Laurel McKee Page 8

  “I need to see you, Eliza,” he whispered in her ear.

  She stared at him in surprise. “You are seeing me.”

  “Alone. Please, I need to speak to you alone.”

  An enemy to thee. Eliza wanted to refuse, for she was not sure what would happen when they were alone. What emotions would flare up, burning away caution and sense and… everything. Yet he looked so very serious, she feared he would just climb up the ivy and hide under her bed again if she refused.

  “Very well,” she said. “Tonight, after my household has gone to bed.”

  He arched his brow questioningly. “Shall I climb to the window again?”

  “I think the play has too much influenced you, Romeo. I shall let you in by the kitchen door.” That should be safe enough, because her cellar was empty now.

  He quickly kissed her hand as they neared the foot of the stairs. “ ’Tis twenty years till then.’ ”

  Eliza tiptoed down the back stairs of her house, the silence of deepest night crowding around her. Everyone was asleep, even Anna, and the cavernous kitchens seemed to echo like a cave.

  Was she being foolish, agreeing to meet Will like this? She very much feared she was. His eyes, so blue, so quiet, calm, and watchful—angel’s eyes—sought out all her secrets. But she wanted to talk to him and had to know what he would say to her.

  She remembered his words about how he, too, was Irish, his family planted here for decades, as was hers. Why could he not, then, see things as she did? There had to be a way.

  She gathered the high swansdown collar of her dressing gown closer about her neck, shivering as the cold of the flagstone floor seeped up through her slippers. The fires were banked for the night, but she still smelled the residue of smoke, of cooking meat and boiled vegetables. It made her think of the kitchens at Killinan, of how she would dash through their bustling activity to snatch a picnic lunch of bread and cheese on her way to meet Will in the woods.

  Not much had really changed, and yet everything had.

  Eliza leaned against the locked door, listening for any sound outside. Her heart pounded so loud in her ears that she could scarcely hear, but then at last it came. A knock.

  She went up on tiptoe, peering through the tiny barred window. It was Will, dressed again in his rough black clothes, his cap pulled low over his brow. She unlocked the door, drawing it open just enough for him to slip inside.

  Without a word, he caught her in his arms, his mouth coming down on hers in a desperate kiss. He touched her tongue with his, tasting, seeking, and it was as if she were struck by a sizzling, blue-white bolt of lightning. Enveloped by fiery heat that burned away everything else.

  She curled her fists into the coarse cloth of his coat, dragging him closer, closer. Yet still it was not enough. The desperate tension of life in Dublin combined with her desire for Will, creating an explosion of sheer need, of the necessity to feel alive again, as if for the last time.

  But from along one of the snaking corridors, she heard a sound, a rustle, reminding her of where they were. She tore her mouth from his, leaning away from the heat of his body.

  “Come with me,” she whispered.

  Wordlessly, he took her hand, letting her lead him up the stairs and into her bedchamber. A smoldering fire crackled in the grate, providing the only light. The bed, with its turned-back blankets, was in blessed, forgetful shadows.

  Will closed the door, leaning back against it as he studied her from under the concealing brim of his cap.

  Eliza studied him, too, unsure of what to do next. She still trembled with the force of their kiss. But was he still Will, her Will, or was he Major Denton?

  He swept off that cap, dropping it to the floor as he shook his long hair free. He smiled at her and held out his hand, and she knew—he was Will, if only for tonight.

  She took his hand, letting him draw her closer until he took her in his arms again. He kissed her hair, her brow, the pulse that beat at her temples. Eliza closed her eyes, losing herself in the sensation of his lips against her skin.

  “I missed you, Eliza,” he muttered.

  “I missed you, too,” she answered, and knew the terrible truth of it. She had missed him over all these years, even as she tried to deny it, tried to lose herself in the routines of her own life. Whenever she was at Killinan and they called on Will’s mother at Moreton Manor, she tried to stay indifferent to Lady Moreton’s news of him in the West Indies. But those tidbits had been like precious pearls, hoarded by her against lonely days. Laid away with her memories of him.

