“Only because I intend to marry you.” He reached out and caught first one wrist, then the other, and drew her folded arms apart and down. “I thought perhaps you needed a little help in making up your mind, and as we are going to marry, there’s no harm in indulging ahead of the wedding bells, as it were.”
She narrowed her eyes as he released her wrists, reached for her waist, and drew her to him. “So this—
this
”—she felt her pulse leap at his touch, his nearness, the promise of it, could sense his hunger through his hands—“is by way of persuasion?”
He lowered his lips to hers. “Among other things.”
She wasn’t sure—not of anything to do with him, much less them—but the kiss drew her in; he parted her lips and his tongue found hers, tempted…and she was following again, eager again to tread the path to pleasure hand in hand with him.
In that moment, it truly seemed that simple; there was him, there was her, and between them blazed a flame that never seemed to completely wane. It flared at just a touch, just one long, evocative caress, his open hand sweeping from the hollow of her throat, down over her breast, pausing there to capture, to weigh, to claim, then tracing lower, to her belly, lightly testing its tautness before pressing lower, to the juncture of her thighs and lightly, blatantly, possessively cupping her there.
And she was lost, cast adrift on a swirling, heated sea of desire—hers and his. Passion rose and whipped her on; yearning and need burgeoned in its wake, and compelled.
Clothes drifted to the floor, hers and his; who unbuttoned this, who tugged off that was immaterial; it was suddenly important to be skin to skin, an urgency that afflicted him as much as her. Then they were naked, and hands grasped, fingers gripped, clung; she pressed closer still, as if in doing so she could merge their bodies—succeeded in firing his passion to new heights.
They were standing naked in the middle of her room, the moonlight streaming in laying cool, silvery light over their heated bodies. He broke the kiss, on a muttered oath stepped back, grasped her hips, and lifted her.
“Wrap your legs about my waist.”
The words came in a deep growl. She only just made out their meaning—instantly, without question, complied.
And he brought her down over his straining erection, drew her down so she was impaled.
In the silvery light she closed her eyes, let her head fall back on a moan. Felt him pull her relentlessly down, press inexorably deeper—of her own accord, she greedily sank lower, still lower, encasing him in her body, taking him in, hungry for the sensation of fullness, for that moment of feeling complete.
Wanting him. Needing him.
Loving the feel of him at her core.
She clasped him tightly, and for one second heard “mine, all mine” echo in her head—this time knew from the purring tone that it was her reckless Colyton self who spoke so smugly.
But then the fire was upon them; it rose up, flared high, and roared. Raced through them, through their veins, flashed down their nerves, spread under their skins, and she didn’t have time to wonder or think.
Could only lock her lips on his, lock her arms about his shoulders, and cling as she welcomed the steady, evocative plundering of his tongue that echoed and emphasized his repetitive possession of her body, the indescribably erotic thrust and retreat of his erection into her slick sheath.
Steady and relentless, he filled her, and all she could do was glory. His hands were wrapped about her hips; she couldn’t move other than at his direction. Could only gasp, cling, and moan as he moved her upon him, over him, so he could penetrate her more deeply, then more shallowly, causing an ebb and flow in the tide of their passions, slowing the inevitable journey to that moment when her nerves and senses would be overwhelmed…
Jonas strove, battled, fought to hold her back, to rein in the inner beast that wanted simply to devour. He’d already taken her sensual measure, hence, given his fell intention to persuade her, he hadn’t availed himself of her bed.
She liked…adventure. New things, novel positions, more intense and erotic stimuli, fresh fields to explore—and he was perfectly prepared to cater to her tastes. From their first kiss, he’d sensed—known and recognized at some level—that streak of wildness, of reckless, open-hearted courage, the ability—even tendency—to abandon herself wholeheartedly, without reservation, to new experience.
In her case, effective persuasion lay in inventiveness, in having something new and novel with which to entice her. Showing her a new landscape she could explore with him and only him, and coloring it vividly, was the most certain path to realizing his aim.
He didn’t have to think to comprehend all that; the knowledge was at his mental fingertips, instinctive and complete.
So he knew as he finally,
finally
let them scale the last steps to the inevitable peak, that the road he’d chosen was right. That possessing her physically, completely and absolutely, was also the way to making her his.
