The Gamekeeper's Lady (21 page)

After a moment or two, she turned back to the fire, staring into the flames, her shoulders hunched. Drained of all spirit.

He dropped to the seat beside her on the sofa. ‘Are you unwell?’

‘I’m fine.’ She turned to face him. ‘I just wish I had left yesterday.’

He put an arm around her shoulder. ‘Don’t you want to know your father’s name? Hear what he has to say?’

She rested her head on his shoulder. God, it felt so right, her looking to him for comfort and support. His chest ached with the pain of knowing he would never see her again after tomorrow.

‘I don’t know.’ She shivered, her teeth chattering until she clenched her jaw.

He pressed the back of his hand against her cheek, felt the chill of her skin. ‘You are freezing. You need something to warm you from the inside.’

He rose and rang the bell. A lackey came to the door and Robert told him what he needed. While he waited for the man’s return, he pilfered the counterpane off the bed in the adjoining chamber and tucked it around her shoulders. He knelt before her, chafing her hands. From the rigid expression on her face he guessed that this girl, who he thought of as fearless, was deeply distressed.

He ran a finger down her cheek. ‘I’m sorry I suspected you of trying to pin the blame on me. I should have known better.’

She smiled, her lips tinged with blue. ‘Yes. You should have.’

There was the spirit he sought. The fight. Yet her eyes remained shadowed.

He brought her hands to his mouth, warmed them with his breath, kissed the fragile bones that wrought such magic with charcoal and paper. ‘Everything will be fine. I promise.’

She looked away, staring into the fire. Took a deep breath.

A little colour returned to her cheeks. ‘I will be glad when it is over, that is all.’ She gave him a watery smile.

The sight made his chest feel overly full as if his heart had grown too large to be contained.

A knock of the door heralded the arrival of the wine. Robert took the tray to the hearth, filled the small kettle with madeira, spooned in cinnamon and cloves and added a pinch of mace. He heaped in generous spoonfuls of sugar, then hung the pot on the crane above the fire.

Soon the liquid began to simmer and the room filled with a sweet, heady fragrance as he stirred.

‘Now, Miss Bracewell,’ he said, pouring the mixture into a glass, ‘you will oblige me by drinking this. It will warm you. Then we will tuck you up in bed.’

‘I don’t feel the slightest bit tired. Will you stay a while? I-I find I don’t want to be alone.’ The soft pleading in her eyes sent hot fire leaping in his blood. Every nerve ending in his body urged him to accept. He fought desire, tempered it with kindness.

‘I’ll stay for a while. Until you fall asleep.’

‘You may be here all night, then.’ She took the glass from his hand and sniffed at the contents.

‘Go ahead. Drink. I promise not to poison you.’

She laughed then. ‘Silly R-Robert.’

God. He loved the way she laughed and adored the way she said his name with that tiny hesitation. It saddened him to think he might never hear either sound again.

She sipped at the mixture and wrinkled her nose.

‘Too hot?’ he asked.

‘No. I’ve never tasted anything like it before.’

‘Drink it to please me.’

She took another taste and another, sipping delicately, her lips turning the colour of rubies from the wine, her cheeks flushing. ‘I like it.’

One glass and she’d be sleeping like a baby. And then he’d leave.

Frederica sipped the rest of the wine in silence, her hands cupped around the glass bowl, her eyes focused deep within. He felt an odd desire to ask her if she’d miss him. Not once in all his years on the town had he wanted a woman to remember him once their affair was over. He preferred to think of them moving on, as he moved on to some new alliance. Just the thought of her sitting like this beside a warm fire in quiet companionship with another man caused his heart to still.

Even if he wasn’t the first man in her life, he felt closer to her than he’d felt to anyone, except maybe Charlie. And that had been years ago.

He got up from the floor, and sat beside her on the sofa, tucking her into the hollow of his arm. She leaned back against his shoulder. ‘Mmm,’ she murmured, taking another sip. ‘It really is quite delicious.’

It was no good thinking of the future. He needed to mine what enjoyment he could glean from today in full measure. The knowledge that they could at least be friends. This evening would make for a pleasant memory. For them both.

Her eyelids slid closed and the glass, with only the dregs left in the bottom, tilted. The covering around her shoulders rose and fell with each deepening breath.

