Lorraine Heath - [Lost Lords of Pembrook 03] (28 page)

He felt her fingers, trembling, touch his hand, wrap around it, squeeze. “I’m glad,” she rasped.

He jerked his head around then to look at her. Tears were in her eyes, tears that he’d wanted to shed that night, tears he’d wanted to shed when the boy had died in the tunnel with him, but he’d feared that if he gave them their freedom they’d never stop, that they would confirm that he was weak, that they would serve as further evidence that his brothers had been right to leave him behind.

“I’m glad,” she repeated. “I’m glad you killed him. He was the worst sort, to hurt a child.”

“You don’t understand, not completely. All I saw was red. I don’t remember doing what I did, but I know I did it because no one else was about. He was holding me, and I was suffocating again, and I did what I had to do in order to get him away from me.”

“And you’ve been afraid of letting anyone hold you ever since?”

“Because I know what I’m capable of. If I lose control—”

“You won’t with me.”

“Eve—”

“You won’t with me,” she repeated with conviction. “You won’t with me.”

He should tell her the remainder of it, but she gave him hope, and it had been so terribly long since he’d embraced true hope. Perhaps with her it
would
be different. He felt something when he was with her, something he’d never felt with another, as though he’d found a part of himself that had been missing, as though all that he could be was possible.

Very, very slowly, she moved her hand toward his bare chest.

His mind shouted
, “No! No! No!”

But his body was separate from it, holding still, waiting, waiting. She held his gaze, challenging him to trust her while at the same time issuing promises that she wouldn’t hurt him. He wasn’t afraid of pain. He’d suffered through enough to know that when it ended, he’d remain. What she didn’t know was that she had the power to destroy him.

She meant something to him. He wasn’t exactly sure what, but he knew she mattered. That’s why he had been devastated that she’d seen his madman’s cell. That’s why he refused her touch. He could hurt her and when he did, she would leave. She was strong enough that she would survive without him. He didn’t want to survive without her.

Terrifying thoughts that sent a shiver through him just before her hand came to rest above his pounding heart. He could feel the pad of each finger, the warmth of her palm. If he were a kinder man, a gentler man, he might have wept. He had yearned for so very long to be touched, stroked, held.

His baser instincts allowed him to bed her, but beyond that he dared not risk hurting her.

So slowly that he was barely aware of the movement, she glided her hand up his chest, over his shoulder, down his arm.

“Tell me if the pressure is unsettling,” she whispered in a low voice, similar to the one he used when calming his horse.

Unsettling it should have been. He should have tossed her back by now. That’s what had happened the first time he’d been with a woman. She had held him, and he had shoved her off. He hadn’t hit her as he had the man in the alley, but he’d been trembling as though someone had thrown him into an icy river. She had told him he belonged in Bedlam. He’d been sixteen and he’d believed her. He’d not let a woman hold him since.

Eve’s other hand came to rest on his chest and she took it on a similar journey as the first, along the other side. Wherever she touched, he felt as though he was being set ablaze, but not with fire. With passion. It felt so good, so good.

Touch all of me. All of me.

Her hands traveled back up his arms, over his shoulders, down his chest. “I don’t think I’d ever get enough of this.”

Leaning in, she pressed her mouth to the center of his chest. It was his undoing.

“Eve.” The guttural sound was that of a man dying, and he was. He plowed his fingers through her hair, tilted up her face, and took her mouth as though he owned it, as though he were the only one who would ever experience the taste of her. It drove him mad to think of anyone else ever knowing her as he had.

Her hands traveled along his neck, up into his hair, over his scalp, and back down. Always open, always nonthreatening, never closing around him. Long smooth strokes. No holding, no squeezing, no restraining.

Liberating. How had he ever survived without this? How had he ever thought it was enough to touch her, and not let her stroke him?

Her hands glided over his back, over his buttocks. He growled low, as he began gathering up the hem of her nightdress. She broke off the kiss, unbuttoned the garment, shrugged out of it. It shimmered along her body and pooled on the floor. She stepped over it and came in close, pressing her body against his, her breasts flattened against his chest. He groaned, while she released a throaty sigh.

“Yes,” she breathed. “I’ve wanted this so badly.”

