Historical Romance – The Best Of The Year. Кэрол Мортимер
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chemise, letting him help.
She felt his hands stroke her arms, explore her neck and she could scarcely breathe for the joy of it.
A human touch. She had not realised that skin could crave such a thing. Air, velvet, linen, silk, sun—all had stroked her skin without her notice.
But when had any man ever touched her with tenderness, with passion?
Touched her at all?
Now, everywhere, his fingers, lips, as if kindling flame wherever he touched. She succumbed to the feeling, to being pleasured, and then, as he cupped her hip, stroked her thigh, she tensed.
No lower. He must not go lower...
‘Shh. I promise.’
And because she believed him, she let the want crash through her.
Soft surprise, to discover how alive she could feel. Skin, breath, something even deeper trembling, fighting to break free, escape, faster than a horse could gallop, mobile as a falcon in flight. Soaring. Never, never wanting to touch earth again.
Here, now, finally, she was not slow or awkward. She did not stumble or hobble. Nothing held back her kisses or her touches.
Even though she had never loved a man before, it felt easy and natural. As if she were not the Anne everyone saw, but the Anne she had always wanted to be.
Free.
* * *
This, Nicholas knew he would remember.
Don’t look at me, she had begged. Yet as the last light of dusk ebbed from the room, he filled his eyes with the sight of her face, lips parted, eyes half-closed, freed of pain and worry, feeling only the pleasure of his touch.
He explored her skin with gentle fingers and watched her stretch and sigh and offer herself for more. His lips took the tip of one breast and she moaned in delight. Trailing kisses, he discovered one, then the other, the same, yet different, until he was certain he would know one from the other, even in the dark.
Now came the curve of her hips. A kiss where a bone lay beneath skin impossibly fair and pale. Skin no man had ever seen.
Her belly next, and a kiss for the dip of her navel, the centre of a woman’s wantonness. Yet she did not writhe, as he expected. Instead, she laughed, truly and lightly, with only the rounded edges of joy. And at that, he laughed, as well, as glad to coax her joy as her passion.
The passion would come.
Her legs next, for him to explore, but as he went lower, she tensed, so he stopped, and let her pretend that she could move as freely as any other woman.
Here, she could.
Her thighs were firm beneath his palms, the muscles grown strong from days of gripping the horse. But between them, ah, between her thighs he would find the seat of her passion.
A kiss there, too. A kiss on her secret centre. No hesitation now. No resistance. She opened to him, her slick scent showing that she was ready.
But he was not. He wanted to savour this moment, to relish her release instead of his own. He wanted to see her face when she felt for the first time that shift in the earth that signalled she had crossed to the other side.
And so, instead of taking her, he led her. First, with his tongue and kisses, tasting her sweetness, loving the sound of her breathing, shorter, faster. Then, because he wanted to miss nothing, he moved his kisses higher until he could look at her face again.
Her eyes, still closed, fluttered open. Then, a smile.
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Now.’
And he did not take his eyes from hers as he slipped inside her.
* * *
Anne had thought she understood something of lovemaking. But as Nicholas filled her, she realised she had known nothing at all.
Man and woman did not fit together as two people who clasped hands, but remained in their own bodies. Instead, they merged into one being, no longer separate. He breathed in. She exhaled. His heart beat. So did hers. He pulsed within her and she answered, over and again, higher and faster and stronger.
And then, the strength exploded into shards of shining weakness and in that, too, she knew they were as one.
* * *
Nicholas awoke feeling as if his world was upside down.
Anne still slept beside him, but restless, he left the bed, pacing, realising quickly how small the room was.
Standing as far away as he could, he looked at her, curled atop the bed. Her pale reddish-blonde hair hung over the side of the mattress. Her foot was safely hidden beneath the covers, but the red woollen hose that had covered it had escaped and lay tangled in the linens.
And he thought of last night.
He had prided himself on many things during his life, but this, knowing that his lips, his fingers, had brought her such joy...
This made him feel finally, truly, a man.
He had taken women before, but he had taken them as he had ridden over the land, barely stopping to glance at it on the way. Were they fair or dark? Round or sharp? It did not matter. Each was only there to get him where he wanted to go.
But Anne...
It did not matter that the room was dark. He would know her anywhere now. Her scent. The curve of her hips, one different from the other, as each had a different job to do. He had traced her pale eyebrows now, memorised them with his fingers, learned the shape of her jaw by kissing it, imprinted her body on his own as if he were earth.
No woman had ever given herself to him so freely, without expecting anything in return. He had thought he would have to coax her. To tease her slowly, to lead her bit by bit. A touch on the hand, then on the neck. A soft kiss first. He had thought that passion would have to wait, as he drew her in.
Instead, the barest touch, the first meeting of lips and tongue, and all the hesitation was gone. She had yielded, pressing herself to him as if he were her returning lover, coming home from the war.
When in his life had he ever given himself so completely? When had he ever known a woman so completely?
If he never saw her again, he knew he would carry the memory until the day he died.
If...
There was no ‘if’. There was only the certainty that he must take her, as he promised, to a small, cold convent near the end of the world and leave her there, far away from the very world she hungered to experience.
He could not leave her.
Could not or would not?
To the Prince, of course, he had owed his duty. There was no duty here. There was only...
He refused to think the word. The woman was nothing to him. She would tie him down, even more than an ordinary woman.
And he was trapped by the argument, unable to do anything but watch her and wait for her to wake, not knowing what would happen when she did.
* * *
Anne knew she waked, but she squeezed her eyes tighter, not wanting to face the dawn. Oh, she had given herself last night and she had no regrets. It was better than riding a horse, or chasing a hawk. It was as if her own, poor body could fly.
Oh, it had been more awkward, she supposed, than it would have been for some women, as he honoured his promise and did not look at or touch her foot, but at the end, it was as if her spirit, at once in her body and mingling with his in the air, was no longer felt trapped.
That was the memory she had wanted. That was the memory she would cherish in the long, dark days to come.
The bed was empty, but she heard his breath, near the hearth.
Life. Life must be resumed.
Stretched