Kiss From a Rogue (22 page)

She nodded. She opened her eyes again—when had she closed them?—and locked gazes with Tony. There was heat in his expression she had never seen there before, an intensity that shook her. His fingers moved, touching her, slow, fast, and slow again. Sparks shot through her.

She froze. Didn’t even breathe.

“Relax,” he whispered. “Let it happen.”

“Let—” She took a breath. “Let what happen?”

Tony looked puzzled. Then his expression cleared. “No one’s ever touched you like this? Never made you feel like, ah…like you’re going to explode?”

Explode? “Good heavens, why would anyone want to do that?”

He coughed, but she could have sworn he was covering up a laugh. At her expense. She let her breath out in a huff, and rolled over to reach for her night rail, pooled on the floor.

“Oh, very nice,” he murmured. He cupped her derriere.

She jumped.

He stilled her with one arm reassuringly over her, his hand caressing her breast, and pressed a kiss to the back of her neck. She gasped. The nape was just as sensitive as the side. He stayed close enough that she felt his lips brush her skin as he spoke, his chest against her back.

“I can’t do it justice with words—no one can—but let me show you why you’d want to, ah, explode.”

His touch was soothing, exciting, eliciting moans, and soon her heart was pounding again, her breath coming in gasps. “Let’s go back to something you’re no doubt more familiar with.” He scooted over, urging her onto her back, and raised himself over her.

She settled amongst the pillows and blankets, her arms at her sides, and steeled herself for the discomfort of entry. He slid inside, filling her completely. Painlessly. Her eyes flew open.

His eyes were squeezed shut, his face contorted, his mouth moving but she couldn’t make out the words.

Had she done something wrong?

He bent his elbows, resting more of his weight on her, his mouth close to her ear. “So good, Sylvia,” he murmured, “feels so good.”

Apparently, he was not in pain. She relaxed, and waited for it all to be over soon.

He nuzzled her neck. “You all right?”

She nodded.

“Good, because I think I’m going to die if I can’t—” He moved, barely, in and out, and groaned.

Her husband used to make similar sounds, just before he finished. But this time she didn’t feel as though she were being pounded through the mattress.

Tony’s movements increased in range, and so did the pleasant sensations rippling through Sylvia. She fought to keep from crying out.

With his weight on his elbows, he continued to caress her with his hands, his mouth. “You can touch me, if you want,” he whispered.

Tentatively, Sylvia stroked his muscular shoulders, feeling the slightly raised marking of his tattoo. She let her hands roam lower, down the curve of his spine, now slick with sweat, to the hollow of his back, and lower still, feeling his muscles clench and relax with each movement.

Now she realized the inarticulate sounds Tony was making were definitely from pleasure. Emboldened, she stretched her arms their full length and cupped him with her hands, just as he had done to her. Oh, very nice, indeed. Why would anyone want to pinch when a handful was ever so much better?

She had never lifted her heels from the bed before. She bent one knee and caressed his lower leg with her foot. The feel of his muscles, the dusting of hair along his legs, was so different from her own. She lifted her other leg, slid them both along the backs of Tony’s legs, trying to discover how high she could go. Ooh, that far.

The pleasurable sensations at her core changed, increased, intensified, and she felt him plunge even deeper inside her. She moaned and tightened her legs around him, needing him still deeper. She was beneath him, writhing in pleasure, just as Tony had promised that night in the kitchen, when he had been naked in the tub.

Suddenly he pulled back and rolled them both over, putting her on top.

She cast her eyes down, waiting for his rebuke, restraining a growl of frustration. It had all been going so well, the most fun she’d had in her life, and she’d ruined it.

“Oh, yes, even better,” he murmured.

Startled, she looked up, saw his head on the pillow below her, brown eyes smoldering. With his hands on her hips, he adjusted her position and slid inside again, groaning his pleasure. He helped her rise up, resting her weight on her hands, freeing his to caress her. He lifted his head for a kiss.

