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The promised excursion to Stonehenge had to wait an extra day. Unseasonably clement weather melted the snow, but turned the roads to impassable mud. Today the sun was shining, and it was dry enough to travel to the ancient monument. Jane and Hugh had spent a fascinating afternoon imagining ancient rites among the stones.

Now she and her puzzling, increasingly compelling husband headed back to Salisbury in their luxurious carriage. Hugh sat beside her and stared out the window. The way he held her hand and played with her fingers stirred her senses into a ferment.

Not that she needed encouragement.

Yesterday in Salisbury, she’d been surprised when he didn’t push her much past where he had the day before. Not as far. Thinking about their encounter in the cathedral two days ago made her pulses race. What a fine scandal they’d have sparked, if a deacon had stumbled across them in one another’s arms. She’d have died of mortification.

Except the fear of discovery had added a thrilling charge to what they did in that empty chapel.

Last night’s kiss had repeated the previous day’s chaste salute. Even so, when he’d asked if he could stay, it had been difficult to say no.

So why had she?

Perhaps because she was still afraid, if not nearly as afraid as she had been.

Perhaps because she was enjoying that he took the time to woo her. Nobody in her life had devoted this amount of attention to her. She discovered she rather liked it.

Over the last few days, Hugh looked at her like a starving man eyed a loaf of bread. Oh, what indecent feelings those hard, intent eyes stirred. After last night’s kiss, and today when he’d taken her arm to help her over a fallen stone or across a slippery patch of grass, she’d felt his tension. She’d quivered with wicked anticipation and wondered if he might break his promise to wait.

“What are you thinking about, Jane?” Hugh asked softly.

She emerged from her confused thoughts to find him studying her. That fierce brown stare pierced her like an arrow. An arrow aimed at all her tender, female places.

She wanted to say “you,” but her courage failed. Although what she said instead was probably worse. “Kisses.”

“Mine, I hope.”

She blushed, but couldn’t look away. “Who else’s?”

“Are you still frightened, Jane?”

Yes. No.

Yes.

“You’ve been very patient.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” His gaze seemed to drink in every detail of her face. It was a heady experience. One she feared she could come to crave, the way an opium eater craved his poison.

Yes, she was still afraid. But she hurtled toward a point where fear ceased to matter.

“I would.”

A silence fell, then he spoke in a considering tone that made every nerve in her body zing with anticipation. “You know, Salisbury is more than an hour away, and we have privacy all the way. This might be the ideal opportunity to further your education.”

Just like that, a throbbing heat set up between her legs. Dear Lord have mercy, and so far all he’d done was hold her hand, even if he did speak sin. “Is that what you’re doing?”

“In part. You shy away because a man’s touch is unfamiliar.”

“Becoming less so,” she said drily.

They’d been married four days, and she was still a virgin. She found that almost impossible to credit. Her havering must exasperate Hugh. Although right now he looked interested rather than annoyed. A patient man indeed.

“I’m pleased to hear it.” He settled into his corner and sent his long legs in their buff breeches sprawling diagonally across the well between the seats. She’d never been so conscious of another person’s physical presence.

“You…haven’t touched me all day.”

His gaze turned smoldering. “Yes, I have.”

Yes, he had. “You know what I mean.”

He didn’t smile. “Do you want me to touch you, Jane?”

Her cheeks heated. “Yes.”

The word emerged as a thread of sound, but the moment he heard it, he went on the alert, all languor abandoned. “I’m delighted. Because I want to touch you.”

He didn’t mean holding her hand, either. Excitement swelled in her core at the thought of those big hands on her breasts. Her nipples tightened, and her soft exhalation was audible even over the creaking coach.

“What shall I do?” she asked.

He released her hand and laid his arm along the back of the seat. “Take off your pelisse. I’ll keep you warm.”

Right now, the rush of blood in her veins was doing that more than adequately. Under his unwavering gaze and with hardly any embarrassing fumbling, she released the buttons on her winter coat.

“And now?”

He pulled the blinds down, plunging them into shadow. “Shift across and sit on my lap.”

Gingerly, balancing herself against the swaying carriage, she wriggled over and perched on his knee.

His thick dark lashes lowered as he inspected her gown. “Why, Jane, I do believe you’re wearing a dress that fastens up the front. Can it be you had dalliance in mind?”

She blushed again. “Given what happened in the cathedral, I didn’t want you to tear it.”

“Very…sensible of you.”

“You married me because I’m sensible,” she said, regretting the sourness that crept into her answer.

He didn’t seem to hear it. Instead his gaze remained fixed on the way her breasts molded against the front of her dress. The ache in her nipples intensified, and she shifted on the seat. The itch between her legs had become familiar. As had the needy weight in the pit of her stomach.

