Devotion (45 page)

"Oh. I see." Laura sighed and laid one hand, palm up, upon her forehead. "Very well, Maria. You may read me the note now."

With a deep breath, Maria opened the missive. "Lady
Dunsworthy
. I would request the honor of your company in the Gold Room at half past eight.
Salterdon."

Closing her eyes, Laura sighed again and replied weakly, "Of course."

Maria sat with an open book on her lap, her gaze fixed on the flames dancing in the hearth. The meeting between Laura and Basingstoke had gone off without a hitch. While the duchess had sat in her regal chair, looking as if she might shatter with nerves at any moment, Laura, with her father hovering around her like a watchdog, sat across from the man whom she believed to be her
fiancé,
her eyes downcast, her fingers twisted together, looking for all the world like a young woman just sentenced to hang.

Like she had during Maria's visit to her room earlier, Laura had shown little joy over the fact that her betrothed
had apparently
made such a miraculous recovery, nor did she show the slightest inclination of excitement over the prospect of finally marrying the Duke of Salterdon.

What woman would not have been enchanted by Basingstoke's banter?
His charisma?
His seductiveness?

Yet, an hour into their meeting, Laura had whispered to her companion that the last two day's journey to Thorn Rose had obviously taken its toll, and had begged

His Grace's pardon and returned to tier room, looking pale as
milkwash
. Just before Maria had returned to her own room for the evening, she had passed by the girl's chamber, and was certain she had heard Laura softly crying.

Maria closed the book and wearily left the chair. She would try one last time to coerce Salterdon to unlock the door. She would try her best to convince him that this act of rebelliousness would accomplish nothing; there was his grandmother's health to think about; there was Laura's happiness. This was his destiny, after all.

She was surprised to find the door unlocked. The room was empty. Maria glanced at the tall case clock; the hour was nearly midnight. She hurried to the music room only to discover that the room was totally dark.

Where could he be?

She rushed to the library, the hunting room, the kitchen, passing several sleepy-eyed servants. Certainly she didn't dare ask if they had seen His Grace wandering the corridors. No one but
herself
and Gertrude were aware that he had regained the use of his legs.

After a half hour search she returned to her room and collected her cloak, made her way out of the house and into the misty night, pausing momentarily as the cold bit into her cheeks, then continued down the meandering path toward the stables.

The sound of angry voices brought her up short. Carefully, she descended a set of lichen-covered stone steps, stepped over a fallen curtain of ivy, stopping again at the sight of several shadowed figures standing together on the path.

She recognized Thaddeus's lanky form immediately. It took a moment to realize that the smaller figure, shuffling its feet from cold, was Molly. No matter how she tried, she couldn't make out the third person, as they stood partially concealed behind a spray of bushes.

A gust of wind whipped up, causing the trees to tremble and dead leaves to rattle. Maria backed away and continued toward the stables, occasionally glancing back over her shoulder, only briefly wondering why anyone would choose to visit amid the bone-chilling wind and drizzle, at midnight no less. Her mind was on Salterdon.

The stables were dark and quiet and warm. The horses shuffled in their stalls while she moved as silently as possible down the long, bricked aisle checking each cubicle until coming to one whose door was thrown open, revealing an empty stall.

Noblesse.

Throwing open the doors, she ran from the barn shielding her eyes from the drizzle.

A form came at her from the dark with an explosion of clattering hooves and streams of steam flowing from distended nostrils. Its hot body brushed hers, causing her to stumble back with a cry, to nearly topple before a hand wrapped around her arm and swung her up from the ground. For an instant she floated on air while the stallion pivoted on its powerful back legs and spun around,
then
she was easily dropped onto the animal's withers and situated by a pair of strong arms.

Left shoulder buried against Salterdon's chest, Maria blinked the rain from her eyes and managed to catch her breath. "
Your
Grace—"

"Nice of you to join me," he declared in her ear. "I never cared for riding alone."

With that he gave a shrill whistle and heeled the stallion in the flanks. The animal reared slightly, arched his dark neck and let loose a snort that seemed to echo in the night. Then Noblesse leapt into a canter, his long, powerful stride carrying the riders out of the stable yard and down the sodden riding path beneath an arc of rain-soaked trees.

Breathless, Maria grabbed hold of Salterdon and clung fiercely to him as the animal's forearms rose like springs
ungathered
and flew into the wind, scattering the clouds of mist and fog. Their speed was made all the more frightening by the pumping of the horse's shoulders and his mane whipping like trees in a tempest.

Maria dug her nails into Salterdon's cloak, allowed her body to sink deeply into his and turned her face into the sharp cold wind, gasping for an occasional breath, blinking the mist from her eyes even as an odd sense of security overtook her. For once her master would comfort her; he would protect her; he would coerce her from her earthly bonds and take her flying beyond all human cares.

They had ridden an hour it seemed when Salterdon finally crooned softly to the stallion and the beast's powerful stride began to diminish until they stopped beneath a canopy of trees. His arms around her yet, his warm breath falling softly against the side of her face, Salterdon said nothing for a long moment, then he cupped one large hand along her jaw and tilted her face toward his.

