“No.” He shook his head and looked away, a muscle tightening in his jaw. “I thought only of money and lands and my title. I didn’t consider what was truly important until it was almost too late.”
She felt her throat tighten. She climbed into the bed to sit beside him and trailed her fingers down his chest. “And what is that?”
He turned and seized her hand, making her start.
“You.” He kissed the tips of her fingers, watching her with black eyes so serious they nearly frightened her. “You. Only you. I realized it on the ride to Hasselthorpe’s estate—realized it and knew I was too late. God, Beatrice. I rode for hours thinking that you would be dead before I got there.”
“I thought you might not come,” she admitted.
He closed his eyes as if in agony. “You must’ve been terrified. You must hate me.”
“No.” She drew their joined hands toward her mouth and kissed his knuckles. “I could never hate you. I love you.”
He grabbed her and rolled her under himself in a sudden movement. His position was dominating and aggressive. She should’ve been wary, but she had no fear of him at all.
Reynaud leaned close to her, nearly nose to nose. “Don’t say it unless you mean it. There’ll be no going back—no holding back—once you’re truly mine. I do not have it in me to let go once I have what I desire in my grasp. Tread softly.”
She framed his face with her palms. “I won’t tread softly. I want to go running and leaping. I’ll shout it from the rooftops. I love you. I’ve loved you since you came crashing into my tea party. Before that, really—ever since I was a young girl and saw that roguish portrait of you in the blue sitting room. I love you, Reynaud. I love—”
He covered her mouth with his, swallowing her words. She slid her hands up, reveling in the smooth feel of his hair beneath her hands. He was alive. She was alive. Joy flashed through her, and she widened her legs beneath him in invitation.
Fortunately, he seemed to have the same idea.
He tore his mouth from hers, gasping as he fumbled between their bodies. “You are mine. Forever, Beatrice.”
He levered himself up and pulled at the skirts of her chemise. Something ripped and then she felt his hot penis against her folds. He thrust into her, once, twice, and was fully seated, but he froze then.
His head dropped and he shuddered. “Beatrice.”
She stretched slowly, sensuously.
“God, don’t,” he muttered. “Beatrice . . .”
She wrapped one leg over his calves and the other high over his hips. “Hmm?”
She clenched internally.
His flesh leaped within her. “Christ.”
“Do that again,” she murmured, tilting her hips against his. He was heavy on her—she couldn’t displace him—but she could sort of undulate, which she did.
“You’re going to kill me,” he whispered, lowering his forehead to hers.
“Really?” She slid her hands inside his banyan, kneading his bare back.
“Yes,” he groaned. “And I’ll die a happy man.”
“Then let us die together,” she whispered against his lips.
She kissed him then, a tender caress, light and sweet, her lips slightly parted, trying to show him how much she loved him, for she truly had no words to tell him.
And perhaps he understood. He gasped a little, moving his hands to frame her face, raising his own to watch her as he began to move above her. He withdrew and pushed into her, only a little, the movement tiny and controlled, the effect devastating to her senses. She watched him, this man she loved, this man who’d offered his life for hers, as he made love to her. His face was hard and grim, the bird tattoos exotic and foreboding, but his mouth was gentle, and his eyes held an emotion that made her arch up into him.
“Beatrice,” he whispered, and began to move faster.
She gripped him, her muscles tightening, her breathing quickening, watching him, waiting. He hitched himself a little higher on her, grinding down, hitting her just there. And she broke. Suddenly, without warning. Gasping and shaking and crying, pressing herself up urgently into him, staring into those ruthless black eyes. Heat crashed through her, seemingly without end.
“Beatrice,” he cried. “God! Beatrice!”
And he convulsed above her, shuddering as he flooded her with his seed. Shaking, his black eyes wide and desperate, his mouth twisted as if in agony. He slowly closed his eyes and let his head drop as his great chest heaved for breath.
She stroked his back in little tired circles, her body replete, her mind at rest.
He bent his head and kissed her, his mouth opened wide, his tongue claiming possession. She arched again, helplessly, her nerves still raw.
He lifted his head and looked at her. “I love you, Beatrice. Now and forever. I love you.”
She smiled. “And I love you. Now and forever.” It was like a new beginning. A new pact.
So she pulled his head down to seal it with a kiss.
“THEN HE’S BEEN condemned,” Samuel Hartley said sotto voce nearly a month later.
“Condemned and scheduled to be hanged afore the new year,” Reynaud replied equally quietly. The gentlemen stood in a group to one side of his blue sitting room, but the ladies weren’t too far away, and they had damnably sharp hearing. The topic wasn’t appropriate for the day.
“Serves him right,” Reginald St. Aubyn said, not at all quietly. He saw Vale’s raised eyebrow and flushed. “Told you I never would’ve backed the man had I known he’d murdered his brother, let alone was a traitor to the Crown. Good God.”
“None of us knew,” Munroe growled. “’Tisn’t your fault, man.”
“Ah.” Reginald cleared his throat, looking surprised. “Well, thank you.”
Hartley leaned forward to say something else, and Reynaud bit back a smile. In the last month, he’d gotten used to having “Uncle Reggie” about the place, and while he wouldn’t call the other man his bosom bow yet, they were getting along rather well. It’d helped that Reggie had quite the knack for managing money, making it grow by leaps and bounds. But then he would’ve borne with Reggie even if he’d been the most curmudgeonly old man possible. He’d raised Beatrice and she loved him. That was all that mattered in the end.
He glanced to where the ladies were gathered in a knot by one of the settees. Beatrice stood by the others, smiling at something Lady Munroe had said. She wore a pale rose frock tonight, and her hair glowed golden in the candlelight. The Blanchard sapphires sparkled at her neck, but even they were dull next to the bright beauty of her face. Had they been alone, he would’ve strode over and picked her up, carrying her to his bed so that he might demonstrate again how deep his devotion was. He had a feeling that the urgency of the need to convince her of his love would never pass. He inhaled deeply. But they had guests now, and he wouldn’t have Beatrice to himself for several hours yet.