The Heiress Effect
Page 70
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His arm was around her. But no matter his intentions and his emotions—and God, what a morass those were—he couldn’t call his clasp loving. It was more like a desperate attempt to keep her from sliding off the seat.
“I can’t speak for your embrace,” she replied. “But I don’t think my body is melting into yours. I feel more like a ship being tossed against the rocks.”
Oliver smiled again. “Friction is the very devil,” he replied. “Also, women who want loving embraces ought not to wear an arsenal of beads. Then there’s that thing that’s poking into my thigh.”
“Hmm?”
“Hard to think of romance with something that uncomfortable so close to my delicate parts,” Oliver said. “In fact, I have to exert some substantial effort just to make sure that my voice doesn’t go up an octave. That sharp pokey thing in your skirts is threatening to unman me.”
“What do you mean?” She reached behind her and groped his thigh—an action he wished he was in a better position to appreciate. “Oh. That’s just five hundred pounds in a roll. Stop whining, Oliver; it’s better than having it stuffed down a corset.” She sighed. “The stories never mention that saddles built for one rather than two make your backside go numb. Also” —she turned in the saddle, just enough that he had to hold her more tightly to keep from slipping—“did you know that your thighs are extremely hard? And I thought the squabs of the carriage were uncomfortable.”
“You’d like it even less if I had pillowy thighs,” Oliver replied.
She leaned back against him. “Mmm. Pillowy thighs. Those would be lovely right now. Thighs that I could shut my eyes and sink into. Your thighs are like oak logs. Very unrestful.”
“Yes, but here’s the problem. If I had pillowy thighs, I would have reached down to swing you atop my fiery gelding, and when I tried to heft you in the air, I would have dropped you. ‘Damn it!’ I’d proclaim. ‘I just threw out my back!’”
She laughed softly.
“All the stories are wrong,” he told her.
He meant it just how he said it—they were filled with falsehoods and euphemisms. But he also meant it how he didn’t say it: that they were wrong to be here.
“Impossible girl.” But his lips were so close to her neck that even that whispered label felt like an endearment, rather than a reminder.
There was a long pause. And then…
“Thank you. I didn’t say that before, did I? I was too flabbergasted that you arrived, and then everything seemed to get away from me. Including myself. I’m afraid I’ve been horribly rude, and for once I didn’t intend it.”
She’d turned to him again—or at least, had turned her head toward him as best as she could manage on a moving horse. Despite the discomfort of it all, he was enjoying holding her. She felt lovely in his arms, a bundle of complex scents. Lavender and rose and a clean, citrus smell that reminded him of home.
She sighed. “And here I am, talking again. I don’t know what it is about you. How is it that every time you’re near, I can’t seem to keep quiet?”
His arms were already around her. He could have set his chin on her shoulder if he’d leaned down a few inches. All the stories were wrong, but one thing seemed absolutely right.
“It’s because you’re thinking about this,” he said, and kissed her.
There was no good way to kiss a woman who was sharing his saddle. His neck crooked awkwardly, and he had to hold tight to keep her from slipping off. But it didn’t matter. All those months disappeared—those long, dark months without her there, when he could have been doing this. Holding her. Kissing her. Exploring her mouth, inch by luscious inch.
The horse, sensing Oliver’s inattention, slowed to an amble. Even that damned sharp thing in her skirts stopped being so noticeable. There was nothing but her and the night around them. Crickets chirped somewhere; a bird that hadn’t yet noticed that night had fallen called out. His hands were full of her. If he let go, she might slip bonelessly off the horse.
If he stopped kissing her, he might have to think about the future. He didn’t want to contemplate a world away from this road, away from her kiss. So he didn’t stop. He simply held her close and tasted her.
“Oh,” she said, when he finally raised his head, subtly stretching out the kink in his neck.
But she didn’t ask any questions. Instead, she leaned back against him. Her hair was beginning to fall out of its heavy coiffure. If this were a story, little curls would be coming undone, little tendrils of hair escaping down her back. Instead, the mass of her hair leaned to one side, canting like a half-uprooted tree. Occasionally, she’d reach up and do her best to adjust it back to straight, but inevitably, it would start falling once more. When he wasn’t careful, her hairpins jabbed him.
“I suppose,” she finally said, “that makes up for your horrible, hard thighs.”
He smiled. “I would say that you’ve made up for your money, but that would be a lie. You’ve a long way to go.”
She met his eyes over her shoulder. “How long a way?”
“Miles,” he told her. “Miles and miles of kisses, taken at an amble like this. Maybe once we’ve made it to the Stag and Hounds, I’ll be ready to stop.”
Maybe they’d never make it there. Maybe the rest of the world could be held at bay, and they might spend forever uninterrupted in this darkness with nothing to do but kiss. Maybe that was all this story would be—a nightlong kiss, one where dawn never came.
“Then we must get started immediately.” She tilted her head to his once more.
This time, the horse came to a complete stop. He held her in place with one firm hand at her waist, and let the other skitter down her shoulder, stroking her lightly, playing with the lace at her neckline, the fabric under it. Her skin underneath was warm and soft. When he skimmed the tops of her br**sts, she let out a little gasp.
God, he hadn’t wanted to know that she was that responsive. He hadn’t wanted to know it, but now that he did, he couldn’t stop himself from exploring. He wanted to hear her breathing arrest as he explored the soft curve of her breast. Holding her this close, he could feel that almost-inaudible moan she made. It was a vibration deep in her rib cage, one he sensed in the palms of his hands. He slid his fingers farther under her neckline, under her corset, until he found the place where her skin changed from the softness of her breast to the hard nub of her nipple.
