Let Me Be The One Read online

  Clutching his shoulders, she rose on tiptoe and arched. She ached for the weight of his palms on her breasts and the almost painful sensation of his thumbnails gently scraping across her turgid nipples. She accepted his chest as a substitute, and she rose and fell against him, rubbing, feeling his taut muscles shift and his breathing change. At her waist he gripped the shawl more tightly, yanking her hard, just once, and she felt the outline of his engorged penis against her belly.

  He released the shawl but not her. His hands plowed into her hair, capturing her face and holding it still for his pleasure. In the midst of her dark brown hair were strands of pure gold. They lay along the length of his fingers like silken shafts of sunlight. The pads of his thumbs pressed into the hollows just behind her ears. She moaned softly, a sound he swallowed, his mouth working hard over hers.

  Elizabeth's hands slid under his jacket. She was almost frantic to touch him, pulling at the tails of his linen shirt. Her knuckles brushed his midriff and she felt his abdomen contract. His tongue was deep in her mouth, thrusting. Her fingers splayed across his skin, every fingertip isolated by a separate point of heat. She sucked on his tongue, his lips. She drove her hands upward to his chest and around his back. She scored the flesh of his shoulders lightly with her nails. This time it was his hips that thrust into her.

  Northam's grip loosened in her hair and she jerked her head back, breathing hard, and turned her face for the moment to the side. He bent his own head, his breath hot on the curve of her neck. His mouth opened over her tender skin and sipped on it with the delicacy of one drawing sweet cream from the top of the milk. All along the length of him he felt her shiver.

  His hands rested on her shoulders while his fingers gathered the soft batiste of her gown into small folds. He slowly let his hands drift downward, pulling the fabric with them, widening the neckline until it slipped over one shoulder, then the other. The material was trapped between their bodies at the level of her waist. When he stepped back, it remained there, caught by the press of her buttocks against the wall.

  For the first time he saw alarm cross her features. She was panicked enough that it penetrated the haze of her passion. She released him and made to grab her nightshift. He stopped her, covering her hands with his own larger ones.

  "No," he whispered. He touched his forehead briefly to hers. "I want to see your breasts. I want to look at you."

  A strangled sound came from the back of her throat, but she stopped trying to raise her hands.

  Northam eased his grip and only circled her wrists with his thumbs and forefingers. His eyes never leaving her face, he slowly, deliberately, lifted her arms until they were just above the line of her shoulders and then he pressed her wrists to the wall. He laid his mouth over hers, teasing her lower lip with a single sweep of his tongue. He sucked on the lip so that when he released it there was the faintest sound of damp parting. She was trembling when he drew back.

  His glance drifted over her features. She returned his gaze through eyes that were at once glazed and wary, as though she could not decide between passion and fear. There was only a hint of color in her cheeks. All the blood in her face seemed to have settled in her mouth. The line of her lips was swollen and cherry red from the pressure of their kisses.

  A muscle jumped suddenly in her cheek. Her head jerked back again, bumping the wall as if he had pushed her with the heel of his hand. He still held her wrists in place. He hadn't released her or touched her cheek with anything save his glance; it was just that she felt it as something tangible, an index finger tracing her jaw or his knuckles brushing her chin. When she would have looked away, he caught her eyes, held them, and issued an unspoken challenge to watch him, to be as unafraid of his pleasure as she had been of her own.

  Northam's lashes lowered as he shifted his study to the curve of her neck. He could make out the delicate beat of her pulse. A faint bruise had begun to darken her skin where he had suckled. She would have to cover it later with rice powder and a lace betsy, but he would know it was there, as would she. Its origin would also be no secret to them, the mark being as clear a stamp as his personal seal pressed in warm wax.

  He felt tension return to her arms as his glance shifted again. A fine tremor moved from her shoulders to her wrists. Her struggle was confined to a single opening and closing of her fingers, and then there was surrender in her very stillness.

