Stephanie Laurens - Beyond Seduction

Since when had he ever been driven by desire?

Being subject to desire, being ruled by it, was a weakness, one to which he’d never succumbed. Cool rationality had always been his watchword, even in-especially in-all sexual affairs. Yet never in his considerable experience had desire, sexual need-the beast within she seemed to directly connect with-wielded such excruciating spurs; never had he had to battle the impulse to simply let the reins fall and take. To ravish and devour.

The realization of how close he’d come to that, still stood in danger of that, shook him to the core.

She opened her eyes, and looked straight at him.

He eased his grip on her hands, then let them go, but as she lowered her arms, he couldn’t resist twining the fingers of one hand with one of hers, retaining possession that far.

Even in the poor light, he saw the frown that formed, marring the pure arch of her brows. She moistened her lips, and with remarkable imperiousness demanded, “Well?”

Holding her gaze, sensing the smoldering heat that still remained behind the word, sensing how strongly it drew him, he forced himself to raise his brows back. “Well what?”

If he didn’t cling to cool superiority, she would have him yet.

Madeline frowned harder. “Aren’t you going to…?” With her free hand she gestured weakly between them. She was operating on instinct, had been all along, yet while her experience in this field was all but nonexistent, she knew he’d retreated from-reneged on-the main event.

Given her determination to know, and know tonight, she was less than thrilled.

He shifted back, increasing the space between them. His brows remained high, his expression otherwise impassive. “I told you-not now, not here. If you want to know more, to experience more, then I have a price, one you need to be willing to pay.”

Detecting, clearly, the challenge in his tone, she narrowed her eyes. “I thought your stated aim was to seduce me.”

His lips curved tightly. “It is.”

“Well then, what’s wrong with here and now? Surely that qualifies, given I’m clearly willing?”

He studied her for a long moment, then shook his head. “No-not with you. With you, seduction equates to two hours and more of dedicated engagement in a venue conducive to the task.”

Her eyes couldn’t get any narrower. For one brief instant she considered throwing herself at him, literally, but he continued to hold one of her hands; through his grip she could sense his resistance, the tension, the determination to deny her any further engagement, and he was undeniably stronger and more experienced than she. Losing a wrestling match with him wouldn’t improve her temper.

She lifted her chin. “Where?” Her tone was as cool, as definite, as his. “And when?”

He didn’t smile; she saw not a single sign of gloating. “Tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock. I’ll wait for you where the ride along the cliffs meets the path down to Castle Cove.”

She thought, then nodded. “Very well.” Pushing away from the wall, relieved to discover her limbs once more hers to command, she retrieved her hand, then turned and walked to the corner.

He followed, keeping pace alongside.

As she rounded the corner, she haughtily confirmed, “Tomorrow on the cliffs above Castle Cove.”

She’d intended to have the last word.

Instead, as they strolled toward the clutch of guests outside the drawing room, he murmured, his voice low, deep, steeped in sinful promise, “I’ll be waiting.”

Battling the sensual shiver his tone let alone his words evoked, she accepted defeat, and kept her lips shut.

At two o’clock the next day, Gervase sat on a flat rock at the top of the path that led down to Castle Cove. He held Crusader’s reins loosely in one fist while the big gray cropped the short grass nearby.

He stared out at the sea, at the long waves rolling in to gently wash the sands, their roar today muted to a soft swoosh, and tried hard not to think-not of the anticipation that knotted his gut, nor of the unexpected fear that, once away from him and with time to think, she would have changed her mind.

The sound of hoofbeats, regular and repetitive, reached him; even as he turned to see who approached, he was reminding himself how many people rode the cliff path on any day.

But it was her. Her hair, uncovered, marked her unmistakably as female; the fact she was astride a large and powerful chestnut confirmed her identity.

Nearing, she slowed, reining in to a walk. He rose.

When she halted, he was waiting to grasp the bit and hold the chestnut steady as she slid down from the high back.

She came around the horse’s head. She was wearing a long full riding skirt over trousers, a matching jacket over a crisp linen blouse; it being high summer, jacket, skirt and trousers were of lightweight twill, dyed a regal blue. As usual, tendrils of her fine coppery-brown hair had worked loose to frame her face.

