“Men are not beautiful,” he replied, his voice rough.
“Now who cannot accept compliments? I say you are beautiful.” She smoothed her fingers along the edge of puckered red skin. “I am not hurting you, am I?”
“God, no.” He shut his eyes. “I cannot believe how your touch makes me feel. But you don’t have to—”
“Hush.” She leaned forward, her breasts brushing against his chest, and kissed his left shoulder. More kisses trailed down his skin as she worked her way to her palm. Gareth groaned and brought his right arm around her, clasping her tight. She felt a drop of moisture fall on her back, then another.
Tears. Her own eyes filled. He had been alone and unwanted much too long. But he wouldn’t want her pity. She had something better in mind anyway. She kissed her way back up to the hollow of his throat, grazing his skin with her teeth, pressing one thumb against a flat nipple. His hand was lost in the tangle of her hair, the rough pads of his fingers sifting through and massaging her back. They shivered together at each new point of contact, each skim of mouth and hand on hot skin, each moist kiss. Anne craved more, and lifted her face to his.
He covered her mouth and pulled her down to the mattress. She tumbled on top of him, feeling every inch of hard plane and rigid cock beneath her. She had never felt so alive, her lips and breasts and thighs alight against his.
Or felt so vulnerable, but she trusted him. She lost herself in his kiss, its promise clear. He meant to make the next hour as perfect as he could, and Anne was eager to help him. She thrust her hips against him and he groaned, ending the kiss.
“Patience. I have never wished for the use of both hands more in my life,” Gareth said. “In fact, I wish I were an octopus.”
“I would not like you half so well as a fishy thing, and think of the village gossip. Imagine the scandal. Such a union would be most unnatural, and Ian would never marry us then.” She grinned down at him. “No more talking, just more kissing.”
“An order I can easily obey.” She opened her mouth to him, her tongue curving against his in a lazy, sensual dance. There was almost unbearable lightness to their encounter, and Anne wanted more. Needed more. She slipped to the side and reached for his cock, curling her hand around it, thumbing the fluid at its head. Gareth shuddered and held her closer, his tongue probing deeper.
He may have wished for more arms, but Anne wanted more tongues. She imagined his between her folds and felt her feminine liquid pool at her thighs. A taut wire from her spine to her stomach pulled, and she knew she had to feel Gareth inside soon. How to manage it? She knew there would be discomfort at first, but didn’t care.
She broke the kiss reluctantly and shifted up on her knees, straddling Gareth. He looked at her questioningly, then fisted his cock. She touched herself, her fingers coming away drenched. She smeared the juices at the tip of his member.
“Sweet Jesus,” he hissed.
Anne had been impulsive all her life, and here was the natural culmination of all her reckless behavior. Without another thought, she shifted over him, and sank down hard on his erection.
Done
. With not as much pain as she expected, just welcome, delicious invasion. She didn’t want to move, simply savoring the unfamiliar heat and breadth of him inside her. He was enormous, and hers for the moment, fitted as neatly within as a missing puzzle piece. She waited to feel sorry or sore, but instead felt completely at peace for the first time in her life.
“Duw,”
Gareth whispered. “You are magnificent. Are you all right?”
“Better than all right.” She couldn’t even find words to describe how much better. She had leaped, and she had landed. “I believe it was your fantasy that I ride you.”
“I may have mentioned it.” He could barely speak, his voice raspy. She lifted a silky inch, then sat back down. Such perfect, agonizing friction. She rose again, a bit higher. Gareth brought her back down with a firm grasp on her hip. Their bodies were still, adjusting in minute fractions to hard skin inside a cloak of wet velvet. Anne bit back the urge to laugh. He might misinterpret her giddy relief and take masculine offense, and the last thing she wanted to do now was explain.
Anne knew a thrill of possession. She might not have his heart yet, but his body belonged to her. He reached for her breast and swept a finger across her swollen nipple. Inspired, she did the same to him, then bent to kiss it, leaning forward so her hair fell on his chest and her passage clenched his cock.
“Ah.”
“Are
you
all right?” she teased.
“You are a witch. I am in torment. The most wonderful and complete torment.”
“Surely not complete. We have not finished. We have not really even begun.”
He smiled, looking a little like a wolf. “Ready when you are, my love. Don’t feel you have to rush—I don’t want to hurt you. We have all the time in the world.”
Anne was ready, tender, yes, but unhurt. She raised and lowered herself, finding a rhythm that suited them both. His blue gaze was so searching she had to shut her eyes, concentrating on the joining of cock and quim. A kiss might have distracted her, so she remained upright, offering her breasts for display while Gareth’s fingers sought her clitoris. His touch was unerring. Ripples shot through her immediately, spurring his thrusts upward, so deep she thought she’d break apart too soon. She wanted this to last, to keep every second sacred.
