Chapter 30
Alistair found himself standing patiently by the steps down from Miss Constantine’s garden as soon as it grew dark.
It had occurred to him with somewhat belated caution that anyone who had happened to be out on the sands last night might easily have seen his encounter with Cecilia, not least because the tree trunk upon which it had taken place was bleached white by the water and the weather, and might have been designed specifically to draw attention to two persons in dark clothing doing something illicit upon it.
He could only hope that they had not been observed; he comforted himself with the thought that he rarely saw anyone on his frequent night-time walks, and then only if he happened to be close to the village.
Tonight, if she came out to him, they would have to be more careful.
He hoped she would.
She must have had the same idea. He’d not been waiting long when he heard her voice above him, saying softly, ‘It’ll be safer closer to the house where we cannot be overlooked; there’s a summerhouse just here. Will you not join me?’
He hadn’t heard the least suggestion of her footsteps, though he’d been straining for any sign of her approach, and he was careful as he could be to tread lightly while climbing the treacherous steps, clutching the handrail for stability all the way and cursing his own weakness.
But this disagreeable thought soon melted away, because she was there at the top, and drew him over the grass into the shadows under the trees.
There was a little rustic building nestled there, smelling of new wood and paint; they entered it together and she closed the door behind them.
‘I can’t risk a candle or a lamp,’ she told him. ‘We will have to manage by the light of the moon through the windows.’
‘I must confess that I would like to see you, because you are so beautiful,’ he said steadily, his words loaded with sincerity.
‘I understand that you have no reason to feel the same. But I do not mind too much; I do not mind anything in the world, if you will only let me touch you, and give you the pleasure you are right to say I owe you. That is so much more than I could have dared to dream of just a day or two ago.’
‘What in the name of heaven do I need to do to convince you that you are not unpleasant to look upon?’ she said with some heat.
‘Your former fiancée was a ninny, and I shall make sure you forget her, and all the stupid, untrue things she said to you, or even thought and let you see. Must I kiss you again? I think I must.’
There was a wide bench at the back of the little hut, and she pushed him down upon it, one imperious hand upon his chest. He could have resisted, of course – she could scarcely have shoved hard enough with one hand to destabilise even him; she was not a strongwoman in a circus – but he had no notion of denying her anything.
The seat had been thoughtfully provided with cushions, and he sank into them.
This time, she did not choose to stand between his legs.
She was wearing, he saw, a robe of some sort, and she stripped it off and cast it aside now, to reveal a flimsy nightgown with simple puffed sleeves.
It was scooped low at the neck, and looked like the sort of garment that might easily slip off a shoulder, leaving it bare.
She pulled up the skirts with ruthless intent, and moved to straddle him, knees either side of his thighs, her weight full on him.
‘Does this hurt you?’ she thought to ask.
He was trying to be completely honest, wasn’t he, even to the extent of self-sabotage? ‘A little, in truth. Perhaps if I lie back more…’
Her hand on his shoulder pushed him down flat, and now she was above him, straddling his hips rather than his thighs. This was much better, though, in every possible sense, even before she bent to kiss him.
Cecilia did not linger on his mouth, this time, but pressed soft butterfly kisses around it, across his cheeks.
She did not make a great business of kissing his scar, but she did not take special care to avoid it either.
He could easily have wept at the gift of her tenderness, and probably would have done, had he not been aware of so many other wonderful things that were happening all at once.
Her hair was down tonight, in a dark cloud loose about her face, and it brushed him, tickling deliciously.
He was kissing her back eagerly, too, wherever he could reach, and his nostrils were filled with her scent: warm skin, and some flowery soap.
She smelled like spring. His hands had completed the work of pulling up her nightgown, and were tight on her buttocks again, but now there was no barrier between them, and his fingers moved on her bare, velvety skin.
Her very core was pressed hard against the fall of his breeches.
He was aroused, and straining towards her again, and since she was almost naked, she must certainly know it.
She whispered against his mouth, her breath making him shiver, ‘You have said you have not forgotten the debt of honour you owe me. You will have realised, no doubt, that I was very wickedly thinking about just that in church today.’
‘So was I,’ he said hoarsely. ‘God knows I was. Presumably. And yet I cannot regret anything, even if it sends me to hell instead of heaven. The only heaven I have any interest in is right here and now. What do you want from me, Cecilia? I long to give you everything I can possibly give you.’
‘That’s good to know, and quite right. If you were to choose how best to give me pleasure, sir, how would you do it?’
The bold words were even more arousing, and yet…
It hurt and shamed him to say it, but he must. ‘I would put my mouth on you. I would kneel at your feet and bury my face between your thighs and devour you with lips and tongue till pleasure carried you away. But I do not think I can kneel, not without pain. And this bench is not really large enough for me to lie beside you and do that, as a bed would be… It is a little awkward. I am sorry.’
‘Well, I certainly don’t want to give you pain. What is to be done?’ she asked. ‘I have faith in your ingenuity, though. I can tell by your voice that you have thought of a solution, but for some reason, you hesitate to put it into words. Don’t. Tell me.’