The Reckless Bride (27 page)

Loretta stared at him, as did Esme, Rose, and Gibson. No one rushed to answer his question.

Eventually, Loretta stirred. “Perhaps those incidents were attacks by thieves. If they weren’t cult-inspired, what else could they be?”

He met her eyes. “I don’t know.” After a moment, he grimaced. “As things stand, we’re left to assume that
three different groups of attackers, who attacked this party in three different cities, were nothing more than opportunistic thieves.”

E
vening came and went. Later still, Rafe kept the first watch, seated on the inn’s main stairs below the right-angle turn, from where he could see the front door.

He had plenty of time to think and brood.

In the chill small hours Hassan came to relieve him. Rafe stood, stretched, then, dropping a hand on Hassan’s shoulder as the big Pathan settled on the stair, Rafe turned and went up. Reaching the first floor, he headed down the corridor toward their rooms.

The cult had yet to get wind of them. It seemed increasingly likely they wouldn’t, at least not in Strasbourg.

He hadn’t imagined they would be so lucky. If the gods remained willing and continued to steer him clear of any cultist who could recognize him, it seemed possible he might even gain England’s green shores before encountering an assassin.

The old Reckless would have chafed at that, at the lack of action. Instead, with Loretta, Esme, Rose, and Gibson with him, Rafe would simply be grateful.

Reaching his room, he opened the door—and instantly came alert.

Light spilled from the lamp. It was turned low, but he hadn’t left it burning.

Slowly, silently, he slipped past the door’s edge, swiftly surveyed the room. No one. He exhaled, then quietly shut the door. Maybe the maid had come in to tidy.

He’d taken two steps deeper into the room before his gaze penetrated the shadows beyond the lamp’s glow and he saw the figure lying on his bed.

Sable silk spilled across his pillow.

He hesitated, then walked closer, until he stood by the bed’s side looking down at Loretta. She was in her nightgown—not a good thing—but the warm robe she wore over it was tightly belted; much better. Her slippers were on her feet. She lay on her side on the couterpane, her head on the pillow, one hand tucked beneath her cheek.

From the slow, steady rise and fall of her breasts she was deeply asleep.

His mouth had dried. He moistened his lips, then compressed them, trying to think of how best to handle this. How best to handle her.

His initial impulse was to leave her where she was, undisturbed, and slink away to sleep somewhere else. Her bed, for instance.

But then Rose would go to waken her in the morning, and find either an empty bed, or him; either scenario would lead to difficult questions, ones with even more difficult answers.

So … he drew in a deep breath—and the subtle perfume that was simply her wreathed through his brain.

He gritted his teeth against the inevitable effect. Waited … shored up his control. “Loretta.”

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

He tried again, louder. “Loretta?”

Not so much as a flicker of an eyelash. He didn’t dare say her name more forcefully.

Steeling himself, he reached for her shoulder. Stopped. He stood between her and the lamplight.
Waking to see him, a large, dark, masculine shadow leaning over her … she might react badly.

Girding his loins, he eased down to sit alongside her on the bed. He couldn’t help but notice the delicate curves of her cheek, her jaw, the long, evocative line of her throat. Her skin showed porcelain white through the black veil of her hair, and tempted his fingers. Drew them.

Abruptly his senses were swamped by her—by tactile memories of her softness, of the curves he already knew, alluring recollections of her warmth, her scent, her lips. Her taste.

Shutting out the distraction, refocusing on what he had to do, meant to do, took effort. He shifted so the light from the lamp struck his face. Mentally gritting his teeth, ensuring his expression was as blank as he could make it, he reached for her shoulder. Closing his hand over the quintessentially feminine curve, he gripped lightly and shook. “Loretta? Loretta, sweetheart, wake up.”

He didn’t realize what he’d said until she eased over onto her back and opened her eyes.

For an instant, wide-eyed, she looked into his face. His heart stopped for that instant, then started to beat again as her lids lowered and her lips curved.

“Oh. Good. I’ve been waiting for you.” A sleep-tousled siren, she stretched, all slow, sinuous suppleness, then delicately patted away a yawn. “I must have fallen asleep.”

