“Thomas!”
Spencer was so caught up in the heat of Roselyn’s gaze that he was barely aware of Thomas, let alone who called the boy’s name.
But he recognized John Heywood’s voice immediately, although the anger in it was unfamiliar. John strode into the barn, staring at Spencer and his brother with an uneasiness he could barely conceal.
“He’s teaching me to fight,” Thomas said excitedly.
“That is kind of him,” John said in a clipped, tight voice. “But right now, Father needs you out in the orchard.”
Spencer watched Thomas leave, then turned to eye John. This hardly seemed like the same man who had courted Roselyn so gently—but that was when John thought he had no rival.
With a sudden stab of pain, Spencer realized that he really wasn’t John’s rival, that Roselyn deserved so much more.
John folded his arms across his chest. “My brother doesn’t need your help, Thornton. He’s learned well enough here with us.”
Spencer reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head. “Every man could use a more refined technique, Heywood. He saw me practicing and asked me to work with him.”
“And why are you bothering to practice? You can’t even stand unaided.”
Spencer lowered his broken leg to the dirt floor, and leaned on his cane. “In case you have not noticed, there’s a war going on. I need to be able to defend myself, especially like this.”
He had meant no insult, but John took it as such, and drew himself up with anger. “Are you implying that I did not do my part against the Spanish?”
“No,” Spencer said calmly, but clearly the young man felt some degree of guilt.
“I trained with the soldiers at the garrison, and I was ready to join them should we be invaded.”
“Good of you.”
John took a step forward. “Are you mocking me, my lord?”
Spencer rubbed his hand across his face—this wasn’t going at all as he wanted. “I mean nothing of the kind. I’m glad you were here to protect Wakesfield—and Roselyn.”
John eyed him warily. “I don’t understand.”
“She obviously needs protection. She can do wild, foolhardy things without thinking.”
“Roselyn?” John said in bewilderment.
Spencer realized that John didn’t really know her at all, because she had so thoroughly succeeded in changing herself into this perfect, proper widow.
“You don’t think that running from our wedding was a bit impulsive?” Spencer asked dryly.
“I think it was intelligent.”
Spencer gave him a grudging smile, wondering what Roselyn was thinking about all this. He knew she was still here.
“Perhaps. But it caused her much grief, as well. I would hate for her to put herself through something like that again.”
“I won’t allow that to happen,” John said. “Unless you plan to interfere, my lord.”
Spencer wanted to be sarcastic, but the words wouldn’t come. He felt suddenly old and tired, and knew time was running out for him. “No, I won’t interfere. She deserves to be happy.”
But hadn’t he been interfering these past weeks? His plan to arouse and then reject her seemed childish, the scheme of a man who thought only of himself. Now when he looked at Roselyn, he wanted comfort, solace, but he had no way to ask—and no right to.
When John bid him good-night and left the barn, Spencer barely heard him. He suddenly felt alone, dreading returning to London in three days. For a moment he thought of abandoning his plans, of escaping into the wilds of the Scottish highlands where no one would ever find him.
He heard a sob, and as he turned Roselyn darted past him, wiping tears from her face.
“Rose?” he called, his voice soft and urgent, but she ran out into the darkening night. He followed her as fast as he could, stumbling over rocks and into holes he could no longer see. He knew where she was going, the only place she had to call hers—the place he’d threatened to take from her, like a selfish monster.
Roselyn didn’t know why she couldn’t stop crying. As the heavy skies finally opened and rain came pouring down, it mingled with her tears. Still she ran, knowing that Spencer was leaving, that he wouldn’t stand in the way of her marriage to John.
Wasn’t that what she wanted? So why did her chest feel as if it were torn in two and she couldn’t breathe?
She heard Spencer behind her, the rain muffling his voice. She reached the cottage and fumbled frantically with the latch, but before she could get the door open, he was near, calling her in a voice so tender it made her weep all over again.
She gave up trying to open the door and ran to the back of the cottage. Her solace, her courtyard garden, was sodden, still steaming from the day’s heat, the graying dusk making everything look as bleak as her soul felt.
