The Wallflowers To Wives Collection

His wife chose that moment to come out of the kitchen, a woman as big as he, armed with a rolling pin. ‘What are you doing out here, gabbing away? I’ve got dinner to see to and there are customers to serve. I can’t do it all, lazy man.’

‘See?’ The man held up his hands in surrender, letting her drag him away to the bar. ‘Enjoy them!’

Jonathon laughed and headed upstairs. Maybe his steps were quick on the treads. Maybe he was eager. Maybe he was just curious to see how far Claire was willing to take the impersonation of his wife. Was that so wrong? Despite the circumstances and his anxiety over the informant’s news, he hadn’t been this happy in a long time. He meant to hang on to it not just for ‘as long as he could’, but for ever. Claire had come for him.

He knocked at the door to give her fair warning and stepped inside. Claire stood before the fire much as she had when he’d arrived. Only this time she had traded her carriage gown for a robe of white silk that belted at the waist, her dark hair falling in loose waves over one shoulder. There was no mistaking her intentions. This was an offering, a seduction all rolled into one. They had reached a new point of no return. ‘Claire, are you sure?’

She stepped towards him, her hand at the belt of her robe, tugging at the sash in answer. ‘I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.’ The robe fell loose, the sleek fabric parting to offer a tantalising glimpse of skin, of breast, of a dark shadow of hair below.

‘You’ve had dinner, Jonathon. Are you ready for dessert?’ She gave a shrug of one shoulder, letting the robe fall to her feet, revealing herself fully. Jonathon’s mouth went dry. By the saints, Claire Welton knew how to tempt a man.

‘I believe I am,’ Jonathon managed. He wanted to look at her, to enjoy her in a way he had not in their previous encounters. There had been too many clothes, or too little time. Tonight, there was neither. He let his eyes linger on the fullness of her breasts, the trimness of her torso, the slimness of her waist, the flaring width of her hips and length of her legs. Her height had not occurred to him one way or the other before, but perhaps it explained why they had waltzed so effortlessly together, walked so easily together. Then again, those activities might come easy because she was simply Claire and had a way of putting him at ease with himself. He didn’t need his masks when he was with her.

She backed away towards the chair and sat, legs crossed, the very image of Godiva in her nakedness. ‘Now it’s your turn. Take off your clothes, Jonathon.’

‘Don’t you want to take them off?’ he queried.

She gave him a coy smile. ‘No, tonight I want to watch. A lady likes to look, too.’ Ah, so she’d noticed. Jonathon grinned and complied, pulling off his boots and discarding his coats. He could get used to this confident, dominant Claire who was in charge of her passion. He loved the openness of her imagination to such bold exploration. Why would a man ever want to change this? Why would a man want a blank slate when a man could have a woman of intelligence, of confidence instead of someone cowering under the blankets out of duty?

Jonathon worked the fastenings of his trousers and pushed them over his hips, his back turned to her, deliberately making a show of it. He liked the feel of her cognac gaze running over his bare skin, liked knowing that what she saw pleased her. ‘Keep watching, Claire.’

* * *

‘Yes,’ Claire whispered. What had started as her seduction of him had rapidly become his seduction of her. She was helpless to look away. The long, smooth muscles of his back, the muscled curve of his buttocks, the masculine concavities at his hips entranced her.

Then he turned, facing her with the firelight behind him, hands on those narrow hips, thumbs angled to draw the eye downward toward his groin and the jutting peninsula of his phallus rising from the bristling dark thatch of him, hard and rugged to match the muscled power of his body. Who would have thought such strength lay beneath the dark evening clothes and bright smile? He had them all fooled for years, she realised. Did anyone guess at what lay beneath the clothes? She could easily believe this man who stood before her was a soldier hardened by battle, a fighter who wouldn’t shirk from fisticuffs in an alley. And he was hers. For however long it lasted.

Her pulse raced as he approached the chair. He held out his hand and uttered the most provocative invitation she’d ever heard. ‘Come to bed, Claire.’ She rose and took his hand.

There was no turning back now. There’d been no turning back for a long time, not since the day she’d mopped tea off his trousers and chased him into the hall to accept his offer. Claiming Jonathon was claiming herself. For the first time she was taking what she wanted. Even if she had to reconcile herself to the reality that she could love Jonathon Lashley for ever, but she couldn’t keep him that long.

He followed her down, the bed taking their weight. He kissed her long and thoroughly, his tongue tracing its tip over her lips. This was a loitering kiss, a languorous drinking of each other which there was no need to rush. They had all night. What a luxury that seemed! They were free to drink of one another, to taste, to touch, to look their fill as slowly or as rapidly as they chose, as often as they chose.

