The Rusticated Duchess (29 page)

Her hands inflamed him further. They stroked over his chest, her palms deliberately rubbing his nipples even as Clare untied her chemise and pushed it down. His own hands locked about her breasts and cradled them, forcing her arms up.

She wove them through his hair instead, and he groaned, acquiescing to the pressure on his head. He watched his hand flex, almost mesmerised, as his vision adjusted to the dark room and her nipple protruded between his two knuckles. Then his lips met the sweet pink flesh.

Clare couldn’t decide if he liked the taste of her skin or the shudders that racked her more. The movement of her skin against his was intoxicating. He’d been hard from the moment his hands had begun to unbind her hair, but now that her body was beneath his and so very alive, he couldn’t help but let the passion drive him.

Clare slid down in the bed and caressed her other nipple, then crouched over her and drew up the chemise from the hem to uncover the cradle of her hips and thighs. He could remember why he had left the damn thing on her—the translucence of it in the candlelight had gifted him with a charming view. But in the darkness, where only the coals from the fire reached them, it was an imposition to loving her.

She moaned and shifted, and he shoved the fabric higher in front, then bent his head to the mound of golden curls he knew she kept carefully trimmed.

“Fuck,” he breathed, the glorious taste of her exploding on his tongue. Her arousal burned his tongue and spread out from her labia onto her thighs. He lapped at the sweet nectar, sucking it from the tender skin until she sobbed and cried.

“More, Clare,
please
,” she finally pleaded, and he obliged her, running his thumb through the creamy goodness, pushing it inside her channel and listening for her response.

She groaned, but the true glory of her answer was the helpless thrust of her body against that thumb, belying any reserve or hesitation. She wanted him, she wanted
this
. “Jeremy,” he reminded her softly. “Especially here, angel.” Clare withdrew his thumb and slid it downward, twisting it and pressing it against the tight hole between her bottom cheeks. Exposed and vulnerable by his shoulders between her thighs, Gloria had no choice but to allow the intimacy.

“Trust me,” he murmured, pushing his thumb forwards a bit farther. “Let it happen.”

She gasped, floundering a bit as she shook and stiffened, but his free hand held her in place and he kissed her labia, tempting her, distracting her.

The moment he pressed his thumb through, his tongue speared her sex and his nose brushed her clitoral hood. The stimulation sent her on a spiral into the orgasm.

Clare soaked in the contractions around his thumb and his tongue, revelling in her release. Still, he kept his thumb in place as she recovered, until she realised where his thumb rested and she squirmed nervously.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, shock in her voice.

He growled and flicked his tongue at her clitoris, then used his teeth to nibble on the folds. He wished he could see them, that he had left a lamp burning, but he drew his mouth back only far enough to offer roughly, “Preparing you.”

“For
what
?” she gasped, twisting, trying to dislodge him. He tightened his grip on her hip and dug his fingers into her bum, lodging his thumb even deeper inside her bottom.

Clare wasn’t capable of an extended conversation at the moment. Her skin was too succulent, too sweet, and his cock was already leaking pre-cum into the sheets at her knees. He might worship her body with his, but there was a limit to his ability to articulate under such circumstances and the days between their last indulgence and this one exacerbated his impatience. Words failed him.

Clare’s arousal rubbed almost painfully against her knee, but he eased out his thumb and pushed it back in, then again, and again.

The motion must have answered her question, because she shuddered violently and her hands flew to grip his head. “That’s impossible!” she gasped.

“You won’t get with child,” he ground out, lifting her thighs and sliding upward, so that their backs pressed against his chest, lifting her feet into the air. This was why he’d snuffed the candle, he remembered. The dark made it harder for her to be shocked by their position, by the notion of her feet arching into the air.

His cock throbbed as it prodded and grazed the silken skin of her derriere. Clare slid his thumb out, but he cupped her buttocks in his hand and held her up and open for him. Her hands were dislodged from his scalp and fluttered helplessly, seeking for a place to touch him.

He wanted her hands, but more than that, he wanted her to be as desperate as he was.

