Hero, Come Back (20 page)

J
essie shivered as they mounted the steps to Harry’s cabin. She had irrevocably committed herself, and so he reminded her with the way he guided her, hand at the small of her back. She thought that, for all his usual watchfulness, tonight he scarcely took his gaze off her.

“Cold?” he asked, and his deep, velvet voice caressed her nerve endings and made her shiver again.

“No,” she said, although the breeze off the ocean was chilly, and the porch was dark, lit only by candlelight through a window from some room at the back of the cottage. “I’m a little nervous of you.”

“You have no reason to be.” In the shadows of the porch, he turned her in his arms. “I will never hurt you, Jessie, I vow I will not.”

Doubts assailed her. “You’re bigger than I am,lots bigger, and stronger, lots stronger, and in my experience, men have a tendency to use their strength to get their own way.”

“You, my darling, have been keeping company with the wrong sort of man.”

She peered through the darkness, trying to discern his features, needing the reassurance contained in his blue eyes, for although her heart insisted she could trust Harry, her mind told her to have caution. “I have the right to second thoughts. After all, I’m not only a virgin, but an old maid, too.”

“Not so very old.” His body shook slightly as if he were laughing at her.

She didn’t care. His amusement contained nothing of viciousness or aggression, rather an indulgence that reassured her she had made the right decision. So while it wouldn’t do to depend on a man like this, she had no grounds for maidenly trepidation. Tonight was her single chance to experience passion.

In the dim shadows of the porch, she grabbed his lapels, pulled at him—she moved toward him rather than the other way around—and opened her lips on his.

Wrapping his arm around her waist, he allowed her to buffet him with her need. His hand slid up her spine, gentling her. He cupped her head in his hand, his mouth slanted and opened, and he tasted her as if she were a succulent morsel. He held her as if she were precious and dear, and his tenderness drove away her fears and her doubts. This was right.

She didn’t know everything about this man, but she knew the important things. She knew his name, his home, that he hunted in the autumn and drove up to London in the spring. He was a gentleman, a man of her class, and that air of mystery that clung to his rough edges was nothing more than her own imagination. Yet for all the warmth of his embrace and her own self-assurances, when she drew back and looked up at him, she could see nothing but darkness and the gleam of two eyes. She caught her breath and pressed her hands against his chest.

His arms tightened around her. In a voice rough and gravelly, he said, “No, love. There’s no turning back now.” He kissed her again, his tongue thrust into her mouth, and his kiss possessed her, not gently, but backed by the full weight of his determination.

Her fingers dug into his coat. The darkness pressed against her closed eyelids. As his tongue plunged into her mouth, as his body compelled hers, they were melded into a single entity, one she feared and wanted in equal measure.

Breaking off the kiss, he leaned his forehead against hers. “Will you come with me willingly? Or do I have to carry you?”

Such a suggestion struck her as the perfect compromise. “How romantic! Would you carry me?”

He laughed aloud, the sound amazed. “Over my shoulder like a pirate, or in my arms like a bridegroom?”

Tapping her cheek, she thought about it and decided, “I would enjoy the pirate, but it seems as if that position would be uncomfortable. In your arms, I think.”

“As you desire.” Sweeping her up, he carried her across the threshold—a matter of some significance, in Jessie’s mind—and through the sitting room, stopping every few feet to kiss her again, as if he couldn’t bear to be without her for even a moment.

She liked that notion. She liked his kisses. She liked the way he held her, close against his chest. She would like him to be a part of her, for from him she would draw fierceness and courage, two virtues that seemed in short supply these days. Slowly, haltingly, they made their way toward the open door whence light spilled forth, and at last, after another passionate kiss, he bore her through the door of the bedchamber.

The room was plain, containing only a dressing table, a chair, a chest of drawers and a bed hung with netting. The old-fashioned furniture was painted white, and fat candles flickered on every surface, lending the atmosphere a warm and golden glow. Bouquets of purple, orange, and yellow wildflowers stood in vases, and their sweet, spicy scent permeated the air. The covers had been turned back, revealing lacy white sheets and mounds of soft pillows, and a silver tray rested on the tables beside the bed, with an open bottle of wine and two goblets.

