Midsummer Moon (4 page)

She took a deep breath—a bad sign, Ransom knew. “Mr. Duke, I've been trying to tell you that I can't leave."

"Yes,” he said, taking another diplomatic tack along with a salty bite of mutton. “But you haven't told me why."

"Indeed, but I have. There's my wing—"

"—which you can test at Mount Falcon. As I said, all of my resources will be at your service. The west ballroom will be entirely yours, and we have no end of open lawn and steady wind. Much better than what little cleared ground you've got here."

She bit her lip. A faint sign of progress, to Ransom's keen eye. He waited, ready for the next objection.

It came as predicted. “But to move everything,” she said. “It will take months to reorganize."

Ransom refrained from commenting on her concept of organization. “I'll assign you my personal secretary.” He took another bite of mutton. “The man's a genius at making order out of chaos, I assure you. Everything will be at your fingertips."

She looked tempted, and then sulky. “But the speaking box. You'll be wanting me to work on that instead."

"Indeed not—not unless you insist. I would like you to explain its functioning to my secretary, and I'm sure"—here Ransom stretched the truth considerably—"I'm quite certain that he can adapt it to our needs with very little further help from you."

"And then there's Theo,” she said, as Ransom continued stubbornly with the mutton. The salt had somehow made it surprisingly flavorful. “He's been ill for the last three months. Thaddeus would never leave without him."

"Yes, of course.” Ransom put a tone of deepest empathy in his voice. “Identical twins. They won't want to be separated, naturally. That's why Thaddeus will have a room right next to Theo's, where he can be available to carry out the doctor's smallest instruction without the burden of all this other work the poor fellow's been carrying.” Ransom shook his head dolefully as he finished off another bite of mutton. He was beginning to enjoy himself. Yes, he was beginning to enjoy himself indeed. He felt exceptionally—astonishingly—well. “Thaddeus has been doing the work of two. I don't see how he's managed. And now if you stay, he'll have to be keeping a strong guard over you in addition to everything else."

"A strong guard?"

"Why, yes, of course, Miss Lambourne.” Ransom smiled at her, finding that in the lingering light from the window she looked lovelier than ever. His pulse began to quicken, watching the mobile curve of her lips, and the fine, soft line of her throat. “French agents,” he said, but somehow the perilous urgency of that thought was fading. She was so ripe and perfect, so adorably kissable. “If they've cracked our code—” He lost the thread of that particular sentence and kept smiling at her, fascinated and elated by the shy clip of her head as she glanced at him. “How lovely you are,” he murmured. “So soft..."

He saw her chin come up and her misty eyes widen. “I beg your—"

"Ah—I suppose I shouldn't say so.” He had no idea why he
had
said so, except that a feeling of vast happiness was expanding inside him. He took another delicious bite of mutton, and another, and looked down to find that he had finished it off. “Blast,” he said. “Is there more of that?"

She was staring at him, her lips slightly parted. At his question, she looked startled and began to rise. “I'll ask Thaddeus."

"No.” Ransom stood up, too, and caught her arm as she turned toward the door. “No, don't bother with that. I want...” He paused, looking down into her beautiful eyes. He slid his arms around her and drew her against him. Happy; he was so happy, reveling in her soft shape, her body in his arms. “I want you,” he whispered, bending to her ear. “Come with me."

"Mr. Duke,” she said in a breathless voice.

He laughed. “Call me Ransom.” He rocked her gently, drawing her closer. “Little Merlin. Lovely Merlin. Wherever did you get such a name?"

"My—my uncle—” She straggled, but he held her easily, like a tiny bird in his hands.

"I'll call you Wiz,” he said, kissing the corner of her mouth. “My own wizard. God, you make me feel so good."

"I don't mean to,” she said in a small, muffled voice. She was wriggling, trying to get her hands against his chest. “Oh, dear—are you going to take liberties with my person?"

"Yes. Oh, yes. I'm going to be wickedly improper. But I don't care.” Elation and desire sang through him. He caught one of her hands and kissed her palm. “I've been proper all my life. I want to make love to you."

