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‘I… I would assume so.’
‘No.’ Marcus’ eyes flashed. Abigail gasped as he reached out a hand. ‘You assume incorrectly.’
His fingers stopped a hair’s breadth from her cheek. Abigail swallowed; every part of her body was awake, alive. Then Marcus cupped her cheek with his palm, giving a harsh sigh in the process, and Abigail’s knees almost buckled.
It was like waking up all over again. She was linked to Marcus through touch, powerfully bonded in a way she could barely comprehend—and from the change in Marcus’ expression, he felt it too.
‘Treasure can be stolen. As it happens, I like stealing it.’ Marcus gently stroked a finger along Abigail’s jawline. Abigail shivered; his touch was so wickedly soft. To think this was the same hand that had held a pistol the night before. ‘But when it comes to kisses… they have to be freely given, Miss Weeks, or they hold no pleasure for me at all.’
Why wouldn’t he remove the pain of making a choice? Of overcoming every layer of clarity that had been forced into her from birth? Abigail stared into Marcus’ eyes, mutely begging him to remove this burden.
‘I can’t do this for you, Miss Weeks.’ It was as if Marcus had read her thoughts. ‘Despite appearances, I’m too much of a gentleman for that.’
Oh, Lord. She’d had to kidnap herself, and now she had to seduce herself as well? Abigail closed her eyes, briefly overcome.
But he was right. That was the irritating thing. And given that choosing the path of least resistance had brought her nothing but the threat of a forced marriage and familial contempt, perhaps it was best to continue being brave.
And you really, really want to kiss him. Her mind never permitted too much self-delusion. Don’t forget that.
She leaned forward, her eyes still closed. At first there was nothing but the cool air of the cave, the scent of hay and day-warmed flowers from the fields beyond…
… and then, with a swift explosion that took the breath from Abigail’s lungs, Marcus’ mouth covered hers.
It was a hard, hungry kiss. Hungry enough to let Abigail know that for all Marcus’ playful ways, he wanted this exactly as much as she did. She couldn’t help but moan, breathless with longing; Marcus chuckled at that, the sound dark and wicked through the kiss, becoming a harsh sigh as he stroked his tongue against the roof of Abigail’s mouth.
God Almighty. It was as if, with one simple movement, Marcus had opened Abigail’s eyes to how pleasure could be, those secret, intimate pleasures that no-one was meant to speak of. Such an unabashedly sensuous thing as the feel of his tongue against hers, a sweet, salacious caress in itself; she couldn’t help but respond, clumsy but eager, exploring Marcus’ mouth in turn.
It was like a dance. The best dance she had ever been a part of; a journey with such sweetly intense surprises at every turn that she never quite managed to catch her breath. A brief exchange that lengthened out into a dozen kisses, thirty, ninety; every time it was new, different, more piercing and exquisite whenever Marcus brought his lips to hers or she brought her lips to his.
The feeling was so all-consuming that at first Abigail didn’t notice Marcus’ hands on her waist. Only when he began moving them upward did she shiver at his touch; even the lightest stroke at the curve of her waist felt like a caress, an embrace. And then another kiss came, so fierce and delicious that she forgot herself again, and—and then there came the sound of fabric ripping, slight but definite, and she was exposed.
Her bodice hung open. The cool air travelled over Abigail’s bared breasts; a shocking feeling, but not as shocking as Marcus eagerly drinking in the sight of her. Not nearly as shocking as Marcus bringing one hand to her breasts, his fingertips only barely heavier than the breeze itself as he gently circled Abigail’s erect nipples, bringing her stiff peaks to points of near unbearable sensation.
But the most shocking thing was Marcus’ other hand as he lifted the skirts of her gown. Slowly, deliberately, as if he wanted Abigail to know exactly what the devil he was doing. Even as Abigail’s mind protested at such brazen treatment, the rest of her welcomed it with a hunger that shocked her. She slid her arms around Marcus’ neck, pulling him closer; Marcus’ growl of approval, the heat of his hand as he stroked his way to her upper thigh, only made Abigail melt even more fiercely into a puddle of want.
