Enchanted in Regency Society

Chapter Five

Her kiss, so tender on his cheek, cut through Garrick’s lust. It hinted at affection. That she desired him was obvious. Her arousal was as strong as his, he could smell it, taste it on her skin, feel it in her physical responses. But there was unselfishness in her hesitant gentleness. The women he had known demanded satiation, as he had. It had always been about taking pleasure.

Ellie seemed to want to give. The intensity of tenderness she evoked in him threatened his defences, threatened his control. Pleasure. He had nothing else to give.

‘Ellie, sweetheart,’ he whispered. ‘Turn around.’

She twisted in his arms, maintaining the contact of her lips with his face. Her breasts, nipples hard with desire, brushed against his arm, his ribs. Piercing longing ripped at his resolve. He bent his head and ravaged her mouth, plunged his tongue into the warm heat. He could taste her sweetness and smell her clean fresh fragrance, the hint of vanilla. She leaned against him, winding her arms around his neck, her fingers tracing a path through his hair.

He picked her up and laid her on the bed and her half-closed eyes watched him shyly. Her peeping gaze as he stripped off his shirt was more erotic than any bold stare. He wanted her so much his body trembled deep inside, as if every bone, muscle and sinew needed her for survival. He stopped undressing to kiss her, claimed her mouth, while her hands wandered his back in a light exploration that drove him wild with a need to make her forget her other man. Hands shaking, he rose and pulled off his boots and pantaloons. Her eyes widened as she took in his naked body. She looked away quickly, blushing. So she would play the maid to the end. God, how it inflamed him.

Golden hair spilling in abandon on to her shoulders and breasts, a small silver cross on a blue ribbon at her neck. He bent over her, kissing her cheek as chastely as a boy and she smiled. His chest ached sweetly as she draped her arms across his shoulders, encouraging him closer, but he held himself away, intent on his own exploration. His hands slid across her ribs, then around her waist, measuring the span. So fine, so tiny. He traced her navel with a fingertip, shaped the curve of her belly with his palm, until his hand reached her most private place. He combed through the crisp fair curls. She shivered and his shaft pulsed in response.

Garrick eased his hand between her elegant thighs, nudging them apart. A faint murmur of protest escaped her lips. The way she played the innocent was so unbelievably erotic. A delightfully sensual act designed to trap him in her web. His need surged rampant and urgent.

He stroked the velvet softness of her inner thighs, caressed her cleft and found it slippery with her moisture. For him. It felt like a gift from the gods. A treasure beyond compare. Her eyes drifted open on a moan. He smiled down into her passion-filled face, seeking the tiny nub of flesh, desiring her pleasure above all else. He circled his thumb. Her expression softened and her eyes glazed over, then she arched her back and cried out deep and guttural in her throat.

No virtuous games now, just her body responding to his touch in mindless ecstasy.

Her hands stroked his chest, his arms, his back. His skin tingled and his blood flared wherever her hands caressed. Sweet heavens, he needed to be inside her. He lowered his head and kissed her, tasting, plundering her soft welcoming mouth, sucking at her lips, drawing her tongue into his mouth as he kneed her legs wider. Slowly, he dipped the tip of his finger inside her wet, hot passage and found her ready. Hot blood roared through his veins.

Cradled by her body, her inner thighs a soft support for his hips, he lowered his mouth to her wonderful breasts. Tightly furled, her nipple rubbed against his lips as he kissed and licked the soft, tender flesh. Then he suckled. She moaned. His groin tightened. He lifted her hips, reached down and guided his rigid shaft to her entrance.

She stilled beneath him, her eyes wide in wonder and the pretence of fear. It drove him to the edge of madness and beyond. He eased into her warm wet flesh, rejoicing in her heat tight around him. So damned small. Almost too small. Deliciously resistant. He thought he would die of pleasure. He moved slowly. He knew how to prolong his partner’s enjoyment, but now she struggled, deliberately exciting him beyond control, fuelling his masculine need for ascendancy.

He thrust his tongue into her mouth, gathered up her wrists and held them above her head, her breasts lifting. He kissed and sucked each nipple while she squirmed beneath him. So damned sexy. He thrust his hips forwards and she cried out in genuine pain.

He froze. ‘Bloody hell.’ He stared down at her. ‘Ellie?’ She shook her head, her face shocked. His arms and body shuddered with the effort of holding still.

‘Sweet Lord. Tell me this is not your first time.’ His body screamed a furious protest. His mind refused to grapple with the truth.

She nodded and swallowed, obviously scared to death. He groaned. What was done was done. He stayed still inside her, gasping for air, summoning control. If he left her now, hurting and afraid, she might never recover. He had to bring her more than pain, but she was rigid beneath him. No longer aroused, just afraid and tight and tense. She wasn’t pretending. He’d deflowered an innocent.

Hell and damnation. The realisation cut through him like terrible blades. He’d known. Deep down, he’d known. God damn it. The urge to strike out balled his fists.

