Justin crawled into Phoebe’s lap and leaned his head back against her shoulder as they sat in the light of a standing lamp with a yellow silk shade, while a small fire crackled in the hearth. Reading aloud from a copy of Stephen Armstrong: Treasure Hunter, she enjoyed Justin’s spellbound interest as they neared the end of the chapter.
“‘Stephen Armstrong watched as the sun’s burning rays slanted over the temple ruins. According to the ancient scroll, at precisely three hours after midday, a telltale animal shadow would reveal the entrance to the treasure cave. As the minutes passed but slowly, the shape of a crocodile gradually appeared on one of the embedded stone slabs. Directly beneath Stephen Armstrong’s feet, the treasure he had been seeking half his life lay in a deep, dark cavern.’” Phoebe closed the book, smiling at Justin’s groan of protest. “Next chapter tomorrow,” she said.
“More now?” Justin asked hopefully. “Please?
“I’m afraid it’s too late.” Phoebe glanced at West, who was half reclining in the corner of the settee with Stephen against his chest. The two of them appeared to be slumbering soundly, with one of the toddler’s chubby arms loosely clasped around West’s neck.
Justin followed her gaze. “I think you should marry Uncle West,” he commented, startling her.
Her voice came out breathless. “Why do you say that, darling?”
“Then you would always have someone to dance with. A lady can’t dance by herself or she would fall over.”
Out of the periphery of her vision, she saw West stretching and stirring. Holding Justin closely, she smoothed his dark hair and kissed his head. “Some gentlemen prefer not to marry.”
“You should use some of Granny’s perfume,” Justin said.
Phoebe suppressed a laugh as she looked into his earnest face. “Justin, don’t you like the way I smell?”
“Oh, I do, Mama, but Granny always smells like cake. If you smelled like cake, Uncle West would want to marry you.”
Torn between amusement and dismay, Phoebe didn’t dare look at West. “I’ll consider your advice, dear.” She gently eased Justin from her lap and stood.
West yawned audibly and sat up. Stephen was limp and heavy on his shoulder, still sleeping soundly.
Phoebe smiled and reached for the baby. “I’ll take him.” Carefully she gathered the toddler close and safe against her. “Come, Justin, let’s go upstairs to bed.”
The boy climbed off the settee and went to West, who was still sitting. “Good night,” Justin said cheerfully, and leaned forward to kiss his cheek. It was the first time he’d ever made such a gesture toward West, who held very still and didn’t seem to know how to respond.
Phoebe carried Stephen to the doorway but paused as West stood and reached her at the threshold in a few long strides.
He spoke in her ear, too softly to be overheard. “It would be better if we stayed in our own beds tonight. We both need rest.”
She absorbed that with a quick double blink, a chill running down her spine. Something was wrong. She had to find out what it was.
Chapter 30
Long after the children had been tucked into bed, Phoebe sat in her room with her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around them. She argued silently with herself. Perhaps she should do as West had asked, and not go to the cottage. He was right, they both needed rest. But she wouldn’t be able to sleep, nor did she think he would.
How quiet it was, this late at night. No movement anywhere, except for the anxious staccato of her own heart.
That odd, blank look on his face . . . What emotions had it concealed? What was he struggling with?
Abruptly she came to a decision. She would go to him but make no demands. She only wanted to know if he was all right.
She tied a heavy dressing robe over her nightgown, and nudged her feet into leather slippers.
Soon she was hurrying across the stretch of damp lawn between the winter garden and the guest cottage. The night air was cool, the ground alive with shadows and quiet blue shocks of moonlight. By the time she reached the cottage, she was breathing fast from anxiety and haste, and her slippers were sodden. Don’t let him be angry that I’m here, she thought, her fingers trembling as she tapped softly on the door and let herself in.
It was dark in the cottage, except for thin silver gleams of moonlight stealing between curtains. Was West already sleeping? She would not wake him. Turning back to the door, she reached for the handle.
A gasp was torn from her throat as she became aware of movement behind her in the shadows. The door was firmly closed by a pair of large masculine hands. She froze in place with West’s arms braced on either side of her. Warm breath fanned against the nape of her neck, rustling tiny wisps of hair. She dampened her dry lips. “I’m sorry if I—”
His fingers touched her mouth gently, silencing her. He wasn’t interested in talking.
