for Clare. She had approached the business in the same manner in which she no doubt concocted her perfumes; she had created an ideal recipe and then attempted to find all the various ingredients combined in one man.
She was bound to be disappointed that her alchemic brew had failed, and bold enough to make that disappointment plain.
Logic told Gareth that in spite of her intriguing title, he could not expect much in the way of passion from the lady of Desire. Nevertheless, some deeply buried part of him yearned to find a welcome here on this flowered isle.
The long years that he and Clare would spend together stretched out ahead for both of them. Gareth hoped those years would not be spent in a cold bed.
She seemed startled but not frightened by his kiss. Gareth was relieved. At least her experience with Nicholas of Seabern had not left her fearful or repulsed by passion.
Mayhap she had been seduced rather than raped by Nicholas.
Mayhap she even had some affection for her neighbor. It was possible that she had enjoyed her four days with Nicholas but had not wanted to marry him for some reason that had nothing to do with passion.
That last thought did not please Gareth.
Clare stood stiffly in his arms at first, her back rigid, her mouth tightly sealed. A strange sense of despair welled up within him. He wondered if the aura of spring that radiated from the lady was a false one. If she had ice in her veins, he was doomed to a wintry bed.
It should not matter, but it did.
By the devil, it mattered.
And then Clare trembled slightly. She made a tiny little sound and her lips softened beneath his own. Gareth discovered what his senses had suspected from the first. Kissing Clare was like kissing the petals of a flower. She tasted fresh and sweet.
There was nectar buried deep within the petals. Gareth found it and drank deeply. His tongue touched her own. She started but did not pull away. Instead she leaned closer, apparently as curious as he to learn what their future held.
Her fingertips glided along the back of his neck beneath his hair. She sighed softly into his mouth. It was a breathless little sigh of budding passion.
Gareth's entire body reacted as though he had downed a potent elixir.
A surging rush of desire swept through him. His hands shook a bit as he tightened his hold on her. Her mouth was soft, ripe, and very inviting.
Gareth had promised himself only the briefest of sips, but the potion in the heart of the blossom proved too intoxicating. The urge to down it all overwhelmed his senses and threatened to destroy his
self-mastery.
He cupped her face in his hands and drew his thumbs along the line of her firm little jaw. She was as finely made as the exquisite tapestries that hung on the walls of her hall.
He let his hands skim the curves of her body. The promise of vibrant life was waiting for him here in the gentle curves of Clare's breasts and in the flare of her hips. An aching need twisted his gut. He flexed his fingers around her waist.
Clare's hands shifted to settle like butterflies on his shoulders. She touched the tip of her tongue very tentatively to his lower lip. Gareth could feel her breasts, round and full as summer fruit, pressing against his chest.
"You will give me fine, strong sons," he said against her mouth.
She drew back with a small frown. "And mayhap a daughter or two." There was a crisp edge on her words that told him he had somehow managed to offend her.
"Aye." He stroked her spine with the sort of soothing movement he would have used on his proud, temperamental war-horse. "Twould suit me well to have a clutch of daughters as well made and as intelligent as their mother."
She looked up at him with perceptive, searching eyes as though trying to peer into his very soul. "I cannot guarantee that you will have children of me, sir, let alone that they will be sons. No woman can make such promises."
"The only guarantee I seek and will most certainly have
She was bound to be disappointed that her alchemic brew had failed, and bold enough to make that disappointment plain.
Logic told Gareth that in spite of her intriguing title, he could not expect much in the way of passion from the lady of Desire. Nevertheless, some deeply buried part of him yearned to find a welcome here on this flowered isle.
The long years that he and Clare would spend together stretched out ahead for both of them. Gareth hoped those years would not be spent in a cold bed.
She seemed startled but not frightened by his kiss. Gareth was relieved. At least her experience with Nicholas of Seabern had not left her fearful or repulsed by passion.
Mayhap she had been seduced rather than raped by Nicholas.
Mayhap she even had some affection for her neighbor. It was possible that she had enjoyed her four days with Nicholas but had not wanted to marry him for some reason that had nothing to do with passion.
That last thought did not please Gareth.
Clare stood stiffly in his arms at first, her back rigid, her mouth tightly sealed. A strange sense of despair welled up within him. He wondered if the aura of spring that radiated from the lady was a false one. If she had ice in her veins, he was doomed to a wintry bed.
It should not matter, but it did.
By the devil, it mattered.
And then Clare trembled slightly. She made a tiny little sound and her lips softened beneath his own. Gareth discovered what his senses had suspected from the first. Kissing Clare was like kissing the petals of a flower. She tasted fresh and sweet.
There was nectar buried deep within the petals. Gareth found it and drank deeply. His tongue touched her own. She started but did not pull away. Instead she leaned closer, apparently as curious as he to learn what their future held.
Her fingertips glided along the back of his neck beneath his hair. She sighed softly into his mouth. It was a breathless little sigh of budding passion.
Gareth's entire body reacted as though he had downed a potent elixir.
A surging rush of desire swept through him. His hands shook a bit as he tightened his hold on her. Her mouth was soft, ripe, and very inviting.
Gareth had promised himself only the briefest of sips, but the potion in the heart of the blossom proved too intoxicating. The urge to down it all overwhelmed his senses and threatened to destroy his
self-mastery.
He cupped her face in his hands and drew his thumbs along the line of her firm little jaw. She was as finely made as the exquisite tapestries that hung on the walls of her hall.
He let his hands skim the curves of her body. The promise of vibrant life was waiting for him here in the gentle curves of Clare's breasts and in the flare of her hips. An aching need twisted his gut. He flexed his fingers around her waist.
Clare's hands shifted to settle like butterflies on his shoulders. She touched the tip of her tongue very tentatively to his lower lip. Gareth could feel her breasts, round and full as summer fruit, pressing against his chest.
"You will give me fine, strong sons," he said against her mouth.
She drew back with a small frown. "And mayhap a daughter or two." There was a crisp edge on her words that told him he had somehow managed to offend her.
"Aye." He stroked her spine with the sort of soothing movement he would have used on his proud, temperamental war-horse. "Twould suit me well to have a clutch of daughters as well made and as intelligent as their mother."
She looked up at him with perceptive, searching eyes as though trying to peer into his very soul. "I cannot guarantee that you will have children of me, sir, let alone that they will be sons. No woman can make such promises."
"The only guarantee I seek and will most certainly have
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