“I can’t speak for your embrace,” she replied. “But I don’t think my body is melting into yours. I feel more like a ship being tossed against the rocks.”
Oliver smiled again. “Friction is the very devil,” he replied. “Also, women who want loving embraces ought not to wear an arsenal of beads. Then there’s that thing that’s poking into my thigh.”
“Hmm?”
“Hard to think of romance with something that uncomfortable so close to my delicate parts,” Oliver said. “In fact, I have to exert some substantial effort just to make sure that my voice doesn’t go up an octave. That sharp pokey thing in your skirts is threatening to unman me.”
“What do you mean?” She reached behind her and groped his thigh—an action he wished he was in a better position to appreciate. “Oh. That’s just five hundred pounds in a roll. Stop whining, Oliver; it’s better than having it stuffed down a corset.” She sighed. “The stories never mention that saddles built for one rather than two make your backside go numb. Also” —she turned in the saddle, just enough that he had to hold her more tightly to keep from slipping—“did you know that your thighs are extremely hard? And I thought the squabs of the carriage were uncomfortable.”
“You’d like it even less if I had pillowy thighs,” Oliver replied.
She leaned back against him. “Mmm. Pillowy thighs. Those would be lovely right now. Thighs that I could shut my eyes and sink into. Your thighs are like oak logs. Very unrestful.”
“Yes, but here’s the problem. If I had pillowy thighs, I would have reached down to swing you atop my fiery gelding, and when I tried to heft you in the air, I would have dropped you. ‘Damn it!’ I’d proclaim. ‘I just threw out my back!’”
She laughed softly.
“All the stories are wrong,” he told her.
He meant it just how he said it—they were filled with falsehoods and euphemisms. But he also meant it how he didn’t say it: that they were wrong to be here.
“Impossible girl.” But his lips were so close to her neck that even that whispered label felt like an endearment, rather than a reminder.
There was a long pause. And then…
“Thank you. I didn’t say that before, did I? I was too flabbergasted that you arrived, and then everything seemed to get away from me. Including myself. I’m afraid I’ve been horribly rude, and for once I didn’t intend it.”
She’d turned to him again—or at least, had turned her head toward him as best as she could manage on a moving horse. Despite the discomfort of it all, he was enjoying holding her. She felt lovely in his arms, a bundle of complex scents. Lavender and rose and a clean, citrus smell that reminded him of home.
She sighed. “And here I am, talking again. I don’t know what it is about you. How is it that every time you’re near, I can’t seem to keep quiet?”
His arms were already around her. He could have set his chin on her shoulder if he’d leaned down a few inches. All the stories were wrong, but one thing seemed absolutely right.
“It’s because you’re thinking about this,” he said, and kissed her.
There was no good way to kiss a woman who was sharing his saddle. His neck crooked awkwardly, and he had to hold tight to keep her from slipping off. But it didn’t matter. All those months disappeared—those long, dark months without her there, when he could have been doing this. Holding her. Kissing her. Exploring her mouth, inch by luscious inch.
The horse, sensing Oliver’s inattention, slowed to an amble. Even that damned sharp thing in her skirts stopped being so noticeable. There was nothing but her and the night around them. Crickets chirped somewhere; a bird that hadn’t yet noticed that night had fallen called out. His hands were full of her. If he let go, she might slip bonelessly off the horse.
If he stopped kissing her, he might have to think about the future. He didn’t want to contemplate a world away from this road, away from her kiss. So he didn’t stop. He simply held her close and tasted her.
“Oh,” she said, when he finally raised his head, subtly stretching out the kink in his neck.
But she didn’t ask any questions. Instead, she leaned back against him. Her hair was beginning to fall out of its heavy coiffure. If this were a story, little curls would be coming undone, little tendrils of hair escaping down her back. Instead, the mass of her hair leaned to one side, canting like a half-uprooted tree. Occasionally, she’d reach up and do her best to adjust it back to straight, but inevitably, it would start falling once more. When he wasn’t careful, her hairpins jabbed him.
“I suppose,” she finally said, “that makes up for your horrible, hard thighs.”
He smiled. “I would say that you’ve made up for your money, but that would be a lie. You’ve a long way to go.”
She met his eyes over her shoulder. “How long a way?”
“Miles,” he told her. “Miles and miles of kisses, taken at an amble like this. Maybe once we’ve made it to the Stag and Hounds, I’ll be ready to stop.”
Maybe they’d never make it there. Maybe the rest of the world could be held at bay, and they might spend forever uninterrupted in this darkness with nothing to do but kiss. Maybe that was all this story would be—a nightlong kiss, one where dawn never came.
“Then we must get started immediately.” She tilted her head to his once more.
This time, the horse came to a complete stop. He held her in place with one firm hand at her waist, and let the other skitter down her shoulder, stroking her lightly, playing with the lace at her neckline, the fabric under it. Her skin underneath was warm and soft. When he skimmed the tops of her br**sts, she let out a little gasp.
God, he hadn’t wanted to know that she was that responsive. He hadn’t wanted to know it, but now that he did, he couldn’t stop himself from exploring. He wanted to hear her breathing arrest as he explored the soft curve of her breast. Holding her this close, he could feel that almost-inaudible moan she made. It was a vibration deep in her rib cage, one he sensed in the palms of his hands. He slid his fingers farther under her neckline, under her corset, until he found the place where her skin changed from the softness of her breast to the hard nub of her nipple.
