Bertrice Small - Captivated

"Is that why you didn't want to come here? You don't trust me?" the marquis impudently inquired, walking around to lift her from her mount. He put up his hands.

"Must I?" she coldly asked.

"Unless you think you can wrestle me to the ground and then ride away," he drolly returned.

"Lord, you're difficult."

"Down," he ordered, beckoning with his index finger.

"I could scream for help," she petulantly said.

"And that would get you a baby?" His smile was boyishly innocent.

"Damn you."

"But I'm a necessary evil," he softly replied. "Now, if you prefer, I can haul you from that saddle."

Abruptly pitching forward, she fell limp as a rag doll, and only his quick reflexes saved her. Grunting, he absorbed her sudden dead weight, steadied himself, and, scooping her up against his chest, hatless now since her fall, he lightly said, "Your husband might have good reason to be out of sorts with you. You're damnably headstrong and independent."

"Only men are supposed to be headstrong and independent?" she hotly contended.

"Of course. Haven't you read the rules?" His voice was teasing as he moved toward the small structure.

"Then it's time to change the rules."

"Good. You'll come away with me then," he advanced, looking down at her, his gaze suddenly grave.

"Maybe I will." But even as she spoke, caution warned her against believing a man she'd met a day ago, a man captive and intent on escape.

"You can be accommodating after all," he murmured, more inclined every moment she was in his arms to graciously acquiesce to his assigned role as stud. "And I did promise Gregory to honor my part of the bargain," he softly added.

"Will you now?" she queried, as aware as he of their closeness, her voice taking on a tantalizing nuance.

"The thought of coming in you is beginning to hold great appeal," he honestly replied.

"I'd be most grateful," she said with equal honesty. A pregnancy would put her beyond her husband's retribution and save her mother.

"A folly of another kind in this architectural one," he mockingly declared, bending slightly to turn the knob. "I hope we both know what we're doing." The door swung open on well-oiled hinges onto a sun-dappled chamber illuminated by latticework skylights. Cool marble covered the walls and floor, elaborately inlaid with gilt mosaic. Off to one side a small pool, moss-banked with a lightly flowing current reflected the sunlight in sparkling luminescence. The furnishings were faux rustic, primarily willow and bamboo chaises covered in colorful patterned silks. "Apparently vice was the entertainment of choice here," the marquis dryly noted, surveying the numerous chaises. "Shall we find the softest one?"

"I should be hostile and cross."

"Instead of hot and excited," he murmured, his gaze roguish. "I know."

She smiled. "It must be kismet."

"Nothing so romantically, darling," he lightly teased, his endearment a spontaneous utterance he considered with brief astonishment. But she was darling at the moment, he thought, and damned luscious. "Carnal urges, more likely," he added. "But if you want romance, I can do that, too," he offered, his generosity equally spontaneous.

"Are you sick, Crewe?" she teased, her grin infectious. "Such politesse."

"Sick with a sudden craving for your hot cunt," he murmured.

"How indecent of you," she whispered, his words triggering an unconscionable, shocking rush of pleasure deep inside her as though he'd entered her already.

"My specialty," he said, his voice low. "I've been in training."

"Lucky for me."

"I'm not so sure who's more lucky," he softly declared, a small heat in his dark gaze. "So tell me, what do you want to do first?"

"We could bathe," she murmured, gesturing toward the glistening pool.

"Wrong answer." He grinned. "Sorry. I'm currently in rut."

"How unusual for you."

"Or for you," he replied, his gaze returning from contemplation of the chaise nearest the door. His dark brows formed into a faint scowl. "Actually, I find myself offended by your lascivious passions. Don't ask me why," he gruffly added.

"Could you be…" She quirked her lacy brows. "Pardon me for using such an unpleasant wordjealous?"

"No." His scowl deepened.

"If it helps," she said, surveying the most sought-after lover in the western world, thinking herself grossly ingenuous to even consider honesty, "I've never physically responded to a man like I have to you."

"You're lying."

"I wish I were," she quietly said. "It would make everything so much easier."

"A fuck is a fuck, you mean."

"Something like that."

"And it isn't now, is it," he slowly said, the faintest frowns marring his brow.

"Not for me at least. I'm sorry," she said, watching his gaze shutter. "I should be more urbane. How tired you must be of women telling you they want you."

He walked the few feet to the nearest chaise and put her down before he spoke, and when he did his voice was well bred but circumspect. "We're both worldly people," he carefully said, standing a prudent distance away. "We both have other lives. I'm not sure what's happened here, but the usual rules don't seem to apply. You're not nameless or faceless in the customary way." He shrugged, the fringe on his jacket moving minutely. "You know what I mean." He looked at her as if needing affirmation, and she said, "Benign promiscuity. I know."

"All I want to do is fuck you," he murmured, the disbelief in his voice patent.

"And you want me to tell you that aberrant feeling will pass."

"It would be reassuring." His mouth twitched into a rueful smile.

Perhaps she'd had to make more compromises in her life or perhaps he'd never had to make any. "You won't remember me in a month," she pleasantly declared, when she wasn't sure she'd forget him in a dozen lifetimes.

"Really." A current of resentment underscored the word. "So a new man will be listening to your orgasmic screams."

"Look," she quietly said, "we both know this can't go anywhere. And no, there won't be another man. But this is jealousy, Crewe, in case you've never experienced it. Mark it on your calendar."

"I could take you with me." Single-minded, he wanted what he wanted.

"For how long? Be practical. You'd be looking for a way out within a fortnight. I won't go into a closet until you call for me or melt into the woodwork like some doxy thrilled you've looked her way. You'd have to see me across the dinner table and consider this, Crewe, when lust isn't doing your thinking for youacross the breakfast table as well. That should put the fear of God in you."

He smiled at her blunt depictions. "Is it really that bad?"

"Let's not talk about that."

"We should keep everything in the present tense?"

"Certainly a habit of long standing with you."

"So…" he murmured, his voice husky, a familiar touch of amusement vibrating in its depths, "are you interested in having my child?"

"You've returned, darling," she playfully replied. "I think we'll both be more comfortable with the normal, profligate Hugh Dalsany. And the answer is yes." She raised her arms to him in slow, deliberate invitation, and, leaning back on the golden silk, she purred, "Let me entertain you…"

She lay Venus-like on the willow chaise, all blooming flesh and curves, her narrow waist corseted to hand's-span width, the flowing riding skirt trailing on the floor, the braided frogs and closures on the jacket so overtly masculine, her voluptuous form seemed more perversely erotic in contrast. As though green serge and severe tailoring, all the accoutrements of military dress, could scarcely contain the lush fertility of her womanhood. And if he had any misgivings, the image before him would have tempted more virtuous men than he.