything to secure it was growing stronger. He no longer knew what was right—what he should fight for, which half of him should triumph. He didn’t even know which half he wanted to win.

He couldn’t remember ever feeling this way, and there was no one he could turn to for advice. He was lost, adrift.

Completely and utterly at sea.

By the time Sarah reached the orphanage, she’d managed to, somewhat grimly, suppress her temper and all thoughts of he who had provoked it, but the news that awaited her was so strange it temporarily drove all other thoughts from her head.

“Ghosts?” Seated at the meeting table, flanked by Skeggs and Mrs. Dunstable, she stared at Katy.