Page 57 of The Captive
“Gillian?”
She felt his voice as much as heard it, and understood he was putting a question to her. Before she could lose her nerve, she framed his newly smooth jaw with her hands. He could turn his face aside, thwart what her body insisted she needed, but he only pressed his mouth to the heel of her hands, left and right.
Then she found him with her lips. Went up on her toes, and sealed her mouth to his, having no plan beyond that.
His arms came around her, as snug as an anchor’s chains around their capstan, giving her purchase and balance, and most of all, giving her relief from the fear he’d pull away and turn from her.
He stroked a hand over her hair, slowly, and Gilly’s desperation eased. She needn’t gobble him up; he’d allow a little savoring.
She followed his lead, trailing her fingers through his golden hair, glorying in the silky abundance of it, shaping his skull, tracing his nape, learning him in each bodily detail.
To touch…tocaress, to surrender to tenderness and desire and the fierce, awful longing.
He lifted his mouth from hers and traced his lips along her temple, then down, over her jaw, and Gilly understood: he wanted to touch as well, and she would glory in that too. She stood still for him as he inhaled through his nose, his breath breezing warmly past her ear. He nuzzled her neck and made her shiver with the pleasure of it, then teased the corner of her mouth with a half kiss.
She dimly perceived he was withdrawing though, easing her down, and her disappointment was tempered only by the knowledge he abandoned her reluctantly. When he’d mapped each of her features thoroughly with his mouth, when his hands had traced each knob and bump in her spine, he came to rest, his chin on her crown, his arms securely around her.
“Countess, you must forgive me.”
Countess, not Gillian. He didn’t let her go, and Gilly hid her face against him. Goddamn him, he sounded genuinely remorseful when she ought to be the one mustering regret.
“We have committed no wrong requiring forgiveness.”
“You are widowed and alone, under my protection if you’re under anybody’s, and I have taken advantage of your grief.”
His hand moved over her hair, cradling her head to him as if to emphasize his role of protector, but was simple protection ever a matter of such gentle handling?
“I am not grieving. I amcelebrating.”
She tore herself from his arms and stomped into his bedroom. When she passed him a dressing gown, he took it.
“I am sorry,” he said again. “No woman, much less a lady, much lessyou, should see me thus.” He shrugged into the dressing gown, and Gilly wanted to weep for the loss of the sight of him, even as she knew that blue velvet garment was all that remained between her dignity and utter wantonness.
“Your modesty becomes you, Mercia, but if you think I find you anything but appallingly beautiful, you are an idiot.”
Idiot?Had that word come from her mouth, and directed at him?
He knotted the belt. Slowly, slowly one corner of his mouth kicked up, then the other. Only to settle back almost immediately.
“You were married to an old man,” he said, expression shuttering. “Perhaps compared to him, even I fare tolerably.”
He found a brush on the windowsill and used his reflection in the shaving mirror to bring some order to his hair, but didn’t queue it back.
“You torment me, leaving it loose.” She snatched up a black hair ribbon and marched over to him. He stood still while she bound his hair back.
“Countess…”
“Gillian, I should think. I’ve shaved you and dressed your hair.”
The smile again, even more fleeting, as if he hadn’t the stamina for it. “And kissed me.”
“I wasn’t the only one doing the kissing, Your Grace.”
She clung to that. She’d interested him at least a kiss or two worth.
“To my confoundment and delight, I did kiss you. And enjoyed it thoroughly, but, my lady…I cannot allow myself to take such advantage again.”
“Whyever not? I’m a blessed, benighted widow. I’ve finally reached the point in life where advantage may be taken.”