His wife, his lover—his to hold, to possess, to protect.
As she climaxed in his arms, and with a roar he stifled in the curve of her throat he allowed himself to let go—to thrust deep into her welcoming heat and fill her with his seed—having a woman, possessing a woman, had never felt so right.
So deeply and completely satisfying.
So deeply and completely making him whole.
P
ersuasion, Em realized, could come in many forms. Jonas apparently considered ecstasy to be a potent persuader; she wasn’t sure she wanted to disagree.
Certainly the three times he’d brought her to gasping, senses-reeling delight over the previous night suggested he was willing to invest considerable energy in convincing her to accept his suit.
To be his wife.
As she settled into what had become her morning routine—catching up with the twins, Issy, and Henry over breakfast, then doing a round of the inn, chatting with every member of staff before retreating to her office to deal with the orders and accounts—she was still trying to bend her mind around his declaration. To accept it, and decide how she felt.
Finally finding herself in her office chair, the order ledger open on the desk before her—with no orders entered—she humphed, gave up the pretense of focusing on work, closed the book, and gave herself over to considering the matter that currently filled her mind.
The prospect of marrying Jonas Tallent.
Most ladies in her position would, she suspected, be dancing with joy, happiness, and even gratitude at such a chance. She, however, felt…unsure.
Uncertain over how she felt. Even less certain of how she
should
feel.
It wasn’t that she doubted him, either his direction or his determination; last night had amply demonstrated both—three times. He was resolutely definite about marrying her.
She didn’t know if she wanted to—or should—marry him.
Her difficulty—her uncharacteristic uncertainty—stemmed from one simple fact: She’d never expected to marry.
Never thought of it, except to shrug the notion aside as impractical. She’d neither dreamed nor imagined that she might, someday, walk up any aisle, not after her father’s death had left her in charge of her siblings.
So there’d never been a moment when she’d consciously laid aside marriage—acknowledged she’d wanted it and made a deliberate sacrifice. Marriage had never seemed a viable option, so had never featured in her plans—not through all the years she’d spent as her uncle’s glorified housekeeper, and following their escape from his house, she’d assumed marriage for her had grown even less likely—what gentleman would marry an innkeeper?
More, she was twenty-five. Definitely on the shelf, although perhaps not for long enough to have gathered dust.
Yet now, against the odds and so very much against her expectations, Jonas wanted to marry her.
She frowned at the closed order book. “What does a sane and sensible woman look for in marriage? What does she look for in a husband?”
The muttered questions illustrated her utter lack of knowledge on the subject. And despite managing to formulate those questions, answers weren’t spontaneously arising in her brain.
“Miss?”
She looked up to see Hilda standing in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. “Yes?”
“If you’ve a moment, miss, could you come and taste these pasties? I think the crust’s light enough, but I’d value your opinion.”
“Of course.” She pushed back her chair and rose. She was perfectly sure Hilda’s pasties would be scrumptious, but knew the older woman appreciated her verdict.
True enough, the pasties were mouthwateringly delicious. She made a face signifying extreme pleasure. “They’re superb, Hilda. Yet another excellent addition to our menu.”
“These are every bit as good as your pies,” Issy concurred. She and the twins had taken a break from lessons, lured irresistibly by the baking smells. They’d quartered a pasty between the four sisters. Em saw Issy licking her fingers delicately; the twins were already looking around for more.
She looked at Hilda. “How many of these can you have ready by lunchtime?”
“I’ve twenty ready to go. We could manage maybe another twenty before the regulars arrive.”
Regulars. The word was music to any innkeeper’s ears. The taste of the pasty still tantalizing her taste buds, Em nodded. “Yes—let’s make that our main offering for lunch in the tap today. Those who miss out will make sure they come next time we serve them.”
“Miss?” Edgar put his head around the kitchen door. “The Martins, the couple that’s staying, would like a word with you.”
“Yes, of course.” Turning, she bustled into the dining area, wondering whether the Martins had found anything amiss. Seeing them by the end of the bar counter, she plastered on a smile and swept up. “Mr. and Mrs. Martin, I do hope you’ve enjoyed your stay with us.”
