A Regency Gentleman's Passion. Diane Gaston

you would go to la guillotine.” She shuddered. “I saw a pretty lady go to the guillotine.”

      “You witnessed the guillotine?” He was aghast. “You must have been very young.”

      “Oui. My mother hated the Royals, but the pretty lady did not seem so bad to me. She cried for her children at the end.”

      “My God,” he said.

      Her gaze drifted and he knew she was seeing it all again.

      Gabe felt angry on Emmaline’s behalf, angry she should have to endure such a horror.

      He lifted her chin with his finger. “You have seen too much.”

      Her lips trembled and his senses fired with arousal again. He moved closer.

      Her breathing accelerated. “I am glad I am here with you.”

      He looked into her eyes, marvelling at the depth of emotion they conveyed, marvelling that she could remain open and loving in spite of all she’d experienced. A surge of protectiveness flashed through him. He wanted to wipe away all the pain she’d endured. He wanted her to never hurt again.

      He placed his lips on hers, thinking he’d never tasted such sweetness. He ran his hand down her back, savouring the feel of her, the outline of her spine, the soft flesh of her buttocks. Parting from her kiss, he gazed upon her, drinking in her beauty with his eyes. The fullness of her breasts, the dusky pink of her nipples, the triangle of dark hair at her genitals.

      He touched her neck, so long and slim, and slid his hand to her breasts. She moaned. Placing her hands on the sides of his head, she guided his lips to where his fingers had been. He took her breast into his mouth and explored her nipple with his tongue, feeling it peak and harden.

      Her fingernails scraped his back as he tasted one, then the other breast. She writhed beneath him. Soon he was unable to think of anything but Emmaline and how wonderful it felt to make love to her, how he wished the time would never end. Even if he had only this one night with her, he would be grateful. It was far more than he’d expected.

      The need for her intensified and he positioned himself over her. She opened her legs and arched her back to him. His chest swelled with masculine pride that she wanted him, wanted him to fill her and bring her to climax.

      He entered her easily and what had before been a slow, sublime climb to pleasure this time became a frenzied rush. She rose to meet him and clung to him as if to urge him not to slow down, not to stop.

      As if he could. As if he ever wanted this to end, even knowing the ecstasy promised.

      The air filled with their rapturous breathing as their exhilaration grew more fevered, more consuming. Gabe heard her cry, felt her convulse around him and then he was lost in his own shattering pleasure.

      Afterwards they did not speak. He slid to her side and Emmaline fell asleep in his arms as the candle burned down to a sputtering nub. While it still cast enough light, he gazed upon her as she slept.

      He did not know what the morning would bring. For all he knew she might send him away in regret for this night together. Or he might be called away to the regiment. Would the regiment be ordered to march, to meet Napoleon’s forces?

      Would he face her son in battle and take from her what she held most dear?

Chapter Three

      Emmaline woke the next morning with joy in her heart. The man in her bed rolled over and smiled at her as if he, too, shared the happy mood that made her want to laugh and sing and dance about the room.

      Instead he led her into a dance of a different sort, one that left her senses humming and her body a delicious mix of satiation and energy. She felt as if she could fly.

      His brown eyes, warm as a cup of chocolate, rested on her as he again lay next to her. She held her breath as she gazed back at him, his hair rumpled, his face shadowed with beard.

      This time she indulged her curiosity and ran her finger along his cheek, which felt like the coarsest sackcloth. “I do not have the razor for you, Gabriel.”

      He rubbed his chin. “I will shave later.”

      From the church seven bells rang.

      “It is seven of the clock. I have slept late.” She slipped out of the tangled covers and his warm arms, and searched for her shift. “I will bring you some water for washing tout de suite.”

      His brows creased. “Do not delay yourself further. I will fetch the water and take care of myself.”

      She blinked, uncertain he meant what he said. “Then I will dress and begin breakfast.”

      He sat up and ran his hands roughly through his hair. She stole a glance at his muscled chest gleaming in the light from the window. He also watched her as she dressed. How different this morning felt than when she’d awoken next to her husband. Remy would have scolded her for oversleeping and told her to hurry so he could have fresh water with which to wash and shave.

      As she walked out of the room, she laughed to herself. Remy would also have boasted about how more skilled at lovemaking a Frenchman was over an Englishman. Well, this Englishman’s skills at lovemaking far exceeded one Frenchman’s.

      She paused at the top of the stairs, somewhat ashamed at disparaging her husband. Remy had been no worse than many husbands. Certainly he had loved Claude.

      Early in her marriage she’d thought herself lacking as a wife, harbouring a rebellious spirit even while trying to do as her much older husband wished. She’d believed her defiance meant she had remained more child than grown woman. When Remy dictated she and Claude would accompany him to war, she’d known it would not be good for their son. She had raged against the idea.

      But only silently.

      Perhaps her love for Remy would not have withered like a flower deprived of sun and water, if she’d done what she knew had been right and kept Claude in France.

      Emmaline shook off the thoughts and hurried down the stairs to the kitchen to begin breakfast, firing up her little stove to heat a pot of chocolate and to use the bits of cheese left over from the night before to make an omelette with the three eggs still in her larder. Gabriel came down in his shirtsleeves to fetch his fresh water and soon they were both seated at the table, eating what she’d prepared.

      “You are feeding me well, Emmaline,” he remarked, his words warming her.

      She smiled at the compliment. “It is enjoyable to cook for someone else.”

      His eyes gazed at her with concern. “You have been lonely?”

      She lowered her voice. “Oui, since Claude left.” But she did not want the sadness to return, not when she had woken to such joy. “But I am not lonely today.”

      It suddenly occurred to her that he could walk out and she would never see him again. Her throat grew tight with anxiety.

      She reached across the table and clasped his hand. “My night with you made me happy.”

      His expression turned wistful. “It made me happy, too.” He glanced away and back, his brow now furrowed. “I have duties with the regiment today, but if you will allow me to return, I will come back when you close the shop.”

      “Oui! Yes.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, I cannot, Gabriel. I have no food to cook and I have slept too late to go to the market.” She flushed, remembering why she’d risen so late.

      His eyes met hers. “I will bring the food.”

      Her heart pounded. “And will you stay with me again?”

      Only his eyes conveyed emotion, reflecting the passion they’d both shared. “I will stay.”

      The joy burst forth again.