A Lady of His Own (Bastion Club 3) - Page 105

David looked white as a sheet. Penny gripped his arm. “Come inside—you should all have something to warm you.”

They went in. She detoured via the kitchens to give orders that all the men in the search party should be served ale and cold meats, then swept into the house to supervise the same for their masters.

A dark and brooding atmosphere enveloped the house. Even though most hadn’t known Mary well, all had met her at one time or another, and this was the country—servants were people with families one knew. There was grief and confusion, shared by all; that sense of sharing, of adversity faced together, drew them closer, even Nicholas.

Hubert, having sent his men straight home, appeared alone to report no sighting. He was told the news; he insisted on going out to the cool store. He returned shortly, greatly cast down. The Essingtons took their leave. Charles, Nicholas, and Penny saw them off with thanks, then returned to the library.

Nicholas complied with Charles’s suggestion—more a direction—to write a note to Lord Culver informing him of their discovery.

Charles, meanwhile, openly wrote a brief report for London.

Ensconced in a chair, with no wish to spend time in her room by herself, Penny saw Nicholas glance at the sheet Charles was covering, but could read nothing beyond the deepening concern etched in his face.

Completed, both notes were dispatched by a rider.

Seeing no reason to abrade Nicholas’s sensibilities unnecessarily, Penny bade both him and Charles a good night in the front hall and climbed the stairs. She’d sent a message earlier excusing Ellie from waiting on her. Ellie and Mary had been friends; Ellie would be grieving.

As for herself…in her bedroom, she walked to the window, unlatched it, and pushed it wide. Looking out on the peaceful courtyard, she drew a deep breath and held it.

She thought of the man who’d come looking for her one night, thought of Mary, who that same man, it seemed, had now taken.

Why Mary? Why her?

Regardless, alongside her grief for Mary, she was immensely glad to be alive.

Charles came in. She sensed rather than heard him; he always moved so silently. He joined her before the window; his hands about her waist, he stood looking out over her shoulder, then he turned her to him.

She lifted her arms, draped them over his shoulders, and went into his arms. Felt them close around her, tight, felt the primal shudder that rippled through him as he pulled her against him. He bent his head, and their lips met, and nothing else mattered but that they were there, now, together and alive.

Together they’d been before, but never had it been quite like this. Never before had they both, he and she, simply dropped every shield, released every inhibition, and celebrated the simple primitive fact.

That they could be together like this. At this level, on this plane.

Their clothes littered the floor between the window and the bed; their hands roved, not so much urgently as openly, flagrantly, blatantly possessively—neither doubted the other would be theirs tonight.

The moon had yet to rise when he lifted her, when she wrapped her long legs about his hips and, head back, gasped as he impaled her.

Gasped again as he moved within her.

Then she raised her head, wrapped her arms about his neck, found his lips with hers, and they settled to the dance.

No desperation this time but a soul-deep communion, a wanting, a need they both shared.

Charles held her, thrust into her, following no script but that of deepest instinct. Tonight he didn’t need consciously to pander to her needs; tonight her needs and his were the same.

No rush, no hurry; inevitable tension, yes, but no mindless urgency.

So he felt every slick slide of his body into hers, savored the heat, the giving pressure, the incredible pleasure as she willingly took him in. Willingly enclasped him, held him, released him, only to welcome him in once more.

Pleasure and more engulfed them, wrapped them about, lifted them from the world. They traveled on beyond the earth, to the moon, the stars and the sun, and never once lost their connection.

They were together when they toppled from the last fiery peak, together when at last they collapsed on her bed. Together when they brushed hair from each other’s eyes so their gazes could meet and they could look, and know.

And wonder.

Neither said a word; they were both too afraid, and they knew that, too.

They took refuge in the physical, in that reflection of their togetherness, in the warmth between them. Lids falling, they exchanged sleepy kisses, drew up the covers, sank into the bed, and slept.

Tags: Stephanie Laurens Bastion Club Historical
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