From this position, she could pull back, out of his reach. If she wanted.

He had given her that choice.

No one had ever done that for her, either. She bent to give him a quick kiss, but then sat up, drawing her knees close, tight against his side.

Instead of voicing a protest, he cupped her breasts, massaging the sensitive flesh, murmuring his appreciation, sending tingles down her spine. She curled her toes. She became aware of cool air against her bare skin in this new position, but the heat from his hands banished the cold, made her warm all over.

The urge to move became irresistible. Tony slid his hands down her sides, to her hips, and helped guide her movements. He exerted only a slight pressure—a suggestion, not an order. She could resist, change, if she wanted. She rocked from side to side just because she could. Freedom was exhilarating, almost as much as sliding up and down.

“Yes, sweetheart, that’s it. Don’t fight it.” He slid his feet up the sheets, raising his knees.

“This is almost like…sitting on your lap.”

He rocked his hips in rhythm with her movement. He grinned, his white teeth flashing in the candlelight. “You can sit on my…lap…anytime, sweetheart.”

She almost laughed, but he thrust deeper on the next stroke, and she thought she would scream from the overwhelming pleasure of it all.

Something built within her, growing, expanding, invading every muscle, every fiber of her being, until she squeezed her eyes shut against the intensity, until she felt like…like she was going to explode.

“That’s it, sweetheart, let it happen. Give in to it. I’ll catch you when you fall.”

She sped up her movements, intensifying the pleasure, increasing the buildup, until she…exploded.

It tore moans from her throat, reverberated off every cell within her, made every muscle convulse. Her fingers clenched his upper arms, digging into his flesh.

At last she collapsed on Tony’s chest, gasping for breath.

Gradually she became aware of him stroking her hair, murmuring soothing nonsense in her ear. She lifted up, barely able to look him in the eye after such a wanton display.

He shifted his hips, reminding her that he was still fully aroused. “Want to do that again?” His tone was playful.

Explode again, so soon? It would probably kill her. “Perhaps later.”

“Fair enough.” He grinned and rolled them over while they were still joined. “My turn now, sweetheart.” He adjusted everything to his satisfaction, and continued touching her, stroking, kissing, his tongue mimicking his other actions.

She was floating on clouds, held in place by his comforting weight, solid but not oppressive. She lightly raked her nails down his back, thrilled with his moan in response. She became more active, exploring, touching, tasting, participating as his excitement built, his movements increasing in speed and intensity.

Suddenly he pulled out and lay on top of her. Heat spread between their bellies as he groaned, his panting stirring the hair beside her ear.

As their passion cooled, she was quite content to lie there, her arms around him, his heart beating next to hers.

Eventually Tony rolled to the side, still leaving one of his legs draped over hers, and nuzzled her neck. “At the risk of shattering your illusions, my dear, I’m afraid I am a typical man, in that I’m about to fall asleep.”

Was that what Hubert had done as soon as he’d left her each time?

Should she leave now?

Tony reached over the side of the bed, and came up with the kerchief they’d used earlier for her tears. He wiped her clean, dropping several kisses on her chest in the process, then cleaned himself. He tossed the kerchief back to the floor, blew out the candle, and tugged the blankets up over them both. He sighed as he pulled her close. “You don’t have to go,” he whispered against her neck.

Go back to her cold, lonely bed? Or snuggle up with Tony, who was busy nuzzling and stroking her bare skin?

“No, I don’t have to.” She had never before slept naked. Had never before spent the entire night in a man’s arms.

Two more new experiences, in a night full of them.

Sylvia awoke just before dawn. She was not alone in bed, which was fairly common. She was used to Macbeth crowding her on the pillow, and having to push his fluffy tail away from her face. He finally settled with his tail draped over her ear, purring softly.

But this was not her bed. She lifted her head to have a look around, only to bump it against something hard.

Tony’s chin.

