He canted her hips to slide her up his body, bringing more of that luscious skin within reach. He dragged his mouth over the tops of her breasts, heady with the need to devour her, to discover as much as he could. The stomacher pushed her breasts up firmly and he laved the soft, plump flesh with his tongue, reveling in her gasps. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as she clung to him. He would have to unpin her robe to go further, and Mal growled with frustration. Like a starved man he pulled her hips against him, burrowing his aching arousal into the thick folds of her skirts. At the same time he tugged with his teeth at the fabric of her neckline, growling with satisfaction when he exposed the top of one delicate nipple.
She froze, and her eyes popped open, dazed with passion and alarm. Mal lifted his head. Her arms stayed clasped tightly around him but her body went taut as a bow, and he didn’t know if it was from pleasure or shock.
Slowly he lowered her until her feet once again touched the ground, hissing as she slid against his body. He was no better than her rotter of a cousin, mindless to everything but his own passion.
“Too much.” With an effort he loosened his arms, forced himself to step away, hoping he didn’t fall over. His entire body was a wall of flame. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.” She tugged her bodice into place, and he gritted his teeth at the loss of her warmth. “That was—just right.”
He couldn’t resist touching her lower lip, plum-colored with his kisses. “All the same, I’d best sleep on the floor tonight.”
“Don’t be daft.” Her voice was breathy, full of laughter and wonder. “We can roll up a blanket and divide the bed. Or put a sword between us, like Lancelot and Guinevere. I trust you.”
That confession moved him more than anything else she’d said or done. After he’d invited her to touch him, then lost his head and nearly ravished her on the spot, her simple declaration of trust gutted him completely.
“I didn’t ruin it, then.”
Her eyes held his, brimming with an expression he couldn’t decipher, but he saw the signs of a woman who had discovered passion and was not put off by either her body’s response or his.
“I’m not ruined,” she said softly.
He cupped his hands about her cheeks, flushed the red she used in her manuscripts. “You must marry me.”
That broke the reverie. A shadow fell across her face, and she lowered her eyes and stepped away. “I cannot.”
“I thought you didn’t care that I’m a bastard.” The old bitterness rose like bile in his throat, wiping away every trace of bliss.
“That’s not it at all.” She reached for her lace, still in his hand.
Like a beast, he held it out of her reach. “Your cousin, then? Or your brother. I thought he would approve.” His rage surprised him, frustrated desire making him snap like a fox at bay.
“My reasons are my own.” She snatched her lace and turned toward the door.
“So you can kiss me,” he said, his voice low but filled with savagery. “You can touch me, hold me,desireme…but you won’t wed me.”
“I’m sorry, Mal,” she whispered, and slipped out the door.
Mal felt like smashing his fist into the wall. She’d drawn away from him again, and he had no idea how to lure her back.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Cornwall had changed almost as much as Amaranthe had.
The lush Tamar Valley was green with the growth of spring, but what she remembered was walking away from it. Coming back felt strange. For Mal’s enjoyment she pointed out the rugged granite moorlands called Goen Bren, with the peaks known as Rough Tor and Brown Willy, the highest point in Cornwall, carving the sky. The turnpike road was new and smooth, unlike the rutted track she and Eyde had walked on their flight from Penwellen. Her stomach tensed as they neared Hingston Downs and Kit Hill, with its ancient mines and quarries, casting its shadow on the old market town of Callington.
“King Arthur had a court here, they say.” She chattered foolishly as she directed the coach through town so she could show him the sights she remembered. Putting off the approach to Reuben as long as possible. “The town is mentioned in the Domesday Book. I made copies of the page for the bookseller to sell to tourists. That is St. Mary’s Church with its Celtic cross and the tombs of Lord Assheton and Willoughby de Broke. His wife was the first owner of my Book of Hours. There is Well Street,where all the water comes from, and down that street, about a mile, is Dupath Well, which has curative powers.”
“Is there anyone you wish to see while you are here?” Mal asked. “Anyone you, er, might have left behind. The reams of suitors with broken hearts left scattered in your wake, perhaps.”
She looked away, her heart pinching though he said the words in jest. If only he knew. No man had stirred her heart, or caught at her soul, the way he did.
“I would like to visit Mr. Finney’s bookshop, if we have an occasion. But no, there were no abandoned suitors left in my wake. I danced with Mr. Treen at an assembly once, but that was…” She shook her head, smiling at the memory. “A brief, passing fancy.”
“I detest him already,” Mal said in the most cordial tone.
She forced a laugh at his teasing, but steeled herself as the coach rolled out of Callington toward the tiny village of Haye. The shadow of six years past hovered over her. She could almost see the ghost of her old self trudging along this road, a frightened Eyde at her side, fearing with every sound behind them that Reuben was on their heels.
At St. Ann’s Chapel they had found space on a mining cart that took them all the way to Devon, and from there they managed a place atop the stagecoach to Bath. Looking back, it was a miracle that two young women traveling alone had not been robbed, beaten, and left for dead. Surely some angel had walked at their weary side.
