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  “Mrs. Gilchrist! Are you attempting to seduce me?”

  “If you have to ask, I’m not doing it right, am I? It just seemed that on our last day together, with a long, boring carriage ride, we ought to do something to while away the time.”

  She pushed her skirt back down. “My apology.”

  “There is nothing to forgive. Don’t you know most men dream of a moment like this? Finding themselves seduced, rather than the seducer?”

  “Really?” She widened her eyes and inched her skirt backup above her knees. “So I’m not making a total hash of things?”

  “Quite the contrary. I find it impossible to concentrate on anything other than your pantiless state.”

  As he spoke, Bridge jockeyed himself into position before her and pushed her knees apart. He could see nought but the shadowy triangle beyond the milk-white satin of her thighs. Her woman smell was rich and musky and elemental, like freshly turned soil after a rainfall. A scent so primal it touched his very core.

  He kissed her lips, a deep, bruising kiss of possession, as if ensuring any who kissed her after him would pale by comparison. As if his possession was the only one she would ever need or desire. She tasted so sweet, even as she kissed him back with a passion and heat that belied her sweetness. He heard the deep murmur of desire in the back of her throat and it sent the blood surging through his veins.

  The skin of her inner thighs was incredibly soft to his touch. Hard to fathom that such softness really existed. Her heat beckoned, teased, promised delights not of this earth.

  He pushed her skirt up higher as his mouth followed the pathway traced by his fingertips. Licking, nibbling, gorging himself on her heat and her scent until he reached that most delicious of all wellsprings, her feminine core.

  As he feasted, he murmured, “So hot. So wet. So delicious.” His tongue darted out, flicking the quivering lips of her labia, teasing her clitoris. She writhed in response, her fingers tangled in his hair, her hips gyrating in time to the rhythm of his lips and his tongue. Pushing against him. Pulling away. Pushing back. He grasped her hips and held her still, felt the rush of love juices filling his mouth, the engorging heat rushing to the surface of her mons. The sweet, satisfying taste of her. He felt her quivering inner response, the minor eruptions that signaled the beginning of her orgasm. He played to the rhythm, slowing the tempo, then increasing it tenfold.

  She went crazy beneath him, bucking and panting, and when she came, it seemed more intense than ever before. Perhaps they had each other’s rhythms perfectly in sync, for he nearly lost it as well at the cry of her release, the saturation of her juices, the throb of her mons, pulsing against his wet and swollen lips. He backed away and let her catch her breath as the tremors subsided, licking his lips, enjoying the fragrance and the flavors of her.

  Almost reluctantly he smoothed her skirt back down over her knees. “And that, my dear, is only one of the things that can happen when a lady leaves the house without her knickers.”

  She rubbed his hard, throbbing length, which strained the front of his trousers. In mock innocence, she batted her eyes. “Such a shame you’re wearing yours.”

  “Indeed,” Bridge said dryly. “Not to worry, I’m sure it’s a situation we shall be able to remedy before the day is out.”

  Fallon wriggled back against her seat with a satisfied smile. “I shall look forward to the event with much anticipation.”

  Bridge laughed and kissed her soundly. “A fact of which I have little doubt.”

  Chapter 10

  They reached Boston just as that fine city appeared to be shaking itself awake. Sequestered in the country, Fallon had forgotten what a hive of activity the city could be. The air crackled with bustling energy, positively infectious, urging them to hurry. Hurry and what? Fallon didn’t care to rush; not when the day’s end signaled the final curtain of her time with Bridge.

  The air was rife with the tang of coal smoke from the many chimneys, combined with the smells of fish and sharp cheeses from the market at Faneuil Hall. Fallon leaned forward in her seat and peered out the carriage window, feeling an excitement she hadn’t felt for years. As the wife of Captain Gilchrist she’d been expected to act in a certain way, to meet the expectations of Boston’s upper-crust, Beacon Hill set.

  After his death, she’d existed in some sort of torpor. Yet here she was now, fully awake, fully alive, and eager to eat her fill from the bowl of life.

