Defiant Angel (30 page)

"Correct me, Clinton. I was under the impression the husband wielded the sword, the wife the sheath?"

"Now, now, Brent, let us be fair." Austin grinned at Clinton. "There's no doubt the sword was wielded and the thrust parried, but the question is, was the sword sheathed?"

Tristan walked up to Clinton, looking at the long scratch on his cheek. Laughter twinkled in his eyes and filled his voice. "Ah, no doubt the sword was sheathed, but tell us, was the prize worth the price of your flesh?"

"And is the sheathing worth the price of your flesh, again?" Rory added.

Clinton sat, elbow resting on the desk, two fingers against his temple, regarding the gathering of his brothers with an amused smile. Leaning comfortably back in his chair, arms clasped behind his head,- refusing to be drawn and awaiting their silence as if tolerating a bunch of small children, he asked dryly, "Are you quite finished? If so, I'd appreciate it if you'd all depart so I might enjoy my honeymoon.
Alone. "
The four laughed in male camaraderie and rose to depart.

Clinton smiled and then bent his head, beginning to arrange the shuffle of papers that covered his desk into tidy piles.

Brent casually walked over. "I've left the mortgage papers and financial arrangements here." He pointed to a folder.

"After I see Mother off, I'm to meet with the solicitors and bankers in Genoa. As you instructed, the Genoa banks handled the transfer of funds to our London office. Let me know what you think of the contract after you've reviewed it."

"Good, Brent. I think I'll get to them after I return from Wales." Clinton began to resume his work.

"By the by, the Thurston account will be paid now that the marriage has been consummated."

He grinned at Clinton, who merely smiled and replied, "Good. Now, be sure I receive a copy of the draft for a hundred fifty thousand pounds and a copy of the paid mortgage. Be sure Thurston receives notification."

"That will take some time. You know how slow the Italians are, but I am sure Thurston need not worry since the creditors are all paid and the Bow Street Runners have been called off. As soon as delivery can be made, it shall be done."

Clinton nodded at Brent's words, picked up the folder marked "Thurston Properties" and placed a copy of Tiffany's betrothal contract within, then placed the file in the top drawer of his desk. Looking up, he found Brent staring down at him. "Was there anything else?"

Brent withdrew a cigar from the box. Lighting it, he replied, "You know, Clinton, should Tiffany ever find out the means used, I fear the consequences, as you should.

She'll not see any more than your deception, ruthlessness, and highhandedness in the matter."

Leaning back in his chair, looking at Brent, Clinton nodded in agreement. "No doubt she would perceive it as nothing more than that. For Tiffany is just beginning to learn and feel many things and has yet to know herself and come to terms with her feelings. Eventually she must face them, admit to them. I think once she is true to her own self and her feelings, she will admit my means justified the end."

Shaking his head, Brent inquired, "And what if she finds out before she has admitted her feelings? What then? "A confident smile lifted the corners of Clinton's mouth. "Perhaps, Brent, that will be the true test--the

final truth she must admit to--that her heart belongs to

,., , >>>

me.

"And if that is not the case?"

"Ah, Brent, but it is. The lady's heart will be mine. She has yet to admit it, but she shall."

After Brent left and Clinton finished the work before him, he summoned Mortimer. A brief, but enlightening conversation ensued, after which an indignant Mortimer left.

Clinton headed to his apartments, meeting Germane within the bedchamber. He briefly advised her of her new duties and those of Mortimer's. After Germane left, Clinton went to the wardrobe, pulling out his robe and a large box tied with a lavender ribbon, which he tossed upon the bed. Removing his clothes, he donned his robe, heading to the bathing chamber.

Through the mist he saw Tiffany lying with her head back in the sunken marble tub. Her hair was loosely pinned up, errant wisps framing her flushed face. The sweet swell of her breast rose beguilingly in the violet-scented water, and dusky pink nipples lay barely beneath.

He quietly dropped his robe and descended into the tub.