Openmouthed with amazement, Jessie stared about her. “Harry, tell me—do you always sleep surrounded by flowers?”

“It’s Dehaan’s doing. He’s a dreamer.” Harry sounded resigned as he allowed her to slide to her feet. Removing his coat, he glanced about for somewhere to place it. At last, with a grimace, he tossed it on the floor. “I believe Dehaan had hopes I would bring you back here.” Unknotting his cravat, he flung it after the coat, removed his collar and spread his shirt wide at the neck. At last he looked up, and noticed how she stared. Extending a hand to her, he said, “Don’t be offended. I never dared imagine the evening would end this way. Dehaan acted completely on his own.”

Mute, she nodded, but she didn’t take Harry’s hand. The candlelight didn’t soften him. Instead it showed the edges of his mask, and beneath the mask she caught glimpses of the granite that formed his character. She didn’t know this man. She didn’t know him at all.

Misunderstanding her trepidation, Harry said, “I’m not the kind of man who makes his amours known.”

“No,” she whispered. “No, I didn’t think you were.” He wasn’t the kind of man who made anything about himself known. He was an enigma, a puzzle which she didn’t yet understand.

But he was handsome and strong. His chin was dark with the shadow of a beard. His neck was corded with muscle. In the vee of his shirt, she could see smooth, brown skin, and near the bottom the faintest hint of curling chest hair. She didn’t understand why, but seeing him here, in privacy, with the secret of intimacy surrounding them, made her sure of her decision. Harry was a man in a world of spoiled lads. Harry could be battered by life and withstand its every hardship. In fact, she was sure he already had.

Standing very still, he watched her, hands open and arms wide. “Have you changed your mind?”

“No. Oh, no.”

In a world where all her choices had narrowed down to three, her heart had been captured by the one man she was never supposed to know. He laughed at her and with her, he rescued her from unwelcome suitors—and he obviously adored her breasts. He must; he kept sneaking peeks at them. Yes, he wanted her, yet now, when they were alone in the night with nothing between them except their clothes, he waited on her decision. Again. She didn’t know him. She shouldn’t trust him. But she loved him.

She loved him.

Her burst of joy couldn’t be contained. She gave him a impish grin, a grin that startled him and make him wary in his turn.

The windows were open. The curtains fluttered in the breeze, and this part of the cottage was set high enough above the ground that no evening stroller could accidentally view the proceedings.

Taking a deep breath, she watched as his attention wavered between her face and her bosom. She sashayed toward him. “I haven’t changed my mind.”

He stood unmoving.

She flirted with her eyes, fluttering her lashes. When she stood close enough to feel his heat, she walked her fingers down his waistcoat, unbuttoning each button with the care of an accomplished valet. “I want this night with you to last me forever.”

He cleared his throat. “That’s a tall order.”

She slid her hands under his shirt, and pressed her palms against his abdomen. It was firm, and rippled with muscle, and naked. She’d never stroked a man’s bare skin. Never experienced the contrast between smooth flesh and the rough growth of hair down his breastbone and along the center of his stomach.

Her lashes drooped as she pressed her palms against him. She savored the heat of his flesh, the rise and fall of his breath. The intent gleam of his blue eyes made her feel quite …well… aroused. Aroused as she had never been reading romantical novels by candlelight. Her breath hurried and tripped. Her breasts felt as they had when he caressed them. Overly warm and tingling. And between her legs, she was slightly aching. Slightly…damp.

“I realize you’re new to this, and so I would offer a suggestion. You should remove my trousers.”

She gurgled with laughter, then teased him with the honors she would grant him. “Yes, my lord.”

His eyebrows winged upward; he stared at her as if she’d said something extraordinary. “What do you mean, calling me that?”

“Would you rather I called you sultan?” Beneath her hands, his taut muscles relaxed. “Or master?” One by one, she twitched the buttons of his trousers free.

“Master. That would fulfill a particular fantasy I’ve had about you.”

Her fingers stopped their journey. “What?”

He smiled down at her breasts, then into her eyes. “I’ll tell you some other night.”

