The Short and Fascinating Tale of Angelina Whitcombe Page 6

  “I love your hair. I’ve wanted to see it down for ages.” His voice was deep, thick and she thought he might say more but then his lips were at her temple, soft and warm. A touch that made her want to curl up against him.

  “Ages?” she repeated with a laugh. “It does feel as though we’ve known each other for quite a while, does it not?” Felt as if time had stopped outside this castle, outside of Auldale. As if, at that moment, nothing mattered anywhere else in England. In the world.

  Her laughter faded. His eyes were so warm, and she could see the fire reflected in his irises.

  “Make love to me,” she whispered.

  “Hmm.” He pulled one of the tendrils of her hair down to her neck. With his finger, traced where it lay on her skin. Then he bent down and she arched her head back as he licked at the spot his finger had been just a moment before. The hum of his voice against her skin was gravelly, low. “I thought that was what I was doing.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The first time Angelina had ever been with a man, she’d been seventeen and relatively ignorant. Oh, she’d understood that men and women were naked together under the blankets, and moved and moaned and made all sorts of jokes to each other that sounded normal but seemed to mean something else that made them laugh riotously. But when she’d lain down with that actor on a pile of hay in a local farmer’s barn (how odd, now, to be making love on a pile of hay again), for her part it had been a shy, rough tumble that had left her with a pain between her legs and the idea that suddenly she knew everything.

  Of course, she didn’t, and when she’d been Alverley’s mistress, he’d taught her all manner of sexual relations she’d never dreamed of. It had been laughable what an innocent she still was when she came to his bed.

  Here, now, was John Martin, showing her there was still so much to learn.

  A man could make love to a woman with the most tender of touches. Not as a receptacle for his lust, but as another being and body he worshipped with his own.

  John’s touch was so . . . reverent.

  “Up with you now,” he murmured, his hands on her arms, pulling her to sit. She resisted for one moment, simply to feel completely in his grasp, held up only by him. Then finally, she complied, wondering what would come next.

  He shifted, moved behind her. Brushed her hair to the side and pressed his lips—

  She gasped at the contact, at the touch of his tongue on the back of her neck. Then she sighed as his hands moved, at the telltale pull of fabric as he undid the laces of her dress. When the neckline gaped he pulled her back against him, his mouth open and hot on her shoulder, his hands delving under the soft muslin, under the stiffer fabric of her stays, the border of her chemise, lifting her breasts to the cool air and his hot hands.

  He cupped the flesh, teased her nipples, squeezing them between strong fingers. Sensation ran rivers down her body, pooled at her core, burning, demanding. She twisted in his arms, lifting her mouth to his even as she pushed at his shoulders, wanting him down, beneath her. So that she could taste his skin, straddle him, feel him between her thighs.

  She wanted him desperately.

  Greedily.

  But he was having none of it. Instead he turned her, pressed her down so that he covered her with his body, covered her left nipple with his wet mouth.

  The strength of his muscled body against hers thrilled her. He was forceful and demanding, a stark contrast to the tenderness of moments earlier, and she reveled in the change.

  She wrapped her legs around him, lifting her hips toward the hard length of his erection.

  He growled and she took fierce pleasure in that deep sound. Even more pleasure in his hand running over her stocking-clad thigh. His touch though the woolen fabric made her entire body tingle and then she gasped again, bucking against him, when his fingers passed over the border of her garter to bare skin.

  His progress slowed, teasing, and even though his tongue, his lips, laved at her nipples, her focus centered on his fingers’ achingly deliberate advance.

  Then his fingers were gone, his body gone, and cool air swept in where he had been.

  “Your dress,” he said, in that low, gravelly voice of desire. She resisted the urge to undress quickly. Instead, she locked her gaze with his and slowly, as slowly as his hand had been on her thigh, peeled off layer after layer, until she knelt before him naked.

  He reached for her but she pushed his hand aside.

  “Your turn.”

  He grinned and the flash of his teeth startled her with a glimpse of the boy that coexisted with the man.

  He pulled off his boots, and then his stockings and trousers, until he, too, sat naked. If she had ever needed proof of his desire, of his ability to act upon desire, it was there in front of her.

  Beautiful.

  Their nakedness seemed right in the soaring space of the great hall. Stripped of all its earthly trappings, the luxurious and glittering material goods for which she’d strived the last five years.

  She moved into his arms with a sigh, trembling at the feel of skin against skin, at knowing John this way.

  Reverence.

  The word struck her with such power that she clung to him, drew on his heat and strength as she finally understood that look in his eyes. He held her, one hand stroking down her hair, down her back, over and over.

  The scent of his skin, his hair, slowly permeated her awareness. His touch sensitized her skin till she was awake everywhere. She pressed her mouth to the curve of his shoulder, tasted him. She was her lips and her tongue, hungry and desirous, needing to know him everywhere, to feel the textures of his body, the hair of his chest, his arms, the hard buds of his nipples, the softer, silkier skin under his arm, at his side, even as her thigh rubbed against the velvet hardness of his arousal.

