Scandals Bride

His mind was reeling, his wits in disarray, struggling to grasp the tact that this was real-that she was, in solid fact, here, in his bed-blissfully naked.

What in all hell was she up to?

He hadn't moved-he didn't dare; if he did, the reins would slip from his grasp, and God alone knew what would happen then. Every muscle quivering with restraint, he looked at her.

And she touched him.

Spread one small, warm hand over his chest, then swept it down to boldly cup him.

After that, hell, God-even her Lady-didn't matter.

He closed his eyes on a long groan. Her fingers tightened, his reins snapped. He caught her hands, first one then the other, locking them above her head in one of his. In the same movement, he lifted over her, found her lips, and plundered.

One thought burned in his fevered brain-to confirm, beyond all doubt, that she had been the woman in his dream. That she'd been the woman he'd brought to life the night before, the woman who'd begged him to take her, then writhed like a wanton in his arms.

He closed his hand over one firm breast and recognized it. Felt it swell, found the tight pebble of her nipple. And recognized that too. He swept his hand down, tracing curve after curve of breast waist, hip and thigh; the globes of her bottom smooth and perfect, filled his hand. As they had last night.

And she was with him, as she had been last night-hot and urgent, her mouth, her lips, melding with his, her tongue dueling with his. With her arms still anchored above her head, her body arched beneath him, caressing him as he caressed her.

Caught in her heat, driven by wild compulsion, he wedged her thighs wide. And touched her She was wet, scorchingly hot-she rose to his touch, mutely begging for more. He slid one finger deep and she gasped.

His name.

He drank it from her lips as he pushed her thighs wide, positioned himself between. And slid home.

Braced above her, he let his head fall back as she closed, scalding velvet, about him. He moved within her and she answered matching him stroke for stroke, taking him deep into her heat, and holding him.

Freed, her hands rose to caress his chest, then strayed to his flexing flanks. She held him lightly, then repositioned her hips and guided him deeper.

He gasped, and came down on his elbows, framed her face and kissed her. Voraciously. The friction between their bodies was driving them both insane-demented with desire.

But he kept them there, held them there, in the heat of the furnace in the eye of the storm. He prolonged their joining for as long as he could, addicted to the sheer joy of filling her.

Beneath him Catriona gloried in the exquisite intimacy, in the clear, shining knowledge that this was how it was meant to be. Their bodies moved in a dance older than time, his hard, driving, hers soft, accepting.

Both loving.

The thought came to her on a fractured sigh and a guttural groan; bodies locked, they climbed higher, and higher, both focused totally on sensation-on sensation that went further than the physical, that breached some other plane.

Some plane where each touch became laden with meaning, with feeling, with emotion, where they asked and answered through each caress, through each deep thrust that linked them.

It was a plane where their heartbeats joined and swelled, where bodies ceased to exist and souls, freed, could touch. And be touched.

It was a plane of unlimited joy, unlimited ecstasy. Freed, together, they explored-and lived for every precious moment.

Their fusion, when it came, was all heat, glorious heat, molten rivers pouring through their bodies, down their veins. Bodies locked, they climaxed together, melted together, fused, then, as one, slowly cooled.

Richard returned from the dead first, but was too deeply sated, too shaken, to move. His mind was still in limbo, reeling between truth, reality, and an even greater truth. Her body beneath him, around him, was his anchor; her arms tight about him, she seemed as disinclined to move as he.

It seemed like hours before they could bear to part, slowly, reluctantly, disengaging their limbs. Even then, she turned to him, slipping into his arms as if she belonged there.

Richard held her-and tried to hold back his thoughts, tried not to recognize that greater truth. Tried instead to focus on the far less unnerving fact that it had indeed been she last night-it hadn't been a dream. He wasn't going insane. At least, not in the way he'd thought.

The clock on the stairs struck one. He glanced down at her face and realized she was awake He hesitated, then said: 'Sometimes, dreams don't turn out as you expect.'

He felt her exhale slowly, then she whispered, 'No.' Lifting her head, she stretched up and kissed him, long and lingeringly, then sank back, settling in his arms. 'No.'

She fell asleep with her head on his shoulder, leaving him frowning into the dark.

Chapter 8

She had the touch of a goddess. He could feel her hands on him, on his back, on his flanks. On his-

Richard awoke with a start. He glanced at the bed beside him and realized he'd been dreaming. 'Or rather,' he murmured, lips thinning, 'remembering.'

He noted the bed's state-as neat and tidy as the morning before. Scanning the room, he saw not one sign of his witch's presence. Lying back on the pillows, he frowned. He wasn't a particularly heavy sleeper, but clearly she could slide from his arms, even straighten the sheet beside him, without awakening him. She moved smoothly- gliding rather than walking; her hands were used to soothing, her gestures always graceful.

He didn't want to think about her hands.

With an oath, he flung back the covers and stalked across the room to the bellpull. He was in hunter mode again; all he needed to do now was locate his prey.

He found her in the breakfast parlor, sunnily eating a boiled egg. She greeted him with a breezy smile.

And such transparent happiness he was momentarily thrown off-balance.

He hesitated, then nodded back and headed for the buffet. After making a selection of the various meats on offer, he returned to the table, to the chair opposite hers. Malcolm, morosely munching toast at the table's other end, and Algaria O'Rourke were the only others down yet.

Catriona's watchdog sat beside her, regarding him with her usual disapproval; Richard ignored her and ate-while watching Catriona do the same. Watched her lick egg yolk from her lower lip, then lick her spoon. Saw her lips sheening pink when she sipped her tea.

He shifted in his seat, looked down at his plate, and tried to remember how to fashion a trap.

'Did you have any disturbing dreams last night?'

He looked up; Catriona smiled at him, her green eyes openly studying him. He waited until her gaze reached his eyes. 'No.' He held her gaze steadily. 'In fact, I don't believe I dreamed anything last night.'

Her smile was glorious, as warming as the sun. 'Good.'

Richard blinked and inwardly shook himself. 'I was wondering-'

'Catriona?'

All looked up, Mary hovered in the doorway, wringing her hands. 'It you've finished, could you see to the children? They're so fractious.'

'Of course.' Laying her napkin by her plate, Catriona stood. 'Are they still feverish?'

She bustled out with not even a last look for him; Richard eyed her departing rear through narrowing eyes.

Turning back to his plate, he returned to his plans-the first item on his agenda was a very long ride.

He rode late into the afternoon, until the light was almost gone. Returning to the house, he ordered a late tea to be eaten in his rooms. Worboys arrived with the tray.

And remained to shake out his greatcoat and put away his gloves. And interrogate him.