Elisabeth Fairchild (25 page)

“My dear Deering,” his hand drifted higher, abandoning the stocking, smoothing the bare flesh of her thigh. “Will you . . .?”

“My shoe,” she gasped, hoping to halt his question, hoping to distract his hand.

He sighed. “Your shoe. Yes. It is here, somewhere.” But it was not her shoe he reached for, his hands delving deeper beneath the damp folds of her nightshift, finding trembling inner thigh, seeking higher still, ever so gently, the most private and aching parts.

She ought to have bolted away from this forwardness before it went so far, this intimate invasion, and yet as shocked as she was, she was equally seduced by the delicious sensation, by the magic of his touch. By the answering magic of her own body.

Alarmed by her own willingness to allow him liberties, Elaine inhaled abruptly and stepped away at last, abandoning her shoe, wet fabric catching in his hands, wet fabric slapping at her legs.

“Wait,” he said, unmoving. “Do not go away barefoot.”

She hesitated, breathing hard, legs shaking, the intensity of her desire frightening. She wanted so much more from him than her shoe.

She held out her hand for it, forced her voice to steady in saying, “All I desire of you is my shoe, my lord.”

He rose, dangerous at full height, dangerous and enticing in the moonlight. He passed a hand over his mouth, took a deep breath, sighed, shook his head, and smiled knowingly. “A lie, that.” He dusted off his knees, and took a step closer to hand her the shoe. “You wear the perfume of the sea.”

She reached for the shoe, a little off balance with one foot only stocking-clad. He handed it over. She jammed her foot into it, watching him warily, shaken to her very core. What did he mean? “I do not wear perfume,” she said sharply.

“Oh, but you do.” His eyes glittered dangerously in the darkness.

She had no idea what he meant, only that she had allowed things to go too far.
Here it is. The monster in him roused at last. Will he consume me? Will I let him?

No leap of faith, this. This was unquestionably a fall.

She had allowed him to touch her inappropriately. In so doing she had committed herself to leaving. No turning back. They could not go on as governess and employer as though nothing had happened. She must go.

S
he set off for the inn, laces trailing, shoe sliding against her heel, rubbing it as raw as her nerves, emotions--her heart.

He fell into step beside her, matching his stride to hers, the swing of his arm.

“Shall we to bed then, my Deering?”

To bed? His Deering?
Too bold his choice of words.  She took a deep breath, swept by contradictory desires: to throw herself at him, or to flee.

He stopped suddenly, crouching to pick up a stone, seeming somehow much less threatening so low to the ground. “Will you sleep? I found that I could not.”

She dared to stop, to bend, to tie her shoelace, silence her protection--the distance between them. Perhaps he had not meant his remark to be suggestive of anything more than sleep.

He chuckled, plucked up a stone, and rising smoothly, muscles uncoiling, beautiful to behold, skimmed it out into the moonlit glitter of the sea. “My mind would not be still.”

Her own mind would not still--her questions--doubts. “You were thinking of her, weren’t you?”

He turned to look at her, attention caught. “Her?”

“You still love her, don’t you?”

He was surprised by the question--at a loss. “If you mean Penny, of course I do,” he said. “And yet I must not.”

“I know what that is like.”

Silence hung between them.

“Why didn’t you stop her marrying your friend?”

He scooped up a handful of the sand at his feet, held it out to her. “Grab this,” he ordered.

She held out her hands, his servant, ready to obey. He dumped the sand into them. “Can you stop the sand from sifting through your fingers?”

She shook her head as it trickled between every finger.

He cupped his hand around hers. “She was sand,” he said. “I could not stop her.”

He looked her in the eyes, a starlit look, a look of such delving intensity it took her breath away. “Are you sand, my Deering? Do you mean to slip through my fingers?”

Sand trickled in a steady stream.

His words shocked her. Their implication.

He leaned forward, as if he meant to kiss her.

Her hands spasmed, away from his, sand flying.

“I fear you are,” she heard him whisper as she ran away.

He came after her, caught her by the shoulder, turned her as he said her name, gently, his voice like the tide, washing over her. “Elaine.”

“My lord.”

“Val.”

She could not look into his eyes, could not voice his name. He would sweep her under with a look, a gesture, a touch. She could feel the undertow of desire--ready to sweep her off her feet.

