One Forbidden Evening. Jo Goodman
both sweet and tart with kisses made liquid by desire.
When he raised his head he noticed that her fingers were no longer trapped between them. Instead, both hands were clutching the sleeves of his frock coat. It was the first indication that she was not so steady on her feet as he’d thought. It was fitting, then, because he was in danger of rocking backward. They teetered a moment, weight and counterweight, before a tenuous balance was achieved.
His voice, when he found it, was not much above a husky whisper. “It does not mean that I trust you.”
“I understand.” Her fingers did not relax their grip. “But know this: I mean you no harm.”
“I believe you. I wonder, though, whether it matters what your intentions are. Harm will be done.”
She shook her head. “No. That is not—”
Ferrin placed one finger firmly against her lips. “I didn’t say I minded, merely that I expect it. Do not be contrary.”
“I’m afraid it is in my nature.”
No surprise there. “Does anyone, save me, know what it is you wish for above all things this evening?”
“To be seduced, you mean?”
His eyebrows kicked up in tandem. “If you have some other wish, I should like to hear it before I proceed granting this one.” He thought he heard her breath catch. What he knew with certainty was that she was again unsteady on her feet. The moment quickly passed, and she was Boudicca once more: determined, ruthless warrior.
He remembered thinking that she was a danger to herself and wondered if he was merely choosing to ignore that aspect, or if he was in the right of it when he sensed the greater danger would be to allow her to leave him.
“You are thinking again,” she whispered.
“Guilty.”
“It cannot be good for you. A rake should not entertain so many qualms.”
“You will scarcely credit it, but I’ve never had my qualms put to such a test before.”
“Perhaps if you kiss me again.” Hesitating, she bit her lower lip and worried it for the span of a heartbeat. “Or does that merely qualm the waters?”
Ferrin literally took her in hand, ignoring her light laugh, which he thought sounded suspiciously like a titter. He drew her back into the house, not pausing long enough in the doorway for her to retrieve her spear. The hand she flung out for it came away empty.
“This way,” he said, brooking no refusal. “This way” was through a deserted second parlor and into a dimly lighted stairwell. He drew her up eighteen steeply winding steps before he stopped on the small landing. An explanation was hardly required, but he gave her one anyway. “Servants’ passage.”
“It is almost as good as a cupboard.”
“Better, in fact. The servants are busy everywhere below stairs, not above. There’s no reason for one of them to come this way.”
“Then we will not be disturbed.”
“That is the idea.” He regarded her, trying to make out her thoughts from a shadowed expression that gave nothing away. “At least that was my idea. It is not part of your wish that we are observed, is it?” He was gratified to see this caused a reaction he could finally interpret. She was properly shocked at the notion of being watched. “Is it all you hoped for?”
Boudicca glanced about the close quarters. “It is…cozy.”
He smiled. “It is roomier than a cupboard.”
“My. I hadn’t realized.”
Ferrin never thought she was in the habit of making propositions like the one she had tonight. Still, he was gratified to have it confirmed. “You weren’t in anticipation of a bed, were you?”
“No. Oh, no. That would seem calculating rather than precipitous.”
He could have pointed out that throughout this encounter she had demonstrated more in the way of strategy than Napoleon had upon escaping Elba. He said nothing, however. Apparently she was taken with the notion of a chance meeting and reckless abandon. He was in favor of both those things, but they had nothing at all to do with this night’s work.
Ferrin observed that she was still looking around. He wondered if she was having second thoughts and how he felt about it if that were so. “Have you changed your mind?” he asked.
She shook her head. Her flame-red hair, so brilliant in the ballroom, had faded to burnt umber in the constricted space of the stairwell. A lock of it fell forward over her shoulders. Before she could push it back, he did it for her.
“I thought it was a wig,” he said.
Boudicca made no reply to that. What she said was, “Will you extinguish the lamps?”
“If you wish.”
“I do.”
Ferrin was disappointed but not surprised. She’d made it clear at the outset that she wanted to preserve her anonymity. He was the one exposed here, with or without candlelight. “Very well,” he said. It did not take him long to blow out the lamp below them, then climb to the second landing and extinguish that flame as well. His returning descent was slowed by the complete darkness. When he reached what he thought was the last step, he felt her hand brush his sleeve and knew then that he had arrived.
It was not that she was waiting for him with open arms, but that she went so easily into his. The fit was perfect. As soon as he kissed her, he knew she was no longer wearing her mask. Darkness had freed her. His hands came up and cupped her face. He let his thumbs pass lightly across the arch of her cheekbones. She was more finely made than he’d imagined the raw-boned queen of Britain had been. This Boudicca’s features were elegantly contoured, the symmetry just shy of perfection. He used his index finger to trace the pared line of her nose. No break or bump altered the intended shape of it. His fingers slipped under her heavy fall of hair, threading behind her head to support her as he deepened the kiss.
She was working the buttons of his frock coat, her movements not so practiced that they weren’t a bit tentative and clumsy. When she released the last one she began on his waistcoat, then pulled his shirt free of his breeches. He sucked in a breath when her hands lay flat against his chest.
“Cold?” she asked, beginning to pull away.
“Hot,” he said, drawing her back. His mouth covered hers again, harder this time, insistent. He pushed her against the wall and swallowed her moan. Her hands slid around his back until her fingers met at his spine. Her nails lightly scored the length of it from his nape to where it disappeared beneath his waistband. Her breasts flattened against his chest, but he was so sensitive to her touch that the twin buds of her nipples seemed to score him much as her nails did. He lifted his lips, then placed them at the curve of her neck just below her ear.
His breath was hot and humid, and he whispered what he wanted from her, what he wanted to do to her. She strained against him and clutched him tighter. He sipped her skin, knowing he would leave a mark there. She knew it too. Her hands and fingers stilled and she stiffened, then the moment passed and she was yielding to his mouth again, no longer caring that he was placing his stamp upon her.
The golden torc she wore fit closely. He kissed her at the opening, above the base of her throat. He felt her tremble.
They lowered each other to the landing, neither of them consciously taking the lead. It was surprisingly simple. At one moment they were standing, in another they were not.
He found the brooch that fastened her cloak. “Be still,” he said, “else I will stick one of us with this. I would rather it not be me.”
“You are not at all gallant.”
“Rakes rarely are. Or rather they can be when it serves their purpose.” His chuckle rose deep from the back of his throat when she