Echoes in Stone (12 page)

Dash seized her hand, then drew back as if he’d been bee stung.

Her smile faded. Their eyes met in a long stare. Neither of them breathed.

Without loosing her hand, or breaking eye contact, Dash reached for one of the tiny fruit tarts. He held it to her lips. “Tell me what you taste, Jessa. Describe it to me.”

She took a small bite of the dessert, allowing him to feed it to her. She closed her eyes, chewing slowly, savoring the feel, the taste of the sweet in her mouth. She opened her eyes, meeting his silver ones.

He stared at her, unblinking, as if she’d disappear if he looked away.

“Lemon custard. I tasted lemon custard.” She gave a pleasurable sigh. “Sweet. Creamy. Cool.” The tip of her tongue flicked her lips, seeking more of the lemony flavor.

“Oh God, Jessa. Let me taste it.” Dash drew her to him, pulling her across his lap, into his arms. He crushed his lips against hers.

His kiss was not gentle, but neither was it an invasion. The kiss of a man who knew what he wanted and took it. His tongue swept into her mouth. He tasted of wine and the spicy apple tart he’d eaten.

She moaned, unable to prevent it. She raised her arms, wrapping them around his neck. Pulled him closer. She returned his kiss. Nothing in her experience matched this wondrous sensation. Words whispered through her mind, like frail wisps of cloud.
Passion
.
Danger
.

But the taste of Dash blew them away. Her mouth was parched. Only his wet, apple-flavored kisses could quench the fires igniting under her skin. She squirmed in his lap, trying to ease the prickling that traveled across her breasts, quivered down her belly, raising an unnamable ache in the hidden places between her thighs.

Dash was a very good teacher. He continued kissing her, molding his lips to hers, nipping them, drawing her closer, pulling the pins from her hair. His groan in her ear set off a new firestorm in her blood. He stole the breath from her lungs.

She freed a hand, grabbing for the top button of her blouse. She’d choke if she didn’t get more air.

“Let me, sweetheart.” Dash’s breath was ragged. He slid his hand over hers then reached beneath it, undoing the small round button. He bent his head, licking the exposed hollow of her throat.

She clung to his shoulders, throwing back her head to give him greater access.

His hand dropped lower, and then lower still, as he slid more buttons free. Every freed button was followed by a nip or a lick of overheated flesh. He reached the uppermost edge of her chemise, tied with a tiny pink ribbon. He paused, looking up into her eyes through thick black lashes without raising his head.

She raised her head, watching him, as he tugged the ends of the ribbons and pushed down the linen to reveal her breast. He never broke eye contact with her.

He brushed the top of it with callused fingertips, further stimulating her tender, over-sensitized skin, then caressed the side of her breast. With another strangled groan, he cupped its fullness in his hand. He looked down at last; her gaze followed his.

Her breast looked as if it were custom-made to fit the large hand that cupped it, fondling gently. The swarthiness of his hand, the fine black hairs across the back of it, stood in stark contrast to the milk-white paleness of her skin. The nipple drew tight, hard.

“Oh my God, Jessa. Never have I seen a more beautiful breast.”

She flinched at his plain speech, but he only pulled her tighter to him.

“No, sweetheart, don’t be ashamed. A man and woman should be able to speak plainly. They should say what they think—what they feel—without embarrassment.”

Dash ran his thumb across her nipple. “See how this beautiful bud pebbles. Tightens.” He lowered his head, pulling her nipple into his mouth.

Shock tore through her. He swirled his tongue around it, nipped it lightly, then drew back, blowing on the wet place left by his mouth. To her consternation, the nipple tightened even more , drawing an involuntary cry from her.

“Captain, what are you doing to me?” She twisted in his arms, seeking something but not knowing what.
More
. God help her. She wanted more. More what, she didn’t know, but she’d bet her life Dash knew.

“I want to see you, too,” she said. She reached for his throat, tugging his cravat. She’d have strangled him with it had he not reached up to stop her, untying it himself.

