Page 47 of Sleepless in Saunton
“How could I stay away?”
Her lashes lowered as she blushed prettily, and Barclay was tempted to trace the progress of the color rising across her skin with his tongue. Offering her his hand, he drew her to her feet to pull her into a hard embrace.
“Jane,” he groaned as he captured her sweet mouth with his own. She tasted of strawberries and coffee, and he could not help lifting his hand to trace the curve of her cheek with his fingertips. “You are so soft.”
She pressed closer to him, her tongue melding with his as they kissed deeply, tasting each other with desperation as if this was their last night on this earth. Inexorably, his hand rose to the plump breast which he had been tempted to caress during their first kiss in this library, but out of respect for her inexperience, he had restrained his desires.
Now she moaned, her head falling back as he massaged the generous mound and passion fired in his loins while his lips fell to the curve of her creamy neck. Licking the strawberries from her satin skin, he breathed in the heady scent of almonds while his desire mounted to collect at the base of his spine. Raising his hand, he slid his fingers over her neck and under the night rail covering her form to find the turgid nipple with his longest finger encircling the bud. It puckered and rose beneath his fingertip, causing him to growl against her skin in victory.
Picking her up, he sat her on the table to take his place between her thighs. Pressing his hardness against her soft, heated center, he reached down to slide his hand over her slender ankle. Lowering his head, he pressed a soft kiss to the pulse that beat like a drum beneath her delicate skin. Trailing kisses up her long, naked calf to find her knee, he took his time caressing and nipping until she panted with newly awakened passion.
Slowly, very slowly, he raised the hem over her long leg, where he placed his lips to the tender part of her inner thigh, causing her to buck her hips up in invitation, revealing the moist petals of her sex.
He was hard for her. Harder than he had ever been. He wanted to free himself from his breeches and bury himself deep within her—
Barclay started awake to find morning had fully arrived. Evidence of his arousal tented the coverlet, and he was covered in a fine sheen of sweat as he panted in his surprise. This was an unexpected—and problematic—turn of events.
It is merely a reflection of your desires reawakening! It does not mean you are meant to be with Jane.
Barclay sat up in agitation. He finally caught some sleep only to have it ruined—improved?—by visions of Jane. This situation was so bloody awkward. Dropping his head into his hands, he tried to make sense of what was happening.
Was his mind unraveling from the strain of attempted courtship too soon? For ten years, he had not thought about any woman other than his Natalya, and now he was dreaming of a young woman who was eminently unsuitable. Could this house party grow any worse than it already had?
Brushing aside his thoughts, Barclay rose to wash and prepare for the day. It would not do to dwell on what could not be. He must press forward and decide whether he could tolerate Mrs. Gordon as a wife to aid their family respectability.
It would be better if he did not engage his heart in his second marriage. He had already found and lost the love of his life, and men did not get a second chance to love so deeply. He was a lucky man to have done so the once, and it would be greedy to think he could do so again. Deep down, he knew could never survive a second loss of that magnitude.
CHAPTER13
By the time Jane went to bed that night, she knew Aurora had been right about the coffee.
She had skipped her afternoon cup, then her cup before dinner. It was midnight, and she was pacing her room, her mind fixated on the notion that she should find a servant and demand a pot of coffee be brought to her immediately.
Aurora’s warning regarding the cravings had proved correct, which could only mean that this truly was the cause of her insomnia.
Her body was utterly worn out, but she could not relax. She had thought about going to the library to write her poetry, but it was inconceivable. For one, she could not patiently sharpen her quill and dip it in ink—the mere thought of the energy it would take was enough to make her want to scream in frustration. Second, it would remind her of how Barclay had snubbed her.
Suddenly a great wave of melancholy washed over her—the foul temperament, perhaps? She had expected it to be irritability, but perhaps the combination of Barclay’s rejection and deprivation of the demon brew was causing this hitherto unknown symptom.
It was all she could do to drag herself to the bed and fall in.
To her surprise, she fell asleep only to jolt awake again. Checking the time, she estimated she had fallen asleep for a half hour. Returning to bed, she closed her eyes once more, and after a while she dozed in a half sleep, half waking state with strange almost feverish dreams which caused her to jolt awake once more.
She gazed at the ceiling in the darkness of the room, afraid to fall back to sleep after the last disturbing image of Barclay at the altar with Mrs. Gordon while Jane sat as his sister-in-law in the family pew, pretending to be joyful while carrying a burden of heavy lead in her chest.
Eventually, the fatigue in her limbs pulled her into sleep once more.
When she awoke next, it was to find that morning had arrived. Sitting up, she moaned in agony. Her head was pounding so loud, she could swear there was an orchestra tuning their instruments inside her skull. The sun sneaking in through the drapes was enough to make her howl.
Taking hold of the coverlet, she threw herself back into the bed with the fabric over her head to block the light until the pounding slowly receded to manageable volume. Was this what men felt like when they imbibed too much?
Realizing that drinking some tea and eating breakfast might assuage her physical torment, Jane slowly rose from bed.
Damn the strawberry water! There was no energy for beauty treatments. This morning she was doing the bare minimum. Walking over to the door, she found the cart waiting in the hall and pulled it into her room.
After sipping a small amount of tea and consuming some eggs and fruit, her headache had abated to a tolerable level—tolerable in that she thought she might conduct a conversation without embarrassing herself.
However, when she heard a light tapping on the door, she realized she had overestimated her capabilities in this fragile state. She wanted to shriek at whomever was behind the door to leave. Raising a trembling hand to her temple, she massaged to calm herself.
