Ashlyn Macnamara (20 page)

He thrust hard with his fingers. A second entered her now, stretching, stretching, while all the time his lips suckled the bud of flesh at the apex of her thighs. She bucked and twisted beneath him. Utter bliss mounted and mounted until at any moment she felt as if she might shatter. A tremor passed through her thighs, and the pleasure burned through the soles of her feet.

And then the world splintered. Her body pulsed and soared about his fingers. She gasped her release, on and on, until she thought she might faint from its power.

A bead of sweat trickled along George’s temple. His fingers curled into her flanks, no doubt biting into the delicate flesh. She didn’t even seem to notice. She was still trembling with the aftershocks of her crisis.

His arm muscles contracted with the urge to enfold her against his chest, to caress her until she came back to herself. At the same time, his groin tightened and
throbbed with the steady pulsing reminder that he remained unfulfilled.

The urge to unbutton himself and drive into her tight little sheath warred with his will. No. He would not do it. He could bloody well wait for once. Later, he’d take matters into his own hands, fueled by the memory of what he’d just witnessed. For now, winning her trust was far more important than slaking his lust on her. If he took advantage of her now, she’d never forgive him.

Why do you care?

He tamped down the nagging voice in the back of his brain. He cared because she deserved better than a quick tumble on the table. He cared because she’d been duped once before to disastrous result. The last thing she needed was another child to raise. The last thing he needed was another by-blow.

He cared, by God, enough to leave her now, his body’s demands be damned.

Above all, he cared because she was Isabelle, tough and brave beneath her air of vulnerability and delicate exterior. She’d survived society’s censure and carved a life for herself where she could raise her boy in relative peace and security.

“George?”

With a rustle of cotton, she pushed herself onto her elbows. Her hair straggled about her flushed face, her eyes wide and blinking. Her bodice gaped to reveal lovely, rounded breasts, nipples straining, even now begging for his attention.

His throat went dry. Ignoring his raging erection, he tugged at the ties of her dress. The pink in her cheeks deepened, and she sat up, smoothing her skirts back into place, before fumbling with her bodice.

“I don’t know what came over me.” She kept her eyes downcast. Her fingers trembled and the laces fell from her grasp. “Oh, bother.”

“Isabelle.” He framed her face with his hands, tipped her chin up until she returned his gaze. “There is no shame in what passed between us.”

“I feel like such a wanton.” She cast her glance around the room. “Heavens, on my own kitchen table. If anyone had looked in …”

“They haven’t.”

“I …” She pressed her fingers to her lips as if she were testing to see if they were still there. Or perhaps they still tingled. “I can’t make a habit of this.”

“Make a habit of what? Taking your own pleasure?”

“It’s selfish of me. I’ve given nothing back. And how can I think only of myself when Jack may need me?” Her voice wobbled dangerously toward desperation.

He gathered her close, savoring the slightness of her body against his, the press of her breasts against his chest, the soft flare of her hips. God, he could lift her so easily and she’d be at just the proper height. No, no. He must focus on her. “You needed the contact. You needed someone with you. You still do. And I’m not about to leave.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I
SABELLE AWOKE
to an odd, rhythmic rumble. Her body felt strangely heavy, as if she lay at the bottom of a very warm well and the weight of the water pinned her in place. She cleared the cobwebs of slumber from her mind and opened her eyes. The feeble light of dawn painted her chamber in muted grays. She couldn’t even remember dropping off to sleep last night.

One moment she’d been in Upperton’s arms, and—Upperton.

No, she could scarcely think of him by that name anymore. Not after all that had transpired between them last night. Not after she’d shattered under his deft fingers and skillful tongue. He’d played upon her body like a piano and drawn notes from her, impossibly pure and high and wild.

George snored softly beside her now—on top of the blankets. He’d cast one arm over his eyes, ready to ward off the morning sunlight. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, in time with the low rumble emanating from his throat.

