“Sore, but it will heal,” she assured him, and by now her enterprising lips had kissed their way up the cord of his throat, lingering over his Adam’s apple, before finding the solid angle of his jaw. She disentangled her fingers from his grasp, her hand flitting to his shoulder. “What of you? It must have hurt when you broke down the door.”
In truth, he hadn’t felt a damn thing. Fear and determination had pumped through him, washing out any other sensation. He’d never been so frenzied, so terrified. All that had mattered was getting to Clara. Now she fretted over him, as though ramming his shoulder into a piece of wood was the equivalent to even a bloody twentieth of the pain she’d endured. His brave, sweet little dove. How he would miss her when he set her free from her gilded cage on the morrow. But it needed to be done. He was no bloody good for her. No good for anyone.
“Do not concern yourself over my worthless hide.” He couldn’t resist slipping his hand beneath the soft curtain of her hair and stroking up her spine.
She framed his face in both her palms then, her face so near to his that he could distinguish each fleck of navy in her vividly blue eyes. After what had happened earlier, neither of them had been willing to extinguish the lights entirely, and he was glad for it now.
The warm glow of the lowered lamps bathed her ethereal beauty. He studied her, attempting to memorize her features: the rosebud mouth, wayward eyebrow, the freckles, tipped chin, retroussé nose. Perfection. Every inch of her was lovely. Jesus, he would more than miss her. Losing her would be akin to losing a part of himself. The best part of himself. How had she gotten beneath his skin, into his very blood, in such a short span of time?
“I never want to hear you call yourself worthless again,” she told him then, her tone passionate. Dictatorial, almost. “You are anything but. You’ve proven yourself kind and true and brave more times than I care to count. I won’t stand for you to speak ill of yourself ever again. Am I understood, Lord Ravenscroft?”
A wry smile tugged at his lips. “You are understood, Lady Ravenscroft.” If only he—or anyone else in England, for that matter—esteemed him as highly as the plucky, nude American woman draped over his chest and issuing him orders did. But that was part of why he loved her, wasn’t it? She saw beneath him, saw past the ugliness of his past, saw him better than anyone ever had. And she had chosenhim. Against all odds, against logic and reason and goddamn it, even common sense, she had chosen him.
For tonight, at least, she was still his. Before he could say anything else, she kissed him. It wasn’t a skilled kiss. It wasn’t even a sensual kiss. Rather, it was a sudden setting of her mouth upon his, hard and fast. But it was borne from the emotions arcing between them in the night with the force of electricity.
Tonight only, they were man and woman, two people who had nearly lost each other in the darkness. For the time being at least, there was light. There was warmth and there was pleasure, and there was something else that was far more defining and powerful.
There was his love for her, impossible yet true, andthatwas all that mattered.
Her attempt at seduction was rather clumsy, even she had to admit. She’d meant to give him a soft, languorous kiss, a kiss that enticed and hinted at greater pleasures in store. Instead, she’d been so overwhelmed by love for him, a fierce surge of protectiveness rippling through her, that she’d mashed their lips together as though she could confess the depth of her emotions with aggression. She doubted he’d ever suffered such awkward inexperience.
Her cheeks heated with mortification and she made to pull away from him, but he caught her shoulders and held her still when she would have retreated. His lips firmed over hers, taking control of the kiss, teasing her mouth open for his exploration. His tongue delved inside, claiming and coaxing. He tasted of whisky and desire, and her fingers sank into his hair as she gave in to him, telling him without words what she most longed to say.
She slid her leg over his thigh so that she straddled him, bringing their lower bodies into full, torturous contact.Take me.He was hard and hot, the tip of him brushing her slick folds in a maddening precursor of what was to come.I’m yours.A low growl of pleasure rumbled from him. She arched into him, wanting his possession so badly she ached with it.
I love you.
