Candice Hern (23 page)

“Beautiful,” he whispered, and drew her into his arms and kissed her. His tongue skimmed lightly over her lips while his hands roved up and down her bare spine, her hips, her buttocks. There was something strangely erotic about her nakedness pressed against his fully clothed person. But she wanted to feel his skin against hers, to run her hands over the chest she had glimpsed so briefly, to explore the hard muscles of the shoulders that had lifted the carriage out of the mud.

She ran her hands beneath the lapels of his coat and pushed them over his shoulders. He stood back a little, making room for her to help him shrug out of his coat. Its fit was so snug she did not know how he ever managed to get it off without help. He flung it across the floor, and she went to work on the buttons of his waistcoat. He explored the length of her neck with his lips and tongue, making concentration difficult, but she finally was able to slip the waistcoat over his arms.

Simon became more eager and unwound his neckcloth with impatience, flinging it aside to join the coat. Eleanor’s trembling fingers pulled at his shirt buttons, stopping to stroke each new inch of chest revealed. He gave a groan and tugged at the shirttails, pulling them free, and tossing the shirt over his head.

Eleanor spread her hands across his firm chest, exploring the thick mat of auburn hair that covered it. When her lips took over the exploration, Simon threw his head back and breathed heavily. She
kissed his neck and shoulders and pressed her breasts against him, rubbing her smooth skin against the coarse chest hair. Oh, yes. This was much more erotic than pressing her naked flesh against his waistcoat.

He sank his head over her shoulder and took hold of her hips. He rubbed against her in a counter movement so that they swayed and rocked, and her breasts tingled and peaked hard. His hands moved to cup her buttocks, and he began to move them against his own hips in a slow grind.

She could bear no more and reached a hand down between them to the buttons of his pantaloons. She managed one button and slid her hand inside to the smooth skin of his belly. He gave a kind of growl and suddenly scooped her up in his arms. He deposited her on the bed, tumbling down with her, and wrapped her in his arms for a blazing, torrid kiss.

She wanted more and plucked again at his pantaloons. He gave her one more quick kiss, then rolled off and pulled her to the edge of the bed, swinging her around so she was sitting up. He sat beside her and began to pull off his boots. “As impatient as I am,” he said, “I refuse to make love with my boots on. Help me, Eleanor?”

And she did. She tugged and he pulled, and when the first one finally came free, she fell over from the effort. Laughing, they began on the second boot. After much yanking and straining and tumbling about and laughing, they got the boot off,
and Eleanor flung it merrily across the room. Simon rose and stood before her as he slowly unbuttoned his pantaloons and peeled them off, along with the small clothes underneath. He stood before her in all his naked glory, fully aroused, large and beautiful.

The soft, flickering light of the single candle on the small table by the bed gilded the russet hair on his chest and legs and arms. He was lean and sinewy, well muscled but not bulky like his brother. He was thoroughly and splendidly masculine.

Eleanor, bold and wanton, ran a slow hand down his chest to the thick hair surrounding his erection, then lightly ran her fingers over the soft-hard heat of him. He sucked in his breath with a hoarse gasp, then gently pushed her back onto the bed and fell down beside her.

“Please, my dear, you will make me embarrass myself like a gauche schoolboy. Let us not rush our pleasure. Let me take a little time with you.”

And he took his time, loving her slowly with his hands and mouth. He kissed her lightly, nibbling her upper lip, while he covered her small breast with his hand, caressing gently, squeezing, circling the erect nipple until she was lost in the magic of his touch. He skimmed his hands over hips and belly and shoulder and thigh, as though impatient to learn every inch of her.

He trailed kisses along her neck and throat and shoulder and collarbone. His head dipped low, and he ran his hot, wet tongue along the delicate under
side of a breast. He slowly worked his way up to the puckered tip of her nipple and took it in his mouth, sending ripples of sensation all the way to the roots of her hair and making her gasp. She plunged her fingers in his soft hair and held him there. “Yes,” she breathed, urging him never to stop.