“You’ve proven to be so much more,” he said. “I’m a lucky fellow.”

Given he hadn’t yet had her, she couldn’t believe he really felt like that, but she’d learned enough in the last few days to let the comment pass. Right now, she didn’t want to distract him from putting his hands on her.

Which was why she’d worn this gown. As he’d guessed straightaway. There was nothing slow about Hugh Rutherford.

The carriage hit a rut and she bumped against his thighs. Those strong hands—hands that, in her restless dreams, did so many brazen things to her—closed on her waist. It would be easy to fall off his lap, but she knew Hugh would keep her safe. Somewhere since their wedding, she’d learned to trust her husband.

The shock of that revelation kept her silent, as his touch softened and the male part of him hardened. So close to him, she couldn’t miss his swift arousal.

“Now, how to manage this,” he said in a musing tone. “I think perhaps… That’s right. Turn your back to me and tuck your head into my shoulder.”

Battling the moving carriage and propping her hand against the firm width of his chest, she wriggled some more until her cheek pressed against his neck. She rested upon him, buttocks nestled against his rod in a most improper manner. Once that might have frightened her, but now it just heightened her need.

“That’s good,” he murmured. “Now straddle my knees.”

“Like I’m riding astride?” She remained overwhelmingly conscious of the hard flesh rising against her bottom.

“Yes.” His arms closed around her as she shifted. His groan vibrated in her ears.

“Am I hurting you?”

They were so closely entwined that she felt as much as heard his grunt of derisive amusement. “No more than usual.”

“Hugh…”

As the carriage dipped into another hollow, she automatically closed her legs around his and dug her fingers into his forearms. This pose permitted no modesty. Her skirts were generous enough—just—to accommodate her, but the constant lurching intensified the empty ache inside her. Through layers of petticoats, she felt the strength of his thighs against her sex. She might as well be naked.

He firmed his hold. “You know how to make it better.”

She did. But she wasn’t yet ready to change from bride to wife. This courtship made her feel powerful and desirable, and not like plain, practical Jane Norris at all. “Perhaps not in a carriage.”

“A man lives in hope.”

“One day his hope may even be fulfilled,” she said with an attempt at humor, but the words emerged in breathy fits and starts and sounded like a promise. Between her legs, she became embarrassingly damp. She squirmed to escape the tormenting friction of his thighs, but that only made it worse.

Or better.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered, although there was nobody but the two of them to hear.

“I’m not afraid,” she said, which wasn’t entirely true.

“I’m glad.” He pressed a kiss to the side of her neck, and the blazing response speared down to the liquid heat between her legs, making her gasp and curl her fingers into his arms.

“Hold onto the strap.”

She obeyed with alacrity, then waited in a lather of anticipation as he unfastened the buttons down the front of her dress. With every touch, his hands brushed her breasts, making her skin tighten in yearning.

When her bodice parted, he made a soft sound of appreciation. By now, her nipples were so hard, they hurt. She glanced down and saw how abandoned she looked, with her dress undone and the beaded pink peaks pressing against her linen shift.

“Pretty.” His hands drifted across the skin above the plain scoop of her shift. Her trembling intensified, as she waited in an agony of longing for him to touch her nipples. But for the moment, he seemed content to stroke her with apparent idleness.

She’d almost believe that, if she couldn’t feel him hard and insistent behind her, if the rattle of his breathing didn’t proclaim his burgeoning hunger.

By the time he pushed her shift down to uncover her, she was shaking like a daisy in the wind. When his hand closed around her left breast, she stifled a whimper. Dear heaven, she felt ready to burst into flame.

“You take my breath away,” he murmured and pressed his palm to her nipple. Instead of offering relief, his touch made her burn. He pinched and rolled the peak between his fingers. This time, she couldn’t control her whimper.

His other hand found her right breast. She bit her lip and turned her face into his neck. His tangy scent flooded her senses, became another part of the storm of sensations buffeting her from all directions. She pushed back so that his insistent weight pressed into her rump. He gave an incoherent growl and released her breasts to tangle his hands in the skirts cascading over his legs.

When he eased her skirts higher, she braced against him. He’d prepared her so well, luring her to the brink of desire and beyond. The prospect of his hands between her legs rolled through her like thunder.

Still he teased her. His hand traced a seemingly erratic path. Touching her knees. Venturing under the loose lawn of her drawers to caress her thighs. Returning to her knees.

When long, knowing fingers stroked the sensitive skin behind her knee, she trembled with delight. Who knew such a prosaic part of her body could provide such pleasure? She burned to touch him in return, but in the speeding carriage, she didn’t dare release her hold on the strap or lift the hand she spread against the seat for balance.

