Fiona laughed, and the sound fell on him like a blessing. She leaned forward and did it again, and he finally regained enough control to release her hips, though he was pretty sure he’d left bruises on her skin. His hands free, they went naturally to her breasts.

He had his control back now, even if it was held by a thread so delicate it might as well be a strand of her hair. She had to come with him into the intoxicating, ravenous pleasure that beckoned.

She had her eyes closed, swaying a little on top of him, her hands covering his as he shaped her breasts, rubbing those beautiful nipples again and again. Every time, he felt a delicate little shudder go through her body.

Fiona was in the grip of a feeling so sensual that she didn’t even know how to name it. It was like the storm outside, as if she’d been caught up in something so powerful that the essential her was lost in the middle of a whirl of wind. Where there had been nothing, there was suddenly this hard, hot . . . this . . . She couldn’t think of the word.

And Byron was caressing her breasts, and every time he rubbed a thumb past her nipples, he would nudge upward, just the smallest amount, just enough to remind her that he was there.

Part of her.

The very thought ran like liquid gold over her skin. She, Fiona, was finally not alone any longer. Even though they’d known each other for almost no time at all, she knew it with a certainty that flooded her whole body. His face, that beautiful, beautiful face, was contorted, savage, not graceful . . . because of her.

“You will always love me, won’t you?” she asked, the words coming out with a gasp. Every time he moved, it made spirals of heat shoot through her legs.

He opened his eyes at that. She knew instinctively that there wasn’t a woman in London who would recognize, who had ever seen, the look of savage possession that she saw now on the face of the cultured and urbane Earl of Oakley. “Always. You are mine,” he snarled, thrusting up again. Her body had adjusted now, accepted him.

More than that, it welcomed him, sent a shudder of heat through her. She swayed, caught herself on his chest, her fingers curling against hard muscle.

Her eyelids dropped closed. It felt as if her body was narrowing to one point, to this—

His big hands caught her hips and lifted her easily in the air, away from him, into unwelcome coolness. She let out a sobbing cry, but he was moving like a whirlwind, throwing down the fur cape, laying her gently on her back, bracing himself over her.

“I have to have you,” he said, his mouth just touching hers, his voice strained but gentle. “It’s this bloody possessive side of me, Fiona. I need to—I need to—”

She looked up at him, feeling the fever race through her blood as he started to come to her, and knew that this would always be their fulcrum point.

He would need to possess her, to know that she would never leave him, to believe it with every speck of his soul. And she would need just as desperately to know that he loved her. That he would be tender, and stand between her and the world’s opinion, and always defend her.

It was the blazing truth in his eyes, clear in the way his huge body was frozen over hers, even as he obviously struggled to control himself. He was braced on his elbows, his hands clenched beside her head.

Fiona drew her fingers voluptuously down his back, all the way to the hard muscles of his buttocks. “I want you,” she whispered, her voice aching with the truth of it. “I am not complete without you.”

The hunger in her voice was matched by the rumbling groan that broke from his throat. He stretched her, and completed her. And then they were both lost in the storm, his head bent so that he could dust her with sweet kisses, catch her panting breaths, lick the line of her lips . . .

While he ravished her.

And she ravished him.

They spoke to each other without words, made promises without words, loved each other without words.







Chapter 18

Earlier that evening, shortly after supper

“Well, Taran, you found me a perfect woman, I’ll grant you that.” Robin lifted his glass in a mock salute before tossing back the contents.

He’d absented himself from yet another dinner. Absented? Fled, pure and simple. Not that anyone cared except Oakley, and that only because it reflected poorly on the family. She certainly wouldn’t object to the absence of a known libertine. He narrowed his eyes against the embers glowing in the library hearth. “Damn you to hell, Taran,” he muttered.

“Oh! That’s a very, very bad word, isn’t it?”

Robin swung around. Marilla Chisholm stood artfully arranged in the doorway, leaning against the jamb in such a way that her breasts jutted out like the prow of a ship. Three of her little fingers covered the “O” formed by her lips.

“My pardon, Miss Chisholm,” Robin said. “I did not realize I had company.”

“Oh!” Marilla repeated, shoving off the doorjamb and mincing toward him. “You mean . . . we are alone?”

She stopped within easy hand’s reach and tipped her head up, blinking rapidly. She put him in mind of a myopic spaniel, making up in eagerness what she lacked in discernment.

“Hardly alone,” Robin assured her. “Not only is the library door wide open but there’s all of Taran’s retainers lurking about, eavesdropping. Shouldn’t be surprised to find some old man huddled under the cushions over there.” He pointed at the library’s lumpy old sofa standing before the hearth, its back turned toward them.

Marilla gave the sofa a suspicious glance. “Your uncle is not in my good graces right now. He had the nerve to drag me from the dinner table and lecture me on nice behavior.”

