The Ideal Bride (46 page)

 
He did. The result was something beyond his experience as surely as it was beyond hers, a gasping, clutching, frantic and desperate climb to an ecstasy greater, deeper, and infinitely more profound than either could have guessed, than either, when their eyes met in that last fraught moment before the maelstrom took them and whirled them from this world, had expected, or even imagined.

 
The cataclysm rocked them both. Fused them, seared them. Branded them with an awareness each of the other from which neither could ever shake free.

 
Finally, it released them. Exhausted, they collapsed. Gradually their senses returned, their surroundings reimpinged on their consciousness. Dimly. Neither had the strength to do more than settle into the other’s arms.

 
Still breathing deeply, his heart still thudding in his ears, Michael kissed Caro’s hand, laid it on his chest, and let his eyes close.

 
Never, not ever before, had he lost himself so completely, given himself so thoroughly. As he sank into beckoning oblivion, all he knew was that he wanted, desperately needed, to do it again.

 
That he needed to ensure that he had the chance.

 
Needed to ensure that she remained by his side.

 
Always. Forever.

 
When he awoke, the sun had moved on and shadows dappled the interior of the cottage. The day was warm; their lack of clothes posed no problem, yet the air within the cottage had grown sultry. Caro lay asleep, curled on her side, facing away from him, her bottom snug against his side. Smiling, he savored the sensation, locked it in his memory, then, easing away, rolled from the daybed.

 
Padding barefoot across tiles warmed by the sunshine, he quietly unlatched a window and set it wide. The sound of the stream gurgling and rushing drifted in; birdcalls added to the bucolic symphony.

 
He breathed in, then turned. A light breeze, warm and caressing, danced in, and followed him back to the daybed. He stood looking down at Caro, at the slender, shapely limbs relaxed in slumber, at the ripe swell of her hips, the lush curves of her breasts, at the delicate features lightly flushed with slumber. The breeze lifted strands of her fine hair, caressed and stirred them.

 
She slept on.

 
In the past two days, he’d spilled his seed inside her five times. He hadn’t taken any precautions, hadn’t tried to avoid it, and nor had she.

 
Of course, the only interludes she until now had dreamed of had been with Camden, her husband. Instinct, distinctly primitive, urged him to leave the matter as was, leave that particular stone unturned. Yet…

 
Was it fair to simply let what might be—what was very likely to be—happen without her considered agreement? Without her consciously being aware of it and giving her consent?

 
Yet if he mentioned it… it would certainly break the spell, and he had no guarantee how she would react. He didn’t even know how she felt about children.

 
A vivid image of Caro with his son in her arms, with two daughters clinging to her skirts, filled his mind.

 
For long moments, he was blind, held captured, entranced. Then he blinked back to reality… stunned, unsettled. Suddenly wary.

 
Never had any conjured vision made him feel his heart was standing still—and would until he had it, until he’d secured the thing he’d seen and now so desperately, beyond thought or doubt, wanted.

 
That thing he now sensed was critical for him, for his continued existence, for his future.

 
It took a moment or so more before he was breathing freely.

 
He looked again at Caro. His decision had been made—not, or so it seemed, by him. He wouldn’t mention the risk of pregnancy.

 
He would, however, do whatever it took, give whatever was needed, to make his vision come true.

 
Caro woke to the feel of Michael’s fingertips lightly tracing her bare skin. She lay still, eyes barely open, registering the sun still shining, the faint shadows playing across the tiles, the airy touch of a breeze drifting through a window he must have opened.

 
She was lying on her side, facing the fireplace. He was lying stretched out behind her, on his back, the fingers of his right hand idly stroking her hip. Smiling, she let her eyes close, the better to savor the warmth that still enveloped her and his light, repetitive caress.

 
A change in her breathing, or some tension in her body, must have given her away; a moment later, he shifted, coming up on one elbow, his body rearranging to spoon about hers.

 
Her smile deepened; he bent his head and nuzzled the spot where her shoulder and throat met, placed a hot, lingering, openmouthed kiss over the pulse point there.

 
Then he murmured, soft, low, infinitely dangerous, “I want you to keep your eyes closed, to just lie there, and let me make love to you.”

 
Her breasts swelled, her nipples tightened even before he pushed his hand over her side, nudging her arm higher so he could close his hand and knead. Languidly, lazily. As if assessing her anew.

 
Heat spread beneath her skin, but this time in a gentle wave, not a rushing, tumultuous tide.

 
He caressed her—all of her—his touch assured yet never hurried, never driven. This, she concluded, was to be a slow engagement, each moment stretching, then sliding effortlessly into the next, each crest of sensation peaking, extending, before he let her fall back, catch her breath, and move on.

 
Through a landscape she saw only through touch, knew only via tactile sensation. Gentle, repetitive, tactile stimulation.

 
His hand moved over her bottom, fingers dipped, stroked, caressed. Until her need built, until she shifted her hips, gently moaned.

