The Coachman's Daughter (6 page)

“For a change.” He smiled slightly. “I half
expected to be thrown about as usual.”

“I was tempted, but the fog is too thick, I
wouldn’t risk the horses.”

“I am glad you have a care for the horses,”
he said ironically.

She did not know what to think about that
twinkle in his eyes.

He searched in his watch pocket a moment and
then extracted peppermint, sliding it between his white teeth
whilst still watching her.

After a moment of staring at her, he
murmured, “Men don’t have a passion for women like that,
Mulhern.”

“I don’t recall asking if you did.” She
turned to walk toward the coach, hearing him walking a bit behind
her.

A few steps from the coach he said in the
foggy night, “I haven’t made love to a woman in years.”

“I’m sure you have.” Her foot was on the step
to climb up when he caught her arm. She was forced to lower it,
stand there, with him holding her arm and very close behind her
whilst he leaned his head down and whispered, “These suitors you
mentioned, do you make love with them.”

“No.”

“No….” He repeated and then spread chills
over her skin when his lips nearly touched her ear. “Neither do
I…make love.”

“You have bedded half of London.” She tried
to pull away but the coach was before her.

He snaked his arm across her waist,
effectively trapping her for a moment, and Haven was too uncertain
of his mood and intent to do more than still herself.

Somewhere against her hair, he husked,
“Bedding. No, not even that. I have nearly forgotten what the heady
feeling of desire is. Women are drawn to me, to be sure. They are a
complete blur in my mind.”

“I pity them, then.”

“Yes. You should. I should be more gallant
and turn down all the offers.”

She snorted and drew in her breath. “What do
you expect me to say, that I feel sorry for you? You may well be
used, but you do so in turn. If that isn’t what you desire, it’s
your fault.”

“True. Do you know, until recently I did not
give much thought to you as woman grown, Mulhern.”

“It’s nothing to you.”

“Are you a virgin then? Pure, untouched…”

“That’s none of your business.” She reached
for his arm, pushing it down, and moving her body away.

Turning to look at him, she saw his slightly
mocking smile and said, “You’re intoxicated. I am quite used to
your being so. There is no point in trying to provoke me, my lord.
Get in the coach. We’re only a mile from home.”

He reached out so that his fingertips touched
her cheek in the shadow of the hood, and then they grazed her lips.
Haven’s knees shook. Foxed or no, she was struggling to resist the
thrall of him. She was coming to realize what that “effect” he had
on her was, and knowing him as she did, knowing too much, she
needed to resist.

His sooty lashes half-mast, a particular glow
in those green eyes, he drawled huskily, “Women who don’t know
their appeal are rare, very rare. And such a woman… can intoxicate
a man in every way.”

Her breath shallow, Haven watched that hand
drop and did not swallow until he moved and got into the coach. For
a while, she leaned against it, eyes closed, fingers scoring over
her lips. Dear God. She had experienced his drunken sarcasm, his
curses, even comical and embarrassing moments with him, but never
this. Whatever was his mood, she had not seen it before. He hid
everything behind raking and drinking. This was the rake, the
seducer, and no wonder women succumbed.

Once in her seat, having the ribbons, she
hardly saw the foggy night or registered the distance. (We do not
make love), he had said. She was not so green as to not know he
meant being intimate with passion and desire. She had long observed
that he took what was offered, and that females cared not
apparently. She did not feel sorry for him, but she wished she did
not know he made the distinction—and apparently thought much about
it.

They could not arrive at the coach house soon
enough for Haven.

She silently unhitched the team after the
Marquis alighted, and then led the horses down to the stable, where
she was met by two sleepy eyed lads who took them.

Back at the coach house, she removed her coat
and smoothed her hair, the lads showing up smartly, to back the
conveyance in the proper place for cleaning the next morning.

Sitting on the thick lower step to her
father’s apartments, she had assumed Deme was gone, on his way to
the manor house. However, after the lads left, she heard splashing,
and left her coat where it was, walking to right to find him
coatless too, his hat lay with it on a stool, while he washed his
face in a pail of water.

