Midnight Quill Trio

June 1763: Part Six

June 1763: Part Six

Fenmore stripped to his waist and dried himself with the tablecloth from the hamper. His body was quite unlike Henry’s. He was broad-shouldered and muscular, his skin a golden brown, as if he sometimes worked outdoors without his shirt.

He didn’t remove his breeches, even though they clung wetly to him. He stood looking at her, the damp cloth balled in his hand. “Are you certain, Rose?”

Rose inhaled a shallow breath. She nodded.

Will put down the cloth and walked towards her. Rose held herself still with an effort of will. He’s not Henry. Even so, her chest was tight.

Will removed her riding boots and then undressed her as carefully as any lady’s maid, folding her clothes and laying them on the hamper—riding jacket, waistcoat, skirt, petticoat, stockings—until she wore only her chemise. She felt stiff and awkward standing before him, as if her limbs were made out of wood.

“Rose.” Will’s voice was so low she barely heard it above the rain. His hands were at her waist, a light touch that burned through the thin linen. “You can change your mind if you want to.”

“No.” She touched his hip, where the wet breeches clung to his skin. “You should take these off. They’re soaked.”

Will hesitated for a long moment, then released her and stepped back and stripped off the last of his clothes.

Rose watched while he dried himself. He didn’t look like Henry. He had strong, hard thighs and a taut belly and pale, crisp curls of hair at his groin. Even the shape of his genitals was different.

She relaxed slightly. It’s going to be all right.

Will put down the tablecloth. Their eyes met. All the air drained from her lungs. The fear returned. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, as he stepped towards her.

Rose tried not to tense when he stroked her cheek with light fingertips. She groped for her mother’s advice, given the day before her wedding. Just lie still. It’s tedious, but over quickly. You’ll get used to it soon enough.

She would get used to doing this with Will.

Rose took a deep breath and smiled at him. Her lips felt stiff.

Will took her hand and led her to the divan. Rose lay down awkwardly and couldn’t help tensing when he stretched himself alongside her on the blanket.

“Don’t worry.” He dipped his head and pressed a light kiss to her temple. “We’ll take it slowly.”

Fast would be better. Get it over with. But her throat was too tight to say the words aloud.

Will kissed her temple again and then his mouth moved lower, touching her cheek, her jaw, her throat. Rose held herself still and squeezed her eyes shut. Hurry up.

But Will didn’t hurry. His mouth leisurely followed the line of her collarbone. He stopped to taste the sensitive hollow at the base of her throat. Rose felt his tongue against her skin. Unexpected pleasure unfurled inside her.

She opened her eyes and stared up at the shadowy ceiling. Will licked again, and she felt the same tingling shiver of pleasure.

He kissed his way along the other side of her collarbone. Rose tensed in anticipation of what would come next. He’d open the chemise and grope for her breasts.

Will pushed up the short linen sleeve and placed a light kiss on her shoulder.

Rose released the breath she’d been holding.

He made his way down her arm, laying tickling, gossamer-light kisses on her skin, stopping in the hollow of her elbow, licking, tasting. Pleasure shivered through her again.

Will placed a kiss on her palm, then turned his attention to her other arm, stopping again at the hollow of her elbow. Rose tried not to move when he licked. She was beginning to feel rather warm.

Will raised his head and looked at her. “All right so far?”

Rose swallowed and found her voice. “Yes.”

Will dropped a light kiss on her lips and then turned his attention to the drawstring at the neck of her chemise. Rose tried not to stiffen when he bared her breasts, pushing the thin linen down to her waist. Here it comes.

But it didn’t. Will bent his head and placed a kiss at the base of her throat, where her pulse beat hard and fast. “Relax, Rose,” he whispered.

Rose closed her eyes tightly and tried to do as he bid.

Will’s fingers skimmed lightly over her skin, tracing her ribs, her belly, her waist, as if he was learning her shape.

Rose opened her eyes again. Outside, the rain drummed down.

Will continued stroking her. He circled her breasts, barely touching her skin, retreated, came back again, retreated once more. Rose’s skin began to tingle, to flush with heat.

Will bent his head. With his mouth, he traced the path his fingers had taken. A tickling lock of his hair brushed across one n****e while he tasted her belly. Rose inhaled. Her body quivered with pleasure.

Will raised his head. He lightly brushed the curve of one breast with his knuckles. “Well, Rose?”

“Well, what?” she managed to say. Her voice was husky.

“Would you like me to kiss you here?” His fingers skimmed over her skin, circling up towards the crest.

The muscles locked in Rose’s throat. She made a breathless sound.

Will took it for a Yes. He dipped his head. Rose felt the moist heat of his mouth, felt the touch of his tongue. She uttered a low groan of pleasure.

Will groaned, too. His mouth became more eager.

Rose clenched her fingers in his hair, trying to breathe while he kissed her breasts, teasing the n*****s with his tongue, with his teeth.

He raised his head. “Still all right?”

Rose nodded, unable to speak. I want more.

Will seemed to read the answer on her face. He grinned, and kissed her. Rose opened her mouth to him, returning the kiss hungrily.