"I once thought I would die without the prestige and fortune due me because of my birthright; I would cease to exist. But this last
year . . .
I was already dead and no one gave a damn except you. Maria . . . how can I let you go?" He brushed her ear with a kiss; his breath was hot and made her shiver. "You are my sanity, Maria.
My strength.
My . . . desire."
His voice died away into a low growl, the purr of a lion, his lips grazing the soft skin behind her ear. "Oh yes," he breathed. "I desire you."

Helpless, oh God, she felt helpless.
Weak and timid.
She ached to turn her face up to his, to open her mouth beneath his, to experience his tongue once again—and his hands on her body. But he belonged to another—a frail, dewy-eyed young
woman
who waited, had waited the last year to become his wife. A girl of his peer, chosen by his family, and hers, to become the next Duchess of Salterdon—to give him children—a son so that he might continue their dynamic heritage.

Yet, as he slid from the horse's back, sweeping her with him, cradling her effortlessly in his arms, she felt powerless, helpless, conscious only of the tumult in her heart, and loins, knowing if he kissed her and touched her again she would not, could not deny him any more than she had been able to deny him that fateful afternoon in the coach.

He crushed her to him, arms gripping her fiercely, one hand buried in her silvery hair.

"Do you understand what I'm telling you?" he demanded in a rough, almost desperate voice. "I want you, Maria. I want you so goddamn badly I could
explode." Catching her hand, he slid it down his body, to the swelling at the apex of his legs. Her fingers touched him through the straining cloth of his breeches, molded upon the shocking length and shape of him even as the startling realization of what he was telling her set in—even as that foreign and frightening part of him moved against her fingers like a being unto itself.

She could say
nothing,
do nothing, as rigid with anticipation as she was with indecision. He smelled of mist and wind, of leather and horse, of sweet brandy and sweat.

Don't touch me!
she
longed to beg. She would surely shatter—her resolve would crumble—her pride would dissolve like the misty vapor swirling around them.

"I want you," he murmured. "Maria, Maria," he whispered as his hands ran over her, dragging away her thin cloak—her mantle of poverty—no fox or mink cape for her, there never would be.

Why could she not fight him, turn him away? Why had her body become this trembling, weak stranger, pliant beneath his hard, warm hands that were gently lowering her to the ground amidst a wet cushion of musty fallen
leaves ?
His hands then ran over her damp body, tugging at her clothes gently,
then
almost angrily, ripping the seams and buttons until the frail dress her vicar father had forced her to wear lay in tatters beneath her.

Exposed, shivering, Maria lay naked before him, watching desire carve creases in his incredibly handsome face, feeling her own body respond with a sort of power and need that obliterated her control.

She opened her arms to him, and her legs.

With a groan, he threw aside his woolen, rain-heavy cloak and impatiently dragged his shirt over his head. He tore at the hooks on his breeches, peeled the cloth down over his hips—she looked away briefly, then back again, losing her breath at the sight of his arousal. For an instant she wanted desperately to run, to deny her own cravings. But then he touched her—there— where he had touched her before, sliding his gentle fingers into the warm, silken folds of her intimate body, cupping her mound in his palm and squeezing and releasing in a rhythm that made her arch and quiver.

For a moment, he left her, removed his boots and discarded his pants. His body looked pale and powerful in the rainy night as he came to her again, easing down over her, bending his head to her breasts and taking one sensitive, erect nipple into his mouth, teasing it with his tongue, causing her to gasp, to whimper. The sudden bolt of pleasure was so fierce and enjoyable she clutched at his shoulders, feeling them shift, bunch, ripple beneath her hands.

"Easy, easy," he murmured before kissing her, before stroking her lips with his tongue, then plunging it inside her mouth to do a passionate battle with her own.

The sudden burning pressure between her legs made her gasp, arch, flail wildly for an instant with her legs—then he was inside her, stretching, filling her up, his body melding into hers, flooding the burning spear with an odd delicious pain that made her grind her hips against his and groan deep in her throat.

He continued to kiss her, his mouth harsher and more demanding as he slid a hand beneath her buttocks and lifted her off the spongy ground, driving his body farther into hers, moving into her and almost withdrawing with a careless speed that was driven by necessity.

The spasms overcame her suddenly, like heat flashing from a stormy heaven, rendering her completely without will, driving her to cry aloud and writhe beneath him, even as he continued to pump his body in and out of hers, faster and harder, almost desperately. As her own body trembled with its final release, he threw back his dark head, and with a soundless cry, spilled himself inside her, until the strength left him and he allowed his body to collapse on hers, his mouth near her ear, his soft voice whispering so she barely heard:

"Maria.
Sweet Maria.
Dare I love you?"

Maria sat before the diminishing flames in the hearth, Salterdon's cloak wrapped around her. It was wet and smelled like him. The lining was red silk and felt smooth and cool against her naked flesh, which even now tingled with the memory of his kissing her. Her body ached. That place between her legs burned like an ember. Her feet were dirty. Her legs and thighs were spotted with leaves and grass. Her hair, falling limply over her shoulders, was matted with mud and flecks of brown velvety moss.