With great reluctance, she stopped her exploration of his skin and allowed him to take her hand and tug her into the copse of trees where his mount invariably waited. The moon was full and high, unnaturally bright overhead as they made their way to his horse. He slung his large body into the saddle first and then held down a hand, hoisting her with ease and settling her before him, between his powerful thighs.
The late August air was cool, but Clay’s body was a furnace of warmth, and she nestled against him, relishing the closeness they could share, however fleeting. He rode to the hunting cabin, an easy silence falling that was interrupted only by the steady plod of his horse’s hooves. Now and again, she caught a glimpse of the night sky through the boughs overhead, their twinkling lights like charmed beacons overhead.
She could ride with him like this forever, she thought wistfully. Like every other stolen moment with him, she wished it would never end. But the ride came to a halt, Clay slowing the mare to a trot before stopping her and dismounting.
He reached up for her next, helping her down and hauling her against him. For an indeterminate span of time, they simply held each other, breathing in and out, relishing the secret chance to be close. How she ached to be so free with him every day. To live her life with him, never leaving his side.
She shivered.
He rubbed her arms through her pelisse. “Are you cold, love? Come, let us go within. I’ll build a fire.”
She was not cold, not in the way he meant, but Ara did not wish to spoil the loveliness of their tryst with heavy thoughts. Instead, she allowed him to lead her inside the small, neatly kept cabin. An oil lamp flickered to life when he lit it, bathing the chamber in a golden glow. He drew her against him and kissed her sweetly before striding to the grate and crouching down to begin building a fire.
He was such a capable man, and it was one of the many traits she admired in him. He did not shy from performing tasks himself, unlike the lords who had courted her. He wore his industriousness with honor.
“I wish we did not have to meet in secret,” she said suddenly, hugging her arms about herself as she watched him.
For some time, he did not respond, the only sound between them the rustling of logs, followed by the gentle crackle of the kindling as the flame came to life.
“I went to see your father two days ago,” he said at last. His back was to her, his hands busy with working the flames higher.
“You did?” An instant burst of hope flared in her breast. “Why?”
“To ask for your hand in marriage,” he clipped.
There was something different in his tone, a lack of joy, that warned her to temper that hope with caution “And what did he say?”
“He said you are to wed the Marquess of Dorset.” He had yet to turn back toward her, and she could not see his expression, but she could well imagine what it contained.
Her heart gave a pang as she went to him, falling on her knees alongside him at the hearth. She did not care if her silk became crushed or otherwise befouled. All she cared about was him.
“Clay.” She touched his bicep, firm and powerful beneath his coat. “Will you not look at me?”
He took his time with the fire, waiting until it crackled merrily into the silence, radiating a warmth she scarcely felt, before he turned back to her. “Have you anything to say about it, Ara? Were you intending to go from my arms to another man’s bed?”
“Of course not,” she said softly. “I do not want to wed Dorset. The marquess has been pressing his suit, but I do not care for him at all. There is only one man I would have as my husband, and Dorset is not he.”
“The earl was adamant in his disapproval.” Clay cupped her face with a large, callused hand, his dark gaze searching hers. “I am beneath you, Ara. I have no right to be here with you now. No right to want you as I do.”
“How adamant was my father?” she asked, desperation making her mind whirl. There had to be some way she could make her father listen to reason. He was a harsh, stern man. But surely if she could convince him she was in love, he would relent. Surely she could force him to realize she and Clay were meant to be together.
That they were each other’s fate.
He ran the pad of his thumb over her lower lip, his countenance pained. “Extraordinarily so. Not only does his quarrel with my father still rankle him, but he has vowed he will not ever grant me your hand.”
“No,” she denied, launching herself at him without a thought. Though she was small, her momentum took him by surprise, and they toppled as one to the demi-lune rug laid before the hearth. His thighs splayed wide, and she settled between them, only the impediment of her skirts and his trousers in her way.
“His words, love. Would that I could change them.” He was somber.
She stared intently down into his ruggedly beautiful face, and her heart knew there was no other man for her. “I will change his mind, Clay. I will speak with him.”
“And tell him what, love?” A bitter laugh escaped his lips, but he caressed her hair reverently just the same. “That while we have never had a proper introduction, we have been meeting in secret and engaging in all manner of wickedness and we now wish to be properly wed?”
“It is not like that between us.” She frowned down at him. Yes, they had been wicked, though she would not regret a moment of the time she had spent in his arms. “I will tell him I love you, and I will not be happy unless I am your wife.”
“If only it were that easy, Ara mine.” His strokes slowed. “Apparently, your father and mine vied for my mother’s hand years ago. My father won, and yours will not forgive him for it. You see, I am not just a bastard but the bastard born to the woman he once loved. He loathes me, and he has assured me he will not give his consent.”
“Fortunately, I am of age.” Her tone was firm, her decision made. If her father would not approve of a match between she and Clay, they would simply do what they must. “I can marry whomever I wish.”