They were both panting when Will finally raised his head. His arousal pressed against her hip, burning through the chemise, but it didn’t scare her. Fear was crowded out by a feverish hunger for something she had no name for.

Will slid the chemise down past her ankles and discarded it. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered in her ear.

I’m not. But the words stuck in her throat. Will’s hand slid up her inner thigh, eliciting shivers of pleasure, making speech impossible.

Rose felt no fear while his fingers gently explored, parting the curls of hair, delving inside her. She gazed up at him, seeing the strong lines of his face, the blunt cheekbones, the tousled white-blond hair falling over his brow.

His fingers began moving rhythmically inside her, making her breath hitch and her pulse quicken. His thumb traced a circle, gliding over skin that was exquisitely sensitive. Rose couldn’t stop her hips from lifting off the divan. “Will . . .”

He laughed softly. “Like that?”

She couldn’t speak, could only nod as his thumb moved again, circling, making her muscles clench with pleasure.

Will removed his hand. Rose felt a sharp pang of disappointment. No. Don’t stop. She bit her lip to keep from saying it aloud.

Will pressed a kiss to her temple and moved down the divan. He urged her legs apart and knelt between them, opening her with his fingers, but instead of mounting her, he lowered his head.

Rose tensed. “Will, what—?” She lost her voice when he kissed her.

Will held her hips down while he explored her with his mouth, with his tongue. Rose struggled to breathe. It was a shocking, exquisite intimacy, a leisurely exploration that slowly became more urgent, coaxing a pleasure that was so intense it was close to pain—

A breathless cry broke from Rose’s throat. She arched her back helplessly.

When the shattering pleasure had subsided she opened her eyes. Will was watching her.

She took a long shuddering breath, swallowed, found her voice, and asked: “What was that?”

Will released her hips. “That’s how it’s meant to be.”

Rose didn’t tense when he settled himself between her legs. Pleasure quickened in her veins as he pushed inside her.

When his organ was fully sheathed in her, Will halted. He was panting, trembling. He met her eyes. His gaze was dark, intense.

Rose arched her hips. “Don’t stop. Please.”

He grunted a hoarse laugh and obeyed. Rose groaned with pleasure. Yes. This is how it’s meant to be.

The rhythm Will set quickly became urgent. The world receded. There was no folly, no rain, no Creed Hall. The universe narrowed to one man: Will Fenmore. Rose clung to him, moving with him. Pleasure spiraled inside her, tighter and tighter, until she splintered with it.

She heard Will groan, felt his muscles clench, felt his body shudder in helpless climax.

Rose floated slowly down.

Will rested his forehead on hers, panting. She put her arms around him. Her awareness of the world returned: the cool, shadowy folly, the patter of rain on the roof, and Will. The weight of his body. The warmth of his sweat-damp skin. The sensation of him still inside her. She closed her eyes and held him tightly. I love you, Will Fenmore.

After a moment, Will pulled back, separating them. Rose uttered a wordless protest, but he took her in his arms, rolling onto his back, holding her on top of him, his grip tight, as if he was never going to let her go.

She laid her cheek on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. “I didn’t know it could be like that,” she whispered.

Will stroked her back. “With the right person, it should always—” He released her abruptly and sat up, turning her so that he could see her back.

Rose squeezed her eyes shut, knowing what he was seeing: the dozens of scars marking her skin.

“Quayle?”

She nodded.

“I swear to God that if I ever see him again, I’ll kill him.” Will’s voice was hoarse, vibrating with rage.

Rose opened her eyes. She turned and looked at him. Fury was stark on his face, and beneath that was something else: grief. For me.

They were such very different men, Will and Henry. One an aristocrat, the other a commoner. One cruel, the other kind. “Forget Henry.” She took his hand and lay down again.

For a moment Will resisted the tug of her hand, rage still vivid on his face, and then he lay down and took her in his arms. Rose felt the tension in his muscles.

“Where did you learn to have union with a woman like that?” she asked to distract him from his anger.

For a moment she thought Will wouldn’t answer, and then he sighed and some of his tension eased. “From a woman called Bess. A widow.” Will stroked her back again. She knew he felt the scars, but this time he didn’t stop speaking. “I was eighteen, she was quite a bit older. We were lovers for three years, until she remarried.”

Rose pillowed her cheek on his chest and breathed in the scent of his skin. “How old are you now?”

“Twenty-four.” His fingers traced a scar that curved across her shoulder blade, legacy of one of Henry’s more brutal whippings. “You?”

“Nineteen.”

Will stroked her shoulder, the nape of her neck—and then released her. “The rain’s stopped. We’d better get back to the Hall.”

Rose sat up reluctantly.

“You should wash,” Will said. “If Boyle smells me on you . . .”

Her skin prickled with fear. She shivered. “Yes.”

Rose washed quickly in the lake and dried herself with the blanket they’d made love on, and then Will dressed her carefully. “I love you,” Rose told him when he was finished.

He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her tenderly. “I love you, too.”