His fingers skimmed over the base of her throat where her pulse beat, trailing slowly to the valley between her breasts, his hands cupping and caressing, his thumb-pads dragging over their suddenly sensitive peaks.

‘You are beautiful, every inch of you.’ Jonathon’s eyes feasted on her, his adulation inspiring her confidence in turn. This was decadent indeed, to lay naked in front of a man, a lover.

Her hand skimmed the muscle of him, travelling lower along his chest, along the ridges of abdomen and hip until she had the hot, hard length of him in her hand. She would never tire of the feel of him. This time, she knew what to expect and it only served to enhance the wonder of it. ‘I think the old wives have the wrong of it,’ she murmured, her hand moving down his length. ‘They say familiarity breeds contempt, but I disagree. I think it breeds anticipation.’ She laughed, revelling in the newfound power of passion awakened in her. Had this wanton been inside her all along? Had it just taken her courage to release this brave, bold woman who took the pleasure, asked for the pleasure she deserved? ‘I know what you can provide and that makes me all the more eager for it, Jonathon.’

‘You’ll be having that pleasure sooner rather than later, if you keep this up, minx,’ Jonathon warned hoarsely. ‘There’s only so much exploration a man can take.’ She placed a soft kiss on his mouth and ran her thumb over his tip. ‘You’re weeping for me.’ Her fingers spread the liquid bead down his length, priming him for what came next.

‘Like you.’ Jonathon moved a hand between her legs, mirroring her actions. He cupped her at her core, his hand moving against her mons. Jonathon braced himself on his arms and looked down at her. ‘You are my coffee-haired witch, my cognac-eyed Delilah.’

‘Coffee? Cognac? You make me sound like a drink.’ She laughed up at him.

‘I’d like to drink you, perhaps I shall.’ Wickedness glinted in the blue depths of his eyes. Jonathon grinned and slid down her body, leaving kisses at her breasts, at her navel, at the dark juncture between her thighs, each kiss serving to ratchet up the intensity of his touch. Only then, with her body primed for pleasure and his breath warm against the dampness of her curls did she understand what he meant to do. Her legs tightened about him out of reflex. Surely he couldn’t mean to do that?

‘Easy, Claire, you will like it. I will make it good for you,’ he coaxed. ‘Open for me. It’s all right.’ He held her thighs apart, his grip steadying her. She relaxed beneath his touch, her muscles easing. At the first pass of his tongue, her mind eased as well. This was indeed a most delightfully wicked pleasure. His tongue found her nub and licked, sucked, licked again while she arched beneath him, finding the rhythm of her own pleasure in answer to him.

She heard him give a sharp moan, an indication that this intimacy pleased him to give it as much as it pleased her to receive it. Together, they drove one another to recklessness. She bucked, her moans an aphrodisiac nonpareil as she began to crest against him, reaching out for the pleasure, the fulfilment, and he gave it to her, his own breathing coming in rasps now.

She gasped incoherently and Jonathon levered himself over her. His words came in a broken torrent. He was close to losing himself as well. ‘I promised I could wait for you to recover. I promised myself I’d be gentle.’

‘Then don’t. Don’t wait. Don’t be gentle.’ Her legs were wide and ready for him, her body racked with pleasure. ‘Bury yourself in me, Jonathon.’

He pulled her arms high above her head, holding them in his grip, her breasts pushed hard into him as her body arched in affirmation. He’d driven them both wild, made both of them reckless with wanting. Jonathon lowered himself into the cradle of her legs, his body positioning itself, fitting itself to her with an ease that spoke of homecoming. They were primed for one another, wet and slick with their intimacy. He slid into her, the tightness of her channel stretching around him, surrounding him. She gave a sharp gasp, a reminder that while her body was running hot with desire, it was still her first time and he was a full-sheathed male inside an untried passage.

Jonathon stilled, the muscles of his arms taut with the effort, the discipline of his will overcoming their rampant need. She arched against him, in signal to continue, and he began to move, slowly at first—the tantalising glide inward, then the teasing slide outward, their hips meeting and breaking and meeting again like waves along the shore, gently, and then with the ferocity of the pounding surf. She writhed against him, madness driving them to the edge of pleasure and then over it with a final spilling thrust. For the first time, they’d found that pleasure together.

He sank against her, exhausted, his heart pounding, the sweat of sex on him, that elusive scent of salt and musk. He found the strength to roll to his side, and pulled her to him, her head resting on his good shoulder. Had she ever been so entirely undone? Nothing could have prepared her for this feeling of bonelessness.