Memories of last night came rushing back, and her cheeks flooded with warmth. Almost as warm as the solid, masculine, utterly male body spooned up behind her.

Tony’s arm tightened around her middle for a moment, before his hand wandered up and cupped her breast. “Oh good, you’re awake,” he whispered, his beard stubble grazing her nape. “Didn’t know how much longer I could restrain myself.”

“You want to…again? Already?”

He wiggled his hips, and she felt proof of his arousal. “It’s been at least five hours, sweetheart.” He pounced on her, growling, making her laugh.

Macbeth leaped to the floor and stalked away in a cloud of offended dignity, which only made Sylvia laugh even more.

Soon Tony had her gasping for breath, sizzling with pleasure, her laughter forgotten, totally unashamed in the pale dawn light, and holding him close as he found his own release.

The cat jumped up again when they stopped making the bed shake.

Sylvia felt like purring, too. “I could wake up like this every morning for the rest of my life,” she said with a sigh, threading her fingers through Tony’s hair, his face nuzzled against her neck.

Tony went still.

She closed her eyes. How could she have been so foolish as to say that out loud?

He moved.

When she opened her eyes, he was staring down at her, his intense expression unreadable. She swallowed, and decided to make light of it. “You already have Macbeth’s approval.”

She felt the pillow dip as Tony stroked the cat, making Macbeth purr even louder.

“Yes, I have that.” Tony dropped a kiss on her mouth, and sat up. “You should probably get back to your room before Galen comes upstairs.”

Sylvia sighed. “Galen knew what I was going to do even before I did.”

He winced. “If I were Scottish, I’d think she had the sight.”

“No, just several decades’ more experience than us.”

Tony’s turn to sigh. “Well, we have a lot of work to do, things to figure out.” He swung his legs over the edge, and Sylvia got a good look at the bruises on his back.

“Stay right where you are.” She patted a spot that wasn’t bruised, and dashed to her room for a bottle of liniment.

He gave a soft whistle as she came back. She looked down, and realized she hadn’t even bothered to grab her wrapper. His look was openly admiring, though, so she lifted her chin and stepped forward with confidence.

“Lie down, please.”

He did.

“On your
stomach
.”

He grumbled a bit, but rolled over. She knelt on the bed, straddling his legs, and massaged the liniment into his back. With such uninhibited access, she massaged the oil into his shoulders, down his back, even carefully, thoroughly, tracing the bruise that dipped low on his hip. Massaged it into both hips, for good measure. He lay still with the pillow tucked under his head, Macbeth off to one side, both of them looking content, their eyes closed. She really could get used to this every morning.

She capped the bottle. “Does that feel better?”

Tony moved swiftly, and Sylvia suddenly found herself on her back beneath him. “Let me show you how much better,” he growled in her ear.

He couldn’t possibly, again, so soon after…Oh.

He could.

W
hen they both finally sat up, Tony saw the red marks around Sylvia’s mouth, on her neck and chest—whisker burn—and grinned. It quickly turned to a grimace, though. Galen would have no doubt whatsoever what they’d been doing.

Perhaps if he shaved before the housekeeper saw him, she wouldn’t make the connection. Farfetched, perhaps, but an ideal excuse to keep touching Sylvia a while longer, and her touching him. “Ever shaved a man before?”

Sylvia paused on the edge of the bed, beside him. “No.” She raised her eyebrows.

He rested his whiskered chin on her lovely bare shoulder. “Want to?”

Good thing neither of them were wearing any clothes, because they managed to get shaving soap all over each other. But they had oh so much fun wiping it off, and even managed to remove his whiskers in the process, without drawing blood.

He sat still while she removed the bandage wrapped around his head, brushed his hair, and applied a fresh bandage. Well, almost sat still. His hands, which seemed to have a mind of their own, kept exploring whatever part of Sylvia they could reach, as if trying to find all the places and ways to make her blush and giggle and sigh.

