The Coachman's Daughter (7 page)

He skimmed his warm mouth to her ear, braced
a hand above her and eased back so that the other could massage her
breasts.

Her fingers dug into his shirt, the silk cool
and sensual. Haven bit her lip as his palm dragged down over her
stomach, and then over the trousers.

When he cupped between her legs, she gasped
but he caught that too in his mouth.

The kneading, the way he did it, had her
heart racing, her breath coming so fast she feared she would
faint.

Deme leaned back and slid his hand from the
door, using them to guide her so her hips were against the desk.
His breathing was terse, face taut and eyes incredibly beautiful.
Had she not been caught up in the moment, Haven would have savored
it, wondered at it, as it was, she felt the parting of the latches,
the air on her lower stomach, mere seconds before he was on his
knees, his lips and tongue skimming over her navel, under it, down
and across her skin with warm breaths.

Her hands covered his a moment at her sides.
“I don’t know about this.” My God, was that her voice? It sounded
like a rasp of desperation.

Nipping and then kissing her, he took her
hands, brought them to his lips, flicking her fingers and palm with
his tongue, then biting at her wrist before he stood.

Heat emanated from him. His curls were wild
about his head and neck, and his lips looked sensual, sexual. He
placed her hands on his shoulders and eased one of his down,
slowly, moving over her sex before covering it. The heat and feel
of it sent fire skittering through her.

“You are aroused.”

“Yes, obviously.”

“Um. Wonderfully. Shall I stop?”

“No.” She swallowed. Neither of them were
smiling or teasing now. The air between them was too raw and
explosive.

Letting her hands drop, she moved his away a
moment and let her shirt fall back over her shoulders and to the
desk. He skimmed her trousers lower, spread her thighs slightly and
murmured what she should do until Haven found herself with her bare
bottom on a well-worn desktop, trousers down and fallen over her
boots, her torso nude and held up by her hands braced on the
desk.

Mesmerized despite the exquisite tension, she
watched his hands rub her leg from her knee upwards, then inside
her parted thighs, and upwards again.

His thumb brushed through the curls whilst he
observed her, and she knew he was watching her. That she was
aroused was as unmistakable as the damp musk that shone on his
thumb.

He whispered, “This little jewel right here,”
and touched a spot that nearly made her faint. “Is in want of
petting. It will firm and blossom and your silken juices with
increase. I have a feeling your nectar will be delicious on my
tongue.”

Deme stepped back again and removed the
trousers and boots.

Eyes going up her body, he husked,
“Beautiful. Amazingly beautiful.” Shaking his head as if he was
utterly surprised by it. His gaze finally locked with hers. “I can
give you pleasure. Do you want it now?”

“Yes.” For the time being, she chose to
believe everything she saw in his eyes. She was a woman grown, and
her body was aroused, painfully. Her sex ached. His every kiss, his
every touch, pleasured her. She may feel differently at saner
moments, but she wanted more. When she saw her words pleased him,
it only deepened the hunger.

The Marquis unbuttoned his silk shirt and
exposed a broad shouldered torso, sinewy and naturally dark, taut
in stomach and hips—his dusky nipples hard on his pectorals. Coming
to stand between her legs, his bare sides caressing her inner
thighs, Deme let her look over him. When Haven sat up a bit to
caress him, and he did not deter her.

She smoothed her palms over his upper arms,
down them, and around at his shoulders. When she did the same to
the front of him, she heard the subtle growl in his throat. A purr
of male pleasure.

He kissed her. She could taste his fierce
arousal as surely as he must taste her own. The kiss was wild and
rough, more feeling than finesse—until he pulled back and grabbed
her hands. His dark heavy breathing wafting on her cheek, he placed
them by her hips again.

Lips touching her temple, breath unsteady,
Deme rested palms on her thighs a moment. “You cannot be loud in
your pleasure. Sound carries and your father will hear.”

“How can I bloody promise that? It is all I
can do not to moan and you are only caressing me,” she reached to
catch his hair at the nape and force his head back.

