True Story (The Deverells, Book One) (39 page)

She ran her fingers through his hair,
her legs wrapped around him, showing her own urgency.

"True," she moaned softly, "don't hold
back."

Oh, he wouldn't, and he
didn't.

If she thought she wanted all of it,
then it was hers. He filled her, buried himself deeply in that
tight warmth, and she keened under him, her glorious hair spread
across his pillow like the thickest, richest, most extravagant
blanket he could buy.

Except he could not buy it. She'd made
that clear.

According to what his wife had told
him about her past, he was taking a heavy risk with this woman. But
he didn't care. He was a gambler. Besides, what could she do to
him?

* * * *

This was like nothing she'd ever
known, or even imagined. His heat surrounded her, consumed her like
a wildfire through dry forest.

She rolled him over and sat astride,
feeling bold and greedy.

It was her turn to grab
his wrists and hold them over his head. The muscles flexed, tendons
tightened— a look of surprise passed over his face— but he did not
resist for long. Then
she
kissed
him
, eating at his mouth as if it
was her last meal. He had teased her once that he was in danger of
letting her take charge of him.

Tonight that would come
true.

"Where is your razor?" she whispered
directly into his ear.

"My what?" He stiffened.

Olivia stifled a chuckle. "Don't
worry, I'm not going to cut anything off. Unless you displease
me."

He told her it was on the
washstand.

"Stay there," she commanded. "Don't
move."

To her astonishment he
obeyed.

She fetched the razor and cut her hair
ribbon into two parts, which she used to bind his wrists to the
bedposts.

"Olivia? My sweet, is this
necessary?"

Her reply was an unequivocal "Yes."
She'd had plenty of time to think about it.

Now she kissed his brows, his eyelids,
the tip of his nose, his chin. She kissed every part of him — even
those she'd never yet had the chance to thoroughly explore on a
man—until his breathing grew shallow and he bucked his hips at her.
Then she lay over him and tickled his nipples with her tongue,
listening to the low groan rumble through his chest, like the purr
of a very large, very hungry cat.

"Olivia!"

But she continued her wicked feast,
taking delight in her position of power and in this opportunity of
discovery. She heard the ribbons stretching as he fought his
bindings, heard the threads popping. She could not keep him her
prisoner for long; indeed, she was shocked he let her get away with
it as long as he did, for she knew it wouldn't take much effort on
his part to sever those ribbons.

Finally she sat astride him again,
teasing him with her body, exploring herself while he watched, and
learning as much about her own capabilities as she did about her
lover.

Her lover.

The word excited her further still.
She trembled, blood rushing through her veins in a tumult of
pleasure

His eyes glimmered up at her, the
silver half hidden beneath black lashes as he tried to resist the
temptation of all that she offered. This feeling of power, she
suspected, could become addictive.

Her heart beating hard and fast, she
held out her hand for his tongue and he almost bit her fingers off.
He strained forward, growling, his muscles taut.

"I must touch you."

When she released his wrists, his
hands went immediately to her waist. His manhood penetrated again
with one thrust and then he gripped her thighs, squeezing
hard.

"If you want me to keep that second
rule, Olivia," he managed breathlessly, "don't chance your
luck."

She tipped her head back, letting her
hair fall over them both. That, it seemed, was the final straw. He
roughly grasped hold of her bottom, desperately urging her to slow
down, but she rode him rapidly to that first fence and with only
seconds to spare she stayed in her saddle.

Suddenly he held her waist
and his eyes smoldered smokily up at her. "You
do
gamble, Olivia. You
fibbed."

In that moment his fingertips pressed
into her skin, seemingly to prevent her from rising, but then he
relented and Olivia escaped her wild ride— and potential unwed
motherhood— in the same blink of an eye.

* * * *

Holding her close, he reveled in the
sweet scent of her hair and ran his fingers down her spine, his
senses sharply attuned to hers. Feeling every breath as she took
it. Never before had he lain like this with a woman. Not like
this.

For the first time in his life he had
trusted another human being, putting his body into her hands
completely.

The possible murderess of three
men.

He had to admit, the risk added an
extra layer of heat to his pleasure.

In the past he was detached, but this
time he could not be. He knew her too well, had lived with her and
laughed with her. It was not merely a flame of sexual desire that
might, at any moment, be snuffed out by a draft. This thing between
them was a bonfire, tall and deep. The sort of fire that burned
even on a rainy winter's day. And there would always be a glow
somewhere within it, sparks and embers never
extinguished.

When he was a boy, running
wild through the fields, True used to annoy the local hunt by
distracting the hounds to get them off the scent of a fox. Another
reason for the old squire to curse his name. Now he wanted to
save
this
wily
fox from whatever hunted her. If he could. If she'd let
him.

But there was a difference between
keeping a person safe and keeping them trapped. There were men who
didn't understand the difference— women too.

She had made a rule: one night
only.

The best way for that rule to be
broken was by her own will. He could not show her the way, for she
was too strong, too clever, and she would resist any attempt to
capture her. Let her find her own way to the answer, for then she
could be sure. He, in the meantime, must be patient with her, as he
tried to be with his offspring. Patient.

Somehow.

He nestled her closer, his legs
tangled with hers, his arms tightly cocooning her to his
chest.

