Page 29 of Ella’s Desire

She blinked her eyes open. “I like touching.” Her fingers eased past his navel to the thin line of hair that disappeared into his trews. With a wicked grin, she dragged her hand up to the back of his neck. “I like kissing too.”

He resisted her pull. “Ella, I do not want to take this too far.”

“What would ‘too far’ be?” she breathed.

He hesitated, but only for a moment, just long enough to feel the draw of his own curiosity leading him down a path he knew better than to venture on. “Laying you down on the grass.”

Ella sank onto her knees and pulled him down to the ground with her. He froze, poised over her as she lay her head back and stared up at him with those blue, blue eyes.

“Drawing the skirt of your gown up.” His attention slid down to her skirt, the hem still wet from the stream.

Her fingers moved over the fine silk, slowly inching it upward. A bit of her slender stocking-clad ankle peeked beneath it.

He stared, transfixed. “Higher.”

She did as he asked, revealing the sensual curve of her calf and an elegant knee above the line of her wool stocking.

His breath was coming harder and faster. This foreplay was exquisite, even if it would have no chance of release. At least not here with Ella. He most certainly would be handling himself at the first opportunity and thinking of exactly this moment.

“And then I would touch some more.” His fingertips brushed the back of her knee.

She sucked in a breath and bent her leg, propping it up slightly. A triangular gap showed beneath the hem of her kirtle, giving him a tantalizing view of the tops of her legs, and what lay beyond.

“I would trace my fingers up your lovely legs.” His fingers eased over the tops of her stockings to where her skin was impossibly soft. He paused, not moving any higher. “Up your thighs to where your most intimate place is.”

Ella’s cheeks were red and her lids heavy. “Will you show me?”

Bronson curled his hand into a fist so he would not. “In due time, my dove.”

Disappointment shone bright in her eyes and made it all the more difficult for him to do the right thing. He got to his feet and held his hand out to help her to her feet.

She accepted his assistance and rose gracefully to her feet. The dress, regretfully, fell back into place over her legs. “When?” she asked.

“When we are not wearing clothing stained with blood, preferably.” He nodded toward her dress.

She glanced down and grimaced. “Then next time, when we are not attacked,” she offered hopefully. “Attacks only happen occasionally. We were simply unlucky on this venture.”

Unlucky was one way to put it, for unlucky had many sides. One of them was suggesting waiting a fortnight to marry Ella when he’d been ready to take her on the forest floor only moments ago.

The coming wait until their wedding promised to be a long one, indeed.

11

The ride back to Werrick had been exquisitely pleasant. Warmth hummed in Ella’s veins and washed over her cheeks. Each time she snuck a glance at Bronson’s handsome profile, her heart gave a giddy little flutter.

Sadly, he’d had to put his shirt and doublet back on. Still, she could not stop thinking of his powerful chest, the carved lines of his muscle. His skin was smooth and soft despite the chiseled masculinity of his body. She nearly moaned at the memory of touching him.

But it was more than simply his physical appearance, though that was indeed fine. He was fascinating. They spoke of many things on the way back to Werrick, of Hardy and his affection for Leila, of court life with its many rules and stiff clothing, and of how wild and beautiful the English-Scottish border was. All too soon they arrived at Werrick and Peter was greeting them to take their horses.

For the first time in as long as Ella could remember, Peter’s long-lashed hazel eyes did not make her stomach dip with excitement. And when she allowed Bronson to aid her from her horse, she did not once slide a glance in Peter’s direction to gauge his reaction.

Suddenly she was glad for his rejection of her, though it had of course been painful. But she was grateful, for that rejection had saved her completely for Bronson, for his kisses, his touches. For him to slide his hands up her skirt and do everything he promised he would.

“My Lady, are you hurt?” Peter’s horrified voice startled her from her musing.

She followed his gaze to her dress where blood from the reiver stained the fine silk. “We were attacked but are uninjured. Please see to it whoever is living in the Old Pell cottage is paid handsomely for my use of his axe.”

Peter did not balk at the formality of her tone. He merely inclined his head; more servant now than he had ever been with her. “Of course, my lady.”