He held himself still, staring into the dark toward her, trying to bring sense and distance to the hot physical f lood that engulfed him. If this was an offer, it was an unexpected one. She should have been at the Green Dragon for the night-he was sure he'd explained that clearly to her. Callie had always been careful to attend to every detail of her role in their adventures-she was too nervous of making a mistake to do otherwise.
He didn't think she'd misunderstood him. And Lilly wasn't here to provide propriety. But then, Lilly belonged to Lady Callista, not to Madame Malempré. And he'd said he wouldn't be back until morning. He was having difficulty thinking rationally with the feel of her hair drifting over his bare arm, the soft shape of her body pressing down the feather bed. He ached with a longing that was lust and something beyond lust, almost a sickness of desire. He tried to reason it, to tell himself that whatever the circumstance or error, he'd best get up and leave the bed, but his mind wasn't making much headway against his body.
He turned abruptly onto his back and lay staring upward, listening to her soft breath. He should sleep in the sitting room. He could close the door and ring for coffee-roust the poor boots off his cot again and annoy the kitchen staff. Or just dress and go down stairs to the parlor.
He ran his hand over his face and then thrust it through the curtains, testing the freezing air outside. He drew back quickly. The bed was thoroughly warmed where she lay, an invitation drawing him near. He moved a little closer to her, pulling the counterpane over her bare arm where her skin had cooled in the open air. She stirred but did not waken. He tucked it around her, trying to be protective, or something like it. He didn't want her to be cold.
He laughed silently at his own excuses, turning fully toward her and putting his arm across her shoulders. She felt indescribably soft, moving a little, settling into him. There was a thin slip of silk between them, some low-cut confection that pressed tight across her breasts. He could feel them, their tips taut against the inside of his arm.
He was going to die. He really thought it possible. He knew a number of ways to make love safely, to please a woman without undue risk, but he wanted to fumble now like a untaught boy, so hot he could not think past the fact that he could feel her nipples. His ears were roaring. Memories of erotic kisses they had shared engulfed him, instants of passion that he had carried in his memory for years, the images he used to take his own pleasure.
He held himself very still and ran his fingertip around one small nub, feeling it rise in response. Her leg stretched out, sliding along his as she sighed in her sleep. She had wanted more this afternoon; he told himself he would satisfy her now. Gratify her and please her and go no further.
He bent his forehead against the nape of her neck, his mouth and jaw locked in an ironic smile. Self controlled lover that he was, he was trembling, his full member pressed against her just below her buttocks. He'd never been in a bed with Callie. He doubted he was able to move without losing mastery of himself.
She stirred, rolling over toward him. He pulled back, feeling her awaken, expecting her to jerk away and cry out in surprise. But she only stiffened a little, holding herself still. His hand was resting on her shoulder.
"Trev," she mumbled drowsily.
"Wicked Callie," he whispered.
She came into his embrace suddenly and fully, making a thankful little sound, as if she'd been having a nightmare and awoken to find safety. He drew her tight against him in spite of his arousal, touched to his heart by the simple way she reached for him.
"I couldn't leave," she said, her face buried in his throat. "I didn't know what to do."
"It's all right," he said against her temple.
"Major Sturgeon followed me. He's taken a room here."
"Meddlesome devil." He might have been alarmed by this news at some other time, but he had scant interest in Sturgeon just now.
She held him close, but he could feel a change come into her, a dawning awareness of the state of his body, of their entanglement together. He felt her swallow.
"But I thought-you weren't to come back tonight," she whispered.
"Mmmm," he said, nuzzling her face. "Do you want me to go away?"
She let out an unsteady breath, a half-surprised, half-scared f lutter of sound. It made him want to roll her onto her back and take her fiercely, all caution tossed away to the cold night outside.
For a long moment she was silent. He could feel her heart beating, the light touch of her hair falling across his skin.
"I should go," he said reluctantly, when she didn't speak.
Her arms tightened. "No," she said in a small voice. "Stay."
His breath left his chest. He almost wished that she had banished him. He wasn't in command of himself. "You want to kill me," he muttered, only half in jest.
She shook her head, a movement in the dark against his throat. "I want… everything," she whispered, the words a mere breath of air on his skin. "I don't want to stop this time."
Trev lay very still, closing his eyes as a wave of white-hot urgency possessed him. He turned onto his back, his arm f lung wide, a low laugh in his chest. "It would be heaven, wouldn't it?"
"Do you think so?" she whispered, and he could see her face in his mind, her soft, shy eyes looking up at him like a wild deer watching from the wood.
He laughed aloud. "My God, Callie, have a little mercy. We'd better not start it. A man can only go so far and contain himself."
"Oh," she said.
It was not that she sounded disappointed or miffed or offended, the way any number of women of his past had sounded when he had tactfully refused their very agreeable offers. She didn't weep or withdraw. There was only that single small syllable she spoke, but he heard all the damage, the hurt they must have given her, those bastards who had left her standing at the altar or alone in the line of chairs against the wall, all their excuses and lies, those blind, blind, stupid bastards who never saw what was right before their eyes.
Here he lay, burning, and she thought he didn't want her. He could hear it in her voice, feel it in the faint slackening of her fingers on his arm.
He sat up on his elbow. "It's not a good idea," he said, trying to explain. "There are risks. We're not wed." He felt helpless. "What if I… what if you… what if we…" His voice trailed off. A green boy would have explained it better, but now he was drowning in visions of Callie carrying his child. He took a deep breath. "Do you understand me?"
"Yes, of course," she said quickly. "I understand."
"Oh Christ." He fell back on the pillow. "Ma vie, you don't understand." He swore. "There's so much you don't understand."
"Yes I do. Truly. It's all right." She had taken her hand away. "I know what you mean."
"Marry me," he said suddenly. "Callie."
She drew back. "Marry?"
He would reckon it all out somehow. He'd tell her everything. And she'd take him anyway, and they would go to France or America or Italy. He'd buy her all the prize bulls she wanted, and they'd make love in haystacks all over the world. He realized from her shocked reaction that he'd been deplorably blunt. "Of course I meant-Lady Callista, will you do me the honor-"
"No!" she exclaimed, the bed rocking as she sat up. "You're very obliging, sir," she said in distress, "but please, you must not."
He sat up also. "Callie, I'm in earnest. If you would consider…" Consider marriage to a convicted criminal. Consider f leeing the country and never coming back. Consider tying herself for life to a fraud. She thought he had vast estates, a place in society, titles that were more than pretty words and air. He trailed off, staring uneasily into the darkness toward her.