Rake Most Likely to Thrill

‘I didn’t expect you to go so far.’ Elisabeta twined her arms around his neck, her hands fingering the ends of his hair where it brushed below his collar.

‘I was looking for the perfect spot.’ His mouth was at her neck and his words came between kisses along the column of her throat, his mouth latching over the pulse beat at its base, sending a trill of excitement down her spine.

‘For what?’ She managed to breathe, although she could guess, and the guessing made her giddy with excitement. She was thankful to note there was a wall at her back should she need it. At this rate, her legs wouldn’t hold her much longer. This man was a consummate artist in the craft of amore with his subtle touches, the lingering of his gaze, the temptation woven in his kisses.

‘For this.’ His mouth returned to hers, his body pressing hers to the rough brick of the wall. She was fully protected here by the breadth of his shoulders and the height of his body. They blocked her from view should anyone stagger down the street or come looking for privacy of their own.

She should have known such a master of the art would not resort to a base, rushed, dark-alley coupling, or be carried away by the heat of the moment and his own need. She should have been ready. The kisses to her neck, to her throat, should have primed her, warned her that here in the privacy of the dark and the quiet of the night, the music and noise of the festivities far behind them, these moments would be different than the frenzied excitement in the piazza. But still, the kiss took her unawares.

This kiss was a long, languorous exploration of her, his tongue probing and tasting, his mouth opening to encourage her to do the same, and she did. She tasted the remnants of rich wine on his tongue, smelled the last vestiges of his morning toilette beneath the sweat of the day, the scents of a man. Wherever he’d come from, he’d come on horseback. The smells of leather and horse were evident too, on his skin, and most pleasantly so. She preferred a man smell like a man than a flower garden. A man’s scent should above all be an honest representation of him.

As should his body. There was honesty aplenty in that dark alcove. His want was in evidence, his erection hard at her stomach where their bodies met. He was not alone in that evidence, only more obvious. There was wetness at her core, an ache that rose in her, demanding to be assuaged. He nipped at her lip, tugging at it gently, and she moaned, her body pressing into his, her hips grinding in suggestion against his.

Archer groaned his response into her mouth, his kiss becoming possessive, the slow tempo between them quickening, turning primal. His hands bunched the folds of her skirts, pushing them up. ‘Let me lift you.’ The command was hoarse with need.

His hands slid under her, cupping her buttocks and hefting her to him, her legs wrapping around his waist as he balanced her between himself and the wall. Her skirts fell back, her private flesh bare against him. She felt the hardness of him through the barrier of his trousers, the contact erotic, and she moved on him in instinctive response.

She was rewarded with a fierce nip at her ear and the feel of the strong muscles that held her, trembling. ‘You will have me spilling like a green boy.’ The rasped warning was both caution and accolade and it spurred her on. The heat and frenzy was returning, stoked to life once more. Her hips sought him again, but he had other ideas, better ideas.

He shifted his weight, his hand finding the core of her, his palm pressing against her mons until she cried out in pleasurable frustration. She was far beyond it being enough. But he knew. ‘I can make it better,’ he promised against her throat, his fingers parting her folds. His breath hitched as he felt her wetness, found the tiny bean of her pleasure and began to stroke. Her pleasure was exciting for him, she realised. The knowledge that her delight roused him was intoxicating, heady, and she gave herself over to it, fuelling them both, driving them both towards the cliff of madness. She reached for him, her hand taking him through his trousers as he stroked her. Dio caro! The man was big, and long and, oh, so deliciously hard.

Elisabeta worked the fall of his trousers open. The best way to tell him what she wanted was to show him. Her hand found the naked length of him, and he gave a low, guttural groan. ‘You will kill me yet, Elisabeta.’ Her name was a groan on his lips, his body straining.

‘Take me,’ she whispered fiercely at his ear. She too had become primal in these moments. She had never been so lost in the madness of lovemaking before, had never been this far and yet something more loomed on the horizon of this pleasure. All reserve, all rational thought had been stripped away by his hands, his mouth.

‘Yes,’ Archer rasped and the response was immediate; the slide of his body into hers. She was tight but ready, the slickness of her tunnel easing his way until he was fully within her. There was the glorious sensation of stretching, accommodating. Then he began to move, and she with him, her hips matching the thrusting rhythm of his body, slowly at first, the pace growing with their intensity.

