Heat rose. Need swelled and grew.
The arousing sounds of their mating enveloped them — the slap of skin against skin, their ragged, desperate breaths, the muted sobs that fell from her lips.
Passion caught them.
Held them in an invincible grip and ruthlessly, relentlessly, drove them on.
Until they were clinging to sanity, desperate, greedy, beyond needy, so close to the sensual abyss yet still not there. .
Pressing deep, her bare bottom riding evocatively against his groin, he bent over her, reached around, slid one palm over her parted lips, filled the other with one swollen breast, found her ruched nipple, gripped and thrust harder, deeper, more forcefully as he squeezed.
She cried out and came apart, pressing back against him as he continued to fill her, deeper and still deeper. Her sheath contracted, clutched, and drew him irrevocably on — he let go and followed her into the blinding ecstasy, glorying in the moment, in the sheer heat and fury, the mind-melting, bone-dissolving cataclysm of sensation that slammed into him, into them, that set her keening as they crested the final peak.
They fractured.
And fell.
Into a void of indescribable bliss.
He collapsed upon her, managed to slide to the side enough so he didn’t crush her.
They were both struggling for breath, helpless and weak, limbs like jelly, nerves unraveled.
Eventually he gathered enough strength to disengage, then he rolled onto his back the better to fill his chest.
After a moment, she rolled, too, so that she lay on her back alongside him.
He glanced at her just as she drew in a breath and blew it out in a huff.
“That was. .
He grinned and refocused on the ceiling. Intention accomplished, goal achieved.
Tomorrow they would reach the Vale, and Richard and Catriona’s roof. As a guest thereunder, he couldn’t in all conscience visit Heather’s bed, so whatever inducements to matrimony he wished to impress on her had to be proffered now.
And if later she was keen to play further, he was — would be — more than willing.
In his educated experience, they together — she and he — were significantly more than amazing.
They nodded off and woke to a handbell ringing downstairs. Rolling out of each other’s arms and off the bed, they quickly washed, straightened their clothes, then headed down the narrow stair to find Mrs. Croft setting down plates on the deal table in the kitchen.
The aromatic stew piqued Heather’s appetite. Complimenting Mrs. Croft, she took the chair the widow waved her to — the one between Mrs. Croft’s and the stool at the end of the table to which Breckenridge was directed. Mrs. Croft cast him a glance as he sat, then she said a brief grace, and they settled to eat. For several moments, the only sound was the scrape of spoons on the metal plates.
Heather noted that Breckenridge, as he had before, slumped, slouched, and attempted to draw in on himself. He kept his eyes on his plate, and other than a brief word in appreciation of the stew, said nothing at all.
Which admittedly seemed to settle Mrs. Croft. She applied herself to her plate with similarly silent zeal.
Her own appetite appeased, Heather searched for a topic of conversation. Through the open doorway, her eye fell on a pile of mending in a basket in the sitting room, set beside what was clearly Mrs. Croft’s armchair. “Do you take in mending, then?”
Mrs. Croft glanced at her. “Aye. There’s quite a few gentry houses hereabouts. Used to be a sempstress at one before I married Croft, so I make my way with it now.”
“If you like, once we’ve washed the plates, I could help you.” It was the one practical thing she could do — she was an excellent needlewoman.
Mrs. Croft blinked, but then slowly nodded. “If you’ve a mind to, I wouldn’t say no.” With her head, she indicated the pile in the basket. “I need to get that done as soon as maybe.”
Which was how Heather came to spend a strangely comfortable evening sitting beside the fire sewing up hems and repairing ripped seams. Breckenridge did wonders for Mrs. Croft’s opinion of him by offering to wash the plates and pot so she and Heather could get on with the mending.
Later, he stood, ducking his head in the doorway, and asked the widow to point him to the axe and woodpile. “I’ll be up early and get that woodbox filled for you before we leave.”
By then Mrs. Croft had largely lost her wariness of him. She readily rose and showed him where everything was, then returned to her chair alongside Heather’s.
Breckenridge followed the widow back into the sitting room. He stood in the shadows and watched for a time — watched Heather’s face as she set tiny stitches in some dandy’s shirt. She looked surprisingly domesticated.
Hiding a smile, he shifted, attracting both women’s attention. He bobbed his head. “I’ll go up, then. Good night.”
He included Mrs. Croft as well as Heather with his nod.
Reaching the stairs, he climbed, smiling again at the tableau he’d left before the fire. He was still smiling when he entered their room.
Heather felt peculiarly settled as she sewed. Whether it was the satisfaction of doing something active and helpful with her own admittedly small hands, or the knowledge that, once she finished and went upstairs, Breckenridge would be waiting for her in the comfy bed, she wasn’t sure, but she felt happier than she could logically explain.
Another half hour of dogged industry and between them she and Mrs. Croft emptied the basket.
“Well!” Mrs. Croft looked at the neatly folded linens, as if stunned they’d accomplished that much. “I have to say, mistress, that you’re quick with that needle. I truly do thank you. .”
When the widow’s voice trailed away, Heather looked at her inquiringly.
Mrs. Croft met her eyes, then tentatively offered, “Your man — he’s a good man, isn’t he?”
“A very good man.” There was no hesitation in her answer.
“Aye, well, I had a good man, too — Croft was a simple woodsman, but he had the best of hearts.” Mrs. Croft’s lips pinched. “The one afore that, though — he was a blackguard. All smiles and honey and handsomeness, but he had a black heart. So I know the bad, but I know the good when I see it, too. Your man — he might be handsome as sin, but his heart’s true. If you’re wise, you’ll hang on to him and not let him go.”
Heather smiled but couldn’t bring herself to lie. She had every intention of parting from Breckenridge with the same matter-of-fact attitude with which he would undoubtedly view the end of their liaison. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I’d best go up to him.”
Mrs. Croft nodded. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Heather took the single candle the widow held out to her, then carefully shielded the flame as she climbed the stairs.
The door at the top had been left ajar. She nudged it open and went in. In the wavering light of the candle, she saw Breckenridge stretched out beneath the covers.
He wasn’t asleep. He turned his head to watch her as she eased the door shut, then carried the candle to the chest of drawers. Setting it down, she glanced at him. “Mrs. Croft is now convinced you have a good heart.”
He smiled and looked up at the ceiling.
She quickly stripped, debated whether or not to leave her chemise on, then hauled it off over her head, pinched out the candle, and rushed to dive under the covers Breckenridge helpfully raised for her.
She burrowed closer, and discovered, as she’d assumed — and hoped — that he was naked, too. All but plastering herself to his side, she sighed as his heat reached out and enveloped her. Being skin to skin with him was soothing on the one hand, pure temptation on the other. She felt rather than heard his deep chuckle, then he raised his arm, slid it about her shoulders, and drew her nearer yet. Pillowing her cheek on his upper chest, she sank against his strength, relaxed into his embrace.
Heaven. She was quite sure this, in its smallest-of-pleasures way, qualified.
Breckenridge’s jaw shifted against her hair, then he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Sleep. We’ve another