  The position of her arms lifted her breasts toward him. They were full, achingly so. These were not the breasts of a young girl, but those of a woman, tipped with aureoles that were no longer a pale, blushing pink, but a deeper, and far more intoxicating, dark rose. The nipples were erect, thrust forward like twin buds and darker still than the corolla that circled them.

  "You're beautiful." Then he heard her whimper softly as he lowered his head. He took one nipple into his mouth, drawing on it gently, rolling it between his lips and teeth, tugging, sucking. His hands on her wrists were holding her up now. The scent made his nostrils flare. He moved between her breasts and tasted the thin film of perspiration that made her skin glow. His tongue flicked the other nipple. He teased her, making her rise on tiptoe to try to offer herself up to his mouth. If not for the wall behind her, she would have thrown back her head. She tried to do it anyway, straining to arch, pushing up and out just once, only dimly aware that her legs were no longer supporting her, and that she owed her position to his strength and the brace of the wall.

  Elizabeth's chemise began to slip. It hovered on her hips for only a moment, then slid over her thighs and calves like the trickle of warm water. The fabric pooled at her bare feet.

  She closed her eyes. Her head rocked against the wall, the side-to-side motion not a negation of what was happening to her but an acceptance of it. His mouth was still on her breast, the tongue laving the sweet, dark aureole. When he sucked it drew on the slim fingers of fire in her belly so that they fanned out, leaping to places he hadn't yet touched, licking her skin in the hollow of her elbows and at the backs of her knees.

  She cried out again, a soft mewling sound this time. It drew him away from her breast and brought him back to her mouth. He explored deeply this time, his tongue swirling around hers, hard and insistent, and he wrested another cry from her, this one a sob of frustration and tension. Her exquisitely silky skin pulsed with a static charge. The fine hairs on her forearms and at the back of her neck became erect.

  With no warning he released her mouth and her wrists and dropped to his knees in front of her. He raised one of her legs and placed it over his shoulder, supporting her under the knee and then with his hands on her buttocks. He felt her stiffen and understood then that whatever her experience had been, this was new to her.

  Her mons was covered with the same shades of gold and brown hair as her head. The scent of her was intoxicating. He lifted his shoulder slightly, raising her knee higher and parting her moist flesh. He kissed her, lightly at first, nuzzling, preparing her by slow degrees for all the sensations of this most intimate caress. She was wet. He tasted her on his tongue. It was not the honey or ambrosia the poets were wont to describe, but the darkly sweet flavor that was woman, only woman, all woman, and had no real comparison anywhere else in nature.

  He drew on her flesh here with the same pressure he had applied to her mouth. He sipped. Suckled. His tongue flicked her clitoris. Lapped it. Licked. He was greedy. He was patient. He took, took more, and then he gave.

  Her hands fell on his bright thatch of hair. She could not bring herself to look down at his head. She would be lost. Even this short distance was too great a height. Her fingers curled in his thick hair instead, and she gave herself over to his mouth and his tongue, and his fingers pressing into the flesh of her bottom.

  In time it would not matter that she never looked down, that she kept her eyes closed and the tears at bay, that she never watched him work his mouth against her, never saw his face buried in her thighs. She would fall anyway, and when she reached bottom she would shatter.

&n
bsp; She came so hard that she screamed.

  Northam uncoiled in a fluid motion and clamped one hand over her open mouth. He laid his own lips against her ear and whispered to her. The words were of no consequence. He gentled her with the tone and cadence of his speech. Her body thrummed against his. He slipped one arm behind her back, pulled her closer, and absorbed the tremors of her flesh. She trembled again when he let his hand fall away from her mouth. Her slender shoulders heaved once as she took a long, shuddering draught of air.

  It was then that he raised his head, looked down on her face, and saw the tears pooling beneath her dark lashes.

  He grazed her temple with his fingertips. Her skin was as smooth as porcelain. He kissed her closed eyes and tasted her tears on his lips. The dam burst and they fell soundlessly past her lashes, over her cheeks. One slipped into the corner of her mouth and he kissed it away.

