Trial by Desire (Carhart #2)(63)

It didn’t matter. He was holding her now. She wasn’t sure when he’d stood; clearly sometime after he’d brought her to ecstasy. His hand slipped down to find hers, and then he was leading her out of the room and into her own bedchamber.

The sun was setting, casting rays of red light against her skin. He led her to her bed, and then, deliberately, slowly, he pulled his shirt over his head. His muscles rippled as he removed the fabric. Still, he’d not said a word.

He didn’t need to.

He removed his boots and stockings, and then pulled his breeches down. He was erect; when he leaned down over her, his mouth questing for hers, she found his member. He was hard; she squeezed, and he pulsed in her hand.

She pulled away from his kiss. “Let me inside, Ned.”

His pupils dilated. He didn’t say anything, but he leaned against her, pushing her into the mattress. One hand captured her wrist, holding her there. He spread her legs and then she felt his hand guiding his member to her sex.

Her body welcomed his. She gave a quiet gasp at that feel—so new, and yet so familiar. He was stretching her out. Her hips rose to his. She was sensitive still, so sensitive; with his member inside her, that delicious ache began once more.

Her hands clenched the bedcovers uselessly.

And then he looked into her eyes and thrust forward. His fingers clenched around her wrist. His mouth gritted; not in pain, but in the onslaught of pleasure. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him in.

There was nothing between them but the smooth slide in and out, the friction, the heat that built between them. She had no control over her body, nothing in her head except the feel of his skin against hers, the grind of his pelvis, the pleasure building once again.

He reached his climax first; his thrusts grew stronger; his fingernails bit into her wrist. He let out a hiss between his teeth, and the hot rush that filled her, the sure knowledge that she had given him the pleasure he gave her, was all she needed. She clamped around him. And then she was spasming around him again—insanely, perfectly, completely his.

NED COULD NOT FIND WORDS afterward. None of them seemed right; they didn’t seem to fit the intimacy they’d just shared. Any words he could imagine would only emphasize what he’d given her—and what he’d hidden behind that tender display.

But then, Kate didn’t know what he hadn’t said. She turned against him, her hand falling on his naked hip. “You were right.” Her words were soft against the silence, but still he prickled, inhaling cool air. She trusted him. Her breath, warm against the hollow of his throat, bespoke security. She cinched her arm around his waist, unconsciously molding herself against him. That posture, that welcome confidence, had to be genuine.

“You knew about Louisa,” she said quietly.

“Perhaps I should have said something to you.” He traced his finger idly down her shoulder. Easier than looking in her eyes.

“But why did you not do something more about it?”

For a second, Ned’s heart froze. He should have, he realized. Should have intervened, offered to take the matter off her hands. He should have insisted—

“After all,” she continued, “when I was younger, every time it seemed to me I had hit upon something interesting to accomplish, my father always found someone else to do it for me. It made me think that I was supposed to be some helpless creature. An accomplished lady is one who plays the pianoforte, who speaks six languages. Who can converse with her dinner partners on Byron and Shakespeare. Accomplished ladies aren’t allowed to accomplish anything of value.”

“Ah.” Ned felt a restless sense of familiarity at those words. Truth be told, most gentlemen didn’t accomplish anything, either. She hadn’t wanted him to take the burden from her, after all. She wanted a challenge. He knew what that felt like.

He hadn’t realized women longed for the same things men did.

“Now you know the truth,” he told her. “You’ve saved a woman from her husband.”

Her hair brushed his chest as she shook her head. “No,” she contradicted.

He was about to tell her that Lady Harcroft would be safe when she spoke again.

“I’ve saved seven.”

“Pardon?”

“Do you recall the circumstances under which we first met?”

“We encountered each other in the servants’ quarters at a ball.” In point of fact, Ned had followed her in—not alone, accompanied by Gareth and Jenny. “You never did tell me what you were doing there, except to feed me some story about needing to help an old nursemaid.”

The story hadn’t explained everything. But then, he’d been so wrapped up in his own problems he’d accepted her tale without question.

She sat up, her eyes sparkling. “Oh, that much was true. It just wasn’t the full truth. You see, when I was sixteen, I discovered that my old nursemaid had broken a limb. A duke’s daughter is allowed at least to bring baskets of jellies to her dependents—and so I did. In the course of the visit, however, I discovered that her husband had caused the accident. It wasn’t the first time.”

For all the dire seriousness of the subject matter, she was warming to the conversation. As she spoke, she gesticulated with her hands.

“That first one was easy,” she continued. “I just arranged for passage across the Atlantic with a bank draft waiting for her on the other side. Now she owns a bakery in some odd place in America—Boston, I think.”