He could resist anything but those words.
"Don't do this," he warned. "If you push me right now, I'll do something brash. Something you'd only regret."
She stepped forward. "If you leave these stables without me, I will follow you. On foot. In the rain. Without a cloak. I'll walk all the way to Southwark, if that's what it takes." She blinked away a raindrop caught in her lashes. "So if you're concerned for my health and well-being, Rafe Brandon, you had better--"
Rafe never heard the rest of her impassioned threat. He put his hands on her waist and lifted her onto his gelding.
Then he mounted behind her, circling one arm about her middle and bracketing her hips with his thighs.
As he nudged the horse into a canter, he pulled her roughly to him. Holding her not like a lover, but like a captive. She'd asked for this. Tonight, she was in his keeping, for all the best and worst of what that could mean to them both.
And she was right on one score.
There could be no going back.
Clio was soaked to the skin and shivering in the dark. She had no idea where she was, or where Rafe might be taking her.
And she'd never been happier in her life.
Never mind the cold and the darkness. His body was warm. And her heart had enough joy inside it to blaze like a lantern. She could stay forever like this--tucked against his broad, strong chest and blanketed by his coat as the horse faithfully trudged through the rain and mud.
They stopped at the first inn they came across. Rafe ushered her inside, presenting some tale to the innkeeper about newlyweds and a broken carriage axle.
Clio tried not to make too much of the fact that he'd introduced her as his wife. He was only being protective, no doubt. Trying to deflect suspicion from the appearance of a man and woman traveling alone.
Still . . . When he uttered the phrase, "a room for my wife," she leapt at the chance to nestle close to his side.
Once they'd been shown upstairs, he gave orders to the serving girls.
Well, not only to the serving girls.
"Stay on that side of the room," he directed Clio. "I'm only here until you're settled. Then I'll go down for the night."
"That'll be a blow to your pride, I fear. We're supposed to be newlyweds. They won't think the honeymoon's going well."
He shrugged. "I'll tell them you're timid due to my prodigious size."
She smiled, hugging herself to keep her teeth from chattering. Now that he'd released her, she was so cold. "About earlier. Rafe, I just want to say thank you. That was brilliant. All of it."
"It was stupid. And loutish and impulsive." He pushed his hands through his hair and blew out his breath. "I shouldn't have brought you here. I shouldn't have hit him."
"I'm glad to be here. And I loved that you hit him. That was the best part."
"He's your brother-in-law."
"Yes. But he's insufferable."
He rubbed a hand over his mouth. "I could have hit him harder. I wanted to hit him harder."
"I know."
"Bloody hell. I could have killed him."
The back of her neck prickled. "You'd never do that."
His dark gaze locked with hers. So intent, she felt it from across the room. "You don't know what I'd do for you."
Whomp. Her heart slammed against her rib cage with such strength, she lost her breath.
"Beggin' pardon, sir."
Rafe moved aside as three of the inn's serving girls entered the room. One carried a washtub, and the others held great pitchers of steaming water. Clio and Rafe stood silent as they went about filling the bath. It took them longer than it ought, because all three of them kept stealing glances at Rafe.
Even after they left, he kept his sentinel post by the door. "It wasn't supposed to go this way."
"I imagine it wasn't. You looked magnificent in this." She hugged his finely tailored topcoat around her. "I don't suppose you went to all that trouble just to come serve my brother-in-law a mean right cross."
He made a futile gesture. "We were supposed to dance. A proper dance. One long enough for me to tell you how goddamn beautiful you are in that gown. The way I should have done at your debut, years ago."
Oh, Rafe.
"And then before I left, I was going to pull you aside somewhere quiet and give you . . ."
"What? Then you'd give me what?"
He nodded at her. "Check the pocket."
She slid one hand to the breast pocket of his tailcoat and reached inside. Her fingers closed on a packet of papers.
The papers.
"You didn't."
"I had to. You deserve that much. I--"
"Sir, beggin' pardon again."