  He picked her up, and because she did not seem to know what to do with her arms he instructed her to put them around his neck. "Just like at the picnic," he whispered. She obliged him and made him smile when she pressed her face into his shoulder.

  He carried her to the bed. She could not bear to be laid out naked before him, so she asked for the sheet. It required some jostling, but he managed to get one corner of it in her hand before he let her go. She rolled herself into it when he put her down.

  Northam studied her for several long moments. "I didn't think it was possible for a butterfly to return to the chrysalis."

  Elizabeth stared at the ceiling. Tears dripped past her temples. "It appears you were wrong."

  "So I see." He turned and crossed the floor toward the dressing room. Bending, he picked up Elizabeth's shawl and chemise and carried them back to her. He held them out and dropped both on the bed when she made no move to take them. "Do you want an apology?"

  With some difficulty, Elizabeth pushed herself upright, her movements limited by the cocoon. She wriggled one arm free, then the other, and made an impatient swipe at her damp cheeks. "Do you want to make one?"

  "No." He reached out and let his fingers drift across her hair. She did not pull away. "Save for your tears, nothing happened that I regret."

  She remained silent.

  His fingertips continued to sift through her hair. He asked quietly, "Am I responsible for your tears, Elizabeth?"

  The question shook her. It was as if he knew the bent of her mind. She would rather he had seen into her black heart and ravaged soul. She had not meant to expose her thoughts to him.

  "Elizabeth?"

  Their attention swiveled simultaneously toward the door. It was not Northam who had said her name this time, but a voice from the hallway.

  The voice came again, familiar to both of them in its pitch and tone and insistence. The knob turned and the door rattled in place.

  Chapter 5

  "Libby? Whyever have you locked your door?"

  "It's Louise!" Elizabeth grabbed her chemise and began pulling it over her head. From under a cloud of batiste she hissed at Northam, "You have to go!"

  The earl was quite aware who was at the door and the necessity of leaving. Less clear was what route he might take. "Do you have some plan you would care to share?" He watched her continue to tug on her gown. She was making a hopeless muddle of it, but when he reached to assist her she batted his hands away.

  "Have off!" Her head and one arm poked through the proper openings. "You must hide."

  One dark brow kicked up. "I'm afraid I am no admirer of French farce. You will have to think of something else."

  The door rattled again. "Elizabeth! Are you well? You will never believe what has happened not above an hour ago!"

  Elizabeth threw her legs over the side of the bed and jumped to her feet. She shimmied out of the sheet, tossed it behind her on the bed, and when the chemise settled into place she shoved her other arm through the sleeve. "The dressing room," she whispered, pushing at Northam's chest. "You can stay there."

  "Only if I do not have to squeeze into your armoire."

  "Libby! Oh, never say you are sleeping so soundly. Did you take a powder last night?"

  Elizabeth stamped her foot. She wanted to fling herself on the bed, have a thorough cry, and sleep until tomorrow morning. What she did not want was to have a lead role in this absurd comedy. "I am no enthusiast of farce myself," she told him.

  "Then you understand what I mean about the armoire."

  She blinked up at him, wondering how he could be accepting this so indifferently. He really was outside everything she had ever known.

  "Good," he said. "Your tears have dried and you look as if you could do murder. Lest this take a tragic turn, you should point me toward the window."

  Her eyes widened. "No, you cannot mean—"

  "I'd rather take my chances on the outside than in. I have no liking for tight, cramped spaces." Since Elizabeth appeared unable to move as well as speak, Northam walked to the window without her escort. Pushing it open, he leaned out. "It does not look so terribly difficult. If the Gentleman Thief can do it, then it can be done."

  "Elizabeth!" Louise rapped sharply on the door. "I am going to ring for Jennings and he will bring the keys. I fear for your safety."

  Northam paused, one leg already dangling out the window. He looked to the door and then to Elizabeth, his question clearly communicated. Perhaps he could sneak into the hall now?

  Elizabeth shook her head. "It will not be deserted. You can't risk—"

  To prove the truth of her words the door shook again. "Elizabeth!" This time it was the baron's voice, his deep baritone only slightly muted by the heavy oak. "Elizabeth! You must come to the door!"