Tiffany was delighted with the large oval tub and bathing chamber. The whole room was tiled, and in the ceiling was a large window, allowing the sun to burst over the tub, making her feel wanton, as if she bathed outside. The room was warm and misty. She had settled herself in the tub, wanting to soak, and scrubbed herself vigorously, wishing to wash away his scent, which clung to her. The water was as potent as a heady wine, and a lassitude stole over her. The soreness between her thighs slowly disappeared, the stickiness long since removed. Closing her eyes, she gave over to the soothing powers of the water.

The rippling motion of the water caused her to open her eyes. Sitting up and grabbing a sponge, which she held modestly, although ineffectively, over her breast, she cried, "You!"

"Who else did you expect?" A mischievous gleam lit his eyes and he smiled as he squeezed water from a sponge over his hair-covered chest.

Her eyes were drawn to where the water clung in droplets on the pelt. His very masculinity was like a potent drug. She watched his chest muscles ripple with his movements and thought his body fascinating, compared to her own.

"Welcome back, Tiffany. I was told you required assistance."

"Certainly not from you! You, who have defiled me! Hah!"

"Moi?"
he asked in mock innocence.

"Yes, most assuredly you."

Moving to cross the distance that separated them, he declared, "Well, Princess, let me make atonement, immediately." Before she could utter a protest, she found him so close to her that the hand clutching the sponge to her breast touched the crisp mat of black hair on his chest. Gendy he removed her hand, bringing it to his mouth, nibbling and sucking each finger.

Tiffany was mesmerized and watched his face, his eyes, his mouth. Unmistakable desire coursed through her at his sensual play. "I ... I don't require your services," she stammered, feeling his tongue track light circular patterns on her palm.

"No?" he murmured as he dropped kisses on her wrist, resting where a pulse beat wildly. Lifting her hand and placing it against his chest, he took her other, paying similar homage. Her fingers against his chest curled in the pelt, feeling the pounding of his heart. She was reeling from his touch and stared wide-eyed at him, as he placed her other hand on his chest.

"Where have you been defiled? Here?" He ran a soapy hand up and down her arm torturously. "Or here?" His hand ran the length of the other arm. Tiffany remained still, belying the rapid beating of her heart. Her fingers clutched his chest hair, the pulse in her throat beat wildly. She felt him lave a soapy hand up her long, slender neck and back down, stopping at her collarbone. He leaned forward, placing a gentle kiss at the base of her throat. "Surely here," he whispered, moving his fingers down, cupping the weight of her breasts and massaging them in circular motions, barely touching her nipples, which rose erotically in anticipation. She closed her eyes as sensations rippled through her, leaving her breathless and weak.

She whimpered weakly when his hands slid down her belly, stopping to tease the quivering hollows of her hips and navel. Her arms slid up onto his shoulders. "Yes, Princess," he murmured, feeling her response. "Ah, definitely here." His hands played teasingly along her belly, down the soft inner skin of her thigh. She shivered in desire, her lips parting slightly in anticipation of where his fingers lingered near. He heard her small cry of disappointment when his hands moved up, not down, caressing her shoulders, pulling her gently against him. Tiffany shuddered, feeling her nipples rub against the coarse wet hair of his chest, and she pressed against him, her head dropping back. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and closed briefly when his hands moved sensually down her back to cup her buttocks. Clinton felt her shiver and press against him. He furthered his assault, kissing the sensitive area between her ear and shoulder, while his hands roamed intimately. He gently put her from him and she leaned back against the tub, her arms stretched, her fingers clutching the edge so her knuckles were white.

Soaping his hands, he watched her: her breathing ragged, her head dropped back, her nipples' taut peaks rising above the water.

Grasping both her ankles, gently bending her legs, he charted a course up their long length, soaping her inner thighs, retreating and rising again.

"Oh, definitely defiled here," he whispered with each movement. He leaned forward, touching her parted lips, then thrusting his tongue deeply into the moist recess, while his hand moved up into the ebony triangle of curls.

