A quiet curse, a rueful grin, and Cam renewed his guard. “Hard and fast,” he said approvingly. “Where did you learn to fight?”
“New York.”
Cam lunged forward and flipped him to the ground. “West London,” he returned.
Tucking into a roll, Harry gained his footing instantly. As he came up, he used his elbow in a backward jab into Cam’s midriff.
Cam grunted. Grabbing Harry’s arm, he hooked a foot around his ankle and took him down again. They rolled once, twice, until Harry sprang away and retreated a few steps.
Breathing hard, he watched as Cam leapt to his feet.
“You could have put a forearm to my throat,” Cam pointed out, shaking a swath of hair from his forehead.
“I didn’t want to crush your windpipe,” Harry said acidly, “before I made you tell me where my wife is.”
Cam grinned. Before he could reply, however, there was a commotion as all the Hathaways poured from the conservatory. Leo, Amelia, Win, Beatrix, Merripen, and Catherine Marks. Everyone except Poppy, Harry noted bleakly. Where the hell was she?
“Is this the after-dinner entertainment?” Leo asked sardonically, emerging from the group. “Someone might have asked me—I would have preferred cards.”
“You’re next, Ramsay,” Harry said with a scowl. “After I finish with Rohan, I’m going to flatten you for taking my wife away from London.”
“No,” Merripen said with deadly calm, stepping forward, “I’m next. And I’m going to flatten you for taking advantage of my kinswoman.”
Leo glanced from Merripen’s grim face to Harry’s, and rolled his eyes. “Forget it, then,” he said, going back into the conservatory. “After Merripen’s done, there won’t be anything left of him.” Pausing beside his sisters, he spoke quietly to Win out of the side of his mouth. “You’d better do something.”
“Why?”
“Because Cam only wants to knock a bit of sense into him. But Merripen actually intends to kill him, which I don’t think Poppy would appreciate.”
“Why don’t you do something to stop him, Leo?” Amelia suggested acidly.
“Because I’m a peer. We aristocrats always try to get someone else to do something before we have to do it ourselves.” He gave her a superior look. “It’s called noblesse oblige.”
Miss Marks’s brows lowered. “That’s not the definition of noblesse oblige.”
“It’s my definition,” Leo said, seeming to enjoy her annoyance.
“Kev,” Win said calmly, stepping forward, “I would like to talk to you about something.”
Merripen, attentive as always to his wife, gave her a frowning glance. “Now?”
“Yes, now.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“No,” Win said equably. At his continued hesitation, she said, “I’m expecting.”
Merripen blinked. “Expecting what?”
“A baby.”
They all watched as Merripen’s face turned ashen. “But how . . .” he asked dazedly, nearly staggering as he headed to Win.
“How?” Leo repeated. “Merripen, don’t you remember that special talk we had before your wedding night?” He grinned as Merripen gave him a warning glance. Bending to Win’s ear, Leo murmured, “Well done. But what are you going to tell him when he discovers it was only a ploy?”
“It’s not a ploy,” Win said cheerfully.
Leo’s smile vanished, and he clapped a hand to his forehead. “Christ,” he muttered. “Where’s my brandy?” And he disappeared into the house.
“I’m sure he meant to say ‘congratulations,’ ” Beatrix remarked brightly, following the group as they all went inside.
Cam and Harry were left alone.
“I should probably explain,” Cam said to Harry, looking somewhat apologetic. “Win used to be an invalid, and although she’s recovered, Merripen is still afraid that childbirth may be difficult for her.” He paused. “We all are,” he admitted. “But Win is determined to have children—and God help anyone who tries to say no to a Hathaway.”
Harry shook his head in bemusement. “Your family—”
“I know,” Cam said. “You’ll get used to us eventually.” A pause, and then he asked in a matter-of-fact tone, “Do you want to take up the fight again, or shall we dispense with the rest of it and go have a brandy with Ramsay?”
One thing was clear to Harry: His in-laws were not normal people.
