Beauty and the Blacksmith (Spindle Cove #3.5)(24)

And then his hands were everywhere. He thrust them under her cloak, making contact with her shivering body. He cupped her br**sts through her frock, slid his hands downward to explore her hips and thighs. The bold possession of his touch stirred her blood. There was nothing of finesse or seduction in his touch. Only claiming. Raw, primal need.

As he ran his tongue along her neck and caught her earlobe in his teeth, he swept one hand down her leg and tossed up the edge of her skirts.

She was visited again by that dizzy, arousing thought from the time before she knew anything of him. From before any of this was possible.

His wrist is as big as my ankle.

Indeed, his fingers encircled her stockinged ankle easily, and she could visualize the corded tendons of his forearm flexing as he stroked higher, higher. Up to her knee, and higher still.

Between her legs, her pulse beat as a sweet, hollow ache.

“Diana,” he groaned. “I want to be in you. Deep in the heart of you.”

This was madness. It could not happen. Not here, not now. But she wanted it, too, and the all-consuming nature of her desire was a revelation. What a joy to want. To want so fiercely, with all her being, without moderation or reserve.

She was new to this, and the sort of coarse, thrilling words he whispered did not come easily to her lips.

“Yes.” At least she could manage that much. “Yes, yes.”

He slid his hand higher, over her garter and up. His touch was a brand against her bare, shivering thigh.

She clutched his neck, urging him further. “Yes.”

Until Charlotte moaned and stirred in the wagon bed, and they jolted apart.

Her whole body mourned the loss. Her ni**les, tight and achy, strained toward him.

“I’d forgotten her.” She clapped a hand to her brow.

Aaron chuckled between ragged breaths. “I can’t believe she slept through everything.”

“She’s always been that way. Slept like a stone, ever since she was a baby. I’ll be hard-pressed to make her believe any of this tomorrow.”

“Then don’t try. I think you’d do better to keep it between us.”

“But Aaron . . .”

She didn’t want to tell Charlotte about the swindler or the fight, but they wouldn’t be able to hide their relationship much longer.

“Wait until Thursday,” he said. “I want to talk with Lord Payne before we make any plans. I’ve had my differences with the man, and I didn’t care for the way he behaved when he eloped with your sister . . . but I’m determined to do better myself. He’s your brother-in-law and the man of the family. I don’t need his permission, but I want to speak with him about this—about us—and hear what he has to say. All right?”

She nodded. “All right.”

He pressed his brow to hers and caressed her lips with a tender kiss. “There’s my girl.”

As they kissed, her muzzy thoughts swarmed in two opposite directions, one sublime and one utterly mundane.

The sublime: She was his girl. His girl. His girl.

The mundane: Now she really had to practice that ridiculous play.

CHAPTER 9

“Ursula was simply too missish to live.” The next day, in the parlor of the Queen’s Ruby, Charlotte flipped through the booklet and made a face. “It’s a miracle no one beheaded her earlier.”

“According to the vicar,” Diana replied, “even the Church now believes her story is a myth. But I still think we should show some respect.”

“Show respect for my nerves,” Mama interjected. “Charlotte, pass me the vinaigrette.”

“I can’t, Mama. It’s missing.” Charlotte arched a brow at Diana, then slid a glance toward Miss Bertram. “I told you there’s a pattern,” she whispered.

“Missing? Nonsense. It must be here somewhere.” Mama rose and began to poke about the room.

“The play,” Diana said. “You’re supposed to be helping me learn my lines.”

Now that Aaron would be in attendance, she actually wanted to do well. Of course, Mama had completely misinterpreted her intentions.

“I’m so glad you’re finally making an effort, Diana. Lord Drewe cannot fail to be impressed.”

Diana bit back an objection. These few remaining days before Thursday would be her mother’s final days to believe she had an obedient, well-intentioned daughter with excellent prospects. She wasn’t looking forward to the aftermath, when Mama learned the truth.

Diana opened her booklet to the first page. “Oh, wreck and WOE. My father hath betrothed me to the son of a pagan king. I would sooner DIE than be so defiled.”

Charlotte didn’t read her part. “I’m finding it hard to sympathize with my role as Cordula,” she complained. “If I were friends with this Ursula, I would have shaken some sense into her. I mean, really. So her parents betrothed her to a pagan prince, and she doesn’t want to marry him. But instead of just saying she doesn’t wish to marry him, she asks for a delay and sets sail with eleven thousand of her closest virgin friends, floating about on the ocean for three years.”

Diana shrugged. “It sounds rather like a seafaring version of Spindle Cove. Perhaps they amused themselves with theatricals.”

“They didn’t study celestial navigation, I know that much. Because after three years of drifting, she lands a scant hundred miles away on the shores of France.”