“Thought of many things kept me awake, my Deering.”

The words as he said them were far too intimate, tortuously so.

“I am not your Deering.”

“You are,” he said harshly. “At present I pay your keep. Or are you determined to leave me again?”

“Like she did?”

“Like you have been set on doing since the moment I met you.”

She said nothing, could not tell him how much it pained her to stay in his keep, his pay

“Thought of you keeps me awake, my Deering. Your face today watching the birds, I could not get it out of my head.”

She collected her wits, her breath coming fast. “An unforgettable image, my lord.”

“Yes, it was, and again this evening, here in the moonlight, the silver of this tear upon your cheek.” He touched the damp trail, sending waves of agitated anticipation through her.

She eyed him warily, nerves on edge, a shiver passing the length of her spine, his eyes hard to read, dark wells of shadow. His silhouette loomed against the moon, against the silver dance of light upon the water. When starlight at last unveiled his features, he was smiling.

He reached out to catch a flyaway strand of her hair.

She flinched.

He slowed the movement, his fingers transfixing her as he smoothed the hair away from her face, grazed the curve of her ear, came to a stop at the nape of her neck.

She closed her eyes, so delicate was the sensation, so provocative. Her hand rose to stop him.

“It takes courage to take a plunge.”

He caught her fingers in his own, parrying her move. She opened her eyes as he drew her closer, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other grasping her hand to his chest. She could feel the rise and fall of his breathing. She could feel the beat of his heart.

“Elaine, will you . . . do you dare . . .” His lips brushed her fingertips “take such a plunge?” He turned her hand, leaning closer to nuzzle her wrist, to plant a warm kiss where her pulse beat the hardest. She closed her eyes, his touch delicious, the movement of breath and mouth and tongue mesmerizing.

She ought to have withdrawn her hand from his, and yet it never even occurred to her.

“Leap of faith?” he asked, raising his head as her eyes opened, the wind fingering his hair, starlight in his eyes--and desire, a terrifying heat.

“Leap of faith, my lord?” she reminded him. “Or fall?

He chuckled. Oh, how the sound ran through her. “You must learn to call me Valentine, Elaine.”

“It would be inappropriate, my lord.”

“Just as this is inappropriate?” He kissed her, lips warmer than the night, humid as the breeze, as laden with potential.

“Yes,” she breathed.

“I like the sound of that.”

She ought to have objected, to have stepped away, but she could not, did not. Another yes implied.

“Will you say yes again for me?” Hands still linked he drew her closer.

She offered no resistance, curious of all that he was known for, of all that her heart held, of all that she was suspected of doing. Wanting another taste of his lips.

“Will you say yes to another kiss, my Deering?” He pressed his cheek to hers, murmured against her hair, her hand curled in his, held tight against the fine white lawn of his shirt. She could feel the warmth of flesh beneath.

“I do not think . . .”

“Do not think. Feel.” He pulled her closer, deeper into his arms, lifting hers to encircle his neck, where her fingers caught in the tossed waves of his hair, the warm, silken wonder of it, and her breasts found the solid comfort, the warm resistance of the muscles of his chest pressing hers. Such a perfect position it seemed, such a perfect fit. The friction of their clothing seemed small resistance between them, the sound of his breath in her ear as natural, as endless as the sea. He chuckled, the low rumble of his laughter provocative. “Just feel. Can you not feel it? I know you do.”

Of course she felt it, the charged quality of the air between them, as if thunder must rumble and lightning flash at any moment. She took a deep breath.

“Say yes,” he murmured, his hands encircling her ribs, sliding lower, into the small of her back, drawing her closer, rousing the throbbing heat he had touched upon earlier between her legs. What was this unfamiliar ache? So intense, demanding. It seemed to crowd out all other thought and feeling--certainly all good sense.

Her hipbone nestled his thigh. He adjusted his stance, accommodating her curves. Her belly, through the fabric of her nightshirt, found contact with flank, muscles stretched taut. Desire pulsed deep within her. It throbbed within her lips and temple. It crashed over her like waves dashing against rock. She did not pull away from him as he nuzzled her neck, as he  gently tugged the end of her braid, tilting her head upward so that she must look at him. So that her mouth was only a fraction of an inch from his. Her lips hungered for his, for that humid connection of aroused flesh.