After paying equal homage to the other breast, he rose up on his elbows to look at her. He smiled and ran a finger over her lip. The candle sputtered and his eyes darted briefly toward it, and then back again as though something had caught his eye. He reached over her, and she thought he meant to snuff the candle, but instead he picked up the lilac spray from the Oak Apple fete. He tickled her lips with it, making her giggle. “You shall be my May queen, Eleanor, covered in the heady scent of lilac.”

He stroked the soft spray like a paintbrush over her neck and shoulders, tracing a meandering path to her breasts. He painted lilac circles around her nipples, the touch so light, so feather-soft, it was almost beyond bearing, and gooseflesh rose over all her body. He drew the flowers between her breasts and down over her stomach in ever widening circles. Down and down farther, until she arched off the bed and gave a whimpering moan. Her legs became limp and fell open to his caress. He drew the soft flowers down her inner thigh, behind her knee, and up again, gossamer light, hardly more than a breath. She shivered under the exquisite torment. He gave the same attention to the other leg, and by
now she was writhing at the touch. When he finally, inexorably, stroked the spray against her sex, she cried out.

Simon seemed determined, though, to make it last, to keep full gratification at bay, and ever so slowly brought the lilac back up over her stomach and abdomen and breasts, leaving her breathless and wanting.

He then took the spray and began to remove its tiny blossoms, scattering them about her from head to toe. He placed some in her hair as well, which he fanned out on the pillows in a precise arrangement. He leaned above her to admire his handiwork.

“You are the vision of Flora herself. I’m afraid you cannot move, my dear. You look much too perfect. You make me want to pen an ode to spring.”

“Dear God, not now, Simon.
Please
.”

He tossed away the denuded lilac sprig and covered the strewn blossoms with his body. He took her in a powerful kiss, pressing hard against her from shoulder to thigh, moving in a sensuous undulation that filled the air with the raw musk of sex and sweat mixed with the thick fragrance of lilac released from the crushed blossoms.

Simon’s tongue plunged deep in her mouth, then withdrew slowly, then plunged again, in a manner suggestive of what was to come. His hand reached down between them and touched her, his fingers as soft as the lilac had been. But she wanted
more than a gentle touch and thrust up her pelvis to meet his hand.

Eleanor’s sexuality had lain dormant for so long it took little to bring it to life. She moved against his hand and was almost instantly in the grip of a blazing climax that sent spasms of heat coursing through her body.

Simon took her mouth and swallowed her scream of ecstasy at the same moment the hot, hard length of him pushed inside her.
Oh, God!
She had forgotten how good it felt, to be so thoroughly, deliciously filled. He set up a rhythm of long, slow strokes, and she instinctively set a counter rhythm.

Simon raised up on his elbow to watch her. She felt self-conscious at his direct gaze and chewed on her lip. He smiled and said, “How plump, how ripe this sweet confection, with potent hint of sweet connection.”

Good heavens, was he quoting erotic poetry to her? She giggled and he chuckled and they laughed joyously together at the wonder of what was happening. “Oh, God, Eleanor.” His voice was gruff with passion and he increased the pace of his thrusts. He buried his face in her hair and drove her to a new crescendo as she writhed and bucked and shuddered beneath him. Her sigh of fulfillment had barely faded when his own sharp groan was muffled against her shoulder.

She lay beneath the full weight of him, spent, sated, exhausted. And happy.

T
hey lay together for some minutes, slick and panting. Still buried inside her, Simon could feel her inner muscles pulsing and contracting in the way that always followed a powerful climax. It pleased him that he had done that for her.

Finally, worried that he must surely be crushing her, he lifted his head, kissed her, then rolled over and gave a sigh of pure pleasure. He pulled Eleanor, languid and limp, against his side and looped an arm and a leg over her. She curled up close, threw an arm across his chest, and entwined her legs with his. He’d never been more content in all his life. Or so thoroughly, crazily, wondrously in love.