So great was his haste, he ripped open half his shirt buttons, then pulled her hand against his chest.

She rubbed her fingers across the broad, muscled expanse, marveling at the crisp texture of the whorls of black hair she’d glimpsed that first night. The skin beneath the hair was bronze, smooth as marble. She rubbed her palm across one of his nipples, awed at the way it drew taut, just as hers had.

She’d been stunned, thrilled, by the feel of her nipple in his mouth. Would he feel the same way? She flicked her small tongue against the dark tip. He flinched, but didn’t stop her. Just as he’d done to her, she looked up at him through her lashes, watching his face as she pulled his nipple into her mouth and sucked. She closed her eyes, humming. Who knew a man’s body could be so delightful?

“My God, Jessa, stop! You’re killing me.”

She stilled. Had she hurt him? She’d never seen such a look on a man’s face.

Dash drew back with a groan. He pushed her away, both of them gasping for breath. Sweat beaded on his forehead, ran down his chest, tracing a path through the dark hair.

In spite of her drugged, hazy senses, no illness coursed through her veins this time. Dash had done this to her. She was drugged by the feel of his nipple under her palm. Intoxicated by the scent of wine, the sweat that rose from his skin. Drunk on the taste of his dark, searing kisses. She reached up to his face, to trace the scar there.

His hand whipped up, seizing her wrist. “Jessa. Stop. This is insanity.” Dash lifted her off his lap, setting her on the blanket next to him.

Her heart plummeted at his rejection. With shaking hands, she pulled her chemise closed. She hung her head, letting her hair fall like a curtain to screen her face. She wouldn’t let him see the renewed spate of tears. She did up her buttons while her face heated in shame. Horror washed over her.

Good heavens, how could I have been so foolish, to lie about on a blanket in the woods, kissing Lily’s husband? I’m no better than Mother. I’m no better than Lily. How could I have forgotten so quickly how their reckless passions destroyed us
?

“I’M SORRY. I should never have let it go so far.” Dash rose, stood over her. He pulled his handkerchief from his coat pocket, still damp with Jessa’s earlier tears. To hell with it. He mopped his brow, then stumbled away from her.

My God, what had he been thinking? That was the problem. He hadn’t been thinking at all.

The taste of her mouth, more intoxicating than the wine they’d shared. It had been so long since he’d tasted a woman. Enjoyed the soft flesh of one in his arms. Caught the scent of her arousal. And the lush, beautiful woman in his arms had definitely been aroused.

Not until she reached for the scar on his face did he remember why he’d remained celibate for so long. Lily. Damn the bitch. She was always there. Always ready to snatch away every bit of pleasure from his life. The scar tracing the curve of his cheek throbbed, as if the flesh had been freshly sundered.

How could he have forgotten what his face looked like? And why. He’d seen the revulsion—worse, the pity—when people looked at him. A gargoyle. A hideous creature whose own wife couldn’t stomach the sight of him.

This lovely vixen could only have tolerated his caresses for one reason. It most certainly was not simple desire. She’d stretched out her hand to cover his scar, to hide it from her sight so she could bear to kiss him.

This was Lily’s stepsister. The woman who’d come to seduce him into marriage. To replace the income lost with Lily’s death. To take Holly from him.

His stomach clenched. He’d nearly let himself be seduced by the enticing woman who knelt on his blanket, fumbling to put herself to rights. Her hair cascaded over her face, no doubt to hide her pout of frustration at the unsuccessful completion of her seduction. Or more likely, her smile of triumph. She’d infected his blood with desire for her. He could feel it, coursing through his veins, making him physically sick. His cock stood rampant. The engorged flesh strained painfully against his tight trouser front.

He moved toward the little temptress. His legs wobbled. My God, what had she done to him?

He’d sworn off the pleasure of a woman’s flesh long ago. Now, his first encounter with one in more than five years left him weak. Sick. Probably just recognition of the particular woman he’d allowed such intimacy.

