Stephanie Laurens - All About Passion

Her breasts were swollen and aching although he’d yet to lower the gaping gown and take them in his hands. Her nipples tingled; her stomach was a tight knot of need. He seemed to know; one hand closed possessively over her stomach, kneaded provocatively. Head back against his shoulder, she moaned and shifted her hips against him. The hand slid down; pressing her skirts between her thighs, he rubbed the side of his hand against her, slowly, deliberately, until she thought she’d go mad.

“I’ve”-she had to stop to swallow-“I’ve had enough of the sunset.”

“But it’s not dark yet.”

She lifted her heavy lids. A pale wash of color was rapidly fading into the blue of the night. “It’s dark enough.”

“Are you sure?”

There was no humor in the question. If she’d had any doubt who it was who stood behind her, rapacious lord or smoothly elegant lover, his tone made it clear. The steely arms that held her, the hard body behind her, were in no mood to be gentle. Their coupling would be heated, furious-primal. The prospect-the promise in his voice, in his body-sent excitement lancing through her. “Yes.”

His hands closed about her waist and he lifted her forward.

“On your knees, my lady.”

His gravelly purr sent heat curling through her. He set her on the daybed, her knees close to its edge. He straddled her calves, keeping her knees more or less together.

“Bend forward. Hold on to the back of the bed.”

She did. The daybed was wider than a chaise, but she could reach.

He flipped her skirts up, pushing them and her chemise over her waist, baring her bottom and legs. The cool air feathered over her fevered flesh; anticipation seared her. Then his palms curved almost reverently about her bottom, lightly caressing before trailing down the backs of her bare thighs. One left her; she imagined him unbuttoning his trousers while his other hand slowly slid upward, long fingers tracing the inner face of her thighs, higher and higher-he stopped before he touched her.

Her body reacted as if he had.

He shifted, moved closer. His hands gripped her hips.

The blunt head of his erection pressed between her thighs, probed her swollen flesh.

She would have wriggled and taken him in, but he anchored her hips, held her steady as he searched and found her entrance, then pressed inside.

He held her still. Inexorably he pushed into her, filling her inch by inch, stretching her softness, claiming it as his. She thought he’d gone as far as he could when his hips met her bottom, then he thrust and she gasped.

He drew back and filled her slowly again, again thrust at the last, jolting her breathing. Then he settled to a slow rhythm of thrust and withdrawl; within a minute she was melting.

Her body rocked with each thrust, each possessive claiming.

She tried to ease her knees apart, to gain some purchase in the dance. The rigid columns of his legs gave not an inch. He kept her knees trapped together as he plumbed her, entirely at his whim. As if to confirm that, he increased the pace, then, just as she thought the inferno would ignite, he slowed again to that same steady, pleasant but unfulfilling rhythm.

She could do little to influence his script. Could do nothing other than close her body like a glove about him and give herself up to his possession.

She did, and sensed him draw in a huge breath, then he released her hips, pushed aside the neckline of her gaping gown, released her chemise, stripped it away, and closed his hands about her naked breasts.

Heat poured through her. His touch was commanding, covetous yet as one who had the right. Fire flowed from her breasts to her womb, to where they joined.

He filled her again and again, over and over, his hips rocking hers, his hands closing about her breasts.

The fire flamed, spread, then erupted in a spasm of heat and desire, white-hot sensation shooting down every vein, frazzling every nerve. She cried out, and heard it as a distant song, then all she knew, all she felt, coalesced into one exquisitely intense sensation.

He held her there, his hands firm about her breasts as he thrust harder, deeper, faster.

She felt the power shudder through him, felt him surrender, felt him join her in that place where lovers go.

Gyles’s heart thundered as he wallowed in the indescribable sensation of his body emptying into hers, so tight, so hot, so welcoming. He supported her in his arms, his hands full of the bounty of her breasts, his loins flush against her naked bottom.

A shudder of primal triumph rocked him.

She was a harvest he’d just reaped. Nothing in his life had ever felt so good.

They did lie, relaxed, on the daybed, but it was now full dark outside. Neither felt any desire to move, content in the warmth of the other’s embrace.

Francesca’s dark head lay on Gyles’s chest. He stroked, letting his fingers slide through the silky black locks. He smiled self-deprecatingly as he recalled his original view of her as a woman too dangerous to seduce. A woman he should fear, given her innate ability to reach behind his civilized mask and communicate directly with the barbarian behind it.

He’d been right. That was, indeed, precisely what she did. Yet he no longer feared her ability-he exulted in it.

Why fate had been so kind as to send him one of the few women-the only one he’d ever met-who seemed to think nothing of his baser instincts, indeed, seemed to delight in said instincts, he didn’t know. He was only glad he hadn’t been able to do anything other than marry her.

The thought of not having her as his wife was enough to make him tighten his arms; she murmured and wriggled; he eased his hold.

He glanced down at her, and could no longer recall why keeping his true self in check had once seemed so important. It had been his way for so long-as if keeping his true feelings, his true nature, suppressed was essential to functioning, to living his life.

Hiding that side of himself from her had never been an option; he’d stopped worrying about it on their wedding night. With her, being himself, his true self, simply didn’t matter…

He stared out at the night.

That was why, with her, he felt so complete. So whole. Being himself, with her, was permissible, even desirable. She delighted in calling the barbarian forth, delighted in throwing herself in his arms-delighted in giving herself to a maruading rapacious barbarian. And she couldn’t care less if he was incoherent at the time.

