He took note. He also could not fail to notice the manner in which she continued to harp upon his future plans. And for that matter, her plans after she had given him the requisite heir.
Alessandro told himself none of this should be his concern. None of it should bother him. He would set matters to right here at Marchmont, make certain an able and honest steward was in place, task Catriona with looking after the house and grounds in his absence, so that the line carried on after him and that the tenth Earl of Rayne was his son and not his loathsome cousin.
And he would walk away. Damn this return to Wiltshire and the sudden maudlin sentiments attacking him. They did not belong. He had neither the time nor the inclination to entertain them.
“Let us forget about all this for now,querida.” By the light of the moon, he could see they had almost reached his intended destination on the winding path from the main house. The glow overhead seemed to suggest the view would be good enough, in spite of the darkness.
“I cannot forget it, Alessandro. This is to be my life now, but it will not be yours. If you insist upon leaving me, the least you can do is to allow me to choose my own path. I will not allow you to simply cast poor Olly out and leave him without a home.”
His wife’s impassioned speech trailed off as they stopped in the clearing on the path overlooking the lake. Even in the darkness, the lake his father had created by damming the river running through the valley below glistened and reflected the light of the moon beautifully. On the hill opposite them, the Temple of Artemis stood in stark relief against the dark woods and grasses. The limestone of the columns took on an ethereal glow, the statues of deities standing proudly.
“Good heavens,” she breathed. “What is that?”
The night could not hide the splendor of the view. And even if Bramwell had pillaged the contents of the temple as Alessandro suspected he had, nothing could diminish the tranquil beauty of the scene before them. Overhead, the night sky was clear, an endless blanket of inky velvet laden with twinkling stars. Before them, the lake, the temple.
How had he forgotten how glorious, how calming Marchmont was? Or perhaps it was that distance, years, grief, and loss had somehow rendered him able to see what he had not seen before.
“That is the lake, and on the hill above it, the Temple of Artemis,” he said. “The last earl used the river to his advantage by forcing the water to collect. There are four temples here on the grounds. Artemis is the largest and the most stunning.”
“The last earl,” she repeated. “Your father.”
As always, she heard too much. Both the spoken and the unspoken. “Sí.”
His sire had married his mother, a free-spirited courtesan who was as loving as she had been beautiful. And he had resented her. He also resented Alessandro for not bearing the proper pale skin of an Englishman. For not looking like the son of an earl.
“Oh, Alessandro,” she said softly. “It is beautiful.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “It is.”
But he was no longer looking at the sheen of the moon on the lake or the beacon of the temple and its proud Corinthian columns and elaborate statuary.
He was looking at his wife.
She must have felt his regard, for she turned to him. She was still clutching his arm, which made drawing her nearer all the more natural. So very right. Andsí, it was. After so many years of grief and torment, here, in the silver-kissed darkness, he found solace for the first time.
Because ofher. What an astonishing discovery to make. Catriona gave him comfort.
Her hands settled upon his shoulders. Her head tipped back. The brokenness inside him shifted. Fused together, fracture by fracture. He cupped her face in his hands. The contact of her silken skin on his was a revelation.
An absolution.
The time for thinking was done.
Her mouth was his.
And he took it.Dios, how he took those lips. They were full and plump and soft, slicked with a hint of dew. Whether from the night air or from her tongue, he could not be certain. She made a sweet sound of surrender, and then she was kissing him back.
Having denied himself for so long, he was ravenous. His tongue demanded entrance, and she gave it, opening for him. He plundered. There was no other way to describe it. This was not the kiss of a man wooing his bride.
Rather, this was the savage claiming of a man who had not felt this deeply in…
Since…
Years.
Cristo, it had been years since he had been so moved. Since he had hungered for a woman’s kiss the way he did Catriona’s. He had already been inside her, and yet this was the greatest intimacy he had experienced with her.
Her tongue moved against his, and the last thread of his restraint broke.