"Tomorrow we will not speak of this,"
she murmured.

When he gave no reply, she tipped her
head back to look at him. "Mr. Deverell? I said,
tomorrow—"

"
True
, for pity's sake."

She sighed. "True, tomorrow we will
not mention this."

Still he said nothing.

"
True
!"

"Yes, my sweet?"

"Answer me, damn you."

"But it wasn't a question. How could I
answer it? It was a command that I must simply follow. You, Olivia
the merciless, are in charge."

Glancing down at her, he saw she was
frowning slightly, unsure. "Yes. I am. Don't forget."

"May I kiss you?"

She swallowed, considering his lips
for a moment. "Very well."

So he did, lingering gently and
deeply, as she'd never been kissed before. And as she never would
be kissed again, until she cast her foolish rules aside.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The next day she was back before him
as if nothing had happened, her hair bound in that braid and
knotted at the nape of her neck, her frock was another grey
monstrosity. But he didn't see it anymore. He saw the woman within
it. The woman who had bound him in silk ropes and tormented his
nipples.

She must have seen his face change
when he looked at her. As much as he tried to hide his thoughts the
way she did, it was impossible.

"I do hope we can get on with our
work," she said sharply. "Now that...other... distraction has been
removed."

Removed? She made their lovemaking
sound like an inconvenient extra limb that had to be
amputated.

Lovemaking.

Never in his forty odd years had he
ever called it that. Why the hell was he starting with that
nonsense now?

He rubbed his lower lip and examined
her small, prim face. There was definitely a twinkle in her eye
that had not been there before. She sat quickly, all business. But
he knew she had written again to her stepbrother— faithful Sims had
informed him of a letter. He supposed he'd have to wait to find out
what was in it and whether she'd told the impertinent fellow that
she meant to stay longer than six months.

True reached into his desk drawer and
took out the two halves of a blue silk ribbon. "I believe these are
yours." He set them on the blotter, laying each one out carefully
in a straight line.

She licked her lips. "Ah, yes." But as
she moved to snatch them up, he laid his own hand over the ribbons.
"I very much enjoyed our...distraction."

"I'm glad."

"Did you?"

Looking down, she hid her eyes.
"Yes."

"It was
nice,
was
it?"

With a heavy sigh, she exclaimed,
"Perhaps you forgot the third rule."

He huffed, raised his hand and allowed
her to reclaim the ribbons.

"Now, may we get on?"

* * * *

Of course, she'd known he wouldn't
make it easy for her. But Olivia had not been prepared for the
onslaught that came from within, joining in his effort to leave her
a shattered wreck.

It must be faced; a taste of him had
not been enough to quell her appetite.

Having experienced the comfort of
drifting off in his arms just once, she could no longer get a full
night's contented sleep in her own bed. The pores of her skin awoke
when he was near, even if she merely heard his voice approaching,
or the sound of his whistling— the Sailor's Hornpipe, of all
unlikely things.

Despite this, she kept to her rule.
There was nothing else to be done with a man who claimed he could
not love.

If the other staff noticed a shift in
the air, they made no mention of it. With the young Deverells all
due home soon there was not much time to waste, in any case, and
Olivia was pleased to help prepare the other bedrooms, glad to
absorb herself in practical matters when she was not needed in his
library.

But always he was in the back of her
mind, galloping through it without a care for the mess he left
behind.

She had cause before to suspect he
entered her room occasionally without informing her— for instance
the time he returned the money to her reticule. But she soon knew
it for sure when she came back from a chilly walk along the sand
and found a new pair of boots waiting for her by the fire in her
bed chamber. There was no note of explanation, just the
boots.

Naturally he wouldn't leave a note,
she mused. As Storm had told her, the master of the house didn't
think it necessary to explain himself.

In return, the next time she went to
Truro with his son, she used the money her employer had slipped
into her purse to purchase the stubborn fellow the one thing she
knew he didn't have. An umbrella.

She left it in his room while he was
out one morning, and she couldn't resist tying a blue ribbon around
the leather handle.

That evening, as they worked together
on his memoirs, True was clearly not concentrating. He paced the
room, poked the fire, rearranged his desk, opened and closed the
window...until finally she suggested gently, "Perhaps we should
come back to this tomorrow?"

He rounded on her at once. "Why did
you buy me that umbrella?"

Taken aback by his cross tone, she sat
for a moment in silence.

"What is the meaning of it?" he
demanded, jaw thrust out, arms folded.

"It was a gift," Olivia replied
eventually, fingers clasping the pleats of her skirt. "It is
customary to exchange gifts in the Yuletide season."

"A gift? Why? What for?" He looked at
her hands.

She squinted, not certain if he was
teasing. He did not seem to be. "Has no one ever given you a gift
before?"

He squared his shoulders. "Not that I
can recall."

Olivia got up and moved toward him.
"You bought me a gift and I wanted to return the gesture, by
finding something for you ...something you would never think to get
for yourself. That's all." Her heartbeat slowed. Perhaps the
addition of the blue ribbon had confused him. She should not have
done that. "It is the season to exchange gifts, after all," she
added with a spurt of enthusiasm.

True still eyed her with suspicion.
"Is it usual for a woman to buy a gift for a man? In your
world?"