His hands reached around her to unfasten her robe, and he tossed it aside. She stepped out of her slippers, relieved to be rid of the clammy leather. As she began to turn toward him, he grasped her hipbones and compelled her to continue facing the door. His body pressed against hers long enough for her to realize he was naked and aroused.
He unbuttoned the nightgown from her throat to her navel, and let it whisper over her skin to the floor. Wordlessly he began to arrange her body, pushing her palms against the door. One of his bare feet came between hers, and he used his thigh to spread her legs until she stood in a mortifyingly exposed posture, her torso inclined forward. Remaining behind her, he let his hands slide over her body, cupping her breasts, catching the tips in gentle pinches and lightly swaying their weights. He stroked her hips, waist, bottom, one hand sliding between her thighs from the front and one from the back.
She made an agitated sound, quivering, as he opened and caressed her, fingering the soft outer lips, tugging at the inner ones, running his fingertips through moisture. She felt the cool air against the wetness of her sex, and the warmth of his fingers as he pressed the tender hood back from the stiffening bud. He teased and played slowly until her legs strained and she was weak with desire. Breathing fast, she leaned her weight more heavily on her hands, wishing desperately that he would take her to bed.
But he stepped closer to her, his hands adjusting the angle of her pelvis, and she let out a little sob of surprise as she felt him begin to enter her. He worked carefully inside her swollen depths, opening her with gradual advances and retreats. The hard shaft circled inside her, the sensation so good that her knees threatened to buckle. She heard his quiet huff of laughter, and he gripped her hipbones more firmly. When he was fully seated in her, he leaned over her and whispered, “Brace your legs.”
“I can’t,” she whimpered. All her bones seemed to have softened into isinglass, and her muscles were trembling. The only strength she had left was deep in the core of her body, where she couldn’t help clamping and kneading the rigid invasion.
“You’re not even trying,” he accused tenderly, his mouth curving against the back of her shoulder.
Somehow she willed enough strength back into her knees to satisfy him, and she moaned as he began to thrust more powerfully and deeply than he ever had before. Each inward drive was a sensuous jolt, lifting her heels from the floor. She breathed and sweated and pushed back at him, the feelings rising thickly to a crescendo. The repeated wet impacts of their flesh embarrassed and excited her, and there was nothing she could do about any of it, she had lost all hope of control. One of his hands slid to the triangle between her thighs, caressing her pulsing flesh, while the other went to her breast and clamped the nipple gently between his thumb and finger.
That was all she needed. She pressed her clenched fists against the door and cried out repeatedly, in ecstasy that sounded like anguish. Satisfaction rushed and ebbed, back and forth, in heavy waves that soon broke into shudders. She really couldn’t stand then, her limbs quaking, and he picked her up and carried her into the bedroom.
Before her body had even settled completely on the bed, he was in her again, thrusting almost savagely, reaching beneath her hips to pull her up into each plunge. Still oversensitive from climax, she writhed uncomfortably at first, but soon the push and pull rhythm felt good, and then it turned into something she wanted, craved, had to have. She squirmed, her body taking him deeply, arching in counterpoint. The rhythm changed, his hips rolling against hers, and the awareness that he was about to climax sent her into another rush of spasms. He was going to withdraw just at the moment she wanted him to thrust even harder and deeper. Without thinking, she locked her legs around him.
“Don’t pull out,” she whispered, “not yet, not yet—”
“Phoebe, no, I have to, I’m going to—”
“Come inside me. I want you to. I want you—”
His hips froze, suspended in an agony of temptation. Somehow he withdrew in time, burying a vicious cry in the bed linens as his body jerked in release.
Panting and shivering, he rolled away from her. He sat at the edge of the bed, gripping his head in his hands.
“I’m sorry,” Phoebe said sheepishly.
“I know.” His voice was a scrape of sound. Then he was silent for a long minute.
Concerned, she moved to sit beside him, one of her hands resting on his thigh. “What’s the matter?”