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Forgiveness, then.
He was not certain for what. He could not, he thought, blame himself for anything except carelessness in not recognising that Beatriz was developing a tendre for him. But he had hurt and distressed Laurel, given her a sleepless night and that was on his head. She was his wife and it was his responsibility to protect her. Although now, as he stood up and drew her into his arms, protection was not exactly what he had in mind.
She was wearing only a thin silk robe over an even more flimsy nightgown and his body hardened and ached as she leaned in to his embrace.
‘What are all these things that are so wrong with your looks?’ he asked as he steered her towards the bed, taking a detour on the way to lock the door. ‘Eyelashes that were too long?’
‘Too short.’
‘Just right for the perfect curl.’ He kissed her eyelids, feeling the lashes tickle his lower lip. ‘And your nose?’
‘Crooked.’
He bit it lightly. ‘Adds interest. Perfection is so dull.’
‘And my teeth are uneven,’ she said with a gasp as the back of her knees hit the edge of the bed and she fell on to the mattress.
‘Now that requires careful investigation.’ Giles climbed on to the bed beside her. ‘And the most thorough kissing.’
Laurel seemed to have no objection. Her arms went around him and her mouth opened under his and she sighed as his tongue traced the curve of her teeth. She was quite right, although he had never noticed before.
‘All the better to whistle with,’ Giles said when he came up for air, dizzy with the scent and taste and feel of her. He rolled over on to his back and Laurel settled against him, her chin on his chest. ‘Ouch. Your chin is definitely pointed. Still, I can tolerate one fault, I suppose. Let me inspect these unsatisfactory eyebrows.’
Laurel obligingly wriggled higher against his chest, causing his body to arch instinctively. She came up on her elbows and looked down at him, eyes wide with sensuality and, beneath that, trouble still lurking in the pansy-brown depths.
‘I have no opinion on eyebrows except that yours seem eminently kissable to me.’
She laughed at him, just a little, her eyes narrowing, the skin at the corners crinkling.
It wasn’t Beatriz’s eyes I saw when I looked at her, as she thinks. It was Laurel’s eyes I saw when I looked at Beatriz, that was what drew me to her in the first place, that is what made me smile at her. But that...that is not logical. I never saw Laurel as an adult woman until I came home.
She blinked, the laughter still there, and the trouble, deep and dark, and the affection for him, the affection he did not seem to have killed.
Her eyes have not changed, not since she was a child, not since she was the young woman I left, so angry and confused. I smiled at Beatriz because somehow I recognised deep down that she looked like who Laurel would become. Only I was wrong. Laurel is so much more lovely, every little imperfection that she sees adds up to character and charm.
Then the shock of it took his breath. In his exile Beatriz had been a substitute for this woman, the one he had always been intended to marry. But that meant—
‘Giles, have you gone to sleep with your eyes open?’ Laurel sounded understandably put out. ‘Because you have been lying there staring at me for a good minute and, delightful as my eyebrows are, I cannot believe they deserve that much scrutiny.’
‘But your eyes do,’ he said and sat up, shrugging off his robe and reaching for the ties on hers. ‘I could drown in your eyes and I intend to.’
She moved under him, supple and warm and demanding, wanting him, it seemed, as much as he wanted her, gasping her encouragement as he explored her body. She used her tongue and lips and hands on him, inciting him, arching up to meet him as he thrust. Laurel closed around him, hot and wet and as smooth as silk velvet, her muscles gripping him, drawing him to the heart of her.
Mine, mine, mine...
Her nails were digging into his shoulders, her legs were tight around his hips, their bodies slithering and slipping with the heat of their lovemaking as Laurel came to pieces in his arms, calling out, sobbing out, his name.
‘Giles!’
My name. She forgives me, she wants me. Perhaps as much as I want her.
‘Laurel. Laurel.’ He said it again and then again like an incantation, a prayer as he lost himself in her.
* * *
‘Giles?’
Something pointed and warm and wet was tickling his ear. Giles cracked open one eye on to a landscape of cream and pink flesh, of soft skin rising in gentle hills and valleys, of the rose-brown textured surface of one nipple. He blew gently and it tightened and the tickle was replaced by a warm huff of breath. Laurel had been licking the rim of his ear.