"Oh,” she said. “Dear me."

He smiled into her palm. “Beautiful, silly Wiz. Come with me. Let me love you."

"This won't change my mind,” she mumbled, and then drew in her breath as he kissed the soft skin of her inner wrist. “I won't leave."

"You don't have to leave. I can love you right here.” She made a small sound, which might have been “Oh” but came out more like a sigh. Ransom recognized that feminine music from a thousand amorous encounters, but this time it filled his soul with special joy. He squeezed her in a burst of adoration and then bent down to lift her. She seemed less substantial than a feather, easy to kiss and cuddle as he strode through the door and turned toward the spiral stairs.

He had a moment's thought of Thaddeus, but it only made Ransom chuckle to think of confronting the ancient retainer with Miss Lambourne in his arms. He felt confident, daring; he felt positively heroic. He kissed her and pressed her head against his shoulder, subduing her faint wriggling protests and ducking to miss the stone ceiling as he mounted the stairs.

His mind seemed to be exceptionally quick and clear. He impressed himself with his quick identification of the bedrooms, based on some long-ago lesson in late medieval architecture. The room he chose held a four-poster bed hung about with thick curtains of an awful, heavy green. He kicked the strap-hinged door closed behind them and leaned his shoulders against it, letting her struggle and slip down to her feet.

She tried to pull away, but he held her close, burying his face in the curve of her shoulder, sliding his hands up and down her arms. She smelled like dusty sunlight, warm and human, not perfumed and pomaded like other women he had known. Lord, oh, Lord, he wanted her ... He said so, his voice a low groan against her skin, and then hugged her to him in sheer delight. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to hear her laugh. He lifted his head and tilted her chin up, kissing her nose and her eyelashes, smiling down at her.

"Mr. Duke,” she stammered. “R-Ransom, I don't at all think you should be doing this."

"Ah.” He nuzzled her temple, breathing her special scent. “There's nothing else I'd rather be doing."

She caught her lower lip in her teeth, and a surge of heat went from his chest to his feet in response. He bent and ran his tongue across her mouth, teasing her lip free and nibbling at it himself. Her breath came faster, warming his cheek. She squirmed in his hold.

"Don't you like it?” he murmured. “Oh, Merlin, sweet wizard, let me show you some magic. You'll think it's wonderful. Have you ever felt like this before?"

"No, I—” She gave a little gasp as he circled her nipple with his thumb. Her gray eyes widened, and then she ducked her head against his shoulder.

He chuckled and held her close. “Don't be shy, pretty Merlin. I want to see your face when I touch you."

"Oh, my,” she said to the depths of his coat. “I do believe there was something in the salt."

"Something in the salt—” He nipped at her neck with a playful growl. “Something in the salt, hmm? A love potion, Wiz?” He caught her face in his hands and tilted it up to him. “You don't need potions. I wanted you from the moment I saw you."

He kissed the shocked “O” of her lips, slid his fingers into her hair, and held her hard against his mouth: a deep kiss, a man's kiss, to brand her his by force. He felt her resistance and then, slowly, her softening.

It was enough, that small compliance, to make him sweep her up again and carry her to the bed. He yanked off his coat and bent over her among the pillows, grinning. He kissed her nose. “Do you know,” he murmured, “in London they say I'm not romantic. All those china-doll debutantes. I think I'm romantic. Don't you, Wiz?” He sat beside her, caressing her cheek with the back of his fingers, letting them slide down to the buttons at her throat. “Has anyone ever been so romantic?"

"I'm sure I can't say.” She wet her full lips. “I really don't go out much."

He stroked her skin where he'd loosed the buttons. She wore no wealth of undergarments. Only a light camisole separated his palm from the soft offering of her breast. As he touched her, her body tightened. She stared into his eyes with dawning wonder, as if he were some magical beast that had just appeared for her perusal.

"How do you feel?” he asked playfully as he traced an erotic pattern on the warm curve of her skin. “Do you like this?"

"What?” Her intent gaze had gone unfocused as she gazed at the base of his throat. “Oh ... yes, I—oh, my. What are you doing?"