He circled his arms around her. It had never occurred to him that he was denying her pleasures, that she would
want
to touch him, caress him. He thought if she didn’t know what was lacking in their coupling, she wouldn’t miss it. He held her, just held her, while she held him.

Marveled at the wonder of it. So much skin against skin. Silk to satin. Velvety warmth. If not for the wound in his side, he would have picked her up and carried her to the bed. Instead, he took her hand and led her to it.

She lay on her back and he covered her.

Not like before, raised on his arms, allowing himself to touch her only for what was required for the act to reach completion. With a sultry smile, she tiptoed her fingers along his back and over his shoulders. Skin on skin, more than he’d ever experienced. It was intoxicating, addicting. With her, he experienced no sense of suffocating.

“Press harder,” he commanded.

She did, and he felt the indentations along his skin where her fingers traveled. He arched his back, curled it forward. It wasn’t enough. It wouldn’t be enough until he was buried inside her, until her velvety heat was surrounding him. He’d probably rip his stitches, but he didn’t care. He was lost in the sensations she created, lost in her. The blue of her eyes, the blond of her hair, her bodily fragrance mingled with rose perfume.

A wicked gleam came into her eyes and she lifted her head slightly, pressing her lips to his throat. Hot moisture dewed along his skin. “Ah, Evie.”

She pushed on his shoulder, nudged him. “Off,” she ordered.

He rose up. “Am I’m too heavy?”

“No.” She smiled. “I want you on your back.”

Then she was raining kisses over him as though he were covered in confection that she needed to gobble up. His hand became tangled in her hair. He was desperate for the connection, to be touching her as her tongue swirled along skin that had never known the caress of a woman. Had she required the connection as well? Had what they shared been less because he had denied her this?

Before now, he had never felt adored, worshipped . . . worthy. He had kept so much of himself frozen, behind stone walls, impenetrable. With each stroke of her tongue, each sweep of her hand, she was loosening the stones, she was warming the frigid center of his being.

And it hurt. God help him, it hurt to know that he had gone so long without this. That he had denied himself ultimate pleasure. Lower she went, lower and lower, her hair spread out over his chest like gossamer. So faint as to barely be there, but for a man who had not known another’s caress in years, it might as well be a woolen blanket, he was so aware of it.

His senses were coming alive as they never had before. Pleasure began rippling through him. It didn’t matter where she touched, it was everywhere.

Lower still, she went.

“Evie,” he rasped.

She lifted her sweet face and gave him the softest of smiles, and yet in her eyes he saw the determination. He wouldn’t deter her from her goal. “I’ve wondered what you taste like.”

Then she bent her head and wrapped her velvet mouth around him, and he nearly wept from the pleasure of it. His hand tightened its hold on her hair while his other hand fisted in the sheets. He groaned low, a beast being set free.

All this time, he’d thought he was acquiring pleasure, but it was nothing like this. To be receiving so grand a gift. He’d always thought it was enough to simply give. But now he understood that the taking was also a form of giving. She may have been innocent in her ministrations, perhaps even unskilled, but having never known anything else, he was convinced that her enthusiasm was more than he would ever find elsewhere. She spoiled him with her endeavors. She brought him more acceptance than he’d ever known.

He wanted her more than it was wise to want, but he had ceased to care about wisdom. He was like a man addicted to games of chance. Life was filled with more disappointments than successes, more bad cards than good, but when fate smiled, nothing else mattered but that one moment of victory.

He felt vulnerable, exposed, but it heightened the adventure, the moments with her.

“Evie.” He urged her up and onto her back. Kissing her, he thought he tasted himself on her tongue. He was humbled by how much she wanted to do for him, how much she desired him. Deepening the kiss, he wedged himself between her thighs, surprised to find her so moist, so ready.

Rising up, he plunged into her and then sank down until his chest flattened her breasts. Her arms came around to rest lightly on his back. He should have been sweating by now, trembling, feeling the familiar tightness in his chest, but all he felt was her. He began rocking against her. Her legs came up, pressed against his hips. He should have objected, but it felt so marvelous to be enclosed within the cocoon of her warmth.

He quickened his pace. Never before had the pleasure been so intense. Never before had it encompassed all of him. She was riding the crest with him, her cries echoing around him, her body spasming beneath his. He could feel her muscles undulating. Never before had he been so close to someone physically. He thought a shadow could not slip between them.

