Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(81)

“Rand,” she gasped, “what if someone comes in and sees you making love with your ‘little cousin from England?”

“It’s not at all unusual for first cousins to become involved with each other,” Rand said, ignoring the fluttering of her hands as he cupped her breast more possessively. “A little scandalous, perhaps—”

“And if I were your cousin,” Rosalie panted, “you would have more regard for me than to do this in a stable!” As she tried one last time to remove his hand from her bodice, the stool wobbled dangerously, and she wrapped her arms more tightly around him. “Rand, I’m going to break my neck! Rand . . .” Her protests began to fade away as his lips touched hers delicately, the light pressure much more erotic than a bruising kiss could have been. “What if someone sees?” she murmured helplessly, her eyes closing. His mouth was warm and sweet as he kissed her once more, and then all Rosalie cared about was the consummate movements of his lips on hers.

“It has driven me mad to watch you these past few weeks,” Rand said, his mouth sliding down to the tiny scratch on her shoulder. The feathery stroke of his tongue soothed her skin, leaving a tingling streak of dampness as he moved on to the base of her throat. “So pristine, dressed so immaculately, every hair in place I’ve wanted to do this . . .” His hand gathered up the thin material of her skirt, then slipped underneath to find the smooth contours of her thigh, the soft roundness of her bu**ocks. Her thin underclothes provided no barrier to his invading hand. Impatiently he brushed them aside, intent on reaching the bare, quivering flesh underneath.

“Rand!” she gasped, her eyes flying open to cast a glance around the empty stable. The entire scene seemed slightly askew, faintly blurred. “What if someone . . . what if—?” He pressed his mouth between her br**sts, his breath now touching her flesh with the heat of steam. She sighed, tilting her head back as she felt his sensitive fingers slide between her thighs in a slow, satin caress. Her entire body felt light and weightless, anchored by his possessive arms. He stroked her so softly, his fingertips measuring her responses and focusing on the tiny nerves that softened and expanded in pleasure.

“Rose, how I need you,” he murmured, and as he discovered the silky dampness of her delicate flesh, Rand groaned as if in pain.

Rosalie arched against him, her face flushing as her pulse increased to a rapid pounding. “I didn’t know if you wanted me any longer,” she said, her voice hushed, her lips parting as he stole another warm, languorous kiss from her. Exquisite sensations spilled through her, their melted richness easing the hungry dryness of need.

“Not want you?” Rand repeated softly, and his lips slid over the incredible smoothness of the skin underneath her jaw. “Little fool . . . I’ve told you before that you’re mine. Yes, I want you . . . I want to feel you tight around me, holding me inside your body, your arms locked around my neck. I want you to look at me with a different expression in your eyes than when you look at anyone else . . . I want you to turn to me for anything you need, for comfort, for help, for pleasure—” “I already do,” she whispered, and the teasing movements of his fingers stopped as he caught his breath, his gold-green eyes locking with hers. “Please. . . don’t stop,” Rosalie panted, feeling like a rope that had been drawn too tightly, beginning to unravel. Rand gathered her closer, his low, hungry murmur searing her oversensitive ears. “I won’t stop, sweet . . . I know exactly what you need.”

Suddenly the passionate revelry was shredded by the sound of a girl’s scream.

“Mireille,” Rosalie breathed, her desire cooling rapidly as she wondered what had happened. In a split second Rand rearranged her clothing and swung her down from the stool. The slumberous gleam in his eyes had been instantly replaced by alertness, and he cast a brief warning glance at her. “Stay here,” he said, leaving through the stable door at an easy, loping pace.

Eleven

Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back, Guilty of dust and sin.

quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack From my first entrance in, Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning I f I lacked anything.

—George Herbert

Marreille held a hand over her heart, the childish lines of her bosom moving rapidly up and down as she endeavored to catch her breath. Standing in front of her was a tall, rangy young man somewhere in his mid-twenties. He was dressed in well-worn clothes, a cloth sack slung over one shoulder. Mireille turned with a start as Rand approached, pasting a thin smile on her lips.

“I’m sorry, monsieur, it’s nothing . . . this is Guillaume Germain, my brother. He startled me, that is all . . . I did not mean to be so foolish.”

Rand’s expression was inscrutable as he looked at the girl, for it was obvious that something was very wrong. Her eyes were filled with unshed tears, her breath short, not from surprise but from extreme anxiety. Lazily the stranger smiled, as if nothing untoward had happened, extending a hand in greeting.

“I am glad to meet you, Monsieur de Berkeley. I see my little sister is as silly as usual, jumping at shadows.” “What are you doing here?” Rand asked, calm but hardly polite as he ignored the man’s outstretched hand.

“I came to find Mira. I returned to the hotel in Paris after looking for work, and found only a little note explaining where she had gone. Naturellement, I had to discover if all was well with her . . . a little morsel like Mira, you understand, is a prime target for unscrupulous characters—”