The Love List (25 page)

“It doesn’t feel . . . in the common way.”  He paused.  “In truth, I’ve never felt the like.”

“Nor I.”  Anything louder than a whisper was beyond her.

“I meant to let it pass unremarked.  I told myself that even from our first meeting, our encounters have been intense and unusual.  Small wonder that our reactions to each other might mirror that.  It makes it seem likely that all of this will fade when we return to the cold light of our normal lives.”

Glad of the dark, Brynne pursed her lips and let his delusions lay undisturbed.  Normal had slipped her grasp months ago, and she feared it would take a disturbingly long time for her to forget . . . all of this.

“You said once that our paths are wildly different, and you were right.  It took a hell of a mess to bring us together and once it’s cleaned up, you’ll be busy chasing your goals and I’ll just be . . . busy.  But sitting here, thinking back, looking ahead and wanting only to wallow in this moment, I realized I’ve changed my mind.”

Unfair that a single statement could cause both a thrill and surge of disappointment.  She ignored the shiver running down her spine and stiffened.  “We had an agreement, your Grace.  We pledged to act as partners only.” 
Please don’t make it harder to keep
.

“Don’t be prickly, Miss Wilmott,” he chided.  “I meant no insult.  I only mean to say that it would be a disservice—an insult, almost—if I didn’t acknowledge what lies between us.  And thank you for it.”

She blinked.  “
Thank
me?”

“Yes.”  His grip tightened, but his tone grew faint.  “I cannot begin to explain it.  I don’t even understand it.  But you . . . somehow you quiet the discord.”  He breathed deeply.  “You bring me a lovely feeling of peace, Brynne Wilmott, and that is something that I have not felt in a very long time.  So I thank you.”

Her heart rate ratcheted again.  “I . . .”  She sighed and gave up.  “I’m glad.  And you are welcome.”

She started again as his hand brushed her face. 

“But it’s the promise implied that sets the hook in my gut.”  The words came out low and ragged.  His fingers lingered, exploring at the corner of her mouth.  “The tantalizing hint of so much more to come.”  He traced her lower lip, then, before moving to trail softly along the line of her jaw. 

That low buzz accelerating, she leaned in to the caress. 

“There’s more here than just excitement and adventure.  I don’t want you to doubt for a moment, when you look back at this, that I felt the pull, the powerful allure.”  He sighed.  “But—”

“But,” she interrupted.  “I already know what you are going to say.”  Her limbs had grown lighter, her legs straightening, her arms lifting easily to his shoulders as tongues of flame licked a weightless path along her bones. 

“Don’t say it yet,” he whispered.  He loomed large over her.  “Not yet.  Kiss me, instead.  Once more, then done—before we enter that house, find Tru and change everything.”

She hesitated.  And marveled how easily he’d just shifted her perspective.  A moment ago, any further entanglement with Aldmere rated as foolish and self-destructive.  Now, with his warm breath tickling her ear and her insides weightless and alight with heat and desire, a kiss simply felt inevitable.

His arms gathered her close.  She shifted to accommodate their positions on the narrow bench and flowed against him.

Gently, as soft as the brush of a feather, he kissed her.  And she allowed it.  They were alone, together in the dim shadows and in a completely new and intimate way.  The stone shed ceased to exist the moment their lips touched.  They were swept away, transported to a precipice between worlds, and this moment, this kiss, was merely a nod to what might have been.  Or perhaps this moment did not truly exist, after all. 

He deepened the kiss, and she quit thinking about it.  Lost the ability to form a coherent thought altogether, as he teased and coaxed her mouth with his, and drew forth a flood of need.

Exactly the right word—need.  For suddenly, she needed more.  They’d stolen this moment.  It shouldn’t have happened.  Yet here they were, by all the saints, and if this was all there was to be, then she wanted everything she could get.

A sound emerged, from her heart, from her soul, but channeled through the back of her throat.  A plea.  A command.  Her arms locked behind his neck and she opened wide, tasted deep and tangled her tongue with his. 

