that was all the time needed for a powerful deity to recognise the sacrifice she had made to care for her given husband, to obey him, to yield to the orders he had been so fond of giving.
Perhaps Taris Wellingham had been sent in recompense, the gift of this night easily making up for the hardship of her past decade.
His finger traced the upward turn of her lips.
‘You are a puzzle, Mrs Bassingstoke,’ he said, his voice rich with the rounded vowels of a well-to-do upbringing. ‘And one that I cannot, for the life of me, quite fathom.’
She stayed silent, enjoying his touch as he splayed open her palm and drew a spiral inside before tracing upwards to the sensitive folds of her neck and the outline of her lips.
When his hand cupped the back of her nape and he pulled her down across him she went willingly, his mouth taking what she offered in a hard twist of desire. Seeking. Finding. The taste of him masculine and fierce, though for the first time she was frightened, frightened of the need that welled in her, wanting, wishing this was real and binding her to eternity.
‘No.’ She pulled back and he did not stop her, did not hurt her in his insistence or his demand. Actions so unlike Frankwell that her fear subsided.
‘I should not exact anything you do not wish to offer.’
Quiet words from an honourable man, his need felt easily against her stomach, yet still he gave her the choice.
Her head dipped down and she ran her tongue across his lips, her fingers splayed against his chest as she held him still.
As if sensing her need for control, he remained motionless even as her touch cupped the full hardness of him.
‘My turn now,’ she whispered and stroked his warmth, teasing as he writhed. ‘Not yet,’ she added as he moved up against her. ‘Or yet,’ she repeated as she sat astride him and guided the fullness to a place that was only hers to offer. Home. Replete. Abundant. ‘But now.’
The feel of him made her tip back her head and cry out his name, no longer quiet as her voice broke against the wind and the rain and the wild sound of trees. The storm of sex was now inside her too, reaching, reaching and breaking languid sweet in her belly, her fingers and toes stretched tight against the ripples, urging them on for longer, unfastened by any ties of right or wrong.
Only feeling.
Only them.
When the last of the contractions had ceased she lay against him, joined by flesh and the slick wetness of their lovemaking. His hand claimed her, lying over her bottom, skin to skin, the cold air diminishing their heat. The length of her tresses was bound in his other fist, fettered in nakedness, lost in the glory.
‘Bea?’ Whispered.
‘Yes.’ Whispered back.
‘Bea-yond anything.’
Her laughter took his body from her own.
This was what she had missed all of her life. Just this. No meanness in it or bad temper. No righteous lecture on the innate evil of all women’s nature.
Beyond. Anything.
When his fingers crept into the space his body had just left, she opened her legs wide and all that was wonderful before began again.
She was asleep. Catching dreams from the early dawn. He did not wish to wake her, but he had to, for the winds had fallen and the sky was lightening. At least that much he could see and feel. They would be here soon. Everybody. The world. Reality.
The sun and the light and the damming affliction of his soul.
He would not be able to see her. He did not know the lay of this barn, the traps and the pitfalls. And she would know all of what he wasn’t, so carefully hidden in the dark.
His breathing shallowed and the fear that he had lived with for three years thickened. This time it did matter. Mrs Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke and her generous soft body even now in sleep turned towards him and wanting. Again.
He could not take her. He could not risk it with the new day dawning over a weakening storm. The blood that ran to the place between his legs did not listen to his head,