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It took over a week to return to Castle Greaves. A week in which Helen and Alistair shared one tiny inn room after another with the children. She wouldn’t let them out of her sight, and he would’ve thought less of her if she had. Which was perhaps why, the very moment the clock struck nine on the night they returned, he was out of his room and pacing toward hers.
There was an urgency to his step not entirely explained by delayed lust. He wanted, needed, to reestablish his relationship with Helen. To make sure that all was the same as before the children had been stolen. He needed her on some basic level, and he didn’t want their time together to be over yet. He admitted this weakness to himself, and it only sped his steps.
Then, too, he was aware that she no longer had an external reason to stay with him at Castle Greaves. She had no need of employment, at least for the foreseeable future. Not with the cache of jewels she’d shown him one night in an inn. Lister, the bastard, had provided enough pearls and gold to last her a lifetime if she were frugal. And with Lister’s guns spiked, she need no longer hide from him, either.
Which begged the question, When would she leave him?
Alistair shook the depressing thought away, halting at Helen’s door. He gave the door a faint scratch. In a moment, it opened and she stood there in her chemise.
He stared at her mutely and held out his hand, his palm uppermost.
She glanced behind her and then took his hand, stepping into the hallway and shutting the door. He clutched her hand, probably too tightly, and led her quickly back to his rooms. He was already monstrously erect and aching with the need to claim her. He seemed to have lost whatever vestiges of civilization he’d ever had.
He’d barely closed his own door behind them when he swung her into his arms and brought his mouth to hers. Tasting her. Consuming her. Helen. She was soft on the surface, but underneath he could feel the strength of her muscles and bones, the strength of her core.
He thrust his tongue into her mouth, demanding satisfaction, and she complied, sweetly sucking. Yielding to him, though he knew it was an illusion. He ran his hands over her shoulders, down her gently curving back to her hips. He filled his palms with her rounded buttocks and squeezed.
She broke the kiss, gasping, and looked at him with wide eyes. “Alistair—”
“Shh.”
He picked her up, her weight solid in his arms, and he was glad to play the conqueror. In his arms she was helpless to escape.
“But we need to talk,” she said, her face solemn.
He swallowed. “Not yet. Just let me…”
He lowered her gently to his big bed, and her golden hair spread over his dark coverlet, an offering any god would be pleased with. He was no god; he didn’t deserve her, but he’d take what he could for as long as he could.
He stripped off his banyan and crawled, naked, over her form. With those harebell-blue eyes, she watched him come up over her. Wide and impossibly innocent. Dark now and a little sad. She raised her hand and brushed it carefully, tenderly, over his scarred cheek. She didn’t speak anymore, but her eyes, her expression, the very gentleness of her touch sent ice into his veins.
He leaned down and kissed her so he wouldn’t have to look into those eyes anymore. He drew her chemise up over her legs, feeling them shift restlessly beneath him, feeling the brush of her bush against his belly. He lifted his head briefly to draw her chemise over her head and throw it aside, and then he lowered his nude body to her nude body and kissed her once more.
Men talked of an afterlife filled with heavenly bliss, but this was the only bliss he wanted, in this life or the next: to feel Helen’s bare skin beneath his own. To delight in the soft cushions of her thighs cradling his. To press his hard cock into the velvet of her belly. To smell her intimate, womanly scent mingled with the scent of lemons, and to feel the warmth of her skin. Oh, God, if ever there was a chance of paradise for him, he’d relinquish it, and gladly, to stay right here in Helen’s arms.
He traced the faint bumps of her ribs, the indent of her waist, the curve of her hip, until he came to the center of her. She was wet, her curls drenched already, and he gave thanks because he wasn’t sure he could stand a moment longer outside of her. He grasped his cock and guided himself to her warmth, to her softness.
To home.
She was tight, despite her wetness. He clenched his jaw and thrust into her in small shoves, parting her folds, burying himself deep. She held him and he closed his eyes to keep from spilling too soon. He felt her arms slide around him, and she pulled his face down to hers. She kissed him with a moist, open mouth and spread her legs, wrapping her calves over his hips. He moved then—it was that or die. Sliding, grinding, pushing his flesh into hers. Making love to her. She continued to kiss him without any haste, her mouth accepting his tongue as her body accepted his cock.
This was all he wanted. This was heaven.
But his body had to speed up, the imperative to plant his seed overtaking the luxury of a slow coupling. He raised himself on his arms to intensify his thrusts. He watched as her heavy eyelids drifted closed, her face flushing a deep pink. Her breath was coming short, but she’d not yet crested. He held his weight on one hand and with the other searched for that small bit of feminine flesh that would send her over the edge. He found it, hiding in her slippery folds, and he gently pressed, slowly circled. Her arms fell from his shoulders, and she flung them over her head, grasping the pillow with both fists. He watched her, diddling her pearl and humping her hard, and when he saw her toss back her head, he felt it, too. The churning explosive start of his orgasm.
He pulled out just in time, spilling on her thighs. His heart was pounding, his breath coming short. He rolled to the side so he wouldn’t crush her and just lay there a moment, his arm over his head, exhausted. He was drifting into sleep, in fact, when she moved, nestling against him and running her fingers over his chest.
“I love you,” she whispered.
His eye snapped open, and he stared sightlessly at the ceiling of his bedroom. He knew what he should say, of course, but the words wouldn’t come. He seemed struck mute. And now it was too late. Too late. Their time together was over. “Helen—”
She sat up next to him. “I love you with all my heart, Alistair, but I cannot stay with you like this.”
SHE’D THOUGHT HERSELF in love before, when she’d been young and very naive. That had been the infatuation of a girl overawed by a man’s rank and worldly possessions. This love she felt for Alistair was entirely different. She knew his faults, knew his bad temper and cynicism, but she also gloried in the best parts of him. His love of nature, the gentleness he hid from most of the world, his uncompromising loyalty.
She saw both the worst and the best, and she saw all the complicated parts in between. She even knew that there were pieces of him that he still kept hidden from her, pieces she wished she had the time to discover. She knew all this, and she loved him despite or because of it. This was a mature woman’s love. A love that was aware of both his human foibles and his nobility.
And she also knew, deep in her heart, that this love, however wonderful, wasn’t enough for her.