Finally he could think of no other good excuses to keep her naked in his room, and they began to get dressed. Sylvia searched for her wrapper, which Tony had kicked far under the bed. He watched her while he tried to find clothes that fit him. His own were gone, except for his spare linens. Galen must have collected them last night during dinner, and tried to save them from the seawater.

He resigned himself to again borrowing Hubert’s ill-fitting breeches and coat, and shrugged into the garments. It wasn’t that he minded wearing someone else’s clothes—as the youngest, he’d often worn his big brother’s hand-me-downs. He just didn’t want Sylvia to see the clothes and be reminded of Hubert. He wanted her to see him, Tony.

She was on her knees now, peering under the bed. If he whistled now, she’d kill him for sure. But my, what a beautiful sight.

He, too, could get used to this every morning for the rest of his life.

He’d been shocked when she’d let that slip out earlier. It was only yesterday afternoon that he’d made his decision to stay. He hadn’t even had a chance to mention it to Sylvia yet, explore its repercussions. Figure out how he fit into her life, her small community, what his permanent role would be.

Prior to coming to Lulworth Cove, his place in life had always been temporary and uncertain. After Papa died, Ben inherited the title, but almost immediately ran off to fight Napoleon. Tony had—temporarily—taken Ben’s place. Tony had been the one to make sure that the crops were planted, the servants paid, and he had tried to help Mama adjust to being a widow and the uncertainty of not knowing if Ben would survive.

After five years, Ben had come home, slightly worse for wear. As soon as he’d proven the doctors wrong by not dying, he’d sent Tony back to finish his interrupted schooling. Now Ben was happily married, undoubtedly had an heir already on the way, and Tony had struggled to discover his direction in life.

He wasn’t the only one in that position. Because of Teague and Ruford, the direction of the whole village was uncertain.

Whatever his future held, Tony was certain it was here, with Sylvia.

“Strange. I wonder how that got way over…” She retrieved her wrapper from beneath the bed and stood up so quickly she caught him staring. “You’re incorrigible.”

He gave her his most innocent expression.

They heard the door to her room open.

Sylvia’s eyes widened in panic.

Footsteps in the dressing room.

Sylvia darted behind the chair by the fireplace, pulling on her wrapper and tying the belt. Tony sat down before the mirror, one boot in his hands.

The door opened after the briefest of knocks, and Galen poked her head in, seeming unsurprised to see him up at such an early hour. There were still streaks of red in the sky. “Beg pardon, sir, but have you seen my lady? She’s not in her room, and her bed’s not been slept in.”

He paused, pretending to give the matter some thought. “Perhaps she’s already gone down to her stillroom.”

Galen nodded, glanced at his mussed bed, then closed the door.

Tony dropped his boot. Where was Sylvia? In his stocking feet, he padded over to the chair and peered behind. Not hiding there. Nor was she under the bed.

Macbeth was gone, too.

Hmm.

Tony examined the adjoining wall more thoroughly, thumping it here and there. A hollow spot, down low, beside the fireplace bricks. He pushed, and a panel swung open. Inside the small space was an opening in the floor and ceiling off to one side, and a crude ladder attached to the wall.

He got up, dusted off his knees and palms, and strode through the dressing room to Sylvia’s chamber. She had just pulled a day gown over her head, gray of course, and was struggling to pull it down into place. Her room was a mirror image of his own, but done in faded rose and washed-out blue, where his had once been rich browns and earthy greens.

While she fought her voluminous gown, Tony checked the wall beside the fireplace, and found the panel that swung open. Satisfied, he tugged on Sylvia’s gown.

She gave a startled yelp.

He put a finger to her lips. “Just me. She’s gone.”

Sylvia nodded, and reached to fasten the buttons up the back. Tony spun her around and did them for her, dropping kisses on her flesh before it disappeared from view.