From a lantern left for her by her father,
she watched the droplets on his swarthy hands before he shoved his
hair into some order. He used his handkerchief to dry his face; his
sleeves were rolled to the elbow.

As he dragged the cloth down, he turned
toward her. “Would it wake your father if you fetched me some
coffee?”

“No.” She sighed, realizing he was not going
anywhere yet. She motioned to a polished slat door. “In there is a
small office, I’ll be right back.”

Grabbing up her coat as she climbed the
stairs, Haven was as quiet as possible getting water in the pot,
scooping up already ground coffee and then stirring the embers of
the fire in an iron stove. She cleaned herself up while it brewed,
pulling off muddy boots, to pad to her room.

After combing her hair, washing her face, she
found a soft cream shirt and pair of wool trousers, dry socks and
her spare boots. She did not put the shoes on until she had taken
the tray with pot and cups out and set them outside the door.
Closing it and wincing as it squeaked, she put on her boots and
then carried the tray below.

Amber light shone over the area before she
reached the slatted door. Nudging with her foot, she got it open
and entered by globed candle light. He did not sit behind a desk,
but on it. She passed by him to a low table between two chairs just
under a window. It was not a large space and after seating herself,
she poured coffee she had already mixed with thick cream.

He slid off the desk and took it from her
hand, lowering himself into one of the plain leather chairs, knees
wide and spine slumped as he relaxed.

She sipped her own, leaning back and
observing him. Somewhere in her mind, she chanted, let him be his
usual ass of a self, please. She really could not take it if he
acted half way nice to her. Particularly if he talked to her again
as he had on the road.

Resting the cup on one his thighs, he met her
gaze, the candlelight reflecting in the deep green, those blasted
thick sooty lashes making them so sensual her stomach was doing
summersaults. Most of that hair was tucked behind his ears but some
spiraled damp against his temple and cheekbone, drawing attention
to the fact, they were fine boned. His mouth was dark, sensual, and
almost full. His nose was straight, strong, and she had once lost
herself watching him in repose, always feeling some response inside
of her to the warm hue of his skin and that dark coloring in
contrast to such pure green eyes…

Moments seemed to tick off and then he leaned
and placed his cup on the table. Not knowing why, Haven braced
herself, and in one smooth moment he had taken hers, set it
down—was taking her chin in his hand, and then kissing her.

Making a sound of surprise, she had her
breath stolen when his tongue eased between her teeth and touched
her own. Raising her hands, Haven pushed at him, pressing back and
turning her head aside. “My lord.”

“Shhh. I’m not going to hurt you.” He got to
his feet and used a hold on her shoulders to bring her out of the
chair. His voice was hushed, quiet, but his eyes were intense.
Given the small space, there was nowhere for her to go.

“Look at me.”

She did. “I think you’d better—”

His head descended. This time a moan escaped
because his lips were sensual and his tongue was boldly laving
hers. There was a seeking next, a too gentle one by that tongue
that made Haven respond despite herself.

Her lips became malleable, pliant. Her tongue
answered the soft caress of his.

Dizzy, nearly trembling, she felt the wash of
weakness and light-headedness fill her. This time when he let her
draw a breath, his mouth moved to the side of her neck. She pushed
and blindly took a step, rocking the small table her shin smacked
into, but she got around it.

At the door, Deme caught and turned her.
Coming close so her back was pressed against the slats.

She looked up at him. “Don’t.”

He skimmed his hands up to her shoulders
again, and then rested them under her hair at the sides of her
neck, his thumbs brushing her jaw line. It left a tingle a trail of
sensitive flesh behind. “I’m kissing you, Mulhern.”

His words were followed by another dip of his
head. Kisses next were soft, supple nibbles at the corner of her
mouth, then whisper soft upon her lips.

She had her eyes closed.

It only intensified the sensations.

“You smell of fresh flowers and rain,” he
murmured near her ear before pressing his lips there.

