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  She felt the soft whisper of sable bristles against the sensitive skin on the inside of her arm, before it moved to the even more sensitive skin of her breast. She glanced at Bridge. The brush was dry, no line of paint followed its journey, yet her skin burned as surely as if he touched her with a candle flame.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured as the brush, positioned between his clever fingers, followed the dips and curves of her upper body. She felt her back arch slightly, encouraging his charting of her feminine shape.

  He stared at the brush’s pathway with rapt concentration, his eyes following its course, his gaze devouring her. He licked his lips, but she doubted that he was even aware of it. Her own lips quivered in reaction. She longed to lean forward and press her mouth to his, yet didn’t dare to move lest she break his concentration.

  He picked up a second brush, larger and stiffer and slightly more abrasive against her skin. He outlined each areola, tracing around and around the soft round shape, watching in fascination as her nipples puckered in reaction. She noticed his response, his cock stirring and coming to life, growing hard and stiff even as she stared at it.

  The paintbrushes continued their assault against her skin, following the valley between her breasts to the rounded softness of her belly, where he explored the dip of her navel.

  She giggled. “That tickles. So does that.”

  Now he was tracing the crease at the top of her thigh, beginning at her hipbone and inching his way toward her mons. The bristles of the brushes were deeper brown in tone than the fair curls they approached, and rigidly straight in contrast to the springy nest guarding her entranceway.

  She felt her legs relax, and part slightly in shy invitation. She grew wet with wanting. His cock looked delicious. How she longed to dip her head forward, to feel its soft velvety tip between her lips. But he moved out of reach, moving down to paint her feet.

  Fallon inhaled harshly as he dragged the soft bristles between each toe and circled the bone on the inside of her ankle. Moving to the outer anklebone, he branded her there as well, then tickled her bare sole. Damp prickles of awareness ran up her legs and lodged in that secret cavern that was already damp with desire, hot with need.

  Like a maestro playing his favorite instrument, Bridge grew more bold. He bent over her, one paintbrush chasing up her leg, the second one torturing her nipples.

  She rolled her head from side to side, no longer able to lie still for his attentions. “Bridge,” she entreated. “Enough. I beg you, have pity.”

  He loomed over her. “Put you out of your misery, you mean?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Yet you painted me for days. You had me sit here naked hour after hour, your unmoving subject, dying for your slightest touch, which you denied me. And you can’t bear to have me paint you for a few short minutes?”

  “It feels like a lifetime.”

  He gestured to the completed portrait on the easel. “One day the whole world will see me as you did. Yet no one shall ever see you through my eyes, right here, right now. Warm, willing, and wanton.”

  She glanced over his shoulder, past the flesh-and-blood man, to his likeness. “As I am for your eyes alone, so shall be your likeness.”

  Bridge shook his head as he lowered himself atop her.

  “One day, my dear, you shall betray me, expose my naked vulnerability to the world. In a way that I can never expose yours.”

  He punctuated his words with a kiss that swallowed her protest and chased all other thoughts from her mind.

  With one sure movement he thrust himself inside her. She raised her hips to receive him, felt herself stretch and welcome his size, aware of the way something hard and primitive guided his movements. As if his possession of her had the power to drive all else out of her mind and out of their lives. As if the simple sex act could hold the rest of the world at bay.

  She held on to his hips and rode out the storm with which he entered and withdrew and reentered her, possessing her as no man ever had, a sad desperation in his actions. Their mutual climax was bittersweet, and afterward they held each other tenderly among the rose petals. As if both hearts knew this was the last time they would lie thus.

  Chapter 9

  Fallon didn’t know how she could bear to let Bridge go. She felt as if a part of herself was about to be dismembered. In desperation she clung to him, long before he physically loosened her grip and slowly slid to his feet. Free at her side, he stood looking down upon her, his expression unreadable.

