moved over hers, his tongue darting out to tease until she opened for him.
Her body went lax, her arms tightening around him as if she could draw him ever closer. Still he kissed her, long and deep and thoroughly, until a whimper rose soft from her throat and she arched into him, her body knowing what it wanted, her brain along for the ride.
He pulled her gown from her shoulders, taking a breast in his mouth, tonguing her flesh until her nipples puckered, and she moaned, wet and aching; any lingering reservations swept under by the torrent of her racing desires.
“I could get used to being wicked,” she whispered, fumbling with his breeches, impatient for sinful and sweet and scorching hot. For David in all his ruthless, heartbreaking splendor. “If you’d let me.”
“My pleasure, sweet Callista.”
His hand stole beneath her shift to caress a thigh, raising shivers as it passed. A brush of his fingers at the junction of her legs quickened her blood to boiling, and she gasped, eyes locked on his face. His expression bore a dangerous intensity as his hand teased and caressed. Tears pricked her eyes.
She needed him. Needed skin and sweat and fiery kisses and bone-melting caresses. She needed to feel him inside her, moving slow and steady. This was what the songs and stories spoke of; this wild forbidden exhilaration as her heart pounded in her chest, and complete bliss was a kiss, a stroke, a thrust away.
“Callista . . . are you . . .”
“Yes, gods yes,” she gasped, guiding him within her.
He filled her as muscles yielded, nerves jumped, and her pulse roared in her ears. A stinging pain shot from her womb to her brain, and she caught back a quick breath, but then it was gone and there was only sweet coiling heat and a fierce, unrelenting urgency. He withdrew only to plunge deep once more, but this time she met his assault with her own, lifting her hips, the raw friction of their joining sending stars flashing across her vision and scorching every vessel in her body.
David gasped, his muscles hardening to granite, sweat sheening his face. She felt the moment he surrendered, as he drove into her in a final rush of release. She tightened around him, his explosion dragging her into the same spiraling ecstasy. She cried out, and felt herself falling, the steel in his eyes rushing to meet her.
The sky brightened from slate to pearl as dawn approached. Already, David smelled the smoke from Lettice’s cookfire and heard the first stirrings of early risers. Soon the sun would rise, Oakham and the others would wake, life would resume as if nothing had changed.
David knew different.
Everything had changed.
Callista murmured in her sleep, snuggling at his side, a half-smile curving her lips, a leg slung seductively across his thighs. He’d gone against every principle when he bedded her last night. He should feel ashamed, guilt- ridden, and lower than low for taking advantage of an innocent under his protection. Instead he felt horny as an old goat and hard as a pikestaff.
Damn, but he wanted to take her again. To feel the soft, milky flesh beneath the ugly gown she wore. To caress the curves and bury himself between her thighs. A thousand times he’d played the rake and a thousand times he’d come away unscathed and uncaring. Women had moved in and out of his life as passions waxed and waned on either side. No strings. No regrets.
But then, he’d never actually lingered long enough to know any of those women. Never allowed himself know them.
Not their favorite book—Callista’s was
Not how they liked their tea—Callista took milk and a revolting amount of sugar.
Not even their middle names—Callista’s was Annelle, for some obscure reason having to do with second cousins and an inheritance that never materialized.
This knowledge transformed the spontaneous interlude. It made him see more clearly, feel more intently, enjoy more fully. It made him want to be the hero she saw when she looked into his eyes. Somehow, without his quite realizing it was happening, Callista had burrowed her way into his heart. Her likes and dislikes took up space in his brain. The smell and taste of her, her quiet reserve and dry sense of humor, the tiny crooked gap between her front teeth and the way she had of wrinkling her forehead when she was concentrating. All these things had become endearingly familiar. She’d become someone he cared about.
Someone he could love.
It made the laughter brighter. The passion steamier. And the idea of losing her devastating.
David understood now why Mac hadn’t confessed the severity of his condition to Bianca. He might wrap it in altruism, but David knew better. It was a purely self-centered urge to keep the lie going despite all evidence to the contrary. To hold to normal for as long as possible, until fate stripped it away.
David had once sobbed and begged for death.
His pleas were finally being answered when at last he had found something to live for.
Someone out there had a lousy sense of humor.
11
Callista checked her appearance in the chipped mirror hanging on the back of the wagon door. She cocked her head one way; hair braided and pinned, shawl draped demurely over her shoulders, and color pinched into her cheeks. Then the other; was that a blemish on her neck? Were her lips a bit too swollen? Her eyes a little too bright?
There must be some telltale sign that she had spent the last night in sinfully delicious congress with a man, but she didn’t see a noticeable difference other than a slight ache in her legs and a tingly thrill sweeping through her veins. Oh, and the smile that wouldn’t quite leave her face.
She could attempt to justify her actions as necessary to maintain their masquerade. Could excuse her wantonness as a last-ditch effort to disgust Corey enough that he would abandon his plans to marry her. But no matter how she sought to justify her wantonness, the reality of her decision smacked her in the face.
She had wanted David more than she’d wanted anything in her life, and nothing else had mattered in those heart-pounding, jaw-dropping minutes of raw physicality. Not society’s condemnation or Sam’s jealousy. Not Corey’s pursuit or Branston’s hatred. Not even the spirit’s dark prophecy.
It had been desire in its purest form, brought on by the thrill of sharing a joke, the comfort of feeling protected, and the joy of finding someone who understood her loneliness. How long had it been since she’d been able to open up to someone? How long since she’d felt appreciated not for what she was but for who she was?
Had her mother and father felt that same sense of discovery? That same uncontrollable need? The topic of her parents’ scandalous affair and marriage had been a taboo subject in their house. Callista had known only what she’d gleaned from overheard conversations and street gossip. Mother had come from wealth and was destined for a brilliant match. Father had been a poor lawyer whose wife had just died, leaving him a young, unruly son. They met by chance. Fell in love and ran away to wed.
It sounded blissfully romantic, but Callista remembered only the aftermath of their reckless affair; the leaky old houses, the washing Mother took in when Father grew too ill to work, and Mother’s wretched weeping after he’d died, a pile of returned letters from her family scattered across the floor.
If there had been wild, unruly passion to start, it had been quickly consumed by the tedium of everyday difficulties.
Callista rummaged among a cupboard, shoving aside a pile of spinning plates, three wooden batons, and David’s saddlebag to reach her satchel. Opening the traveling bag, she removed the mahogany box with its carved scrollwork and brass hinges and set it beside her. With a practiced flick of the lock’s tumblers, she opened the lid. Ran a finger gently over each of the three bells before resting her hand on the packet of letters. A dubious