Goodness, how had she managed to pass the night with him and not notice? His shoulders occupied more than their fair share of the straw tick. Why had he stayed, when he might have slept in more luxurious accommodations at the manor?

I’m not about to leave
. So he’d claimed, and he’d honored his word.

Stubble peppered his cheeks and chin. She extended a finger and traced a path through the rough texture. Last night, he hadn’t allowed her to touch, but she wanted to now. If only she could return a small measure of the heaven he’d shown her.

His breathing hitched before settling into a steady rhythm once more. She folded an elbow under her cheek and studied him. She’d never had occasion to observe a man this close. She inhaled his slightly foreign scent, at once spicy and smoky. That musk must now impregnate her pillow. A pity he hadn’t tucked himself beneath the covers. He might have permeated her entire bed, a reminder of his presence when he returned to his world.

For he would, eventually. He might rend her with pleasure again and again, but he would not stay where he did not belong. She must remember that. Remember and not allow herself to become attached.

She crept from beneath the covers, and her chemise fell about her calves. Her chemise and nothing more. Not even her stays remained to hamper her breathing, which meant he must have helped her undress—slipped her garments from her, snuggled her into bed, and lain beside her all night, fully clothed like a perfect gentleman.

Although they’d been far more intimate, she ought to be mortified that exhaustion had prodded her to set aside propriety and let him play the lady’s maid. Instead, a blossom of warmth took root in her chest at his kindness. She’d been so leery of his intentions, but beneath the rakish façade lay a perfectly decent man. Honorable. Trustworthy. He’d demanded her trust and proven himself.

A pounding on the door sent her heart slamming into her ribs.

George raised his head, blinking sleepily. His gaze
landed on her and raked downward. A lazy grin, full of promise, spread across his face. “Good morning.”

Too late, she remembered her lack of proper garments, and her cheeks heated.

“Don’t lose track of that thought.” He tucked his arm beneath his head and contemplated her. “That shade of pink is nothing less than adorable on you, and whatever you’re recalling to make you blush so—I want to hear all about it.”

“Stop,” she admonished. “There’s someone at the door.”

The pounding renewed, louder this time. At the sound, her heart flipped, and the pulse in her neck throbbed.

“So there is. Best you cover up and answer before they burst in and draw their own conclusions.”

She owned nothing resembling a dressing gown. Normally, she’d be clothed by the time anyone knocked, but normally, no one knocked this early. The quality of light in the room was sufficient to indicate the time—not even an hour since sunrise. Could her boy have been found?
Please, oh please, and let him be all right
.

She wrapped herself in a shawl and pushed her wayward curls out of her eyes before rushing across the kitchen and yanking open the front door.

“My lord,” she gasped.

Lord Benedict stood on her stoop, slapping a pair of leather gloves against his palm. Behind him, a large horse nosed at her flowers, reins secured about the low fence that separated her front garden from the road. Alone, unfortunately.

“You’ll forgive the early intrusion.” Lord Benedict swept into a bow, as if she were standing in a drawing room rather than barefoot in the doorway to a poor cottage. “I’m looking for Upperton, and I hoped you might be of some assistance.”

“Oh.” Her cheeks burned in the early morning breeze,
and she stared down at her toes. Oh, yes, she knew just how guilty she appeared, but she could hardly act otherwise. She
was
guilty, and, worse, she’d answered her door looking like she’d come fresh from a tumble.

“I wouldn’t dream of disturbing you under any other circumstances,” he went on, “but the matter concerns your son, as well.”

A hundred questions jammed her throat, each jostling for attention. She wanted to shout them. She wanted to grab the man by the lapels of his riding coat, drag him inside and demand answers. Only she already knew the reply to the most important question of all. Jack was still missing; otherwise Lord Benedict would have brought her boy straight home.

Driving her fingernails into her palm, she reached for the well of dignity that had been engrained in her from childhood. “Please come in.”

