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He swore under his breath, shoved it away, then pushed her tumbled hair out of her face. ‘Decima?’
‘I am quite all right, honestly…’ Her voice trailed off as she saw how he was looking at her. Looking at her mouth. Then she could not see his expression any more and his mouth was covering hers, angling to capture her lips with his.
His lips were cold, then startlingly his tongue touched her, hot, insinuating, and she gasped, parting her own mouth for him. He tasted delicious: slightly of mint, slightly of ale. Then she lost the ability to think analytically of taste and smell and touch as individual things. It all became a blur of sensation. His weight on her should have been frightening, but all she felt was a primitive thrill at his strength, at the easy way he was mastering her body.
His tongue, his lips were plundering her mouth and all she could do—all she wanted to do—was to let him. She heard a little moan, deep in her own throat and he shifted at the sound, his hands grasping and tangling in her hair on either side of her face, holding her still while he explored her at his leisure.
When he lifted his head for a moment she stirred, distressed by the loss of his touch, then she froze as he began to nip gently at the fullness of her swollen lower lip. The tiny, nibbling bites sent shudders through her. Instinctively she arched towards him, her breasts under their thick covering straining against his chest, but the relief she was seeking eluded her. Inside everything was turning hot, heavy, aching. Her legs shifted restlessly under him and were trapped by the pressure of his thighs.
Adam released her mouth, his own trailing hot kisses down her cold cheek, down to where her neck rose from the folds of her shawl. Decima whimpered as his tongue licked, tasted, then found the tight whorls of her ear, flickering against the sensitive flesh until she was gasping.
Her hands clenched hard on his back, urging him closer to her and she felt, rather than heard, him groan, deep in his throat. ‘I want you, Decima.’ She shuddered and he went still. For a long moment he stayed there, his long body tight against hers from breast bone to thigh, then he straightened his arms, levering himself off her.
‘Adam?’ She was cold now that his heat had left her, cold and dizzy and full of the new, surging emotions and feelings that were rioting through her.
‘Decima, I am sorry, you must be frozen.’ He lifted her, despite her half-hearted struggles, and began to carry her back to the house. ‘You are soaked. Poor sweetheart, I did not mean this to happen.’ His breath was coming hard and she recognised it for what it was, despite her innocence. He was struggling with arousal and desire and holding himself in check with an effort that shook his body.
‘I will be fine, just let me walk,’ she protested, her face buried against the front of his greatcoat, too shy to raise it and look at him. Was it the realisation of where they were that had stopped him, or had she done something wrong, something that revealed her complete lack of experience?
He ignored her protests, shouldering open the kitchen door and setting her on her feet by the range. She stood there, head down, shivering with embarrassment and cold as he tugged off her shawl, unbuttoned her pelisse and freed her of her soaking outer clothing. ‘Sit down.’ She found herself pressed back into the big Windsor chair and he knelt, unlacing her boots, drawing her cold feet free. ‘Poor darling.’ He lifted both her feet and began to rub them between his broad palms. ‘You need a hot bath.’
‘Yes, yes, that is all. I will be fine then.’ Decima felt herself gripping the arms of the chair in an effort not to reach out and catch his damp, dark head in both hands and pull him to her. ‘I’ll just take some water…’
Adam stood up, pulling her to her feet and she saw his face properly for the first time since he had kissed her. His mouth was set hard, a muscle throbbed in one cheek. Oh God, he was angry with himself for kissing her, with her for being such a gauche, awkward old maid. Then she saw his eyes and the breath caught in her throat. They were silver, intense, and as they met her
s they held such a look of tenderness and desire her hands flew to her mouth, holding back the plea to kiss her again, to take her, here and now, on the old rag rug in front of the range.
‘I will bring you water. Go into my dressing room, there is a big tub permanently in there.’ She hesitated and he snapped, ‘Go,’ his eyes turning fierce.
Decima fled upstairs, whisking past Bates’s half-open door on soft feet. The murmur of voices reached her, then was gone as she entered Adam’s bedroom. She should not be doing this, should not be in this masculine room that smelt of his cologne and of leather and of him. Her hands trembling, she opened the door in the corner and found herself in a spacious dressing room. As might be expected, it had a washstand and shaving mirror, a screen across one corner of the room, a rack of thick towels, but it also had, in pride of place, a handsome tub. The sides were painted in imitation of green marble, it stood on ball-and-claw feet and a spigot hung over the side against the wall. Decima tried it cautiously: cold running water. Such luxury.
She heard footsteps in the bedchamber and stepped behind the screen.
‘Decima?’ She tried to reply, but only managed a squeak of acknowledgment. Quantities of water were poured into the tub. ‘This will take a few more journeys. Get out of those wet clothes as quickly as possible.’
Decima took a deep breath and tried to pull herself together. He had kissed her, that was all. It was nothing to get into such a state about. She had wanted it, for goodness’ sake. It had been wonderful. She wanted him to do it again—and she was terrified that he would.
She untied her garters and rolled down her stockings, then reached behind her and unhooked her gown, even managing the final tricky button that needed her to reach back over her own shoulder. Her petticoats came off easily, clinging to her calves with chill dampness around the hem as they fell away. That left only her stays over her chemise.
Decima stilled, her fingers on the stay laces as another torrent of water poured into the bath. ‘One more journey,’ Adam said. His voice sounded perfectly normal. Decima wondered if she could ever open her mouth and say a coherent word again.
The door closed behind him and she began to tug at the laces. They were wet where the melted snow had soaked through the back of her clothes and cut unpleasantly into her fingers as she fought with them. They would not untie, she realised. They had swollen with the wet and now were set into hard knots. Decima winced as a fingernail broke, but she struggled on. No, it was hopeless.
The door opened again. ‘There you are, full now.’ Adam’s voice rose over the splashing water. ‘Use the spigot on the wall if you need to cool it down a little. I’ll go and start dinner.’
Decima hesitated, racked with indecision. She should wait until he was gone, then creep out and call Pru. But if she did that she would have to explain how she came to be soaked through, so wet that her hair was sodden.
‘Adam!’
‘Yes?’ She could hear him come back into the room.
‘May I have some scissors, please?’
‘Of course, but for heaven’s sake, don’t hang around getting chilled cutting your fingernails, have your bath first.’
‘I can’t…I cannot untie my stay laces.’
Silence. Did he think that was amusing? Or perhaps she had embarrassed him. No, of course not. This was an experienced man of the world; he had probably untied more sets of stay laces in his time than she had.
