As she lay awake in the aftermath of their lovemaking, she prayed that, when the time came, she would be able to let him go with grace and dignity, and that she would never embarrass him and humiliate herself by revealing how much she loved him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CAMPION woke up briefly when Guy carried her to bed.
‘Can I stay with you, or would you prefer to sleep alone?’
‘Stay.’
She said the word drowsily, smiling as she felt the soft brush of his mouth against her skin. She liked the warmth of having him in bed beside her, the sensation of his arm resting over her body, his hand cupping her breast, his legs enmeshed with her own. This was real intimacy—but it would not be hers for ever, she reminded herself.
She woke up early, feeling gloriously, singingly alive. Guy was still asleep, and she crept out of bed and went downstairs to the study.
Barely six o’clock, it was still dark outside, but she had woken up itching to work, and not even the chill of the unheated study could stop her.
The words flowed, unrolling in vivid, quicksilver imagery in her mind. It had been a long time since she had been so captivated by her work; a long, long time, she realised with hindsight, since she had taken such a keen pleasure in what she was doing, since she had felt this sureness that her characters were real and alive.
Lynsey, with her dark curls and quick temper, her pride and her stubborn belief that only she had the right to direct her life; and Dickon, subtle, clever, enigmatic Dickon, who masked his real feelings with his cool courtier’s smile.
She had to stop when her wrists began to ache, and was shocked to discover that it was gone eight.
This morning, she would make the breakfast and, what was more, this time, she wouldn’t ruin the eggs, but first…
When she went upstairs, Guy was still asleep. She smiled as she ran her fingertips along his unshaven jaw, feeling the rasp of stubble against her skin. She bent her head and kissed the tip of his nose, and then, giving in to an irresistible impulse, she traced the shape of his mouth with her fingertip. Such a very tender, caring, compassionate mouth. Like the man himself.
Absorbed in her thoughts, she didn’t notice his eyes open until Guy murmured, ‘Mmm… nice.’ He bit teasingly at her finger, capturing her wrist and turning his mouth into her open palm.
She shuddered at the sensation that rioted through her, and then closed her eyes as he proceeded to lick delicately at her fingers. He found the pulse beating frantically inside her wrist and stroked it. A thousand wild jolts of pleasure burst through her, making her cry out softly.
This need, this passion, this overwhelming upsurge of sensuality—why had she never known them before?
Because she had never known Guy, she told herself unsteadily.
He was gradually eroding the years of loneliness and mistrust; the doubts and the fears whose seeds Craig had planted within her.
‘Guy, let me go,’ she protested huskily. ‘I was just going to make breakfast.’
‘I don’t want breakfast. I want you,’ he told her lazily, and then he started to suck slowly on her fingers, and her resistance dissolved in a haze of blissful need.
‘Why do you keep on wearing so many clothes?’ The words were muffled against her skin as his fingers burrowed beneath her sweater and shirt to find her breasts.
Her breath caught in her throat. In his eyes, she could see the same need she knew he could see in hers.
She was trembling when he finished undressing her. His skin was warm from the bed, and she inhaled the scent of it greedily, biting teasingly at it until he stopped her by taking possession of her mouth with his own.
They made love quickly, fiercely, as though for both of them their time together was precious and threatened.
Afterwards, lying dazed and satiated in his arms, euphoria prompted Campion to ask unsteadily, ‘Is it always like this?’
Guy turned to look at her.
‘Only with you.’
He was lying; he had to be. Flattering her because it was his natural instinct not to hurt. She had learned that much about him already, but even so she couldn’t help treasuring the words, hugging them to her, wondering if he knew how precious they were to a woman who had passed most of her adult life thinking herself sexually deficient. And now here was this man, this very special, wonderful man, telling her that she was wrong, that the pleasure they shared was unique and rare.
She could have loved him for that alone, she admitted later, watching him as they ate their breakfast.
But she had loved him before she had really known him; she had loved him when she had been able to expect nothing from him but contempt and disinterest.