A Midsummer's Sin (2 page)

Even though coveting him was a sin.

Now he was a widower. The town schoolmaster. A stern-faced, hardworking, pious man. He’d never been able to completely hide how he held her in disdain because of what she had been. Despite his kindness he’d retained a certain dispassionate remoteness. Especially after the mid-point of the voyage, when he’d lost his young son and, shortly thereafter, his wife, to a fever that had raged through the passengers.

She sensed that he suspected the truth of her past. For years, she had been a whore but not of her own choice. Her mother had been a member of an acting troupe who had shared herself with many wealthy gentlemen. Rosalind had never known her father. When her mother had grown ill, they’d grown completely dependent on the troupe manager Mr Boger’s goodwill to pay for the doctoring and life-extending medications. He had owned Rosalind’s very soul. He’d forced her, trained her how to please men then sold her by the hour to the highest bidders as if she were a pleasure slave.

Then her mother had died and Rosalind had vowed to escape.

That day in London, near the docks, she’d been running from Mr Boger. He had been escorting her to yet another wealthy gentleman, a merchant prince who had paid for a few hours of gratification in his offices. She had jumped from the carriage when it had stopped.

However, Mr Boger wasn’t opposed to using physical violence. She’d often experienced the back of his hand—or his fist. He had warned her that, if she ever ran from him, she’d better run well and hard for, if he caught up to her, he would kill her.

That day, he’d come after her in a rage.

She’d been desperate. Running for her dear life. Knowing she couldn’t fail. She’d recognised the sympathy on Thomas’ face that day. And the desire.

Well, she’d been dressed as the veriest of doxies. Who could blame him for any mistaken assumptions?

She couldn’t bear to tell him the truth of her past outright. She couldn’t take the chance of increasing the disdain he must feel for her. What did the circumstances matter? She was just as unclean no matter if the choice had truly been hers or not.

She’d been a whore. A dirty whore.

Goodman Thomas Marlowe. Goodman. As if the damned Puritans held some special innate goodness others could never attain. Well, of course they saw it that way. Their religion centred on the sanctimonious notion.

That religion, his devotion to its principles and practice, made him completely unattainable to a woman like her. He always held a wistful, removed quality in his eyes as if he were consumed by some long remembered and perhaps deliciously savoured pain.

But tonight was very different.

His large, heavy-lidded, green eyes glimmered with something earthy and very intimate and they were focused lower than her neck.

She glanced down.

Her nipples were pointed peaks against the thin material. Her shift! No wonder he stared! Dizziness swept over her, her head growing light, as if it might float away. Dear God. She was dressed only in her shift. No matter how fascinating she found the contours of his powerful body, how could she have forgotten, even for a moment?

 She ought to feel shame. She ought to cover herself and run away and pretend this was all a dream.

He kept looking at her with those gorgeous green eyes. Looking at her as if he would never stop. Could never stop.

Triumph at her power took her breath. Energy surged through her body like fire blazing up a piece of kindling. Verve that couldn’t be suppressed. She resumed swaying, allowing her feminine instinct complete possession.

He fixed his gaze on her lower body. His eyes widened. Darkened.

She knew the look of a man’s lust.

God, he was hers. Totally hers.

And this was likely her last chance ever to know him like this. Maybe fate itself had created this moment of magical moonlit opportunity.

For hours, she’d tossed in sweat-soaked sheets. She’d told herself it was owing to the excessive heat, the worst summer’s heat she had known in her life. As the clock had chimed midnight, wind had rustled the curtains. The first cooling breeze New Balcombe had seen in days had compelled her to come outdoors.

However, she couldn’t lie to herself. One thing and one thing only had dominated her thoughts and kept her from sleeping.

In two weeks, Thomas would leave for Harvard College. He was leaving…

The only man she had ever wanted—yes, it must be admitted, the only man she had ever loved—was about to walk out of her life. Maybe forever.

She would never know his kiss, his touch.

You could have him, here tonight, if you wanted him. No one shall ever know…

A little seduction. That was all it would take. She swayed her hips and shoulders in a motion as if she were a helpless willow caught in a breeze. Submissive to the forces of nature.