There was something about the gentle way he
did it, something in the slight part of them, the moments he tasted
her skin that pushed back any fear she had. Haven was not afraid of
him in the typical way, she was more afraid of herself—because in
her secret dreams, she had wondered….

His lips were warm when they covered hers
again, and Haven could not help it. She opened for him. Her body,
her skin, flushed when their tongues did a sensual duel. He was
teaching and tasting her, and he was doing it as lover would,
unhurried, making her feel what tongues could taste, and giving her
inner mouth caresses that were like—sex.

He released her lips slowly, the flesh
clinging from the mating.

Her lashes parted enough to look at him, her
mind clear enough despite the haze to realize he was undoing
buttons on her shirt.

“My lips, my mouth,” he said, before parting
the edges, “Want to feel you.”

She released a loud unsteady breath, gazing
downwards the moment he dipped, and his sensual lips were around
her pale pink nipple. Her breath grew more uneven and ragged.

Haven helplessly took her hands from being
pressed against the wood and carefully cupped his head. His soft
hair was cool amid her fingers. Those lips were pure velvet on the
now painfully hard peaks.

She felt it between her legs as he suckled
one, then he moved to the other. They were not large breasts,
rather shallow, milk white and large of nipple. He cupped the
underside and his head moved, his inner lips caressing that
hardening flesh.

There was a change she recognized as arousal
in him. Somewhere between panting and absorbing shocks sparking
through her body, she saw his tongue flicker over her areola, and
his white teeth teased them.

It was a stinging pleasure, exquisite. Haven
knew she was lost.

After thoroughly suckling each, leaving her
breathless, and the tips quivering wet, Deme raised his head and
kissed her. His tongue and lips seemed more erotic because of where
they hand been. Every time the tip of his tongue brushed hers, her
nipples felt it.

He suckled on her tongue and bit at her
lip.

“Oh. God.” She managed when he let her
breathe again, and dropped her head forward, resting it against his
upper chest a moment. Her hands moved from his hair, down to his
upper arms. “This must stop,” she groaned.

His own hands were warm and firm on her
sides. He brushed his lips in her hair. “Does it not feel
pleasant?”

“Very.” She released a vacillating breath,
eyes squeezed shut. Her body felt coiled, everything inside her
skin tense, her skin itself, ultra-sensitive. “That doesn’t make it
right. I’m not one of your London ladies or serving wenches.”

One hand moved round to her spine, the other
easing up higher, just under her breast. “I have no confusion about
whom you are. I rarely kiss a doxie, and I certainly do not feel
this aroused with one. I know exactly who you are.”

She shook her head and moaned. “We don’t even
like each other.”

“True. We don’t.” he laughed tersely. “But
I’ve wanted to kiss those lips for some time. Who knew, Mulhern,
that once I had, I would be more intoxicated by that than brandy?
Your skin, your breasts, are quiet the most beautiful things I have
ever seen.”

She lifted her head, vision fogged by her own
intoxication with him. Her whisper was as low and husky as his.
“You shouldn’t be talking to me like this. We shouldn’t…”

Deme stared deep into her eyes, his arousal,
yes, not that far from the surface. “How intimate have you been
with a man, Mulhern? Have you found pleasure…?”

“No. But you are foxed; you won’t remember
this, let alone…”

His hand lifted and his fingers pressed to
her lips. “What does it matter? What does it? I have a need, a
desire I have not felt for many years to give pleasure. To have my
hands and mouth on your skin, to taste passion, honest, passion and
desire. Let me pleasure you. What is the harm in that, hmm?”

She dropped her gaze to his mouth, ignoring
the knowing smile that formed there for the moment, because what
was the point in pretending he could not seduce her? He could. She
had always been attracted to him even when she did not like him.
She still did not, but she could not resist the temptation.

More experienced than herself, Deme saw her
moment of surrender and lowered his head, kissing her while his
hand caressed over her backside, his body coming closer. The
kissing was more erotic, more explicit now.

Her sounds filled the little space; hot,
compact, climbing higher as the arousal inside her coiled and then
widened to every nerve and pore.