The evening was about to end. With a sense of loss, he slowly removed the glass from her grasp and set it on the floor.

She was sleeping. Time to put her to bed and honourably depart.

Chapter Twelve

C
arefully, he slid from beneath her and propped her in the corner of the sofa. She looked vulnerable and young. He couldn’t leave her here, sitting up, still clothed. He scooped her up in his arms, still bundled in the counterpane, her head lolling on his chest, her breathing wine-laden and heavy. He carried her through to the bedroom and lay her down on her side on the bed. She made no movement as he pulled down the covering and undid the laces down the back of her bodice. Her nape, so elegant, so delicate, so pale in the candlelight, begged his touch. He pressed his lips to the top of her spine and rolled her on her back.

Her eyelids, crescented by dusky lashes, fluttered. Her head lolled on the pillow.

‘Hush,’ he whispered. ‘Sleep. You are safe.’

Held fast by the drugging effect of the wine, her lips parted on a sigh. Her eyes remained closed. The skin of her eyelids was as translucent as the finest porcelain.

Inch by inch, he eased the gown off her softly rounded shoulders and releasing her arms. He pushed the bodice down to her waist, keeping his mind fixed on the task, not on the rise of pale breasts above her chemise and stays. Practical front fastening stays for the girl who dressed without the help of a maid. It took no time at all to unlace them and pull them free.

The gown he worked carefully over her lovely hips and down her legs. He tossed it aside and went to work on her shoes. How he loved her elegantly arched feet inside the practical woollen stockings, the curve of her calf, the gentle bend of her knee. So pretty. And soft. And lost to him.

Beneath her shift, her veiled body tempted his ardour. The rosy peaked rise of high small breasts. The darker triangle of soft fur between her thighs. Granite hard with desire, he allowed himself no more than a glimpse before he covered her up.

He leaned over and kissed her forehead. ‘Sweet dreams, little elf,’ he murmured.

Her eyelids flew up. She caught at his sleeve. ‘You are leaving?’

Damn it. It was as if she had a sixth sense where he was concerned. ‘Sleep. It will be a busy day tomorrow. You will need your strength.’

Eyes wide open, she stared at him. ‘You said you would stay.’

‘I thought you were asleep.’ He sat down on the edge of the bed.

‘Lord R-Robert?’ she said.

He turned back with a frown. ‘What is this lord business?’

‘That is your title, is it not?’

‘I’m Robert to my friends.’

‘Is that what we are?’ she asked in a small voice. ‘Friends?’

Friends. Lovers. And so much more. ‘Yes,’ he said firmly, knowing that was all she could be. If he didn’t draw back now, he might never be able to let her go.

‘Do you have to leave?’ she murmured. ‘I feel so much better with you here.’

Dear God, she was impossible to resist when she looked at him with such trust.

She trusted him. And needed him. It had been years since he felt needed. He liked it. He stroked a wisp of hair back from her forehead, felt the warmth of her skin. ‘If you sleep now, it will all seem much less worrisome in the light of day.’

His gaze fixed on her face, he kissed the inside of her wrist. A shiver ran through her. Imperceptible to anyone else, he felt her desire like a bolt of lightning through his body. He was rock hard and aching.

‘Lie beside me until I sleep?’ she asked.

Did she have any idea what she was doing to him? Of course she did, the little minx. But she didn’t understand that as a practised seducer he had a will of iron honed by years of practice. More experienced women than she had failed to break his control.

He stretched out beside her on the bed, cradled her in one arm. ‘Now, close your eyes,’ he said.

She snuggled against him. God, it felt good. Never had he experienced anything like this sense of companionship with a woman. Holding her, feeling her warmth, the tickle of her hair against his cheek, the pressure of her elbow against his ribs, the swell of her hip against his thigh filled him with contentment, with the desire to protect. Not in the way a man would protect any woman from harm, but the primal need to shelter and ward.

He would remember her always. Just like this.

Unless he stayed with her.

Something inside him snapped, like a cord pulled too tight, it whipped back at him, flayed at his soul. If he stayed, how would he support them? He could not live on the money she made from painting and keep any shred of himself.

‘Come with me to Italy,’ she urged sleepily.

Did she read minds? Or only his? The temptation to say yes burned in his throat.