“Yes, you did. And now it’s exceedingly late and you need to go back to your bed and fall asleep there.” He started to rise—to put distance between them—but she caught his sleeve.

“No. Stay. I wanted to talk to you. I need to tell you something—”

“Loretta—”

“—and yes, I know it’s the height of impropriety to come to your room like this, let alone fall asleep in your bed, but"—releasing him, she pushed herself up to sit
against the headboard—"that I did should convey to you how set on talking to you I am.”

She was entirely awake now. Lamplight fell on her face,revealing the stubborn line of her chin. Her gaze met his, held it, belligerent determination etched in periwinkle blue.

He narrowed his eyes, his own jaw setting.

She narrowed hers back. She folded her arms. Her expression took on a mulish cast; from experience with Esme, he knew what that meant.

“Very well.” His tone was ungracious. He didn’t care. “Talk. I’m listening.” Even as he said the words, he knew capitulation was a mistake.

How big a mistake … he was sure she would teach him.

Loretta considered him for a moment, then simply stated, “I came to tell you that whatever it is that’s growing between us, I feel it, too, just as much as you, and I need to know what it is.”

Unfolding her arms, she shifted forward the better to look into his face. “I need to learn more—about it, about what feeds it. Enough to know why I feel as I do.” She searched his eyes. “What we discussed on the observation deck that day? You insist I must think, and weigh, and make a rational decision, yet I can’t make any decision on that subject at all—not until I know.” She gestured between them. “About this. About what it is, why I feel it. And that you feel the same. For the same reasons.”

He held her gaze, but his eyes, his face, were unreadable. A long moment passed, then he said, “I don’t have the answers.”

“I didn’t think you did.”

“Then why are you here?”

He knew. She could see him steeling himself to deny her. She wasn’t having that. Holding his gaze, she reached out and sank her fingers into his cravat. Clutched. Slowly drew him closer as she shifted forward.

She saw his summer blue eyes flare. She didn’t give him a chance to think of how to stop her. She dropped her gaze to his lips. “I’m here to learn those answers.”

Lids falling, she kissed him.

Brushed, stroked, pressed her lips to his, then parted them. Lured.

And he came. Reluctant, unwilling, but she’d expected that. Expected to have to take the lead in this, to make her demands plain. She did, boldly, her tongue touching his, tempting, caressing, until she felt his response. Tasted the hunger he tried so hard to hide.

Once she had, she knew there would be no turning back. Not for her, not in this, not tonight. She could see her goal mentally before her, burning bright. She wanted to explore his hunger. Wanted to learn of it, experience it, wallow in it.

Wanted to feel it devour her.

One hand remaining sunk in his cravat, she sent the other skating up to cup his nape, to hold him to the kiss that was steadily growing hotter, to the melding of their mouths that grew, heartbeat by heartbeat, more erotic.

More primitive, more provocative.

She wanted.

Him. This.

More.

Yet even as her body tensed and she tried to tip backward, taking him with her to the billows of his bed, she felt him holding back, hardened muscles all but quivering beneath iron restraint.

How to break it, rupture it?

How to conquer him?

She allowed their lips to part only enough to breathe, “If you want me in your future, don’t deny me now.” She kissed him again, harder, openly, brazenly challenging, then drew back just enough to meet his eyes. “I need to learn, and you’re the only one who can teach me.”

Their breaths mingled, laced with rising passion. Eyes locked on his, she spoke to the summer blue, to the heat that simmered behind it. “You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted to learn from.” She dropped her gaze to his lips. “And I need to learn about you, about me, about us. About this. Now.”

She closed her lips on his, poured every ounce of need she felt into the kiss. Into him.

Gloried when he broke. When he shifted, when he effortlessly
seized control of the kiss, and his hands rose and closed about her shoulders.

The tenor of the kiss changed. From hungry to greedy to ravenous.

To an exchange so primitively evocative, so searing, it curled her toes.

She leaned back and he followed. Lips locked, she fell back on the bed and he shifted and followed her down, pressing her down, caging and holding her.