His lips curved in a smirk. Her own lack of coherence was telling-attempting any degree of conversation during coitus was wasted effort. He only had to touch her, and she became a totally sensate being-the only avenue of communication she was interested in was by touch and feel.

His gaze steadied on her face.

She was a field he would willingly plow for the rest of his life.

He didn’t think she’d mind.

Shifting his hand from her head to her breast, he continued stroking. She made a smoky, purring sound and shifted suggestively. He smiled and lifted her across him.

It was time to sow some more.

So he could reap the harvest of her loving again.

“My lord, if I could have a moment of your time?”

Caught watching his wife, Gyles turned his head. Wallace had entered the breakfast parlor and stood by his side, a covered salver in one hand.

“Her ladyship’s, too.” Wallace directed a bow down the table.

The morning of the Festival had dawned misty but fine. The sun shone benignly on all those scurrying about the Castle grounds, setting up trestles and boards. Most of the staff were outside; only Irving and one footman were attending them. Wallace caught Irving’s eye; Irving directed the footman to the door, then followed, closing the door behind him.

“What is it?”

“One of the maids was instructed to fill the vase on the stair landing with autumn branches, my lord. To brighten up the spot for the Festival. When she tried to insert the branches, she encountered some difficulty. When she investigated, she discovered…”- Wallace lifted the cover of the salver-“this.”

Gyles stared at a crumpled scrap of green, sodden and darkened. He knew what it was before his fingers touched it. He lifted the fragments. The bedraggled feather, shredded of its fronds, hung limply.

Francesca stared. “My riding cap.”

“Indeed, ma’am. Millie mentioned to Mrs. Cantle that it was not in your room. Mrs. Cantle told the maids to keep an eye out in case it was elsewhere about the house. When Lizzie found it, she brought it straight to Mrs. Cantle.”

Gyles turned the remains of the cap in his fingers. “It’s been destroyed.”

“So it appears, my lord.”

Francesca gestured. “Let me see.”

Gyles dropped the wet scrap back onto the salver. Wallace took it to Francesa. Gyles watched her pick it up, spread it in her hands. The material had been ripped, the feather broken and stripped.

She shook her head. “Who… Why?”

“Indeed.” Gyles heard the steel in his voice. He glanced at Wallace. His majordomo met his gaze, his expression impassive. Wallace knew no more than he.

Francesca’s expression cleared. She dropped the cap on the salver. “It must have been an accident. Get rid of it, Wallace. We’ve more pressing matters to deal with today.”

Replacing the salver’s cover, Wallace glanced at Gyles.

Lips thinning, he looked at his wife. “Francesca-”

The door opened; Irving entered. “I’m sorry to interrupt, my lord, but Harris has arrived with the ale. You wished to be informed.” He bowed to Francesca. “And Mrs. Cantle asked me to tell you, my lady, that Mrs. Duckett has arrived with her pasties.”

“Thank you, Irving.” Laying aside her napkin, Francesca rose. She flicked a hand at the salver. “Dispose of it, please, Wallace.”

She glided up the table, heading for the door. Gyles reached out and shackled her wrist. “Francesca-”

“It’s nothing but a ruined cap.” Leaning closer, she twined her fingers with his and squeezed lightly. “Let be. We’ve so much to do, and I do so want everything to be perfect.”

There was a plea in her eyes. Gyles knew how much she’d invested in the Festival, how much she needed the day to be a success. He held her gaze. “We’ll talk about it later.”

She smiled gloriously and slipped from his hold.

He rose and followed her-into the chaos of the day.

He followed her for most of the day, not on her heels, but she was rarely out of his sight. The more he considered her shredded cap, the less he liked it. He’d never played host at the Harvest Festival yet the role was second nature. He strolled the lawns, greeting his tenants and their families, stopping to chat with those who leased the village shops. He passed his mother and Henni doing likewise, then went down to the archery butts to check on Horace.

While there, he presented the prizes thus far won, promising to escort his countess thither to bestow the major prizes later on. Leaving the butts, he watched Francesca chatting animatedly with Gallagher’s wife.

Informality was the order of the day. Today was the day when the lord and lady rubbed shoulders with their tenants, meeting them man to man, woman to woman. It was not a challenge every gently reared lady met well, but Francesca was enjoying it. Her hands danced as she talked; her eyes sparkled. Her face was alive with interest, her expression focused. Gyles wondered what topic she found so engaging, then she looked down and smiled. He shifted and saw Sally’s youngest child clinging to the front of her skirt.

The little girl was fascinated by Francesca; smiling, Francesca bent down to talk to her.

In a walking dress in green-and-ivory stripes, Francesca was easy to spot among the crowd. As she laughed, straightened, and parted from Sally, others stepped forward to claim her attention. Gyles would have liked to claim it for himself; instead, he turned to greet the blacksmith.

Only those connected with the estate were present. Gyles didn’t, therefore, need to watch for Lancelot Gilmartin and his theatrical posturings. He did, however, wonder if Lancelot was in any way connected with Francesca’s ruined cap.

Finally, Francesca was free. Gyles caught her hand, linked her arm with his.

She smiled up at him. “Everything’s going perfectly.”

“With you, Wallace, Irving, Cantle, Mama, and Henni supervising, I don’t see how anything could go otherwise.”