Lily’s stepsister! He swallowed his laugh. My God, he’d lost his head over the most dangerous woman possible.

Dark spots swam before his eyes. His stomach cramped. Something was very wrong. This was more than the effects of long suppressed lust, unleashed. He turned away from Jessa, who’d now risen and stood staring at him, worry lines marring her pretty forehead.

Sounding as if it were coming from the bottom of a well, a voice called out to him. “Captain? Dash! What’s the matter? Are you all right? Dash?”

He stumbled to the edge of the clearing, bent double, and emptied his stomach into the thatch of fallen pine needles.

17.

He watched me die and did nothing…

“HOLD ON, CAPTAIN, we’re nearly there. Do you need me to stop again?”

When Dash had first fallen ill, Jessa’s humiliation had been complete. The man could so little bear her kisses that she made him physically ill
.

But he’d continued to be sick, violent, retching spasms shaking his body. This was something more than a rejection of her. He hadn’t been able to stand without her help.

She’d gotten her hands on the much-abused handkerchief that hung from his vest pocket and helped him mop his face. “Goodness, Captain. From now on when we leave the house, I suggest each of us carry at least two handkerchiefs.” That earned her a weak smile, but he still swayed on his feet.

She put her arm about his waist, whether he liked it or not. They stumbled to the carriage, his weight heavy against her. She eyed the high box seat. There was no way the captain was fit to drive.

“Aren’t you glad I know how to handle a trap?” Jessa kept up a cheerful chatter beside the groaning, pale man. Anything to keep him conscious until she could get him back to Tremayne Hall. “You’re going to have to help me get you into it, though.”

She half pulled, half pushed him into the back of the carriage, where he sprawled on the bench. He groaned, clutching his middle. His shirt still hung open, but there was no help for it.

“Will you be all right by yourself? I need to go back for the picnic things. I’ll only be a minute.”

Dash’s response was to heave himself up and be ill over the side of the carriage. Jessa had left him to it, lifted her skirts, and raced back along the short path to the clearing. She’d stuffed emptied food containers and dishes into the hamper. The remains of the feast she’d left for the enjoyment of the forest creatures. She’d hurried back to the captain, then drove the horses as fast as she dared to Tremayne Hall.

“Halloo the house! Winston? Mrs. Penrose?”

Jessa brought the carriage to a rocking stop next to the portico. Two footmen came racing from the house, followed by Winston. Mrs. Penrose hovered in the doorway.

“My goodness, Miss Palmer,” Winston said, “why are you driving? And what’s happened to his lordship?”

A deep voice grumbled from the seats of the carriage. “His lordship is fine, Winston, and would very much like this commotion to cease this instant. If it does not, his lordship is likely to ruin the shine on your shoes in a most unpleasant manner.”

Jessa turned from her perch on the box to frown at the cranky man sprawled across the seats behind her, his face as gray as the velvet squabs on which he lay.

“His lordship’s stomach found some objection to the wine,” she said. “Or perhaps it was the chicken. At any rate, I’m sure his lordship would appreciate your
quiet
assistance to his bed, so he can be miserable in peace.”

Jessa turned to the housekeeper. “Mrs. Penrose, if you’d be so kind, please have Cook send up one of her soothing tisanes. All things considered, perhaps we should keep a supply of them at the constant ready. We seem to be having a rash of internal upsets.”

Dash had recovered sufficiently to swear at the pair of footmen who assisted him into the house. He swayed like a sailor who’d just landed on shore after months at sea.

Winston assisted Jessa down from the high box. His touch was cool, impersonal, without the spikes and tremors Dash set off whenever he touched her.

He tilted his head to her in his usual little half bow, then crooked his arm, offering it to her. “May I help you into the house, Miss Palmer. Perhaps order some tea? Then you can explain how it is you came to be driving the horses, while the captain is half undressed and looks half seas over.” He settled Jessa on the sofa in Dash’s study as easily as if he were the master of the house.