Every sense she possessed sang with delight at the promise implicit in the rock-hard body suspended over hers. Thrilled, expectant anticipation poured through her, heated her, excited her. Wrapping her arms about his neck, she poured all she felt into the kiss, pressed the heady mix on him.

Rafe groaned. Drew her in, drank her in, and reached for more.

Deny her? Had he really thought he could? He couldn’t find the strength to draw back from the kiss, to even mute it. Her demands, her wants, her encouragement combined into a potent elixir. He was addicted and couldn’t get enough.

He was lost. He knew it. He was hers to command. Tonight she’d discovered that.

She’d already learned that much.

And he couldn’t find it in him to deny her the rest. To let her see the rest. Explore the rest. Experience it.

Some primitive self he barely recognized wanted her with a passion beyond taming, a passion beyond reason, or civilized restraint.

A passion that burned in his gut, in his heart. That burned just for her, that only she could ignite.

She’d set fire to his tinder. Now they had to survive the blaze.

He surrendered, and took charge.

If her innocence inspired his chivalry, her unfettered brazenness provoked a more primal response. A
blatantly sexual reaction.

He wanted her beneath him, wanted her cries of surrender filling his ears as he sank into her sheath and possessed her, as he took, demanded, and claimed every iota of passion she had in her, yet even now, even here, the commander that was an intrinsic part of him was willing to cede a battle in order to win the war.

She wanted to learn, was demanding he teach her, so he would. He would teach her of passion, of desire so sharp it scored the soul, of need that beat like a pulse beneath skin and demanded satiation.

He would teach her of fascination that transmuted to obsession, of sensation so bright it burned. Of wants so elemental that once evoked they would never die, but instead would bind her to him, would keep her his, from tonight until forever.

That was his battle plan, his campaign for the night, his goal. He set out to secure it.

Pressing her into the bed, using his weight to keep her pinned, he reached for the belt of her robe. One sharp tug and it unraveled. He pushed the halves of the robe wide, paused as his mind swiftly gauged the terrain, its possibilities.

His lips and tongue still engaged with hers, he shifted, turned so his hip rested alongside hers, stretched his long legs down the mattress, then brought one up to hold hers trapped. Angling his shoulders over hers, he settled on his elbows, his chest a breath away from the peaks of her breasts.

She wanted to learn, but he had no intention of losing any clothes himself. There was only so much temptation he could take.

His weight on one elbow, he raised his other hand to frame her jaw, held her steady as he deepened the kiss even further, as he settled to plunder her mouth in a fundamentally possessive fashion.

Loretta met him, matched him, invited and incited. This was what she wanted, to know all he could show her.

His hands found her breasts. Her senses leapt.

They closed, and she stopped thinking.

All but stopped breathing as, his touch screened by the fine material of her nightgown, he traced and weighed, then closed his hands and possessed.

His lips still holding hers, he kneaded, and her awareness skittered, scattered, her nerves awash with sensation. With sparking expectation.

His fingers tightened about one nipple and bright feeling arced and streaked through her.

Heat bloomed beneath her skin.

Turned to a fiery demanding ache when he released her and set his fingers to the buttons of her nightgown, and she waited.

Kissing him. Savoring the heady male taste of him, yet impatient and yearning for the heat of his touch.

It returned moments later, a gift of delight when he brushed the halves of her bodice wide and set one hard palm to her flushed and heated skin.

He cupped her firm swollen flesh and her senses exulted. Drawing back almost languidly from the conflagration their kiss had become, he trailed fire and flames over her jaw, down her throat, over the taut swell of the breast he held plumped in one hand. Then he closed his mouth over the tightly furled peak and suckled.

Her body arched. She barely managed to mute her shriek.

As he feasted—what other word was there to describe such heated, deliberate attentions?—strangled shrieks built in her throat. Unlocking the fingers still sunk in his cravat, she pressed her knuckles to her lips to hold the telltale cries back.

He took her precaution as an invitation. Lids heavy, lashes low, she felt more than saw the glance, one of heated summer blue burning with desire, he cast her,
but then he focused his attention fully on her breasts—on teaching her of all he could make her feel, all he could wring from her just by caressing her artfully, too knowledgeably, there.