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No, no, no…this was not meant to be…She heard as if from a distance the sounds she made, soft sobbing cries that were somehow mixed up with embarrassment and desire and the need for him to continue. His mouth seared into her, tongue like a flame on soft flesh, and she shuddered at the tight, hot growing pressure forming. It wound tighter and tighter, until finally there was an abrupt release that left her shaking, crying out his name, her hips arching into him as she sobbed helplessly.
This was nothing like the last time, nothing like she had ever dreamed. He seemed to know that for he murmured softly to her, words that made no sense but were intuitively comforting. Eyes closed, she drifted on the tide of this new and unexpected emotion.
Still shuddering, she felt him move over her. His clothes were gone now, his body bare and hot against her as he moved between her legs. His skin was so dark, almost a bronze color, and there were faint ridges of scars on his chest and arms, pale against the golden sheen. She thought suddenly of one of the statues she had seen, the smooth, carved muscles of chest and belly signifying the leashed power and masculine prowess of a Roman god, a warrior.
His entry was slow, steady, an inexorable pressure that was only slightly uncomfortable at first.
No, it was nothing like her first time with him, nothing like she’d anticipated, for the slow thrust and drag of his body inside her created an exquisite friction that had her once more scaling the heights of sensuality. It was an erotic motion, encompassing, and she surrendered to it completely. Why resist? Despite everything, he had only to begin caressing her and she was lost, inexplicably powerless to refuse him—and powerless against her own reaction to him, the need to be with him, her treacherous body overriding caution and common sense.
It even overrode the knowledge that he lived in the camp of the enemy.
“Kiss me, love,” he said softly against her ear. She lifted her lips to his, losing herself in the sweet, driving rhythm of their bodies, in the primitive response that she had never dreamed was so strong, until finally she forgot everything else.
22
It was nearly midnight when Colter escorted Celia from Madame Poirier’s establishment, casually putting her into a carriage and taking up the reins as if it was a common occurrence.
Perhaps it is for him, Celia thought, and resisted the urge to see if anyone was watching them. Her hands shook slightly, and the yellow taffeta rustled loudly as she arranged it on the narrow seat of the closed gig. The hat she wore had dark curls peeping from beneath the brim, for though they left by the discreet side door provided for those customers who preferred no one know of their nocturnal visits, there was still the chance they might be seen.
It had been the sauntering stroll through the parlor that had unnerved her most, the few men present with a bevy of unclad females more shocking than she had anticipated. But she had done well, she knew, for Colter squeezed her arm when she leaned into him, feigning a sultry laugh as he slid a hand into her bodice, and one of the men who’d glanced up at them turned away after a moment.
She’d known she must look very much as some of the other women there, her eyes half-lidded with the residue of passion, her lips still swollen and bruised from kisses, and her breasts sensitive in the low-cut gown that revealed the tops of her nipples and the marks left by Colter’s hands and mouth on her skin. She’d even felt like one of them, her loose hair carelessly held back by a ribbon, mussed as if she’d just risen from bed—which she had. It must show on her face, that passion, the hot, wild ferocity of her response to him that had surprised her with its intensity.
“If I didn’t know better,” he’d drawled lazily as they lay panting and exhausted in bed earlier in the day, “I’d swear you were an experienced courtesan, love.”
Angrily she’d tried to rise from the bed but he’d only laughed and held her down easily, pinning her with his body atop hers, his hands roaming her curves and hollows with growing familiarity until she surrendered once again to the inevitable passion he provoked.
What did the future hold for her? And how had she lost control of it so quickly? Oh, it was all so bewildering, the need to leave London and the dark shadow of danger hovering over her, when she had done nothing to invite it other than accept a map of the city.
But that had been enough, Colter said shortly, and one day he’d explain it to her when he was certain she was safe.
Reaction kept her stomach churning, and even now, as the landau jerked forward and they were at last leaving the house, she could barely control her trembling hands. To her surprise, Colter took one of her hands in his and pressed it to his mouth, his eyes narrowed slightly.
“Don’t let down your guard,” he murmured. “And keep the hat on. That disguise is only good from a distance.”
It was still unbelievable that there were desperate men who would rob and, perhaps even kill for the map that James Carlisle had given her. If that was true, why hadn’t they come for it before? she’d asked Colter, and he’d only shrugged. While she didn’t know what significance the map held for those who pursued it, and he said that she didn’t need to know, she couldn’t help but wonder why it was so important.
There was so much he didn’t say, but if he truly felt she was unsafe in London, perhaps it was best she leave for a while. Oh, what must Jacqueline think of all this? She must have been horrified last night when she’d realized Celia was gone. It would have been even more mystifying to her once she was told that Celia wouldn’t be back for a while.
“Only for a short time,” he’d promised her, but there had been a vagueness to the promise that was disquieting.
Beyond the city gates it was pitch-black, the darkness broken only by the lanterns affixed to the carriage. Patches of dense fog shrouded Hounslow Heath, dangerous at this time of night, a warren of footpads and highwaymen.
Colter seemed to know the way, his hands adept on the reins. Cold air swept across the gig, and Celia’s teeth began to chatter with the cold despite the thick lap robe she pulled up to her chin. The taffeta dress was much too thin, and she thought longingly of her warm wool redingote trimmed in fur and with braided frogs that fastened it all the way to her throat.
Weariness seeped through her, and the tension of the past twenty-four hours left her numb. But when she tried to fall asleep, oblivion eluded her. There was so much to think about, so much she wanted to know…Surprisingly, despite the occasional jolt when a wheel dipped into one of the ruts on the road, she fell asleep at last.
It was a restless slumber, with vivid dreams and images of masked men and the feeling of imminent danger, so that she woke abruptly when the gig came to a stop. It was black outside the gig window, not even the light from the lantern to brighten the dense turbid blanket of night. She heard a swift, whispered conversation, then the gig door opened and she felt Colter’s hands on her, pulling her from the vehicle to stand her on her feet.
“Hurry, we haven’t much time, Celia.”
Sleepily she protested as he bustled her from the gig and into another coach, this one, thankfully, with warm bricks for her feet and a much thicker lap robe to tuck around her shoulders.
“Don’t ask questions, love,” he said when she voiced a concern. “Believe me when I tell you this is all necessary.”
It seemed now as if they went back in the direction they had come, for the road seemed vaguely familiar, the larger coach well-sprung as it barreled along at a brisk pace. She was still alone inside, though there was another man atop the carriage, a driver, perhaps, who sat next to Colter. They passed an inn she had noticed earlier, and now she was convinced they were going back to London.
An elaborate ruse, perhaps, to convince the men who had attacked her that she was gone from the city. Oddly, she did feel safe with Northington, though once she would have laughed at the very notion of it. The son of the man she’d hated for so long was her lover. Oh, what would Maman think if she were still alive?