One of the loveliest aspects of Hampshire summers was that even when the days were sun drenched and warm, most evenings were cool enough for a fire. Alone in the caretaker’s house, Poppy snuggled by the small, crackling hearth and read a book by lamplight. She read the same page repeatedly, unable to concentrate as she waited for Harry. She had seen his carriage pass the cottage on the way to Ramsay House, and she knew it was only a matter of time before they sent him to her. “You won’t see him,” Cam had told her, “until I’ve decided that his temper has cooled sufficiently.”
“He would never hurt me, Cam.”
“All the same, little sister, I intend to have a few words with him.”
She wore a dressing gown borrowed from Win, a ruffled pale pink garment with a white lace inset at the top. The bodice was very low, exposing her cleavage, and since Win was more slender, the garment was a bit too snug, nearly causing her breasts to spill over the lace. Knowing that Harry liked her hair down, she had brushed it and left it loose, a feathery, fiery curtain.
There was a sound from outside, a hard strike against the door. Poppy looked up sharply, her heartbeat quickening, her stomach turning over in a lazy somersault. She set the book aside and went to the door, turning the key in the lock, pulling at the knob.
She found herself standing face-to-face with her husband, who was one step below the stoop.
This was a new version of Harry, exhausted and rumpled and brutish, a day beyond a shave. Somehow the masculine dishevelment suited him, giving his handsomeness a raw, unvarnished appeal. He looked as if he were contemplating at least a dozen ways to punish her for having escaped him. His gaze raised gooseflesh all over her.
With a deep, arid breath, she stood back to let Harry in. Carefully, she closed the door.
The silence was pressing, the air charged with emotions she couldn’t even name. A pulse drummed in the backs of her knees, the insides of her elbows, and the pit of her belly as Harry’s gaze raked over her. “If you ever try to leave me again,” he said with quiet menace, “the consequences will be worse than you could imagine.” And he went on to say something to the effect that there were rules she would have to obey, and there were things he would not tolerate, and if she needed to be taught a lesson, he would be damned happy to oblige.
Despite his blistering tone, Poppy felt a wave of tenderness. He looked so hard faced and alone. So in need of comfort.
Before she gave herself a chance to reconsider, she went forward in two strides, removing all distance between them. Taking his stiff jaw in her hands, she stood on her toes and brought herself against him, and silenced him with her mouth.
She felt the shock of that tender contact jolt all through Harry. His breath slammed in his throat, and he seized her upper arms, pushing her back just far enough to stare at her incredulously. She felt how strong he was, able to break her in two if he chose. He was motionless, riveted by whatever he saw in her expression.
Eager and intent, Poppy strained upward to put her mouth to his again. He allowed it for just a moment, then pushed her back. A swallow rippled visibly down his throat. If the first kiss had startled him into silence, the second had utterly disarmed him.
“Poppy,” he said hoarsely, “I didn’t want to hurt you. I tried to be gentle.”
Poppy laid her hand softly along his cheek. “Is that why you think I left, Harry?”
He seemed stunned by the caress. His lips parted in a wordless question, his features stamped with exquisite frustration. She saw the moment when he stopped trying to make sense of anything.
&n
bsp; Bending over her with a groan, he kissed her.
The shared heat of their mouths, the sinuous brush of tongue against tongue, filled her with pleasure. She answered him ardently, withholding nothing, letting him search and stroke inside her as he wished. His arms went around her, one hand clasping beneath her bottom to pull her closer.
Caught up on her toes, Poppy felt her body list forward, chests, stomachs, hips pressing together. He was aggressively aroused, his flesh jutting boldly against her, every hint of friction wringing out deep and resonant delight.
His lips dragged along the side of her throat, and he bent her backward until her breasts strained the front of the dressing gown. He nuzzled into the valley of compressed flesh, stroking between her breasts with his tongue. His hot breath mingled in the white lace, his mouth dampening her skin. Roughly he sought the tip of her breast, but it was tucked too tightly beneath the soft pink fabric. She arched desperately, wanting his mouth there, everywhere, wanting everything.