His eyes traced her features. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.” The confession was on his lips before he’d thought.

She raised her brows. “I asked for this…appointment.” She studied him in return. “Did you think I’d balk?”

“I thought you might think again.” Drawing Crusader around to flank her chestnut, he waved down the path, and started walking.

She gave a soft snort, and kept pace alongside. “Well, here I am. Where are we going?”

He didn’t meet her gaze but pointed ahead, down the steep path.

Madeline looked, and only then remembered the castle’s boathouse. It was almost as old as the castle itself, built of the same rough-hewn stone and set on a ledge, a natural rock platform that extended out from the cliff just above the high-tide line. Unlike most boathouses, this one had two stories. The ground floor had double doors like barn doors facing the sea, with heavy beams and tackle jutting out above to lift and swing boats out over the water, then lower them. The upper level sported a balcony built above the beams from which the tackle hung. There was no outer stair leading up, but unlike the windowless ground floor, the upper story possessed many wood-framed windows opening to the balcony and to either side. The back of the boathouse faced the cliff.

It wasn’t far; they stepped off the path onto the ledge, and tied the horses up in the sheltered space between the building and the cliff. As she turned from securing Artur’s reins, Gervase grasped her hand and led her to a door in the side wall. It was locked, but he had the key on his chain; setting the door swinging wide, he led her through, then closed the door.

The ground floor was dim and deeply shadowed; with all doors shut, the only light came from above via the stairwell. Madeline glanced around, noting four different-sized boats housed on blocks, with various pulleys and ropes dangling from above. Nearest to the sea doors sat two rowing boats.

Gervase saw her studying them. “When I took your brothers out, we used the sailboat-the one with the blue hull.”

She glanced at one of the bigger boats; it carried a mast, currently lowered, and sails.

Gervase tugged her hand and headed for the stairs. “Up here.” He glanced briefly at her, then started up. “This room’s always been a retreat of sorts. My father had it refurbished for my mother-it was hers, her place, for years.”

Ascending the stairs behind him, Madeline stepped up onto well-polished boards and looked around with no little surprise. The room wasn’t what she’d expected. The stairs came up in one rear corner; slipping her fingers free of Gervase’s, she walked slowly up the room, drawn to the wide windows facing the sea.

As if sensing her unvoiced question, he continued, “My mother was an artist-a watercolorist. She loved painting the sea.”

There were expensive jewel-toned rugs on the floor, and the furniture, while not ornate, was of excellent quality, all dark wood chosen to complement the setting. There were chairs, both comfortable armchairs and straightbacked chairs with thick cushions, and a sideboard against one wall with three books haphazardly stacked upon it as if someone had brought them to the retreat to read. In one corner by the seaward windows a folded wooden easel draped in a paint-spotted cloth stood propped against the wall. Yet all that was incidental. Dominating the room, its central focus, set in pride of place with its foot angled to the balcony windows, stood a wide daybed with a thick mattress and many cushions. On a side table stood a bowl of fruit and a stoppered decanter filled with honey-colored wine.

The place was clean and smelled fresh; not a speck of dust lay on the lovingly polished wooden surfaces.

Reaching the windows, Madeline looked out over the waves, then turned and surveyed the room. It was easy to see why an artist would have loved this place; the light was both strong and dramatic, varying with the many moods of the sea.

She let her gaze return to Gervase, let it travel up his length from his boots to his face; he’d paused by the side of the daybed. “Your father must have understood your mother well.”

“He adored her.” His eyes on hers, he continued, “I was fourteen when she died, so I remember them well, seeing them together, especially here…my father loved Sybil, too, but it wasn’t the same. My mother was his sun, moon and stars, and she loved him in the same way.”

She studied him. When he held out one hand and beckoned, she hesitated, then slowly walked back to join him. “It must be…reassuring to have such memories.”

He took her hand as she neared. “You can’t remember your mother?”

She shook her head. “She died when I was three. I’ve a vague recollection of her, but none of my father and her together.” As he drew her to him, she glanced around one last time. “So…” The breathlessness that had hovered, threatening to afflict her since she’d joined him on the cliffs, closed in. “Whose place is this now?”