“Now, madame—” he began.
“You must be insane. After what you’ve done! This is neither the time nor the place—”
“It is precisely the place, and the time,” he stated flatly.
It was not. She was quickly on her feet. Her eyes met his and she realized that he was still every bit as furious as she was. She decided on a hasty retreat, streaking toward the bedroom door. He was there beside her, slamming it closed. She stepped quickly away as he remained there, his back to the door. “The time, and the place, love. You’ll note, our bed lies there, my love, awaiting us.”
“I’ve no intention of joining you in bed. No intention, do you understand me?”
“Then the floor shall be just fine.”
He was already in motion. Even as she turned to flee a second time, his hands were upon her arm, jerking her around and into his arms. Gasping, she tried to kick him. She was off balance so, and he quickly swept her up, bearing her down to the floor. She found herself staring into his eyes, startled by the depth of the passion within them. “I have missed you deeply,” he breathed to her.
“Bastard!” she snapped back with soft venom. “I will not—” she paused, moistening her lips. “I will not make love with you here on the floor.” His lips were above hers. He smiled slowly. Her heart was thundering. He would surely strike her, or kiss her. He did not. Instead, he straddled her, and began to untie the ribbons to her bodice. She lay still, feeling his fingers move upon her, knowing how deeply she had missed him.
“I think that you’ll make love anywhere I demand,” he said.
“Oh!” Furious, she slapped his hands away. He laughed dangerously and warned her, “Make love, my lady, or take the risk of further interrogations!”
“Eric Cameron—” she began.
But then he did kiss her, and in moments she didn’t feel the floor, she felt the warmth and heat of the man and fire escalating between them. His hands were upon her, beneath her shirt and petticoats, finding naked flesh. She did not know what seized her there, she knew only that the flames of anger and passion were combining with her and that she could no longer fight him. He was quickly wedged between her thighs. His hand cupped her mound, his fingers stroked into the moist heat of her body even as his lips caught hers, searing her with another kiss. She felt him wrestle with his breeches, and then it was the steel shaft of his masculinity within her, and fevered winds quickly rose to rock the world between them. Desperately she rocked with him and clung to him, felt the pounding, pulsing rhythm, the need rising so high and sweet that it was nearly anguish. And then it burst upon her, so shattering, so strong, and filled with honeyed sweetness, that the world itself swung to darkness for long, long moments.
Then she kept her eyes closed as she tried to breathe slowly once again. She felt Eric shift from her, and she felt his eyes upon her. Then she felt his lips touching hers. Softly. So softly. She opened her eyes and met his. There was a certain sorrow within them.
He rose, lifting her up into his arms, and setting her down at the dressing table. She met his eyes in the mirror. He found her brush on the floor and stroked it through the sable strands of her hair.
“Why do we fight so?” he asked her.
She shook her head, unable to answer.
“Let me be tender,” he whispered softly.
He was going to make love to her again, she realized.
And she wanted him to do so. She still hungered for him. Hungered for him greatly.
He stroked his knuckles over her cheeks, then over her shoulders where they were bared. So gently now. His fingers stroked softly lower to the ribbons of her bodice, and those he finished untying. He slipped the straps of her shift from her shoulders, and pressed down upon the mounds of cotton and muslin until the gown and garment fell to her waist, baring her breasts to him in the mirror. She did not move, but continued to meet his gaze. His fingers closed over her breasts, molding them, cupping them. Then he flicked his thumbs upon her nipples, stroked around the aureoles, and delicately, softly, caressed the pebbled crests again. She moaned low and softly and with just a touch of desperation. Her eyes closed at last and her head fell back against his torso. And still, he saw, in the shimmering image of the mirror, the beauty of her. The fullness, the lushness of her breasts beneath his hands, the ivory gleam and perfection of her flesh, the startling fall of her hair against the slender column of her throat. He bent down, finding her lips, and kissed her. She tasted of everything sweet and intoxicating in life. Her lips trembled beneath his and parted.
He straightened and came around before her upon one knee. Her eyes wide and dilated, she looked down upon him.
“I’ll never ask you again where you went from the town house, Amanda,” he told her. “But I’ll never let you leave again. Do you understand me?” She nodded very slowly. Something about the way she looked at him swept the last of the anger from his being. He cried out in sudden frustration, rose, and pulled her to her feet against him. “You needn’t fear him, Amanda, do you understand me? You needn’t fear Nigel Sterling!”
Dismay filled her eyes. Her head fell back. Eric rushed on. “Dammit, don’t you understand me? You can never go to him again, never go near Tarryton again, or I shall be forced to kill one of them, can’t you understand that? Amanda! I am your husband, I will protect you. You needn’t fear Sterling or Tarryton!”
A soft sob escaped her and she tried to bury her face against him, but he could not allow her to do so. He caught her shoulders and shook her slightly. “Do you understand me, Amanda?”
“Yes! Yes!” she cried out, and tried to jerk free. He held her tight and his lips descended upon hers. They were bruising and forceful and even cruel to hold on to hers…but then she went still in his arms, soft and warm and giving, and his tongue bathed her mouth where he had offered force, and his lips became gentle and coercive, and then so soft that she was hungrily pressing against him for more.
And her fingers were upon his frock coat, shoving it from his shoulders. And soft and subtle, they were upon the buttons of his shirt, and then the stroke of her nails was delicate and exquisite upon his naked flesh.
He brought his hands against her flesh, shoving her gown and garments to the floor. He plucked her up and lay her upon the bed in her stockings and garters. She watched him in the soft candle glow as he divested himself of his clothing. When he came down beside her, she wrapped him in her arms.
They made love slowly that second time. So slowly. Exchanging sultry kisses and soft caresses, and then urgent whispers. She made love to him sweetly, and more savagely, and Eric reveled in her every touch. Desire, volatile and explosive, rose high within him. He thrust into her with his very being, so it seemed.
It was exquisite, it was a tempest. It drew everything from him and returned everything to him. But when it was over and he held her naked form close to him while the candle upon the dressing table faded out, he again decried himself for loving her so deeply. No matter how sweetly, how wantonly she made love to him, she held something back. He had yet to touch her soul.
Yet to touch the truth.
