“What are you about, Esme?” His voice had become throaty.
“If you do not know how much you mean to me, then I have done you a great disservice.” She paused, breathless with a heady combination of daring and desire. “I must put that right.”
Crispin’s brown eyes met hers and she thought for a moment he might voice some dissent. Before he could utter a word, she rose up again and touched her lips to his.
The familiar tinderbox sparked deep inside her belly, and she felt herself smiling as he hauled her closer and ran his hands down the length of her spine. His hands went to her hair, snaking through the careful styling and scattering pins as he gently tugged it free.
“And how do you intend to show me how much I mean to you?” His voice was husky, the words interlaced with butterflykisses which traced a tingling path from her jawline to the lace of her bodice.
Esme tipped back her head, closed her eyes and deliberately silenced her rational mind. In the past, at times such as this, notions of propriety had prevented her from taking full pleasure in Crispin’s caress. But now, as his palms skimmed her breasts and his breathing became heavier, she didn’t allow herself to fret about what was and was not appropriate behavior for the daughter of an earl.
She only thought of here and now. Of Crispin, and how she could not let him leave Wolvesley whilst thinking that she did not love him.
When he fumbled with the pearl buttons at the front of her gown, she did not stay his hand. She did not flinch, not even when his impatience caused the silk to tear, and two buttons pinged off to become lost in the straw. As he fumbled beneath her skirts, she leaned into his muscular shoulder and ensured the pace of her breathing matched with his. When he lifted her chin and gazed into her eyes at the same moment his fingers found her curls, she smiled to show him how much she liked it.
It was halfway true. She didn’tnotlike it. In truth, she didn’t know what this was meant to feel like. Isabella spoke with distaste ofduty, but Esme had heard tales of women going weak-kneed with desire when men touched their secret places.
She certainly hadn’t thought it would all be sophysical.
Nor that it would take so long.
She pressed her lips together and endured the embarrassing probing, wondering what she might do to make it stop. Was Crispin taking pleasure in doing this to her? She sneaked a look at his flushed face and concluded that yes, he possibly was. When he finally withdrew his hand, she wanted to sigh with relief.
Instead, Esme smiled, ready to kiss him again and hear his familiar declaration of love. But without letting a beat pass, Crispin swept her into his arms and carried her to the back of the stable where the clean straw was stored.
“I have wanted you for so long, Esme,” he said as he carefully laid her down.
The straw smelled sweet but sharp strands stuck into the thin fabric of her gown and made her squirm. She opened her mouth to protest but Crispin took this as an invitation to kiss her once again. This time, his kiss was hot and deep. His tongue swept into her mouth, exploring urgently. Esme found herself sinking downwards into the straw, even more so when Crispin’s solid weight landed on top of her. Before she could gather her wits, she realized that he had penetrated her with something far more substantial than his finger. The white-hot rasping pain of it took her breath and she fumbled at his shoulders, but Crispin’s face was screwed up in concentration. He thrusted several more times before letting out a deep, guttural moan and collapsing into the straw next to her.
Esme’s foremost feeling was relief that his weight was no longer pinning her down. She flexed her hands and feet experimentally, pleased that they still reacted to her instructions. It seemed as if she had been sawn in two, like a tree cleft by lightning. She dared not try to stand up, for fear her legs would not hold her.
“My darling girl. My faerie queen.”
She turned her face to the side, to find Crispin briskly straightening his tunic and jumping to his feet. Esme smiled weakly, unable to think of a response.
“Here, let me help you up.”
She wanted to protest, but Crispin’s strong fingers had already grasped her wrist and hauled her upright. She leaned against him until she found her balance, trying to ignore thesoreness at the top of her thighs as well as the warm trickle of… something… down her calves.
She glanced down to see the red bloom of blood on her rose-colored skirts.
“Oh.” She blanched awkwardly.
“It always happens the first time.” Crispin kissed the top of her head. “Do not worry, sweet Esme.”
Her thoughts scrambled but her eyes were drawn once more to the blood. “We must marry.”
“Of course.” Crispin’s reply was smooth. “As soon as I return from my mission.”
“Are you intent on leaving Wolvesley still?” She sagged against him, feeling tears of uncertainty pricking at her eyes.
Have I made a mistake?
“I must. I explained this to you already.” A note of impatience crept into his tone.
“I’m sorry.” Her tears were harder to staunch now. She had given herself to this man but still he planned to ride away from her.
“Nay, ’tis I who am sorry.” His voice gentled. “We will marry, Esme. I give you my word.”