As she arched against him, her arms tightened around him, and the force of his release ripped through him. If he wasn’t lying on the bed, it would have dropped him to his knees.

Resting on his elbows to keep from crushing her, he turned his head and pressed a kiss to the underside of her ear.

“I knew it could be like this,” she whispered softly.

Her words stung his pride. “Did you not enjoy it before?” She’d certainly given the impression that she was quite pleased with his performance.

“It’s always lovely. You make it so. But it’s also lonely, as though we’re each drawing pleasure in our own little worlds. This time it was as though we shared the same world. I liked being able to touch you, to feel your muscles bunching and straining with your efforts. I liked thinking that perhaps you found some joy in my touch.”

“Joy? Evie, you damned near killed me.”

He felt her jerk beneath him and lifted himself back up so he could look into her eyes. “That’s a good thing. It’s never—” Dear God, he couldn’t believe he was actually talking about this. The next thing he knew, he’d start wearing skirts. He combed her hair behind her ear. “It’s never been as fulfilling for me. I found it lonely as well.”

He wished he hadn’t admitted that, but he seemed unable to keep from telling her anything.

“Your wound?”

“The stitches held.” Although how they had managed to do that under the circumstances, he hadn’t a clue. He rolled off her and onto his back—and damned if he didn’t miss the nearness of her.

She snuggled against his side and placed her hand on his chest. “I won’t hold you, but feel free to hold me.”

He brought his arm down and around her. He held her there. Eventually, he heard her soft snoring and stared at the canopy. There was a tightness in his chest. He feared it was the stone wall around his heart crumbling.

Without it, how the hell would he protect himself?

Chapter 19

T
he yacht sliced through the water, with Eve of all people at the helm. Some scrawny lad stood slightly behind her and guided her. Her smile was so bright as to be blinding. Her laughter was carried by the breeze, and sitting at the end of the boat, Rafe fought not to growl. He also fought to keep his stomach from heaving.

While they had missed the planned christening of the yacht, he had sent word to Tristan that the next time he took it out, Eve would like to join them. He had thought it would be weeks before he was forced to go sailing, but Tristan had promptly shown up at his club with a devilish smile. “Tomorrow. I’m not going to give you a chance to change your mind.”

So here he was, impressed with the beautiful woodwork and craftsmanship. Tristan had taken them on a tour when they’d first arrived. Below deck, he had shown them a library, a sitting room, three bedchambers, and Rafe had known that one was for him, that Tristan had designed the yacht hoping that all three brothers would take a long sojourn together. The thing was large enough that a man would be comfortable sailing the world in it.

Tristan sat on the bench beside him, placed his elbows on the railing, and stretched out his legs. “If you harm Mouse, you will have to deal with me.”

“Thought you introduced him as Martin.” He didn’t see any point in pretending he wasn’t contemplating taking his fist to the lad.

Tristan shrugged. “While he served under me on my ship, he was Mouse. Hard habit to break. He’s only become Martin as he’s become interested in the fairer sex. He thinks it’s a disadvantage to be named after a creature that makes women scream and leap onto furniture. Suppose he has a point there. But he’s a good lad, which is why I don’t want to see him hurt. He’s enjoying Eve’s company, but he won’t pursue her, so you’ve no worries there.”

“I’m not worried.”

“Ah, you just glower for the hell of it then.”

Rafe scowled. Tristan could irritate the devil out of him in short order.

“How’s your stomach holding up?” Tristan asked. “You seemed a bit green when we started out.”

“Nothing wrong with my stomach.”

“I spent the first six weeks hanging over the side of the ship.”

“Why didn’t you get off?”

“Have you not studied your globes adequately? When you’re on the water, land isn’t always within easy reach. So you suffer in silence, and hope you survive until you see land again. Eventually you get used to the roiling, but when you’re onshore, you find it odd not to have the constant movement beneath you.”

“Do you miss being out on the sea?”

Tristan smiled at his wife, who was standing near Mary. “Not really. The choice was the sea or Anne, which meant there was really no choice at all. I like Evelyn.”

Rafe scoffed. “As though I care what you like.”

Looking over at him, Tristan grinned. “Come on, Rafe. You know you care. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

Before Rafe could come up with an appropriate comeback, Sebastian wandered over and leaned his hip against the railing. “Much nicer vessel than the one I took to the Crimea.”