She stepped aside to let him pass, unable to look any higher than the middle of his chest, for fear she’d read judgment in his gaze. She ought to be long used to it, but from him, such censure would be doubly difficult to stomach, given his kindness to her yesterday. And that was to say nothing of his wife. Best to get the niceties out of the way.

“I owe you a debt of gratitude.” She addressed the brass buttons on his riding coat.

“It’s nothing. Anybody would be willing to pitch in and search for a lost child.”

Anybody indeed. The villagers—her neighbors—hadn’t lifted so much as a finger.

“I didn’t mean about Jack, although I’m grateful there, too. Your wife sent along a basket yesterday.” Her glance drifted to the kitchen table where the remains of their picnic still lay scattered. Cards, breadcrumbs, and teacups with the dregs of fine burgundy still staining the bottom, all abandoned for other pursuits.
The reminder of what else had befallen on that table drove a spear of heat through her belly.

Dear Lord, and what did any of that matter? If she’d needed comfort last night, it was no one’s affair but her own. Why couldn’t he skip to the real reason for his presence and tell her what he knew of Jack?

“According to Julia, sending along a few trifles was the least she might do.”

“To me, they were hardly trifles.” Drat. That had come out colder than necessary. Lord Benedict couldn’t know. He’d probably never wanted for anything in his life.

“What brings you here so damned early?” Thank God for George. Thank God, even if he had drifted in from the bedroom, his clothing rumpled, his hair mussed.

“It’s your own fault. I’d have talked to you last night over port, only you never turned up.” Revelstoke proclaimed in the same kind of tone he’d use to remark on the weather.
Oh, yes, it’s raining again. Common enough occurrence in the south of England
. Rain, wind, Upperton not spending the night in his own bed. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Isabelle didn’t think her cheeks could burn any hotter. And why,
why
couldn’t they come to the point now that courtesy’s demands had been met?

“I was needed elsewhere,” George said in the same sort of tone.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, what of my son?” Isabelle clapped a hand over her mouth a moment too late.

“That’s what I’ve come to discuss. I’d no intention of disturbing you.” Revelstoke nodded at Isabelle, but his expression gave nothing away. “But this concerns you at any rate. More than it does Upperton, in fact.”

“What is it?” Isabelle twisted the frayed ends of her shawl in her hands. The once rough wool had long since worn to softness.

“I see no choice in the matter but to broaden the search. We turned up nothing yesterday, and the village isn’t that big.”

George bolted toward the door. “You’ll lend me a horse, won’t you? Only not Buttercup. Surely you’ve got one with a sweeter disposition.”

“I’ve already sent riders out.”

“Oh, no.” Isabelle pressed her fingers to her throat. “They oughtn’t look only for Jack now. They must find Biggles, as well.”

Lord Benedict’s brows disappeared beneath his fringe. “Biggles?”

“Her servant,” George clarified.

“She’s not my servant,” Isabelle insisted. “I told you.” She turned to Revelstoke, digging her fingers once more into the wool of her shawl and twisting. At least the movement would mask their trembling. “Her name is Lizzie Biggles, and I suppose she looks like a servant or perhaps some farmer’s grandmother. She’s let me live with her, but she’s disappeared now, too.”

Revelstoke pulled his gloves through a clenched hand. “At the same time? And you don’t find that suspicious?”

Isabelle suppressed the urge to scream. “No, not at all. I’ve lived with her since before Jack was born. If she meant him any harm, don’t you think I’d have noticed by now?”

Lord Benedict glanced past her at George, who offered no comment. “You don’t think we might find her with your son?”

“I don’t see how or why. She only went missing yesterday, and if she knew where Jack was, she’d never have kept me from him.” She had her own suspicions about what might have motivated Biggles to leave. Guilt, since Jack had been taken from under her nose. Under all their noses. “I can’t blame her. I
can’t
. Not when I wasn’t even here.”