“It’s a garden room out in the gardens.” Francesca studied it as they approached along the path.
Gyles opened the door.
“Oh! How beautiful.” Stepping up to the polished floor, Francesca looked around, then was drawn to the windows. “What a magnificent view!”
“I’d forgotten,” Gyles murmured, closing the door. “I haven’t been here for years.”
Francesca glanced around at the comfortable furniture. “Well, someone comes here-it’s aired, and there’s not a speck of dust in sight.”
“Mrs. Cantle. She says the walk does her good.” Leaving Francesca by the windows, Gyles walked to where, beside a sofa, a tapestry frame stood, a piece of linen stretched on the hoop, silks dangling. “My mother used to spend a lot of time here.”
The tapestry stirred long-buried memories; Gyles eventually recognized it as the one his mother had been working on at the time of his father’s death. “It’s too far for her these days.”
And she wouldn’t come anyway-that he now understood. Francesca had asked if he’d ever watched his parents making love-he’d denied it. But he had seen them together once. He’d been playing on the ledge and had heard their voices. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, it had all been a jumble of sounds, so he’d crept closer and peeked in. They’d been here, on the sofa, in each other’s arms, kissing and murmuring. He hadn’t understood what they were doing, and it had interested him not at all. He’d gone back to playing and had given the incident no further thought.
His mother had loved his father deeply-he’d known that all along. Known the reason for her overwhelming sadness at his death, her withdrawal from the world at the time. He’d never questioned that love, never doubted its existence. But he’d forgotten just how strong love was-how enduring. How it held true through all the years.
Now he was here with Francesca. His wife.
A sound reached him; he turned and watched her open a window, pushing the halves wide. The back of the folly butted against the bluff, but its other walls were half window. A sill ran around the room at hip height, with windows set in panels reaching up, nearly to the ceiling.
Placing her hands on the wide sill, Francesca leaned out and looked down, then to either side. “The river’s so close you can hear it murmuring.”
“Can you?” Halting behind her, Gyles slid his arms around her and drew her back against him. She chuckled warmly and leaned back, tipped her head back. Gyles bent his head and set his lips to the curve of her throat. She shuddered delicately.
“The view is tantalizing.”
He murmured the words against her skin, then shifted his hands to cup her breasts. His teeth grazed the taut line of her throat, then lightly nipped.
She reached back, down, sliding her hands down his thighs. “It’s the ambiance,” she whispered. “I can feel it.”
It was his turn to chuckle; he knew precisely what she could feel. She pressed her head against his shoulder and her eyes found his, searched them, read them. He didn’t try to hide his desire, his need, what he wanted, that minute, from her.
Her lips curved, sirenlike, and she turned in his arms, turned to him.
Her hand touched his cheek as he bent his head. They kissed, and it was sweet. Addictive enough for them to take, and give, and take again.
They didn’t stop until they were breathless, both aching and wanting and eager. It was she who stepped back, drawing him with her, until her back met the ledge.
He arched a brow at her. “Here?”
She arched a brow back-pure challenge. “Here, my lord.”
She’d never pretended to an innocence she didn’t possess. He closed his hands about her waist and lifted her; she wriggled and got her balance. He lifted her skirts and pushed them back to her hips. She parted her thighs eagerly and he touched her, cupped her, lingeringly caressed her, then slid one long finger deeply into her.
“Oh!” She clutched his shoulder as her lids drooped in involuntary reaction.
He stroked, then reached deeper and she gasped.
“Don’t you dare,” she managed, but he only smiled. He stroked and probed until she was frantic. She was hot and wet; he delighted in the abandoned response of her body to his touch, to him.
Then she pushed his hand away and her fingers were at his waistband. He was fully erect, iron-hard, and very ready when her fingers found him and stroked, then closed. But they couldn’t afford to let her have her way with him. He drew her hand
away, pressed her knees wide, and guided himself to her entrance.
He pressed in and she gasped, tightened, then eased and wriggled. He clamped her hips between his hands and pressed deeper, then deeper still. Her body welcomed him, slick, scalding hot, yielding. She laced her fingers behind his nape and leaned back, gripping his flanks with her thighs, tilting her hips to take him all, settling herself about him.
With one final thrust he seated himself fully, embedded within her lushness. Their eyes met; all laughter was gone. She lifted one hand, laid it along his cheek, and guided his lips to hers, offering them to him.