‘What would I do?’

‘You could carry my bags,’ she said, her eyelashes flicking up, a mischievous smile curving her lips. ‘Guard me from the
banditti
I hear are rife in the hills, while I earn money painting portraits of rich travellers against the backdrop of famous landmarks.’

He laughed to hide his discomfort as even this vision of himself tempted unbearably. She’d cast her wood-sprite spell, soft, seditious strands of longing, until he lay before her like a willing captive ready to do ought to please her. Had he sunk so low he no longer cared what he became? ‘Is that all you want of me?’

‘You could bring me my chocolate in bed every morning.’ She cast him a knowing little elfin smile that said far too much.

His groin tightened. He caught her and pulled her close. ‘Only if I can lie beside you and make wicked love to you as you drink it,’ he growled.

She wriggled with pleasure.

Her hands went to the handkerchief at his throat and pulled at the knot.

This was a game he had played many times. But it felt so much more important with her. It wasn’t a game. It wasn’t casual. Each time he made love to her, it made leaving that much harder. He closed his hands around hers and she stilled.

‘Don’t deny me our farewell, Robert,’ she said quietly. ‘Don’t deny us our last night together.’

‘Sweetheart, it’s the wine talking.’

‘I need you, Robert. I’m so afraid.’

He stared at her in shock, at the panic in her eyes and the tremble of her full lips.

‘My father,’ she choked out. ‘How do I know he’s not some dreadful criminal? A murderer?’ A tear rolled down her face.

‘Ahh, sweetheart, is this what saps at your courage?’

‘It is like some macabre tale,’ she whispered. ‘You have to know the outcome, but you know it will be terrible.’ She dashed the tear away with the heel of her hand. ‘I’m such a coward.’ Her voice broke and she started to sob.

He cradled her against his chest, held her close and listened to her soft little choking sounds, felt her body shiver and shake and had nothing to say except, ‘Hush.’ Over and over, he whispered the same sound, rocking her against his chest.

At last her tears stopped and she took a deep breath.

Finally he dared speak. ‘No matter who your father is, you are you. A talented and wonderful woman.’

‘Nothing good ever comes from bad. What if I’m tainted by two evil parents? My mother and my father?’

‘Good God. You are tormenting yourself.’

She shook her head and looked up at him with a smile so sad it sliced right through the wall of his chest to carve a wound in his heart.

What could he say? He dare not give into something she would regret. ‘Look at Henry the Eighth. He was a horror. And if I’m remembering correctly, Ann Boleyn was no saint. But their daughter Elizabeth was England’s greatest Queen. And besides, shouldn’t you give your father a chance to speak for himself?’

A small silence greeted his words, followed by a determined nod. ‘Thank you. You are right. If I don’t do this, I will always wonder.’

She rolled towards him, then propped herself up on one elbow. She brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. ‘I missed you dreadfully, you know.’ She said it as if it had been weeks, not a day or two. But he knew what she meant; he’d missed her damnably too. He had filled the empty space with anger.

‘Love me, please, R-Robert. One last time.’

He was undone by her tiny smile of hope, her sweet smile. He’d never been a saint. Never been able to resist a woman’s plea. Why start now? He melded his lips to hers, felt the quiver of her body against his chest, the heady spiral of desire in his limbs and he took her mouth in greedy thrusts of his tongue while his hand drew her shift up her thighs. He cupped her in his palm and she rotated her hips.

Eager. Giving and damnably sexy. ‘Little witch.’

She laughed into his mouth and her hands went to his shirt. She tore it from the waistband of his breeches and wrenched it up.

He lifted his hands from her body and let her pull it over his head. ‘Always in a hurry,’ he said.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said, raking her gaze over his chest and down to his breeches.

His body went rock hard at the admiration and lust in her gaze, but it was the soft little smile on her lips that sent him beyond thought. He captured her mouth in his, swept it with his tongue, melded his body to her soft, feminine curves and set reason adrift.

She clung to his neck with her arms as his mouth wooed her lips. He felt as if he could lose himself within her for ever.

He lay her down and sat on the edge of the bed to yank off his boots while she traced circles on his back with so light a touch his muscles quivered and flinched in delight and torture.

‘Hussy,’ he said.