Anne recognized the physical landscape now. She was close to the precipice, simultaneously flying up and plummeting straight down into herself. She was well beyond conventional conversation, and could only pant and moan, beg and gasp. Spurred on by every bit of nonsense that came out of her mouth, Gareth plunged up deep into her center, matching her ragged cries with actions instead of words. There was no declaration of love, yet Anne felt treasured. Worshipped. Not as some virgin sacrifice, but as a woman.
She abandoned control. Searing pleasure overtook her as she trembled and tumbled down for Gareth’s kiss. The heat of his seed within her and the fierceness of his embrace unraveled the last knot of restraint and she was undone.
She wanted to laugh. Or cry. Either one would lead Gareth to believe this had not been the most exquisite moment of her life. How odd that now she was officially “ruined,” she had never felt so whole. Everything that had ever come before this was washed clean and put away.
Gareth rolled to his side, Anne along with him, still connected in the most elemental way. He brushed her hair away from her face and kissed her forehead solemnly. “Thank you, Annie.”
She should be thanking
him
for banishing the ghosts of other clumsy kisses and brutish touches. She would not spoil the afternoon by confessing what brought her to Wales just yet. Here she would stay, if he’d keep her once he learned about her past.
He mistook her silence and drew back, easing himself out of her. “You
are
all right, aren’t you? I wasn’t too rough?”
“Hush, Gareth. It was perfect. I’m quite looking forward to doing it again, if you must know.”
“
Duw
. Give me a little time to recover.” He glanced between them, a rueful smile on his face. “I am not the man I once was.”
“You are all the man I need.”
Now and forever.
She hoped.
C
HAPTER
20
F
rost starbursts covered the windows when Anne rose. Beyond them, tiny flakes of snow had fallen in steady succession through the night to form drifts as tall as a man. But the sky this morning was a brilliant cloudless blue. It had snowed for three straight days, and this was the fourth morning she had risen wet and delightfully sore from Gareth’s attentions. She woke alone, however, because her bed was too narrow to support them both in slumber.
Anne had half an idea to open up one of the bedrooms upstairs for nighttime dalliance, but the house was so cold it was hard enough heating the normal living space. Gareth’s world had narrowed to three rooms before she came—his bedroom, his study, and the kitchen, all of which were part of the original house. His bedroom ceiling was so low it was a miracle he didn’t knock himself unconscious every time he got out of bed. The room had been his since boyhood, and judging from the accumulation of things, he hadn’t thrown anything away in thirty-three years.
Gareth still had not gotten around to straightening his study and bedroom. Her convalescence and seduction had taken up all his available time. The mess was at odds with how she thought a proper soldier lived. Didn’t everything have to spit-shine and gleam? He’d told her he’d lost interest in his surroundings once he thought he’d lose Ripton Hall, but it was well past time to remedy that.
But not today. No one could possibly stay indoors when such a day beckoned. Anne’s experience with snow had been limited. Growing up on the mild Dorset coast, she could count on two hands and a foot the number of times it had snowed hard enough to leave a thick white coating on the downs for any length of time. Rain, yes. Anne was used to it and didn’t find Wales’s heavy precipitation unusual. But she was a little tired of being cold and wet
indoors
.
But outside? The fields sparkled with diamond dust. She had an urge to forge her own trail through the virgin snow, gulp lungfuls of fresh cold air. Jump. She could be like those religious folk Gareth had told her about who thought God’s spirit moved through their bodies and made them dance with joy in church.
Anne
was
joyful. She was uncertain whether it was God’s or Gareth’s hand that made her so, but she was happier than she’d ever been. Arms out, she took a quick spin on her rag rug and felt it shift under her feet.
Anne sat back down on the bed. She didn’t trust her happiness. Something—anything—might go wrong. She had yet to tell Gareth who she really was. With any luck, she could gloss over the last two years of stupidity and he wouldn’t realize the depth of her degradation. If she never showed her face in London, people might forgive and forget what she’d done.
Eventually.
But probably not in her lifetime.
What a mess. Much worse than any mess Gareth ever made.
She was
not
going to brood about it all on such a lovely crystal-encrusted morning. If she could, she’d persuade Gareth to take a walk with her after breakfast. If necessary, she’d wear every article of clothing she had for warmth. They’d been shut up in the house too long, although it had been no hardship. They’d made long, lingering love. When they were too exhausted to continue, they’d played cards and read books aloud to each other. Gareth had a surprising collection of romance novels written by the popular Lady X. He’d claimed they were Cecily’s, but he seemed to enjoy the misadventures of the courtesans every bit as much as she did.