“Squeeze your breasts,” he muttered, dragging his swollen member through her folds, coating it. He thrust almost compulsively against her skin so he lined it up to the tight entrance at her rear, wishing he could see the emotions on her face and the lush pink and white beauty of her skin.

“Slide your hands down. Find that hungry little pearl,” he managed to direct her, knowing he sounded like the dictator he wasn’t, praying to any sympathetic deity that she understood his inability to be more generous with his words.

“Clare,” she gasped, but he felt her fingers press against her mons. His hips jerked with the notion she might actually follow his direction, and the head of his cock pressed against her anus and just barely inside.

“Jeremy!” The shocked breathlessness in her voice vanquished the last of his restraint.

He’d never be able to fuck her thoroughly tonight. He simply couldn’t wait long enough for her to adjust to his length and girth.

His pictured her fingers stroking her clitoris and felt her body responding, so he pressed an inch deeper, his body trembling from the sensation of the tight ring squeezing his penis.

“Christ, make yourself come, Glory,” he grunted, adjusting her bottom to a different angle. He slid inside another inch.

She moaned and he felt her muscles tightening. He knew she must be stimulating herself, could even feel her hand flagrantly pressing down. He pressed forwards, drew back, thrust again.

She cried out, her body shuddering and squeezing him tight.

Magic ripped up his spine and his eyes closed. He held tightly and let the moment take him.

Afterward, she stayed in the bed and he brought a wet cloth, wiping away any detritus from their play. “I can do that, in a minute,” she objected.

“I should have arranged a bath,” he fussed, removing the chemise, silently vowing she’d be perfectly bare the next time he loved her.

“Tomorrow. I shall have a long, hot bath tomorrow night,” she sighed, rolling away from the evidence of their coupling that stained the sheets. He’d lit candles on the table beside them, so he could see the pink curves of her ass as she curled away towards the edge of the bed.

“Where are you sleeping?” she asked, yawning.

“With you of course,” Clare answered, amused.

She was silent for a long while, as he wiped the sheets clean, disposed of the cloth and cleaned himself, then snuffed the candles again.

“I suppose you think it is normal, to share a bed at night,” she ventured.

“Yes,” he answered shortly. “And even if it wasn’t, I’d liefer you not be alone at night.”

He slid into the bed, pulling her against his shoulder as he’d done the night before. Tonight she was awake, though, and her fingers danced on his chest as she thought.

“I’ve never spent the whole night with a man, before last night,” she admitted.

Clare started with surprise but then stopped his tongue from saying anything foolish. She didn’t want to hear of any emotional attachment between them, and wasn’t willing to acknowledge the one that existed. Further reflection revealed that she wouldn’t have stayed with March any longer than she had been forced to. She would have resisted any aspect of intimacy with the man. The notion that she would only sleep with Clare pleased his baser instincts immensely.

The thoughts whirled in his brain, but he held her and listened to her breathing slow and deepen, and her head rest more heavily on his shoulder.

One more day, he thought, and they’d be at Norham. At Norham, where he could marry her and woo her to his heart’s content. It would take a long time, Clare knew, for her to forget March’s cruelty and selfishness. It would take longer for her to set aside the belief that she was nothing more than a pawn in men’s games and see Clare as her stalwart protector and defender.

Clare could wait, he reminded himself. He could wait for her heart, as long as he had her body and her loyalty. He’d had twelve years to practise waiting. He would be patient.

He had to be patient, because he would never give her up.

Chapter Nineteen

Bliss.

Even when Clare’s movements in the early pre-dawn woke her, Gloria felt the lassitude in her muscles, the calm in her soul. She was shocked. Shocked. Of course she was shocked, but that couldn’t derail the peace and warmth that coursed through her.

It wasn’t so much what he had done that had left her in this delicious state. It was what he hadn’t done.

Oh, he’d tumbled her. He’d made her head swim. He’d convinced her that there was one man in the world who deserved to share her bed.

But he hadn’t broken his promise. He’d obliged her one request—to not get her with child—and taken her to heaven at the same time. Twice. He’d taken her to heaven twice.

