She didn't doubt for a minute that Ophelia's main contention was true. He wanted her back, he was just too angry yet to admit it. How could he not? Ophelia was just too beautiful for any man not to want her for himself. Sabrina did not, however, think that he was just using her to make Ophelia jealous. Amanda, perhaps, but not her. Their friendship was genuine. It had to be. She couldn't be that wrong about him—or her own self-worth.
And then the painful emotions arrived, with her acceptance that the man she loved, loved someone else, and someone who wasn't even worthy of him. She had known she would experience it eventually, but this soon?
Quite naturally, the tears came next, and so many of them that she was soon running aimlessly, without really seeing where she was going. When she nearly tripped on a root, she took a moment to clear her sight and found that she'd turned herself around in a circle and was almost back at Summers Glade. Which was why the coach leaving the mansion just then was able to come across her rather quickly.
"What the devil are you doing?" she heard before Duncan jumped down from the driver's seat and thrust her inside the coach.
There was no light inside. He'd taken the first vehicle that he'd come across that had horses already harnessed to it, the one that would have taken her and her aunts home at the end of the evening, and was kept ready for that.
So he couldn't see her tears when he followed her inside out of the cold, and his next question sounded just as angry as the first. "What happened back there tae send you running from the house?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing? When you were so upset you couldna e'en wait for your driver?" "I like to walk—" "You were running!" "It's cold—"
"You'll be giving me the truth, lass, and nae more excuses. I saw you talking tae Ophelia. What did she say tae you tae upset you so?"
"Duncan, I just want to go home. If you don't want me walking, then take me home."
He must have heard the quaver in her voice this time, now that he'd let her say more than a few words without interrupting her, because his finger came to her cheek to find the suspected tears there and then he was gathering her in his arms, almost crushing her in his own upset.
"I'm sorry, lass," he mumbled. "You dinna have tae talk aboot it if you dinna want tae. Och, I'm such an insensitive brute."
He wasn't that at all, was in fact trying to make amends by wiping the tears from her eyes and cheeks with his own lips. And such a natural progression, when he began kissing her instead. She certainly didn't object. She couldn't imagine herself ever objecting to Duncan's kisses, whether they were given in sympathy or friendship or ...
Passion, like anger, was an amazing emotion in how quickly it could arrive and—take over. The pitch darkness heightened the other senses, especially touch, and combined, what was felt on the surface and what was felt internally were too powerful to resist.
Sabrina didn't even try. She knew very well what could happen, what was happening, and was in a unique position to not care. She could ignore the right or wrong of it because she had already decided to never marry, yet here was the man she loved offering her a small glimpse of what marriage to him could be like. Of course she wouldn't refuse. She would accept anything he was willing to give her of himself, including these few stolen moments of passion that were her dreams come true.
There was an element of unreality, though, of doubt that something so wonderful could be real; it must be a dream instead. But a dream or otherwise, it was still not to be refused, was to be savored to the fullest extent, and Sabrina did just that.
Her hair was already in wild disarray from running, making it easy for Duncan to thread his fingers along her scalp to position her for the depth of his kisses. His tongue was teasing and bold by turns, playing with her senses, inciting her to join the play, and then as suddenly ravaging, scorching in intensity, and she met that, too, awed and thrilled by each new sensation as it arrived to tantalize her.
Breathing was becoming difficult until she realized she was too busy enjoying herself to think of anything so mundane as breathing. She kept it in mind thereafter, or tried to, though her occasional gasps suggested otherwise. It did get easier, though, when his mouth moved on to her neck, only that started a new set of sensations that had her catching her breath again in shivering delight.
Her coat was parted—she had never bothered to fasten it, merely tugged it on before bolting out the door of the mansion—as his mouth worked a bit lower. Tall as he was, though, he was having a bit of
trouble bending to reach what he wanted, so she wasn't all that surprised when he moved off the seat to kneel before her.
His kisses now followed the square neckline of her day dress, the depth very circumspect in comparison to an evening gown. This was nowhere near her breasts, yet she was thrilled beyond measure, never having been kissed on her chest before, never having been kissed much in any way before.
Her hands rested on his shoulders, moved hesitantly into his hair, rested on his shoulders again—she really wasn't sure what to do with them, when what she would like to do was pull him closer and closer to her.
It was growing rather warm in the coach. She noticed it at about the same moment that he did, since he began removing her coat and then his own, and she could only nod mentally in approval. It didn't really help much, though, with her long sleeves and the thick material of her dress, so she gave another mental nod a while later when her gown came off as well—and his shirt.
Oh, my, what she wouldn't have given for a candle just then, or the moon's appearance, any kind of light really, but there was none. Viewing the bare chests on statues, which was as close as she'd ever come to seeing one, just wasn't the same as experiencing the warm male skin under her fingers, which she craved to see as well as touch.
She had to wonder if he felt the same way, because he seemed to be trying to imagine what she looked like by touch alone, since he was touching her everywhere. The length and breadth of her arms, over her shoulders, around her neck— down her chest.
Her gasp was merely in surprise when both his hands covered her breasts. There was still the thin material of her chemise between them, yet there might as well have been nothing, so hot were his palms, so firm was his grip. And when his mouth came back to claim hers as he began to knead the plump mounds, a surge of heat shot deep within her, coiled, spread, and escaped in a long moan of pleasure. And yet that was nothing in comparison to the intensity of sensations that followed as he laid her down on the seat and continued to educate her in the delights of amour.
The coach was large and luxurious, but then it would be, being the vehicle that carried the marquis's coat of arms. The seats were wide, plushly, comfortable in soft velvet and thick padding, the windows tightly sealed against the cold, like a small room in a house—with narrow beds. It still wasn't where she would have chosen to lose her virginity, but there really was no choice involved for either of them. What was happening was a matter for the moment, not for careful thought, or it might not be happening.
And deep down, she was afraid he was going to stop, afraid that at any moment he would come to his senses as he had after that kiss on the terrace, or that she would awake from the dream if it was a dream. This fear lent a very real urgency to the emotions that were churning around in her. She wanted to slowly savor, and yet she wanted to hurry so that she could experience it all.