  “Can we stop at the park?” she asked Bridge. “I always loved the park, especially in the springtime.”

  He appeared mildly amused by her enthusiasm. “We can do whatever you wish, my dear.”

  She beamed at him. “That’s ever so kind. Particularly as this day was yours. I shan’t take over. Really, I shan’t.” She sat back, hands folded primly in her lap, eyes downcast.

  Bridge laughed aloud. “I don’t know whatever gave you the idea that meek and complacent fits you, Fallon. It’s totally at odds with the woman I have discovered.”

  “The woman you brought back to life, you mean.”

  “You weren’t dead, my dear. Merely sleeping. And all it took was ...” He leaned forward with deliberate intent, and Fallon felt a flutter of excitement in her breasts.

  “A kiss from the Prince?”

  He brushed his lips across hers in a light, reverent fashion. “I’m hardly a prince. And if it hadn’t been me, it would have been some other lucky chap. You’re far too vibrant and alive to sleepwalk through life.”

  “I was not sleepwalking,” Fallon said, uncomfortable at how closely his thoughts paralleled her own.

  “You were a mere shadow of the woman I see before me today.”

  “Is there something wrong with shadows?”

  “It depends on whether you’re using them to hide.”

  Bridge stuck his head out the carriage window and called an order to the driver.

  “What was that about?”

  “Following milady’s request. To the park first.”

  “Bridge, you don’t have to do everything to please me, you know.”

  “Why not, when pleasing you has the added benefit of also pleasing myself.”

  The carriage halted near the lagoon. Bridge alighted and turned to assist Fallon down.

  She took a deep, appreciative sniff as she glanced around at their surroundings. “It’s beautiful here. I had forgotten how truly picturesque.”

  “You’re not afraid of water, I hope.”

  “Certainly not. Why do you ask?”

  “I thought it would be fun to rent a rowboat and take it out on the lagoon.”

  Fallon clapped her hands in delight. “Bridge, what a lovely idea. The Captain ...” Her words trailed away.

  “The Captain,” Bridge prompted.

  “He spent most of his time away at sea. Rowing about the lagoon was hardly his idea of a delightful recreational pursuit.”

  “But it is yours?”

  “The wife bows to her husband’s decree.”

  Bridge shook his head. “Somehow, I can’t envision you bowing to anyone’s decree, my dear.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Fallon murmured.

  But Bridge was no longer within earshot. He was locked in negotiations with the man at the concession stand. Money exchanged hands, and before she knew it, she was handed into the rowboat and settled on the wooden seat. Bridge took a seat across from her and picked up the oars. The fellow pushed them off. Almost immediately they began rowing about in circles.

  “Bridge, what on earth are you about? Or do you even know?”

  “Shush,” he said. “I’m attempting to impress you with my seamanship skills.”

  “How about showing off how you navigate in a straight line, before I grow dizzy?”

  “I like you dizzy and off balance,” he said with a lecherous grin.

  “You wouldn’t necessarily appreciate fishing me out should I flounder overboard.”

  “On the other hand, I’m quite partial to you wearing water-
soaked garments which cling to you like a second skin.”

  Fallon tipped the brim of her bonnet and gazed skyward. “No hint of rain, I fear. You’ll have to be content with me as I am.

  “No quarrels in that quarter, either. You look extremely fetching, I must say.”

  “Mmmmmmm.” Fallon leaned back and trailed her fingers through the sun-warmed water of the lagoon. “I feel incredibly relaxed.”

  “I should hope so,” Bridge said, his eyes moving across her in a most leisurely fashion. Fallon felt herself responding to the message in his gaze as his eyes moved over her breasts, as lovingly as if she were privy to his touch. How did he manage that? Make her achingly aware of him, of the pleasures his body could bring hers, even though a foot or more separated them.

  “You’re rowing much better,” she said, slyly sliding her foot from her slipper beneath the hem of her frock. “Were you on your school’s rowing team?”