Always before, in the theatre, she had danced before a large audience. She’d never liked acting or dancing on stage. She’d been so young when she started, terrified of making a misstep in front of so many people. People who might pelt her with rotten fruit and worse. She taken herself to a place deep inside and pretended that she danced alone.

But now she was not alone. She was exceedingly aware of Thomas Marlowe. Aware of her effect on him. Her nipples drew tight, straining against the fabric of her bodice as she moved. Wetness flowed from her sex.

She’d known many men and it hadn’t been her choice. But Thomas was her choice. She had wanted him for so very long.

And tonight he wanted her too—this cold, impossibly remote man wanted her.

She stole a glance over her shoulder. He stood there, watching her as if he were transfixed.

She laughed, the low, throaty sound alien to her ears. Dear heaven, what was he waiting on? It had taken far less for the gentlemen in London to jump at her mother backstage.

Well, as a former actress, she certainly knew how to play the seductress.

“Goodman Marlowe.” She let her tongue caress the name and paused, while holding his gaze steadily. “Always devout, always good. Too good to take what he wants.”

She cupped her breasts, lifting and pushing them together, making them appear fuller. His focus of attention fell. She laughed again.

His jaw tightened. “Mistress Abramson, don’t.”

She drew her brows together in an expression of exaggerated sympathy and shook her head slowly. “Too good to take what he wants…even if his quarry wants to be taken?”

He jerked his stare back to her eyes, his brows drawn tightly together. “You want that? To be taken here in the wood, like a harlot?”

She flinched. The word stung. Yes, however unwilling, she’d been a whore. Yet to hear that ugly word on his lips, directed at her—

Leave. Just leave and pretend none of this ever happened.

His gaze trailed down over her body.

Wait.

His lips parted slightly and his features sharpened into an expression of pure hunger.

No. He hadn’t meant it. It was bluster. He was defensive, deflecting blame. He was close to giving in. Power surged through her once more. She purposely relaxed her face and curved her lips into a smile. “Oh no, never a harlot. I am a creature of the wood. A nymph.”

She laughed, turning away to resume her dance.

He locked an iron arm around her waist and he pulled her backwards. Roughly. Anticipation tingled through her like a thousand stinging bees. She opened her mouth to cry out but her back made contact with his body. A body as rock hard as she’d ever imagined.

She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think.

He pressed his pelvis into her buttocks, and, even through the fabric of his breeches, his erection felt hot and huge.

It felt divine.

Unable to stop herself, she wriggled against him, revelling in the evidence of his arousal.

He growled low, the sound vibrating over her neck. Gooseflesh prickled down her spine. His large hand splayed over her belly. “So the quarry wants to be taken?”

Through the thin fabric, he brushed his fingertips over her stomach in a circular pattern. Not clumsy or rough, but gentle, sensitive teasing. A beguilement.

She moaned, still helplessly writhing against his straining heat. She had dreamt of this too many times, yet it was nothing like she’d dreamt.
He
was nothing like she had dreamt. She trembled and closed her eyes, surrendering.

He stopped and put her from him. Firmly. Decisively.

She swayed on her feet. What had happened? Shaking with the shock of loss, she spun to see him walking towards the path in the wood that led back to his property.

God, he was leaving.

Leaving.

Chapter Two

“Thomas—”

Rosalind’s voice carried to Thomas. He’d never heard his given name spoken by her. It made him stop. It made him long to turn.

He resisted.

He must not yield to this sin. Just a fortnight and he would be removed from it. Movement caught his eye. Her shadow, lengthened and distorted, wavered on the ground. She was pulling her shift up, inch by inch, swaying her hips as she did so.

God. No power on earth could have stopped him from turning. Not even his will. Maybe a lightning bolt could save him.

No bolts came.

He turned. Her ivory thighs were bare. She pulled the shift higher. He sucked in his breath and held it as she revealed the bright red triangle of hair between her legs. A renewed surge of heat boiled through his blood.

