She whirled around in some alarm, but it was only Rannulf who stood there, frowning at her.
“I cannot sleep,” she told him apologetically. He had gone to the expense of taking a room so that she could have a good night’s rest, and she was not even lying down on the bed.
He shut the door firmly behind him and came across the small room toward her.
“You are overtired,” he said, “and overanxious. All will be well, you know. I promise you.”
“How can you do that?” she asked him.
“Because I have decided that all will be well,” he said, grinning at her. “And I always get my way.”
“Always?” She smiled despite herself.
“Always. Come here.”
He took her by the shoulders and drew her against him.
She turned her head to rest her cheek on his shoulder and sighed aloud. She wrapped her arms about his waist and abandoned herself to the exquisite pleasure of feeling his hands rubbing hard up and down her back, his fingers digging into tense muscles and coaxing them into relaxation.
All will be well . . .
Because I have decided . . . ... I always get my way .
She came half awake when she realized she was being carried over to the bed and deposited on it.
“Mmra.” She looked sleepily up at him.
He was grinning again. “Under other circumstances,” he said, “I might be mortally offended at a woman’s falling asleep as soon as I put my arms about her.” He leaned over her to pick up the other pillow.
“Don’t sleep on the floor,” she said. “Please don’t.”
She was half aware a minute or two later of an extra weight depressing the other half of the mattress and of a cozy heat against her back. Blankets came up about her shoulders, making her aware that yes, indeed, she had been chilly. The arm that had lifted them settled reassuringly about her waist and drew her back against the body that had provided the heat. Then she slid down into a deliciously deep and dreamless sleep.
Rannulf came awake when dawn was graying the room. In her sleep she had just turned over to face him, rubbing herself against his length as she did so. Her hair, he could see, was in wild disarray all about her face and shoulders.
Good Lord, who was putting him to this excruciatingly painful test? Did whoever it was not know he was human? It was too early to get up and prepare to ride on. She must have had a good five or six hours of sleep, by his calculation, but she needed more.
He could feel her breasts against his bare chest, her thighs against his. She was warm and relaxed. But he no longer had the luxury of seeing her as Claire Campbell, actress and woman of experience in sexual matters. She was Judith Law. She also happened to be his love.
He tried determinedly to list her defects. Carrots. Her hair was carroty, by her mother’s description. She had freckles. If there were only a little more light coming into the room, he would be able to see them.
And a dimple beside her mouth on the right side ... no, big mistake. A dimple was not a defect. What else? God help him, there was nothing else.
And then her eyes came open, sleepy and long-lashed. No defect there either.
“I thought I was dreaming,” she said in the throaty voice Claire Campbell had used.
“No.”
They stared at each other in the morning twilight, she with sleepy eyes, he feeling like a drowning man who is trying to convince himself that he is immersed in a mere teacup of water. He desperately wished there was a little more space between them. She was going to become physically aware of his perfidy any moment despite the presence of his breeches, which he had kept on for decency’s sake.
And then she lifted one warm hand and feathered her fingers over his lips.
“You are an amazingly kind man,” she said. “You promised me last night that all would be well, and you meant it, did you not?”
He had also promised that she was safe from him. He was not at all sure he was going to be able to keep either promise.
“I meant it,” he said.
She moved her hand and replaced it with her lips.
“Thank you,” she said. “A night’s sleep has made all the difference. I feel very safe now.”
“If you only knew your peril,” he said, “you would start running down the road in your nightgown.”
And then she smiled at him—showing her dimple. “I did not mean that sort of safety,” she said and touched her lips to his again.
“Judith,” he said, “I am not made of stone.”
“Neither am I,” she said. “You cannot know how much I have needed to be held and .. . well, held.”
He was not sure even now that this was not an ungallant thing to do, that he was not merely taking advantage of her vulnerability. But he was not some sort of fleshless, bloodless superhero. God help him, he was a man.
He closed his arms more tightly about her and opened his mouth over hers, pressing his tongue deep into the heat within. She made a sound of appreciation deep in her throat, one of her arms came about him, and he was finally lost.
He turned her onto her back, tore at the buttons of his breeches, released himself without stopping to remove the garment, and pushed up her nightgown to the waist.
“Judith,” he whispered to her as he came down on top of her, “are you sure you want this? Stop me if you do not. Stop me.”
“Rannulf,” she whispered back. “Oh, Rannulf.”
It was not an occasion for foreplay. She was obviously as ready as he was. He slid his hands beneath her, half lifted her from the mattress, and pressed deep into her.
It felt curiously like a homecoming. He slid his hands free, lifted himself on his forearms, and looked down at her. She gazed back, her lips parted, her eyes heavy with sleep and desire, her hair spread all about her on the pillow and sheet.
“I tried very hard not to let this happen,” he told her.
“I know.” She smiled again. “I’ll never blame you. Not for anything.”
He took her hands then, raised them and crossed them above her head, laced his fingers with hers, and lowered all his weight onto her. Her legs, he realized, were twined about his. He worked in her with deep, rhythmic strokes, reveling in her soft, wet heat encasing him, thankful for her initial relaxation, even more thankful for the way she took up his rhythm after a while, pulsing about him with inner muscles, drawing him toward what would be a powerful and powerfully satisfying climax.
He moved his head and kissed her.
“Come with me,” he said.
“Yes.”
It was the only time it had happened in his life, he realized, he and his woman cresting the tide of passion together, crying out together, descending into satiety and peace together. He felt blessed beyond words.
He lifted himself off her, took her hand in his, and drifted off to sleep for a few minutes. When he opened his eyes again, it was to find that her head was turned toward him. She was looking at him with a half-smile. She looked flushed, contented, and utterly beautiful.
“Well, that settles something,” he said, squeezing her hand. “After this business is all over and settled, we are getting married.”
“No,” she said. “That was not entrapment, Rannulf.”
His eyebrows snapped together in a frown.
“What was it exactly?” he asked.
“I am not sure,” she said. “There has been some ... madness between us in the last few days. I cannot presume to know why you wished to call on me yesterday morning, but I can guess. It would have been a dreadful mistake. I might have said yes, you see.”
What the devil?
“Saying yes would have been a mistake?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Look at us, Rannulf. We are so far apart on the social scale that even in the best of circumstances a match between us would be considerably frowned upon. But these are not the best of circumstances. Even if Branwell did not steal all that jewelry and even if he and I can be cleared of all blame, he is still in disgrace, and we are still poor. I grew up in a country rectory, you in a duke’s mansion. I could never fit into your world, and you could never stoop to mine.”