Through the Smoke
Page 18Or perhaps he was dreaming up the missing painting.
Truman sighed. He hoped he would soon find out. He was sending Linley to London in the morning to visit another avid collector. If he had to, he would have Linley visit every art expert in England, his mission to discover any piece of the collection supposedly destroyed in the fire. If he could find just one—
A groan drew his eyes to the bed, but the rich, burgundy draperies that hung there concealed who or what might have made the sound.
What the devil? Assuming it was Susanna, that she had come to his bed despite his earlier refusal, he crossed the floor and yanked the draperies back. But it wasn’t his maid. It was Rachel McTavish! She lay with her eyelashes resting against her cheeks, her long blond hair unfurled on his pillow like a flag—as beautiful as any of the fine ladies he’d known.
Evidently Wythe hadn’t been content to tempt him with mere words. He’d sent for her. And she’d come, just like his cousin predicted she would.
Where the sheet gaped, Truman could see one bare breast and realized she was naked beneath the quilts. How long had she been waiting for him? Why hadn’t someone informed him she was here?
How like his cousin to taunt him with the knowledge that, despite his noble words, he wouldn’t be able to refuse her.…
With that thought, he almost stepped away from the bed. He could make a considerable dent in Wythe’s smugness by sending her home straightaway.
If only he didn’t long to touch her, to erase the vision of her sadness from his mind… a sadness he was partly responsible for causing.
It had to be a vast sum, to bring her to him. But he couldn’t find it in him to fault her. Not now, when he so badly wanted what she was willing to trade.
He remembered how courageously she’d defended her family. When he’d watched her at her mother’s funeral, standing there desolate yet strong, he’d known she was nothing like her father. She was rare and beautiful and, heaven help him, he could not stifle the desire that slammed into him with the force of the ocean battering the cliffs outside. It caused his hand to shake as he reached out to slide a finger down her pale, slim arm.
“Rachel?”
She whimpered in her sleep but turned toward him, seeking his voice, making herself more accessible to his touch.
Send her home, his mind urged. For honor’s sake, send her home. Her mother’s funeral was today.
But the demands of his body spoke louder still.
The bed dipped, creating a pool of warmth where there hadn’t been one before. Rachel snuggled closer and found a hard, lean body reaching for her, a glorious body with smooth skin covering powerful muscle.
Other sensations began to seep into her consciousness as well. The light caress of a man’s fingers moving over her cheek and down her throat. The soft fan of his breath against her skin. Steel-like arms gathering her close.
Strangely, Rachel wasn’t alarmed. She breathed in the unique scent of brandy, horses and cologne and immediately recognized the Earl of Druridge. It had to be him, for there was no other like him, and she remembered his scent all too well. The same scent had clung to the cloak he’d loaned her.
Pressing her face into his neck, she acknowledged his identity without thought of resistance. She didn’t know where he had come from, or how he had suddenly appeared in her bed, so he could only be a dream.
And, although she hated to admit it, she’d had this dream before.…
Sensing rather than seeing the dim glow of a fire in the background, Rachel tried to open her eyes, but her lids were far too heavy. Her mind seemed to be floating somewhere above her, above them both. But she could feel the earl’s hands on her br**sts, touching and teasing them as he coaxed her to respond to him and distantly wondered at her own inability to refuse.
She hated him. Didn’t she?
No, not at the moment. She wasn’t capable of feeling any such negative emotion, not when her thoughts were so befuddled and her head ached. Briefly, she conjured snippets of a memory—of Wythe bending over her and hefting her into his arms—but that image didn’t make sense. And, thankfully, the loathsome Wythe was gone. It was the earl who was playing her body as expertly as a master cellist draws only the sweetest notes from his instrument’s strings.
“How the mere thought of you has haunted me,” he murmured, sliding his fingers down her stomach as though he could hardly believe he’d gained access to her body.
She smiled. Evidently her subconscious had conjured a much more solicitous earl than the one she knew. This man was all that was gentle and good as he kissed her neck, her jaw and finally her mouth.
The earl’s hands were everywhere, strong and sure as they found the hidden treasures they sought. Even the hand with the scars felt like heaven on her body, once she insisted he remove the glove he always wore. He seemed to like that she wasn’t put off by his scars, that she wanted him to touch her with nothing in between, and his mouth followed his hands, nibbling first at her ear, her neck and finally licking one nipple.
She heard her own small cry at the pleasure he gave her, felt all her nerves draw up tight just below her belly. Someplace deep inside her had begun to pulse with warmth and readiness, causing her to strain for the release she craved but didn’t know how to achieve.
“Soon, sweet Rachel, soon,” he assured her, his voice hoarse with his own need as she tried to pull him on top of her. “There’s no hurry. Let me savor the taste and feel of you.” The muscles in his back and arms bunched beneath her touch, telling her he felt the same urgency but was holding back.
She clung to him as his fingers moved lower still, below her belly button around the curve of one hip to the apex of her thighs, sweeping her away in a storm of desire so intense she couldn’t catch her breath. Arching toward him, she insisted he give her that mysterious something as soon as possible.
“Now,” she urged. “I need… I need you.”