  She knew the rose petal mattress was bruised beyond salvage as were her heart and her soul. Yet she didn’t regret one second of any of it, including the delightfully tender throbbing between her legs, a reminder of the heights of passion to which Bridge lifted her. Or the pain which she knew would follow. But she realized now that it was fear of loss which had held her back. It had hampered her creativity, her zest for life. Loss was simply another fact of life. She knew that now. And so she could proceed, knowing that she would miss Bridge terribly, but that she would survive.

  “Well?” she asked, meaning, Was this the end? Was he preparing to leave her so soon?

  “We have a day together remaining, do we not?”

  “We do.” She pulled herself to a sitting position, no longer uncomfortable in her state of undress. Bridge had given her that, and, so much more.

  “And you’re done with me sitting for you, correct?”

  Her heart plummeted at his words. Yes, his obligation to her was well and truly fulfilled. “That is correct as well.”

  “So, since I have been so utterly amenable, I decree it is my turn to choose.”

  “To choose what?”

  “How we should spend our last day together.”

  “What would you have us do?”

  “I would have us journey to Boston.”

  “Oh, I . . .” Fallon balked. It had been so long since she had traveled to the city.

  “Don’t turn skittish on me, Fallon. I wish to experience a little culture, and who better to have by my side?”

  “What sort of culture?”

  “There is an exhibit of paintings and sculpture at the Boston Athenaeum. I wish to view it with you.”

  “An art exhibit?”

  “Precisely. We shall view the exhibit, dine in style, and perhaps take in a play.”

  Fallon pursed her lips thoughtfully. His request was certainly not outrageous, nor what she might have expected. Still, she sensed something not quite ringing true with his plans. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but that set off her internal warning signals.

  “Why me? The city is chock-full of eligible young women who would surely swoon at the chance to spend a day by your side.”

  “I don’t happen to enjoy the company of swooners. I do, however, delight in your presence. Look upon it as a challenge: an opportunity to educate a rogue such as myself, to impart a modicum of culture into my heathen life.”

  “You’re not nearly as much of the rogue as you let on.”

  He placed a cool finger against her lips to silence her. “I pray you, don’t divulge my secret. A man has his reputation to uphold, after all.” She noticed he didn’t refer to himself as a gentleman. Quite right, given that he was anything but. She stirred restlessly, reluctant to go, reluctant to stay.

  His next words gave her pause. “Promise you won’t run off on me in the night.”

  “What on earth gives you cause to say such a thing?”

  He didn’t shift so much as a fraction, yet his closeness intensified. “As you know me, so do I know you. And how you choose to deal with things which make you uncomfortable.”

  Fallon was taken aback by his astuteness. Was she so transparent? “By running?”

  Bridge nodded sagely. “Flight is one way out.”

  “Are there others?”

  “Of course. I fled into the reality of war. Put paid to ‘fight or flight,’ for I did both.”

  “Do you wish to talk about your days as
a soldier?”

  “No. Do you wish to talk about why you choose to run?”

  “I don’t choose to run. I choose to feel safe.”

  Bridge nodded. “Everyone deserves the chance to feel safe. Is that why you still wear your dead husband’s ring?”

  Nervously, Fallon twisted it on her finger. “It feels respectful to his memory.” “Yet you are no longer married.”

  “It is customary.”

  “I think you ought to take it off. To move forward.”

  “Never!”

  “Your choice.” He reached out and tugged her to her feet. “Come and dress, and we’ll make arrangements; inform the servants we leave at first light.”

  “I’m quite capable of doing so on my own. I’ve been doing so for quite some time, you know.”

  “Still, I do believe I’ll accompany you, if you have no objections.”

  “Why on earth might I object?”

  After her conversation with the groom, requesting the carriage be made ready for their journey, Bridge followed her to her room and rifled her closet, choosing what he wished her to wear the following day. Then she did object.

  “I can’t possibly wear that out in public before dark.”