The serving girls were back. Once again, Rafe stepped out of the doorway to let them through. They brought yet another pitcher of water for the bath, an armful of towels, and a tray with a pot of tea, bread, and what smelled like rabbit stew.
"Will that be everything, sir?" the eldest tavern girl asked.
He nodded. "Ready a meal for me downstairs, if you would. I'll be down in a trice."
The three of them left, and the moment they disappeared, Clio could hear them giggling and whispering in the corridor.
"Listen, I can't stay and chat. I'd wager we have about three minutes before your reputation is destroyed."
"They don't know who I am."
"They know who I am. Or someone will. And it wouldn't be difficult to find out the rest." He shook his head. "You can't imagine. I wouldn't mind it if the whole world knew. I'd like to hang a sign on this door that says 'Ruination in Progress,' and lock the both of us inside."
None of that sounded so terrible to Clio.
"But that's not why I came to the ball tonight," he said. "I wanted--"
With a glance down the corridor, he ducked under the lintel and entered the room. The door remained open.
He lowered his voice. "Clio, I wanted to give you choices. Not take them."
Her fingers curled around the papers. "So you do mean to sign these?"
"I already did."
She looked down at the papers, uncurling them to verify. There it was, his signature on the final page, scrawled bold and unapologetic across the parchment.
"You're no longer engaged, as of half-seven this evening. I wanted to let you know right away. In case it improved your enjoyment of the ball tonight. I owed you more than a waltz. I wanted to you to feel free. Free to dance, to flirt, to tell the gossips to go to the devil." He shook out his arms. "Instead, we're here."
"Yes. We're here."
And Clio wasn't upset about it in the least. Perhaps this wasn't what he'd planned, but to her it was a thousand times better than any waltz.
"Well. For whatever good it does you, you're an independent woman now. Free to go wherever you please and do what you like."
She stood silent for a moment. "In that case . . ."
In calm, measured steps she walked around him and went straight for the entryway.
Then she closed the door and turned the key, locking them both inside.
"I want to spend the night with you."
Chapter Twenty-one
Clio held her breath. For a brief, terrifying moment, nothing happened.
He made no sound. No movement. No reaction at all.
Not even a blink.
And then, in a heartbeat, he had her pressed against the door. Her spine met the wood with a teeth-rattling urgency. His hands slid to her backside, and he lifted her, molding her body to his.
His words were a low growl against her lips. "I was hoping you'd say that."
She slid her hands to his hair, smiling so broadly it was difficult to kiss him back. "I was hoping you'd do this."
He kissed her. Hungrily, at first. Then sweetly. More sweetly than ever before, sipping at her top lip, then the bottom. Teasing her tongue with his. Murmuring soft words she couldn't make out, but didn't need to, really. Stroking her cheek with the backs of his fingers and taking all the time he wished. Because now
they didn't need to rush. They needn't worry about any interruption.
At last, it was only the two of them.
All too soon, he pulled away. "We should w--"
"No." Panicked, she pressed her fingers over his lips, pursed as they were on the brink of destroying her. "Don't say that word. I'll take any other word beginning with W, but not that one. Writhe, wash, wiggle, whip . . ."
He looked a bit alarmed at that last option.
"It's an example. You know what I mean. The next word out of your mouth had better be anything but 'wait.' "
She removed her fingers.
His thumbs traced soothing circles on her lower back. "Warm. We should warm you up. Get you something to eat."
"Oh. Well, that's fine. And much better than any of my suggestions."
"No doubt. I'll get you a blanket, and then we'll see about peeling off this silk." As he lowered her to the floor, his face went suddenly, direly grave. "You'll have to marry me, you know."
Yes.
She did know.
In that moment, Clio looked inside her heart. It was the clearest glimpse she'd ever had. She saw the entirety of her future. Their future. The castle, the brewery. Children. Christmases and Easters and summer rain.
They'd always have rain.