Deme rolled his lips, his eyes searching,
intense. “I do not think I have ever seen a woman so beautiful in
my life.” He shook his head as if to clear it. His voice was hardly
discernible when he rasped, “Your eyes are amber, shimmering, and
hungry, aroused.”

“Deme.” Her legs trembled under his touch. “I
cannot promise what I will or won’t do.”

He kissed her softer than she knew he wanted
to. The tension in him was as searing as his skin. His scent, male
scent, was of virile potency, of arousal, that matched hers. He
trembled slightly.

In that kissing, she realized his body came
closer. She felt the prod of his sex against hers, hot through his
snug trousers. He was letting her feel that steel hardness in him.
She sensed he was helpless in needing more than he intended when he
started this tryst.

He parted their mouths painfully sluggish.
Trembling breaths stirred on each other’s lips. Lashes lifting at
almost the same time, faces close, they locked gazes, seeing
everything uncovered, unveiled—not Lord and daughter of a Coachman,
just a man and woman merely. Male and female, who aroused each
other, who attracted each other —exquisitely, powerfully.

Then he said, “I am not a man used to
exercising restraint.”

It reminded her why, and how often, and how
easily his conquests were.

Haven drew gradually back and used her hand
to move him away. Sliding off the desk, she scooped up her shirt
and slid it on.

In a silence that was oddly loud, she pulled
on trousers and boots. Weak, trembling, as if her strength had been
stolen; she walked around him and sat in one of the chairs.

Elbows on her knees, she buried in her hands
and whispered, “What am I doing? My God, what I am doing? You have
done this a hundred times with as many women. I cannot believe
I—”

Somewhere, over the deep thud of her
heartbeats, she heard the slide of silk. The sound of his pulling
on his shirt.

Deme resumed his seat, silent and with
tension from the arousal and hungers in his body. For some moments,
he simply counted the slam of his heart against his ribs, and
waited for the roar to leave his ears. He kept his eyes closed.
Bloody raging hell. Bloody hell, why did he even speak. He had
lost….control.

He could blame everything on overindulgence.
He could say brandy and whiskey made him feel what he felt. He
could lie to himself.

“I will leave—Wimberly,” he heard her say
with uneven breaths. “After… after your brothers depart. I had
planned on it, in any case. I have money enough to go wherever I
please.”

Letting his lashes lift, he still could not
look at her yet. He stared instead at the niches on the wall where
papers were tucked and sorted.

She went on, “Lisette will be going back to
town. I—we all knew I would go eventually. Everyone is growing up,
and we… we all must.”

He already knew the answer, the insult, the
way it would be taken when he did look at her and ask, “Would you
consider becoming my mistress?”

Mulhern drew in a deep breath and raised her
head, letting her hands drop heavily to her thighs. By then she had
masked those eyes he could read so easily before.

“I don’t want to be owned or paid by you.
I’ll want you, when you can say that you want me, as you say it to
your equal—” She got to her feet, looking down at him before
finishing, “Not because you are Lord or Marquis either.”

She stepped over his legs and dodged his
attempt to catch her hand the first time.

He got to his feet and caught her on the next
try, bringing her back against his chest. He had whispered tersely,
“What is this, Mulhern, Some game of yours to have me painting
after you just because we’ve discovered a mutual lust.”

She whirled around and glared at him. “I
didn’t seduce you.”

God, he wished she would slap him. He thought
she might yet. Even in anger, her eyes were like polished jasper.
He would never see them; see her, the same again.

Knowing exactly what he was doing, Deme
smiled. It did not reach his eyes. “Did any of that matter moments
ago when I had you wet and aching?”

“No.” Her teeth cinched for a moment. “That
proves I want you. But —to you it is just another female you
can—.”

She drew in a breath through her nose, her
eyes getting colder by the moment. “No. No I will not be the one to
lie. You feel something for me, something so powerful I can almost
smell it, taste it. Yet you will tell yourself I am only worthy of
some tumble in a stable, or to be hidden away as your mistress.
Even now, you are cheapening it in your mind, aren’t you? You may
say you have craved honest desire and passion, but you are afraid
of it.”