There wouldn’t be another night. They both knew that…didn’t they?

He watched her through slitted eyes, and she would have sworn the gleam burned as hot as blue coals. To have this man, with his aura of danger, look at her so intently was a lovemaking in itself. With him, she was beautiful and clever and desirable and wanted. Wanted for more than her fortune and her figure, but also for her humor, which most men did not understand, and her smile, which so many considered proved her frivolity. Harry made her feel perfect just the way she was.

As quickly as she could, she finished unbuttoning him.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” he demanded.

“Unbuttoning buttons. It’s not so difficult.”

“Saucy.” He slid his arms out of his waistcoat and let it drop.

“I know how to untie a bow, too.” She showed him the cord of his drawers. “Watch this.” Leisurely, she pulled until his underwear loosened and slid down his hips. His shirt drooped down to his thighs, a sheer, white barrier that hid him and protected her—for the moment.

He placed his hands on her shoulders as if he feared she would run at the fearsome sight of him. “You’re in grave danger,” he said.

“Am I?” She skimmed her hands down his thighs, assisting the clothing on its fall to the ground. “Am I indeed? What danger is that?” The material tented over his groin in a most intriguing manner. “The danger of being impaled?”

“Yes.”

“Of experiencing too much bliss?”

“So I pray.”

“So do I, my dear sir, and probably twice as fervently as you.” Curiosity and caution warred in her.

Curiosity won.

She urged him to abandon the puddle of his trousers, and when he had, she stepped back and viewed him, standing clad only in his shirt.

His calves were muscled, his thighs defined strength. Slowly she lifted the shirttails, teasing him by drawing out the tension. But her own nerves stretched taut, and she quietly moaned as his manhood came into view. He was large and beautifully formed, with blue veins beneath smooth, pale skin. A purple cap circled the top, and a drop of white liquid eased from the opening.

“You didn’t run screaming. A good sign.” Satisfaction eased through his voice.

She touched the sac that hung close to the base, using her thumb to seek out the rounded contents, which rolled away from her touch. Sliding one finger up the length of him, she marveled at the satiny skin.

His hands flexed on her shoulders, and when she gazed into his face, his eyes were closed, and he looked like a thirsty man savoring his first sip of water.

Again she was aware of the dampness between her legs, the full sensation in her womb, the desire, so new and yet so familiar. This sensation was more intense than she’d imagined, and with the intensity came a sense of worship, as if the two of them were indulging in some great, primitive rite of mating that united them forever.

Yet there would be no tomorrow.

She drew the shirt upward and over his head. He helped her, wincing when he lifted his arm and eased away his sleeve.

As she dropped the shirt, she swallowed a gasp. For his shoulder bore the scar of a terrible wound. “Harry,” she breathed. “What happened?”

“I stood in the wrong place at the wrong time.” His brow was lowered, his voice terse.

She caressed the scar, puckered and pink. “You’re lucky to be alive.” She traced the evidence of each purple stitch. “You must have been in agony.”

“It’s never agreeable.”

An understatement, and one that indicated he had other experience with such agony. She kissed his scar. “Poor Harry, I might never have known you.” Her voice thickened at the thought of such deprivation. “You must promise me never to—” A long, thin line across his belly caught her attention. “What did you do here?”

“I…fell.”

At his odd tone, she glanced up at him and saw the lie. “A knife fight.”

“It was a slight wound, done eight years ago.”

“Slight? It cut through your clothing!”

“Perhaps I wasn’t wearing any,” he suggested, but he observed her far too closely.

“A lover? In that case, you would be more cautious with me.” Exasperation made her brusque. “What have you been doing with your life, Mr. Windberry?”

“I hunt with a rough crowd.”

Indeed he did. Had she thought him a gentleman farmer? She now suspected…She didn’t know what she suspected, but she knew he needed more affection than any man she’d ever met, and she knew she was the woman to give it to him. Kissing his fingertips, she traced the line from one side of his belly to the other with her lightest touch.

He stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers, and marveled at the satiny texture of her skin. “You’re an extraordinary girl.”

“Never forget that.” She smiled and circled him, viewing him intently.