Once a Duchess(103)

 

Marshall dragged his lips away from hers. He stroked the hair above her temples and brushed his lips against her forehead. “So many mistakes,” Marshall said, repeating his self-incrimination. “I should have told you I loved you in that inn. I should have told you a thousand times before you left me. I know why you did. I would’ve left me, too.”

 

Isabelle laughed softly, leaning her forehead against his chin. She pulled back in his arms and tilted her head so she could look him in the eye. “You’ll stay now, though, won’t you?”

 

Marshall smiled sadly and stroked her cheek with a knuckle. “No, my love, I won’t stay. I have to go.”

 

Isabelle recoiled. Her mind reeled, refusing to accept what he was saying. Not when she loved him, and he loved her.

 

“But,” he said, touching the tip of her nose, “if you’d like, I will delay sailing for a few weeks — long enough to get invitations out and guests to town. How does South America strike you for a wedding trip?” His lips turned up in that sly, boyish smile of his, the one she loved best of all.

 

She flung her arms around his neck and raised up on her toes to kiss him. It was an awkward kiss, more teeth than lips for the smiles they each wore.

 

He scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bunk, where he gently set her down on the wool blanket. Then he straightened, made quick work of the buttons on his waistcoat and tossed it aside. His shirt soon followed and joined it on the floor.

 

Her breath caught at the sight of him. Heat stirred her blood. He stretched out beside her on the bunk. Their arms wound around each other as he delivered kiss after scorching kiss.

 

Marshall began working the buttons on the back of her dress. Isabelle’s breath left her in a whoosh as moisture pooled between her legs. She was desperate to feel him. Isabelle tugged first one sleeve, and then the other, pulling her arms back through the material. Marshall shimmied her skirt up so it bunched around her waist. When Isabelle’s arms were clear, she lifted them, and Marshall pulled the frock over her head and tossed it to join the heap on the floor.

 

Their eyes locked together, and Isabelle thought she would die if she couldn’t have him. She quivered all over with the force of her wanting. Her eyes never leaving his, she stripped out of her chemise and stockings while Marshall made short work of the rest of his clothes.

 

She had one delicious glimpse of his glorious, naked self before he grabbed a folded blanket from the foot of the bed and shook it open. He turned and covered her in one smooth motion; the blanket billowed, then settled over them.

 

Isabelle traced her tongue up the side of his throat, relishing the light, salty tang of his skin and his spicy, masculine scent. She didn’t care how forward or wanton she might seem. Theirs was a mutual hunger, a soul-deep yearning that went beyond lust.

 

Marshall groaned and captured her mouth in a heavy kiss. Their tongues danced and stroked. Isabelle clutched his neck with frantic need.

 

He dragged his mouth across her cheek, and then propped himself up on his elbows. Sheltered by his large body, Isabelle felt safe and warm and … home.

 

Marshall’s heavy erection pressed against her thigh. Isabelle parted her legs and made a whimpering sound. Marshall moved to cover her there with a hand, stroking and parting her folds. “I have to have you now,” he said in a strained voice.

 

“Yes,” Isabelle said. Her breath was already coming fast. “Me, too. I need — ”

 

And then he was in her, and she gasped at the pleasure. Her nails dug into his back as she clutched him as tightly as she could, even squeezing the muscles around his staff — which resulted in an earthy grunt of approval from Marshall.

 

He withdrew and drove in, burying himself to the hilt. Her taut nerves jumped in response. He moved in slow, long strokes, claiming her with his body. “You’re mine,” he rasped. “My Isabelle.”

 

She hugged her arms around his shoulders, near to crying with joy and the force of her passion, oblivious to everything but the heat between them. “Yes,” she whispered.

 

She was his. She loved him. She’d loved him since she was eighteen years old. She’d loved him through divorce and exile and everything life threw in her path. She’d loved him through it all.

 

Marshall rose onto his knees and lifted her thighs to receive him even more deeply. The blanket fell around his hips. His fingers dug into the globes of her buttocks. She pressed her feet into the bed, willing their flesh to meld together into one.

 

His eyes were hazy but intense upon her as she neared her climax. “You’re so beautiful,” he said. He drew a deep breath and shook his head. Isabelle knew he was holding back.