Moans and gasps became the sum of her vocabulary, his body the sum of her world. She muffled those gasps against the fabric of his shirt and still he brought them closer and closer to the undefinable something that lay just over the edge of madness. All she had to do was...

‘Let go, Elisabeta,’ came the hoarse command. ‘Let yourself go, we are nearly there.’ The words came in pants and broken fragments, but that he had any power of speech at all was miraculous to her—she had none. He gave a final thrust, and she let the madness take her entirely. She was over the cliff, claiming pleasure in its fullness, her heart pounding, her pulse racing, and Archer was there too, his own heart pounding hard against hers, proof of his efforts spilling against her thighs, a hot reminder of glorious life.

She rested her head against the brick of the wall, Archer’s head on her shoulder, his own shoulders heaving from his exertions. Her hands were in his hair, absently stroking, soothing. Her mind was still in an incoherent fog where thought came in incomplete scraps. What did she know of such things? She’d known nothing of this pleasure before tonight, only that it hypothetically existed. How was she to have known it would be so bone-shattering? Her experience was limited to the adolescent skills of a fumbling but well-intentioned virgin. Later, her marriage bed had known the comfort that comes with familiarity, but never this overwhelming pleasure that left her drugged; sapped and satisfied all at once.

Curiosity began to ignite as reality slowly settled on her. It made one wonder. If this man’s lovemaking could be incredible up against a wall in a dark alcove of a city street, what would it be like in a feather bed? What would it be like with a woman he knew or perhaps even truly loved?

No, she couldn’t let her mind travel that direction, not even under the excuse of this pleasurable fog. To know the answer to such a fantasy meant knowing him, learning his last name, his history, his people. She was not looking for that. She could not have that, it was far too much temptation. Her uncle had promised her to another. What a cruel temptation it would be to know he was out there in the world somewhere and to have the tools to find him, while being married to the priore’s gouty relative. There was only hurt down that path, and shame.

The thought of shame sparked too the reality of what she’d done. For all of the nuances he’d provided with his laughter, his touch, his sexy knowing mouth, his intimate possession of her body, for all that he’d never made her feel that this was a cheap encounter or she was nothing more than a troia, there was no disguising what this was: sex in an alley with a stranger. Extraordinarily good sex, apparently, and with a very handsome stranger, but adjectives didn’t change the blunt truth. She’d set out to act scandalously and she had.

Archer’s head moved against her shoulder and he set her down slowly, as if warning her legs they would need to stand on their own. He moved away from her long enough to restore his trousers. In the dimness, he was even more attractive after sex than he was before, if that was possible. His hair fell rakishly in his face as he concentrated on his clothes, his hands sure and competent in their tasks. She’d never found a man’s hands sexy before, but even in the dark, his hands carried a certain quality to them, she’d thought as much when they’d danced and eaten. Those moments in the piazza seemed a lifetime ago.

‘Elisabeta.’ His voice was soft in the darkness, his face close to hers, his eyes half-shut. One arm bracketed her as he leaned against the wall. His lips touched hers in a light brushing, not a full kiss. He was formulating ideas, deciding what happened next. She couldn’t allow that. She gathered her reserves.

‘Archer,’ she answered in equally soft tones, her hand gently cupping the firm line of his jaw. She wanted to touch him until the last, to give her body every chance to remember him. ‘I have to go.’ With that, she ducked under his arm and ran into the night.

* * *

Just like bloody Cinderella in the children’s tale. Archer took a few steps forward into the street after her, but he stopped himself. Women who fled without provocation didn’t want to be followed. He would not make a fool of himself by running after her. Or worse, put her in danger of discovery. Elisabeta, if that was even her name, was gone with not even a glass slipper to trace her. If Nolan was here, he’d tell him he’d got a fair bit luckier than the prince. That poor fellow had only got a dance after flirting with her all night. To which, Archer would acerbically remind him it was a children’s tale after all. As such, it was also a tale of true love.