‘I must take after my mother,’ she laughed, her fingertips exploring a particularly sensitive spot just below his ribs. He groaned, stood up and divested himself of his breeches and stockings before whipping around and catching her fingers in his hand. A wicked smile curved her lips.

‘Think you can play with me, do you?’ he growled, lifting her hand to his lips. He nuzzled her forefinger free, then drew it into his mouth with a swift suck.

Her indrawn gasp brought a smile to his lips and a throb of blood to his groin.

He lifted her hands over her head and ran his gaze over her much as she had viewed him a few moments before, taking in the taut perfection of her small breasts, the tightly furled nipples, the tiny waist beneath the upraised ribs, the hollow of her navel. ‘Where to start,’ he said.

‘You look ready to eat me,’ she gasped.

‘Oh, now there’s an idea.’ He let his gaze drop to the triangle of curls at the apex of her thighs, her female mystery beneath the fine lawn of her chemise, her lovely pale thighs above the tops of her stockings and the plain garters of brown. He’d seen garters of roses and lace, and none had ever looked so erotic as these.

Her wrists captured in one hand, he lowered his head, swirled each budded nipple with his tongue and watched her hips squirm in delight and longing. He trailed his tongue down between the valley of her breasts and dipped his tongue into her navel. How sweet she smelled, vanilla and roses and aroused woman. A scent to drive a man over the edge before he was ready. How rough the filmy fabric felt against his tongue compared to the silk of her skin beneath.

‘R-Robert,’ she gasped and there was shock in her voice, and laughter and below all of that wicked seduction.

‘What, sweet?’ he murmured against her belly. ‘Do you want me to stop?’

He blew a warm breath against her skin.

‘Oh,’ she squeaked. ‘No.’

He grazed his jaw against the soft swell of her belly, delighting in her arching spine.

And then he reached his goal. The centre of her femininity. A musky scent filled his nostrils, powerfully erotic. A film of sheer fabric and a nest of pale brown curls hid his prize.

He licked at the shadowed crease, parting her folds with his tongue, rubbing the lawn against her most sensitive spot and felt her writhe and jerk.

With his free hand he raised her chemise, slowly, pausing to run a finger beneath her garter, and all the while he licked and nuzzled and breathed against her feminine flesh.

She moaned, low and guttural. The primitive sound hit him deep in his chest and zinged its way to his pulsing shaft, the blood beating hot and heavy, the demand for entry, the urgings of the feral beast in what was left of his brain.

A master of seduction never let the beast out of its cage, though he had never found it so difficult as now to remain in control, to keep from plunging into her and driving to the hilt.

Letting go of her wrists, he lifted the chemise to her waist and bared her most sensitive place to his tongue, licking and nipping at her clitoris, revelling in her cries of anguished pleasure. Her fingers burrowed into his hair and her hips pressed up to meet his mouth. He placed his hands beneath her buttocks, kneaded the firm, silky flesh, gauged the roundness, the sweet perfection, and raised her higher, opened her for better access and plunged his tongue into her hot, wet depths. She let out a moan of pure joy.

All passion, his Frederica. All womanly desire. God, he wanted to be inside her heat, feel her tight around his aching flesh.

But this was for her. He worshipped at the shrine of her core, flicking her swollen bud with his tongue, grazing it with his teeth when she wriggled, employed every art he knew to keep her on the brink, until her hands fell away from him, her legs lay wide in submission and she whispered, ‘Now, R-Robert.’

A demand that went straight to his shaft. He’d never been this hard. But this was for her. He flickered his tongue across her clitoris, then suckled.

Shuddering, trembling, she shattered on a cry.

He raised himself up to watch languid bliss replace the tightness in her face, to watch a rosy glow infuse her pale skin.

Her eyelids fluttered open and she smiled. ‘You are wonderful.’

And he felt like a lad again, pure, unsullied and terribly proud. ‘I aim to please.’

‘But you did not—’ she said.

He kissed her, felt her taste herself on his mouth and eased the head of his shaft into her entrance.

‘Oh, my,’ she whispered.

Eyes fixed on her face, he concentrated on the blinding sensations of joining her in her pleasure, absorbed the tiny pulses of the aftershock of her orgasm, stroking the walls of her tight sheath fraction by fraction with minute shifts of his hips.