Once done, he wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, one last chance to hold her close for who knew how long. “Soon, sweetheart, you must allow me to demonstrate my skill at
removing
your garments,” he whispered in her ear, making her blush. He nuzzled a kiss just below her ear, in the spot that made her shiver with arousal, an excuse to lean in and inhale her sweet scent one more time.

Sylvia patted his hands, and he let go. “I’ll go down the back stairs,” she said, sitting at her dressing table, “and you go down the main stairs, several minutes later.”

“Not a problem. It will take a while to get my boots on, if I
can
get them on again after their soaking yesterday.”

She began rolling a stocking onto her foot. “Oh, your lovely boots. I’d forgotten about them.”

He barely heard her words, focused as he was on the stocking she was pulling over her shapely ankle, up the strong calf he’d caressed just minutes ago, to her knee. The backs of her knees were ticklish. How many of her body’s secrets had he discovered? Not nearly enough.

“Stop that.” She slid her second stocking on.

“Stop what?” He missed her bare toes dreadfully. So pink, so delicate, so ticklish…

“Looking at me like a wolf eyeing his prey.” She stuffed one foot into her sturdy half-boot.

He swooped down to steal a kiss. “But you are good enough to eat.”

She batted him away, laughing.

With a martyred sigh, he returned to his room, to the disaster that was his boots.

Fortunately, Baxter or Gerald had thought to stuff them with newspaper before turning them over the boot form to dry yesterday. Tony pulled the wads of damp newsprint out and tossed them into the fireplace.

At home in London, he had a champagne-based boot polish that might save the stained leather. And footmen who would gladly spend the entire day polishing to restore the luster and sheen.

Here, however, he had none of that. He did the best he could with the supplies on hand, and forced his feet into the boots. Ouch. They’d probably stretch back to their original shape and soften up again after he wore them a while.

He’d heard Sylvia’s footsteps on the stairs several minutes ago. His stomach grumbled, reminding him of the need for nourishment after so much exertion.

He headed down to breakfast, whistling despite the fact his boots were pinching his feet.

Galen set a plate in front of him with such force that half the eggs slid off the far edge. “You was right. My lady was in the stillroom, with a silly grin on her face.”

He glanced up, trying to reconcile the pleasant words that had been spoken in the tone of a challenge.

She sat down, the better to wag her finger at him. “She didn’t look that happy even when she first got here and still had all her hopes and illusions.”

“I’m thinking ‘you’re welcome’ is not the response you’re looking for.” He ate a forkful of scrambled eggs.

“She was content. Not happy, maybe, but she weren’t unhappy, neither.”

Tony opened his mouth, intending to swear he would never make Sylvia unhappy, but realized he couldn’t make that promise. He stuffed another forkful of egg in.

He was uncertain what he intended to do this afternoon, never mind the rest of his life. He wanted to stay here in Lulworth Cove, but wasn’t sure how he’d fit into the tiny, close-knit community.

He had given Sylvia pleasure last night, and twice this morning. He may not have been her first lover, but he was obviously the first to help her reach the height of ecstasy.

Before he came along, she’d had to fight off the advances of a smelly, lecherous sea captain, after being widowed by a cold, unfeeling sea captain. The villagers had welcomed him, or at least they’d welcomed his strong back and willingness to indulge in manual labor as they rebuilt from the storm. Without him, many of them would still have no home to call their own.

Pounding on the front door interrupted his thoughts, and he followed Galen out into the hall. Gerald was still inching down the stairs when the visitor swung the door open himself, shouting for Lady Montgomery. It was one of the boys Tony had seen in the taproom his first night.

“Teague’s gang was on our beach. Some of our men are hurt bad. She has to come quick!”

“Who’s hurt?” Gerald finally reached the bottom step.

“Baxter, and some of the other tub men. They’re on the beach. There’s blood everywhere.”

Tony turned to go get Sylvia, but she was already running toward them, wiping her hands on her work apron. Jimmy appeared up on the landing, barefoot, tucking his shirt into his breeches, his red hair sticking up.