Sex in an alley wasn’t true love, not even close. It wasn’t meant to be. Yet nothing in the encounter had been casual. Archer leaned against the wall, his active mind imagining the brick still warm from her body. He’d had casual sex before. It was physical and fast, a game for the moment, a way to pass the time at a ball or masquerade. The arousing quality of those liaisons usually came from the heightened risk of discovery. Certainly, those qualities had been somewhat in evidence tonight. A street was public no matter how dark. But there had been more. Even now, arousal gave an insistent stir at the memory of her head thrown back at the last as she claimed her pleasure, her hair spilling, her breasts thrust forward against her bodice, her cries of release, the squeeze of her legs, holding him. Never had he seen an abandon so complete, so beautiful in its naturalness.

She had been stunned, surprised when it had come. He’d had the sense in those moments that while she was no virgin, this was new to her. New seemed an apt but inadequate description of what he’d seen in her face, felt in her body. His ego preened at the thought. He’d given her that exquisite release for the first time. It was silly, he hardly knew her, but he prided himself on putting a woman’s needs at the centre of his lovemaking. It was what had made him one of London’s rather more successful lovers.

And yet, his body hadn’t been without its own pleasures there against the wall. His body hummed for more of the same even now with having achieved repletion. Once was apparently not enough. Then again, perhaps it was understandable. He’d been on the road and alone for quite a while.

He was going to be alone quite a while longer too if he didn’t put this fanciful nonsense out of his head and find his uncle’s house. He’d left Amicus at the livery near the campo, the town centre, with plans to return for him once he’d located his uncle’s home. He’d had no desire to tramp through narrow cobblestone streets with a horse in tow, in the dark, looking for a home he wasn’t familiar with. His best bet would be to return to the party and ask for directions to Giacomo Ricci’s home in the Torre neighbourhood.

Archer shoved off the wall and began walking back to the festivities. His other best bet would be to put his Cinderella out of his mind. He wasn’t here to fall in love; he was here to make a new start, to help his uncle with horses for the Palio and to fulfil a promise to his mother. Taken together that seemed quite enough to keep a man busy without a woman to complicate things. The mysterious Elisabeta would have to remain just that—a mystery and a memory.

Chapter Five (#ulink_a50d2082-5704-5ae8-b751-eb21f4500235)

‘La famiglia è la patria del cuore! Family is the country of your heart. Of course you’ve come.’ Giacomo Ricci rose from his chair and came to embrace Archer, kissing him on both cheeks the moment Archer entered the loggia where a late breakfast was being served the next morning.

‘Buongiorno, Zio.’ Archer bore the effusive greeting as graciously as he had last night after finding his uncle’s contrada, Torre. It hadn’t been far from the town centre, just to the west of where he’d come from. Everyone had known his uncle and it had been easy to find Giacomo among the throng of revellers. Apparently each neighbourhood had been hosting its own celebration.

His uncle had kissed him publicly and spirited him away to his home where a new party commenced as he was introduced in whirlwind fashion to cousins, spouses of cousins and their offspring. There had been neighbours and friends after that, all eager to greet him and kiss him. He’d never been kissed by so many men in his entire life. Archer couldn’t recall the last time his father had kissed him. Had his father ever kissed him?

Archer filled a plate with bread, cheese and fresh strawberries and took a seat at the table where he could look through the arches of the loggia into the street. The loggia was open by design, so that people passing by could wave to his uncle or stop to conduct brief business or even partake of some food. He knew enough from what his mother had told him about her home that the arrangement spoke to the power and position of her family in the contrada. To be seen with Giacomo Ricci was important. It was the sort of news people would share over dinner later in the day.

For now, though, Archer was thankful the loggia was empty and the streets quiet after a boisterous night of festivities. He was still reeling from last evening. His uncle retook his seat. ‘Did you sleep well? I want to take you around the neighbourhood and show you everything, have you meet some people.’ His uncle’s eyes shone with warm pride as he paused, gripping Archer’s hand firmly. ‘I cannot believe you are here at last, my sister’s son, here in my own home.’

Archer felt his throat tighten unexpectedly at the warmth and sincerity of his words. ‘I cannot believe it either. I wish it had been sooner. I promised her I would come.’ These were promises only his brother, Dare, knew about, promises he’d made that last day in his mother’s final hour and not spoken of to anyone, not even Haviland. He and Dare had been with her, all three of them simply waiting, knowing the end was so very close, that all the sunshine, all the open windows letting in the crisp autumn afternoon, couldn’t hold back the inevitable. She was going on without them. They were grown men. They should have been able to handle the reality. But Archer’s own throat had been tight with emotion as it was now.