  She moved lower, to the flat plains of his stomach, his hips, where the scent of his desire, his musk, inspired her to descend faster.

  His hands on her shoulders were again strong, making her weightless, making the room turn around her until she was on her back, looking up at his face looming over her.

  That scarred face, which had been so tight and closed, now open with hunger, with incredible sweetness.

  She opened to him, too, her thighs parting to cradle him, her arms outstretched in an embrace.

  Then she was open to him in the most primal of ways, his body joining with hers, hard and smooth. She expanded for him everywhere, from the center where their bodies meshed to the tips of her fingers—to her mind, which soared with colors and undulating images, half-grasped words and phrases.

  One sentence formed complete—perhaps he had seduced her—and then she was back to mindlessness, pure sensation, arching to meet his slow thrusts, to pull him deeper.

  She wrapped herself around him with a soft cry.

  The sound of her pleasure was so sweet and he answered it with his own guttural exhalation. She was wet and burning hot, enveloping him in every possible way. He could stay there forever, deep within her, his face buried in the crook of her neck, breathing in the scent of lilies in her hair. But her hands were exploring his back, his arms, finding places he hadn’t known were so sensitive. He lifted himself up, moving again, enjoying the slow build, each retreat and advance. Her neck was arched, chin tilted up, and he drank in the view—the long expanse of her smooth neck, the rise and fall of her breasts as she moved to meet his thrusts, to gain her own pleasure. He wanted to see that pleasure, to see her shudder with it, to feel her squeeze around him as she reached that peak. He shifted his body experimentally and watched the flickers across her face at each small motion.

  There. She gasped as he found a new rhythm, his thrusts faster, focused, his hips grinding against hers. She let out little pants, soft explosions of air and her body tensed around him.

  “Yes, that,” she said. Her hands fluttered against him. “Keep doing
that.”

  He watched the way she fought the sensation at the same time that she sought it, watched her arch and squirm. She stiffened around him and then her eyes flew open as she softened, her body undulating, pulsing everywhere. He closed his own eyes, holding himself back. Not yet. But she felt so damned wonderful.

  It had been a long time since he’d last been with a woman, but it would hardly have mattered if he’d had relations even the night before. This was Angelina, beneath him, around him, inside of him as much as he was inside of her. With her body still clutching him tight, trembling, his own trembled.

  Then she wrapped her legs around his hips again, and he opened his eyes, saw her lift her arms toward him, watched her perfect lips curve in the most satisfied smile, and he lowered himself to her with a growl. Losing himself until he was just friction and heat and a stunning, shuddering release.

  CHAPTER NINE

  She lay next to him, naked and languid on the lumpy straw mattress. Her body was beautiful. Luscious.

  Her eyes were half closed, lips slightly curved. Her chest rose and fell with each even breath—breasts rising and falling—and he enjoyed watching the bluish daylight mix with the reddish flicker of the fire to dance over her skin. His thoughts moved with those patterns of light. Curving, undulating.

  He traced his finger around the swell of her breasts, around the nipples. It was still early, just barely after noon. The lumber he’d ordered for the floors and roof would arrive in the morning. Her skin was soft but firm. Along the shadow of her clavicles. Down her chest to the small indentation at her belly. But there was still work he needed to do to prepare.

  Her skin was so smooth. He laid his palm flat on the slight downward slope, felt the pulse of her blood flowing mix with the rhythm of his. God, she was beautiful.

  His fingers trailed lower, to the damp curls at the apex of her thighs. He glanced back up, found her eyes wide open now, intent. Heat gathered. He felt his body stirring.

  But his gaze caught on her leather book in which she had spent hours sketching. He reached for it, untied the knot of the strap. She sat up with a start, grabbing the book away.

  “That’s mine,” she said sharply, all the lovely languor gone.

  “Yes, I should have asked,” he admitted, settling his hand on her leg instead, stroking the soft skin as if he could coax her back into post-coital gentleness.

  She relaxed, set the book aside, and leaned back on her arms. “Keep touching me and I’ll forgive you.”

  He caressed her body slowly, savoring the feel of her firm flesh under his palms. Lowered his mouth to her inner thigh. Listened to her gasp and push at him as if the sensation were too much.

  He looked up at her. “I would love to see your drawings. Won’t you share them with me?”

  She pressed her lips firmly together and looked away. He returned to her thigh, but she was unresponsive now, utterly silent.

  “You’ll laugh at me,” she said finally. “I’m not very good.”

  He sat up again. “I won’t laugh, but I’d like to see Auldale through your eyes.”

  Her mouth twisted. At last she shrugged and gestured to the book. “If you must.”

  He hesitated. He’d grown up in a house of women, his mother and sisters, and he knew there were hidden dangers.

  “Angelina, if you really prefer I didn’t . . .”

  She let out a disgruntled sigh, picked up the book and thrust it at him. “You are so bloody noble,” she complained. “Just look and see what a fraud I am.”

  He laughed and opened the book.

  And stared. Turned the page, and then turned it again.

