Mine Till Midnight (The Hathaways #1)(60)

Cam couldn't stop from moving then, forgetting everything but the need to push deeper into the gently gripping flesh, the warm limbs curving around him, the sweet panting mouth beneath his. He whispered compulsively against her lips... one word, over and over, the ecstasy crowning higher every time. "Mandis?mandis?

Mine.

Feeling the violent spill of release about to begin, Cam withdrew and thrust against the quivering velvet of her stomach. Heat jetted and slid between them. Cam buried his head in the crook of her neck and shoulder, groaning. No feeling had ever come close to this, he thought dizzily. Nothing could.

The pleasure lasted even after his heartbeat had returned to normal and he had regained his ability to think clearly, more or less. Amelia had gone lax beneath him, drowsing and sighing. He had to force himself to withdraw, when all he wanted was to revel in the feel of her.

He used a handkerchief to clean the blood and moisture from her body, dressed her in her nightgown, and went to replenish the fire. When he returned to settle beneath the blankets, Amelia snuggled in the crook of his arm.

Watching the crackling fire, relishing the trusting weight of her head on his shoulder, Cam stroked her hair as it streamed over his arm. She slept heavily, while the fire pitched shadows from her long lashes across her cheeks. Cam looked over her with a lover's vigilance, absorbing every detail, the feathery edge of her hairline, the neat slope of her nose, the small ears. He wanted to nibble at her ears, play with her, but he would do nothing to disturb her sleep.

He pulled a quilt higher over her snowy shoulder, stroked back a curl that had looped over her ear. Everything had changed, he thought. And there was no turning back.

Chapter Sixteen

Daybreak.

A perfect word for the way the morning had entered the bedroom in pieces, a shard of light falling across her bed, another on the floor between the window and the small hearth.

Amelia blinked and lay for a while in a torpor. There was a fire in the hearth—she must have slept right through the maid lighting the grate.

Fire... Ramsay House... the memory fell on her with an unpleasant thud, and she closed her eyes. They flew open again, however, as she thought of darkness and blue moonlight and warm male flesh. Goose bumps rose all over her.

What had she done?

She was in her bed, with only a murky recollection of riding back when it was still dark, Cam carrying her, tucking the mass of the bedclothes around her as if she were a child. Close your eyes, he had murmured, his hand a comforting pressure on her skull. And she had slept and slept. Now as she squinted at the cheerfully ticking mantel clock, she saw that it was nearly noon.

Panic thrashed inside her, until she reminded herself that it was impractical to panic. Nevertheless, her heart pumped something that seemed too hot and light to be blood, and her breath turned choppy.

She would have liked to persuade herself that it had all been a dream, but her body was still imprinted with the invisible map he had drawn with his lips, tongue, teeth, hands.

Raising her fingertips to her lips, Amelia felt that they were puffier, smoother than usual... they had been licked and abraded by his mouth. Every inch of her body felt sensitive, tender places still harboring an ache of pleasure.

A decent woman should certainly have felt shame over her actions. Amelia felt none. The night had been so extraordinary, so rich and dark and sweet, she would hoard the memory forever. It had been an experience not to be missed, with a man unlike anyone she had ever known or would ever meet again.

But oh, how she hoped he was gone by now.

With any luck, Cam would have already left to take care of his business in London. Amelia wasn't at all certain she could face him after last night. And she certainly didn't need the distraction he presented, when there was so much to be decided.

As for the memories of the night with Cam, all of it so gently refracted as if he were a prism her feelings had traveled through ... now was not the time to think about any of that. There would be time later. Days, months, years.

Don't think about it, she told herself sternly, climbing out of bed. She rang for a maid, and fumbled to fasten her robe. In less than a minute, a sturdy light-haired maid with apple cheeks appeared.

"May I have some hot water?" Amelia asked.

"Aye, miss. I can bring some up, or if tha likes, I can draw a bath in the bathing room." The maid spoke in a broad, warm Yorkshire accent, the r's slightly rolled, the consonants adhering to the back of her throat.

Amelia nodded at the second suggestion, remembering the modern bath from the previous night. She followed the maid, who identified herself as Betty, out of the room and along the hallway. "How are my sisters and brothers? And Mr. Merripen?"

"Miss Winnifred, Miss Poppy, and Miss Beatrix have all gone downstairs for breakfast," the maid reported. "The two gentlemen are still abed."

"Are they ill? Does Mr. Merripen have a fever?"

"Mrs. Briarly, the housekeeper, is of the mind they're both fine, miss. Only resting."

"Thank goodness." Amelia resolved to check on Merripen as soon as she was presentable. Burn wounds were dangerous and unpredictable—she was still quite worried for his sake.

They entered a room with walls covered in pale blue tiling. There was a chaise longue in one corner and a large porcelain tub in another. A richly colored Oriental curtain hung from the ceiling to provide a secluded dressing area. The bathing room was warm, thanks to the fireplace, and a large open wardrobe displayed neatly folded stacks of bath linens, Turkish towels, and various soaps and toiletries. The bath water was heated in the room by some kind of gas apparatus, with taps for cold, hot, or tepid water, and pipes leading outside.