“Definitely finer accommodations than many that I have enjoyed in my travels,” Amity said.
Benedict laughed.
There was some rustling in the stalls. Several horses put their heads over the top of the half doors and nickered softly. Amity smiled. She stripped off her gloves and went forward to stroke the nose of one of the beasts.
“These are very beautiful animals,” she said. “They must have cost Gilmore a fortune.”
“He can afford it.” Benedict inspected the moonlit scene with evident interest. “He prides himself not only on his horses but also on the architecture of his stables. Very modern in design. I understand this place is heated with hot water pipes embedded in the floor.”
She hid a smile. She had been thinking that the elegant stables offered a rather intimate, even romantic setting. Trust an engineer to look at things somewhat differently.
“It is pleasantly warm in here,” she said. “It reminds me a bit of St. Clare. Without the waves crashing on the shore, of course.”
“Or the damn insects.”
She laughed and moved down the row of stalls to pat the next horse in line. “I expect your memories of St. Clare are somewhat affected by the fact that you took a bullet on the island.”
Benedict came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. He pulled her back against his chest and put his mouth very close to her left ear.
“You may be right,” he said, his voice low and excitingly rough around the edges. “All I know is that I don’t care if I never step foot on another tropical island. But the prospect of not being able to kiss you again? Now, that would crush my spirits forever.”
She shivered but not because she was cold. A delicious heat was stirring deep inside her.
“I would not want to be responsible for flattening anything about you, Mr. Stanbridge, least of all your spirits,” she said.
He turned her slowly around to face him. His eyes were darkly brilliant in the moonlit shadows.
“I am very grateful to hear that, Miss Doncaster. More grateful than you can possibly imagine.”
He folded her close and kissed her again. He went about it slowly this time, carefully, as if he was afraid of trampling her delicate sensibilities. But she was no stranger to his kisses now and she had been dreaming about them for too long. Curiosity and a rush of recklessness were driving her tonight. From the first moment she had seen him in the alley on St. Clare she had been very certain that she would never meet another man like Benedict Stanbridge. If she did not drink from the sparkling spring of desire with him, she might never taste those forbidden waters.
She put her arms around his waist and gave herself up to the embrace with the sense of exhilaration and excitement she always experienced when he touched her.
He must have felt the heat of the flames that were sweeping through her because his mouth was suddenly, devastatingly hot on hers.
He picked her up in his arms and carried her to the far end of the aisle of horse stalls. There he stood her on her feet. He removed the coat from her shoulders. She watched him take a pristine white handkerchief out of one pocket. Then he took out another object and set it aside. She heard the soft clink of metal and caught a glimpse of moonlight glinting on the barrel of a gun. No wonder the coat had felt so heavy. He spread it across a pile of straw.
She was about to ask him if he needed the handkerchief because he feared the hay might cause him to sneeze, but then he wrapped his arms around her again and kissed her, silencing the question.
She was fascinated and enthralled by the electric currents that swirled and roiled just beneath the surface of the man. They aroused her in ways she had never dreamed possible.
His hands moved on her, following the shape of her from breasts to waist. She felt his fingers searching for the hooks that closed the front of the gown. A moment later the stiff bodice fell open revealing the thin lawn camisole beneath. When he touched her breasts through the light fabric, everything inside her tightened.
“Benedict,” she whispered.
He eased the gown downward until it tumbled into a sea of satin and silk around her ankles. He untied the petticoat with its small bustle and let both undergarments fall away. She was left clad in the filmy camisole, stockings and drawers.
“You are so lovely,” Benedict said. He drew his hands up her arms until he reached her throat. He framed her face between his palms and kissed her with reverent hunger.
Shaken, she clutched at his shoulders to steady herself. His black bow tie appeared in stark contrast to his crisp white shirt. She fumbled with the tie until she got it undone. The ends trailed around his neck.
She went to work on the fastenings of his shirt. When she finally got it open, she slid her hands inside. Her fingers brushed lightly across his chest. She thrilled to the feel of his sleek muscles and warm skin. She had not touched him so intimately since the days and nights on the ship when she had nursed him through the fever and changed the bloody bandages. It was so good to find him strong and healthy once again, she thought.
But when her questing fingers discovered the raised, scarred skin that marked the now-healed wound, Benedict sucked in a sharp breath.
She flinched and swiftly moved her hand away from the scar. “I hurt you. I’m so sorry.”
“No.” He caught one of her hands and flattened her palm against his chest again. “No, it’s all right. The wound is still a little tender but you did not hurt me. When you touched me there, I was reminded of the night I awoke from the fever to see you curled up in a chair, watching over me. I knew then that you had saved my life.”