  And now here he was, in her arms.

  She buried her fingers in the rough silk of his hair, pulling his lips down to hers for another kiss. She closed her eyes tightly, savoring each taste and texture, the slant of his lips over hers, the soft moan deep in his throat that made her melt. He tasted of mint and wine, of Will.

  She parted her lips, twining her tongue with his, and it was as if that lightning blast enveloped him as well. He groaned again, his hands seizing her waist to swing her back against the door, lifting her high.

  She was braced between the polished wood and his lean, muscled body, surrounded by the scent and heat of him—by the humid blur of sexual need that dragged her down into a boiling whirlpool. She held him closer as their kiss slid into desperation, into frantic need.

  The skirts of her dressing gown and chemise fell back as she wrapped her bare legs around his hips, the coarse wool chafing the soft skin of her thighs. She felt his erect penis, hot and as hard as iron through his trousers, as he rocked into the curve of her body.

  His hand slid from her waist to her bare leg, sliding up and up, slowly, his callous palm a delicious friction on her skin as he pushed the fabric out of his way until she was completely bare to him. Spread wide, vulnerable, open to any desire he possessed.

  Eliza’s head fell back against the door, her eyes drifting closed as his lips trailed from hers and along the column of her throat. In that whirling darkness, she couldn’t think at all. Only feel. Need.

  His tongue delicately touched the hollow at the base of her throat, tracing the arc of her collarbone, nudging her chemise away until it fell from her shoulder. He kissed that naked skin, the soft slope of her breast where her heart pounded. His hand slid to the top of her thigh, drawing her up even higher against him.

  His thumb pressed to the wet seam of her womanhood, sliding just barely inside. Eliza moaned at the flood of raw sensation, the rough friction of his touch on that delicate skin.

  “Do you want me?” he gasped against her breast. “Do you want me, Eliza?”

  Want him? She had never felt anything like this terrible, desperate, primitive need, that ache of urgent desire deep inside her, at her very core. Surely the world would shatter into sizzling little shards if she could not have him.

  He nipped at the soft skin just above her aching nipple, soothing the little sting with the tip of his tongue. “Do you want me?” he said again.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I always have.”

  His mouth came back to hers in a frantic kiss, and he swung her away from the door, her legs still wrapped around his hips. They fell onto her bed, sinking deep into the feather mattress.

  Will rose above her, tearing off his coat, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing the clothes away. His muscled chest, taut, bronzed skin rippling over his ribs, was lightly dusted with pale blond hair, which turned him to molten gold in the dying firelight.

  Eliza discarded her own garments, the dressing gown and chemise landing atop his shirt. She never took her eyes from him as she lay back, naked, parting her legs in silent invitation.

  “Do you want me, Will?” she whispered.

  In answer, he kissed her again and again, his body falling into the arch of hers as she wrapped her legs around him, holding him as her prisoner. The strength and weight of him on her, around her, was delicious, wondrous. Her rare fumblings with her husband, even her dreams of Will over the years, could not compare wi
th this burning, desperate forgetfulness.

  She reached between them, unfastening his breeches and peeling them away until she could feel him. She traced her fingertips along the veined length of his penis, the iron under hot velvet of his erection. It leaped under her touch, and he moaned against her mouth.

  He did want her! Eliza longed to shout out with exultation, with triumph. But then she moaned, too, as he parted her legs wider and sank deep inside of her, to her very core. And they were joined together at long last.

  She clutched at his sweat-damp shoulders, closing her eyes as she felt the slide and press of him against her. There, in that darkness again, she could hear his breath, the pounding of his heartbeat that echoed her own. He went still, and she dug in her nails, holding him to her.

  “Eliza,” he gasped, sliding out of her and then plunging back again, deeper and faster. He caught her mouth with his, mingling their gasps, their incoherent words.

  She slid her palms down the groove of his spine, feeling the powerful shift of his muscles under her touch. A glorious sensation expanded inside of her like a sunrise, all hot color and burning emotion. It danced up from her very toes, over her whole body until it exploded into a hundred brilliant fireworks.