“I’ll go have Farleigh hitch up the cart, my lady,” Gerald said.

“No, the tunnel is faster.” She spun on her heel, running back toward the stillroom.

“My lady, you sure you want to go that way?” Galen touched Sylvia’s elbow as she passed.

“Quite sure. I’m just going to fetch my bag.”

“Wait for me,” Jimmy called. “I’m coming, too!”

In the stillroom, Sylvia threw tins and jars of preparations into her bag, snapped it shut, shoved it into Tony’s arms, and grabbed another portmanteau from a low cupboard. “I worried the day would come that I’d need this one.”

He ran out the door after her. “What’s in it?”

“Bandages. Nothing but bandages and splints.”

Galen swung open the cellar door as they skidded into the kitchen. “Godspeed, my lady.”

Sylvia clattered down the stairs, with the lad who’d brought the message at her heels, and Tony close behind. They’d just reached the bottom when Jimmy thundered down the steps, shielding a lit candle.

Sylvia picked her way past empty shelves and crates. She pushed on one of the rough stones in the far wall, and a section swung inward. Unlike the secret passage upstairs, the tunnel opening was four feet wide, and at least six feet high. No one would have to crawl.

From his candle, Jimmy lit the wall sconces, and removed one that turned out to be a torch. “Want me to go first?”

She grabbed another torch, lit it from Jimmy’s, and stepped into the passageway. “I’ll be fine.”

Her smile had seemed shaky to Tony, but he chalked it up to worry about her injured men on the beach.

“She’s terrified of the bats,” Jimmy confided as he lit another torch. “Has been since the time I tricked her into going in there without a light, and shut the door on her.”

Tony snatched the torch out of Jimmy’s hand and ran after Sylvia.

With both of them carrying a portmanteau in one hand and a torch in the other, he couldn’t take her hand as he wanted. “Right behind you, sweetheart.”

“I knew you would be.” Her back was straight, her voice strained from the effort of running.

The tunnel was even colder than Spencer’s cellar, with an irregular, uneven ceiling. Tony ran slightly bent over, not wanting to discover exactly what was overhead.

Behind them, Jimmy was questioning the lad about what to expect when they reached the beach. He answered in gory detail, describing some of the injuries.

He didn’t prepare them for the state of the boats.

Sylvia gasped as she left the tunnel and stepped around the boulders that camouflaged its entrance at the base of the cliffs. “Oh, dear heaven.”

The cove’s beach was awash with people, most of whom were up and moving about, hovering around the half-dozen men who were sitting or lying in varying stages of consciousness.

But the boats had been dragged together into bonfires, roaring columns of flames edged by heaps of charred timbers. The fishing boats, the luggers, even the little skiffs—no vessel had been spared.

Sylvia was the first to rouse herself from the shock. She jammed her torch into the sand and ran to check the wounded. Hayden was sitting up, being tended by his wife, as Mrs. Doyle tended her husband. Monroe had his wife tucked under his arm for support, and was making his unsteady way toward the path that led to the inn.

Corwin stood off by himself, bruised, bloody, and a little wobbly, staring up at the east side of the cove. Tony followed his gaze. The path on that side led to Tyneham.

Teague’s territory.

The path was empty.

Tony ran across the beach, skidding around the fires, searching.

Baxter was sitting propped against the cliff face, one leg at an unnatural angle in front of him. His left eye was swelling shut, barely noticeable amidst all the blood dripping from a cut above his eye, and from his broken nose.

Tony knelt beside him. “What the hell happened here?”

Baxter shook his head. “One minute we was working, same as always, next minute there must have been at least two dozen of ’em. I know why they stole all our tubs, even ransacked Spencer’s cellar to get ’em, but why’d they burn the boats? My fishing boat. My wife helped me build it, God rest her soul.” He pointed at the largest of the bonfires.