Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

She grinned up at him, saying wickedly, “You are almost as intriguing after you make love to me as during.”

“Amalie told me quite clearly that a woman enjoys talk after she’d drowned with pleasure, not just snores.”

She punched him in the chest.

“I have only seven years on you, my dear,” he said in a marveling voice. “And you still can’t keep up with me ... verbally, that is. As for the rest of it ...” He grinned down at her, and lay his palm on her belly, grinning more widely at her quiver. “Yes, the rest of it, well, I believe we can safely toss that damned jar of cream out the window.”

That was certainly true, thought Frances. “You think, doubtless, that is because you are a man—your verbal greatness, that is.”

“That and the greater natural intelligence that goes along with masculine endowments.”

“You are tempting me to put some of that horrid horse-colic medicine in your tea!”

He had no retort to that, which surprised her. He said finally, “I should have seen you then. Perhaps not before we were married, but certainly afterward.”

“You did see me! You blanched each time, and looked as if you were in acute pain.”

“No, really seen you. Even on your hands and knees kneeling over the chamber pot, your face a bit green. You weren’t wearing those spectacles then, nor one of those prized caps of yours.”

“I felt too awful to care,” she said, grimacing in memory. “You were going to make love to me that night, weren’t you?”

“I was going to try to,” he said, and lightly moved his open hand up to caress her breast. He felt the slight quiver, and smiled.

“What if I had been truly ugly?”

“Then I would have had to concentrate on your beautiful body,” he said promptly, his fingers now moving quickly downward. She was damp and sticky with him, and he wanted her again, desperately. He no longer questioned his intense need for her, he accepted it now, and reveled in it. A wife, he thought. His wife.

“Oh,” she gasped, unconsciously raised her arm to bring him over her, and gasped again at the twinge of pain.

“Careful, love. Do you want me to drive you crazy with more pleasure?”

She nodded, knowing quite well that she wanted him, all of him.

“You are mine,” she said, and lurched up at the incredible sensations created by his fingers.

“Yes, and I intend to be until I curl up my toes and pass to the hereafter. Now, where was I?”

He eased himself between her thighs, parting them widely. She blinked at him, feeling a moment of embarrassment at being so exposed to his eyes, but he merely shook his head, smiling at her. His eyes, darker now with building desire, studied her, following his caressing fingers. “So beautiful,” he said.

Her muscles tightened, then slackened. “You know how much I want you, don’t you, Hawk?”

“Yes,” he said on a deep satisfied sigh, “yes, I do, love.”

“Then why do you continue to tease me?”

“Tease you? Hmmm. Actually, I’m simply ensuring that you are truly gentled and weak and silly before I give you what you want.”

“You bounder!” Then she gasped, and her eyes glazed. “Hawk!” she cried, and brought him into her.

Later, when Frances was asleep in his arms, his mind returned to the miserable problems they faced. They were to leave for Newmarket on the morrow. He was frightened; he admitted it to himself. And he felt helpless, no matter all the precautions he’d taken. He thought of Mr. Samuel Uckley, the Bow Street runner, and smiled into the darkness. A most unprepossessing little man was Mr. Uckley, like a ferret blessed with a hook nose.

“I don’t like this, milord,” Mr. Uckley had informed him as he tugged on his left ear. “I wants to bring my friend Mr. Horace Bammer in on this. Horace can stay here and poke about and I’ll come with you to Newmarker.”

And that was that, thought Hawk. He wouldn’t have objected in any case. Mr. Bammer would provide more protection here at Desborough Hall.

He felt Frances’ fingers tangle in the matt of hair on his chest. He felt her warm breath against his shoulder. He wondered if she would remember in the morning the words she’d shouted at her climax. “Do you truly love me, Frances?” he asked quietly. She murmured something in her sleep, and he was pleased. But worry continued to nag at him. How to keep her safe? His body grew taut the more he thought about the damnable situation. He had suddenly thought of the captain of the Keymark, Nevil’s yacht, while he reviewed everything he knew with Mr. Uckley. He couldn’t remember the captain’s name. Nor had he ever seen Nevil’s yacht, now his yacht, he’d realized with a start. But it was true, as Mr. Uckley had pointed out, that if there had been foul play, the captain had to know of it, and that meant, of course, that the “blinkin‘ cove” had been bribed to keep his mouth shut. Hawk decided then to send a message to Southampton to the Keymark and demand that the captain come to Newmarket. Then he would get answers by hook or by crook.

Hawk cursed softly and Frances said quite distinctly, “Alicia, did you feel ill when you were with child?”