‘What did you promise her?’ his uncle prompted gently. Archer struggled to find words to tell this man he knew and yet didn’t know. ‘She said, “Promise me you will go to Giacomo, Archer. Go to my home. I think you will find what you’re looking for.”’ He was looking for so much. A father figure who could replace the one his father had become, a place of his own where he could be his own man as opposed to the second son, where he could live his own dreams among the horses.

‘This is a pilgrimage for you?’ Giacomo asked quietly.

‘In part,’ Archer confessed. ‘I come here to honour her, to remember her, to know who she was before she was my mother. But I have also come here for the future, for my future, to see what I can be.’ His mother had not told him explicitly to stay in Siena, but the idea suited him, this concept of striking out on his own and under his own power.

His uncle smiled, his grip on Archer’s hand tightening. ‘The past and future are often intertwined in this way. She was right to send you to us. You are a good son to honour her and you shall be like a son to me.’ Even if the past ten hours weren’t enough to confirm it, Archer knew from years of letters how his uncle and his wife had despaired of any children of their own.

Archer could see now, surrounded by the big brick home of the Riccis, how disappointing it must be for his uncle not to have the home filled with children. His uncle was a well-built man, tall in the tradition of the Riccis, but his temples were greying and his years for child rearing had passed. He was a local statesman now, his days consumed with running the family cloth business and training horses. Archer understood now with vivid clarity how his mother’s last wish had been a gift for him and for her brother. Even facing death, she’d thought about what would be best for the family, for others. He would not fail her.

* * *

Giacomo was smiling now, already planning. ‘There are people I want you to meet, places I want you to see. I’d like to show you around the contrada today if you’re up for it.’

‘I would like that, if it’s not too much trouble. I can show myself around,’ Archer offered. Perhaps there was a chance of running into Elisabeta. But he would like it in other ways too. It would give him time to spend getting to know this uncle of his. The warmth of his uncle’s welcome was overwhelming, the sincerity and emotion of it touched him. It reminded him of his mother, of the warmth she extended to everyone she met. She had been a generous woman in the way that his uncle was a generous man.

His uncle waved an adamant hand in the air. ‘No, no, it’s not any trouble. You are one of us. Everyone must understand that.’ Archer nodded graciously. His mother had warned him, had she not? In an Italian family, one was never alone, never ‘forced’ to make one’s way on one’s own. His uncle was not done with his plans. ‘Perhaps tomorrow, we can ride out to the country and see the horses. It is why you’ve come, isn’t it? Your mother mentioned you loved the animals in all of her letters.’

Archer smiled. Ah, this would be easier than he could have hoped. His uncle understood. ‘It is. I am interested in the Palio. I want to be part of it.’

Giacomo beamed and laughed out loud. ‘And so you will! I am the capitano this year,’ he said proudly. Archer felt the man study him for moment, dark eyes assessing. ‘Maybe I could appoint you as one of my mangini.’ He nodded as if the decision was made. ‘Yes, you would do nicely and it would give you a chance to learn about the race.’

The mangini were supporters of the capitano, his lieutenants in seeing his commands carried out. Archer knew it was a position of honour, but it was not what he’d hoped for himself. Archer leaned forward, holding his uncle’s eyes, amber-brown like his own, in all seriousness. ‘The honour would be mine. I will serve the contrada however I may, but I had hoped to offer myself to you as a rider.’ Surely his mother had mentioned his skills in that regard if she’d mentioned him in the letters that had been exchanged over the years.

‘A fantino?’ his uncle asked before shaking his head. ‘It is not possible. The riders are not from the contradas, or even from Siena.’ He gave another wave of his hand. ‘It makes it too difficult to arrange the partiti. It simply isn’t how it is done.’ Perhaps he saw Archer’s disappointment. He gave a gentle smile. ‘Everyone in the contrada is part of the Palio and you will be too, you will see. I will need you as a mangini, someone to help me with the Palio arrangements.’ He nodded, affirming his satisfaction over the arrangement.