"There's no way around it," he said, backing away and going to the bed. "It might not be what you wanted, but . . . You came after me in the rain, all wet and shivering. And I should have sent you back, but I'm too impulsive for anyone's good. Especially yours."
Oh, drat. He was hurt. She should have just blurted out the word yes, but she hadn't and now he didn't understand. He'd mistaken her pause for reluctance.
He tugged at the blankets. "I'm a fighter. If anything good remained of my reputation, last night I've destroyed it. The only thing I can offer you is the protection of my body."
"Rafe . . ."
"But there's no refusing it now." He paused, pillow in hand, holding it like shield. "You don't have a choice."
"Of course I have choices. When you signed those papers, you gave me all the choices in the world. I'm a new Clio. I'm not doing anything because I have to, and I don't care what people say. I'm certainly not going to marry you simply because you say I must."
His fingers flexed, digging a stranglehold into the pillow.
"For heaven's sake, that poor cushion."
She took the pillow from his hands, and gave it an apologetic plumping before placing at the head of the bed.
"Rafe," she said, "I'm going to marry you because I love you."
He blinked at her, and she realized with a sudden pang in her heart that he might never have heard these words before. His mother was gone so young. No matter how his father and brother might have felt, they wouldn't be the sort to voice it aloud. And if what he told her was true, about his history with women being shallow and unsatisfying . . .
Clio was likely the first. And the fact that she could give him this gift? Oh, it just filled her heart with joy.
She took one of his hands in both of hers. "I am madly in love with you, Rafe Brandon."
He was quiet for a while.
"Are you feverish?" he asked.
"No."
"Are you certain?"
"Yes." She lifted his hand and pressed the back of it to her brow. "See?"
"I didn't mean about the fever. Are you certain about me?"
Clio supposed she deserved that skepticism. As far as Rafe knew, these feelings were a recent development.
"I'm certain. It's been coming on for some time now. I'm not even sure when it began, but . . . long before this summer. For years now, I've read everything I could find of your career. I cheered your successes; I worried when you were hurt. Why else would I keep reaching out with all those silly invitations and holiday greetings? I'm a nice girl, Rafe, and yes, I was raised to be the model of gentility and good breeding. But even I'm not that polite."
She took his hand and kissed it. "I love you. And I understand if it's difficult for you to believe that fully today. But it's just as well. It's a short little phrase. I can repeat it as many times as it takes. You can practice taking it the way you take jabs." She raised her fists the way he'd taught her and boxed his shoulder. "I love you. I love you. I--"
He caught her in his arms. His eyes were fierce. "Clio, no. You have to stop."
"I won't stop. Not even a heavyweight champion of England is strong enough to make me." Giddy with the power of it, she laced her arms around his neck. "I love you. Take that."
Oh, Rafe intended to take it, all right.
He was going to take it, hold it tight with both hands, and never, ever let go.
"On second thought, never mind the blankets," he said. "I'm going to warm you myself."
"I like that idea."
So did he.
He put his hands on her waist and turned her so that she faced away from him. And then, for the second time that week, he set about the task of unbuttoning and unlacing her.
But it was so much different this time.
This time, she was his.
He'd been waiting a long time to have someone who belonged to him. Someone he could care for, unreservedly. Honestly. With every part of himself, not just the brutish, broken bits.
"Eat something while I do this," he told her. "We can't have you swooning again."
She reached for a roll and broke off a piece. "If you didn't want to make me swoon," she said with her mouth full, "you should not have been so dashing."
"You've little room to talk, in this gown." He unbuttoned the last of the closures and cleaved the damp silk from her back. "When I first saw you in that ballroom, I thought I might faint."
He pushed the gown down to her waist and over her hips, helping her step out of it. Then he set to unlacing her corset and untying the tapes of her petticoats. Wet knots were trickier than dry ones, but he finally managed to work them loose.
She turned to face him, clad in only a damp, tissue-thin linen shift. It clung to her, pasted to her every curve--all but translucent. Holy God. His gaze wandered from her hardened nipples, to the sweet flare of her hips, to the dark amber triangle of shadow guarding her sex.