Robin was frankly astonished because Taran was the last person to whom one would apply the definition of “nice behavior.”

“He was most unpleasant to me.”

“That’s because he is most unpleasant,” Robin said. “But what are you doing here, Miss Marilla? Looking for your sister?”

“Good heavens, no. She’s off somewhere in a snit,” Marilla said dismissively then smiled, sidling closer. “You aren’t offended by my concern for my reputation, are you? A lady is nothing without her reputation. Take Fiona—” She stopped suddenly, her hand once more flying to cover her mouth, feigning shock at her near indiscretion.

“Alas, tempting as that is, I must decline,” Robin said.

“Oh.” Marilla frowned, her hand falling away. “Oh! That was a very naughty thing to say, wasn’t it?”

“Again, my pardon.”

Marilla tapped his chest playfully, then let the tap become a caress, pleating his shirt’s placket between her fingers. “But then, you are a very, very naughty man, aren’t you?” Her fingers snuck beneath his buttons to find bare flesh beneath.

The poor thing was so obvious it was almost endearing. Almost. Clearly, Marilla must be doubting her ability to bring Byron to heel and was hedging her bets. He supposed he ought to be flattered she even considered him a possible matrimonial candidate.

“My dear Miss Chisholm,” he said, clasping her busy hand and pulling it away from his person, “ ‘naughty’ though I undoubtedly am, I am not so far gone to propriety that I would take advantage of you or in any manner whatsoever importune you.” He smiled to take the sting out of his next words. “Let alone compromise you.”

She had been in the process of working her free hand back beneath his shirt but now she froze, pouting. “You wouldn’t?”

Trying to maintain a grave countenance, he shook his head.

“Why not?” she burst out, her expression clouding with vexation.

“Because then I would be obliged to wed you.”

“Well, yes. Of course,” she said, rolling her eyes. “That’s how this sort of thing works. What of it?”

Good God, had she an ounce of intelligence the girl would be terrifying. “You don’t want to marry me.”

“Well, not initially,” she admitted. “You weren’t my first choice. You haven’t any money and you aren’t even a real count, being only a French comte—and I must say I think it most shoddy that you go about letting decent people labor under the assumption that you are a real count, but I shall let that pass.”

“I appreciate your forbearance.”

She sniffed. “I mean, really, how could you be my or anyone’s first choice, especially since there’s both a real duke and a real earl available?”

“But of course, I couldn’t be.”

A sly look came into her round blue eyes. “But then I realized how much I would like being chatelaine of my very own castle, especially one I could redecorate to my very own liking. So . . . I have the money; you have the castle. And we are in Scotland. All we are in want of is a pair of witnesses.”

He took it back. Even without intelligence, she was terrifying.

“What can I possibly say? You honor me unduly.” And in truth, she did. He really ought to consider what was being offered. She was a better match than any to which he had the right to aspire. But then, he remembered with heartfelt relief, he had no aspirations. “Am I to take it neither Bretton nor Byron have come up to scratch?”

She eyed him, clearly considering whether to lie, but apparently decided that either he would not be gulled or it wasn’t worth her effort. “Yes. I mean no. Not yet.”

By God, he should marry her if only because such indiscriminate ambition surely deserved to be rewarded. Except . . . except . . . Cecily. What a fool he was. What a ridiculous, pathetic creature. He burst out laughing.

She scowled. “Are you laughing at me?”

“No. I am laughing at myself. Though I am flattered by your kind interest, I am afraid I cannot make you the sort of offer you want.”

At this, she drew back, and for a moment, Robin was afraid he was about to be slapped. It had happened a few times before under similar circumstances—young virgins with a fancy to taste some forbidden fruit—so he recognized the signs: her beautiful face grew thunderous; her brows snapped together; her lower lip thrust out. But then, abruptly, the anger vanished and she shrugged. She edged closer, her hands once more dancing up his chest. “How do you know?” she purred. “I may be more open to suggestions than you expect.”

And with that, she lifted herself up on her tiptoes and planted a kiss full on his lips.

She took Robin so by surprise that for a moment he did not react. Part of him was appalled at her boldness, a greater part of him was amused at his being appalled by her boldness, but the greatest part of all felt only a sort of reluctant sympathy for her. And so, because at heart Robin had a kind nature, he carefully, with chastely closed lips, returned her kiss and then, before she could deepen it, set her gently aside. “And that, my dear, is that.”

“But . . . but why?”

“Because I have never fancied myself a consolation prize,” he said, still gentle.

“Oh . . . ballocks!” Marilla said, and with a huff of annoyance, turned and stomped angrily out of the library.

Casually, Robin retrieved the glass of port he’d set down when she’d entered. He refilled, saying as he did so, “You can get up off the floor now, Uncle.”