Authors: Stephanie Stevens
"Look at me, Tiffany." he commanded huskily.
Raising heavy-lidded eyes, dazed with passion, she gazed into smoldering gray eyes burning with desire.
"Your future lies with me. I would give you a taste of your future." Still holding her eyes with his, he flitted his fingers across her ribs and belly, down to the dark triangle of curls.
Helpless under his expertise, Tiffany yielded to his touch, her belly quivering, her limbs having gone limp. She breathed heavily and gasped when his fingers played havoc with her senses. She moaned deep from her throat and gasped when he lowered his head and his tongue charted a course from her breast slowly down her belly. Curling her hands about his shoulders, trying to stop his descent, she tossed her head, whimpering, "No, no," and then cried aloud when his tongue delved into the ebony curls. She shuddered, tossing her head wildly, and protested weakly as his tongue sought and fondled the tender of tenderest spots of her womanhood. Not able to bear it if he stopped, she closed her hands over his shoulders, pressing him on, bringing him closer.
Clinton slid his arms beneath her buttocks, delving deeper into her feminine warmth, feeling her tense and arch against his mouth. He heard her soft, breathless cry, "Clinton," as he drank deeply of her flowing passion. Moving up over her, seeing her in the throes of passion, watching her pleasure wash over her face, he drew her shuddering form close within the circle of his arms.
The first streaks of gray appeared over the horizon as a new morn broke. Looking down into tear-filled eyes, he spoke, his deep voice simmering with barely checked passion. "You cannot deny your body. And where your body takes you, soon your heart will follow. Either by your choice or mine, all of you will come to me, for I am your future."
T
iffany leaned her head against the cool pane of glass, closing her eyes against the afternoon sun that reflected off it. Vivid images appeared beneath her closed lids of her writhing in the throes of passion. She opened her eyes hoping to erase the images, shutting them from her mind. Even though it had been two weeks since the episode on the bluff, she could not shake from her mind the feelings she had experienced. Just thinking of it brought a weakness to her knees, a tightening in the pit of her belly.
Turning from her window, Tiffany walked to her bed, flinging herself upon it. When she closed her eyes, the images reappeared, along with an ache between her thighs. Her hand moved down, traveling over the soft rise of her breast to a taut nipple which rose proudly under her touch. Her mind and hand moved in memory of the night past, charting the same path till her hand lay between her legs. She sat up quickly, aghast at herself, the weakness of her body and betrayal of her mind. Pounding her pillow in frustration, she cried out, "What is he doing to me? Am I so wanton, the mere thought of him causes my body to respond? Oh! I may not be a whore, but surely I have the soul of one." Shame flared up to stain her cheeks.
Drawing her knees up, wrapping her arms about them, she thought of Alan. The thought cooled her body and senses. She wondered, Where are you, Alan? If ever I need you, it is now. Resting her chin upon her raised knees, she closed her eyes, trying to bring his image into play. Her mind began to reconstruct his visage, warm brown eyes, sandy hair streaked with gold, his mouth full, and his smile--ah--his devastating smile.
No,
her mind screamed, her eyes flying open. Alan's mouth was not full, and his smile, well, he had a sincere, soft smile, not that arrogant, mocking smile Clinton possessed! Resettling herself, she concentrated and brought up Alan's image; a soft smile crossed her face, which was quickly replaced by a grimace as brown eyes turned to smoky gray, sandy hair changed to coffee brown, and the warm smile altered to a devastating grin. Jumping off the bed, crying, "No! No! No!" she spun in circles trying to push his image from her. "He plagues me even when he's not about!" Shaking her head in frustration, she refused to concede to the power he had over her.
Since the episode on the bluff, Tiffany had not seen Clinton and was glad of it, for she felt she could never face him again after that encounter. She had refused the companionship of his brothers in his absence, fearing one glance at her face would tell all. "I hope he stays in London forever," she cried, running to the window, looking out, seeing the Wentworth coaches lining the drive, being loaded with her trunks. She turned away, refusing to believe tonight she would be permanently ensconced within the walls of Wentworth.
She sat on the edge of her bed hearing the noises that filled the house. The hustle and bustle of packing. Aunt Winnie, who had been up since the crack of dawn, could be heard giving orders to the servants. Tiffany could not believe in two days she'd be married. She shook her head in refusal, feeling despair, feeling a need to escape her late. She needed to be away from here, away from anything remotely connected to Clinton. Jumping up, throwing off her wrapper, she donned a pair of breeches and a lawn shirt.
Running barefoot past the busy servants and Aunt Winnie, she flew down the steps without a word. She pulled open the front door, nearly knocking down Godfrey, and ran out of the house, ignoring her aunt's voice calling, "Tiffany, where are you going?"
Tiffany ran to the stables, startling Jimmie with her abrupt entrance and curtly informing him to bring her mount. Desperate to be gone, she mounted Touche bareback and kicked her into a wild gallop. She pushed Touche mercilessly as if the demons of hell were in pursuit, their jaws snapping at her heels.
