To Desire a Devil (Legend of the Four Soldiers #4)(90)

His head dropped and he shuddered. “Beatrice.”

She stretched slowly, sensuously.

“God, don’t,” he muttered. “Beatrice . . .”

She wrapped one leg over his calves and the other high over his hips. “Hmm?”

She clenched internally.

His flesh leaped within her. “Christ.”

“Do that again,” she murmured, tilting her hips against his. He was heavy on her—she couldn’t displace him—but she could sort of undulate, which she did.

“You’re going to kill me,” he whispered, lowering his forehead to hers.

“Really?” She slid her hands inside his banyan, kneading his bare back.

“Yes,” he groaned. “And I’ll die a happy man.”

“Then let us die together,” she whispered against his lips.

She kissed him then, a tender caress, light and sweet, her lips slightly parted, trying to show him how much she loved him, for she truly had no words to tell him.

And perhaps he understood. He gasped a little, moving his hands to frame her face, raising his own to watch her as he began to move above her. He withdrew and pushed into her, only a little, the movement tiny and controlled, the effect devastating to her senses. She watched him, this man she loved, this man who’d offered his life for hers, as he made love to her. His face was hard and grim, the bird tattoos exotic and foreboding, but his mouth was gentle, and his eyes held an emotion that made her arch up into him.

“Beatrice,” he whispered, and began to move faster.

She gripped him, her muscles tightening, her breathing quickening, watching him, waiting. He hitched himself a little higher on her, grinding down, hitting her just there. And she broke. Suddenly, without warning. Gasping and shaking and crying, pressing herself up urgently into him, staring into those ruthless black eyes. Heat crashed through her, seemingly without end.

“Beatrice,” he cried. “God! Beatrice!”

And he convulsed above her, shuddering as he flooded her with his seed. Shaking, his black eyes wide and desperate, his mouth twisted as if in agony. He slowly closed his eyes and let his head drop as his great chest heaved for breath.

She stroked his back in little tired circles, her body replete, her mind at rest.

He bent his head and kissed her, his mouth opened wide, his tongue claiming possession. She arched again, helplessly, her nerves still raw.

He lifted his head and looked at her. “I love you, Beatrice. Now and forever. I love you.”

She smiled. “And I love you. Now and forever.” It was like a new beginning. A new pact.

So she pulled his head down to seal it with a kiss.

“THEN HE’S BEEN condemned,” Samuel Hartley said sotto voce nearly a month later.

“Condemned and scheduled to be hanged afore the new year,” Reynaud replied equally quietly. The gentlemen stood in a group to one side of his blue sitting room, but the ladies weren’t too far away, and they had damnably sharp hearing. The topic wasn’t appropriate for the day.

“Serves him right,” Reginald St. Aubyn said, not at all quietly. He saw Vale’s raised eyebrow and flushed. “Told you I never would’ve backed the man had I known he’d murdered his brother, let alone was a traitor to the Crown. Good God.”

“None of us knew,” Munroe growled. “’Tisn’t your fault, man.”

“Ah.” Reginald cleared his throat, looking surprised. “Well, thank you.”

Hartley leaned forward to say something else, and Reynaud bit back a smile. In the last month, he’d gotten used to having “Uncle Reggie” about the place, and while he wouldn’t call the other man his bosom bow yet, they were getting along rather well. It’d helped that Reggie had quite the knack for managing money, making it grow by leaps and bounds. But then he would’ve borne with Reggie even if he’d been the most curmudgeonly old man possible. He’d raised Beatrice and she loved him. That was all that mattered in the end.

He glanced to where the ladies were gathered in a knot by one of the settees. Beatrice stood by the others, smiling at something Lady Munroe had said. She wore a pale rose frock tonight, and her hair glowed golden in the candlelight. The Blanchard sapphires sparkled at her neck, but even they were dull next to the bright beauty of her face. Had they been alone, he would’ve strode over and picked her up, carrying her to his bed so that he might demonstrate again how deep his devotion was. He had a feeling that the urgency of the need to convince her of his love would never pass. He inhaled deeply. But they had guests now, and he wouldn’t have Beatrice to himself for several hours yet.

Reynaud glanced to Emeline, sitting in the middle of the settee, as round as an orange. He’d noticed that Hartley cast frequent glances her way, and he had to approve of such uxorious concern for his sister. Lady Munroe—Helen—stood just a little apart, though all the ladies included her in the conversation, and Tante Cristelle sat enthroned in a gilt chair. Lady Vale sat beside Emeline on the settee, ramrod straight, a faint smile about her thin lips.

Feminine laughter drew his eyes to another settee, where Miss Rebecca Hartley sat. Standing stiffly next to her was a young man in simple black clothes, his dark hair clubbed back.

“I think I’ll have a new brother-in-law in the coming year,” Hartley murmured next to Reynaud.