Beauty and the Blacksmith (Spindle Cove #3.5)(28)

“Diana?”

She woke with a start, her eyes wide and unfocused until they settled on him. “Aaron. You’re here.”

“I’m here. And you’re here. What about Ambervale?”

“I told everyone I had a miserable headache and begged Miss Bertram to read my part. I didn’t go.”

“Why not?”

“We heard from one of the inn’s girls about Mr. Maidstone’s accident. And I knew you’d be called to help. How is he?”

Aaron sighed and rubbed his jaw. “He’ll live. His leg’s set as best I could manage. It was a bad break, and it will take months to heal. But if he gives it time, it should heal cleanly.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Seeing your face is a relief. I worried what you’d think when I didn’t come.”

“I wanted to come help you, but I decided I’d only be in the way. But I knew you’d be famished once it was over. And perhaps needing some company, too.” She averted her gaze, and her eyelashes fluttered.

It suddenly occurred to him that he was standing before her shirtless. And that she’d noticed. Her wide-eyed, sleepy gaze wandered over every damp contour of his arms and chest. But she sat between him and the bedchamber, where all his other clothing hung. Improper as it was for her to see him half dressed, he couldn’t clothe himself without drawing imprudently near . . . so he simply did nothing at all.

Well, he did clear his throat.

Her gaze snapped up to his face.

She pushed to her feet. “I brought over some dinner.” As she indicated the covered dishes on the table, her mouth pulled to the side in a self-deprecating smile. “Don’t worry, I didn’t cook it myself. It’s just odds and ends from the Queen’s Ruby kitchen.”

He didn’t know what to say—the fact that she’d known, that she’d given up the evening’s amusement to be with him. Her thoughtfulness wasn’t any sort of surprise, but still . . . His heart insisted it meant so much more.

And she was so damned beautiful. Whatever gown or costume she’d been meant to wear for the theatrical, it had been hung away again. She wore one of her simplest, everyday frocks. But her hair was still put up in careful coils and ringlets, like an artifact of the revelry she’d forfeited tonight.

He drew close and caught a lock of that lovely golden hair, wrapping it around his finger. “I’m sorry you missed the outing.”

“I’m not sorry.” She swallowed hard. “I mean, it couldn’t be helped.”

“Of course it could. You needn’t have stayed home. I know you were looking forward to seeing your sister and your friends.”

“I was mostly looking forward to you.”

He skimmed a touch down her cheek, overwhelmed—and at a loss to imagine what he’d ever done to deserve those words. To deserve this woman.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yes.”

“Well, then. Perhaps I should get some plates and—“

He pulled her into a kiss.

He was hungry, yes. Hungry for her. His soul was starved for just this.

He’d been returning to this house, to this very room, every night of his life. But this was the first time in a long time it felt like truly coming home.

She was soft and welcoming. She smelled so damned good.

He cinched an arm tight about her slender waist, trapping her arms against his bare chest. Her fingertips explored, stroked, caressed. And then slowly slid upward, until she wreathed her arms about his neck and held him tight.

They kissed and touched. He put a hand to her breast, kneading and shaping. She sighed, arching into his caress. Begging for more. He pulled her up against him, insinuating one thigh between her legs. She rewarded him with a husky moan and a deep, demanding kiss.

It was night. They were alone, and no one was going to interrupt them. In the other room, a bed beckoned. He was already half undressed. It didn’t take a fortune-teller to see where this was going.

He murmured, “If you don’t want this . . .”

He couldn’t even complete the sentence. Want this, he silently pleaded. Want this—want me, want this life we could share—as much as I want you.

“I want this,” she whispered. Her hips rolled against the firm slope of his thigh, sending streaks of raw lust through him. “Aaron, I . . . I want it so much.”

“I had a question I meant to ask you tonight.”

“I know.” Her blue eyes tipped up, meeting his gaze directly. “I came here to say yes.”

He didn’t even make a reply.

Because there was nothing left to say. If she wanted him, he was hers. Tonight, tomorrow, always.

He swept her off her feet and into his arms. Her little shriek of laughter delighted him. He’d been wanting to do that since the first.

As he laid her down, he wished he had a better bed. A plusher mattress on a hardwood frame. Softer linens and quilts. But none of these misgivings were enough to dampen his lust. Not in the least. As he slid a hand under her skirts, his c**k felt like a rod of steel in his trousers. He hadn’t known this pitch of erotic desperation since he was a youth of sixteen.

Nevertheless, he resolved to take things slowly. He knew her pleasure must come first, or it wasn’t likely to happen at all.