She didn’t believe for a second that he’d always be so honourable. Chivalrous? Men were designed to procreate, and she could hardly deny he’d have the right. But he’d made a promise and kept it, and on that small gesture she would believe he’d try to keep his word as often as possible.

Gloria laughed at herself. What value she put in that small gesture! The large gesture—the risks and expenses and personal discomfort of their unplanned journey, let alone the acquisition of a wife and child he’d not expected nor prepared to shelter—was probably the one she should appreciate. And she did appreciate it, she reminded herself. But whatever the reason, the orchestration of her escape from Ireland had not calmed her mind nearly as much as the night they’d spent together, locked in a bedchamber in Jedburgh, while he’d taught her a lovers’ secret.

It was hardly the high-brow, romantic, grandiose deed of which young girls dreamt.

In a daze, her mind spent the day circling through the same logic. The carriages rolled through Kelso and Coldstream. They’d had a cold lunch of pasties and strudels purchased in Kelso and driven on, stopping only to change horses and warm the drivers while the women hurried about.

With Colman again among them, Astrid had come inside the carriage, leaving no privacy with Clare, but he’d taken up a mount and was riding. She was able to spot him occasionally through the carriage window, but as the hours drew on, her curiosity about her surroundings also increased.

Clare had told her earlier they would leave the main road three miles past Coldstream and head east, staying north of the River Tweed until they reached the Ladykirk and Norham bridge. He saw no sense in crossing back to England, he said, if by some mad scheme Sykes had arrived at Norham Castle before them. The minister at Our Lady Kirk was well aware that he might be called upon to perform a marriage ceremony if the bridge were blocked or they were subject to attack. Colman had delivered a message to the Reverend, who had promised to make himself available, and Clare’s own men would be waiting at the last crossroads before the bridge to tell them if they needed to turn and make for the historic stone church that overlooked the River.

The coaches were heavy and slow on the country lane. They passed a cottage, then a farm, turned and turned again, passing fields and pastures hinting at a coming thaw. They lumbered on east, and Gloria’s shoulders began to tense. If attacked, there was no way the tired horses could flee with the carriages.

Clare had been right to accept the bishop’s guards, her mind whispered.

Hedges dotted the road now, and stands of trees broke the empty pastures into manageable spaces. Then shouting drifted to the carriage, and Gloria sat up.

Clare flew by on his horse, standing in the saddle, his arm up in greeting, and Gloria sank back in relief.

The carriages did not pause, but entered a tree-lined road that gently curved and sloped downward. The carriage halted. Gloria heard the clatter of hooves and horses and straightened, but Clare was throwing open the door and smiling at her.

“Angel, we’ll be home in twenty minutes. The first carriage is crossing the bridge now. Say hello to Captain Hammond and Lieutenant Wickers behind me,” he murmured.

Gloria smiled, her face slipping into the impassive mask she maintained with strangers. It felt almost abnormal to feel it smooth over her face, but her posture improved and her eyes widened. Clare was slipping inside the carriage to take the seat beside her and Astrid, silent in the corner, was staring at the redcoat border guards in avid fascination.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she spoke. She offered them no charm or familiarity but utter self-possession, suddenly conscious that these strangers might one day grace her ballroom or think to dance attendance on the females of her household. There would be no encouragement for them to imagine they might prey on her, as well. Once again, Clare had been correct in suggesting that they should marry first, if only to avoid these moments which might have come undone with so very little warning.

The people of Ladykirk and Norham would only have one real first impression of Gloria.

“I trust this border crossing is a quiet one,” she added.

Despite her reserve, Captain Hammond looked her over carefully. Too carefully. Gloria opened her eyes wide and met his gaze without a blink, while next to her Clare stiffened.

“Very few problems, milady,” the lieutenant confirmed, already backing out of the doorway. The captain followed, more because good manners forced him to. Gloria had the distinct feeling he’d have preferred to climb in the coach with them.

“A pleasure to meet you, miss,” the captain agreed before disappearing from sight. Gloria waited until the door slammed before letting the distasteful feeling show on her lips, even as Clare growled.