He said her name, called it out, and then his body rippled under her as a wave of pleasure went through him. She kept moving, riding, and his hand stole beneath her gown and touched her in that place that was hot and hard and slippery with musk-scented dew. Her pleasure collided with his, and she shuddered with the strength of it just as he had.
Her hair fell forward as she bent her head and caught her breath. He pushed his hands into it at her nape and dragged her toward him. Her mouth settled over his and they shared a long, wet, leisurely kiss.
When they finally parted and Olivia eased away from him, Griffin did not respond quickly enough to keep her from leaving the bed.
“I need a moment for myself,” she said when he began to sit up. “I won’t be long.” She disappeared into his dressing room and closed the door behind her.
Good as her word, when she appeared minutes later, she was fresh faced and scrubbed pink. She also wore only her chemise. Griffin, for his part, had used the time to strip to his drawers and set a better fire in the hearth. He brushed off his hands and made certain she was all for their bed before he risked leaving her to attend to his own ablutions.
When he returned, Olivia threw back the covers just enough for him to slide into bed beside her. She was on her side facing him with one arm under her pillow to raise it at a comfortable angle. He blew out the candles on the nightstand before he settled in. She could just make out his profile and occasionally the gleam of his white teeth.
“Do you suppose my brother knew the rumor attached to you?” she asked.
“I tend to believe everyone does, so I am no judge. You didn’t. Why do you ask?”
“Because if he knew, that means he gave me over to someone who was thought to be capable of murdering his wife. That does not speak well of him, does it?”
“Pray, you do not mean I should answer that. There are already so many things he’s done that do not speak well of him.”
Olivia drew up her knees. The fabric of her chemise stretched tautly across them. She opened her mouth to speak, said nothing, and closed it again.
“What is it, Olivia?”
How had he known? “Nothing.”
He let the lie pass. She would tell him eventually; he believed that. Trust first, he thought. She could not give over herself without it, and in that way they were no different. “Go to sleep,” he said.
Olivia had not thought she was so tired, but she yawned abruptly and realized she was only trying to deny it. She was asleep before she set her thoughts in order, snugly fitted to Griffin’s body, extending to him all the confidence she could not during her waking hours.
The sweet lethargy in the aftermath of their lovemaking made Olivia’s violent attack all the more unexpected. Griffin woke struggling to draw a breath. One twisted corner of the sheet was pulled taut around his throat, and it was Olivia who gripped it with a strength that defied his first effort to loosen it. He managed to slip two fingers between the sheet and his neck and give himself enough leverage to fill his lungs and grind out her name.
He could not make out her features clearly but his earlier experience made it unnecessary. He knew she was sleeping, that her eyes would be vacant and unfocused, that her profound terror would be masked by the strain of her struggle. He said her name again, less urgently this time as he felt her begin to weaken. Circling one of her wrists tightly, he pressed the pulse point as hard as he could until her fingers spasmed, then opened. He tore the sheet out of her hand, unwound it, and sucked in a deep breath.
He was not prepared for her second attack any better than he had been prepared for the first. He raised his forearm too late to block both of her hands. She sunk the fingernails of one hand into his chest and would have drawn blood if he hadn’t slapped her away. As it was, he felt her nails scrape his skin sharply enough to raise welts. He used measured force to take her by the upper arms and push her onto her back.
She twisted, kicked, managed to make a few blows connect with his shin. She should have yelped in pain; instead, he was the one who grunted. He stayed her hammering toes by throwing one leg across hers, then pinned her arms down at the wrists. She fought on, but there were peaks and valleys in the struggle and each successive bout was weaker than the one before.
It was only when she finally lay still and her breathing quieted that Griffin determined he could safely release her. He touched her face, felt the heat in her cheeks and the beads of perspiration across her upper lip and brow. When he shifted his shoulder, firelight glanced across it and cast her features in a pale, golden glow. He saw her lick her lips.
Griffin rolled out of bed and padded to the dressing room where he poured a glass of water for her. He wet a flannel as well, wrung it out, and carried it and the water back to the bed. He debated the best approach, then decided to cool her flushed skin with the damp flannel first. She murmured something that might have been a protest as he gently wiped her brow, but she also turned her face to the cool relief he provided. He went on as he was, carefully placing it against her cheeks, her upper lip, and finally her throat.
When he was done, he slid one arm under her back and lifted her enough so she could take the water without choking. As soon as he pressed the rim of the glass to her lips she began to sip. It was when she stopped, coughed, and pushed his hand away that he knew she was awake at last.
“What are you doing?” she asked, suspiciously eyeing the glass in his hand. “Do you mean to drown me in my sleep?”
Griffin set the glass aside. “I think we can agree that tossing you in the Thames would be a more effective method.” He crawled over her, straightened the covers, and made himself comfortable on what he thought of now as his side of the bed. “You had a nightmare.”
“I did?”
“Mmm.” He punched his pillow, set it against the headboard, and leaned back. “You don’t remember?”
“I don’t dream,” she said. “I never do.”
“Not true. What you don’t seem to do is remember them.”
Olivia was cold. She didn’t know how Griffin could be sitting up in bed, his bare chest exposed above the turned-down blankets. She inched closer to the warmth that came from him and slipped her toes under his calf. He was in all ways better than a hot brick.
“Your feet are like icicles.” In spite of that, he didn’t try to escape them. He found her hands and gave them a quick rub. Her heartfelt sigh made him smile. “Do you recall even a little bit?”