"Oooh," she moaned as his hands played beneath the water and his mouth dropped kisses along the length of her neck. When his finger entered her, moving in and out, she brought her arms about his neck, crushing her breast against him, arching her hips against his finger, bringing it deeper within her. Buoyant, due to the water, she moved in unison with his thrusting finger.

"Do you want me, Princess?" He rubbed erotically against her breast, his finger delving deeper and deeper.

"Do you want more of me?" he whispered against her sensitive ear. "Just tell me and it will be yours."

The burning ache in her belly uncoiled, spreading between her legs. She groaned. "Do you want to take me inside of you, feel me deep where you ache?" he whispered hoarsely, barely able to await her consent.

"I ... I should not want you so," she whispered brokenly, laying her head against the hollow of his throat, "but ... but I do."

Pulling her to him as he leaned against the tub, he slipped his hand between her thighs, feeling her essence wet and slick--from the soap and from her own passion.

Grasping her hips, he lifted, poised her above him, and slowly lowered her so she felt every inch of his long, hard length. He felt her body open slowly as she took his aroused member into her warm, tight sheath. He emitted a deep groan when her walls stretched to engulf him and he pulled her upright to straddle him and raised his knees, impaling her further. She gasped, accepting the full length of him.

He drew a long, steady breath, feeling himself fully seated in her tight, throbbing sheath. He saw her dazed eyes and heard the sharp intake of her breath. Concern etched his voice. "Do I hurt you, Princess?" Shuddering and squeezing her eyes tightly closed, Tiffany tried to still the unbelievable sensation of being impaled. She heard his voice distantly. Feeling the hard, hot length of him and trying to adjust, she shuddered again and shook her head.

Grasping her hips, he lifted her up and lowered her back down onto his member, teaching her the rhythm. Her breasts rubbed against him with each upward and downward stroke, causing her nipples to rise to hard pebbles, burning the length of his chest.

Tiffany moaned, splaying her hands against his belly, feeling herself widen to accommodate his member. She dropped her head back, allowing him to control her movements.

"Ride me, Princess."

She did as he commanded, feeling the bathwater rush in as he raised her, out when he lowered her onto him. She groaned at the sensation, like the ebb and flow of a tide within her. She tightened her legs about his flanks, feeling powerful as she sat in the saddle and gave over to a primitive ride as old as time, increasing the gait to reach fulfillment. All her senses were assaulted; the water lapped against her as she drew him deeper and deeper within; his voice urged her on, resounding in her ears and singing in her veins. She closed her eyes, and her hands moved from the hair at his groin, sensually leaving a trail of fire on his chest. She lifted her arms to her head, her fingers running through her tresses, and rode him with total abandonment, seeking to quench the fire that blazed between her thighs.

Clinton felt the fires in his own body leap at her abandonment, and his mouth closed over a dusky taut peak. Hearing her moan, he took more of her into his mouth. He watched her as his tongue circled the hard peak and his mouth sucked upon the satin moistness of her breast. When she opened her eyes, dark with passion, he knew her to be lost to her need.

"Savor it, love; let it build, love," he groaned out, slowing her motion. He heard her cry of protest and felt her arch as her passion consumed her and him.

"Please, Clinton . . . oh . . . pleeeease," she said breathlessly in frustration.

"Reach for it, Princess," he whispered hoarsely. His manhood throbbed, near release. He wanted her own release to bring him along, but he could no longer hold himself in check. Moving his hand between their bodies, he caressed her.

Tiffany whimpered, begging for release, and when his fingers stroked her, she arched, drawing him deeper. He groaned from deep in his throat, her movement undoing him, and no longer able to hold back, gasped, "Now, Tiffany,
now!"
Tiffany yielded to him and her pleasure, shuddering in climax, feeling his seed, hot and forceful, spew, filling her. She fell forward on his shoulder, her hair cascading over them, its ends floating in the water.

Still within her, savoring the impact of their shared climax, Clinton lifted her head gently off his shoulder and, before placing a gentle kiss on her mouth, whispered, "I love you."