He fought his rage, trembled with its force, beat it down until he could finally speak. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘Trust me. I will try not to hurt you more. Sweetheart, kiss me.’

Her lovely mouth trembled. Tears welled in her eyes. Damn, they were joined together and he needed to gain her trust. He released her hands and, holding his torso completely still on his forearms, he lowered his mouth to hers. He placed tiny little kisses on each lip, barely more than a whisper. He could feel her warm breath on his throat, little gasps of terror.

His fault. He traced a path from her lips to her chin, across her throat. He nuzzled her neck, feeling her silky hair against his face, inhaling its light floral perfume. He ran his tongue around the edge of her ear and then softly probed the orifice. She shivered. She moved under him, he felt her arms encircle him. Felt her relax.

Sweat traced a cold path down the centre of his back as every muscle strained to hold his pounding need in check. He withdrew slowly, just a little, then slid forwards.

She lifted her hips, encouraging him now, welcoming him into her depths. Her courage humbled him. She was as brave as a warrior, and she was his.

‘Ellie,’ he groaned. ‘Hold still, for God’s sake.’

He heard her laugh low in her throat. ‘I’m all right,’ she whispered. She brought her legs around his waist. Unable to hold back, he thrust into her deeply, fiercely, and felt her rise to meet his every stroke.

She dug her fingers into his back. He welcomed the sting of pain and remembered to breathe.

Her heat engulfed him, making him forget all thoughts of restraint. He thrust faster, his body taking command. The storm built and swirled and raged and erupted in tearing, streaking light. Her back arched and she moaned sweetly and shuddered as she reached for heaven and found it. The edge of his abyss loomed close, hot and dark and welcoming. He withdrew from her body, spent his seed in the tangle of sheets and joined her on her downward spiral.

Panting, they lay together in heated bliss. He pulled her tight against his side, cradling her in the crook of his arm, stroking her until he was sure she slept.

Nom d’un nom. A virgin. If he had known, he would never have taken her. He shook his head in disbelief. Castlefield had not bedded her. Perhaps he scorned a mere servant, no matter that she had shown such love. He couldn’t help the feeling of triumph, even as he regretted her loss.

She’d given him, of all men, a treasure beyond price. He wanted to curl his body around her, shelter her from the world. The emotion tugged at a painful chord in the region of his heart. An emotion he couldn’t afford.

He gazed down at her beautiful face, so young, so fragile in sleep. He brushed her silky hair away from her forehead and kissed each eyelid, with its sweep of fair lashes against fragile skin. Satisfied, he held her safe, then drifted off to sleep.

Shadows filled the room when Garrick opened his eyes. He stretched, feeling the wonderful pull of muscle from head to toe. None of the familiar feeling of panic of something urgent he needed to remember. Had he ever awoken feeling so utterly relaxed?

Ellie stirred. He rolled on his side, kissed her cheek, then her mouth, savoured the honeyed taste of his woman. ‘Awake already, chérie?’ he whispered. The wicked part of his body responded to the thought of her awake. Not a good idea, not when she’d be sore. And he was expected at the Court. He hung over the side of the bed and retrieved his watch, squinting at it in the fading light. Almost seven. ‘I must hurry, if I want to be in time for dinner.’

Beside him, her body tensed.

He turned to face her, propped up on an elbow. ‘What is it, sweet?’

Her gaze slid away. ‘Nothing.’

In his experience, when a woman said nothing in that cool tone of voice it meant trouble. In the past he’d simply walked away, afraid to risk the heat of his anger. He didn’t want to walk away from Ellie.

He tipped her chin with his hand and kissed her lips. They were as cold as ice and unresponsive. ‘I’m expected. Surely you understand?’

Her lashes hid her eyes. ‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Call me Garrick. Ellie, I can’t live here. What would your neighbours say? Besides, I have duties at Beauworth.’ He’d promised his uncle and he would not go back on his word ‘I will visit you every day.’ He smiled. ‘You won’t be lonely, I promise.’ He took her lips, kissed her long and hard, binding her to him, promising more. He felt the scorching heat spiralling around them, drawing them together, melting her against him.

For a moment, he surrendered to its power. More than anything, he wanted to stay, but he never went back on his word. He owed it to Beauworth and Le Clere to go home.

A week had passed. One of the most blissful Garrick had ever known. And he wanted Ellie to be happy, too. He’d thought of the perfect thing. So now with her at his side in the gig, he felt as nervous as a lad facing his first day at school. Ridiculous. And yet he hadn’t felt this excited in years. Even the unpredictable weather had cooperated with a sunny summer day.

They turned on to the track winding to the barn where he’d been held captive. ‘Where are we going?’ The nervousness in her voice indicated she’d guessed their destination.

He kept his voice gruff. ‘You’ll see.’

Her body stiffened as if she expected some sort of trick. Perhaps he shouldn’t tease, but he couldn’t resist. She’d love his surprise. They turned through the gate. He tried to hold back his smile as her mouth dropped open at the sight of the two horses tied to the rail outside the barn.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Mist.’ She grabbed his arm. ‘You remembered.’