She couldn’t help but gasp as Marcus cupped her mound with his hand. No-one had ever touched her there apart from herself, and her own fingers had never felt this confident. So sure of giving her pleasure as he parted her damp curls, stroking the place even Abigail barely dared to touch—and oh, his fingers felt like velvet and honey and hot, tingling flames all at once, kindling the fire that had been building in Abigail ever since she had first looked into Marcus’ eyes. And then Marcus bent his head, and—and oh, oh God, he was licking her nipples, tonguing the swollen, sensitive flesh, sending such a shower of sparks through Abigail’s core that she found herself pressing against Marcus’ hand, grinding herself against his fingers in a vain attempt to ease the ache.
How did he manage to move his fingers so gently but cause such a tremendous rush of feeling? He was being thoroughly wicked, evil, reprehensible—but he was absolutely everything Abigail needed, wanted, and if he stopped moving his hand like that she was going to scream.
But Marcus didn’t stop moving his hand. He kept stroking her, kept caressing her most intimate place as if that part of her belonged to him, kept kissing Abigail’s breasts until Abigail could barely remember her own name. Kept up such a persistent, expert onslaught of pleasure, new, stunning pleasure, that when Marcus did finally withdraw his hand Abigail actually did scream, a high, broken cry that made her smile with embarrassment even as her body begged for more.
‘Oh, I—I say!’ She couldn’t help but laugh, breathless as Marcus gathered her up in his arms, her feet suddenly dangling. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m carrying you to bed, where this is going to continue all night. With your enthusiastic permission, of course.’ Marcus was breathing hard, his lip curled in a way that Abigail couldn’t help but find tremendously attractive. ‘And then, once we’re both thoroughly exhausted and have found a thousand ways to please one another to the point of ruination—well, then, we’re going to start from the beginning. And do all of it all over again.’
Marcus had always enjoyed his solitary nights in the cave. His loot spread before him in the moonlight, diamonds sparkling like earthbound stars, emeralds and rubies glittering in the night air. Yes, the real pleasure was the good those jewels would do, fenced by discreet jewellers in the murkier districts of London and split down to sell in separate parts, the money going to dozens of good causes… but there had always been a private thrill to looking down at all that wealth and revelling, just a little bit, in his own skill at obtaining it.
None of the wealth that came from his dukedom had been his own work. Yes, it was a glorious privilege, yes, he enjoyed it—but he had never managed to feel proud of it. But as Marcus threw another dry branch on the fire, sparks spiralling up into the night sky, he realised with a rueful grin that the pride he felt looking at stolen jewels was nothing compared to the pride, the happiness, that he felt now.
Abigail was in his arms. She’d barely left his arms since that morning; they’d woken up entwined, Abigail half-dressed and indescribably sensual as she embraced him, and Marcus hadn’t been able to resist lavishing attention on her lips and kiss-reddened breasts before he’d even heated coffee over the fire. He’d eventually prepared the coffee and brought it back to bed, drinking it with Abigail drinking hers in his arms, alternating between sips, kisses and talking about the morning in a way that made the day feel indescribably special.
Everything today had felt special. Carved out from ordinary life in a way that Marcus could barely comprehend, let alone make normal. His days in the cave were usually spent in intense solitude, a grey tranquility which Marcus had always though was pure peace but which he now realised had contained a good deal of boredom—but now every minute, every moment, was painted in singing colour.
It was talking to Abigail. It was exchanging observations and opinions with her about every single subject under the sun, finding interesting points of accord and even more interesting points of disagreement that led to spirited debates. It was watching Abigail take pleasure in the things he took pleasure in as well, watching her touch things that only he had previously touched—and it was taking Abigail in his arms when he couldn’t bear to be away from her any more, not for another second, and kissing and stroking as much of her as he could.
The only thing he hadn’t done was talk to Abigail about who he was when he wasn’t being a highwayman. About his title, his rank, the responsibilities on his shoulders and the privileges he enjoyed. It would be risky to do so, it would lead to difficult questions—but mostly, when all was said and done, he was afraid.
If he told Abigail who he was, perhaps things would change. Perhaps she would begin to cling to him for his money rather than for who he was as a person. But no, it was more than that; a part of Marcus was waiting to tell Abigail, waiting impatiently, but the time wasn’t right just yet.