His body, that tower of bulk and strength, shuddered beneath her hands.  Shaking off restraints, it would seem, for he kissed her hard and long.  Dominant.  Demanding.  His hands gripped her shoulders tight, then fell away to spread possessively along the curves of her waist.

God, what he did to her.  More than his title, it must be something solid at his core, an absolute confidence that allowed him to not only accept her strengths, but to respond in kind.  It filled her with joy and assurance, drove her wild and urged her to climb higher.

Rejoicing, she broke away.  Their gazes met.  She arched as his hand stroked down over her bottom to grasp her thigh and tug, silently directing her to shift her weight. 

It was a question, a suggestion.  Not an order or a demand.  And that was a large part of why her answer could be affirmative.

Yes.  Just a little further.  A little more, then she would speak the words.  But first . . . using his broad shoulders as support, she rose up and straddled him.

His breath caught.

She gave it back to him in a long, slow and passionate kiss.  Again, they plundered each other’s mouths, and again, while he fumbled with her skirts and at last they were bunched between them and she was gasping at the feel of his hands on her bare hips. 

She pulled back, stared down, barely able to discern the gleam of his eye. 

“Brynne,” he whispered.  His hands, so large and hot against her skin, pulled, urged her closer.  And she followed, pressed close, nestling vulnerable flesh against the hard ridge pressing tight against his trousers.

He moaned.  Pleasure and agony.

And she sighed.  Such beautiful, clever hands he had.  They traced circles of fire on her hips, then dipped down to tease the sensitive skin along her garters before withdrawing altogether.

She whimpered.  Protest?  Or agreement?  Before she could decide, they were back, sliding up along her ribs to mold her bosom with palms pressed tight and fingers spread wide.

Approval, this time, emerging on a gasp and triggering an instinctive rocking motion that left them both nearly mindless with pleasure.  Arching her back, she did it again.

He slid his hands up and around her neck.  The buttons to her gown started on the high collar and marched down her shoulder.  He started to work the first one loose.

Surprise gave her clarity.  A good thing, because she wished this to be a decision, not just a desire-fueled reaction.  She’d promised Callie that she wouldn’t be foolish.  That she’d be strong and independent. 

But Callie couldn’t—or wouldn’t—understand this.  She and Aldmere were equals in this; both giving, both taking.  She didn’t feel pressured or forced or even hesitant.  And this felt . . . right.  Celebratory, almost.  Odd in the midst of all of this trouble, but also dear because of it. 

But they couldn’t take it much farther.  Perhaps she should put a stop to it.  They were opposites, as she’d already reminded herself.  Neither belonged in the other’s world. 

Yet they weren’t in either of those places now.  They’d created this spot, stolen this moment, and Aldmere had reached the last of her buttons.  He tugged, and heart leaping, her decision was made.  She shrugged, helping him push the gown and chemise away.  He pulled down on her stays, and cool air wafted across her flesh as her breasts lifted free.

She wished she could see his face.  Her own was aflame, flush with excitement and uncertainty.  Her nipples peaked and she waited, breathless, for him to touch her there again.

He licked her instead.  Darted his warm tongue against one hard peak and drew a lazy wet circle around it before going back to do it again.

She gasped, groaned and sunk further into him.  He didn’t stop and she didn’t want him to.  She could have spent eternity arched against him while he suckled one breast and teased the other with his fingers.  It was shocking, sinful and wonderful.  He created a storm of want, bolts of desire that branched between her breasts, her belly and lower, to the spot pressed so delightfully against him.  Elation gripped her, and a strange impatience.

Until he pulled away with a moan.  Grabbed her arms and pushed her back.

“We have to stop.”

She tried to squirm back, wanted to cry out a denial.

“Here.  While we still can.”  His breath came hard and heavy.  Say it,” he rasped.  “Say it now.”

“Not yet.” 

Just the smallest bit more.  She dug her hands into the thick hair at the nape of his neck and pressed her forehead to his. 

“Damnation,” he breathed.  “Say it.”

“It’s real,” she whispered.  “What lies between us is real and glorious.”

“God, yes,” he groaned.  “You are lovely, Brynne Wilmott, both inside and out.  And you nearly tempt me beyond reason.  But you must finish,” he insisted.  “Say the rest.” 