“Or back to England,” Tristan added.

Rafe had given little thought to how his brother had traveled to war.

“I barely remember the journey back. Sick most of the time.”

“You were recovering from your wounds,” Tristan reminded him.

“I suppose.” He looked at Rafe. “You have to admit it’s rather fine out here. Better than London anyway.”

“You don’t like London?”

“Despise it. I’d remain at Pembrook if Mary didn’t insist otherwise.”

“Plus there’s the little matter of the House of Lords,” Tristan muttered. “Don’t know why Uncle wanted that responsibility.”

Sebastian sighed. “Hard to believe it’s been fifteen years since he tried to do us in.”

“Fifteen?”

Rafe was surprised to see Eve standing there, her expression one of absolute astonishment.

“Since you all became . . . lost?” she added.

“Since we first left Pembrook, yes,” Sebastian confirmed. “Fifteen. Give or take a few months. It was winter.”

She shifted her gaze over to Rafe. “You told me you were ten.”

He shrugged. “I was.”

“You’re only twenty-five?”

“How old did you think I was?”

“A good deal older than that.”

He felt older than that. Sometimes he felt as though he were a thousand, weighted down with years.

“It is difficult to believe how truly young we all are,” Sebastian said.

“Age is measured by how the years are lived, not by the time in which they pass,” Tristan mused.

“Ah, is my husband spouting philosophy again?” Lady Anne asked as she sat down beside him. His arm immediately went around her shoulder, bringing her in close.

“You like my philosophies.”

She smiled softly. “Indeed I do. They are part of the reason that I love you.”

Rafe felt as though his clothes were beginning to restrict his breathing, even though all he wore was a shirt and britches. Tristan had insisted they dispense with proper attire when on board. Maybe it was that the bench had suddenly become so crowded. Rafe shot off it, nearly lost his balance, regained it, and covered the short distance to stand by Eve.

Mary joined Sebastian, and he held her near.

Rafe suddenly felt self-conscious not placing his arm around Eve, but she wasn’t his wife or the love of his life. He didn’t want her to misinterpret her place. “You seemed to like steering the ship.”

“Martin did most of the steering,” she said, and he heard no laughter brimming in her voice, when only moments before she’d been overflowing with the joyous sound.

How could that scrap of lad bring her such joy with so little effort?

“Land-ho!” the boy yelled.

“Thought we’d picnic on an island,” Tristan said, getting to his feet.

“Which island?” Eve asked. “I see several.”

“As you’re our guest, you get to pick.”

Eve was smiling so brightly that Rafe wished the gift of the choice had come from him.

T
he blankets were spread out with each couple having their own upon which to sit, and wicker baskets filled to the brim with food and bottles of wine. The couples were all near enough to each other that they could carry on a conversation if they wanted, but it seemed most were wont to murmur among themselves.

At least the other two couples were murmuring. Evelyn and Rafe seemed to have fallen into an awkward silence. She enjoyed the company of the others, but being in their presence reminded her of what she wasn’t: loved.

Married.

With the prospect of children.

She was grateful that they didn’t shun her, make her feel less, but a small part of her wished she’d stayed on the yacht with Martin.

“You’re quiet,” Rafe said, his voice low, as though he had no more desire to disturb the other couples than she. He was stretched out on his side, wineglass in hand. “You were laughing earlier with that Martin fellow.”

She smiled in remembrance. “He was sharing some of his adventures with me.” Stammering while he did it until he came to realize how much she was enjoying the tales. Then he had begun to relax. A shy lad, but she suspected he’d win over many a heart. “I can’t imagine seeing as much of the world as he’s seen.”

“Yet you’re sad now. Is it because you must stay in London?”

It was because she was a mistress and not a wife, but now wasn’t the time to get into a discussion on that matter. “I was surprised you’re so young.”

“That’s the reason behind your melancholy?”

She wanted to reach out and press flat the furrows between his brows, but they’d not touched since they boarded the
Princess
. The lack of bonding signified a difference between the couples, and as much as she wished it didn’t, it caused an ache in her chest.

