“Hawksley,” she breathed, wrapping her arms about him as he gave a shout and the feel of his warm seed poured into her.
Slowly her shaking subsided as Hawksley rolled to his side, pulling her firmly into his arms. Her hand rested on his chest, feeling the thunderous beat of his heart as he kissed the top of her curls.
“I did promise, kitten, that it would work just fine,” he murmured.
She snuggled closer. The feel of his arms about her was something she wished to brand into her memories. It would be all she had to keep her warm during the long nights to come.
“So you did.”
“And you are . . . pleased?”
She was surprised by the hesitancy in his voice. As if the proud pirate was actually worried she might possess regrets.
With a smile she tilted back her head to meet his searching gaze.
“Are you searching for compliments, sir?” she demanded.
A wicked glint entered the indigo eyes. “If you wish to offer compliments, I am quite willing to accept them.”
Clara wrinkled her nose in regret. “I fear compliments are yet another social skill I have never managed to master. I always manage to make a muck of it.”
“Ah. Then let me assist you, my angel.” His hands slipped down to intimately cup her bottom in his hands. “You should tell me that you are captivated by my kisses and enthralled by my touch. You should tell me that you will never forget this night together. And course, you must assure me that I am the very best lover you have ever had.”
Her heart flopped over in her chest. Not so much at the tantalizing exploration of his hands, although that was delightful. But more at the casual teasing in his tone.
Suddenly she understood why women battled so desperately to gain the attention of a gentleman.
With Hawksley there was none of the awkward uncertainty she always endured. None of the fear that she was about to make a fool of herself. None of the sickening realization that her companion was desperately seeking some polite means of fleeing her company.
Instead there was a sense of absolute comfort. Of belonging.
And that meant more to her than anything else he could possibly offer.
Her fingers reached up to trace the line of his sculpted lips.
“Very fine compliments, Hawksley, but I do feel duty bound to point out that I can hardly claim you as the best lover since you are my first lover.”
Abruptly Clara discovered herself rolled onto her back, Hawksley poised above her as his eyes darkened to a blue mist.
“No, Clara, not your first lover,” he corrected, his voice oddly tight as his head lowered with sensuous intent. “Your only lover.”
For the first time since his brother’s murder, Hawksley was not plagued with ruthless nightmares that marred his nights. Nor did he awaken at the crack of dawn battling the restless need to be upon the hunt.
Perhaps not so surprising, he drowsily acknowledged as he breathed deeply of the feminine scent still clinging to his skin. He had devoted hours to teaching his bride-to-be the delights of desire. Wondrous hours that had revealed Clara’s passionate nature and ready wish to please and be pleased.
Even after she had fallen asleep, he had remained awake to watch her.
She appeared so delicate, so fragile. And yet, he was discovering that she possessed more strength and courage than any woman he had ever encountered.
No, not any woman, he had corrected himself. Any person he had ever encountered.
He had chosen well.
Near dawn he had gathered her into his arms and had at last fallen into a deep, peaceful sleep.
Now an unwitting smile curved his lips as he reached out to touch the woman who had banished the demons of the night.
“Clara . . .”
His smile faded and his eyes opened as he realized he was alone in the bed. Abruptly sitting up, he glanced about his chamber, belatedly noting the shaft of late-morning sunlight peeking between the curtains.
Damn.
Tossing aside the covers, Hawksley plunged himself into the bath that had long since cooled to a tepid temperature and shaved his heavy whiskers. With the same swift efficiency he pulled on his attire and tugged his damp hair into a queue at his neck.
Why the devil had she not awakened him?
Bloody hell, he had taken her innocence. Surely she must realize they needed to discuss what had occurred last night? To come to an understanding of their future together?
In the process of tying a simple knot in his cravat, Hawksley abruptly grimaced.
What the devil was he thinking?
He knew better by now than to expect the expected from Miss Clara Dawson.
While any other woman might be clamoring for promises of a wedding, or at the very least the assurance that he would take care of her, Clara was no doubt off baking a cake or polishing the silver.
It would never occur to her that he might possess a responsibility for her now.
She had been too long on her own. Too long forced to fend for herself. And too long surrounded by buffoons who had no appreciation for her rare qualities.
Well, no longer.
From this day forward she would have someone to take care of her. Someone who would ensure that she need never be alone again.
Feeling an unfamiliar sense of anticipation, Hawksley let himself out of his chambers and went in search of his bride. It was time she realized that her future was very much settled.
He at last discovered her in his small library, seated at his desk. She was occupied with a paper upon the blotter, and for a moment he simply allowed himself to drink in the sight of her.
With the sunlight slanting through the window, her hair shimmered with a silver halo and the purity of her profile was thrown into relief.
His angel, indeed.
All his.
Feeling a ridiculous urge to strut about like a puffed-up rooster, Hawksley crossed the room to stand directly behind her chair. He brushed a kiss over her bare nape before leaning toward her ear.
“Good morning, kitten.”
With a startled squeak Clara was on her feet and whirling about. At the sight of him her expression abruptly softened.
“Oh, Hawksley, you are awake.”
“So it would seem,” he murmured, pushing the chair out of his way as he stepped toward her.
“I am so glad. I have been working upon . . . oh.” Her eyes widened as his arms lashed about her and hoisted her against his chest. “Good heavens.”
Hawksley smiled with wicked enjoyment as her eyes darkened with pleasure. With ready ease he recalled the memory of her lying beneath him as she cried out her pleasure. Slowly he allowed his hands to trace down the slender curve of her spine, lingering upon the softness of her hips before skimming their way back up. He breathed deeply of her clean scent. She smelled of soap and vanilla and sweet feminine heat. It intoxicated him in a manner he had never before experienced.
Intoxicated and bewildered him, he had to acknowledge.
Lust he understood. It was as familiar as hunger and thirst and pain.
And the reason his manhood was rapidly hardening with determined intent. But he did not understand the tenderness that ached deep in his heart whenever she was near.
There was no urge to roughly conquer and brand this woman as his own as he lowered his head. Instead, with exquisite care he tasted of her lips, savoring her softness as if she were a rare nectar. She shivered even as her arms lifted to wrap about his neck.
He moved to drop light kisses over her cheeks, her temples, and her wide brow. He memorized every plane, every angle of her countenance from the fullness of her mouth to the sweep of her lashes before burying his face in the curve of her neck.
“This is the proper way to greet your lover in the morning,” he murmured against her skin.