‘Claire, are you all right?’ he asked softly, ‘Lie still and I’ll get you a cloth.’ He began to push up from the bed, but she placed a hand on his chest in gentle restraint.

‘No, it will keep. I don’t want to give you up just yet. Lie here with me.’ She walked her fingers in an idle path across his chest. ‘Is it always like that? Like I think I will die from it and yet I can’t stop myself from embracing it?’

‘Running towards disaster?’ Jonathon chuckled. ‘That’s not very flattering.’ Then he sobered, his hand closing over hers where it lay on his chest. ‘It’s not a disaster at any rate. The French have a word for it, le petit mort. The little death.’

‘Ah, something in French you know that I don’t.’ She sighed and settled into quiet contemplation as she gathered her thoughts, now that passion was receding and other issues were starting to encroach. ‘Jonathon, I know what I am doing in Dover,’ she began tentatively, fearing the answer. ‘I came to tell you I love you...that pushing you away was a mistake. But what I don’t know is what are you doing in Dover?’

Chapter Twenty (#ulink_3ba381bf-110b-5534-b3b2-42ca5baf836a)

Jonathon shifted, uncomfortable with the question. What would she think? Would she think he was crazy or that it was a foolish hope?

‘What?’ She raised herself up on one arm, cajoling him with a sleepy smile. ‘You can climb into my bedroom and wring my secrets out of me, but I can’t do the same for you?’ She was teasing him, but in the dim light of the room, he could see the uneasiness in her eyes. Her question had inadvertently become a test of trust.

‘Jonathon?’ Her body tensed when he hesitated, the light in her eyes diminished. ‘I see.’ She had come to him, declared herself to him and trusted him to protect her. Now, it was his turn to reciprocate. This had become a defining moment for them. She had made the leap of faith. She was waiting for him to follow.

Jonathon swallowed. ‘You will think I am crazy.’ He couldn’t bear it if that were true. He understood why his parents had stopped looking, stopped hoping. He didn’t speak about it in society in general because they didn’t care. He’d grown tired of the patronising pity in people’s eyes whenever he brought Thomas up.

‘What could be crazier than allowing you to believe I had a suitor? Your secret can hardly be more embarrassing than mine.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘Try me, Jonathon.’

‘It’s my brother, Thomas. There’s been word that he might be found. There’s an informant who is coming to meet me, who says he has information.’ He could hear the hope in his voice as he said the words out loud.

He watched her brow knit, watched her expression change into contemplation. ‘Your brother? Isn’t he dead?’

‘Maybe. His body was never found.’

‘Has he been found, then?’ she asked gently. He could see her doing the maths in her head, her mind debating the doubt and probability of such a thing. Seven years was a long time. Any moment she’d ask the question: If he was alive, why hadn’t he returned home by now under his own power? It was what everyone asked.

She settled back down, resting her head against his shoulder. ‘It seems you have quite the tale to tell, Jonathon. Perhaps you should get started. We only have all night.’ Just like that, an enormous weight, one he hadn’t fully realised he was carrying, was lifted from him.

It felt good to talk, or maybe it was that it felt good to talk to her. There in the dark, with her body against his, he told her about Thomas, how his brother had ridden off with the dispatch in his place, how his brother had not made the meeting place, how he had wandered the battlefield and roads looking for Thomas until he’d been shot down, unable to search any further. ‘The trouble is, I don’t know if I want to find him. In some ways, I think I am afraid to find him, afraid to know what happened to him.’

Those last words were out before he could take them back. He’d not meant to say that much. He’d never spoken those words out loud, not to anyone, not even Owen. He needed to find Thomas, alive or dead, to assuage his own guilt at having left his brother behind. But want? No, he didn’t want to find Thomas. Didn’t want to learn why Thomas chose not to come home. There was more guilt down that road of not wanting. It was a dark question he did not examine often. He waited for Claire’s response, waited for her condemnation. What kind of person didn’t want to find his brother alive? But what he got in return was a single word, a single question.

‘Why?’ she whispered, her hand covering his, her eyes soft. There was no judgement in her gaze, only concern for him. It unlocked the dam that had held back his thoughts for so many years. Words flooded from his mouth.

‘Because war changes a person. If he’s been found, why hasn’t he come home sooner? Did he choose not to? Or has he lost his memory? Maybe he’s not Thomas any more.’ Memories defined who a person was, gave them a history. If they were gone, Thomas would have built new ones without him. ‘Who am I to disrupt whatever new life he’s found?’ That would compound selfishness with the guilt he already knew. Dragging Thomas home was for him, for his parents. It had occurred to him that Thomas might not thank him for it.