Perhaps if she’d known what Geoffrey had planned for her, if she’d had some forewarning, she might have found another way. In the past few weeks she’d lost all her innocence, felt as though she’d aged beyond her years. At the time her decision had seemed the only way to go. She’d been frightened, disoriented, taken unawares by the path that Geoffrey had flung her on. Her father had done her no great service with his shielding of her. With Rafe, she’d become stronger, more confident.

Now, she knew not only what she wanted, but what she deserved.

“Life forced you to grow up very quickly. Early on, you learned what you wanted and what you didn’t. You didn’t let people take advantage of you. I can’t say I’ve done the same.”

For a moment there she thought he might have ceased to breathe. “You think I took advantage?”

Dear God help her, but she believed he had, that he was the sort of man who would. Was he really the sort of man worthy of her love? “I believe I’m going to take a walk.”

“I don’t wish to walk.”

“That works out perfectly then, as I prefer to go alone.” He didn’t try to stop her, for which she was immensely grateful, as she pushed herself to her feet and walked to the edge of the beach where the water lapped at the shore. She had removed her shoes earlier so they wouldn’t become filled with sand, and now she waded out until the water swirled about her ankles. She didn’t care if her hem got wet. It would dry.

She understood Rafe, knew much of what had shaped him, what had caused him to build a wall around his heart. She was slowly chipping away at it, but even if she did find it, he was a lord and she was the illegitimate daughter of an earl. She was a fallen woman, a mistress.

“It’s lovely out here, isn’t it?” Lady Anne asked.

Evelyn turned and smiled at her. “It’s peaceful.”

“The breeze sounds different here; the water has its own song. Tristan and I often picnic on various islands. He needs the sea.”

“But he gave it up for you.”

Lady Anne laughed lightly. “I was going to give up the land for him. In the end, I think we compromised. Neither of us feels as though we gave up anything at all.”

“You’ve been very kind to me.”

“It’s not easy to love any of these Pembrook lords. They’ve all led harsh lives. They all became misguided as to what should be held dear. Keswick, as I understand it, thought that only Pembrook was significant. For Tristan, the sea was his mistress and she was the only thing of importance. I don’t know Rafe well enough to know what he believes matters.”

He believed that nothing mattered. Or at least it was important to him that nothing—no one—mattered.

I
t was nightfall by the time they returned to their residence.

Evelyn wasn’t surprised that they immediately retired to her room, and that Rafe had discarded his jacket, waistcoat, and shirt within minutes. It had been a week since she’d discovered his aversion to clothing, a week during which time his side had begun to heal nicely.

She was a bit slower at loosening her buttons. She was more interested in studying the man she thought she was coming to know. She’d thought he was well past the age of thirty. Instead he was merely three years older than she.

She’d known he’d had a difficult life, but it had never occurred to her how hard he would have had to have worked to acquire everything he now possessed in such a short span of time.

“Would you rather be with him?” Rafe asked gruffly.

She was taken aback by the question. “With whom?”

“The lad. Martin. Mouse. Whatever the deuce his name is. Were you thinking of him when you went to the water’s edge?”

“I was thinking of you,” she admitted.

That brought him up short.

“I was thinking of us. We’re very different from the other couples.”

Leaning forward, he planted his elbows on his thighs, narrowed his eyes on some point on the far wall, the window maybe. “I never lied to you. I was always honest about what would exist between us.”

“But we’ve shared so much, I began to convince myself that things might change. I saw potential for what might be. I dared to want what I never thought to hold.”

He shifted his gaze over to her.

“I still dream of being a wife.”
Of being your wife.
She wasn’t certain when she’d begun to entertain that thought. She held his gaze for a moment, trying to read something there, to see if he was appalled by the notion or perhaps receptive to it, but his emotions were shuttered. The night he’d been wounded he’d lowered the wall, but during the nights that followed he’d put it carefully back into place. Although he continued to allow her to touch him, and he held her while she slept, still something was missing, the loneliness hadn’t dissipated completely. He never told her that he loved her—or that he even liked her for that matter. She didn’t know quite how to broach the subject. “Your brothers and their wives have been very kind to me, but it’s only because they don’t wish to create more distance between you. I’m still a scandalous woman. I doubt they’d welcome me into their home if you weren’t about.”

“They know a bit about scandal. They had their own.”

“But it’s forgiven when love is involved. Then it becomes romantic, the stuff of books, something to be sighed over by young girls who don’t yet realize that not all scandal ends well.”