“Eleanor,” he whispered against the top of her head.

“Hmm.”

She seemed on the brink of sleep, but there were words he had to say. This was not a night for rolling over and going to sleep. It had not been a simple coupling. It had been momentous. Earth-shaking. Soul-searing. At least it had been for him. He hoped it was true for her as well.

Perhaps he ought to wait. Perhaps it would not be wise to say anything in the afterglow of spectacular sex. But he did not want her to think him no better than old Henry Scapegrace. Simon had no intention of abandoning her, of using her and discarding her. Surely she knew that, but he wanted to tell her and didn’t think he could stop the words anyway. They were ready to burst unbidden from his lips.

“Eleanor?”

“Hmm.”

“Eleanor, I love you.”

“Hmm”

Had she heard him? “Eleanor?” But there was only the heavy, regular breathing of deep sleep.

Damn. Should he shake her? Wake her up, make her open her eyes and look into his while he said it again?

But no, there was all the time in the world. For now, he would simply hold her close and think how happy, how lucky he was to have found her. He stroked her hair lightly, but she did not stir. Her breath was soft and warm on his chest.

He loved her. If there had ever been any doubt in his mind, there was none now. She was beautiful
and passionate and fun—he could not recall ever laughing with a woman while they made love.

Her laughter was only one of the signs that he had finally won her trust. Once she had made the decision to ask him to stay, she seemed to have lost all her previous restraint and simply allowed herself to enjoy what was happening. Simon knew how big a step this must have been for her, and to think she made that step for him made him want to shout with joy.

He had reached his goal, and it was staggering to him. His world had been shaken to its roots. Eleanor had opened up to him, had trusted him, had loved him. Had it been as earth-shattering for her? Perhaps it had been, and that was why she fell into such an exhausted sleep.

But had she heard him? Did she know he loved her?

He would tell her again tomorrow when they were both awake and alert.

Simon must have fallen into his own exhausted sleep, for he awoke sometime later from a vivid dream. The candle had burned down and the room was pitch dark. He had been dreaming of Eleanor making love to him. He lay there on his back, in the misty edges of sleep, and could still feel the dream Eleanor touching him, running her hand along his hip and thigh.

“Nice,” he murmured. “Very nice.”

“Simon.”

His eyes flew open. Eleanor was leaning on his
chest, trailing a finger along his breastbone. It was no dream. She was very real, and she was touching him. She wanted him. He would not make her say the words again. But clearly, she wanted him. And he wanted her. Again and always. He pulled her on top of him and found her mouth in the dark. They made slow, lazy, and finally frenzied love, and fell asleep again in each other’s arms.

Simon awoke again when a thin shaft of daylight sliced through a chink in the shutters. Eleanor was on her side facing away from him, and his arm was draped loosely over her. He smiled when he noted the tiniest of snores. Not a loud, thundering masculine snore, but merely a soft, gentle, rusty breathing. Definitely a snore, however, and he would tease her about it later.

Dear God, though, it was daylight. He had to get out of her room before someone found him there. Simon rolled carefully and quietly off the bed and stood naked in the middle of the room. He was covered in tiny purple blossoms and brushed them to the floor. From this time forward, he would always associate lilac with Eleanor.

He looked at her in wonder. Her dark hair was spread across the pillow in abandoned disarray. The disheveled bedclothes revealed a glimpse of her beautiful back, the elegant line of her spine, the soft curve of her hip. She was every bit as lovely as he’d imagined, and God knew he’d imagined her like this many a time.

She was slender, but not thin. Her breasts were small but perfectly shaped, and there was a slight rounding of the belly that he found irresistibly attractive. The memory of the softness of her stomach pressed up against his made him grow hard again.