“Rose.”
She whirled about, stumbling back against the stone wall, staring at Spencer. His hair was plastered to his head and brushed his shoulders in dripping strands. His wet shirt clung to him.
But it was his dark eyes that held her trapped. She couldn’t—wouldn’t run. There was a plaintive appeal in those eyes that she’d never seen before. It cut her deep to see him vulnerable, to see him needing—what?
“Go away!” she whispered raggedly.
“Why did you run?” He stepped toward her, his hand reaching for her.
“I don’t know!” Her voice broke and she whirled away, covering her face with her hands.
And then he enveloped her from behind, his arms crossing to hold her tight, his chest pressed so closely to her back that she didn’t know where she ended and he began.
He whispered, “Rose,” against her ear, and just the vibration of his voice deep in his chest shot a sudden need through her.
With a cry, she tilted her head back, and then his mouth was against her throat. The heavy rain on her face was the final blow that unleashed the wildness she’d tried to deny in herself. She wanted this—needed this.
She arched back against him, desperate for his heat and strength. His hands grasped her waist, then slid slowly up over her ribs, pausing, hesitating, until she wanted to press her breasts into his hands.
She held still with aching need as his palms slid over her breasts and cupped her tight. Her gasp was a demand that he continue, and he caressed up and over her breasts repeatedly, until the sheer pleasure of it created a full ache between her thighs. Never had she felt this need to be with a man, to take anything he could give her, to give all she had of herself.
Then he found her nipples through the garments, and he plucked at them until they pressed hard into his hands. It was as if he played a lute, and each strum of his fingers made her entire body vibrate. She could only drop her head back on his shoulder with a moan. His tongue licked along her ear and cheek, then she turned her head to meet his mouth with her own. They took sustenance from each other, tongues meeting and straining and stroking, and all the while his hands molded and shaped her breasts.
But it wasn’t enough—she wanted to feel his wet skin, the heat and power of him. She pushed back against him, rubbing into him with her hips, and his ragged groan took her by surprise. She caught her breath when his hands dropped to her waist and pressed their hips together.
“Rose—” he said into her ear. His tongue followed.
“Don’t speak! Just make me feel…Stop this need that I can’t control.”
He lifted his hands to her hair. She didn’t understand at first, then she felt the plucking of the pins buried tightly in her hair, and she stilled. Each tug of his hands sent an answering quiver through her. When the heavy mass of her wet hair fell about her shoulders, she heard Spencer groan, felt him bury his face against it.
It made her knees weaken, and she sagged against him. “Spencer—”
From behind her, he whispered, “I want to see your skin bare and wet again.”
“I—I don’t understand—”
“That night when we kissed—I stood at the window and watched you bathe under the stars.”
Roselyn imagined him watching her, and she felt a rush of desire so heady it made her dizzy.
The laces suddenly loosened at her neck, and her black gown gave way at her chest, which rose and fell rapidly.
“Before your bath, you removed your dress first, and I thought your smock seemed to glow as if you were a sea nymph sent to torture me.”
“I torture you?” Her own voice was breathy, trembling.
“God, yes,” he said, and with a tug her gown fell to her waist.
Her smock was so wet she could see her nipples through it. She felt Spencer lean over her shoulder, and his gaze took in her near-nakedness while he pressed soft kisses against her shoulder and neck.
The knowledge that her body could hold power over him overwhelmed yet strengthened her.
“Spencer—”
Her gown fell in a heap at her feet, leaving her clothed in only the soaking wet smock. The rain continued to fall around them, cooling the heat of the day, but inflaming the heat building inside her.
“Please,” she moaned, “let me face you—”
“Not yet.” His whisper trailed across her back as his hands skimmed down to her waist. The tugging began again, and she watched, holding her breath, as the smock moved down her shoulders, clung wetly to her breasts, then dropped into the grass.
Cool rain suddenly beat against her back as he stepped away.
“Face me now,” he said, and though his voice was as harsh as a command, she knew he begged her.