She tried to say something, perhaps suggest they go to the bedroom, but it came out as a moan. Her knees were close to buckling. Harry tugged at the front of the bodice, discovering the row of concealed hook-and-eye closures. He opened the bodice with stunning swiftness and stripped the dressing gown away, leaving her naked.
Reaching for her, he turned her away from him and pushed the gleaming fall of her hair aside. His mouth descended to the nape of her neck, kissing, almost biting, his tongue playing, while his hands slid over her smooth front. He cupped a breast, gently pinching the hardening peak while his other hand slid between her thighs.
Poppy jumped a little, gasping in anticipation as he parted her. Instinctively she tried to widen her stance for him, offering herself, and his approving purr vibrated against her neck. He held her in a deep fondling embrace, feeling her, filling her with his fingers until she arched back against him, her bare bottom cradling the shape of his erection. He coaxed sensation from her, pleasuring her vulnerable flesh.
“Harry,” she panted, “I’m going to f-fall—”
They sank to the carpeted floor in a sort of slow, grappling collapse, with Harry still behind her. He muttered against her back, imprinting words of need and praise against her skin. The texture of his mouth, wet velvet surrounded by the bristle of his jaw, caused her to shiver in pleasure. He kissed his way along the curve of her spine, following it to the small of her back.
Poppy turned around to reach for the placket of his shirt. Her fingers were unusually clumsy as she undid the four buttons. Harry held still, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he watched her with volatile green eyes. He stripped off his open waistcoat, pulled his leather braces to the sides, and tugged the shirt over his head. His chest was magnificent, broad reaches of curved muscle and tough-knit hardness covered by a light fleece of hair. She stroked him with a trembling hand and reached down to his trousers, trying to find the concealed placket at the front.
“Let me,” Harry said brusquely.
“I will,” she insisted, determined to learn this bit of wifely knowledge. She felt his stomach against her knuckles, hard as a board. Finding the elusive button, she worked on it with both hands while Harry forced himself to wait. They both jumped as her delving fingers inadvertently brushed against his erection.
He made a choked sound, something between a groan and a laugh. “Poppy.” He was breathless. “Damn it, please let me do it.”
“It wouldn’t be so difficult—” she protested, finally managing to free the button, “—if your trousers weren’t so tight.”
“They’re not usually.”
Comprehending what he meant, she paused and met his gaze, and a shy, rueful grin curved her mouth. He took her head in his hands, staring at her with a longing that raised the hairs on the back of her neck.
“Poppy,” he said raggedly, “I thought about you every minute of that twelve-hour carriage drive. About how to make you come back with me. I’ll do anything. I’ll buy you half of bloody London, if that will suffice.”
“I don’t want half of London,” she said faintly. Her fingers tightened on the waist of his trousers. This was Harry as she had never seen him before, all defenses down, speaking to her with raw honesty.
“I know I should apologize for coming between you and Bayning.”
“Yes, you should,” she said.
“I can’t. I’ll never be sorry about it. Because if I hadn’t done it, you’d be his now. And he only wanted you if it was easy for him. But I want you any way I can get you. Not because you’re beautiful or clever or kind or adorable, although the devil knows you’re all those things. I want you because there’s no one else like you, and I don’t ever want to start a day without seeing you.”
As Poppy opened her mouth to reply, he smoothed his thumb across her lower lip, coaxing her to wait until he had finished. “Do you know what a balance wheel is?”
She shook her head slightly.
“There’s one in every clock or watch. It rotates back and forth without stopping. It’s what makes the ticking sound . . . what makes the hands move forward to mark the minutes. Without it, the watch wouldn’t work. You’re my balance wheel, Poppy.” He paused, his fingers compulsively following the fine curve of her jaw up to the lobe of her ear. “I spent today trying to think of what I could apologize for and maybe sound at least half sincere. And I finally came up with something.”
“What is it?” she whispered.
“I’m sorry I’m not the husband you wanted.” His voice turned gravelly. “But I swear on my life, if you’ll tell me what you need, I’ll listen. I’ll do anything you ask. Just don’t leave me again.”
Poppy stared at him in wonder. Perhaps most women wouldn’t find this talk of watch mechanisms to be terribly romantic, but she did. She understood what Harry was trying to say, perhaps even more than he himself did.