Between the two of them, they’d attempted to make bread and floured themselves and the kitchen thoroughly. Oddly enough, Mrs. Smith had nothing whatsoever to say about bread in her cookbook, although there was a recipe for fried toasts. How did one get toast to fry if there was no bread first? In Eliza Smith’s milieu, everyone was no doubt born knowing how to make something so crucial. Not, alas, Anne or Gareth.
There would be somewhat soggy bread for breakfast, with enough of Cecily’s raspberry jam to conceal its flaw. But a cold day deserved a hot breakfast. Anne would scramble some eggs—she’d gotten rather good at that if she did say so herself. A little cream, pepper, and cheese made all the difference. She’d watched Gareth and followed his steps, so he wouldn’t starve once they were married.
Anne washed and dressed, tying her hair back into a long tail. She’d learned over the past few days that Gareth liked to touch it as he talked to her, wrapping the wiry strands around his fingers. Anne had no need of curling tongs and papers. Her hair ran riot if not confined, just the way Gareth seemed to like it. He’d tossed her mobcap into a coal scuttle and forbid her to cover her curls, looking very like his cousin Ian in his stern opprobrium. Gareth didn’t want her to look like a good wife, prim beneath a lacy cap. Though if Anne wanted to fit in—to blend with their conservative neighbors, Gareth would have to get used to her camouflage.
The kitchen was bright with sunshine and empty. Anne and the ancient stove were on much better terms now, and she efficiently fed it and set water on the boil for tea. Gareth had begged her to give up trying to make coffee, and she had agreed. She was smart enough to know when she was defeated, and did not want to poison him before she had a chance to marry him. She cracked three eggs into a brown earthenware bowl, fished out a bit of shell, then beat them silly. Slicing and mincing ham into bite-size pieces, pouring a tankard of ale, setting the table—all of these things she accomplished with newfound ease.
Which was not to say she would not be very happy to hire a real housekeeper and a few maids soon. How delightful it would be to have breakfast brought to her in bed. A pot of chocolate laced with cinnamon and cream. A currant bun. She licked her lips and dropped a pinch of tea leaves into the teapot, wishing for slices of lemon. A fresh lemon would cost the earth in winter unless one had a conservatory.
She heard Gareth bound down the stairs, straightened her apron and smiled as he entered the room. “Good morning, my lord.” She curtseyed as deeply as she had once to the King.
Before she had been banned from court events. It had taken a great deal of effort on her part to shock the shocking monarch. Her father had been furious and beaten her accordingly.
“Good morning, my lady.” This bit of nonsense had played between them all week. Anne was grateful Gareth was
not
titled, for if he was, he’d never marry her once he discovered who she was. He still might not. But she had promised not to think about unpleasant possibilities this morning, and she pulled out his chair.
“You have outdone yourself this morning, Lady Anne. What have I done to deserve such largesse?” Gareth teased, shaking his napkin from a chased silver ring she’d found in the dining room sideboard.
“I hope to fortify you, my lord. It is my intention to go for a walk in this splendid weather.” She poured the eggs into a hot spider, stirring them constantly so they wouldn’t stick. She’d learned that lesson from Gareth last week as she’d sat at the table, her bad foot propped up on a pillow.
“A walk? What about your ankle? And I might lose a short little thing like you in a snowdrift.”
“My ankle is fine.” To show off, she hopped on the slate, wincing only a little. “I’m confident you’d rescue me, hero that you are. I thought we might walk along Offa’s Dyke a little ways.” She’d studied his Welsh history books, boning up on her new home.
Gareth snorted. “It’s a ditch, Annie, and bound to be impassable at this time of year. No, I think not. You’d wind up like a limpet around my neck as I had to carry you.”
That vision was not as off-putting as it might have been. Gareth was rather lovely to hold on to. “One day I should like to see Llanthony Priory. Turner painted it, you know. Other artists, too. It looks so romantic.” She plated their eggs and ham and sat down.
“Good grief. That’s fifty miles from here. The west window fell out years ago. Why would you want to see a pile of old rocks?”
“Because they’re
old
rocks? I have a fondness for old things, which is why I like you,” she said saucily.
“Minx. I could be your father, I suppose.”
What a truly hideous thought. “Never tell me you were pursuing women when you were a beardless boy of thirteen.”
“I won’t tell you then.” He winked and speared some ham into his mouth.