He was so strong, yet he didn’t say it himself?  Emotion surged as she realized he trusted her with the choice, was gifting her with the power.  Because he knew her to be strong, as well.  Trusted her to see the truth and make the right choice for them both.

Hearts weren’t made to soar and ache at the same time. 

“Complicated,” she sighed.  “It’s all so complicated.”  Straightening up, she dropped her hands.  “Impossible.”

“We cannot act on it.”  Thank God she could hear regret in his voice.  “Not any further.  But neither could we deny its existence.”  He stood then, lifting her without effort, and squeezed her hand tight before letting her slide down the front of him.

“Now.  Give me a moment.  Then let’s go find my brother.”

Fifteen

Blinded by love, seduced by theatricality, I agreed.  The plan was laid. I slipped out in the dead of night.  The Captain’s hired carriage took us deep into the countryside to a tiny, stone church.  A private chapel on someone’s estate, I assumed, but the vicar awaited and there was the driver to act as a witness.  Alas, there was no beauty in the ceremony.  The vicar, possessed of a ragged beard and thin voice, grinned and leered his way through the sacred words.  The Captain fidgeted.  The driver yawned.  I fretted over the Captain’s manner, but felt sure he would relax once the marriage was accomplished.

—from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

He’d done the right thing.  Though it meant he’d have to live missing the curve of her breast in his hand and the feel of her pressed tight to his cock, though he would always regret not being the one to fully claim that promise that lived in the corner of her mouth, still, for the rest of his life he would take cold comfort from the fact that he’d done right by Brynne Wilmott.

She’d endured so much already.  He recalled the abuse he’d seen Marstoke hand her and shuddered at the thought of how near she’d come to a life of cruelty and violation.  He thought of her father, who’d used her less violently, but no less selfishly.  As for her future, hard work and trouble lay ahead, no matter the outcome of their mission. 

He couldn’t save her from it.  Though she couldn’t know it, his interference could only put her at risk for further pain.  She wouldn’t wish him to save her, in any case.  She’d determined to fight back, to find her own way, and he couldn’t take that from her.  But he’d given her one, small thing to use in the battle. 

Women might be mysterious, mercurial creatures, but he understood this much—a woman with confidence in her own power and appeal was a force to be reckoned with.  She deserved to have that weapon in her arsenal, at least. 

His cock stirred again and he redirected his thoughts.  Moving under cover of the dark, they’d reached the house.  He stopped at the top of a short flight of stairs.  At the bottom lay the kitchen entrance.

“Stay here,” he whispered to Brynne, gripping her arm.  “I’ll get us in.  If you see any light or movement, any sign of life at all, speak up.”

She nodded acknowledgement.  Her warm skin slipped from beneath his and it felt like a punishment.  When he lay on his deathbed, counting up his regrets, he knew this moment—the unslaked passion in his blood and the ache in his chest—would rank high.

  He turned to make the descent.  He had the key with him and the door unlocked in a moment.  Reaching for the knife in his boot, he swung it slowly open.

Nothing.  He waited, letting his eyes adjust to the darker black inside.

“Anything?” he said quietly over his shoulder.

“No.”

He glanced back.  The half moon rode high now, shedding a faint light onto the scene, but he saw that she had crouched on the stairs and would be nearly invisible until someone tried to descend.  “I’m going to go in.  Keep watch.  We’ll need to know if our exit is no longer clear.”

“I’m coming in, too,” she whispered.

“In a moment.”

He turned and slipped inside.  Placing his feet carefully, he moved about the kitchen, checking the larders.  In one he found a wrapped cheese and a loaf of bread, gone only slightly stale.

“Stay here for a moment,” he whispered. 

His heart rate accelerating, he switched his knife to his left hand and drew a pistol from the inside pocket of his coat.  Carefully, he moved out. 

It was a long, slow walk to the tower rooms, nearly the length of the house.  But he knew where the tables and
objet’s d’art
were placed in the halls, where the floorboards sloped or creaked.  Room after room lay silent and empty.  He heard nothing from Brynne, no sound of life in the place save for the careful sawing of his own breath.