  “Hardly,” Bridge said with a laugh. “I was far too busy drinking my way through my lessons.”

  “I see.” Fallon edged her foot across the distance between them, and onto his seat. He sat with his legs apart, concentrating on his rowing skills. The snug lines of his trousers cradled his manhood and emphasized his masculinity. Fallon inched her foot toward him, recalling that night at her home when Captain Mum had dined with them. Clearly it was time to return the attention.

  “Have you ever rowed?” he asked pleasantly.

  “Me? No. Why?”

  “Come sit here, I’ll teach you how.”

  Her intended target was instantly abandoned in the face of this new offer.

  “Really?”

  “Certainly.” He spread his legs wider. “Give me your hand.”

  Fallon did as she was bade, placing her hand in his.

  “Now, half stand and swing about.” He guided her actions, holding her fast, till she landed with a quiet squeak in front of him, nested between those long, strong legs.

  “I like this,” Bridge said, his words hot on the exposed nape of her neck.

  Fallon leaned back against him, conscious of his strength, his body’s warmth, stoked by the midmorning sunshine. Contentment washed through her.

  “I like it, as well.”

  He continued to row and her body followed the motions of his, forward and back, as he pulled at the oars.

  “Good,” he said. “Now take the oars from me. Excellent.”

  She grasped the wooden oars, finding their weight and balance unwieldy. They started to spin from her grip until Bridge’s hands closed over hers, steadying the motion.

  She could feel every inch of him pressed against every inch of her. From the way his legs snugged against hers to the juncture of his thighs nestled against her bottom, to how his strong chest and shoulders and arms cradled her. She felt small and delicate and protected. Safe. Infinitely safe.

  “All right?” he said, his husky tones in her ear causing a shuddering ripple to chase through her.

  “Very all right.” Fallon half turned, and was rewarded when he buried his lips against her cheek, her neck, the pressure intensifying the waves of longing that ran through her.

  “Is this how one rows?” she asked, as she released one oar and cupped his cheek, guiding his lips to the super sensitive dip between her shoulder and neck.

  She could feel the stirring of his cock lodged against her bottom and couldn’t resist reaching behind herself, fondling his length with her free hand. She exhaled as he let out a breathy moan.

  “Someone has to steer the boat, my love.”

  “I’m not sure I’m capable.”

  “Nor I.” He released the oar she still held, and wrapped his free hand around her midsection.

  “So if you have one oar and I have the other ...”

  “Teamwork of the finest order,” he said. “Unbeatable.”

  “We are the only ones out here,” she murmured.

  “It’s early,” Bridge said.

  “How stable do you think the boat is?”

  “Not stable enough for what you’re thinking, you wanton woman, you.”

  “What a shame,” Fallon murmured, still cradling his hard cock. “I hate to think of this going to waste.”

  “Fear not. Like the phoenix from the ashes, it, too, will rise again.”

  “I suppose you ought to teach me how to row,” Fallon murmured._

  “First, I suggest you let go of my balls and take hold of both oars.”

  “Spoilsport.”

  “Witch.”

  Abruptly Bridge released her and pulled both oars safely into the boat with them. Then he picked her up and spun her about so she faced him, straddling his knees.

  “Bridge, you’re going to cause us to tip.” “I thought you trusted me.”

  “You thought,” Fallon said. “I never said so, did I?”

  He kissed her long and hard. Fallon had just melted into him when she heard the sound of childish giggles nearby. A second rowboat drifted into sight with a family of four. The two young children were obviously amused by the sight of Fallon on Bridge’s lap, although the father winked and raised his oar in greeting.

  “Oh, dear,” Fallon murmured, leaning against his chest.

  “No privacy,” Bridge said. “At least not the sort we have grown used to this past week.”

  A week in which everything had proved possible, and nothing was taboo. Fallon fell quiet.

  “What’s the matter, love?” Bridge asked.

  “Nothing . . . Just. . . Where did the time go?”

