“And so, you became the duke.” Bea stared into the flames, trying to imagine such a moment. She loved her brother, though she did not always like him. Still, if he were gone, she would be mired in grief.
“And so, I became the duke.” There was no bitterness in his voice. Instead, a deep sorrow coated his words. “My brother loved the land, the family. The title was at risk, and the history that went with it. I came home—to honor him. The family.”
“You gave up espionage,” she murmured.
“Family is more important.” The hand circling around her waist drifted up to cup her breast. Easily, once again as if he had done so a thousand times before. But it was both the first time and the last, so Bea let herself enjoy the sensation of his callused hands on her skin. “Now Napoleon’s missives have been exchanged for the grain yield.”
“Do you miss it?” she asked.
“I miss my brother more.” His fingers toyed with her nipple, each touch sending sparks through her. “Nor does it matter any longer. That life is gone. Forgotten.”
“Nothing is ever forgotten. It is only behind you.” Shifting within the circle of his arms, Bea turned to face him. Stared hard into those deep blue eyes. “Sometimes, you need to look behind you to determine where you are going.”
“A philosophical highwayman.” In the shadowed half-light, his face might have been carved from stone. Rough and strong, and blessed by the pagan gods.
“I am a highwayman of many parts.” She pressed her lips to his. Softly, because she felt the hurt that still reverberated through his body. “You did what was right, coming home. You will continue to do what is right as the Duke of Highrow. Your brother would be proud.”
“I hope so.” He nibbled at the corner of her mouth, sending little shivers right down to her toes. “The wind has died down.”
She had forgotten the snowstorm and the world beyond the warm cottage. It seemed as if, for a brief time, nothing existed outside the circle of golden firelight. Only the two of them, warm and naked and cocooned in blankets.
But morning would come, and with it a return to Lady Beatrice Falk, a spinster in her twenty-seventh year, and the commanding Duke of Highrow.
There would not be another man like him in her life.
No lover before, no lover after, could compare to Wulf.
“Dawn is only a few hours away,” she whispered, cupping his cheek so the rough stubble brushed against the palm of her hand. “Will you make love to me again? Once more before the night is over?”
He did not answer her. Instead, he dipped his mouth to hers. Hot and firm and skilled, he seized the control she’d had only a while earlier. Heat swirled in her belly, clogged her lungs, as she ran her hands over his chest.
Mouth never leaving hers, Wulf continued to play with her tongue—teasing, tasting—as one hand drifted below to caress her hip, her bottom.
But his gaze had shuttered. He was different now, as though he’d reined himself in. From her body, from their conversations. She understood that. Knew he had lost himself the first time—and knew as if it had been she just how terrifying that was. Control was as necessary as breathing or eating.
Could she give it to him? She did not know if she wanted to.
When he trailed his mouth between her breasts, she sighed. Let the licks and nips and kisses stir her desire. Sliding her hands upwards, she gripped the edge of the blanket and bared herself to him. He settled between her thighs, created magic with his fingers and mouth.
She wanted to stop him, to make him bend to her will instead of being lost in the need pulsing between them. In his caresses. In the pounding of her heart and the singing of her skin. Instead, Bea let his mouth and hands draw her up, bring her to pleasure, and lay her down again.
She opened her arms as she had before, wanting to bring him close to her again. Wulf shifted above her, arms braced on either side. His eyes, so deeply blue they held her captive, stared into hers.
“Who are you?” he whispered. “I want more of you. I don’t want tomorrow to be the end.”
“No one.” A part of her soul broke away, the pain of it slicing through her. There was nothing for them, whatever she might want. “There is only tonight, Wulf. That is all.”
His body was poised just at the entrance of hers. Hot, heavy. He held himself still, waiting. Thinking. Oh yes, he was thinking. And wanting.
“It is not enough.” He pressed his lips to hers and thrust into her, the muscles in his arms and shoulders shifting beneath his skin.
“Only tonight,” she repeated. Clamping her legs around his waist, she swung them around until she straddled him. Took him into her and rode him. “There is only tonight. We will make every moment count.”
CHAPTER 8
THE THICK BLANKETS still enveloped him, but Wulf was alone in that warm soft wool. Morning light crept through the cottage windows, infusing the room with a white glow. The fire had died to embers, and the air had cooled enough he could see his breath.
Through the curling vapor, he saw her clothing was missing. The boots she’d set by the fire had disappeared.
The highwayman was gone. Without a goodbye, without a word.
Damnation! At the very least, she could have woken him. Instead, she’d stolen away in the dark.
Wulf shucked off the coverlet and rose into the chilled air to dress. Cursing again as the cold fabric touched his skin, he pulled on his breeches, then what was left of his tattered shirt. They had agreed to nothing, but the woman could have afforded him common courtesy at least and said goodbye.
Intent on leaving the cottage prepared for some other stranded traveler—or highwayman—he folded the blankets and replaced them in the trunk. She had already stacked the kettle on the shelf with its mates, so there was little to tidy. He spread the embers in the hearth and strode toward the door.
Setting his hand on the latch, he turned for one final look at the room. The simple table and chairs. The wide hearth. He would always remember her lying naked on the blankets, beautifully curved, her nipples a dusky pink.
That vision would be forever seared into his mind.
Part of him understood they should mean nothing to each other beyond shared passion. She was clearly a woman who went her own way. A highwayman, while he was a duke. They would not meet again, and that was for the best.
Bugger that. He wanted more than one night. Wanted more from her.
He opened the door to the cottage, the chill of the morning bolstering his sudden fury instead of cooling it. He would find her—find her, explain that one night was not enough, and make love to her again. Then once more.
Because she had made him think, made him feel. Made him want more deeply than he’d ever wanted.
She was his highwayman. For good or ill, and for how long, he did not know—but at least for a little while, they would belong to each other.
Assuming he could find her.
Pulling the door shut with a snap, he studied the clearing in front of the cottage. White blanketed everything, bringing with it a still winter silence. Small boot prints disturbed the smooth surface of the snow, pointing toward the shed. A little farther beyond, horse tracks arrowed toward the north. Toward the forest path, as far as he knew.
He followed the tracks, each step in the ankle-deep snow increasing his discontent as the outside world crept back in. His stallion had disappeared, his shoulder was aching again, and his cursed highwayman had left him stranded. He did not know precisely how far he was from his own estate, nor where the nearest tenant or villager’s cottage might be.
Looking down at the horse tracks, he continued to follow them.
At least he knew where she was, and when he found her, he would wring the neck of that discourteous, beautiful, irritating, clever, sensual—