And Then She Fell(78)
“She would have liked you.” He caught her gaze as she turned to him, then smiled. “More to the point, she would have approved of you.”
Henrietta opened her eyes wide and stepped closer. “Do you think so?”
Drawing his hands from his pockets, he nodded. “Definitely.”
“Why?” She tipped up her face as he grasped her waist and drew her nearer still.
Bending his head, he murmured, “Because you’re mine—but even more because you’ve made me yours.”
Their lips met.
Later, he would wonder whether it was he, or she, either by conscious act or through unconscious need, who initiated the next step—or whether they were both driven, captive to some elemental, intrinsic command, mere actors engaging under the direction of a power greater than them both.
Or whether, given the situation, the threat hovering over her and therefore over the shared future that was hourly taking more definite shape, it was inevitable that they would end in his bed, and that the afternoon—that particular afternoon—would be filled with the heated tangle of limbs, with provocative caresses, evocative groans, and the sibilant sounds of smothered gasps as together they reexplored, reclaimed, and reaffirmed all they’d previously discovered.
All they’d previously uncovered. Reassuring, restating, revisiting, and reiterating, they dived in again, plunged in again, seized and surrendered and shared the scintillating delights once again.
He couldn’t remember quite how they’d returned to the bed; he vaguely recalled the heated duel of their tongues, the frantic melding of their mouths, followed by an even more driven rush to rid themselves of all physical barriers between them. Clothes shed, fell away, vanished—banished. And then they were naked, hot skin to hot skin, and they both paused, eyes closed, senses stretching wide to absorb the delirious pleasure of that sharply intense moment. To savor it.
Then the flames rose, hungry and greedy, and wouldn’t be denied, and they gave themselves up to the fire, to the conflagration of their senses. Falling across the bed, in the warm afternoon light they reveled and rejoiced.
And it grew stronger. More assured, more powerful.
The force that rose up and claimed them both, that flashed through them and possessed them as, joined and together in body and in mind, they raced up the peak, then soared high.
And fractured.
They clung and slowly fell, spiraling back to the real world, to the heavy thud of each other’s hearts, to the soft, ragged rush of each other’s breaths.
To the joy and comfort of each other’s bodies embracing, holding, accepting, and enveloping.
Protecting. Holding on.
In the soft golden light, in the warmth of his bed, one fact rang crystal clear. Neither had any intention of retreating.
Of backing away, no matter the challenge.
They wanted this, both of them, this and all it could lead to.
Slumping back onto the pillows, as she crawled into his arms, their gazes met and held . . . and he read in her eyes the same resolution that resonated inside him.
Without words, without further thought, in that moment they made a binding commitment.
To each other, to themselves, to their future lives.
To this.
For this they would battle any foe.
Because this was worth any price.
It was that simple. That fundamental.
She lowered her head to his shoulder, let her body, her limbs, relax against his.
Eyes closing, he cradled her close.
As all tension fell away, he inwardly smiled, and sent a prayer winging heavenward—to his grandaunt Emily.
He was entirely reconciled to her manipulation.
Chapter Twelve
Atop Marie, Henrietta trotted into the park early the next morning. Two grooms rode at her back, both alert and watchful, there to ensure no one attempted to accost or otherwise threaten her.
The morning was cool and damp, light wisps of fog clinging to the trees and wreathing the bushes deeper in the park. No sun had yet struck through the pale gray clouds, and the birdcalls were muted.
“At least there’s no wind,” Henrietta murmured. For her and Marie, this was a regular outing, one of their customary biweekly morning rides; while she’d readily agreed to the extra guards, she hadn’t felt inclined to allow her villainous would-be murderer to dictate how she lived her life.
Yet in deference to the threat, James had insisted on joining her, and with that she was perfectly content; they’d arranged to meet by the start of the tan track along Rotten Row. Conscious of the warming spark of anticipation the prospect of seeing James provoked, she clung to it and rode at a quick clip down toward the track.