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Downstairs, wearing a homespun brown dress and clogs, she found Alistair in a jacket and trousers which looked rather small, borrowed shoes which looked rather big, and a grin on his face.
“How the mighty are fallen,” he laughed, when he saw her.
“I am not so mighty as you,” she said primly, “so I have not fallen as far.”
That made him laugh again.
The inn keeper seemed keen to help in any way he could and gave a little speech about the debt England owed to its navy. “For without you we’d all be under Napoleon’s rule,” he declared. He brought them some hot stew, full of vegetables, with crusty bread to one side, and a jug of the local beer. Clarissa found she was starving. They ate in companionable silence, and when they had finished they sat by the fire and warmed themselves while outside the sun gave way to some rain.
“We will be late getting back,” she said, peering anxiously toward the window. “My father will be worried.”
Alistair had his own thoughts on that—Debenham deserved to worry about his daughter, it would do him good—but he agreed they must start back as soon as the rain eased. “I’m sure he will understand,” he soothed her.
But he doubted it and knew from the expression on her face that so did she.
Outside the rain was getting heavier, sending up little splashes from the puddles already on the ground. The sky was low and dark grey and there was no sign that the weather would be clearing soon.
“It can’t be helped,” Alistair said, stretching out before the fire. “Might as well rest while we can.”
Clarissa sighed and sat beside him, placing her own stocking feet beside his on the hearth. It was lovely and warm and the heat began to soak into her chilled body, relaxing her. She smiled at her companion and found him watching her through half closed eyes. Suddenly he reached to take her hand in his, in that impulsive way he had, and turning it over he kissed the centre of her palm.
“I’m sorry things turned out like this.”
His lips were warm and sent a tingle right through her, an achy feeling that she had never felt before. At least, not until he’d kissed her on the sand earlier.
“It isn’t your fault,” she said breathlessly.
His eyes met hers and then slid down over her cheek, fixing on her lips. Slowly he leaned forward, giving her time to stop him, but Clarissa did not want to stop him. She did not want that at all.
His mouth was warm. Sensual. She let his lips brush against hers and then felt the tip of his tongue sliding against the crease of her lips, as if to tempt her into opening them to his gentle invasion. Her body hummed with sensation and yet at the same time she was languorous. Weak with longing.
She didn’t remember moving, and didn’t remember his lifting her, but suddenly she was on his lap, in his arms, their mouths joined in long, delightful kisses.
Alistair’s body was lean and hard with muscle and so much bigger than hers. She’d wanted to burrow into him from almost the first time she’d met him and now she wrapped her arms about his neck, feeling the soft texture of his hair, the slight roughness of his beard against her cheek, the spicy male scent of him.
“Clarissa,” he murmured, and his voice saying her name was like a spur that made her want to go further, to do things she had only heard whispered about. Or dreamed about. She was an innocent, it was true, but she was aware Alistair was an experienced man. He could teach her. He could be her first lover.
Clarissa felt daring. Reckless. At this moment nothing else mattered but being with Alistair.
CHAPTER NINE
Alistair didn’t know how far things might have gone. He had the uncomfortable feeling that they might have gone very far indeed. With such a delightful bundle in his arms, the scent of her skin and her soft hair, left loose about her shoulders to dry, and the warm wantonness of her kisses . . . well, he’d forgotten he was supposed to be a gentleman.
But he was being purposefully obtuse. This was more than just male lust. Clarissa had wormed her way into his heart in a way no other woman ever had. He wanted her, despite all his protests to the contrary, and he wanted to put his stamp on her in the most thoughtless and arrogant of ways, by taking her body with his.
Just as well then that the maid interrupted them.
Vaguely he heard the door open and a soft female gasp, followed by the rattle of crockery on a tray, and the door closing again. For a moment he chose to ignore it but even with Clarissa’s warm lips clinging to his, her hands tangling in his hair, and her body curled into his, his conscience niggled at him. In the end, reluctantly, he caught her hands firmly in his and stilled them.
For a moment she lay against him, her dark lashes against her flushed cheeks, her breath quick from her parted lips. His kisses had brought colour to those lips and there was a mark on her cheek from his prickly stubble.
“Clarissa, we cannot,” he said gently, regretfully. “You know we cannot.”
Her eyes opened with an effort, the pupils dark, reflecting his face. He saw that he was flushed too, a desperate look to his face, and his hair was standing on end.
“Alistair,” she said huskily, and then cleared her throat. “I don’t care, really I don’t. I want to be with you. Just once. I want to know what it feels like to be with you.”
Yes, his body told him. Tell her yes. There are rooms here, we can take one, and then you can be with her. You both want to.
