Frovtunes’ Kiss (30 page)

Would prevent his child from growing inside her.

Then, no, as fond of her as she believed him to be, he could not possibly feel for her even a fraction of what she felt for him. He spoke of obligation, of honor. Hadn't she, last night, abandoned, or at least set aside, her honor for love of him? Even now she didn't regret it. Would do it again…

Graham gently broke their kiss, and she smiled, a gesture formed to fool him into believing she could live with the bargain she had instigated. That she could simply enjoy him for the rest of their time together and not die a little inside at the thought of his leaving.

For now, then, she would sit beside him, laugh, and not flinch each time the carriage conspired to shrink the space between them; grin rather than swat him whenever he schemed to cup her knee, stroke her hand, catch her in a quick embrace.

As his arms tightened around her and drew her to his chest, he needed no excuses for what she readily allowed. Eagerly anticipated. For now, she would be his, and he hers.

She sighed and felt her eyes grow heavy. They'd neither of them slept much last night. With the rocking of the coach, the solid pillow of Graham's chest against her cheek, and his strong arms holding her secure, it was all too easy to drift off, to find haven in a dream.

A noise, a rustling from the floor of the carriage, woke her sometime later. She sat up groggily and pushed a lock of hair from her eyes.

Graham's palm settled against her cheek. “Morning, sleepyhead.”

“It certainly can't be morning anymore,” she said on a yawn. “How long did I sleep?”

“Who knows? I was enjoying the feel of you in my arms too much to notice the passing time.”

His husky tone fanned a little flame to life, one that burned hotter when he added, “Did you know that when you sleep, your breathing deepens until your bosom rises against your bodice in the most delightful way?”

His hands were already there, on her breasts, raising them within the bodice of her carriage dress. He pressed his face to her bosom, kissing, his breath hot through the fabric. Desire coiled. He lifted his head to regard her, beyond doubt witnessing the passion clouding her eyes. His own gleamed beneath lust-weighted lids.

Another rustling reminded her they weren't alone. “We have an audience, or have you forgotten?” She hoisted the crate that held Isis and set it on the seat beside her. Unhinging the top, she reached inside.

A moment later the spider sat nestled in a fold of her skirts. She stroked the arachnid's furry back with her pinky. “Comfy, dear?”

“You two are becoming fast friends.” Graham smoothed his hand along Moira's thigh, stopping just short of Isis's broadcloth lair. He wiggled his forefinger back and forth, letting the spider catch his scent while sending a tremor through Moira's leg.

“I have grown rather fond of her,” she admitted. “She's not nearly as fearsome as she likes to pretend. The poor dear is simply misunderstood.”

Laughter rumbled in his chest. “I know the feeling.”

“As do I. After all, you and your family mistook me for a fortune hunter at first.”

He angled his face close enough to kiss her, or nearly so. “And you, my dear Miss Hughes, pegged me for a scoundrel.”

“Was I wrong, sir?”

“Not in the least.” He nudged her chin and made contact with his lips, teaching hers entirely new and exciting ways to open, soften, oh, melt. His hands resumed their thorough and unabashed exploration of breasts straining against their fabric prison.

For that was how clothing had begun to feel. Having experienced the unhindered touch of Graham against her, she found herself yearning for all of him, here, in the inappropriate interior of a moving coach.

Ah, but she, too, stole a privilege. Sliding her fingers beneath his cravat, she opened his collar, then the topmost buttons of his shirt. His approval vibrated beneath her fingertips. Somehow the buttons on her carriage jacket came undone, and the hooks securing the back of her dress gave way.

Ah, yes, they would enjoy each other…for now.

A devilish notion struck her. Last night she'd soared headlong into delirious pleasure at the sensation of Graham's callused hands against her breasts. She wondered…despite the hardness of a man's chest, did his nipples respond to the touch as a woman's did? Were his connected by taut cords to places so deep and sensitive the soul shivered with each caress?

To put it to the test, she searched out the spot that proved nearly as velvety as her own. She circled it with her fingertip, then captured the flesh between thumb and forefinger, as he had done to her.

He winced, sucked air, caught her wrist. She knew an instant's mortification. What
had
she been thinking? Then he relaxed. With a grin he released her.

“I'm sorry. I—I didn't mean to hurt you.”

“You didn't, you minx. Just surprised the hell out of me.” After scooping Isis back into her crate, he slid lower beside her, his expression somewhere between that of a mischievous boy and an insatiable lover. He nuzzled her neck, suckled her earlobe, raising shivers across her nape. “Moira, Moira. Go on, darling, take another liberty. Take several.”

She did. And so did he. Hands slid beneath clothing, hers, his. Her skirts inched upward, smoothed by his broad palms along her stockings, then bare thighs. Higher, until the breeze from the windows added its cool kiss to Graham's heated ones. Her own hands traveled wayward paths to forbidden places, wrapping firm, feeling the pulse of his lust hot within her grasp.

Sunlight streamed through the windows while farms and villages rushed by. While Graham's hands worked their magic, a tide swelled and surged inside her, consuming her wholly until there was only rapture and the fracturing of her very self.

His mouth absorbed the soft cries that dissipated into whimpers of depletion and contentment. As awareness returned, she heard a grind in his throat, the rumbling murmur of a lust still gathering, mounting. With a little start, she realized he was still in her grasp, had been all along, her grip opening and closing in counter rhythm to her own rising ecstasy.

She set about pleasing him. His groans and the sway of his body taught her a new cadence, fiercer than she might have dared without his tutelage. His hand burrowed in her hair, holding her fast. With the other he guided her, until suddenly his limbs went rock solid against her, and he thrust forward with a raw, gusting breath.