Clara kissed him back with all the fiery sensations burning though her: relief, fear, hope, desire. If only she could tell him how she felt. But it was too soon, her emotions too new. And her body clamored for revelations of a different sort entirely. She rubbed the sensitive bud of her sex on his cock. He pumped against her, nipping her lip. His hands came between them to cup her breasts, his thumbs drawing quick, delicious circles over her nipples.
Yes. This was what she needed so desperately after what had happened. She needed to become one with him, for the joining to be frenzied and intense. To lose herself, lose every memory of evil and terror and replace it with the wonder of Julian’s body against hers, on hers, inside hers. She inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of him, cologne and hot-blooded man.
He broke the kiss at last and worked his way down her throat, lingering with sweet tenderness where her skin was sore and bruised. He rained kisses on her, erasing the violence and pain inflicted upon her with each brush of his lips.
“I’m so sorry for this,” he crooned. “I’m so very sorry, my love.”
“It will heal,” she promised, continuing to torment herself by gliding her slick folds over him again and again. “Take away the pain for me, Julian. Replace it with pleasure.”
His tongue flicked over her neck, tasting and licking and banishing every trace of the brigand who’d dared to assault her in her own bed. “I’d take it for you, darling. I’d bear it all for you if I could. That’s how much I—goddamn it, Clara, I will hunt the bastard responsible for this down. I’ll hunt him down and I’ll choke the life from him, and I’ll watch him die.”
His words sent pinpricks of ice through the sensual haze enveloping her. Her husband was not a violent man. But he meant what he’d just said. She had no doubt of that. His deep voice vibrated with a complex blend of rage and passion. This beautiful, enigmatic man she’d married would kill to avenge what had happened to her. The realization left her shaken. Humbled.
“The police will find him,” she said with far more confidence than she felt. The inspector who’d been sent to conduct interviews with the household had seemed rather green and overwhelmed. “The law will see him punished.”
“I’llsee him punished,” Julian vowed before bestowing another series of quick, devoted kisses to her neck. “That’s my promise to you. You’ll never know another moment of fear if I bloody well have a say in it.”
Here was the rattler in him re-emerging. She hadn’t been wrong about that part of him. With everything in her, she believed that if there was indeed a way for him to hunt down the villain who’d attempted to kill them both, he would. And he would extract his own vengeance. But she didn’t want to think any more about vengeance or murders or evil men who attacked in the darkness of the night.
No, she most certainly did not. What she wanted now was her husband. The man she loved. The notorious Earl of Ravenscroft, a man who seemed to regard the entire world around him—even his own life—as some sort of private joke, the man who had married her without ever intending to uphold his half of the bargain, the man who cared for his trying sisters and had committed all manner of sins in the name of providing for them, the man who tried so hard to never allow anyone to see the real him. That was the man she loved. Complicated, baffling, more handsome than any man had a right to be, protective and wild and strong.
And most importantly of all, hers.
She guided his head back to her for another kiss, and this time she took great care not to bungle it as she had before. She angled her mouth over his, kissing him slowly, running her tongue over the seam of his lips until he parted for her, letting her inside. She plundered him, taking and tasting, nipping at him, teasing him, leaving them both breathless. And then she undulated her hips against him, not stopping until the head of him rested at her slick entrance.
“Make love to me, Julian,” she ordered against his mouth.
In one swift motion, he rolled them both so that she was pinned beneath him on his bed. Her thighs opened, welcoming him. His fingers dipped into her folds, working the nub that was so greedy for his touch. She jerked against him, crying out. He kissed her again, deep and voracious, before taking the tip of her breast in his mouth and sucking.
A mewling noise split the air, and she realized dimly that it had come from her. He caught her nipple between his teeth and tugged. Her hands went to his broad back, her nails sinking into his warm, muscled flesh. He played with her, working her fast and hard and bringing her perilously close to release. Then his fingers brushed lower, parting her, sinking inside her body. She twisted and moaned, still unaccustomed to the invasion but knowing now what it meant. Wanting more. She arched into his hand, bringing him deeper inside her, crying out with need.