  Fallon stared in horror at the deep ruby gown, with a sheen that alternately darkened or shimmered, depending upon the light. She knew all too well how it fit, snugging her bosom and her hips, emphasizing her curves and her femininity. She’d bought it on a lark a long time ago but had never worn it. Now that she was a widow she had never expected even to consider donning it, yet for Bridge . . .

  He made her feel that she could wear the dress. That her mourning days were behind her; that she was still attractive enough to be so arrayed. He leaned indolently against her wall, one booted foot crossed over the other, his arms folded with masculine precision against his chest, his pose so typically, universally male, it was all she could do not to laugh aloud. “Did you not dictate what I wore for our sessions together?”

  Fallon felt a slow flush of color from her neck to her face as she recalled the bold way she had initially told him to strip. Who was that woman masquerading in her body? Should she go? Should she stay?

  “So you see,” he continued, “it is my turn to choose your wardrobe for tomorrow’s outing. ’Tis only fair.”

  “I’m not sure that fairness is part of the bargain,” Fallon said primly. “I’ve agreed to the excursion. To what else must I agree?”

  “To getting a good night’s sleep, so you’re well rested,” Bridge said in husky tones. He leaned forward, and she was sure he was about to kiss her good night. But at the last minute he wheeled about, leaving Fallon deeply disappointed.

  Their last night together. She’d thought for certain he’d devise some way that necessitated they spend the night together, and she wondered how it would feel to fall asleep in each other’s arms. To waken in the night with the warmth of his body stretched alongside her, his hand resting in the indentation of her waist or possessively cupping her breast while she slept. She’d never know if he slept restlessly, kicked the bedcovers loose, or talked in his sleep. So strong was her longing that she actually opened her mouth to summon him back. Fortunately, sanity saved her from making a total idiot of herself.

  Early the following morning, after much debate with herself, Fallon donned the gown of Bridge’s choosing. She had to admit that the ruby hue did bring forth spectacular color in her skin and her hair. The sensual swish of the fabric made her feel alluring as she moved back and forth before the mirror. Surely she had been shrouding herself too long in black. She’d forgotten the depth of green in her eyes, the pink of her cheeks and lips, the glint of red gold in her hair when touched by the sun. And to think she called herself an artist. ’Twas almost shameful.

  Mrs. Buttle, ever one to fuss, had packed a huge basket of treats for the trip. Though it would take but a few hours to reach the city, that good woman had packed enough to last them a fortnight should they become marooned along the way.

  Fallon had nervously fussed too long with her hair and her jewelry, and as a result was ten minutes past their agreed meeting time. She found the carriage in readiness, a restless Bridge pacing alongside it in the drive.

  “At last. I was just about to come fetch you.”

  She paused, taken aback at the agitation upon his handsome face. “You really weren’t sure about my presence, despite my agreeing to accompany you, were you?”

  As if aware that he revealed far too much, Bridge flashed her a lascivious look. “I must say, you were worth waiting for. You look stunning.”

  “Thank you.” His words brought to mind how very long it had been since she had cared how she looked, as seen through the eyes of a man. “I wasn’t aware we were on that strict a schedule.”

  “One wouldn’t necessarily expect it of a rogue such as myself, but punctuality is one of the few virtues to which I can lay claim.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Fallon said lightly, then regretted her words. She made it sound as if they would have other assignations in the future, when they both knew this was to be their last time together.

  Franklin handed her inside the carriage, and cast a dark look in Bridge’s direction as he tucked a traveling robe about her. Fallon bit back her laughter. As if such a flimsy covering might afford protection from Bridge, should he choose to ravage her. The weighty basket of foodstuffs was placed alongside her pointedly, a physical barrier between herself and her guest.

  “Thank you, Franklin,” she said dryly, aware that the man was only protecting what he saw as her virtue and reputation. If only he knew ’twas far too late to reclaim either.

  “Y-you’re quite certain that will b-b-be all, madam?”