‘That you stabled him at Brown’s farm? Yes.’ He brought the horse to a halt and she leapt down without waiting for help. Skirts ankle high, she ran to the little white gelding, reaching out to him, petting his neck, murmuring soft words into his ear.

A huge warmth filled his chest, marred by a twinge of something small and mean. Jealousy for the damned horse? ’Struth. He must be losing his mind if he envied a bloody gelding.

Forcing a smile, he jumped down and strode to join her at the fence. ‘Dan collected him this morning.’

‘I never imagined you would do something like this.’ Her laughter bubbled like champagne, even as her words cut through his joy and when she flung her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek, he forgave her careless dismissal and basked in her happiness. She could not have been more pleased than if he had brought her diamonds.

‘Oh, I wish I had known, I would have worn my riding habit.’

‘I can do better.’ Garrick didn’t try to hold back his smirk. He took her hand and led her into the barn. There, in a corner, was a suit of boy’s clothes very much like those she had worn when they had fenced, and beside the pile, her sword leaning up against the wall.

She hugged him with abandon. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Well, Miss Brown, first we ride, then we practise. I will teach you my sword trick, if you wish.’

Her face shone in the dim cool light. ‘I do wish. Leave me, so I can change.’

Imperious and charmingly modest. A strange delightful mixture for a creature of passion and adventure. Laughing, he tipped up her face with his knuckle. ‘Do you need my help?’

‘I’m used to doing for myself.’

Of course she was. Women of her ilk did not have maids to help them dress. Yet he would have liked to help her out of her clothes. Heat rushed to his groin. He could insist, of course. It was his right. But this was her day, and so he left and strode out into the sunshine where he paced in front of the barn, imagining her slipping out of her gown and into her other guise with increasingly lascivious thoughts.

When she emerged, her stride and the way she held herself reminded him what a great little actress she was, a woman who changed her persona with her clothes. Now, she was more boy than girl, swaggering in her form-hugging breeches with the sword belted at her waist and the cocked hat pulled down over her hair. The costume left nothing of her body to the imagination and the sight of luscious hips and thighs thickened his blood.

If he hadn’t known how much she was looking forward to going for a ride, he might have pulled her down on to the grass where they’d kissed days before and teased her right out of her breeches. Instead, breathing hard, concentrating on the control he’d learned as a boy, he held his desire in check, merely nodding when she glanced from the horse to him.

In a flash, she mounted, a boy-like leap into the saddle, and urged the little white gelding into a gallop. Ah, but he would not let her get too far. He swung up on to Bess. The mare needed no urging to catch the fleeing pair. And when he came up on her, they rode side by side across the field. Not the sedate trot of an afternoon in Hyde Park, but a wild canter.

‘A race,’ she called out.

He grinned and dug in his heels. Bess easily outstripped the smaller gelding.

He looked back to gloat. Damn her. She’d cut off at right angles. Headed straight for the field’s low stone wall. His heart rose in his throat. She’d break her neck if she fell at that speed. He wheeled Bess around and followed. He roared a warning. The gelding took the wall with a playful little kick of rear hooves, clearing the coping with inches to spare.

Even as his heart swelled in admiration, Garrick wanted to take his crop to her backside. He wanted to shake her. Make her promise never to risk her life in that fashion again. He had to catch her first.

Never had he seen a woman ride so hard, better than many men he knew. Admiration outstripped anger as he watched the perfect harmony between horse and rider. She rode like a madwoman, but she knew her horse and by the time they were heading back to the barn, he’d forgiven her madcap dash. He laughed out loud when she raised a brow in question from beneath her cocked hat.

As they walked the horses cool, a feeling of contentment washed through him. It was as if some great weight had gone from his shoulders, or some dark shadow had been erased from his soul. She made him feel…happy. A gift beyond price.

A happiness he didn’t deserve, but would enjoy as long as it lasted.

‘I’m starving,’ he said.

‘Me, too.’

‘Lucky I thought to bring lunch.’ He retrieved the hamper he’d left in the barn’s cool interior and spread out a red-and-green plaid blanket on the grass over-looking the pond. She laid out the feast, small meat pasties in a feather-light crust, bread, cheese and fine red wine. Neither said much while they ate. It was good to see a woman eat with such gusto, unlike the ladies of his acquaintance in London, who picked at food as if it might be poison.

Crickets chirped a merry tune in the grass. A dove on the barn roof cooed softly. Appetite sated, Garrick stretched out, leaning on one elbow so he could watch her face. She sighed and, resting against his thigh, sipped her wine. ‘Thank you for a most wonderful surprise,’ she murmured.

The pleasure in her voice filled his heart with unaccustomed warmth. It burned like frozen fingers brought back to life. ‘I’m glad it pleased you. Tell me, how on earth did you learn to ride and fight with a sword like a boy?’