He turned away—for if he gazed at her any longer he would have to wake her—and looked about the room to locate all the articles of his clothing. There were bits here and bits there, thrown about in wild abandon. Lord, what a night it had been.

He found Eleanor’s gown and wrapper and picked them up. As he folded them neatly and laid them over the chair, he recollected her chagrin at their shabbiness. From now on, he would make sure that she always had lovely silk gowns to make her feel feminine and beautiful. And though he loved the sensuous feel of silk, he would nevertheless always take them off her.

Simon found all his own clothes, but only pulled on his pantaloons and shirt. He would sneak back to the room he shared with Nicholas before anyone saw him there. He must leave her a note. He did not want to wake her, but he could not leave without a word. He searched around for paper and pen and found nothing. Damn. He had plenty of paper in his own bag downstairs. He assumed everyone traveled with the means to jot down a quick verse whenever the mood struck.

There was nothing for it but to go back to his own room, write a note, and sneak back in here to leave it for her. He draped his clothes over his arm, picked up his boots, and tiptoed barefoot into the corridor.

Though he could hear activity below in the kitchens and outside in the stables, he saw no one on the stairs or in the hallways, and made it to his bedchamber unseen. He opened the door quietly. Nicholas was sound asleep on his stomach, one bare foot twisted up in the sheets. He would know where Simon had been all night. There would be questions, but Simon was not concerned. He was in love, after all.

He stepped into the room and tossed his clothes on a chair. He stripped off his shirt and added it to the pile. He was about to dispense with his pantaloons when something caught his eye on the floor just inside the doorway. It looked like a folded piece of parchment. The bill, perhaps, slipped under the door? He went to pick it up and found it was a note addressed to him. He read it, and had to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep from whooping aloud.

Belinda Chadwick and Geoffrey Barkwith had been found.

The note had been written in the wee predawn hours by Hackett. The runaways were traced to an inn at a village less than four miles south of Penrith, where they were staying the night. Hackett
provided specific directions to the inn, just in case Simon and Mrs. Tennant wanted to make the short journey.

Simon had thought nothing could have made him feel more joyful that morning, but this news had special significance. This news meant that the problem of Belinda could be settled at last and there would be no more cloud over Eleanor. Nothing more to keep her own happiness at bay. Nothing more to keep her from Simon.

Simon punched the air in his excitement, wanting to shout but afraid to wake Nicholas. He reached for his shirt again, anxious to tell Eleanor the news, when an idea came to him.

It was crazy. It was romantic. But by God, he was going to do it.

He was going to go now, this very minute, and collect Belinda himself. He had told Eleanor once that he would like to be her knight in shining armor, to ride up on a white horse, sweep Belinda away from the villain Barkwith, and deliver her to the loving arms of her aunt. Eleanor had laughed, and Simon had really been speaking only figuratively, but now it looked as though he might actually be able to do it. To be Eleanor’s knight in shining armor. To be her romantic hero. The very notion made him giddy.

Simon quickly and quietly got dressed in riding clothes, boots, and spurs, taking care to tuck the Runner’s note in a pocket. He found a sheet of pa
per and his traveling inkwell, and sat down to write a note to Eleanor. He penned a few brief lines. There was no time for rhapsodic stanzas on their extraordinary night together, only time enough to tell her the good news so she would not be worried.

He finished the note, sanded it, and was ready to leave when Nicholas stirred.

“Simon? That you?”

“Yes, old boy, go back to sleep.”

“You going somewhere?”

“I am indeed. Eleanor’s niece has been found. I am going to collect her and bring her back here.”

“Ah. Well done.”

“Go back to sleep, Nick.”

Simon heard his friend mutter something, then roll over in a billow of rustling sheets. His heavy, regular breathing suggested he was already asleep. Simon closed the door quietly and crept back up the stairs to Eleanor’s room. He inched the door open so he would not startle her if she was awake. She was not. She was exactly as he’d left her, curled on her side away from the door, one hand beneath her cheek, the other stretched out and hanging limply over the side of the bed.