She rode with no destination in mind other than to escape. The meadows and fields were filled with images of gray eyes, the breeze lifted with mocking laughter, his essence was all around her. Tears fell and she cried to the wind, "There is no place he has not touched, he has not been!" All memories of old were erased, replaced by clear, sharp images of him. She pushed Touche faster, running from his consuming presence, escaping from her fate, her future.
"I swear I'll never make another pledge to Clinton. Not when it involves Tiffany!" Tristan remarked angrily, shifting uneasily in his saddle.
Rory, the youngest Barencourte, smiled crookedly, observing his sibling's discomfort, and taunted lazily, "Prefer the rolling decks to hours in the saddle, Tristan?"
Rory had just returned to England, having gotten word of his brother's marriage. He lived a wild and adventurous life in America and was undaunted by the hours they had been in the saddle looking for the errant future sister-in- law.
Tristan glared at Rory as he pulled his horse abreast and retorted, ' 'I prefer hours in a saddle more tender than this one I now ride. Perhaps when this deed is done, I shall find some accommodating wench and ride all night long."
Rory laughed and Tristan soon joined him in male conspiracy over the evening's possibilities. Pulling a cigar from his pocket, lighting it, Rory blew a curl of smoke out. The Barencourte stamp was clearly etched in the arrogant smile and silvery eyes. Rory was perhaps the wildest of the brothers, the most unconventional, having preferred to settle in America, where he led a notorious life of adventure. Like his brothers, he was broad of shoulder and of equal height, cutting a fine figure of a man. He was perhaps more lean and lithe, mostly due to his rigorous living. His features were ruggedly handsome and his hair bore streaks of gold in the coffee brown hue.
Pulling his foot from the stirrup, he drew his leg up across the saddle and rested his arms on it, casually scanning the landscape, smoking his cigar. He had his own thoughts regarding women. They were necessary, having their place, but at this stage in his life, they had only one function, which he used frequently--to ease his needs. Other than that, women were nothing but a troublesome bit of baggage.
"You know, Tristan, I don't envy Clinton having to marry and beget heirs and fulfill his responsibility." Pulling hard on his cigar, he continued, disgust edged in his impatient tone, "Why the hell is this simpering miss out gallivanting across the countryside instead of doing woman things!"
Tristan, who was listening with half an ear, intent on shifting and trying to find a comfortable spot in his saddle, stopped and raised a brow at Rory's words. "Trust me, Rory, Tiffany is anything but a simpering miss. She is not, as you say, 'gallivanting across the countryside' on a Sunday ride. She is attempting to escape in order to avoid the marriage."
Rory raised a questioning brow, giving Tristan a look of smug disbelief. Rory thought it impossible any woman would not want to marry a Barencourte, not when their wealth and good looks were widely known. "So you say, Tristan. I happen to think differently. No doubt we'll find her unseated and dallying about picking flowers."
Tristan shook his head, thinking, She's more likely to have been kidnapped by a marauding band of gypsies before we'd find her unseated. He deigned not to express his thoughts to Rory, figuring he was in for a surprise.
"What do you make of that over yonder?" Rory pointed to the crest of a hill on Wentworth land where a rider was seen galloping across, raven tresses flying out behind her.
Tristan looked. "It's her."
Her decision to escape was merely a conviction, for Tiffany had no plan. Catching a movement in the corner of her eye, she saw two riders a good distance from her. She was unable to discern their features, but it mattered not--these were no friends, only foes. One waved at her as if beckoning. She whirled her mount around and fled down the hill away from them. "I figured she'd do that. All I want is to soak in a hot tub and improve my riding skills on a different mount," Tristan complained. He had hoped she would come willingly. Why he thought she might, he had no idea.
Taking a last puff of his cigar and tossing it on the ground, Rory turned to Tristan. "You follow her and head her toward the wall. She'll not jump it. I'll come in from her left flank and we'll have her cornered."
With a sigh, Tristan replied, "If you say so," and nudged his mount after her, his muscles protesting loudly. He muttered under his breath, "Oh, she'll jump it, all right, and anything else in her path."
Rory kicked his horse into a gallop, disgusted by Tiffany's childish antics. He leaned low on his mount's neck, avoiding the low limbs of the trees, thinking when one caught his shoulder, I certainly do not need this.
Tiffany gazed over her shoulder, seeing the lone horseman approaching. Briefly she wondered where the other was but dismissed him from her mind, realizing she had to veer to the meadow in order to gain more distance from the one in pursuit.
Looking forward, she saw, about five hundred yards ahead, a five-foot stone wall which ran the length of the field in front of her. She had no other choice but to jump it or go through the woods. She dismissed the woods, for it would take up valuable time. Knowing her mount would have to be collected, she slowed down to a canter.
Rory smiled, thinking his strategy infallible. His smile widened as he noted she slowed her mount as it approached the wall. He dashed out from the woods, and from Tiffany's look of surprise, he thought the game up. Tiffany did not recognize the rider. Fear coursed through her, but she kept a cool head, keeping Touche collected and reined toward the wall. Leaning forward, she felt the surging power of the hindquarters gathering and sailed clearly over the wall, landing soundly and galloping away.
