Page 70 of Secrets of the Heart

Rachel’s mind, too, turned to the other day and the way she had so brazenly undressed him. It amazed her a little that she had had the courage. It also occurred to her to wonder how she had been able to stop and play out her joke on him, for right now, this close to him, in this intimate setting, all she was able to think of was how much she would like for him to take her in his arms.

The maid knocked, and Rachel jumped at the sound. Quickly she took a step backward as the maid bustled in and put a bowl of water on the bedside table, laying a small stack of cloths down beside it. After the girl left, closing the door behind her, Rachel went to the bowl and soaked one of the rags in it, then squeezed it out.

Turning back to Michael, she held the cold compress against his cheekbone, where there was a raw, red patch. Michael finished taking off his shirt, wincing a little, and tossed it aside. There were red splotches on his chest and stomach, one already starting to purple.

Rachel sucked in her breath when she saw them. “Lie down,” she ordered, and took his hand, putting it against the cloth to hold it to his face while she went to wet another rag and bring it back to lay on the injuries on his chest. Again and again, she wet the rags and squeezed them out, then folded them up and placed them against each sore spot.

Michael lay, his eyes closed, luxuriating in the gentle touch of Rachel’s fingers, the coolness of the cloth. He scarcely noticed now the soreness of his bruises, so sweet was the sensation of Rachel caring for him.

Rachel was sure that she must be a thoroughly wanton woman, for as she looked at his naked chest, her mind kept turning to lustful thoughts. He was hurt, yet all she could think of was how it felt to touch his skin, how much she wanted to stroke her hands across his chest, to bend down and kiss the smooth flesh.

She glanced up at his face. His eyes were closed, lashes fanning his cheeks, giving him a vulnerable look that somehow stirred her desires even more. Without stopping to think, Rachel raised her hand and lightly brushed her fingertips across his cheek.

Michael opened his eyes and looked at her, and there was in his gaze the same hot hunger that she had seen in his eyes before, when he was pretending to be James Hobson. She drew a quick, uneven breath, heat rising up her throat and into her face. She hardly dared to move, for fear it would break the fragile moment and throw them back into their stiff separation.

He reached out to her other hand, which rested atop the cool cloth on his chest, covering her hand with his. Slowly, lightly, he slid his fingers up her arm, then just as slowly back down to her hand. Her skin tingled, suddenly intensely alive wherever he touched it.

Tentatively, without speaking or even daring to look into Michael’s face, Rachel trailed her other hand down from his face onto the hard plane of his chest. Fingers spread out, she drifted across his chest, exploring the differing textures of smooth skin over-laying muscle and bone. She could feel his response in the quiver of his skin, in the quickening of his breath, and it emboldened her to glide her hand lower, onto his stomach.

“Rachel…” Michael sat up and took her face between his hands.

Rachel looked up at him. His eyes burned into her, and desire softened his mouth. He gazed at her for a long moment and seemingly found the answer he sought in her face, for he leaned forward, and his mouth met hers. They kissed softly at first; then their mouths deepened with passion, their tongues meeting and twining in an intricate, intimate dance.

Michael groaned, and his arms went around her tightly, pulling her against his chest. He lay back down, taking her with him. Arms and legs wrapping around her, he pressed her body into his, and Rachel strained to be even closer, yearning to somehow melt into him. They rolled across the bed, kissing and caressing, the bonds of restraint that had been in place for years snapping one after another.

Frantically, heatedly, they kissed, their hands roaming each other’s bodies. Tasting, touching, they explored with all the ardor they had denied themselves for so long.

His hands were beneath her open dressing gown, moving all over her body, with only the thin material of her nightgown between his skin and hers. He bunched the material in his hands, pulling it up until his fingers touched the bare skin of her thighs. He moved up beneath her gown, exploring the petal-like softness of her flesh. His breath rasped harshly in his throat. His senses were filled with her—the scent, the feel, the taste. He longed to sink into her, to rush to the fulfillment he had waited so long for, yet at the same time he wanted to savor each exquisite sensation, to feel as much and as intensely as he could.