She stepped back and raked him up and down
with her gaze, her body trembling. “The truth is, you—are not good
enough for me.”

He stood there while the door clicked,
hearing her footfalls, then the door above open and close. He heard
muffled voices.

Deme sat himself down heavily in the chair,
sitting there long after the candle sputtered.

When the door opened again, near dawn, he
moved his booted feet from the table and straightened.

Patrick Mulhern set the lamp on the small
desk and leaned his hips against it. He was dressed neatly for the
day, though not in livery.

For silent moments, they took measure of each
other.

“I’m not here as a servant to the Duke, your
Lordship. I am here as Haven’s father.”

“Yes.” Deme rubbed his hands down his thighs
and took a bracing breath in and out. He would never play a fool
with a man like Patrick. There was not any point in it. He had half
expected a meeting when he had heard voices earlier. He had waited
for it.

Deme did not know what she had told her
father, but her upset alone, and likely, their own voices had
carried somewhat in the heat of passions.

“Your stretch at sobriety and family
affection this week has apparently hit a snag tonight...”

“Apparently.”

Patrick held his stare. “Did you run out of
distractions in the local village? No wenches to tumble. Perhaps
lost your taste for them and was in need of a distraction?” That
was delivered as was meant to, with steel.

Deme came to his feet but stayed where he
was. “I attempted to seduce your daughter. It had nothing to do
with drink or otherwise. She’s an attractive woman, and we are both
of age.”

A nerve ticked in Mulhern’s jaw. “And if you
had your way, what then? You are to be the Duke of Wimberly
someday. Your title and place as Marquis, your holdings are
impressive, without that. “

Deme said nothing.

Mulhern supplied, “I have been trying to get
my daughter to leave and begin her own life for some time. I have
resented this obligation she has to look out for you, the putting
herself at risk more times than I am likely aware of because of
your rakish life. My daughter has everything she needs to live
comfortably. She is a better woman in all ways than most that are
titled. She is intelligent and vastly more judicious than you.”

“Are you trying to get yourself let go.”

“I don’t care what you do, my lord.” Patrick
straightened. “I go with the Duke. But if you wish to explain how
we came to have this conversation, by all means, do so.”

The coachman waited a heartbeat then went on,
“Do you think a man of my position cares any less for his daughter,
than your father does his? I care more.” Mulhern’s voice thickened.
“You have no idea how much she means to me.”

“Whatever my behavior tonight,” Deme
supplied, “It was not some intentional disrespect or lack of
regard. I apologize, Mulhern.”

Deme did not ever recall feeling more like an
ass. He discerned that the man assumed he regarded Haven’s station
as inferior, that she would be nothing more than a cheap tumble.
Yes, he said that often enough, he let her think so when she walked
out. However, that was not why he lost his head with her, and not
why desired her.

Thus, to Mulhern he confessed in unmistakably
honest inflections— “We have always struck sparks with each other.
Haven was the only one who never catered to me, nor spared me a
tongue-lashing. We have agreed we do not particularly like each
other. But I kissed her, Patrick. The response—I have not felt
before. Frankly, the world itself could have gone to hell. I would
have, to have done more.” He lifted his hand and let it drop. “She
had the good sense to end it.”

He saw the tension in the coachman’s face,
and offered, “Because I know what you have pointed out, and I know
what I have been, I played the role I am best at afterwards—and
wounded her.”

Mulhern muttered and rubbed the back of his
neck. When he dropped his hand, he told Deme, “Someday, my lord,
when you have laid your demons to rest, I will tell you why it
matters to me that Haven have the life I dreamed of for her.”

He had turned to leave when Deme said,
quietly “She’s right. I’m not good enough for her.”

Patrick paused. “She said that?”

“Yes.”

Patrick turned and regarded him, “Far be it
from me to lecture you, your Lordship, but there are women whom we
touch or kiss we never remember. Then there those whom we touch or
kiss and it carries us out of body and soul. When a man burns for
that woman, truly falls in passionate love, he cannot sleep, cannot
breathe, without her. He will do anything, dare anything, to show
it, prove it. You can desire many women, but love has no cure. It
is something blind and fearless.”