She came up on her knees so that their eyes were level. “My last thought before I fainted was of you. I knew you would come. I love you, Quin.”
“I never understood much about love,” he said, not touching her. “But I do know that I love the way you hold your own against my mother, and your bad jokes, and your silly limericks, and your violet dress, and the way you can climb a tree and fly a kite.”
She smiled. That was good enough.
“My mother told me long ago,” he continued, “that it was a good thing that we were an unemotional family, because love was dangerous. I proved her hypothesis by falling in love with Evangeline.”
Olivia bit her lip, ready to argue.
“But I love you so much more.” His voice grated and nearly broke, but he steadied it. “I love you more than anything in this world, more than my own life. If love is dangerous, then I don’t want to live in safety.” His voice was rough and savage, and doubly honest for its hunger.
Olivia shifted backward, still on her knees. “Just looking at you makes me ache . . . here.” She put a hand on her stomach, let it drift lower. “And here.”
His face changed from deadly to sensual. “Olivia.” He breathed the word. Then: “No.” He tried to make the word into a command, but she was pretty sure that warriors married Amazons, which meant it was time she became as bold as any Amazon. Not that history was her strong point.
“I’m not afraid when you are with me.” She undid the top button of a villager’s dress, kindly given to replace her ruined travelling costume. “I’m not afraid of Bessette, because I saw what you did to him back at the fortress.”
Quin’s jaw clenched. “Unfortunately, I think the bastard will survive. If I had known that he had given you those bruises, I would have beaten him to within an inch of his life the first time I encountered him.”
She smiled, and slipped free two more buttons. “And I’m not afraid of French soldiers, because all the ones around here are your cousin Justin’s age, though they might not be quite as poetic.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Petit returns to his room to scribble verses to an English moon goddess.” He was watching her hands.
Olivia undid the last button and eased the gown over her shoulders. “Most of all,” she said, coming to her feet, “I’m no longer afraid of myself, of my own body.” The gown pooled at her feet, leaving only a chemise.
“No corset,” he growled, not moving. “I’m going to destroy all your corsets when we reach England.”
“What’s wrong with a corset?” she asked, teasing him by slowly, slowly inching up the hem of her chemise.
“Holds you in,” he said, his eyes flaring. “I can’t stand to see your curves confined.”
She knew her smile was radiant; she felt not even a tinge of embarrassment as she pulled her chemise over her head and tossed it aside. Quin froze, a muscled, wild man crouched at her feet. She simply waited in that patch of French bluebells, a ray of dusky sunshine playing on her breasts and stomach, and let him look as long as he wished.
To be strictly honest, she did position her legs in the best possible fashion—knees together, bent slightly to the side. She had never felt more sensual or more desirable. Being naked in the outdoors, even though—or, perhaps, especially because—Quin was still clothed, was intoxicating. Her whole body softened with desire, sang with it.
Still, he didn’t move, that new, ferocious demeanor clinging to him. “Olivia,” he growled finally.
“Yes?”
He may be ferocious, but she was a woman. His woman. She saw the fire blazing in his eyes, and the way his hands were trembling. For her.
“Move your legs apart.”
She shifted into the immodest pose he wanted, and even that didn’t embarrass her.
“You’re perfect,” he said hoarsely. “And you’re mine.” All of a sudden strong arms circled her hips and a swipe of his tongue between her legs made her shriek.
“Like honey,” he said, taking another lick that made her gasp. A sweet, insistent ache spread quickly down her legs, and Olivia wound her fingers into the clean silk of his hair and hung on.
Quin took his time, holding her upright after her legs lost strength, his hands digging into the voluptuous curves of her arse, his tongue as demanding as the rest of him. He didn’t stop until she was sobbing with pleasure, shaking all over, trying to speak but unable to find words.
He rose to his feet and ripped his shirt over his head. A moment later she found herself on her back in a heap of discarded clothing and bluebells, a naked, hard body looming over her. But his jaw was clenched, eyes worried. “I can’t stop myself, Olivia. And it might still hurt.”
But she was already arching toward him, her hands clenching on his forearms. “I feel empty,” she whispered. “I want you inside me.”
He reached down with one hand and closed his eyes for a moment. “You’re so ready.” His voice rasped.
“Oh,” she cried, pushing against his finger, against the rough stroke of his thumb. “I . . . can you . . . yes!” The golden sunshine hurled into her again, streaking along her veins.
Quin waited through the spasms that shook her, then reared back and put his huge hands under her bottom. His face was desperate but still wary.
“I want your—” she said, but had to stop for a shaky breath.
A gleam of laughter lightened his eyes. “Don’t you dare say anything about a battering ram, Olivia Lytton.”
She pouted at him, loving the way his eyes caught on her plump lips. “But I want it.” And she meant it.
If possible, he felt even larger than the first time. But it was all different; she shrieked when he thrust home, and not from pain. Her legs instinctively rose and clenched around his hips, holding him fast.
A low cry tore from his lips. “Not—not so fast,” he gasped. He came down on his elbows and kissed her. “I love you.” The words came out low and fierce, a warrior’s vow. He drew back, thrust again. Stopped. “There’s no reason to live without you, Olivia. None.”
Her lips trembled and her eyes swam with tears. But he bent his head, caught her mouth again. “No tears,” he said. “You lived. I lived. We lived.”
“I love you,” she said, her hands trembling as she tried to pull him even closer. “I love you so much, Quin.”
Their eyes met. “Please,” she gasped, not really certain what she was begging for. But Quin knew. He came home to her, and she took what he gave her, took it and gave it back.
Thirty-three
The Merits of Simple Words
Quin did not find the right words until they had washed in the stream and put their clothes back on. But for once it didn’t bother him that the words he wanted didn’t come immediately: what he and Olivia felt was more than language. It was like light, he realized. Something plain and simple that split into a rainbow when examined closely.
“You have changed my heart,” he said at last. “I’ll never be comfortable without knowing where you are.”
The shimmer in Olivia’s eyes threatened to spill over again. But she was safe and in his arms. He began to walk, bending his head to kiss away a tear or two.