Page 53 of To Hunt the Hunter

“Stop it,” she said, her voice firm and somewhat impatient. “Little I care for such fripperies. I’ve told you before. I do not lack for money, and I do not need or want you to buy me things. Do you think a bigger room and better furnishings could make me love you anymore than I do, could make being with you mean more than it does?”

He didn’t reply, but his shoulders were stiff with tension. Matilda got to her feet and walked to stand behind him. She slid her arms about his waist and rested her head on his back. His hands covered hers, holding on tight.

“I do not want to feel shame for taking you to my bed,” he said, and the aching emotion she heard in his words, the anger that grew harsher as he spoke, made her eyes prickle. “I want to stand beside you and let everyone know you are mine, that I love you and that I am loved, and I cannot, and it is killing me.”

“I know,” she said, wanting to weep but trying to be strong for him. Crying would change nothing. “But we are not the first lovers torn apart by circumstances, and we won’t be the last. We shall fight this battle with your uncle, and this time you will win, and you and those you care for will be safe from harm. Until then, we will have these days together, and that must be enough. Whether or not we spend those days in a carriage, a cramped little room in an inn, or a hole in the ground matters not a whit, so long as we are together.”

He turned and took her face between his hands, stroking her skin with his thumbs, his silver eyes glinting.

“My love,” he said, staring down at her.

Matilda smiled. “Yes. Always.”

He bent his head and put his lips to hers, a delicate brush of his mouth that was a prelude to another featherlike caress, and another. Matilda sighed and touched her tongue to his lips. It was like dropping a lit taper upon spilled brandy.

He pulled her into his arms, holding her tight and kissing her harder, deeper, plundering her mouth with something close to desperation. Far from being daunted, Matilda’s heart soared and she clung to him, twining her limbs around him like honeysuckle scrambling up a trellis.

His hands slid down her sides to cup her bottom, pressing her closer against him, kneading the plump flesh until he reached down and lifted her up. Matilda tore her mouth from his with a cry of surprise, wrapping her legs about him.

“Your shoulder!” she protested in alarm.

“Damn my shoulder,” he cursed, carrying her to the bed.

He set her carefully on the mattress. Matilda moved back and lay herself down and he watched until she settled, before climbing over her. His knees pressed into the layers of bedding beside her thighs and he stared down, watching her, his usually cold eyes full of heat and longing.

“You are so beautiful,” he said, so solemnly that Matilda could only swallow hard as emotion rose in her throat. “Not just on the surface. Your goodness, your kindness, shines from you. It is like staring at the sun. Even after I have looked away, it is still imprinted on my mind, upon my soul. You have changed me, Matilda, and I wish that you had not, for I want so many things that I had believed to be nothing more than fairy stories. You have made me wish for impossible things, and knowing I can’t have them is so much worse than believing they did not exist at all.”

“It is better to have loved and lost….” She blinked hard and tried to smile, to take away the anguish in his eyes.

“No it isn’t!” he said fiercely. “I keep trying to believe it, but it isn’t.”

“No,” she agreed, her voice quavering. “It isn’t, and yet I don’t regret it. I will never regret it.” She reached up and tugged at his coat. “Take it off.”

Lucian closed his eyes and gave a huff of laughter. When he opened them again, he had composed himself, and he looked down at her with a wry smile.

“You are forever demanding I take my clothes off.”

“I know,” Matilda replied with a heavy sigh. “I just can’t help myself. I am not only in love with you, but wild with lust. Can you bear it?”

“I shall do my best,” he said gravely, and struggled out of his coat.

Matilda helped him as best she could, tugging at the sleeves and then unbuttoning his waistcoat and pushing it off his shoulders. She fought with his cravat and finally loosened it, before sliding it free. He cursed and muttered, trying to get the shirt over his head without jostling his injury, but at last his top half was bare and she drank him in. The wound on his shoulder was uncovered now, and healing well, though it was still pink and angry against his fair skin. The sight of it made her heart clench with fear at how close she had been to losing him, and she looked away, preferring to enjoy the view of his impressive physique.

“Oh, Lucian,” she said, running her hands over his chest. “I wish we could be naked all the time. I can never get enough of looking at you.”

“If you keep looking at me like that, I won’t be responsible for the consequences,” he murmured, his voice so low it sent shivers coursing over her skin.

“Oh, good,” she said happily.

He chuckled and tugged at her nightgown. “My turn. Take it off.”

“Oh, but I wasn’t finished,” Matilda protested, pulling at the waistband of his trousers.

“Too bad. Off,” he commanded, and Matilda squeaked and wriggled as he yanked at the nightgown, pulling it up and over her head and flinging it to the floor.

He stilled, staring down at her, his fierce gaze devouring her. There was nothing of the icy marquess present here now. He was all ablaze and she could feel the heat radiating from his body as though an inferno burned beneath his skin. He traced the curve of one breast with a tentative fingertip, his breath catching as though he’d dared to reach for something forbidden.

Matilda held her breath, shivers running over her as her body caught fire. She wanted to grab hold of him and draw him down to her, into her, to never let him go. Instead she held herself still, allowing him to touch her at his leisure. His thumb traced a circle around her nipple, a lazy, caressing movement that made her arch like a cat seeking further attention from the hand that stroked it.