"I'm going to love you, Wiz. I want you to feel"—he bent over her, just barely brushing her skin with his lips—"delicious."

In fact, Merlin felt as if she were chocolate melting under a hot sun. She drew in a deep, shuddering breath, wondering why, if this was what he meant by taking liberties with her person, anyone would ever object to such heady pleasure.

He tugged her blouse free and spread warm fingers around her torso, sliding his hands upward, carrying the camisole along. His thumbs brushed the underside of her breasts, then circled her nipples again. Merlin jumped and bit her lip, torn between shyness and delight. But there wasn't room for both in her mind—there wasn't room for anything but the stunning bloom of stimulation as his tongue washed across the tip of her breast.

Small puppyish sounds came from her throat as he leaned over, pressing her into the goosedown with his weight. “Merlin,” he whispered: “Little bird, sweet sorceress ... Ouch!” He rolled suddenly to the middle of the bed, boots and all, clutching his ribs. “What the devil..."

For a moment he frowned at her waist and then grabbed at the pocket of her apron, flipping it away from him so that the contents went spilling out onto the floor with a metallic ring. He grinned, leaning on his elbow and looking down at her. “Booby-trapped, are you?"

Merlin just stared at him, lost in this new pleasure, fascinated by his nearness: the beguiling unfamiliar scent of him; the solid, warm feel of his body pressed against hers. She followed the line of his jaw and the laughing curve of his mouth with her eyes.

"Ah, God,” he said. “When you look at me like that...” He made a low, velvety noise in his throat and bent over her again, his tongue a warm invasion in her mouth, his boot and thigh a hard pressure against her leg. With one hand he drew her skirt up around her waist, exposing the full length of her legs. Before she could tear her lips free to voice a belated spurt of modesty, he captured her wrist and brought it against him, sliding her open palm downward from his chest to his abdomen. He pressed her hand to the hard shape beneath his breeches, groaning against her mouth as she touched him. Suddenly his hand left hers and tore at his buttons, and then she felt his naked flesh against her palm, smooth and hot and insistent.

Merlin whimpered, confusion and excitement surging through her. Never had she felt like this, never been this close to another person in her memory. It felt wonderful, a tingling through her limbs, a weakness like water, shyness and exhilaration and a sweet, soaring need. She wanted something, and he knew what it was. He had to, for he gave it to her when she couldn't name it herself.

He covered her with his body, holding her down, spreading kisses across her face and throat. His heat nestled between her legs, seeking, sliding against her sensitive skin until she moaned in answer. She arched her back up to capture more and found him waiting, felt the heavy intrusion, a response that was so perfect and unexpected that the pain of it was lost in the pleasure.

His hands cupped her face as he pushed gently into her. He felt like sun and soft grass and summer wind, and then rougher, like gathering weather, like hard rain and howling gusts. She gave herself up to him, soaring, a wing-free hawk in the wild arms of the storm. His power rocked her and carried her to blue-lit heights, so high she could barely breathe, and then higher yet again, panting and straining, upward and upward until his lightning exploded around her and she cried out in mingled pain and joy.

She clutched at him, as if she were falling, reeling down through the sun-shafted clouds. He gathered her close, murmuring comfort and love, warming her cheek with his heavy breath. He nuzzled her throat, burying his face against her skin. “Merlin.” It was a groan. “I've never felt like this. I think I—” He swallowed and made another wordless sound. “You'll say this is impossible, and my God, it is impossible, but I think I love you.” He stroked her torso and then her face, tracing her eyebrows and her lashes. “I love you. Merlin, Merlin, I love you. Do you believe me?"

He sounded so desperate, so suddenly human. She opened her eyes, trying to focus on the question he'd asked. “Of course,” she mumbled in confusion, taking refuge from his intensity in quick agreement. She pushed ineffectually at her skirt, but he caught her hand.

"No,” he said. “You're beautiful. Don't be shy of me.” He ran his fingers along the smooth, damp line of her inner thigh. “Did you like it, Merlin? Did I please you at all?"