  “Eliza!” Will cried, his body rigid above hers, his back as taut as a bow. Then he collapsed beside her, their arms and legs entwined.

  She slowly, slowly caught her breath, the world still twirling around her. She turned her head to kiss Will’s brow, his closed eyes. She stroked his damp hair, whispering soft, wordless murmurings as his own breath grew even and slow.

  She edged up onto the pillows as he rested his head on her abdomen, his arms around her waist. They said nothing—what could there be to say? What words could solve their terrible dilemma now?

  They were as close as two people could be, their bodies twined together in the lassitude of sex. Yet the Irish Sea might just as well lie between them.

  I have this moment, she thought, spreading the length of his golden hair over her stomach, listening as his breath slipped into sleep. The moment would have to be enough.

  Chapter Seven

  Will sat straight up in the bed, jolted from sleep by some half-remembered dream. Some twisted nightmare of battles, blood, and cold drowning waves. Blood flowing on the Liffey.

  He rubbed his hand hard over his face, trying to erase the hazy, horrifying images. It was still night outside the window, and the fire in the grate was burned down to embers, leaving the chamber cold.

  He looked down at Eliza, still sleeping amid the rumpled bedclothes. Her dark hair was tangled around her face, her bruised pink lips parted on a breath. How young she looked asleep, he thought sadly, young and carefree, like the girl he remembered from Kildare. The girl who would ride and run and kiss with abandon, with no fear. Who would tell him tales of ancient Irish kings and gods, her brown eyes shining with the wonder of it.

  Perhaps, deep down inside, they were still that Eliza and Will, and they had found each other again all too briefly tonight. But when morning came, Lady Mount Clare and Major Denton would still be waiting. And he still did not know how to stop her headlong tumble into the dangers of rebellion.

  Eliza murmured in her sleep, turning restlessly as if seeking warmth in the cold winter night. Will lay back down beside her, gathering her gently in his arms. She settled against his shoulder with a soft sigh.

  He pressed a kiss to her rumpled hair, inhaling deeply of her scent of roses and salt, of clean linen sheets. Her tall body curled into him, as if she felt safe with him.

  “I will keep you safe, Eliza,” he whispered, thinking of her follower at the coffeehouse. “Whether you like it or not.”

  She stirred at the sound of his words, her eyes slowly blinking open, as if she, too, surfaced from deep dreams. For a moment, she gazed at him with puzzlement, as if she could not quite recall who he was or why he was there. Then she remembered, and a wide smile broke across her face.

  “You’re really here,” she cried, sitting up beside him as the sheet fell away from her bare breasts. She kissed his cheek, his nose, his mouth. “It was not a dream!”

  “I hope not,” Will answered, laughing as she rolled atop him, her legs straddling his hips. He felt himself stirring to life again at the warmth of her body, his penis hardening. He arched up against her. “Does this feel like a dream?”

  “Not at all.” She leaned down, her lips finding his for a lingering, exploring kiss. It wasn’t desperate, lustful, like their kisses of the night, but full of wonder and welcome. He caressed her shoulders, feeling the fall of her hair over his hands, curling around him to hold him her willing prisoner.

  “It is just… sometimes I did dream of this, while you were gone,” she said. She sat up, staring down at him as she traced his features with her fingertips, as if to memorize him. He caught her finger between his lips, suckling at it until she gasped.

  “I dreamed of you, too,” he answered, cradling her hand against his cheek. “It was a lonely life in the islands, and at night I would lie awake and stare up at the stars in that hot sky. I would think of you, imagine kissing you by a cold Irish stream. I wondered so often what you did, how you fared.”

  She smiled teasingly, sliding her palm along his rough, whiskered cheek, down his neck, tracing a light pattern over his chest. “Were dreams of me all the romance you had, Will? I would vow not.”

  He laughed hoarsely, remembering the bored English wives, the French plantation owner’s widow, and the pretty milliner. None of them had been able to turn him from his memories, no matter how hard he—or they—tried.