  “I’m far too long in the tooth to require a chaperon, thank you, Franklin. At any rate, we’ll be back in time for a late evening meal. Please make certain Mrs. Buttle knows that, for I fear she packed enough food for a far longer journey.”

  “Very g-good, madam. Godspeed.” With utmost reluctance, he stepped aside and gave Bridge room to swing up inside.

  “Quaint,” Bridge said as he shut the door, and the coachman started the carriage forward.

  “No manservant lobbying for your virtue at your place of residence?” Fallon asked.

  “Hardly. By now they’re quite accustomed to my scandalous actions.”

  “What scandalous actions might those be?” In truth she could hardly imagine anything more scandalous than the past six days. But she had a feeling Bridge’s behavior had been circumspect in comparison to his norm.

  “Actions too shocking for a lady such as yourself to even know about.”

  “Indeed.” Fallon leaned back against the seat and slanted a sideways glance at Bridge. Perhaps he made love to two women at the same time? Or a man and a woman together? No, Bridge was far too demanding to wait his turn with a lover. Perhaps he and his partners role-played? Or took turns securing each other with silken bonds?

  She had to admit, the thought of tying Bridge up, rendering him helpless for her attentions, held a certain amount of appeal. Besides, it was the only time he would ever be anything close to helpless.

  If she could tie him up, what would she like to do to him first? She closed her eyes and allowed her imagination free rein. Tickle him with a feather, perhaps, the way he had tickled her with the sable brushes. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, aware of her body’s instant response to any suggestion of her and Bridge together, clothed or unclothed.

  “Catch!” He flipped a shiny penny her way.

  Fallon reached out and caught it midair. “What’s this for?”

  “Your thoughts, of course. They look much too delicious not to share.”

  She felt a warm flush deepen the color of her cheeks. Was she so transparent? “You don’t know that for a certainty.”

  “But I’m prepared to pay for the information.”

  She lobbed the penny back. “I’m afraid you can’t afford me. My thoughts are wor
th far more than a penny.”

  “Tell me anyway. It’s our last day together. What would you do to me? Or have me do to you?”

  “Do you ever think of anything besides sex?”

  “Certainly. But rarely when I’m in your presence.”

  Her blush deepened. “Really, Bridge ...”

  “Really, Fallon,” he replied, as if her words had been a question. One that demanded an affirmative response.

  “I was simply anticipating our outing,” Fallon replied primly.

  ’Twas true enough. Now that they were under way, she felt anticipation for the adventure ahead quiver through her. Time enough, once Bridge was gone, to mourn the loss. For now, life beckoned, a day filled with sunshine and promise. A day with a most handsome and personable companion. Impossible that she could ever have foreseen such a happenstance. She smiled a secret smile, thinking she had much for which to thank Aurora.

  Bridge observed Fallon from beneath lowered lids. Besides a flush of anticipation, a small, almost secretive smile hovered upon her luscious lips. He resisted the urge to scoot over that wretched basket between them and kiss it away.

  “What, if I may be so bold as to ask, do you find so amusing?”

  “If you may be bold? What could possibly hold you back?”

  “Your good influence.”

  “Hah!” Catching him by surprise, she whisked the picnic basket out of the way, wriggled along the seat till her thigh brushed his, and laid her head upon his shoulder.

  “I confess to a feeling of overwhelming happiness. And eternal gratitude to Aurora for her birthday gift.”

  “’Tis a rare good friend who knows so well just what one needs.” His arm cradled her against him.

  “I think you must also be a rare good friend, then. For you always seem to know what I need at any given time. Often ahead of myself.”

  As she spoke, she boldly inched her skirt up till its hem was above her knees. He could see the white band of skin between the tops of her stockings and the jewel tone of her gown. He watched her lick her lips in a most suggestive way, her gaze never leaving his. “I must confess to a most serious oversight on my part. I seem to have accidentally left off my knickers.”