And she was so tired.
Tired of fear, tired of fighting her deepest urgings, tired of working out what she should do. She’d wanted Lord Sheene from the first, she recognized. Now controlling her desire was so much more difficult. Now she’d kissed him, held him, touched him.
Now she knew he wanted her.
The immediacy of Lord John’s threats had receded with the marquess sharing her bed. As that fear ebbed, fear that she’d succumb to sin flooded in. Desire beat ceaselessly inside her. Nothing silenced it. Not the counsel of prudence. Not the voice of morality. Not even the relentless demands of self-interest.
Her skin still prickled where he’d held her hand. Her hand! She really was hopelessly infatuated.
She sank onto a bed of new grass and lay back, closing her eyes. Monks and Filey wouldn’t check the grounds for hours yet. Just for a minute, she’d rest. Before swirling, terrible need stirred again. Before she stepped once more into the turbulent dance of illicit desire.
Lord Sheene moved in her body, his powerful muscles flexing with each entry and withdrawal. She shifted, lifting her hips so his thrusts went deeper. The friction was delicious, wonderful.
Not enough.
She moaned in complaint. He was hot and heavy above her but she wanted more. He said her name softly. She yearned toward the sound.
He said her name again. She opened her eyes to find him standing at her side, staring down at her.
A dream, then. All that lovely pleasure had existed only in imagination. Regret bit so sharply, she almost cried out. Guilty heat flooded her face. The fantasy had been so explicit, so uninhibited, so…depraved.
She blinked, but the dream’s effects were slow to fade. Her breasts ached full and needy for his touch and she was embarrassingly moist between her legs.
She could smell her own arousal. Could he?
“Grace?” He looked tense and wary. “It’s late. Come inside before Monks and Filey find you.”
Still trapped in a fog of longing, she let her eyes feast on the man above her. She was so hot for him, she felt as though she trapped the sun inside her.
Then she realized the shadows lengthened. She must have slept for hours in the sweet thick grass.
Dreaming of Lord Sheene’s lovemaking.
In her dream, she’d been wanton and welcoming. More wanton and welcoming than she’d ever been with Josiah.
She accepted Lord Sheene’s hand to help her up. But her legs buckled and she staggered against him.
“Hell and damnation,” he muttered savagely. He grabbed Grace by her upper arms and tugged her into his body. She had a brief, confused impression of strength and heat.
Then his mouth collided with hers.
Chapter 13
Grace’s lips mashed painfully against her teeth. Lord Sheene’s fingers clenched with bruising force around her arms. Where her breasts flattened against his chest, she felt the wild thud of his heart.
Astonishment held her paralyzed. Then she gave a muffled whimper of discomfort. He must have heard, because abruptly the fierce kiss was over.
Struggling for breath, she stumbled free. She rubbed her arms as the blood flowed back in a tingling rush. Lord Sheene swung away and stared into the trees. His expression was so desolate, it wrenched her heart.
“Christ!” he gritted out.
The self-loathing in the curse made her flinch. Heaven help her, he wasn’t the one who should feel guilty. She’d provoked him with her reckless behavior in the courtyard. Bitter shame ate at her.
“This is my fault,” she said unsteadily. Her lips still throbbed from his violent ardor.
He turned tormented gold-flecked eyes on her. Their beauty was stark in a face etched with suffering. “No, it’s damn well not your fault. You can’t hide from what we both know is true. I’ve wanted to touch you from the moment I saw you tied up on that table like some damned heathen sacrifice.”
She shivered under the searing intensity of his gaze.