“A gross miscalculation, Caro.” He licked a line up her neck.
“This… It is… it is not…”
He nibbled her earlobe, earning a throaty little moan from her.
“N-not in theplan, Felix.” His name said with a sigh.
“To hell with plans, Caroline. To hell with anything, frankly, that keeps my lips from your skin.”
“Ooohh.” Another moan. Of capitulation? He didn’t want her damned capitulation. He wanted her unfettered desire, her passionate embrace. Those were the only champions strong enough to conquer his demons.
He kissed her hard, parting her lips with his tongue and her legs with his knee. She rolled against, giving him her desire, everything he wanted.
Not quite.
Hell. He couldn’t takethatnow. Not in some frenzied storm of desperation and lust. Not without talking about how this changed things. Itwouldchange things. Because he could not givethisup.
He broke the kiss, gritted his teeth, and rolled her to the side, keeping her close, tucking her against his chest, kissing the top of her head. “We should… calm ourselves.”
She glanced at him, those expressive brows demanding more.
“Is it in your plan, Caro? This thing between us?”
“No.” She sighed. But she did not retreat from him, stayed right there with her palm over his heart as if she’d always possessed that place.
Perhaps he’d been holding it empty for her.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “In the folly.”
He stacked his hands behind his head and stared up the cobwebs above. His father had built the folly for his mother on her last birthday. Tall, circular, marble columns lifting a dome. His mother had planned to fill this inner chamber with books, a couch, make it a little space just for her. It had barely been finished when…
Swallowing the well of emotion, he said, “I sleep better here. Fewer nightmares.”
“Like the one you were having earlier?”
He nodded. Humiliating. Nothing frightened him. Except this house. The memories. More bloody loss. All of it he’d been able to avoid over the last two decades or more. All of it weighing in on him now, opening up old wounds he’d forgotten he had.
Her name rang out across the air. But not in his voice.
“Someone’s calling,” she said absently, raising her head and frowning at the door.
“No. You’re mistaken.” He wrapped his arm around her waist to hold her tightly, angling his hand toward her breasts, plump and perfect. Should never, ever be bound. How long ago was that now? Didn’t matter. They still deserved restitution, a little coddling. He’d start with a stroke of his thumb around the lower curve. Her body rippled. In this woman… freedom. In this woman… sweet oblivion.
Her name shattered the air once more, and Caro’s palm flattened against his chest, against his heart as she pushed upright. He held her hand there, keeping it.
Until she pushed him away. “It’s Polly. I must see what she needs.” He let her go when she stood, and he sighed whenshe straightened her shift, covering the most interesting bits. Though, frankly, every inch of her was fascinating, and as she moved toward the door, the shift caressed her body in ways that stroked his imagination. The handle flicked beneath her hand, then she spun and slipped through the crack. Gone. As silently as she’d come.Like a ghost.
“Damn me.” He rubbed a shaky hand down his face. For the past few days, he’d worn himself out riding to the village and back, trying to put the nightmare of a house to rights so he could put it behind him. Then, after the house was quiet each night, he’d retreated to this folly, the only place he could fall asleep.
But his little wife made him forget everything but skin and lips and lovely breasts pressed against his chest, surprisingly lithe legs tangled with his own.
He had to remain at Hawthorne until the letter he’d sent to London was answered. But how long would that be? The Black Widow certainly was taking her time.
“Damn me,” he said again, but this time because he remembered what he’d planned to do today. He struggled into his shirt and waistcoat, cravat, and jacket, then went inside and upstairs to the room she’d allocated for his use. He made use of the wash basin and checked his appearance in a cracked mirror in the hallway. He seemed grim in the glass, tired and hungry. Drained. This house was killing him as it had killed his family.
Hire servants, hire muscle, see her safe, then return to London. The sooner he did that, the sooner he could leave this cursed place.
He’d go mad if he didn’t do it quickly enough; every night he relived his nightmare.