“Harry,” she said softly, daring to reach out and caress his jaw, “what am I to do with you?”
“Anything,” he said with a heartfelt vehemence that almost made her laugh. Leaning forward, Harry pressed his face into the silky mass of her hair.
She continued to work on his trousers, popping the last two buttons from their holes. Her fingers trembled as she gripped him tentatively. He let out a growl of pleasure, his arms sliding around her back. Unsure of how to touch him, she clasped him, squeezed gently, drew her fingertips up the hot length. She was fascinated by him, the silk and hardness and contained force of him, the way his entire body shivered as she stroked him.
His mouth sought hers in a full-open kiss, obliterating all thought. He rose above her, powerful and predatory, famished for the pleasures that were still so new to her. As he lowered her to the carpet, she realized that he was going to take her, now, here, instead of seeking the more civilized comforts of the bedroom. But he hardly seemed aware of where they were, his eyes focused only on her, his color high, his lungs pumping like hearth bellows.
Murmuring his name, she lifted her arms to him. He struggled out of the rest of his clothes and bent to feast on her breasts . . . hot, wet mouth . . . restless tongue. She kept trying to pull him farther over her, seeking the weight of his body, needing to be anchored. She groped for the hard, aching length of him, and urged him against her.
“No,” he said thickly. “Wait . . . I have to make sure you’re ready.”
But she was determined, her grip insistent, and somewhere amid his groans and pants, a husky laugh emerged. He mounted her, adjusted her hips, and paused as he struggled for a measure of self-restraint.
Poppy wriggled helplessly as she felt the gradual pressure of his entry . . . torturously slow . . . maddening, heavy, sweet.
“Does it hurt?” Harry panted, hanging over her, bracing his weight on his arms to keep from crushing her. “Shall I stop?”
The concern on his face was her undoing, filling her with warmth. Her arms slid around his neck, and she pressed kisses on his cheek, neck, ear, everywhere she could reach. Her body held hi
m tightly down below. “I want more of you, Harry,” she whispered. “All of you.”
He groaned her name and surged into her, alert to every subtle response . . . lingering when it pleased her, pressing deeper when she lifted, every slow plunge tamping more sensation inside her. She let her hands glide over his sleek, flexing back, the burning silk of his skin, loving the feel of him.
Following the long lines of muscle, she went lower until her palms smoothed circles over the tight curves of his backside. His response was electric, his thrusts turning more forceful, a quiet grunt escaping his throat. He liked that, she thought with a smile, or would have smiled if her mouth hadn’t been so thoroughly occupied with his. She wanted to discover more about him, all the ways to please him, but the accumulating pleasure reached a tipping point and began to spill powerfully, inundating her, drowning all thought.
Her body clenched him in strong spasms, extorting release, pulling it from him. He let out a harsh cry and sank into her with a last thrust, shuddering violently. It was indescribably satisfying to feel him climax inside her, his body powerful and yet vulnerable in that ultimate moment. And better still to have him lower into her arms, his head dropping on her soft shoulder. Here was the closeness she had always craved.
She cradled his head, his hair a silky tickle against her inner wrist, his breath flowing over her in hot rushes. His unshaven bristle was scratchy against the tender skin of her breast, but she wouldn’t have moved him for all the world.
Their breathing slowed, and Harry’s weight became crushingly heavy. Poppy realized he was falling asleep. She pushed at him. “Harry.”
He lurched upward, blinking, his gaze disoriented.
“Come to bed,” Poppy murmured, rising. “The bedroom is just over there.” She murmured a few encouragements, urging him to follow. “Did you bring a traveling bag?” she asked. “Or a gentleman’s case?”
Harry glanced at her as if she’d spoken in a foreign language. “Case?”
“Yes, with your clothes, toiletries, that sort of . . .” Perceiving how utterly exhausted he was, she smiled and shook her head. “Never mind. We’ll sort it out in the morning.” She towed him to the bedroom. “Come . . . we’ll sleep . . . we’ll talk later. A few more steps . . .”