Angel Rogue (50 page)

Raising her made it easier to reach various delicious bits of her anatomy. He put his hands over hers, trapping them against the stone. Her fingers fluttered for an instant under his, then became still.

He leaned forward and rubbed his cheek against hers. Her skin was petal smooth, cool on the surface with radiant life pulsing below. He blew lightly in her ear, then traced the delicate whorls with his tongue. She hummed with pleasure, stretching her neck like a cat.

The shawl was so large that she was sitting on it, yet still had enough fabric to cover her shoulders and chest. He nudged the shawl aside with his chin. The dark wool slithered down and pooled on the back of his hands where they held hers to the stone. Her position thrust her breasts forward alluringly.

He tasted the sensual arc of her throat. She was sane and whole and he wanted to devour her, to make that sanity and wholeness part of himself.

When his trailing lips reached her necklace, he quickly skipped lower. He'd paid a small fortune for the thing, but rubies and diamonds were cold and lifeless compared to the satiny swells above her décolletage. He kissed them with ardent tenderness, inhaling the haunting womanly scent from the cleft between her breasts.

Trying to mask his urgency, he released her hands so he could shape the ripe curves of her buttocks with his open palms. Then his hands slid forward, gliding over the gentle curve of her abdomen toward the sensitive mound between her thighs.

She said breathlessly, "Time to stop, I think."

"Not yet." Under the shimmering skirt, her knees were several inches apart. He spread them farther and stepped between so that she could not close them again. He was so close he could feel her sultry female heat.

He sought and found her mouth, wanting her to be so beguiled that she would not question what he was doing. He lifted her skirt and petticoat with both hands and rested his palms on her stockingclad knees while he deepened the kiss. Then he massaged upward, over her garters, seeking her hidden female essence.

She responded with openmouthed generosity, but she was too clever to be distracted. When he caressed her inner thighs, she turned her head away and instinctively tried to close her legs. She couldn't, and the pressure of her knees against his hips inflamed him still further.

Trapped by his body, she became still. "Robin," she said unevenly. "Robin, we should go back inside now. This is not the right time or place."

She was not afraid—not yet. To frighten her would be unforgivable, but he was incapable of moving away.

His breath ragged with effort, he straightened and wrapped his arms around her. A hard pulse beat in his temples, a harder one in his loins, where his straining sex was pressed against her intimate heat, trying to tear through his tight garments to meld with her. She was so small, so easily enfolded, yet supple with female strength. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "You're right, but—Christ, I have the most absurd feeling that if I don't have you, I will die."

He tried to sound amusing, to make a joke that would obliterate the foolish melodrama of his words, but for once frivolity failed him. The hammering of his blood repeated,
If I don't have you, I will die. If I don't have you, I will die
.

That stark need was not only for tonight, or for the physical act of union that his body demanded. He wanted her for always, his mistress, his match, his mate. But he also, rather frantically, wanted to make love to her right now.

Unable to repress a forlorn hope, he said, "You didn't want to lie with me in Maggie's house… but we're not in the house now."

"Oh, Robin, Robin, you're a wicked, silver tongued devil, half angel and half rogue." She gave a soft sigh that held both gentle reproach and laughter. "What am I to do with you?"

He shut his eyes, embarrassed that she knew him so well, yet grateful that she could still speak with affection.

Her hand brushed his hair, then fell away to skim his face. Her fingers were cool against his heated forehead and cheek.

She stroked her thumb across his parted lips, then put her hands on both sides of his head and pulled him down for a kiss. As their mouths joined, her hand slid downward, gliding over his chest and hips. When it reached the fall of his breeches, her palm curved, clasping the hard ridge beneath the taut fabric.

He went rigid as fire coursed through his veins.

She murmured, "I hope no one else decides to come outside for a walk." Her fingers went to the top button of his breeches.

After a stunned moment, he unfastened the buttons himself, his fingers tangling clumsily with hers. When he had freed himself, he touched her, trailing his fingers through the soft curls to the sweet female secrets below. The silky, pliant folds were fever warm and swollen with moisture.

She gave a longing sigh that maddened him. He raised her right leg and wrapped it around his hips,

then did the same with her left. She was so open, so yielding.

As he prepared her for his entry, she whimpered and her calves locked around him. Further restraint was impossible. He buried himself inside her with one fierce thrust.