  “There has never been anyone like you, Eliza,” he answered truthfully. There never could be anyone like her, with her wild Irish spirit.

  She leaned down to press light, alluring kisses over his skin, her tongue tracing the flat, brown disc of his nipple. “And was it worth the wait?” she whispered.

  “Assuredly so,” he muttered tightly.

  “Good. I would hate to think you were disappointed.” Her mouth slowly trailed lower, over his chest and the sharp arc of his hip, until she reached out to caress his now achingly hard erection. Delicately, teasingly, her fingertips slid down and up again.

  “Eliza…” He groaned, threading his fingers through her hair.

  “Shhh,” she whispered. “I want to try something….”

  And then—oh, by the saints!—her mouth closed over him, her tongue tasting him.

  His hips jerked at the hot waves of pleasure, his hands instinctively pressing her closer. It was unlike anything he had ever known, a rush of primitive sensation blended with an almost unbearable intimacy.

  And that intimacy, that bond of trust that made them engage in such an act, was too much. He gently tugged at her hair, drawing her up to him again.

  She stared down at him, her glistening lips parted, her eyes as dark as the night outside. He clasped her hips, spinning her down to the mattress as he drove inside of her.

  They watched each other as they moved together, finding each other’s rhythm, learning what brought pleasure. Will felt he would drown in her eyes, fall into that darkness and be lost forever.

  Their fingers entwined, pressed flat to the bed as their movements grew faster and faster, their breath ragged. Eliza cried out, her body writhing beneath him, her legs tight around him, holding him to her, in her.

  And he, too, cried out in his release, the blood roaring in his head. He knew only her, her scent, her body, and the desperate pleasure of their joining.

  He fell to the pillows beside her, his head on her shoulder. He pressed his face to the curve of her neck, inhaling the essence of her. Her breath whispered over him as she wrapped her arms around him tightly.

  How very alive she was, his Eliza. Alive and vibrant, as wild as the Irish land she loved so much. But he so much feared that in the stormy days to come, one—or both—of them was doomed.

  As if she read his dark thoughts, her arms tightened even more, pulling
him into her as she kissed his cheek softly. At the window, the black light had softened at the edges, heralding the dawn.

  “ ‘It was the nightingale, and not the lark, that pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear,’ ” she whispered.

  Will smiled at her, twining one of her long, dark curls around his finger. “ ‘It was the lark, the herald of the morn….’ ”

  “ ‘More light and light it grows.’ ”

  “ ‘More dark and dark our woes.’ ”

  He kissed her once more, lingeringly, gently, before climbing from the warm haven of her bed. He gathered up his discarded clothes as she watched him, sitting up and wrapping the sheet around her.

  “I warned Anna against reading too many romantic novels,” she said. “But perhaps Shakespeare is the real danger.”

  Will laughed roughly, pulling on his shirt. “I don’t think we needed poetry to inflame our passion.”

  “No. We needed only to see each other again.”

  “Speaking of which…” He paused in reaching for his coat. “Can I see you tonight?”

  She hesitated, her gaze sliding away from his. “Not tonight.”

  “You have a previous engagement, I’m sure.”

  “Yes.”

  “Lady Mount Clare’s schedule is no doubt busy, indeed. A ball, the opera?”

  “My schedule is not so busy as all that! But I am engaged with friends tonight.”

  “Friends,” he said slowly. He could imagine what sort of “friends”—United Irishmen.

  Eliza bit her lip. “And tomorrow I promised Anna I would take her to the draper’s to shop for feathers for the queen’s birthday at Dublin Castle. No doubt I will see you there. All of Dublin must be seen to attend the birthday.”

  “That is not the sort of ‘see’ I meant,” he said, leaning over the bed to kiss her lingeringly. To remind her of the storm of their passion just barely spent.

  She smiled, gently touching his cheek. “Perhaps tomorrow night. I will send you word. Are you at your family’s town house in Merrion Square?”