Long, languid minutes followed. The vibrations of the coach and their shallow breathing filled the silence—a companionable, contented silence. Then they disentangled, sat up, helped each other secure buttons and hooks. Conspiratorial smiles winked in and out of sunlight and passing shadows.

“Just you wait till I have you back in London.” He gave her shoulder a little bite. “If you think having Letty and my mother in the house will ensure your safety, you're gravely mistaken.”

At the mention of London, a portion of her bliss dissolved. “Will you do something for me when we arrive?”

“Anything, my darling.” He traced fluttering kisses down the side of her neck.

She shuddered as pleasure once more shimmied through her. Then, “When we reach London and the coach has been unloaded, will you take me to find Michael Oliphant?”

He stilled for an instant, then spoke into the sensitive underside of her jaw. “I'm going alone. It might be dangerous. I won't have you in harm's way.”

“But we've plenty of daylight left.” She snuggled her chin in his hair. “What harm can come from standing on someone's doorsill in the light of day? Besides, Michael Oliphant might not be dangerous in the least. Perhaps we've misunderstood the situation, as we once misunderstood each other.”

“Do you believe that?”

She released a breath. “No, I'm merely trying to convince you to let me come along. I've a great many questions for this Mr. Oliphant, and I've a right to hear the answers firsthand. Please promise me we'll go together.”

“I suppose I can't deny you that much.” He pushed up taller, meeting her gaze with as stern a one as she'd ever seen on his handsome features. “If Inspector Parker is available to accompany us, I'll agree to take you along.”

She wrapped her arms around him and tried to hide a self-satisfied smile. “Thank you.”

Fair weather saw them back in London in a matter of hours. As the city's towering walls cast shadows across the coach, a sense of sadness, of having lost something only recently gained, took hold of Moira. Even before she'd quite defined the sensation, she found herself sitting up taller and setting her dress and bonnet to rights.

It was the city itself. The crowds. The dictates of civilization. Here they could not sit with their arms around each other. They could not openly kiss. Could not enjoy each other as they had a mere few miles down the road. What felt familiar and natural in the country would be gasped at here among polite society, and, for Moira at least, respectability would be forever lost.

And so she slid a few inches along the bench seat, reestablishing distance and thus a modicum of propriety between them. Graham seemed to understand. He opened his arms as she eased away, though the instant she finished fussing with her clothing, his hand found hers and clasped it, simply held it for the remainder of the journey.

Mr. Paddington must have spied them coming down Brook Street, for when they arrived in the coach yard, there he stood, a little breathless, waiting for them.

“I know where your brother is,” he blurted without prelude or a how-do-you-do. “And it isn't good. In fact, it's damned bloody bad.” As he handed Moira down from the carriage, his gaze turned sheepish. “Forgive my language, Miss Hughes.”

“Quite all right, Mr. Paddington.”

Graham hefted Isis's crate and stepped down to the paving stones. “Where's my prodigal brother got to now?”

“Only found out a short time ago, you understand, or I'd already have gone to collect him. I put out some feelers while you were away and got a reply from an old friend, the Viscount Weston. Seems his mistress's brother knows Freddy and happened upon him last night. They parted ways before night's end, mind you, but—”

“For heaven's sake, Shaun, where is he?”

“In a pub in Wellclose Square. Near the Royalty Theater. Not far from the Tower.”

“Stinking drunk, I presume?”

Mr. Paddington shook his head. “Worse. The place is in a cellar, known for serving tiny glasses of Turkish Raki, which will knock even the most stouthearted bloke flat on his hairy…” He pursed his lips. “Sorry, Miss Hughes.”

“Yes, quite all right, Mr. Paddington.”

“At any rate, the place is infamous for Raki and women of coarse nature and…well…”

“And what?” Graham and Moira asked together.

“Opium.”

Graham lurched forward. “My brother's in an opium den?”

“Is that very bad?” Moira asked, being thoroughly ignorant of the subject. She knew such dens existed, had once overheard Nigel and several of his friends daring each other in whispers to sample the pleasures of just such a place.

Graham cast her a fierce glance. “In Cairo, I watched it destroy far heartier men than my brother.”

“Sorry, old man.” Mr. Paddington clapped a hand to Graham's shoulder, then jerked away with a little gasp as he finally noticed Isis's crate.

“I've got to get him out of there. Moira, I know I made a promise to you, but—”

“My errand to find Michael Oliphant has suddenly lost much of its urgency,” she said. “Go find your brother.”

“Thank you.” He offered a sad but grateful smile. “I won't be long, and then you and I shall find this Oliphant fellow.”

“I am in no doubt.” She pressed her hand to his cheek, wishing she could take all of him into her arms. “Go. And take Letty with you.”

“Letty?” He grimaced. “You'd have me take my sister to an opium den? Do you have any idea what those places are like?”

“Of course, I don't, but if it's very dreadful, let her wait in the carriage. Bring an armed footman if you must.”

He exchanged a perplexed frown with Mr. Paddington. “Mind telling me why I should bring my sheltered little sister to scrape our debauched brother up off the floor?”

“Because Freddy will know you've both come for him. He'll see that you both care very much what happens to him, and he'll know he's part of a family. I think Freddy needs that more than anything just now, although he may not realize it.”

“Ah, Moira.” Too quickly to allow Mr. Paddington a chance to demur, Graham passed Isis's crate into his friend's hands.

She couldn't help but notice the sheer horror with which Mr. Paddington greeted his burden, nor the speed with which he transferred the crate to one of the footmen unloading the carriage.

Graham's hands cradled her face, and her surroundings faded into the intensity of his eyes and the slant of a smile bracketed by those fascinating dimples. “You're really quite wonderful, you know.” Despite their audience, he brushed a kiss across her lips. “I'll make it up to you, I swear. We'll find Michael Oliphant as soon as I've returned.”