A Lady Never Surrenders (24 page)

“I refuse to ruin you,” he said, half as a caution to himself.

“You already have.” With a coy glance, she untied his cravat and dragged it from around his neck. “When we return tomorrow everyone will know we spent the night together, and it won’t matter if we did anything wicked or not. So why not indulge ourselves?”

The irrefutable logic of her argument didn’t escape him. Nor did the fact that he was already flexing his hands convulsively on her waist to keep from sliding them up to cup the tender, delicate mounds of her pretty little breasts…

“I will not be another Ned, taking advantage of your innocence.”

“You’re nothing like him,” she protested in a low voice. “You’re honorable and strong and the only man I’ve ever wanted to show me how to be a woman.” She caught his head in her hands. “And if you don’t kiss me right this minute, Jackson Pinter, I swear I’ll strip my clothing off one piece at a time until—”

He took her mouth savagely, his mind already filling with the image of her naked beneath him, just where he’d always wanted her. In his bed. In his life. How could he resist her? She was everything he’d ever desired, and his ability to fight it grew weaker with every caress of her soft hands, her soft lips.

“Jackson,” she whispered against his mouth. “Show me how to be a woman.
Your
woman.”

“My wife?” he murmured. “Because if we do this tonight…”

She drew back to stare at him. “Is that what you want? To have me as your wife?”

He gazed into the eyes that were haunted by insecurity and realized what she was asking. Did he want to secure as his wife the rich Lady Celia, whose lofty connections could further his ambitions?

Or did he want to make love to the brave woman who’d learned to shoot so she would never have to be afraid again, who’d kept her cousin’s actions secret to protect her family from further scandal, and who now gazed up at him as if he were indeed the Lancelot to her Guinevere?

Tomorrow they would need a serious discussion about marriage and what it would mean, but for now, he didn’t care about her grandmother’s threats and his fears about their future. Not when he knew that Ned’s cruel words still rang in her ears.

Tonight she needed to hear something else entirely.

“What I want,” he said softly, “is you. Just
you.
”

T
ears stung Celia’s eyes. He understood. He wanted
her
. Not her fortune or her connections, but her.

Then he made that clear by taking her mouth so ravenously she could hardly catch her breath. He cupped her breasts through her gown, and she exulted. He would be hers now. Her husband.
Forever
.

“In one respect, I understand why Ned behaved as he did,” he murmured against her throat.

That took her by surprise. “What do you mean?”

“It must have driven him utterly mad to come close to having you, only to be denied.” He thumbed her breasts, slowly, silkily, in a way so utterly unlike Ned’s that it seemed a travesty to compare the two men. “Not that it excuses a damned thing he did—if I ever get the chance, I’ll thrash him within an inch of his life. But if
I’d
ever come that near to Paradise…”

“Paradise?” With a heady laugh, she unbuttoned his waistcoat. “You’re quite the poet for a Bow Street Runner.”

“My uncle used to say that any man who can’t appreciate poetry has no soul. I thought he was mad. Until now.” Scouring her with his eyes, he reached around to the back of her to unfasten her gown, and his voice grew thick and husky. “‘She walks in beauty, like the night / Of cloudless climes and starry skies’—it’s the only lines of verse I remember. And they fit you perfectly.”

A trill of excitement rang in her every vein. “Byron? You’re quoting Lord
Byron
?” She shoved his waistcoat off. “That’s not only poetry, but wicked poetry.”

He urged her to stand, then stood, too, and turned her around so he could finish undoing her gown. “Not so high in the instep now, am I?”

No, indeed. “I wish I’d known you were thinking of me scandalously all this time.” As her gown fell to the floor, she shivered, partly from the chill in the ramshackle cottage and partly from the thrill of knowing that Jackson was about to take her innocence. “I would have borne your lectures more easily.”

With expert hands, he unfastened her corset. “And perhaps you would have been nicer to me.”

“Perhaps.” As her corset followed her gown to the floor, she faced him with a mischievous smile. “Or perhaps I would have tormented you differently.”