 
She started to turn, expecting him to roll her onto her back and part her thighs. Instead, her shoulder met his chest, her hip his groin.

 
“Other way,” he murmured, pressing her back, his voice deep, murmurously sultry, stirring the thick molten heat inside her.

 
He edged her upper thigh higher, angled her hips over, then she felt him, hard, hot, rigid, press in.

 
Sink slowly in.

 
She shut her eyes tight, clung to the moment, exhaled softly as it ended, leaving him deeply inside her.

 
Then he moved. As slow and sultry as the sunshine, as openly seductive as the breeze. His body moved against hers in a slow, surging evocative rhythm, a cadence he refused to vary even when she gasped, when her senses coiled tight, and she sank her fingers into his thigh.

 
He rode her gentle thrust after thrust until she could stand it no more, until a scream broke from her throat and she fractured, and the wonder poured in. It filled her up, and washed through her, leaving her blissfully free on some far distant shore.

 
And still he filled her, each controlled thrust definite and sure. She was dimly aware when he reached his own limit and release caught him, racked him, then the storm rolled on and he lay beside her on that golden shore.

 
Chapter 15

 
They walked home along the path, through the glory of the late afternoon. They exchanged glances, light touches aplenty, but few words; at that moment, a moment out of time, they needed none.

 
Caro couldn’t think—couldn’t form any opinion over what had transpired, couldn’t make those glorious moments of sharing conform to any pattern she’d heard of or recognized. What had happened simply was; all she needed to do was accept it.

 
Beside her, Michael walked steadily, holding back branches so she could pass safely by, ready to grasp her arm and steady her if she slipped, but otherwise not holding her, leaving her free even while in his mind he acknowledged she was not, that he would never let her go. As they tramped through the woods and meadows, he tried to understand, conscious of a change, a realignment, a refinement of his feelings, a more acute defining of his direction.

 
They passed through the gate in the hedge, and walked up through the gardens. As they stepped onto the stretch of lawn leading to the terrace, they heard voices.

 
They glanced up and saw Muriel talking to Edward, who was looking faintly harassed.

 
Edward saw them; Muriel followed his gaze, then drew herself up and waited for them to climb the steps.

 
As they neared, both smiling easily, effortlessly adopting their social personas, Michael saw Muriel’s eyes fix on Caro’s face, faintly flushed, whether from their earlier exertions or their long walk in the sun that had shone throughout the day he couldn’t say. What Muriel made of the sight he couldn’t guess either; before she could comment, he held out his hand. “Good afternoon, Muriel. I must congratulate you again on the fete—it was a marvelous day and a wonderful turnout. You must be thoroughly gratified.”

 
Muriel surrendered her hand, allowing him grasp her fingers. “Well, yes. I was indeed most happy with the way things turned out.” Her tone was gracious, faintly condescending.

 
She exchanged nods with Caro, then continued, “I came to ask if there had been any difficulties at all with the diplomatic delegations. It was such an unusual idea to encourage them to attend—we need to gauge the success of the strategy in case we decide to try something similar again.”

 
Muriel locked her gaze on Caro’s face. “I have to say I find it hard to credit that the diplomatic crowd, especially the foreigners, found much to excite them at such an event. As Sutcliffes, we have a certain reputation to uphold—we don’t want to be associated with any suggestion of foisting boring entertainments on those in diplomatic circles.”

 
Beneath his polished veneer, Michael bridled; Edward, not so experienced in hiding his feelings, stiffened. Muriel’s accusation, for that’s what it amounted to, was outrageous.

 
Yet Caro simply laughed, lightly, apparently ingenuously—she put both him and Edward to shame. “You’re worrying about nothing, Muriel, I assure you.” She laid a hand briefly, reassuringly, on Muriel’s arm. “The diplomatic crowd, especially the foreigners, were delighted one and all.”

 
Muriel frowned. “They weren’t just being polite?”

 
Caro shook her head. “It’s the balls and glittering functions of which that crowd has a surfeit—simple pleasures, relaxing entertainments in the country—those are, for them, golden moments.”

 
Smiling, she gestured down the terrace; still frowning, Muriel turned and walked beside her.

 
“From the diplomatic standpoint, and I’m sure Edward and Michael will bear me out in this”—with a wave, Caro included them as they fell in behind—“everything went perfectly, without the slightest hitch.”

 
Muriel stared at the flagstones. After a moment, she asked, her tone flat, “So you don’t have any suggestions on how we might improve things?”

 
Caro halted, her expression openly pensive, then she shook her head. “I can’t think how one might improve on perfection.” The words held a glimmer of steel. She caught Muriel’s eye and smiled graciously. “Now, will you stay for tea?”

 
Muriel looked at her, then shook her head. “No, thank you—I want to call on Miss Trice. Such a terrible thing for those two men to have attacked her. I feel it’s my duty to give her every support in overcoming her ordeal.”