  Elizabeth's eyes shot to the wainscoting that bordered the wall where her vanity stood. Northam followed her glance and suddenly knew what she feared. Lady Battenburn could access Elizabeth's bedchamber without ringing for Jennings. She turned back to him, her features imploring.

  She did not beg him to go, however. She asked him to stay.

  "You cannot do it," she said. "You will be killed. You must come back at once."

  He smiled a shade recklessly. It probably should not have felt so very good to have her worried about him. "I'll be fine." He hoped it was true. Glancing at the ground below, Northam estimated the potential fall would involve several broken bones, some of them quite possibly in his neck. He took a deep breath and swung his other leg out of the window. This act drew Elizabeth closer.

  "Please." She caught the sleeve of his jacket. "If you should be injured..."

  Northam looked down at her slim hand. Her fingers bunched the material so tightly her knuckles were white. He raised his arm and brought her hand to his mouth, placing those bloodless knuckles against his lips. He glanced up at her, only to find her watching him with something akin to wonder. It occurred to him that he might have no need of a toehold in the mortar if he could walk on air.

  His foot slipped. He was jerked downward. For a moment he dangled half in and half out of the window. Elizabeth's hand, the one that had been gripping his serge jacket so fiercely, now released him and flew to her mouth. Northam considered his predicament, most particularly the ignominy of his position. No, it seemed he would require those toeholds after all.

  Northam's foot searched for a crevice between the stones. He blindly dug the toe of a boot into one such place and heard pieces of mortar crumble. He was able to raise himself up easily. Elizabeth, he noticed, appeared to be breathing again. His eyes darted past her to the vanity. His telescope still stood upright beside the key. "Fetch my scope, will you, Elizabeth? You don't want it found here."

  He saw her hesitate, quite likely because she was considering braining him with it. He was certainly in no position to defend himself. Northam gave her what he hoped was a winning smile.

  "Ooooh!" For all that the sound came from under her breath, it fairly resonated with frustration. Elizabeth spun around and retrieved the telescope. It was only upon holding it out that she realized he could not easi
ly take it.

  "Put it in my jacket."

  Another inarticulate utterance passed her lips. She leaned toward him and managed to find the inner pocket without too much fumbling. It was all accomplished rather quickly, but for the time it took, it put her face very close to his. She was careful not to turn toward him, though she felt his eyes marking her profile. It was only when she straightened that she dared look at him again. He did not appear in any way to apprehend the danger of his own circumstances but was watching her instead with something like concern. Behind her, the door was being rattled again.

  "Go or stay," she whispered with some urgency. "But for heaven's sake have done with indecision."

  Northam did not give full voice to his laughter. He did chuckle, though. "Very well. I'm leaving. Shut the window as soon as I'm gone." He found another toehold and began inching sideways. He cleared the window quickly and soon had his cheek pressed against the rough-hewn stone of Battenburn. He spared a glance for where he had just been and saw Elizabeth was leaning out the window, watching him. Her brown and gold eyes held the only color in her face. She looked as if she might be sick. Since that condition would do nothing to assist him, he ordered her back. "Now!" he said when she misjudged his command as a request.

  Elizabeth was jerked out of immobility by that tone and ducked back inside. She pulled the window shut and dropped the curtains into place. A quick glance about the room assured her that everything was as it should be. She returned to her bed, pulled a few covers over her, and feigned sleep as the vanity began to inch its way across the floor.

  Louise shoved the stand with enough force to make it shudder. The stool tipped and thumped loudly. "Bother!" she muttered. It was impossible for her to see from her present position if the sound had awakened Elizabeth. Indeed, from where she knelt in the passage on the other side of the wainscoting, Louise was still not certain Elizabeth was in the room. When she was able to push the vanity a few more inches, she judged the space wide enough to squeeze through. She crawled out through the panel she had opened in the walnut wainscoting and used one corner of the vanity to assist her in rising.