“Oh?” he managed, though his eyes were devouring her in a way that made her every nerve sing. He left her with no doubt of his appreciation for her body.

His reaction differed so markedly from Ned’s that she felt free to be coy, to tease. She untied her other petticoat and dropped it, backing away to step out of it. “For example, I might have worn smocks less often and low-cut gowns more.”

His breathing grew labored as he stalked toward her, unbuttoning his shirt as he came. “That would have indeed been a torment.”

“Because it would have made you want me?”

“I already wanted you, smocks and all. But it would have drawn other men to you like bees to nectar, and I would have had to restrain the urge to murder them for looking at you as I am now.”

“Why, Mr. Pinter, were you jealous?” she teased, glad to have her suspicions confirmed.

His eyes met hers, suddenly solemn. “Why do you think I chose today to go to High Wycombe? Because I couldn’t bear to watch you flirt with your suitors for one day more.”

Oh, my. Who’d have guessed that Jackson could say such delicious things?

Then he dragged his shirt off. Merciful God in heaven, who’d have guessed that Jackson could
look
so delicious beneath his clothes? Though she’d had a hint of it when he’d worn evening attire, she hadn’t expected
this
.

His nicely chiseled chest narrowed to a lean waist that showed no sign of running to fat. Dark hair swirled about his nipples, then trailed down to ring his navel before disappearing beneath his trousers. He had the body of a fencer rather than a wrestler, but his arms were muscled enough to explain how he’d managed to yank her onto the back of his horse so effortlessly this afternoon.

Then he unbuttoned his trousers and shucked them to reveal formfitting worsted drawers that showed every line of his well-wrought thighs and calves, not to mention the distinct bulge—

Oh, dear, she was staring. With a blush, she jerked her gaze away.

“Your turn, sweeting,” he murmured. “Will you take off your shift? Or shall I?”

She reached for the ties, then felt a moment’s hesitation as Ned’s voice crept into her head:
Scrawny bitch with no tits—you don’t have an ounce of anything female in you.

As if Jackson knew exactly what halted her, he stepped forward to tip her chin up with his thumb, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I’d give anything to wipe Ned’s words from your memory, but since I can’t, I can at least add truths to counter the lies he spoke. Do you know what I see when I look at you, my lady?”

Sometimes when he called her “my lady,” it felt like his way of putting distance between them. But right now the words held a reverence that stopped the breath in her throat.

“I see a woman of incredible elegance and strength.” Keeping his gaze locked with hers, he dragged her chemise off her shoulders. “I see a fairy queen who could destroy a man with a word or enchant him with a smile.”

He burrowed his fingers through her hair, tugging it free of its pins so that it tumbled down about her shoulders. With eyes that gleamed hotly in the firelight, he lifted one tress to kiss, then rub over his cheek.

“I see a lass with hair like rich chocolate, eyes that blend green and brown in a fathomless forest of color, and a face and form so lovely it humbles me to think of touching her, much less making love to her.”

He tugged her chemise the rest of the way down her body, his gaze following it in a slow appraisal that blazed so hot and hungry that any lingering fear or embarrassment vanished in its wake.

His voice turned hoarse. “As for your breasts…” He bent his head to suck first one, then the other, his warm mouth playing over them so marvelously that she gasped. Then he drew back to murmur, “Ned was either blind or daft or both. Or more likely, a bald liar. Because no man in his right mind would ever think these anything but beautiful.”

Tears welled in her eyes as he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed. How could she have thought him cold and passionless? He hid his feelings very well, but in times of great intensity, they shone bare upon his face. She was becoming more adept at reading them.

Right now she could easily read the desire in his eyes as he laid her on the bed and reached for the buttons of his drawers. Then he hesitated. “Are you sure about this?”

She rose up on her elbow to unbutton his drawers for him. “I’m very sure.”

And clearly he was
quite
sure, for the minute she opened his drawers, his arousal burst out to surprise her with its thick, impressive rigidity.