The smug look of satisfaction Rory wore quickly turned to surprise, then anger, as he watched her sail over a wall few riders would have ever attempted and executed as perfectly.
"Oh, we'll just corner her. She'll never jump the--" Tristan mimicked. Rory leveled an angry gaze at Tristan, who threw his head back, laughing heartily.
It was a matter of pride--injured pride--that caused Rory to spur his mount forward and over the wall after her. Catching sight of his quarry, he noted he had underestimated her ability and courage. The thrill of the chase began to surface in him as he shadowed her every move. A glint of admiration lit his silvery eyes, watching her expertly ride. He had come abreast of her, for his mount was fresh, not winded as hers. He came up to her right in an attempt to grab the bridle.
Tiffany was fearful, and survival caused her to act desperately. Instead of pulling up or to her left, she headed toward him as if to collide. Rory, fearful she would be injured, was forced to pull up and watched Tiffany gallop ahead. Rory pursued her using every safe means available to him, but her riding skills were superior and she kept a level head.
The chase may well have gone on testing the riders and their mounts save for Touche's untimely stumble. Rory took advantage; he leaned over and, with one strong arm, reached out, snaking Tiffany about the waist, tossing her facedown across his saddle. He continued at breakneck speed toward his destination.
After recovering the breath knocked from her, Tiffany took note and exception to the ignoble position she found herself in and began to struggle, flinging her arms, trying to unseat the rider. Rory used his weight to offset her attempts. He looked down at his captive, her britches molded tightly to her sweet, rounded derriere, which temptingly rose. He smiled appreciatively, commending Clinton on his good taste, if not sense, in choosing women. As her struggles increased and her derriere rose, he could not suppress the wicked grin or raised hand which smacked her bottom soundly. His smile widened at her screech of outrage. When he drew his horse to a halt, Tiffany, in her haste to be free, fell unceremoniously onto her derriere. Red was the color she saw. Pushing her locks from her face, she came quickly to her feet, arms outstretched, nails bared at the stranger who stood negligently against his mount, an arrogant smile etched across his face. Familiar silvery eyes regarded her, and strong hands grabbed at her wrists. His eyes slowly traveled from her disheveled raven tresses to the rapid rise and fall of her breast, resting on the soft swell exposed from her open shirt, down long, shapely breech-clad legs to her dusty bare feet and back up to hold the stormy blue eyes glaring daggers at him.
"Your skills as a rider are commendable. I only hope you prove a well-spirited and satisfying mount for my brother."
Like a red flash, Tiffany bent her head, biting his hand. If Rory was surprised she bit him, he was stunned when her palm cracked solidly against his cheek.
He moved like lightning, grabbing her wrist. "Why you little ..."
"Rory!" A silken thread of warning etched the deep, mellow baritone voice that broke through the red haze surrounding Tiffany and Rory, dissipating it.
Clinton approached them. Seeing Rory release Tiffany, he smiled and replied confidently to Rory, "I think with a little instruction, Tiffany will prove to be a most satisfying mount." He looked down at her and added meaningfully, "However, I have no aversion to be ridden on occasion." Riding his hand on the small of her back, he turned her to face Rory. He felt the stiffening of her spine and the anger course through her. "Tiffany, I would have you make the formal acquaintance of the youngest Barencourte, Rory."
Rory smiled. He bowed mockingly. "My lady, the pleasure is all mine." He reached for her hand to place a kiss upon it, but Tiffany snatched it, spinning to face Clinton.
Hands on her hips, her breast rising and falling with each agitated breath she took, she spat, "I wish to be escorted home, immediately!"
"Ah, Princess, but you are home. A bit late and somewhat unorthodox, but nevertheless, home."
Tristan, who had seen the whole of it, sat astride his mount. He bellowed aloud, causing all to turn to him. "Welcome home, Clinton! We have delivered your maiden." Wishing to salt Rory's wounded pride, he added, "No easy task. Why, had not her mare stumbled, Rory would never have caught her." Turning to Tiffany, he tipped his head in tribute. "My hat to you, madam. Your riding is only outdone by an excellent right uppercut."
Rory seethed with anger over Tristan's taunting. Tiffany seethed with anger at her near escape. And Clinton, aware of the turmoil of emotions, diffused the explosive situation. Whispering to Tiffany, "There is a warm bath, love, avyaiting you. Come," he directed her away, heading toward the house. Casually over his shoulder he called to his brothers, "Suggest you cancel any plans for this evening. Mother is expecting you to dine at eight."
Tristan watched them depart with one eye closed and the other one aimed on the provocative sway of Tiffany's hips. Turning to Rory, who also watched, he asked, smugly, "Well, tell me, little brother. What do you think of our little sister now? Let's see, what was it you said?" A finger was pressed against his lips in mock thought. Rory narrowed his eyes at Tristan and began walking alongside him. Tristan was relendess. "Oh, yes, I remember now, a simpering miss, unseated and dallying about picking flowers."
Rory, who was walking at a slow pace to accommodate Tristan's pained gait, smiled snidely. "I think, Tristan, you'll not be riding anything more strenuous than your hand this eve." With that, he picked up his pace, leaving a laughing Tristan in his wake.