“Oh, yes, dear!” Mrs. Martin enthused. “It’s been wonderfully comfortable—and the food!” She shared a quick glance with her husband, then confided, “We wondered if we might stay for a few days more. Is that possible?”
Delighted, Em whisked behind the counter and picked up the register. “I believe that can be arranged.”
As she wrote the Martins in for two more days, Mr. Martin confessed the Red Bells was the first village inn at which they’d spent more than one night. “We usually only stay multiple nights in the major towns, but there’s just something soothing about this village. We were thinking of spending a day in Seaton—I understand the inn has a gig we can hire?”
Em assured them the inn could meet their requirements, and thanked heaven for John Ostler, who had kept the inn’s carriages in good condition and would know from whom to hire a horse. “I’ll speak with our stableman right away,” she told the Martins. “When would you like the gig?”
After ferrying the request to John Ostler, she returned indoors, debating the options of hiring the occasional hack or carriage horse versus buying animals that ate and required care regardless of whether they were used or not.
Glancing out at the tap—more reflex than intention as she headed for her office—she saw Lucifer chatting with Thompson, who as well as being the blacksmith was also the local farrier. She paused, hesitated, then went out to ask their opinion on the best way to secure the use of horses for the inn.
After that, her morning went in a whirl of checking, arranging, consulting, and ordering, supervising the cleaning of the rooms—true to his calling, Mr. Dobson had moved on, as had the other overnight guest, yet they still had two rooms occupied—and with luck Mr. Dobson would spread the word; Edgar mentioned he’d been highly complimentary before he’d left.
Mr. Hadley seemed to be settling in; she noticed him propped at the bar, relaxed and easy, talking to Edgar, then later, when the regulars started arriving for their midmorning snacks, she saw him elbow to elbow with Oscar, no doubt swapping tales of life on the waves.
Despite her distraction, marriage—the institution—hovered at the edge of her mind. Pausing in the kitchen and finding Hilda taking a well-earned breather now that her pasties were in the ovens, Em poured herself a cup of tea and sat alongside the older woman at the deal table.
After sipping companionably for a minute, Em murmured, “You’ve been married a long time, haven’t you, Hilda?”
Hilda snorted, but her lips lifted lightly. “Aye—decades. And some mornings it feels like it, let me tell you. Then again”—she shrugged philosophically—“at others it seems like just yesterday we was walking out.”
“If you had to say what was most important about marriage—not your husband, but the state itself—what would you say?”
Hilda slanted her a curious look, but when she said nothing more, duly ruminated, sipped, then offered, “Being settled. Having a home, knowing where you fit in the scheme of things.” Lowering her cup, she paused, then lips firming, nodded. “Aye—that’s it. When you’re married, you know who you are.”
Em raised her brows. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.” Sipping, she considered the point, then drained her cup. “Thank you.” With a nod to Hilda, she rose, set her cup in the scullery, then headed once more for her office.
Who you are,
Hilda had said, but as she settled in her chair and prepared to concentrate on the day’s orders, Em rather suspected Hilda had meant
what
you are. Marriage, whether within the gentry or among farmers, gave a woman a certain status, a position within and recognized by society.
But was that—achieving that—sufficient reason to marry? Specifically for her to marry? As innkeeper—albeit like no other innkeeper ever known—she was perfectly satisfied with her role, her position within the village. She didn’t feel any lack in that regard, the respect the locals gave her.
She couldn’t see that she needed marriage to define either who or what she was.
No help there; Jonas hadn’t suggested she needed to marry him for any such reason. Indeed, he hadn’t made any case for marriage at all, simply stated he meant to marry her; his declaration hadn’t even been a proposal. He hadn’t asked, solicited, in any way offered for her hand. He’d stated his intention—as if her eventual acceptance was assumed, if not quite taken for granted.
The order ledger still closed before her, narrow-eyed she stared unseeing across the room—and wondered whether she shouldn’t just leave the subject hanging until he mentioned it again, and then make him propose properly, and as part of that, state his reasons for marriage.
She would certainly push him to argue his case, but…she’d already had ample evidence of his reticence on that subject—how long had it been before he’d actually uttered the word “marriage”? Indeed, he’d told her himself he’d been reluctant to acknowledge the idea, not at first.