Shortly after marrying, Minerva had explained exactly what happened in the bedchamber between a man and a woman, warning that a man’s appendage could be rather daunting, and much different than those Celia had seen on horses and cows and hunting dogs.

Yes, it was different, but not really daunting. More like, oddly beautiful. Not to mention, fascinating in how it swayed a little as if buffeted by the wind.

“Ready for the rest?” he drawled, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“There’s more?” When he shucked his drawers to reveal the ballocks hanging down, she said, “Oh. Of course. But I didn’t expect them to be so hairy.”

With a chuckle, he slid onto the bed beside her. “No more hairy than you are in the same place.” And he put his hand right on her private part between her legs.

“Ohhhh,” she said as she realized that their parts both mirrored and complemented each other’s.

Then he began to rub her as she’d rubbed herself in bed, only much better, and everything went blank. “Jackson … heavens …
Jackson
… Is this one of those wicked things … you wanted to do with me?”

“Why?” His hand paused. “Does it bother you that I thought of touching you like this?”

“Certainly not. I thought of doing wicked things with
you
, too, you know. I imagined what it would be like to have you kissing me.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Caressing me exactly like this, between the legs…”

Desire flamed in his face as he resumed his stroking. “Did you?” He rubbed her harder. “Like this?”

She arched up against his hand. “Oh, yes. Definitely … like that.”

The devilish fellow smiled. “Where else did you imagine me touching you?”

“Oh, all over,” she breathed.

“Perhaps here.” He bent his head to suck her nipple, teasing it with his tongue until she gasped and threaded her fingers through his hair to hold him against her.

“Certainly there,” she agreed as he lavished his attentions over first one breast, then the other.

Then he slid one finger inside her. “Or perhaps here,” he murmured in his sinfully rough voice.

“My word!” she squeaked. “I never imagined
that
.”

“
I
did,” he said. “Plenty of times.”

He dove deeply with his finger as his thumb moved in astonishing ways against a part of her that was aching and eager for his touch. Her breath shuddered out of her, her body rising up to meet his wicked,
wicked
hand.

“Lord help me, I had …
no
… idea.” She squirmed, wanting more of that delicious feeling and feeling guilty that he was caressing her while she did nothing to please
him
. “When you thought of … wicked things … we could do, were there any … I could do to you?”

“Hell and blazes, yes.” He shot her a heated glance, then took her hand and curled it around his aroused part. “Stroke me, sweeting.” As she did so, his breath grew thick, heavy.

After only a few moments, he groaned, “Oh, God, stop … stop! Perhaps you’d better restrict your touching to … other parts of me.”

“Didn’t I do it right?” she whispered.

He uttered a harsh laugh. “Too well, I’m afraid. Some men need their pump primed, but mine has been primed for you so long…” He brushed a kiss over her breast. “Best not touch me there anymore, although you have free rein anywhere else.”

After that, there were no words. He explored her; she explored him—his strong shoulders, his fine chest, the jaw she loved to kiss. She delighted in the feel of his flesh beneath her fingers, sinew and muscle dancing as he reacted to her touch. She adored that he couldn’t hide how her caresses affected him. He was usually so controlled and hard to read. But she could read him here, in bed, and it made her heart soar.

So did the way he was caressing her, with firm, expert strokes, finding all the parts of her that yearned for him. She closed her eyes so she could relish every sensation, and soon she was breathing harder and harder, shimmying so wildly beneath his hand that she scarcely noticed he’d shifted to kneel between her legs until his hands drew her knees up and something bigger than a finger began easing up inside her.

Her eyes shot open. But just as she was feeling awkward and wondering if she looked as awkward as she felt, he murmured, “You’re the most beautiful creature I ever beheld.”

Instantly she relaxed. How did he always know the right thing to say? She ran her hands over his thick shoulders. “You’re quite … attractive yourself, sir,” she said, to take her mind off the thick flesh pressing up inside her.

“Don’t mock me,” he bit out.

“I’m not!” Was it possible
he
wasn’t as sure of himself as he always seemed? “You must know you’re handsome. I always thought so.”

When gratification showed on his face, she was glad she’d said it.