If he hadn't been jerked back to awareness by her sudden shiver, he could have stood there gawping all night.
"Sorry," he said. He needed to hurry this, or she'd catch a chill. "Why don't you do the rest yourself and climb into bed. I'll take care of myself and join you."
She nodded, and he turned away, dropping into a chair by the fire so he could remove his boots. After those were dispatched, he stood and worked on the rest. In a matter of seconds, he'd stripped off his waistcoat and shirt, then shucked his trousers. Holding his clothing in a ball before him, he turned.
Clio lay nestled in the bed linens, her hair unbound and falling about her shoulders in damp waves. So lovely. She looked like a painting one might find in a Venetian palace.
And this picture of feminine delicacy was staring at him. The way a stray cat might eye joints of meat in the marketplace.
"I . . ." She looked abashed at being caught, but she didn't look away.
He tossed the balled-up clothing aside and spread his hands, as if to say: Go ahead; look your fill.
Her gaze flirted with his shoulders and abdomen, but quickly dropped to his most vital parts. Her cheeks turned an entirely new, rather alarming, shade of pink. He didn't even know how to name that shade of pink. It might not have existed in nature until tonight.
"I don't know what I was expecting." She hooked one finger on her teeth, pensive. "You're a large man. Everywhere. It stands to reason that you'd be . . . large . . . there, too."
He scratched the back of his neck, trying not to laugh. He wasn't freakishly big. Just on the larger side. But her unintentional compliments--and that fierce blush creeping up to her hairline--were only making matters worse. He was rapidly growing even larger.
She stretched a hand forward, tentative. "May I . . . ?"
As if he'd say no.
He moved closer to the bed, his cock jutting out before him like the prow of a ship. He was certain he'd never been harder in his life.
She touched him with one fingertip--one single fingertip, skimming him from shaft to tip--and his whole body went up in flames.
She tilted her head. "Are you very sure that this will--"
"Yes."
"All of it?"
"In time." He joined her on the bed, coaxing her to lie back on the mattress. "We'll take it as slow as you like. If you want me to stop, you've only to say the word."
He stretched out next to her, drawing her body close to his chest and enfolding her in his arms. Giving her his heat. He had plenty to spare.
"Warmer?"
She nodded.
As he bent to kiss her pulse, her head rolled to one side, stretching her neck into a pale, graceful curve.
An invitation.
And this was one invitation he would never refuse.
He began at her ear and kissed down her neck, all the way to her collarbone. His hand had drifted to her breast of its own accord. While kneading one, he kissed the other, nuzzling close to her violet-scented skin.
Even if they lived and made love for fifty years--and he fervently hoped they did--Rafe didn't think it would ever cease to astonish him, that she wanted this. His big, roughened body rubbing against her soft perfection.
He laid her on her back and kissed his way down her belly, pausing halfway down to prop his chin on her navel and gaze up into her face.
"I'm going to make this good for you," he promised. "Beyond good. I want . . . I want cake sounds. No, scratch that. I want Rafe sounds."
She laughed a little. But as he slid a hand up her naked thigh, her laugh became a sigh of pleasure.
"There's my girl. That's a start."
He finished kissing his way down her belly, then dipped his head lower. She startled. He held her hips tight.
"It's all right. If you trust me."
"I trust you."
He didn't take that gift lightly. He stroked her first with his fingers, parting her folds with the pad of his thumb, and pushing just an inch inside. When she gasped and moaned, he took the encouragement.
He nudged her legs apart, wide enough to accommodate his shoulders. And then he sank between her thighs, laying his tongue to the very heart of her. She bucked in surprise at the first contact, but he wouldn't be deterred. He teased her with slow, lapping strokes of his tongue. He loved the taste of her. She was so sweet, with just the right amount of tart.
"Rafe." She touched his shoulder. "Rafe, are you sure--"