That tension was wholly due to her-to Emily, and her appearance last night in his room. More, her performance, their activities, in his bed. He would have preferred it to be otherwise, but he couldn’t deny it-couldn’t pretend that he didn’t feel expectation rise as he neared his door.
That anticipation didn’t leap as he closed his hand about the knob.
Already half erect, his heart already thudding that telltale touch faster, he opened the door and went in. His gaze went directly to the bed.
It was empty.
In the dimness, his eyes scanned again, just to make sure, but he hadn’t missed any alluring body.
She hadn’t come.
Closing the door, he stood and stared at the bed.
One part of his brain had already skittered off into recriminations-last night he’d done something she didn’t like, or he’d failed to do something she’d expected. Or-
The more rational part of his mind shut out the tirade of unhelpful suggestions. The part of him that was the experienced commander recalled and coolly evaluated.
Why hadn’t she come? That was the question he needed to answer.
It took some moments before he thought back far enough to recall the particular deliberation with which she’d entered his room last night. And then to connect that with the assessing glances she’d thrown his way throughout the day, and especially that evening.
Last night, she hadn’t come to his room on a whim-she’d come with a plan. As part of a plan. And that plan was…?
He swore.
Lips setting, he walked to the window, looked out at the empty street, then shook his head and started to pace.
He shouldn’t do it-he shouldn’t give in. She knew he wanted to-intended to-marry her, and that was enough. If he went to her now, tonight…that would say a little more.
Reveal more.
All of it true, but his need of her was something he would far prefer to hide, especially from her.
While on the xebec, there’d been no question of his joining her at night, and here…it had seemed wiser to keep his distance. For him to keep their future, and her, at a distance, at least until they reached England, whereupon he would have all manner of accepted practices behind which to hide.
To conceal just how deeply his feelings for her ran.
He didn’t even know how those feelings had come to be-what they were due to, or when they’d afflicted him and sunk to his marrow-but they were there now, an obvious vulnerability, at least to him.
If he kept his distance, he could cling to the fiction that he was marrying her because they were generally compatible, and he’d weakened and seduced her, ergo marrying her was the necessary outcome, one with which he was comfortable.
He shouldn’t go to her room, shouldn’t reveal even that degree of need for her.
He could excuse not going on safety grounds-safer for them all if he wasn’t distracted by having her beside him, let alone beneath him.
Then again, one very definite, insistent part of him was quick to point out that her safety would be even better assured if she spent the nights in his arms, and he would be far less distracted by thoughts of whether she was safe or not; if she were lying beside him, he would instantly know.
Given they’d be staying at inns such as this from now on…
He grimaced as his excuse evaporated.
To go, or not to go?
He shouldn’t. He wouldn’t…
Perhaps if he waited, she’d grow impatient and come to him?
Half an hour ticked by, and she didn’t appear.
And he discovered her patience was greater than his.
With a muttered curse, he stalked to the door.
Her room was further away from the stairs and around a corner. He opened the door without knocking and went in, shut the door carefully, then walked to the bed.
She was lying there, wide awake, propped up on the pillows so she could more easily watch him approach. She’d tucked the covers up over her breasts, but her shoulders were promisingly bare.
As he halted by the bed, she met his eyes, her own wide, but nowhere near innocent. Even as he watched, her lips curved lightly in a smug, cat-who’d-managed-to-tip-over-the-cream smile.
He narrowed his eyes, pointed a finger at her nose. “I know what you’re up to, and I’m not playing your game.”
Emily felt distinctly wanton as she looked into his dark eyes. Brazen, she arched her brows. “You’re here, aren’t you?”
“My being here doesn’t mean what you think it does.”
“Oh?” She widened her eyes; beyond her control, her smile deepened. “What does it mean then?”
He studied her for an instant, then shrugged out of his coat. Growled, “We can talk about it later.”
Dropping the coat on a chair, he reached for his cravat.
Smiling even more smugly, feeling anticipation well and spread in a rich warm glow throughout her body, she sank deeper into the pillows and waited.
For her lover-her would-be husband-to join her.
He didn’t disappoint.
Some considerable time later, slumped, utterly wrung out and deeply sated in the depths of the bed, Emily finally managed to reassemble her wits, and discovered she was still smiling.
Her plan had worked.
More, she’d gained an unexpected additional benefit. He’d seen through her ploy and, either to repay her or to distract her from gloating over her success, he’d devoted himself to dazzling her with sheer, unmitigated pleasure.
She now knew that what had passed between them the previous night could, indeed, go much further. That she could be reduced to incoherent, mindless desperation, that she could gasp, cry out, convulse, and be utterly wracked by ecstasy called forth entirely by his wicked hands and even wickeder lips and tongue.
And what had come after that had curled her toes. She still couldn’t fully straighten them. Little tremors of delight still coursed through her, fading echoes of her second shattering climax.
She was lying on her stomach. Cracking open her lids, she studied him, slumped, as exhausted as she, beside her. He’d said they would talk later, but she suspected her sisters were right. Afterward, gentlemen didn’t talk-they fell asleep.
Not that she was complaining, not in this instance. Closing her eyes, she let satiation and an even deeper satisfaction wrap about her. Her plan had worked, he’d come to her bed-he hadn’t been able to stay away. Actions always spoke louder than words, especially with gentlemen.
His actions had spoken loudly enough for now.
Through the fringe of his lashes, Gareth watched her slide into slumber, and gave thanks. He’d been a fool to suggest they talk later-later meant now, and now…words of any sort about this and them were entirely too dangerous.
Entirely too unwise.
The possessiveness inside him lay quiet, serene, sated into oblivion; she’d given herself to him without reserve and that side of him had gorged. Lids closing, he felt satiation of a depth and weight he’d never before known drag him down. With an almost sinful sense of sinking, he surrendered. Later he would gather her into his arms, later he would settle her beside him.
Later, when she wouldn’t wake up and through the darkness look at him with eyes that saw too much.
In that last gasp of consciousness, his mind circled, free. She already knew more than he would wish, but he couldn’t turn back the clock. But as long as he didn’t admit to more, didn’t state what he felt for her aloud in words and make it real, he could cope.
He could cope with this. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps his sharing her bed every night would satisfy what he was starting to sense was her need. A need to know what he felt, to touch him and have him touch her, and so know…
It went something like that, he knew. So perhaps she was right, and his sharing her bed would satisfy her.
God knew, it satisfied him.
28th November, 1822
Early morning
Still abed, scribbling madly