  She was not being modest. The work was childish at best, the perspective all wrong and lacking knowledge of most basic tenets of art.

  “Have you ever studied drawing?” he asked slowly.

  “Me? The child of impoverished actors? Hardly.” She finished with a laugh.

  “Would you like—” He broke off, flipping another page. “I could teach you a bit. Draftsmanship was a requirement at the academy.”

  She shot him an indecipherable look, although he struggled to understand it. Then she pulled the book away from him again and tossed it to the side.

  “I think I might,” she agreed, “but for now”—her head tilted flirtatiously—“I’d like to explore a different form of art. Sculpture perhaps.” She leaned into him, running her hand down his chest. “You know,” she continued, her voice low, “your body is an incredible specimen. So chiseled . . .” She reached lower, and he sucked in his breath at her hand closing around him. “So . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “So yes,” she repeated. She was teasing him, he knew. But her fingers were stroking, making it difficult to think of anything but enjoying that touch. In fact, he didn’t want to think at all. He watched her hand, pale skin against his, and the sight aroused him even more. Then she ducked her head, and that glorious hair obscured the view but he could feel everything. Her lips, by God, her tongue!

  He sank back on his elbows, closing his eyes. He was delirious. He’d fallen from the ladder, hit his head and entered some strange, erotic waking dream where everything was right with the world.

  And just like that, it wasn’t. He smelled smoke and tasted gunpowder. His ears rang, blocking out all other sound. Desperately, he opened his eyes.

  Angelina.

  She lifted her head, lips curved as if she weren’t aware of any change when, of course, it was all terribly obvious. She crawled up to his side, nestled against him, lifted one leg to rest over him.

  “I like the way you taste. The way we taste.”

  He twisted to his side, pulled her close, tightly, one hand around her, the other tangling within the masses of her hair.

  She was solid and real in his arms.

  “Forgive me, I need a moment,” he whispered against her hair.

  She shifted against him, lifting her head to look at him with those beautiful pale eyes. Unquestioning, soft.

  “We have all the time in the world, John,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.” She laid her head down against his chest, the softness of her cheek pressed against his heart.

  She felt perfect there and for the first time he imagined her staying.

  He let out a breath he hadn’t known he held.

  She listened to the sound of his heart beating fast in his chest. Not all men were ready for a second round of lovemaking shortly after the first. Or maybe there was something else. She didn’t know what had happened, but she knew she should say nothing. Let him take the lead.

  As her body cooled, her own pulse slowed, the castle took over her thoughts. The castle and the dales outside, the village down the path, the manor a mile away.

  In the last hours she’d forgotten why she was there, been consumed with John, with this other world they had created. Now, she remembered with cold clarity that she was employed to be here, to lie in his arms and seduce him toward some future marriage and progeny.

  Not imagine staying there indefinitely, as if all those societal trappings didn’t matter. As if they were Adam and Eve.

  Which they were not.

  This was not the Garden of Eden. It was a broken-down castle housing two broken people. Two?

  She’d flung herself at him earlier, desperate to feel attractive, worthy. To use intimate relations as sustenance. Trying to heal her own wounds the way John’s mother had thought a mistress might heal his.

  Angelina rolled away, the heat of his body suddenly too much for her, and laid back, resting her head on one arm. She was pitiful.

  John had seen that. Seen straight into the center of her, to what she hadn’t even known existed. She wanted to scream, or to curl up and die from the embarrassment. She took a deep breath instead, and then sat, reaching for her chemise with shaking hands.

  She pull
ed the loose muslin shift over her head and then let it fall, pool around her hips.

  Jasper barked. She glanced to where he stood. He shook himself and then slowly padded over to the basket of food. She laughed, perhaps a touch too harshly. The distraction was welcome and well-timed. Of course, it was likely noon, and the dog had learned in the last week to expect a midday meal.

  She crawled toward the basket but stilled at John’s hand on her calf. She took another steadying breath. “I’m starving, aren’t you?”

  She started again, but he didn’t let go. Instead she felt him move behind her, his heat nearing, and then his hands were on her thighs, lifting the fabric to her hips. She didn’t pull away. This was, after all, what she was here for.

  The dog whined, as if he sensed his meal would be delayed, but after a glance at his master, he barked once and then slunk back to the corner.

  She laughed breathily.

  “He’ll have his meal later,” John said huskily, pressing himself against her, hard and ready, as if he wanted to prove his virility. Not that she’d had any doubt after their last bout. “But what I am starving for is you.”

  It was the basest of lines, of flirtation, but desire gathered low in her belly, heavy and slick between her legs. She parted her knees, pressing against him even as she looked back over her shoulder.

  The look in his eyes stunned her. Made her forget all of her own concerns. He needed her. No, he needed her.

  What would have happened if his mother had hired some other woman for this role?

  “Angelina,” he whispered. “Turn over. I want to see your face.”

  She turned. Lay down again, embraced him as he covered her. Sighed at the sensation of completion as he entered her, at the feeling that his body belonged joined to hers this way. Her heart ached, wanting more, wanting him to fill her with everything that was him.