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He sat up, lacing her slim waist. His mouth encased one breast, fuelling her to pound him harder. “Better?”
“Incomparably.” The whole thing drove him mad with desire. One arm tightened around her, he pressed her down, while his other hand teased her button.
She kissed his mouth, she moved, eyes half closed, fast breathing, all woman and passion. She sank in him faster, pursuing her reward and damning him to agony. Upon her release, she squeezed him mindless, causing his downfall.
They fell on the mattress anew, breathless and content. Sleep overtook them once more.
* * *
“Where have all my things gone?” They had arrived back at the castle not an hour ago. Seeing her trunk had vanished, she looked for the Duke to ask. She had found him in the gallery, probably heading for the solar.
He turned, impacting her with his oh so masculine frame. It had been a long, long time before they had left their bed in the inn, as they had been busy with activities pertaining the… flesh. She blushed at the memory, but held his heated gaze. She had been so lax and satisfied that she broke her fast and sat in the carriage, caring very little where it drove.
“I had them transferred to my chamber.” He informed as if this was the commonest trifle.
A frown at his arrogance, she exclaimed. “This cannot possibly be.” Even though she was a widow, decency was still in use.
“I do not know about you, but I do not want to roam these hallways to and from your former chamber in the dead of night.” He stared down at her with those searing murky eyes, causing her insides to heat.
Intense colour tinted her apples. That meant that the nights would continue to be… molten. Goodness me! The mere thought had her melting.
“But this is improper!” Her cotton-stuffed brain could not produce another retort.
“This my castle. I decide what is improper.” His attention strolled over her, almost like a touch. “And I do favour improper.” He bowed, exhibiting that half-grin that angered her and tempted her at the same time. “If you will excuse me. I have pending matters to attend to at the moment.”
He left her standing there, gaping in his wake, remembering the feast of the senses he had dished her at the inn. And wondering if she would be able to resist him one day.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Annabel had not forgotten her mission. Worse, she did not forget she was consorting with the lowest kind of traitor, she mused later. She sat in the garden with a book, aware that whatever she did on a personal level, must not compromise her assignation.
Avoidance had been her way out. She avoided thinking the most delicious night of her life involved that man and what he represented. It was that or go mad. Certainly, this… thing between them would turn out to be temporary. Soon, she would travel back to London and this would become a memory for when she became older and wiser to dismiss it as youth foolishness. Right now, her body exploded in flames every time she replayed that night with him.
But she had to let this settle and focus on what she came here for anyway.
There must be a way for her to see this through, must it not? It was too late to send any message to London if what she eavesdropped at the meeting in that Burns’ house was about to happen. By the time it reached London-if it did not get intercepted by the Duke again–it would be too late.
What if there was a way to stop the whole operation somehow? Or thwart it, or delay it, in whichever way she might. That did not play a part in her assignment. Her orders were only to gather information. Which she did though she did not succeed in communicating it. She should drop by that Burns’ house and see what she could do.
* * *
Romulus stared down his solar window to spot Annabel sitting on a bench with a book. Serene, with a faraway look in her liquid brown eyes, she seemed completely at home there. And she might be if she would only give up her stunts. Alright, so she took it seriously and he must respect it. But he only thought of how much she put herself in danger. He did not like it. Not a bit.
Just the sight of her was enough for him to have this unbearable impulse to go there and throw her over his shoulder. To carry her to his chambers, to lock the both of them there forever. He could hardly wait for night to come. He knew very well that taking her things to his chamber had been a bold move, considering the way she always backlashed him, like an entire army of amazons. He did not bear the thought of not having her next to him, under him, over him. Whatever. So, he did it. Now, his blood boiled, counting the minutes to take her again. And again.
* * *
Annabel rode Iseult through the fields next morning, surprised that no one tried to impede her from riding. Apparently, the Duke lifted the prohibition on her leaving the walls.
In a practical riding habit, in the folds of which, she hid a sword and her usual daggers she trotted lazily so as not to rouse suspicion. She was good with a pistol, as well, but felt more comfortable with blades.
She tried not to think about the night past when she entered his chambers, still uncertain as to the propriety of it. Only to find him already propped on his pillows reading a bunch of papers. He raised his head to her, invitation in his eyes.
In tentative steps, she reached the bed, took off her lacy peignoir and hid under the covers. A short-lived modesty, because in a matter of seconds he was kissing her and she was kissing him back, as their bodies ignited a furnace not easily abated. It repeated throughout the night, each time more molten than the other.
Drowsily, she heard him say, early morning, that he had to go before he kissed her lips and left for his commitments. She had been completely incapable of getting up for a long time, enveloped in the delicious exhaustion of the aftermath of that night.
When her body finally acquiesced to move, a maid was in the ready. To help her bathe and dress before she ate a hearty breakfast, famished as she felt after that glorious interlude.