She gasped, on the edge between pleasure and pain. Panting, he forced himself to hold still so she could adjust. Just being within her was almost enough to bring him to culmination. Every part of his body was throbbing. He felt as if he had entered a safe harbor, yet at the same time a tempest raged in his blood.

The musky scent of sex surrounded them, as intimate as their bodies. Using his right arm to support her back, he slid his left hand between them until he was touching her just above where they were joined. He found tide sensitive, hidden nub, then gently rubbed with his knuckle.

She moaned. As her hips began grinding against him, a long, slow shudder convulsed her and she buried her face against his shoulder. A series of swifter contractions triggered his own release without his moving. Violent pleasure suffused him, yet in the center of his scouring, chaotic climax was peace.

Gasping, he pressed his forehead against hers. "Oh, Lord. Maxie. I wish… I wish there was something I could do to give you the kind of comfort you give me."

Comfort. She sighed, glad he couldn't see her expression in the dark. When she had recognized the depth of his despairing need, she had given solace freely. In return, she had received mind drugging rapture. It was not a bad exchange. Yet she could not help wanting to be a something more than a source of emotional comfort and sexual release.

That wasn't fair; Robin was giving everything he could. It was not his fault that he did not love her.

Hoping that her muscles were working and she wouldn't collapse back onto the stone altar, she eased away from him. "I think I've ruined your cravat."

"If so, I'll keep the remnants pressed in a book of poetry for the rest of my life." He followed the gallantry with a kiss.

As his lips caressed hers with gentle affection, she gave a superstitious shiver. She had promised herself that they would make love at least once more. Had that swift, heedless encounter been it? She tried to look forward, to believe that there was a lifetime of lovemaking ahead of them, but she could sense nothing except the black fog of despair.

When she shivered again, Robin said with concern, "You're cold. Time to render ourselves respectable enough to walk back into house." Her disengaged their bodies, caught her around the waist again, and gently set her on the marble floor. As he produced a handkerchief for her to dry herself, he added, "Semirespectable will do. If we looked immaculate, no one would believe it."

"Immaculate is not a possibility." She smoothed down her crimson skirt. Luckily the shawl had protected her gown from the coarse stone. "I hope everyone will give us the benefit of the doubt and assume that all we've done is steal a few kisses."

"Naturally that's all that happened," he said in his best peddler's voice, saturated with unreliable sincerity. "After all, you're an innocent maiden and I'm a gentleman."

"Strictly nominal in both cases." Her hair was falling down. She located the hairpins and secured it again, hoping the result wasn't too wild, then draped the shawl over her shoulders.

Robin put his arm around her and they began strolling back toward the house. "One reason I took you to Ruxton was to see if you liked it," he said hesitantly. "I've always been fond of the place, even though I've only stayed there half a dozen times in my life. Do you think you could be happy living at Ruxton?"

She thought of the warm stone, the rolling green hills, and the house's gracious, welcoming air. Ruxton wanted to be a home, and she was a woman who had wanted a stable home all her life.

Her voice almost inaudible, she said, "Yes. If… if things work out between us, I could be happy there."

Such a very big if.

On
the carriage ride home, Desdemona and Giles had talked casually, in words anyone could have overheard, but his large strong hand enfolded hers and she felt quite absurdly happy. She had not felt such a sense of bubbling anticipation since she was a child.

When they reached her home, Giles escorted her up the steps, then rested his hands briefly on her upper arms, his expression intent. His grasp tightened for a moment. She wondered if he was going to kiss her, right there in Mount Street

Then her parlor maid opened the door. He dropped his hands, saying simply, "Good night, Desdemona. It was a lovely evening."

Yes, and it was too early for it to end. She said, "It isn't really late. Would you like to come in for a few minutes? Perhaps have some brandy?"

The marquess hesitated, clearly on the brink of refusing.

Amazed at her own temerity, she smiled up at him. "Please?"

"For a few minutes, then," he said after an unflatteringly long pause.

She sent the servants off to bed, then led Giles into the drawing room and poured them each a brandy. Sitting in facing chairs, they talked idly for a while, but the earlier ease was gone. The marquess watched her with a dark, brooding expression that made her uneasy. Though she had thought his regard was flattering earlier in the evening, now she was not so sure. Perhaps, she thought with profound depression, his interest in her had been a momentary aberration and now he was wondering how to disengage gracefully.

He finished his brandy and stood. "I think it's best that I leave now."