Simon folded the note and placed it on the pillow that still had the mark of his head upon it. He bent and lightly kissed her hair. She did not waken, but her outflung hand twitched a little, and it was then he noticed the ribbon. She still wore the red ribbon he’d bought from the Gypsy. She said she
would wear it until Belinda was found, and then he could have it as a reminder of his role in this episode. Well, Belinda was found. He would take the ribbon so that her bare wrist would be another symbol of the end of her ordeal.

It was tied in a simple bow and was silky slick. The merest tug on the bow loosened it, and without even a twitch of the sleeping hand, it was removed. He tucked it in his waistcoat pocket, then pulled out a pencil, scribbled a few more words on the note, and replaced it on the pillow.

Simon took one more lingering look at Eleanor, beautiful and naked and relaxed in sleep. God, how he loved her. He could not wait to deliver her niece safely back to her. Surely she would love him a little bit, just for that.

He made his way down to the stables to see about hiring a horse. There was no white one. He supposed that would have been too much to ask. He had to settle for a chestnut gelding, but it would do. Once it had been saddled, he mounted and galloped down the road at top speed on his romantic quest to impress his lady fair.

Eleanor rolled over onto her back and stretched like a cat. She became aware of her nakedness, and a sudden full-blown recollection of the night’s events burst upon her mind.

She opened her eyes to find the bed empty beside her. Groaning aloud, she turned her face into
the pillow, only to inhale the musky masculine smell of Simon.

For an instant, a knot of anguish gripped her belly. Had she given herself to a man once again, only to be abandoned? But no, she knew Simon better than that. Or thought she did. He would not be so callous. She brushed a crushed flower petal from her nose. No man who sprinkled a woman with lilac blossoms would be cold enough to simply walk away. She smiled to think what a romantic he was, and moaned a little to think of what else he’d done with the lilac. She would never be able to smell its distinctive fragrance again without thinking of Simon.

No, such a man would not abandon her. Simon was a gentleman, however, and had no doubt left her room before he could be caught there with her. The sweet, wonderful man. He had always been so concerned with her reputation.

Eleanor closed her eyes and considered all that had happened. Had she really been so bold, so brazen, so wanton? She could hardly believe all the things she’d done, the things she’d let him do. She blushed to think how she had responded with such shameless abandon. Something about Simon had made it easy for her to let down all inhibitions.

She had awakened in the night to find herself snuggled up against his warm body, and before she knew what she was doing, her hand had begun to explore. Henry had been handsome of face, but
his body had been rather soft, with little definition of the muscle beneath. Simon, though slimmer, was firmly muscled, and Eleanor was fascinated by the lean shape of him. She had also thought to be repelled by so much hair on his chest—Henry had been smooth as a baby—but instead found it tantalizing.

Simon had eventually stirred beneath her hands, giving a small moan of sleepy pleasure. He was soon wide awake, though, and loving her again. He pulled her on top of him and she had remained there, riding him to another explosive climax.

Had it ever been so good with Henry? Time and anger had faded many of the details of what had happened with him, but Eleanor could not imagine he could have outperformed Simon.

Thoughts of Henry reminded her to be cautious in her feelings for Simon. She must not make too much of what had happened last night. She had finally allowed herself to indulge in a mature, honest, physical relationship. It was the sort of thing widows did all the time. There was nothing more to it. She would certainly not allow it to be the precursor to another broken heart. It had been passionate and sensuous and wonderful, but it was nothing special. She did not want anything special.

Then why did it feel so important? So breathtaking?

Doubtless it was only because it had been so long. Five years since any man had touched her.
Eleven years since any man had touched her like Simon. After such a long time, what woman would not feel elated?

But there was something else. The words Simon had whispered after their first loving. She had pretended sleep so she would not have to respond, but the words clanged like hammer blows in her head.