Anne wouldn’t ask if his first conquest had been Bronwen when they were little more than children. She was unaccountably jealous of the dead woman. Bronwen had known a different Gareth from the man who sat eating his breakfast across the table—a man with no silver in his hair, two strong arms, and all the optimism of youth. Anne thought she preferred the current version. This Gareth had suffered and was more apt to understand her predicament when she finally told him.
They ate, bickering over where to spend the morning. Gareth was all for going back to bed, the wretch. Tempting as he was, Anne longed for some fresh air and exercise that didn’t involve sweeping out coal dust from hearths or airing sheets on a frozen clothesline. At last, Gareth leaned back in his chair and pushed his empty plate away.
“I have it.”
Anne got up to clear the table. “What do you have?”
“You like old rocks, and there are some on Ripton land. An ancient chamber tomb. Most likely covered over with snow, but we can brush it off and go inside.”
“You want to take me into a
barrow
?”
“Oh, it’s not underground. Some of the rocks have fallen away and one can stand inside and carve one’s name on the walls, as I, I’m sorry to say, have done, rascal that I was. Ian and I used to crawl into it and pretend we were dead Neolithic warriors who could magically come back to life. If there were ever bodies inside, they’re long gone.”
Anne shuddered. “Well, that’s a relief. How far away is it?”
“Not fifty miles, I can assure you. No more than a mile or two. And the view of the Wye Valley is good—as romantic as you can wish, Lady Anne. The path will not be clear for walking, though. I think we should ride.”
“Is Penny fit enough?”
“I think so. Part of his trouble is that he’s been cooped up most of the winter. The exercise will do him good, too. Let me help Martin get the horses saddled. You’d better dress warmly. There will be wind on the ridge.”
Anne hugged Gareth before he could put on his coat. “Thank you! I’m looking forward to seeing more of your land.”
He kissed the top of her head. “
Our
land. It will look better in the spring. You’ve never seen so many wildflowers and daffodils as we have here.”
Spring couldn’t come soon enough. By spring, she’d have her money and Gareth could get his stud farm started. Martin wouldn’t be the only groom, and she’d have help in the house.
She went to her room and took Gareth’s mother’s green riding habit from the trunk at the foot of the bed. Its thick wool would be supplemented by her warmest underthings and a gray dress thrown over the black one she had on. ’Twas a good thing the habit was a little large on her, else she’d have trouble closing the intricate frogging. She put on an extra pair of stockings and pulled on the boots.
Anne left her hair down, wrapping her head in a plaid scarf instead of donning the jaunty feathered hat that matched the habit. Feeling a little like an overstuffed sausage, she walked past the dirty dishes on the table and went outside. She’d be sorry later to come home to a disorganized kitchen, but the washing up could wait.
Martin helped her mount Penny, silent as ever. Anne could not feel comfortable around the man, no matter how much Gareth depended on him. But then she was not a good judge of character, or she would never have run off to France with Charles Marshall.
Oh, heavens. The most inconvenient thoughts were plaguing her today. Her unsuitable suitor Charles had already found another heiress to elope with and seemed none the worse for wear after Mr. Mulgrew’s fist collided with his weak chin.
“You and Penny are two peas in a pod,” Gareth said with a grin as they picked their way through a snow-covered track.
“I’m like a broken-down old horse?” Anne asked with indignation. Penny took offense at her disparagement, snorting a cloud in the chilly air.
“No, no. Your coloring. I guess I’ve always been partial to redheads and I just never knew it.”
Anne patted Penny’s neck. “The cheek of the man. And I’m sorry I insulted you. You’re a lovely old fellow, with plenty of go left in you.” She would have encouraged the gelding to prove it, except she didn’t know where she was going, and worried that he might lose his footing on the slippery trail.
“I’m glad you wore your hair down for me.”
Anne’s hand went to the wool scarf covering her ears. “I feel like a farmwife.”
“And so you shall be in a few weeks. Think how practical you’ve become for a society miss. Though you can’t make coffee worth a damn.”
“I’m not here to be insulted. Penny and I can turn right around and go back home.”
“And deprive yourself of the wonders of all this?” Gareth tilted his head in the direction of the distant snow-capped hills. They had climbed up gradually so that a ribbon of river was just visible as it cut through the frosted fields below.
“It is beautiful here,” she agreed.
“Just like you. And Penny.”
“Oh, stop. I am as round as the King with all these layers of clothes on.” She was almost
too
warm under the brilliant sun.
“Treasonous words, I think. Hm. What should a major in His Majesty’s army do with a traitor? There’s nobody about to hear you scream for mercy.”
“I shall defend myself. With a hatpin.”
“But you’re wearing a headscarf, my love.”
“A wise woman
always
has a hatpin somewhere on her person.” It was a habit she’d gotten into and had proven useful on more than one occasion.