“Please.”

Her broken plea achieved the last thing she wanted. He stopped touching her.

“Please what, Jane?” he murmured into her hair, his hand resting at her waist.

“You know.” If he didn’t soon answer the throbbing demand inside her, she’d start screaming like a banshee.

“Tell me.” He hooked his hand across her hip, settling her more securely. But she reached a stage where Hugh’s touch through layers of dress and petticoats wasn’t enough. He spread his other hand beside hers. She merely needed to shift her fingers an inch to make contact. But shyness made her hesitate.

“You’re cruel,” she forced out, through a throat so constricted she feared she might strangle.

“I’ve had two days of hell since you banished me from your bed,” he grated out. She’d never heard Hugh sound like this, as though he might shatter. “Who’s the cruel one?”

“So this is revenge?” She hardly knew what she said.

“No, it’s torture. For me and for you.”

Licking dry lips, she pressed harder into his shoulder. She cursed the neck cloth and high collar that denied her the taste of his skin.

“You can’t stop now,” she gasped, as a jolt of the carriage rubbed his rod against her.

“No, by God, I can’t. But I want you to be brave enough to tell me what you want.”

“It’s not proper.” She cringed at the spineless response.

He gave a short, grim laugh. “No, it’s not. Proper isn’t the word to say, when your breasts are bobbing against my hands and your skirts are up around your waist.”

His frankness should make her blush, but she’d traveled way past embarrassment. Instead his words made her shake. “You really won’t relent?”

“I really won’t.”

“T-touch me,” she said, but her courage faltered and her voice emerged as a feeble sigh.

“I didn’t hear you.”

He had, the villain. With them jammed so close, she heard his every unsteady breath. He’d definitely hear anything she said to him.

She licked her lips and spoke more strongly. “I said touch me.”

“Where?”

“Must I say it?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a devil.”

“Right now, I feel like I’m roasting in hell.”

Jane tried to get the words out, but a boulder blocked her throat. She tightened her grip on the strap and clenched her thighs against his legs, as if firming her seat on a horse. Her hand lifted off the seat and caught his wrist. Actions might speak louder than words.

She lifted his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles.

“Jane…” he said in a shaken voice.

“Let me show you what I want.” She brought his hand between her legs, pushing up her skirts and letting him feel her soaked drawers. Finally she found the nerve to speak. “Touch me here.”

He cupped his hand over her mound. “You’re wet.”

After four days with Hugh, the welling surge was familiar, but it still made her self-conscious. To think, she’d imagined her embarrassment had passed. “I can’t help it,” she muttered.

“It means you want me.”

She released his hand to clutch at his strong male thigh. “You know I do.”

He squeezed her soft flesh, then stroked her. She made a choked sound, when his finger circled a place that set off a volley of pleasurable explosions.

“You’re so hot and ready,” he said with such satisfaction in his voice, she almost laughed.

“You sound pleased with yourself.”

“I am. I hope you’ll be pleased with me, too.”

He rubbed that hidden place, and she whimpered, all urge to laugh abandoning her. She thought she’d wanted him before, but now every muscle contracted in agony. Behind her, he was as taut as a bowstring. That seeking finger stopped tormenting her, just as she rose toward some unknown ending.

Before she could protest, she felt a subtle stretching as one long finger penetrated her.

“Hugh,” she gasped, instinctively flinching away. But with a large male body at her back, there was nowhere to go.

“You’ll like this,” he murmured, cupping one bare breast.

All these wild responses left her shaken and bewildered. “It’s wicked.”

“But good.” When he teased her nipple, she softened around his predatory finger.

He pulled out, only to use two fingers on her. This time, her body accepted him more readily, and when his thumb teased that sensitive place in time with the glide of his fingers, she sank into a sensual fog where nothing existed but Hugh and what he did to her.

That strange spiraling feeling stirred again, tension coiling tighter and tighter with every shift of his hand. Her breath emerged in jagged gasps, and the hand on his leg curled into talons, digging into taut muscle.

“Don’t fight it, Jane,” he murmured into her ear.

Even as she strained toward something she didn’t understand, her old terror of losing herself to passion flickered to life. But the clamor for relief drowned that small voice of caution. She shivered and squirmed against Hugh’s chest. Still the mysterious outcome hovered out of reach.

Tears pricked her eyes, and shallow inhalations left her lungs short of air.

Then abruptly, the unbearable tension snapped on a flash of light, flinging her free into a shuddering, clenching, brilliant release. This was like flying high in the sky over a new world. She cried out and soared toward the sun.