enough to loosen constraints to the point where he had wanted to kiss her— and she had been fool enough to let him.
Let him.
With a mirthless laugh she rolled over and buried her face in the pillows. She had not just acquiesced, she had all but pulled him down onto the Khorasan carpet. Half a glass of wine more and she would have done so. And, dear God, she wished that she had. In the morning she would be grateful that she had retained a particle of sense, but now desire raged through her.
All of her dormant memories of lovemaking—of taste and touch, sight and scent and sound—had come to anguished life in Ross’s embrace. If she tried, she was sure that she could have counted and described every single time they had made love. And the tally would have been substantial; though they had lived together only six months, they had been young and passionately in love with each other.
One of her most vivid and sensual memories was of their wedding night. The wedding had not been a large one, for they had not wanted to wait while an elaborate ceremony was arranged. In fact, during the period of their betrothal, Juliet had once laughingly suggested that they follow the old Scottish marriage custom of leaping over a sword together so they would not have to wait any longer. But wait they did, less for morality than because of the difficulty of finding privacy to make love properly.
The ceremony had taken place in Scotland, at the village kirk on the estate of Juliet’s uncle. Then the young couple had driven to a nearby hunting box owned by a friend of the Duke of Windermere. There, finally, they were alone, for the servants knew better than to intrude on a couple that had just wed.
After they had eaten a light supper, Ross had given Juliet time alone to wash and change and ready herself. To her intense embarrassment, she developed a last-minute case of nerves even though she had longed for this night for weeks. When her new husband came into the bedroom, she was not waiting in the massive four-poster bed. Instead, she was huddled on the window seat, arms wrapped tightly around her drawn-up knees, shivering a little in her sheer white nightgown.
Ross had come to her side at the window. Looking out at the crescent moon floating in a black velvet sky, he had circled her shoulders with his arm and asked, “Cold?”
She shook her head.
He caressed the back of her neck, his warm hand loosening the tight muscles. “Nervous?”
She had swallowed hard and turned to look up at him. “Everyone said we were too young. Perhaps they were right.”
“No,” he had said simply.
Then he had bent and scooped her into his arms. Startled, she clutched at him for balance as he turned and settled down on the window seat, then arranged her across his lap.
Ross continued, “They—whoever
they
may be—are wrong. I love you, and you love me. Age has nothing to do with it.” He thought a moment. “Except, perhaps, that the young are more willing to take risks.”
In the face of his calm certainty, her own doubts had vanished. She might be young and volatile, but Ross was not. He was strong and steady and wise, everything she was not.
She had relaxed against him like a cat, her face pressed against his neck. He had just bathed, and smelled fresh and clean, with a subtle masculine scent that belonged to him alone. In his soft, low voice he talked idly of the things they would do together, the places they would go, the discoveries they would make. And all the time he caressed her, his touch light and tender and infinitely kind.
Though they had waited for this night with fierce impatience, there was no hurry now that it had finally arrived. She had felt like an instrument played by a virtuoso musician as Ross had explored her body and gently encouraged her to do the same with his. Starting shyly, she had slipped her hand inside his robe and discovered that his warm chest was covered by the delicious texture of hair. She felt his heart
Let him.
With a mirthless laugh she rolled over and buried her face in the pillows. She had not just acquiesced, she had all but pulled him down onto the Khorasan carpet. Half a glass of wine more and she would have done so. And, dear God, she wished that she had. In the morning she would be grateful that she had retained a particle of sense, but now desire raged through her.
All of her dormant memories of lovemaking—of taste and touch, sight and scent and sound—had come to anguished life in Ross’s embrace. If she tried, she was sure that she could have counted and described every single time they had made love. And the tally would have been substantial; though they had lived together only six months, they had been young and passionately in love with each other.
One of her most vivid and sensual memories was of their wedding night. The wedding had not been a large one, for they had not wanted to wait while an elaborate ceremony was arranged. In fact, during the period of their betrothal, Juliet had once laughingly suggested that they follow the old Scottish marriage custom of leaping over a sword together so they would not have to wait any longer. But wait they did, less for morality than because of the difficulty of finding privacy to make love properly.
The ceremony had taken place in Scotland, at the village kirk on the estate of Juliet’s uncle. Then the young couple had driven to a nearby hunting box owned by a friend of the Duke of Windermere. There, finally, they were alone, for the servants knew better than to intrude on a couple that had just wed.
After they had eaten a light supper, Ross had given Juliet time alone to wash and change and ready herself. To her intense embarrassment, she developed a last-minute case of nerves even though she had longed for this night for weeks. When her new husband came into the bedroom, she was not waiting in the massive four-poster bed. Instead, she was huddled on the window seat, arms wrapped tightly around her drawn-up knees, shivering a little in her sheer white nightgown.
Ross had come to her side at the window. Looking out at the crescent moon floating in a black velvet sky, he had circled her shoulders with his arm and asked, “Cold?”
She shook her head.
He caressed the back of her neck, his warm hand loosening the tight muscles. “Nervous?”
She had swallowed hard and turned to look up at him. “Everyone said we were too young. Perhaps they were right.”
“No,” he had said simply.
Then he had bent and scooped her into his arms. Startled, she clutched at him for balance as he turned and settled down on the window seat, then arranged her across his lap.
Ross continued, “They—whoever
they
may be—are wrong. I love you, and you love me. Age has nothing to do with it.” He thought a moment. “Except, perhaps, that the young are more willing to take risks.”
In the face of his calm certainty, her own doubts had vanished. She might be young and volatile, but Ross was not. He was strong and steady and wise, everything she was not.
She had relaxed against him like a cat, her face pressed against his neck. He had just bathed, and smelled fresh and clean, with a subtle masculine scent that belonged to him alone. In his soft, low voice he talked idly of the things they would do together, the places they would go, the discoveries they would make. And all the time he caressed her, his touch light and tender and infinitely kind.
Though they had waited for this night with fierce impatience, there was no hurry now that it had finally arrived. She had felt like an instrument played by a virtuoso musician as Ross had explored her body and gently encouraged her to do the same with his. Starting shyly, she had slipped her hand inside his robe and discovered that his warm chest was covered by the delicious texture of hair. She felt his heart
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