Chapter 42
Chapter Forty-Two
“Whoa there, Gamehen, I’m not as good at this as I look.”
Haven’s nervous remark chafed his nerves.
Her words and tone weren’t irritating, but whenever she spoke, her voice did things to him he’d rather not dwell on.
She was sitting sidesaddle, one knee tucked around the pommel, her chin sticking out straight in adorable stubbornness, her hands strangling the reins, and her face a portrait of focus and mild alarm.
Her lack of riding instruction was obvious, especially riding as she was.
He could only assume that in the future, women shunned all notions of propriety and rode astride, in buckskins, in full view of all and sundry.
His mind conjured up images of her legs clad in tight fitting buckskins, legs spread wide, and her body rocking with the loping motion of the horse beneath her.
He groaned.
God, even the image of her riding a horse made him hard.
Shifting in his own saddle, he attempted to readjust his growing erection.
Uncomfortable, and angry at the direction of his thoughts, he ground out, “Maybe if you didn’t try to choke the horse with her own reins, she wouldn’t act as though she were being led to the slaughterhouse.”
Haven snorted, but didn’t take her focus from the area over Gamehen’s ears.
“Maybe riding a horse wasn’t such a good idea. I told you I didn’t know how to ride.” Her pinched voice carried a note of petulance.
She blamed him for her lack of riding skills?
“If you didn’t want to ride, you only had to say no.”
Her laugh was flat and irritated. “Sure, I could have said no, but then you’d turn your dark, angry look on me.”
“What dark, angry look? I wasn’t angry. I was reasonable, and cordial, and accommodating—everything you’d expect me to be.”
His mild discomfiture quickly turned to confused exasperation.
“Like hell,” she barked. He blinked in surprise.
“I didn’t expect you to be reasonable, or cordial, or accommodating.
” She spat the last word. “I expected you to be caring, maybe ask me how I was feeling, ask me if I slept well, or if I’d slept at all.
I expected you to tell me you couldn’t stop thinking about me, about what we’d done, about how it felt to be with me.
I expected you to come into the room and.
..well...I don’t know what I expected. I guess I can’t expect much from someone who is in love with a dead woman. ”
He halted his horse, and turned in the saddle to pin her with his gaze.
She pulled her horse to a stop beside his.
“What are you talking about?” She narrowed her eyes, her expression uncertain. “You expected me to walk into the breakfast room, take you in my arms, and kiss you like my life depended on it?”
Her face flushed, and she nodded.
“Why would I do that? You made it quite clear you regretted everything we did in my bed.”
She gave a slight head shake, and frowned.
“I made what clear? Other than asking you about the portrait, I didn’t say anything that could possibly make you believe I regretted what happened between us.
You, however, didn’t say a single thing.
I’d just experienced the most amazing orgasm of my life, and you couldn’t even utter a word.
There was no, ‘it was great, baby,’ or ‘you rocked my world,’ or ‘I want to do it again.’ You just laid there like a log.
A sad, anguished log. You didn’t even try to stop me when I left.
” Raising her voice she demanded, “Why didn’t you try and stop me? ”
She turned her face away, her proud chin quivering.
Sighing deeply, he reached over, gently pulling her chin around to face him. Her eyes were ringed with lashes thick with tears.
In a low, clear voice, he confessed, “Your expression spoke volumes. I couldn’t bear the look of shame and regret on your face.
What could I have said to remedy the situation?
I know you regret what happened between us, but I cannot regret how it felt to hold you against me, to taste you, to run my hand along your soft, sensitive skin, to slide into your tight, hot body.
” He groaned. “To feel you as you came, then barely survive the most satisfying and soul-searing release of my life.”
He’d never been so vulnerable with her before, so open and raw. It pulled at her heart and inflamed something inside her.
Could it be love?
No. Not possible. She couldn’t love a pompous, distrusting, frustrating, gorgeous nineteenth century duke.
It wasn’t possible.
Not possible.
Ah, hell.
Finding her voice, she whispered, “Logan, how could I regret something so beautiful? I’ve never felt so cherished, so alive before. Why would I regret that?”
His hand tightened on her chin, his black eyes darkened, and his face hardened.
“Do you mean that?” His gently pleading voice broke with restrained desire.
A slow smile spread across her face. “Yes, I—”
His hungry mouth captured hers.
Desire, fast and hot, rose within her, pushing for the surface, eager for release, greedy for his passion.
She leaned into him, and he deepened the kiss, sliding his wet tongue into her mouth, probing for her tongue, enticing it to plunge into an erotic dance.
Moaning, she grabbed handfuls of his coat.
With a groan he put his arms around her, tucked his hands under her bottom, and hauled her from the back of her horse.
He settled her in front of him. Pulling up her skirts, she wound her legs around his waist, and her arms around his neck, and pressed her mouth, hot and ravenous, against his. His mouth against hers was heaven, his erection against the sensitive mound between her legs was hell.
What in the world are we doing? the voice in her head shrilled.
They were on the back of a horse for God’s sake.
His fervent kiss slowed, and after one final lingering, bone-melting lick, he pulled away.
When their gazes met, what she saw shook her to the core, a desire so strong it captivated her. Raw, blazing, possessiveness stole her breath.
Totally, utterly his.
“If not regret in your expression, what was it?” His voice was heavy with unspent passion.
She shook her head. “No, you don’t understand; it was regret, but not for what we’d done. More for what I’d asked.”
“You’re right, I don’t understand.” His anxious expression warmed her heart. He reminded her of a little lost puppy, head tilted to the side, wide eyes begging for a bone.
She sighed. “Can you put me back on my horse? I can’t talk to you with your fireplace poker between my legs.”
His rich laughter sizzled through her.
Lifting her, he settled her back on Gamehen.
When she held the reins again, she explained, “When we were lying in bed, after the sex, I asked about the woman in the portrait.”
“I remember,” he said and his expression hardened, becoming guarded.
“I asked you who she was, if you loved her. You didn’t answer.
I knew then I’d overstepped my bounds, and had hurt you by bringing it up.
That’s why you didn’t say anything. I ruined an intimate moment by opening old wounds—maybe wounds that aren’t even scabbed over yet.
It might still be a fresh wound, kind of like you’d just been cut, and the cut is still bleeding so the scab can’t form yet—”
“Haven.”
“Yes?”
“Take a breath.” Amusement laced his voice.
Mouth gaping, she shut it, and gave a look she hoped intimidated him.
“I didn’t talk about the woman in the painting because she’s a part of my past. She hasn’t been in my life for more than twenty years.”
Stunned, she blurted, “But that means you—”
“She’s my mother. The woman in the portrait is my mother.”