Kathryn Smith (37 page)

His eyes were wide in the darkness. “Did I scare you?”

Was that what this was all about? That his violence might somehow have caused her to fear him?

“No, you did not frighten me. I could never be frightened of you, but you did scare me when you ran off like that.”

“I thought I had disgusted you. You looked so angry.”

Her fingers flexed beneath his, stroking the warm hairiness of his chest. “I was angry at Carny, not you. And even if I was angry with you, avoiding me is not going to make it disappear.”

He nodded. “I know. No more running, I promise.”

She believed him. Something had changed in him over the last few days. Slowly, he was beginning to realize he had nothing to fear by opening himself up to her, that she would accept him no matter what, just as he had accepted her.

“What did I do to deserve you?” she mused, stroking the warm curve of his muscled chest.

He stilled beneath her hand. “I often ask myself the same question.”

Smiling coyly, Blythe inched closer, wedging her thigh between his. “If I tell you, will you tell me?”

She could feel his growing hardness against her hip as he returned her smile with a seductive one of his own. “All right.”

“You were just you,” she replied simply, almost echoing a sentiment he’d once told her. “That is all you did. That is all you will ever have to do. Now you tell me.”

His smile faded as he stared into her eyes in the gray light. “You loved me. Even when I thought I made it impossible for you, you loved me anyway.”

A hard lump in her throat, Blythe couldn’t think of a suitable reply. Instead, she pressed herself against him, offering him her mouth.

Devlin took her kiss, covering her lips with his. Releasing her fingers, he touched her softly, first on the thigh, then up to her hip and around to her back, stroking her as though feeling her for the first time. Her own hand slid down his chest, past his ribs to the dip of his hips. There, her fingers found the ridge of scar tissue the Frenchman’s blade had left. Gently, she stroked it, loving it with her touch.

Loving him.

Her hand stilled.

She pulled free of the kiss. “When were you planning to tell me?”

He tilted his head, his eyes bright behind the thick black fringe of lashes as he gazed at her. “Tell you what?”

“That you love me.” Just saying it made her chest tighten in a most peculiar way. It was almost as though an invisible band was being wrapped around her.

Again he had that struck look. He just stared at her.

“You can say it,” she assured him. “I want you to say it. I won’t reject you, you know that.”

He did know it; she could see it in his eyes. She could also see that old fear that he couldn’t quite let go of.

“I already know it is true, Devlin. Even if you do not say it, I know it is true.” Reaching up, she touched his cheek with her fingers. “But I would love to hear you tell me what I mean to you.”

“Everything,” he whispered hoarsely. “You are everything.”

“Why am I everything?” It was like trying to coax a secret out of a child. In fact, that was exactly what it was—she was trying to get that child who thought himself unloved to make himself vulnerable again.

“Because—” He swallowed, his face ravaged in the dim light.

“Because I love you.”

Blythe’s heart swelled. Joy soared through her veins. He’d said it with words. He’d been saying it a hundred different ways since they met, but she’d never heard it until she realized that he touched her just as reverently as she touched him. He loved her. He always had.

As soon as the words left Devlin’s mouth, the world shifted beneath him. He had said it, he’d actually said it. And he meant it. He knew it to be true as he had known nothing else in his life. He loved her. In a way, he believed that he had loved her since the first moment he laid eyes on her, or perhaps even long before that, when Miles and Carny used to tell him stories about her and he imagined her in his mind.

His hands went to the flimsy fabric of her nightgown, bunching it, hauling it upward until he could slide his palm along the silky softness of her hip and buttocks. Her hips arched against him, tempting him with the warm grotto between her thighs.

His cock hardened with the promise of sinking deep within her. He slid the nightgown up further, until she lifted
herself off the bed and slipped the offending garment over her head. She tossed it to the floor.

She knelt beside him, every inch of her bare to him in the pearly predawn darkness. His fingers brushed over her shoulder, down her breast, thumbing the nipple into erectness. Then, down to her indent of her waist, the generous flare of her hips, and the subtle roundness of her belly. Finally, his fingers moved to the thatch of dark cinnamon between her legs.

Her knees parted, allowing him better access. She didn’t try to cover herself, but simply locked her gaze with his as one questing finger parted the moist lips of her sex, sliding into her already slick, tight passage. He slid his finger in and out as his thumb toyed with the crest of her desire, stroking until she arched against his hand.

Then he withdrew his fingers and she lay down once more beside him. He rolled to face her. Cupping his hand around her thigh, he lifted her leg over his hip and then guided himself to the entrance of her body. Slowly, he slid the pulsating length of his hard, aching erection inside her, her muscles sweetly clutching.

He made love to her that way, face to face, with one hand pressed against her lower back, pushing her pelvis flush against his, stimulating the center of her pleasure with every roll and thrust of his hips.

“Love me,” he whispered against her lips as the pressure mounted within himself.

“I do,” she gasped, moving her hips against his. The tips of her breasts were hard as they brushed his chest. “I do love you, I do.”

Those simple words were all it took to send him spiraling out of control. It had been too long since he’d felt her wrapped around him, and the excitement of this coupling was too much for him to bear for long.

“I love you,” he groaned, thrusting hard as climax shook
him. Blythe’s hips churned faster as well, meeting his frantic thrusting until she too cried out in release.

They lay in silence afterward, their bodies still entwined, impossible to tell where one began and the other ended.

Soon they would be returning to Rosewood, the house they both loved, where they would make their home—a place where they both belonged. Together. They would fill it with laughter and love and, someday, children. Lots of children, who would be certain of their parents’ love from the day they were born.

“You own my heart,” he murmured against her hair, a strange prickling sensation behind his eyes. “You claimed it the first day I saw you.”

She squeezed her arm around his ribs, pressing her body even closer. “I think you have always owned mine, even before we met.”

Her words wrapped tightly around his heart, squeezing until he could scarcely breathe, and yet it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling at all. It was a good feeling—like being set free.

And as dawn broke over the horizon, spilling its bright glow into the room around them, Devlin Ryland found all the light, peace, and love his heart had ever wanted.

In the arms of his wife.

K
ATHRYN
S
MITHI
I couldn’t help but become a writer. It all started with my mother, who used to make up her own stories to tell me at bedtime. One particular tale about termites and a grizzly will never be forgotten. My father also spins a wicked tale. In fact, you’ll never know if what he’s telling you actually happened or not. (A word of caution: If you ever meet my dad, don’t ask him what happened to his finger. The truth is almost as wince-worthy as the story he’ll tell.) If you’d like to know more about my stories, I can often be found yakking away on various reader boards. You can also find me online at
www.kathryn-smith.com
. Snail mail can be sent to P.O. Box 37037, Ottawa, Ontario, K1V 0W9.

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