She turned to look at him, at the angle of his cheek and jaw, the strength in his shoulders and arms that had held her. Her lungs felt astoundingly tight. She had tried and succeeded at many remarkable endeavors of late. It was strange how in this most natural endeavor—simple breathing—she now failed.

Chapter 20

Wyn listened to the soft, stuttered breathing of the maiden who had given him her body with generous passion, and a purely foreign sensation paralyzed him. For a minute he remained still, then another, and another, allowing the chill of the chamber to stave off sleep so that he could think, reason, understand. He opened his eyes, stared at the canopy above, seeing the details in the wood with the aid of moonlight.

He could see the imperfections in the wood grain, the knothole in the third board, a dark whorl of a blemish that brought character to the plain adornment. He could focus on those details. He thought of focusing on them. His mind was clear. Perfectly clear. And yet he was content.

Considerably more than content. His body was satisfied as it had not been in memory. No thirst lingered close to the surface, no craving simmered in his veins, no anger that the craving could not be assuaged. He craved nothing. It had been so long since he’d felt anything stronger than the sensation of desperate need, peace was foreign to him.

“To be honest,” the sweet beauty beside him murmured, “Teresa’s stories did not entirely prepare me for that.”

He turned his head, beginning to smile, but only stared. She had shifted onto her side, her knees tucked up, rounding the curve of her hip. Her hands were folded beneath her cheek, and soft chestnut curls tumbled about. Thick lashes shaded rich, sleepy eyes.

He still craved. Dear God, did he crave.

“Miss Finch-Freeworth seems a knowledgeable lady.”

“Not as knowledgeable as I’d thought.” She spoke as though falling asleep, but her berry lips twitched. Then her eyes shot open fully. “I only mentioned Teresa’s surname that first day, before I realized belatedly that I was not a friend for bandying it about in such a fashion. How is it that you remember it?”

He reached for a blanket and drew it over her, allowing himself to caress again her silken skin. It had been so long since he had allowed himself to touch a woman in this manner. For too long he had not believed he deserved such simple, honest pleasure.

“I’ve told you, minx.” He stroked the back of his fingers across her cheek, soft as dew and mobile as rain. “I have an uncanny memory.”

“Wyn,” she whispered, tilting her face into his touch. “Will you tell me now about rescuing girls?”

“It is not my tale to tell. It belongs to those whom I serve.”

She looked up at him. “Are you a spy?”

“No.”

She pushed up to sit, the coverlet spilling onto her lap and leaving bare her generous breasts, the tips lushly pink and soft now. “But if you were a spy you would not be permitted to tell anyone. You would simply go about doing secret deeds that if anyone else did them would be considered nefarious.” Her eyes twinkled and he tried to concentrate on them, but the cold of the bedchamber was turning the soft tips of her breasts into peaks he wanted in his mouth.

“More stories from Miss Finch-Freeworth?” he managed.

She dimpled and lifted a playful brow. “Her brothers.”

“Ah. There are brothers with whom you spent your sojourn at Brennon Manor?” The dimples held his gaze above her neck, but they only spiked his craving. He would explore each with his tongue, then elsewhere. Everywhere. He would know all of her. “Have I reason to be jealous?”

“Of Teresa’s horrid bro—” Her lips snapped shut. “Would you be?”

He snared her around the waist and looked down into her sparkling eyes. “Yes.” She deserved more than scandal and a widow’s veil. For five years he’d had one goal: the duke must die. At present he could not remember why.

He pressed his face into the curve of her shoulder and breathed in her scent. It intoxicated him, thoroughly fresh air and her. But it more than intoxicated. It made him whole. She made him whole.

“You are mine, minx,” he whispered against her skin. “Mine, for good or ill.”

Diantha had no experience in such things, but she suspected this was only lovers’ talk. Trembling upon her own tongue now, after all, were words she had absolutely no intention of saying because she believed them only insofar as the pleasure he had just brought her body was indescribably wonderful. And the “for good or ill” part seemed remarkably begrudging, despite being murmured seductively at her throat. So she said what she knew to be true.

“I liked what we just did.”

“Did you?” His mouth against her neck smiled.

“Can we do it again? Now?”

He kissed her chin, then either side of her mouth, slowly, warmly, then finally her lips, and she pressed herself to him.

