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If Silas ever knew what was in her heart, he might kill her. If she achieved her heart’s desire, he definitely would kill her.
“I am a woman of honour but are you a man of honour, Captain Trethveyan?”
He closed the distance between them, gathering her in his arms and tilting her face up, his lips a mere hair’s breadth from hers. If she raised herself on tiptoe she could begin to relive the joy that had sustained her all these years. Her insides quivered. She craved the feel of his arms about her and the strength of him for so much more than just this one night.
“I am a man of honour.” Gently he kissed her brow, his voice a thread of sound. “I’ll take this no further than your honour can sustain, though by God, my need of you is killing me.”
“As is my need of you, Charles.” She could barely force the words out, so fierce was her desire. Tensing, she closed her eyes, waiting for him to close that hair’s breadth that separated them. Instead he raised his head and said roughly, “A man of honour who enjoys the fight, Lady Drummond. Come pliantly or struggle. Whichever your conscience and your duty to your husband dictates.”
“Damn you, Captain!” She leant back over his arm and delivered him a stinging slap across
the cheek. If he was so concerned about appearances she’d pour out the anger and heartache that she’d bottled up for so many years.
But what a relief it was to have her words greeted by a kiss, so devastatingly determined she felt her knees go weak and her spine slacken. His strength, his familiar scent and the insistent evidence of his arousal pressing against her stomach were so intoxicating that she felt she’d drown in joyful relief before they even got close to enjoying the climax of the real pleasure for which her body pulsed.
She kissed him back, knowing she had mere seconds to revel in such glorious wantonness before the truth that she was anything but unwilling would be revealed to the vainglorious, dangerous braggart peering through the keyhole. Charles was under Reynolds’ command. He knew the character of the man, and Elizabeth must bear that in mind if she valued her future—whatever that might be.
She wrenched her mouth from his but her scream was cut short as he cupped her head and kissed her harder, his tongue sliding into her mouth as his hand slid inside her bodice. The rush of heat between her legs took her by surprise. It was a feeling with which she was not familiar—a feeling she’d not experienced in more than eight years and not so devastatingly. Elizabeth had kissed Charles only chastely, compared with this.
“By God, you’ll pay for choosing the wrong man!” He whisked her into his arms and dumped her unceremoniously onto the marital bed. Any angst over her past humiliations at Silas’ hands on this mattress was swept away as Charles’ weight came down upon her, trapping her so that she had no choice whether to suffer him or not.
Nor could she bear the fear that honour would prevail when he tore his mouth from hers to whisper quickly, “I’ll not take you like this, my lady—”
“Do it!” she begged in a whisper. She wanted nothing more than to be possessed by this man whom she loved and who would cleanse her of her foul husband. “I will fight you for effect but I give you leave to do what you will!”
She tried to struggle from beneath him but he took her at her word, his hand reaching for the hem of her dark, drab skirts as he pinioned her wrists above her head.
“Release me!” she shrieked, twisting away, pretending it was Silas struggling to enter her by force as her gaze swept past the keyhole, then back to Charles’ face. His expression was anguished, as though he hated what he was doing, yet there was glazed rapture, too. Had he dreamed of this, like she had? Because he still loved her?
Elizabeth tried to still the obvious signs of her own excitement as she felt his hand trailing up her thigh. Merciful heavens, what was he doing? Putting his hand there and discovering the sticky moisture she’d suddenly produced? But the heavy roiling in her lower belly was screaming for his attention and he seemed to know it. His breath was hot and moist against her neck and she gloried in it, his closeness.
With a grunt he thrust into her, the length and breadth of him filling her with excitement and a heady sensation as if this was what her body had been craving its whole life. She gasped and bucked, thrilling to the fury of it as he pounded into her. Clamping her mouth shut against the urge to scream her pleasure, she turned her head away from the door, forcing her cries into protests as the tension rose within her, stretching her fibres close to snapping point. Her brain swirled with an unknown rapture and just as she tumbled into the blessed darkness of sweet oblivion Charles’ hand came down over her mouth as his own body convulsed with hers.
Was this what she was missing? If Charles had been more patient eight years ago…if he’d been her husband for the past eight years…was this what she might have enjoyed every night?
She could not help herself. Tenderly, she brushed aside a lock of his curling brown hair that had fallen across his cheek. He was lying prone on top of her. She could still feel him pulsing gently inside her. Taking a shuddering breath, she felt the ache of longing for what could never be. If they could only stay like this forever.
They couldn’t, but this was her moment. It would never come again. Touching her lips to his, she whispered, “I love you, Charles.”
His right eye opened. A curious expression crossed his face and he opened his mouth to speak.
But before the words were out, the door opened and Reynolds strode into the room, grinning above his desultory clapping.
“My word, Trethveyan, that was quite a show. Revenge is sweet, eh?”
Elizabeth scrabbled to cover her legs with her skirts and rolled on to her stomach to bury her face in the mattress. She was shocked to see Reynolds announce himself so soon but also afraid that the stain of guilty pleasure would be all too apparent. Charles had been right to suspect the captain of filthy voyeurism.
Reynolds sniggered again. “She was as willing as the wapping mort whose tunnel you chiselled last week. He slapped his thigh. “A lady’s different, though. Especially one who needs teaching a lesson.”
He walked to the window embrasure and regarded them both, as Charles quickly adjusted his breeches. “Was the small, dark mole above her right breast you told me about as intriguing as you’d anticipated?”
Elizabeth stilled. The small, dark mole of which he’d spoken was located about an inch above her right nipple. No one knew of it. No one, except Charles who’d caressed it when his hand had strayed once beneath the bodice of her prim gown while kissing beneath the beech tree that was their trysting place. Innocent that she was, she’d gasped her shock and he’d quickly returned to playing the gentleman.
“Was she as velvety moist as you’d hoped she’d be after your honeyed words? It certainly appeared she was panting for it.”
Elizabeth wiped the sheen of cold sweat from her brow as she clung to the bedpost and twisted her head to look at Charles.
“Worthy of the bard, himself, Trethveyan,” Reynolds went on. “I doubted the wisdom of playing the chivalry card when you could take her by force. But, aye, it’s true, you had her panting for you. What better way to ram home her mistake in picking wealthy old Drummond and not you, the man on the make?” Reynolds gave another bark of laughter. “Does she know Drummond cheated your father? That you promised the old man on his deathbed you’d bring Drummond down?” Reynolds’ amusement seemed to know no bounds. “What could be better than dishonouring his wife—and not by force! She was wet for you, Trethveyan. So wet with desire you nearly drowned in her!”
