Page 34 of Stealing Sophie
Desire shot through him, crown to root. He wanted to touch her hair, her creamy skin, wanted to remove every stitch of her damp clothing and warm her, body and soul, against him. The very thought made the blood steam in his veins. But he was not a brute, he reminded himself. He would wait.
Studying the slender profile of her waist and bosom, he saw her waver. The girl had a decent head for whisky, but she was feeling its effects now. She was drunk, and no doubt. He wished he was a little more sodden himself.
“Is this your bedchamber?” she asked. “Will you sleep here...or elsewhere?”
He sighed, stood. He reached out, took her arm, slowly drew her to him. She watched him like a lamb regarding a wolf. He brushed back the golden curls that edged her brow.
“Where do you want me to sleep?” he murmured.
“We—are both so tired,” she whispered. “It has been a day.”
“It has.”
“Still, I—if you want—we could—” Even in the firelight, he saw her blush.
Connor tilted his head. “Are you sure, or is it the whisky? Because I would not, I would never, if it is that we are both fou, and neither of us thinking.”
“You stole me away. You thought about that. And now we are here. And wed.”
He sensed more. “And?”
She drew a breath. “And I did not want to marry the other, to be truthful. You did a service, there, and you have been...kind, for all that. And I—I am curious.” She paused. “And I feel—safe.”
At that, he sucked in a breath. He turned her by the shoulders, and she did not protest as he began to work the fastenings at the back of her dress. His heart thumped like a drum.
Earlier he had ripped through the back with the tip of his knife. Now he eased each hook from its loop to push the gown off her shoulders, slowly, letting her be sure.
She said nothing, ducking her head to allow him access. The splendid satiny thing she wore was joined, bodice and skirt, he saw, as he slid it downward. Beneath it, she wore stays over a long chemise, with a quilted petticoat and another of flowered fabric that formed the front panels of the skirt. A soft, delicate contraption of fabrics. As the bodice dropped away, her back and shoulders shone like cream and honey in the firelight. Her hair was a tousled mass of waves and curls and golden lights. Her neck, small and exposed, had a touching vulnerability. He leaned down to kiss her there.
She gasped, wavered, and leaned a little into his hand supporting her waist.
Aye, he thought, the girl was a bit whisky-sodden, and that was his doing. He should not have let her have so much, though he had meant it only to revive her amid the night’s events. Stolen away, wedded, bedded—that was not easy for her, or her abductor and groom, either. A little whisky in her blood was a good thing just now. But he would not force her if she refused. Still, her demeanor allowed him, so far, to proceed. She was silent, calm, apparently willing.
His heart slammed. He was a cad to proceed, but he had been a cad to take her away and marry her without her consent. They both knew this must be done if the marriage was to stand.
She waited. His head spun, his fingers trembled. He unhooked the last fastening on the skirt, and the gleaming firelit gown sank to the floor. He untied the underskirt, and she stepped out of the pool of fabric to stand in stays and chemise, her face turned away, her beauty as eloquent as her silence.
As for the stays, laced at the back, the damp ties would not easily come loose. She reached back to work the knots free and wriggled out of the garment, still silent and without hesitation. He helped draw the corset away, set it aside. Her chemise was plain linen with a little froth of lace at the neck, somehow as fragile and vulnerable as the girl. He felt a qualm, and now he was the one who hesitated. “What do you want, lass?”
She turned and tilted her face upward, her eyes drifting shut. Her hands rested on his forearms. “This—is what happens now, I believe.”
He took in another quick breath, then bent and brushed his lips over her cheek, touched his mouth to the satiny skin of her jaw, her throat. She sighed against him.
Feeling desire strike through him like lightning, he kissed her fully then, tasting the whisky that lingered on her lips. He could feel her trembling throughout like a bowstring. Then her mouth softened beneath his, and she looped her arms around his neck, arching a little against him. A spark sizzled through him. He felt it catch in her, too, for she gasped softly. Then she opened her lips a bit, leaned deeper into his embrace. Her breasts pushed against his chest, her skin warm through linen and wool.
Connor broke the kiss, pulled back, looked down at her in silence. Step by step, he told himself. She returned his gaze, the question asked and answered.Aye.
Whisky and desire blurred through him. He needed her with every fiber in his body and thought she felt that craving too. That seemed enough reason for now, and the sanctity of marriage smoothed the way. The whole of the promise was not yet fulfilled.
He swept her up into his arms and carried her to the bed. She rounded her arm over his shoulders and nestled her face against his neck.