Rachel quivered and dug her fingers into his shoulders, bombarded with such a dizzying rush of pleasurable sensations that she felt as if she might simply break up and fly apart at any second. The faintly roughened skin of his fingertips teased her delicate flesh, roaming her thighs and moving up onto her hips. She moaned as his hand moved onto the soft, flat plane of her stomach, then up until finally, satisfyingly, it curved around the soft orb of her breast. He cupped and caressed it, teasing the nipple into aching hardness.

She dug her heels into the bed, arching up against him as he stroked her breast, then took the nipple between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed gently. Desire shot through her, and she pulled away, shrugging out of her dressing gown and shoving it aside. Eagerly he helped her take the nightgown off over her head and tossed it off the bed.

Letting out a long breath, Michael looked at her, his gaze roaming down over her naked white body. She was as beautiful as he had always dreamed she was, smooth and alabaster-skinned, the soft, full orbs of her breasts centered by pink-brown nipples.

Rachel lay back down upon the bed, stretching her arms up over her head. She realized that she loved the way he looked at her, that the touch of his heated gaze was almost as pleasurable as the touch of his hand.

Still gazing at her, Michael stood and quickly skinned out of the remainder of his clothes, letting them drop to the floor, then returned to the bed. Leaning on his elbow, he placed his other hand on her chest, moving slowly down over her breasts and onto her stomach, desire burgeoning in him as he watched his hand on her skin and saw her move in response to his caresses.

His fingers delved down between her legs, and Rachel jerked in surprise, her eyes flying open. But the pleasure he evoked in her did not leave room for modesty; she gasped, catching her lower lip with her teeth, and began to move with the thrilling sensation. His fingers opened and explored her soft, secret femininity, stroking and caressing until passion was thundering in both of them.

Then he bent and touched his tongue to her nipple, and Rachel let out a strangled noise of pleasure, her fingers digging into the sheets as if to keep herself anchored to the bed. Lips and tongue loved her nipple, turning it into a hard, aching bud, while he continued to stroke and caress her nether lips, until she was moaning and desperate, her hips moving on the bed, her fingers digging into his shoulders and arms.

She wanted him inside her, but she could do no more than gasp out his name like a plea.

He moved between her legs then and slid into her. She tightened at the bright flash of pain, and he paused, kissing her neck and murmuring soothing sounds as he stroked her legs and sides. She relaxed, and he sank deep within her, and then there was no more pain, but only a deep satisfaction, mingled with a throbbing, urgent need. He moved inside her, thrusting in and out in a deep, primal rhythm, and Rachel matched him, wrapping her legs and arms around him.

Pleasure built inside her, swelling and pulsing, aching for release, until finally it exploded inside her, sweeping up through her so that she cried out, trembling under the force of it. Michael shuddered, groaning, as his own release took him. He collapsed against her, and they lay tangled together, damp and hot and, at last, at peace.

The world seemed a brighter place the next morning. Rachel hummed as she went through her morning toilette. The connecting door stood open between their rooms, and she could look through into Michael’s room, where he stood, shaving. She watched him, a small, secret smile hovering about her lips.

They had made love again this morning, waking in the pale predawn to the uncommon pleasure of lying in each other’s arms. This time their lovemaking had been slow and dreamy, culminating in the same shattering burst of passion. And Rachel had known that somehow, after all this time, with all that lay between them, she had fallen in love with her husband. She was not sure how it had happened or when, whether it had happened gradually during the years of their marriage or had bloomed only recently within her when she had looked at him as a different person instead of the familiar man she had known all this time.

It didn’t matter, really, she thought. All that mattered was that she loved him. She did not know if he loved her still, or if it had died during the long, barren years of their marriage. But she was certain now that he wanted her, and that was enough for the moment. He would come to love her again; she would make sure of it. And for right now, the pleasure of their lovemaking was enough.

Michael came to the doorway between their rooms, wiping away the remains of his shaving soap from his chin and smiling at her.

“I think the best thing to do now is to talk to that footman again,” he said. “Hargreaves. He is our best link to the person who is behind all this. If, as we surmise, our unknown criminal hired him to poison Birkshaw’s wife, he must have contacted Hargreaves in some way. He might even have spoken to him directly.”