“Say yes,” he whispered, waiting, poised, teasing her with the heat of his breath. He pressed the curve of her waist tighter to his, the flat of his right hand passing along her ribs, slowly, so slowly, as if he would count them.

“Say yes,” he whispered against her cheek, the satin of his lips, the velvet of his breath too heated to refuse.

“Yes,” she said, and turned her head just enough that he might more easily find her lips, might brush his mouth over hers, as though seeking the perfect placement, the perfect fit. “Yes,” she whispered as he drew her closer still, the flats of both his hands pressing downward from the small of her back, so that the hard muscle of his thighs met the hard muscle of hers, so that the heat of her, the aching heat found something harder still confined by the fabric between them, that friction tantalizing, adding to sensation.

His mouth tested hers with pressure, heat, his lips parting hers, tongue tasting, testing, seeking.

He took her breath away, and gave it back again, and never had she imagined kisses such as these. Like the sea he swept over her. She opened up her mouth to him, clung tight to his neck, stepping into the embrace as tightly as barnacle clings to stone. She did not want to let go, did not want to disconnect lips and tongue, and straying hands, and yet with her passion came fear, the flicker of a memory--Palmer’s lips--Palmer’s hands--and she had to escape.

Too fast, this tumble of desire and confusion. Too heated the flame of desire that sprang within. She pushed away, arms stiff, body resistant.

“Stop. We must stop. I must go back.”

He stopped at once, head raised, arms still claiming her, eyes searching--surprise there--disappointment--receding heat. “Elaine.” He sounded crestfallen.

“Please do not stay me.” She pressed both hands to his chest, holding him at bay.

He released her reluctantly, wistfulness teasing his mouth. “I go too fast. Before I have even asked . . . Just one more question, Elaine. One more yes.”

“No.” she tried to steady herself. She must be steady. Strong. Not swayed by the sound of the water. Unswayed by the wash of feeling that left her dizzy. Aching. Needy. Wanting more. She took a step away from him.

“You would say no when you’ve no idea as to the question?”

The tide washed in. The tide washed out. Her heart seemed to beat too hard. She took a deep breath. “What question, my lord?”

“Val. Surely you feel free enough to call me Val?”

She shook her head, shook away the lure of his voice, his name. “My lord. It is wrong of me. To say yes. To kiss you.”

“Did you not enjoy our kisses, Elaine?”

She could not lie. Could not deny the wonder of those kisses. The bliss. Neither could she give in to him, to the lure of more such kisses. “It is not my place to enjoy kissing you, my lord.”

“Who better?”

She closed her eyes. Closed out the moon and the stars, and the silvered sea. “Better to kiss the woman you would take to wife, my lord.”

“Indeed,” he said, his tone seductive. He meant to kiss her again. She could hear his intent in every word. “Who better?”

“One of the Biddington sisters.” She reminded herself as much as him as he stepped closer. She heard his step in the shale, and still she did not open her eyes to the truth, for then she must step away.

He laughed gently, his laughter lost on the wind. “I’ve no desire to kiss a Biddington, and every desire . . .” He stopped only inches away, and yet he did not try to touch her.

Her damp gown billowed out to wrap itself around his legs as it had in the water, now driven by the wind. She felt the tug and opened her eyes, dizzy with the scent of him, swaying. “It is unkind to tease.”

“My dear Deering, I have resolved never to do any woman an unkindness, most especially not to you. I would not tease, my dear. I have every intention of kissing you.”

He did just that, an infinitely gentle kiss, a single kiss, and then he pulled back, lingering just close enough that, resolution wavering, she must close the gap, bowing her forehead to rest upon his chest, hands clutching the crisp white linen of his shirt.

He laughed, and pulled her close, finger crooked beneath her chin. And then his fingers sent fresh shivers down her spine, plucking at the bow tied beneath her left breast, loosing the criss-cross of fabric that bound her wrap, the wind catching the fabric, lifting it like wings so that it wrapped them both. His arms slid beneath the wings, encircling her waist, cupping the softness of her breast through the softness of muslin. As his lips sought hers he murmured heatedly. “I am a man of wicked reputation, my dear.”