And that was all it took. Roselyn turned to see his tense, passionate face, illuminated by the weak light spilling from her cottage window. His hot eyes seared her as they explored her body, lingering on her breasts. She clenched her hands against the rock wall, the only thing that held her up.
Spencer’s gaze dropped lower, and she knew he gazed at where her thighs joined, the part of her that felt so hot and throbbing and needy. Never had she wanted this joining of a man’s body to hers, craved it more than her own breath.
“Yes,” he whispered. “This is what you looked like that night—all wet and glistening and too beautiful for poets to imagine.”
Her throat tightened, tears stung her eyes—but it must be only the rain dripping down her face. She remained still as he limped toward her, tugging at the laces of his shirt.
“I have seen you wearing nothing,” she whispered, as he pulled the shirt over his head and dropped it to the ground. “But it was not the same as this.”
“This what?” His voice caught.
“This—this—this wonderful torment. What is wrong with me? Why do I feel so—so—”
“Achy?” he asked hoarsely.
Her mouth dropped open when his hands went to the fastenings of his breeches.
“Does everything inside you feel hot and heavy?” He slid the snug breeches over his hips and down his thighs. The splint fell away with his garments.
“Yes…” She watched with wide eyes as his erection spilled free and hung heavy before her.
He came closer, and her gaze rose to his face. She gave a little gasp as their lower bodies brushed, then pressed. Spencer slid his arm around her waist, holding her close.
Roselyn felt as if she were falling backward, and she clung to his shoulders.
He kissed her hair, her brow, her lips, arching her farther and farther over his arm. His lips taunted her throat, trailed across her wet skin, then closed over her nipple.
The world spun wildly as she cried out and clung to him. His hot mouth on her rain-cooled breast sent stabs of pleasure shooting throughout her body, until she was mindless and moaning beneath him. When she thought she could take no more without bursting into a thousand pieces, he moved to her other breast and started all over again.
The urge to rub herself against him, hip to hip, overpowered her. She had never felt such a sensation before, and was almost frightened of it. With a groan she pressed against him, his hard arousal nudging between her legs. She spread her thighs, guided by a primitive need she’d never experienced before.
He half groaned, half laughed against her breasts. “Not like this. I’ll fall on top of you.”
“I want you on top of me.”
He lifted his head to stare into her eyes as his smile died. He turned her and she felt the world rush away as she fell back, caught in his hands, crushing daisies beneath her. Their scent wafted around them as he followed her down, pressing his body the length of hers.
With a moan she brought her knees up and settled him where she wanted him, hot between her thighs, rubbing against the womanly places that throbbed for him. She could have drowned in the dark seas of his eyes, so much did she yearn to be a part of him.
He brought his mouth down on hers, and as his tongue thrust into her mouth, so did he bury his shaft deep inside her.
She stiffened, waiting for the pain, yet knowing she would bear anything to be close to him—but there was no pain at all. Just a wonderful feeling of fullness, of completion.
Spencer felt her muscles tighten all around him, and knew a dawning dread. “Did I hurt you?” he rasped.
The relief was overwhelming when she shook her head. “It feels…perfect.”
Perfect—that’s what Roselyn was. He held himself painfully still inside her body, waiting for her to adjust as he looked on her flushed face, wet with the rain. He spread kisses across her face, her neck, then rounded his back so he could lave her breasts with his tongue.
He pulled out and thrust again deep inside her, wanting to touch all of her. He felt a need so deep for her that it frightened him, and his pace sped up until they rocked together in the darkness. She made panting, incoherent sounds against his chest and neck, and the first touch of her tongue sent him over the edge and into an abyss that had eluded him for so long. Though he tried to stop himself, his long celibacy worked against his control. With a groan, he shuddered and poured himself into her as her arms held him tight.
When at last he lifted himself up on his elbows, it was to find her staring at him a little wide-eyed.
“You didn’t enjoy that,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose.
“Oh yes, it was wonderful.”
Roselyn, a widow, was yet an innocent to all she could feel. He knew more about what her body experienced than she did.
“No, you didn’t enjoy that,” he repeated, lifting up and then burying himself inside her again.
She gasped and wiggled.
He grinned. “But you soon will.”