Page 101 of Barbarous

He took the brush from her hand and began to run it through her hair, his gaze fastened to hers. “Malcolm and the fishing shack are now smoldering rubble and Calitain and his crew of slavers are on a long journey.” He paused in his brushing and glanced up. “You will be interested to hear it was your prior maid—Fowler, or Mrs. Blake, rather—who was responsible for the anonymous letters Will Standish has been receiving.”

Daphne was more than interested—she was stunned. “How did you learn that?”

“Martín went to Whitton Park to find her husband—Blake—to . . . er, question him about his part in your abduction. Instead, he found a very remorseful Mrs. Blake. It seems Blake had absconded and left her to face the consequences.” He hesitated. “I’m afraid Mrs. Blake also confessed she was the one who’d disclosed the truth about your sons to Blake to begin with in a moment of weakness. Blake, of course, told Hastings. In any case, she sent the letters, hoping to make up for her actions.”

Daphne nodded, too hurt by the woman’s betrayal to want to think about it just now. “Well, it sounds as if everything is under control.”

“Almost everything.” One side of his mouth pulled into a suggestive smile. Naturally, she blushed and, just as naturally, he laughed.

Her heart fluttered under his steady regard. “You are the most appalling tease, Hugh.”

“Your hair is glorious,” was his answer. He slowly pulled the brush from crown to waist. The sensation of his hands in her hair was nothing compared to watching his powerful arms and hands flexing as he groomed her. And he looked achingly gorgeous in his extravagant robe. Daphne glanced at her own reflection and frowned. She wore the nicest nightgown she possessed, but it was a simple, prim thing, not the lacy confection he was no doubt accustomed to seeing on his women.

She looked up from the high neck of her nightgown and met his eyes. Her breath caught; the planes of his face looked hard and dangerous and his mismatched eyes burned. He put the brush on her dressing table and took her shoulders and drew her back against him, until she could feel the hard ridge of his erection. He flexed his hips against her, stroking his arousal in the hollow between her shoulder blades. He drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes, an expression of bliss on his face.

Daphne stared; could there be anything more erotic than bringing pleasure to one’s lover and watching his face? It made her want to give him more, to drive him crazy with sensation, as he had done with her.

Daphne turned around, until she was facing him. When she rested her hands on his thighs, his eyes opened and his lips parted, as if he’d just woken from a trance. She tugged open the sash that held his robe closed. When she parted it, her heart pounded so clamorously she felt sure he must hear it.

She looked at the hard, thick length of him and found it difficult to breath. Her eyes drifted from his arousal to the thin line of hair that ran up his enticingly muscled stomach and up between his ribs before spreading to cover his chest with golden down. He shuddered and leaned in to her touch when she took him in her hand.

“Daphne.” The single word sounded as though it had been torn from him: a prayer, a command, a plea.

She stroked the thick shaft from the base to the smooth head, fascinated by everything she held in the palm of her hand. The skin was softer even than a baby’s, but it covered a singularly masculine hardness. Moisture formed under her touch. “Tell me how to please you,” she said, barely able to tear her eyes away from this fascinating part of him.

He looked at her from beneath heavy lids. “Keep stroking me just as you are. The end is very sensitive, as are my jewels.” His green eye glinted with a mixture of amusement and arousal, his voice deeper than usual. She raised her other hand and cupped him, amazed by the fragility of the male body.

“God yes,” he groaned, and she smiled at the raw need in his voice, stroking him more confidently while learning the shape of him. She ran her thumb through the moisture he was producing and used it to lubricate her motions. When her hand had developed a rhythm that seemed to please him she leaned in and lapped at his head with her tongue.

“Bloody hell!” The words burst out of him and his feet slid farther apart, bringing him lower and closer to her mouth. She took only the head of him, her other hand continuing its gentle massaging.

“Yes, just so,” he praised hoarsely. His hand moved to caress the line of her jaw and then touch the place where her taut lips wrapped around his hard, silky flesh. He made a low animal noise, as if pleased by how he stretched and filled her mouth. “Take me deeper. Ah yes . . . that’s it.” He wove his fingers into her hair, holding her lightly.

Daphne realized, with no small amount of surprise, that such an activity required a good deal of coordination. Even so, she could tell by his breathing he was struggling to restrain his crisis, so she must be pleasing him.

Encouraged, she moved a hand to hold the base of him and his movements immediately became less controlled, until she felt a tremor ripple through him. He slid his fingers to where her mouth held him and she felt his body stiffen just before he jerked away, holding her firmly with one hand when she tried to follow.

She stared in wide-eyed fascination as he administered a few savage strokes and then spent onto his stomach, his muscles as hard as stone as his body absorbed an explosion of pleasure, and then another, and another.

Daphne had never felt so much power—or such burning physical need.

His eyes opened a crack as he stood swaying in the wake of his climax, his chest heaving. He gave her a languid smile, looking very much like a big cat that had just consumed a bowl of cream.

“You made me come quicker than a boy with his first opera dancer.”

Daphne’s face heated at his crude words and she dropped her gaze.

He traced her lips with the tip of one finger and chuckled tiredly. “What? Are you shy with me? After that?”

Daphne watched his naked body with growing lust as he went about the business of cleaning himself. He filled the basin from a pitcher of water, his back to her, offering an utterly fascinating view of long, powerful legs, firm, muscular buttocks that flared out to an impossibly broad back and shoulders. He tossed the soiled cloth to the floor and turned, catching her gawking, his lips pulling into a wicked, satisfied smile.

“Come,” he said, taking one of her hands and leading her to her bed, waiting until she climbed in before getting in beside her and pulling the sheet over them.

He turned on his side, his eye staring into hers as his fingers worked the buttons of her nightgown, not stopping until it was open to her navel. His gaze flickered to her exposed torso and he groaned.

“I’d love nothing better than to slide inside you and ride you to pleasure.” He slipped a warm, strong hand over her ribs, stroking her sensitive skin with agonizing lightness. “But your ancient lover needs a little time to rally the troops, so I’m afraid I’ll need to find an alternate way of amusing us.” He reached up to brush back a stray curl, his warm, slightly roughened hand going from her face to her neck, before finally stopping at her breast. He circled his palm over her already hardened nipple and she closed her eyes.

“Did you learn your spectacular new skill from the book you stole from me?” he whispered, and then took her breast in his mouth.