And just what had Quentin intended? Had it been marriage, or something far more devious?
“What made you change your mind?” she asked softly.
He could not misunderstand her. But his feelings were still too unexplored, too raw for explanations. He had yet to face all the consequences of his reckless actions. And he was already thinking how fragile this moment was, how quickly it would be gone. Duty still awaited him at Grey-burn. More delegates arrived each day, and soon all would be present. He must be ready to formally welcome the guests and open the Convocation.
Undeterred by his silence, Cassidy spoke again. “What are you going to do about the footman, and the Russians?”
He’d been a fool to think she’d let that matter go. One thing was certain. There wouldn’t be time enough to properly deal with either problem before the Convocation.
“And Mikhail,” Cassidy persisted, arms folded across her breasts. “Did you think about what I said?”
His shame at breaking his resolve regarding Cassidy was nothing compared to what he felt when he thought of Mikhail. When he’d sent the boy away he’d been but a newborn babe, irredeemably marked by the tragedy of Milena’s death and the revelation’s that came with it.
Yes, he’d had his reasons. Good reasons, he had believed then. He could neither bear to look upon the boy nor trust himself. But Boroskov had stolen the child and somehow silenced his foster parents. Now the child was in Russia, where Braden would never have allowed him to go.
It had been a long, long time since he’d felt any emotion too strong to endure. Until Cassidy came, he’d learned to eliminate almost all the risks of feeling.
But he was naked now, and the cause of that nakedness was also the cure for his pain.
He turned on his side, rolling Cassidy onto her back. He kissed her before she could ask another difficult question. She wriggled beneath him.
“Do you think I could take my clothes off this time?” she asked.
He laughed, and the sound surprised even him. Her bodice was already torn open, and her chemise was easily removed. He set about relieving her of skirt, petticoat, stockings and shoes, and then her drawers. She tried to help him at first and then, her breathing unsteady, let him finish alone.
At last she was naked. He could not see her, but his sense of touch more than made up for the failure of his eyes. He ran his hands over her body, from delicate toes to thick hair and every part in between. She was as he’d imagined: generously curved yet taut with muscle from hard work and constant activity, soft and strong at once.
He was about to follow the path of his hands with his lips when she stopped him.
“I want to see you,” she said. “I want to feel your body.”
Without waiting for his response, she sat up on her knees and reached for his shirt. She worked each button free slowly, lingering, as if she were unwrapping a much-anticipated gift. His heart seemed to stutter with each button undone. It raced when she pushed the shirt back over his shoulders and spread her palm against the center of his chest.
“You are so wonderful,” she said. She stroked the hair on his chest as once she’d stroked his wolf’s pelt. She traced all the contours of his muscles, so unlike the shape other own. She touched his nipples. He was momentarily certain that he would never breathe again.
She closed the space between them and pressed herself to his chest. Her breasts fit perfectly into the slight hollow under his ribs; she kissed the base of his neck where his pulse beat so strongly. She rubbed the flat plane of his belly, then lower still.
The first time she’d touched him there, it had been through a layer of sturdy cloth. Now he was flagrantly erect, and her fingers wrapped around him unerringly, fearlessly.
“So smooth,” she murmured. “Like warm silk.” Her fingers explored its contours, from the base to the tip. Braden flung back his head, clenching his teeth.
She withdrew abruptly. “Am I hurting you? I’m sorry if I—”