While he might
know
he wanted to marry her, did he know why? Why he felt that way, why marrying her from his perspective was a good idea.
Or had the idea simply taken root?
She had a suspicion the latter would be the case. Regardless, she couldn’t rely on his view of marriage to guide her. He, after all, was the other party to that contract.
Until he made a proper offer, she didn’t have to give him an answer; his not having proposed gave her time to define her stance. She suspected she’d be wise to have some inkling of her wishes before he asked formally and she found herself having to respond.
Her gaze focused on the order ledger. With a frown, she shook her head and opened the book. Defining her stance regarding marriage was not a task that could be adequately addressed squeezed in between a plethora of other activities; she would have to find some better time. “Meanwhile,” she muttered, “I have an inn to run.”
She knuckled down to the task in all its many and varied forms. Part of her duties, or at least those she’d assumed, was to wander through the common room often during the day, especially during mealtimes. Every one of Hilda’s pasties was spoken for even before they’d started serving luncheon; Phyllida and Miss Sweet came in early, and paused to compliment her as they left.
“You’ve worked wonders,” Phyllida assured her, smiling broadly. “Juggs will be turning in his grave.”
Em returned her smile; if Phyllida hadn’t been Jonas’s twin she would have been tempted to ask for her opinion on marriage, on its most important elements. Then again…she stood in the inn’s doorway watching Phyllida and Miss Sweet turn into the road, only to meet Lucifer coming down from the forge. The emotion that softened Lucifer’s harsh features as he approached his wife, the answering glow in Phyllida’s face, strongly suggested that Phyllida was avidly devoted to the married state.
Em could hazard a very good guess what Phyllida’s response to her question would be. Love. The sort of love that existed between a man and a woman, that in popular conception was the best foundation for marriage.
The sight of the departing couple, arm in arm, dark heads bent close as they walked home with Miss Sweet fluttering along beside them, left her wondering.
Was she in love with Jonas? Did he love her?
Or was
this
—that unnamed and indefinable mix of emotions that flared between them—merely lust?
Lust, desire, and passion.
Limited though her experience was, in her opinion all three had been present—were still present—between her and Jonas. But what of love?
As she understood it, that was the most pertinent question, the question of all questions when it came to marriage.
Was love there between them, or growing between them? Was it a seed planted but yet to germinate, or had it already sprouted?
Were there degrees of love, or qualifications?
Raising a hand, she rubbed a finger in the center of her forehead, vainly trying to erase her frown. Would that she could erase her ignorance as well. As she couldn’t, she’d have to seek education and wisdom on love and marriage from those who knew.
“Excuse me, miss.”
She jumped, realized she was blocking the inn door. “Yes, of course.” She stepped aside, saw it was Mr. Scroggs from along the lane waiting to exit. She smiled. “Did you enjoy your pasty?”
“Delicious, it was.” Hat in his hands, Scroggs bobbed his head. “Compliments to Hilda. The missus and me’ll be back this evening—the missus says she’d rather eat Hilda’s cooking than her own.”
Em laughed. “We’ll save places for you, and look forward to serving you both.”
Scroggs bobbed his head again and left, crossing the inn’s narrow front yard to head up the lane to his cottage.
Turning to go inside, Em noticed a familiar back, shoulders hunched, at the last of the tables and benches set along the front of the inn.
Harold, still lurking. He was deep in discussion with someone; she shifted, peered around him, and saw Hadley seated across the table. The artist was listening, occasionally nodding; Harold was doing most of the talking.
She retreated into the inn before Hadley noticed her and alerted Harold. Edgar had mentioned that Hadley had gone up to scout out his best prospects in the church. He must have returned and inadvertently lunched with Harold, who, she had to admit, could be pleasant enough when he wished.
She circled through what was fast becoming known as the “Ladies’ Tap,” the front half of the common room opposite the tap itself. The luncheon rush, which had started early because of the allure of Hilda’s pasties, was dying down. She spied Lady Fortemain at the table in the window that was already designated as “her ladyship’s.” She’d just finished delicately demolishing a pasty; laying down her cutlery, she pushed the plate away, picked up her teacup, and sipped.