  He pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it. “It’s still early. We’ll have all the time your heart desires to spend at the gallery.”

  “That’s good.” But not all the time her heart desired to spend with Bridge. Taking care not to upset the boat, she shifted off Bridge’s knee and back to her own seat. She leaned back, stared up at the sky, and trailed her fingers through the water pensively. Bridge, ever sensitive to her moods, let her be, whistling tunelessly as he rowed them about the lagoon.

  There was no point in being sad, she decided, or even pensive. She pulled her fingers from the water and flicked the droplets at Bridge. At first he didn’t seem to notice, so she repeated the move.

  “Hey!” This time she got his attention. “What are you doing?”

  “Cooling you off,” she said flirtatiously. “You look hot.”

  “I’ll show you cooling off.” Deftly he angled the paddle through the water. A thin stream hit its mark. Droplets rained upon her. She laughed and splashed him back.

  “Truce?” he mockingly manipulated the oar her way. She sat forward, grabbed the oar, and tried to wrestle it from him, to no avail. She succeeded only in holding fast to one end while he maneuvered the other, using it to draw her forward.

  She let go, throwing her hands up in mock surrender. “You have an unfair advantage.”

  “And I’ll use it every time, so be careful what you start.”

  Or, what I end, Fallon thought.

  Their driver delivered them to the Boston Athenaeum, which was nearly deserted inside. Their footsteps rang hollowly throughout each chamber as they made their way through the exhibit.

  Bridge paused before a painting of a dark-haired woman in a red velvet dress sipping a cup of tea. Fallon thought it ironic that the piece was titled Destiny. Was Bridge her destiny?

  “Perhaps someday I shall see a show of Fallon Gilchrist works here,” he said, his head cocked thoughtfully.

  “That’s very kind of you, but I’ve hardly reached a level to rival John William Waterhouse.”

  “I disagree. Besides, I have it on good authority that there is a movement afoot to educate and support the achievements of women artists in Boston.”

  “Really? Then times truly have changed since I took up painting.”

  “William Rimmer and William Morris Hunt are even offering classes for women.”

  “Should I enroll?” Fallon asked lightly.

  “My dear, you h
ave no further need of tutelage. You are simply ahead of your time.”

  “Just because you like my work ...”

  “My mother is on the committee here. Just say the word and I’ll tell her about you.”

  Fallon gripped his arm harder than necessary. “Absolutely not!” Her grip gentled, but not her expression. “You misled me, Mr. Bridgeman.”

  Bridge gave her a puzzled glance. “How so?”

  “You pretended to be in total ignorance, requiring my presence to educate you in the cultural realm. Now you tell me your mother is on the committee here. Hence, you are hardly a cultural heathen.”

  Bridge drew her arm through his. “You caught me out. I truly just wished to spend the day with you, and confess to a slight misrepresentation. But only slight. You have far more knowledge than I.”

  As he spoke, he drew her into an eight-sided inner chamber. Fallon caught her breath at the play of gaslight on an erotic marble coupling on a pedestal in the center of the room.

  “Oh my,” she breathed, her arm falling from Bridge’s as she moved reverently toward the piece.

  “A fan of sculpture, are you?” Bridge said. “I would have thought painting more your medium.”

  “I adore sculpture,” Fallon said. “I wouldn’t presume to think I could accomplish anything with a chunk of stone and some sharp tools, but I revere those who have the gift.”

  She reached toward the piece, then hesitated.

  “One thing I learned at any early age is that sculpture is meant to be appreciated by all the senses, not merely sight.” He caught her hand in his and raised it up to his lips. Their gazes locked.

  “Close your eyes,” Bridge ordered as he bit down gently and proceeded to slowly, sensually tug her fingers from their gloved prison, one digit at a time. Fallon complied and felt herself sway toward him, drawn close as if controlled by a magnetic force stronger than her own limbs. She could feel the heat of his breath through the fabric of her glove, and the coolness of the room as her hand was exposed. How could she possibly be so hot and so cold at the same time?