“Please?” she whispered. “If I admit that I liked it very much, can we?”

“Not quite yet, minx. A man requires time to—”

Her graceful hand wrapped around his cock and proceeded to demonstrate to them both that he required a lot less time than he had previously believed.

Wyn awoke at dawn wanting her again.

Rumpled and glowing with gentle vulnerability in sleep, Diantha breathed evenly, her slumber deep. He could not rouse her, not even to sheer the edge off the scratching thirst that again attended him.

He dressed and went to the stable where Galahad and Lady Priscilla greeted him with soft whickers. Perched on the stool beside the cow, Owen tugged his cap.

“Morning, sir.”

“We depart today. If you prefer to remain here, I will leave the filly in your charge and instruct Mr. Guyther to allow you authority with her.”

The boy gaped. “I’d like that, sir.”

“She is a valuable animal.” Owen was a natural with horses. Wyn’s absence would not be long, and Guyther would oversee. “Are you certain you wish the responsibility?”

“Yes, sir!”

He threw the blanket and saddle over Galahad’s back. “When you have finished milking, go to the village and ask Mrs. Cerwydn for a repetition of the herbs she recently prepared for me. Wait for them, then return here.”

Wyn rode to Guyther’s house. The land steward met him with an improved air from their encounter in the village. The Welsh were a wary, wise folk, and the people of Abbaty Fran Ddu did not understand why he had not returned when his great aunt fell ill that final time, then for her funeral. They’d known he was in London. They hadn’t known, of course, that between the time they had seen him last and his aunt’s swift decline he’d killed a girl—a girl he was trying to help—killed her because he had acted hastily, too proud of his abilities, too confident, and drunk. They hadn’t known that he could not bear to tell this to the woman who had taught him everything about being a good man.

They also did not understand why it had taken him five years to return. But in ten days they had become accustomed to his presence, curious at the circumstances of it and of the lady accompanying him. Guyther made that clear.

He spoke with the steward about the estate then rode back to the house through the mists lifting into the silvery morning. Owen had gone, and Wyn saw to Galahad’s needs then went along the stable to the far end. A stack of new hay beckoned, the sunlight warm. As though he were a boy again he removed his coat, lay down on his back, crooked his arms behind his head and listened to the sounds of the animals and the stream in the distance, the birds in the hedges, the day rising.

He heard her approach before he saw her, her footsteps light on the floor.

“I saw you return with Galahad. No—don’t get up!” She plopped down onto her knees beside him, sunlight spilling through her hair. “I was surprised you went riding when we are to travel today.”

“I imagined you still asleep.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. She set her other palm on his chest and pressed him back onto the hay.

“I couldn’t sleep.” The bright blue showed pure intention, the dimples full blown. She crawled over him. “My dreams were all about what we did last night and they simply woke me up.”

He laughed. “Have you breakfasted yet, minx?”

She straddled his hips, her skirts a froth about her thighs. “I don’t want to eat.”

“This is unprecedented.”

“I want you to make love to me again. Now. In a stable, the first place I was ever kissed.” Her smile dazzled.

“Your companion—”

“Mrs. Polley is not awake and I haven’t yet seen Owen.” She found his cock through his breeches with the soft core of her femininity. He settled his hands on her hips and groaned as her hand sought him. Then placing her palms on his shoulders, she tilted forward and rocked against him. Her eyelids fluttered. “You make this feel so good,” she whispered almost shyly now, her lashes low.

He slipped his hand up to the back of her head and drew her down. Her lips were no less sweet this morning than the night before. More so.

“It is designed to feel good, minx,” he murmured, twining his fingers through her curls.

Her lapis eyes opened wide. “Do you never claim the credit for anything good?”

“Claiming the credit for the pleasure in sex would be an act of hubris of which even I am not capable.”

“You are not an overly proud man, though I think you imagine you are. And if sex is naturally pleasurable, why are there so many married ladies who go about with their faces pinched in dissatisfaction?”

He laughed and kissed her, and for some time there was no haste, only the warmth of her lips and her body in his hands, her fingers pressing into his shoulders. When she began to make soft sounds of want in the back of her throat, her thighs clasping his hips as she moved herself against him, seeking pleasure, he saw no need to delay further what they both wanted. He slipped his tongue into her mouth to taste her. Her fingers plucked at his shirt and waistcoat impatiently.