Moonlight shone on the soft swell of her stomach and her broad hips, threw a shadow that accentuated the sharp, nipped-in tuck of her long waist. Her breasts were large, full yet youthfully high and firm.

He should not keep looking at her. He should leave now. He should—

She pulled the shift over her head and cast it aside.

He couldn’t have torn his eyes away to save his soul.

She tossed her head of lush red curls then smiled and held out her arms. “Thomas, come, come.”

She backed away, disappearing into the thick shade of the maple. He followed her. The warm darkness swallowed them.

“Thomas…”

She reached up to touch his face as he approached. Her fingertips seemed to singe him. He grasped her by the waist and jerked her body to his.

She tilted her face up, her eyes wide, her mouth falling open. Moonlight filtering through the branches made a lattice pattern on her face and neck. Her eyelids fluttered shut.

He bent his head and put his mouth to hers. The touch of her softness sent a spark through his blood. Hunger. Greed. They pressed on him without mercy. He tightened his hold on her waist and slanted his lips over hers, sucking from her all he could take.

She made a sound, deep in her throat, and pushed against his chest.

He lifted his head and took a deep breath, pausing for control.

She stared back with a touch of fear.

He took another deep breath, willing his passions to ebb to a manageable level. He released her waist, then cupped her face and let his thumbs slide over her skin.

God, she was soft, supple, succulent. He longed to taste her but would she allow it? It had been years since he had kissed anyone with an open mouth. Patience had not liked it. He hadn’t thought the loss of that particular pleasure had mattered much but suddenly he craved the sensation. He leant forward, then traced his tongue along the seam of those luscious lips.

She trembled.

Was she afraid?

Don’t run, my love. Not now.

He tightened his hand on her jaw and put all his coaxing skill into the kiss.

Her trembling increased yet she opened.

He swept inside. Her tongue met his. Caressed him. And her kiss was maple sweet. Bold. Experienced. Willing.

Each frantic, desperate beat of his heart pulsed in his erection. Engorging it. Making it throb and twitch. He leaked and leaked.

Now. He had to have her now.

He lifted his head. Shot a hand down, bending slightly, then travelled slowly up her satiny thigh.

He knew how to make love. Knew women very well. He should not go so quickly. But he couldn’t help himself. Rosalind wasn’t just any woman. She had tormented his idle waking thoughts and dreams.

Only Satan could have created such a sensual, earthy temptress.

This was sin. He knew it was. They weren’t pledged. Not even courting. But he couldn’t stop now. God help him.

Hot blood roared in his ears, closing out the ability to think. He took a laboured breath. Moved his hand higher. She parted wide for him, arching closer. Using his thumb, he caressed the crease at the apex where her inner thigh met the soft plumpness of her outer lips. She released her breath, a forceful hiss. With his fingertips, he reached honey thick liquid overflowing from her sex.

She tensed.

He delved into her folds and her breathing came quicker, hitching as he went deeper.

Wetness. He’d forgotten fucking could be so wet. From the lusciousness of her open, eager mouth to the way his fingers slid on her warm, silken folds. He groaned and slid his tongue languorously against hers, savouring the velvety moisture. She tasted of maple and rum and something far sweeter.

He tore his mouth from hers, dropped to one knee and stared at the plump lips of her cunt. She clamped her legs together. He traced a fingertip over the heart-shaped outline of crimson hair then trailed the seam of her tightly closed legs.

“Thomas…” Her voice quavered.

“You’re beautiful, love.” He leant forward and put his lips to her, inhaling the heady fragrance of her arousal. He blew softly, steadily.

She gasped and relaxed, allowing her legs to open. He let his tongue wander out and delve into her moistness. Her taste sparked over his senses like cinnamon and fire.

A jolt of raw lust slammed into his groin, making him stiffer and harder than he’d surely been in years. Painfully so. A harsh groan forced its way up his throat. She gave a soft cry. His gaze flew to hers. Her eyes were wide yet glowing with desire. She flicked her tongue over her lips.

He reached for the fastenings on his breeches and wrenched them undone. She edged away along the tree.