Except he’d guided them through. He had saved the baby and the mother.
And suddenly, all the common-sense objections to why she should keep her distance vanished.
Life was fragile. Fleeting.
Before she could process her actions, before she could tell herself to stop, Gemma leaned over and kissed him fully on the lips with all the passion in her being.
Chapter Eighteen
Gemma was kissing him.
Or was he dreaming?
Ned was exhausted. The nervous energy that had driven him for the past days had left him weary. At the same time, he was very aware of Gemma’s scent of lavender and spice. Or that his hand was close enough to hers that if he just moved his fingers he could touch her.
She’d come to him today. He’d needed her support. He’d trusted she wouldn’t panic, that she would help Kate through this and he’d not been disappointed.
Now, Gemma, who days before had rejected his love, was kissing him. A burst of energy sang through him.
He pulled her up into his lap, the better to be close to her. Her hands cupped his whiskered face. Their tongues met. The kiss deepened.
God, he could feel the heat of her. She wanted him. He could have shouted his joy to the heavens, but he didn’t want this kiss to ever end. He wrapped his arms around her. She moved to straddle him.
Was he dreaming . . . ?
His hand began searching for the hem of her skirts, pulling the material up her leg until he could feel the flesh of her thigh. She twisted the button of his breeches.
If this was a dream, it was a very good one.
There was no pause in her unbuttoning. There was nothing coy about her—and that was one of the things he realized he adored about her. She was direct, bold, and as hungry for him as he was for her. He cupped her bottom, feeling himself free of his breeches and strong and proud. It pushed between them. They were quiet, aware of the coachman.
Gemma shifted and then sank down on him.
Just like that. No preamble, no flowery phrases—she was perfect in every way.
The kiss broke.
She gave a shuddering sigh that he caught in his mouth, letting it echo through him. She was hot, tight. He kissed her gently, then deeper, then deeper. Slowly, matching the sway of the coach, he lifted his hips and moved in her.
The world centered on their joining. Ned kissed her lips, her chin, her throat. Gemma met him for every thrust—this was so bloody good. So satisfying in a way he’d never experienced before. She felt right.
He felt right being here with her.
Her muscles tightened. She held him. “Ned.”
That one word. His name. He loved hearing it on her lips. She pressed herself against him. He could feel the wave rolling through her, and he rode it with her. And then he thrust once, twice, and found his own blessed release.
Her body collapsed into his arms. Her breath was hot against his neck. He held her as both their hearts slowly returned to normal. He stretched out her arm, entwining his fingers with hers.
And all was perfect in the world.
Gemma didn’t believe she could ever move again, and she had no wish to. She wanted to stay right here, connected with him, until the end of her days.
So, this was what the world acclaimed. The pinnacle of desire praised by poets in flowery language.
They had not lied.
Once she’d started kissing Ned, she’d not been able to keep her hands off him. It was as if touching him bewitched her.
She had not been fond of the act during her marriage. It had seemed vulgar, senseless, and messy. Paul had always enjoyed himself and she’d done it because she’d wished to be a good wife. She’d never once thought about desire.
She’d never once initiated their coupling.
What she’d just done to Ned had been out of character. Except, his touch, his response to her kiss, had opened something inside her. She had not been able to stop herself from jumping in his lap. She believed she’d acted wanton—but he did not seem to mind.
In fact, with Ned, she was always herself. She never repressed her thoughts on any subject. She spoke her mind, and he spoke his.
In that moment, the intensity of what had just happened between them upended her doubts about men and women. Something shimmering and bright hovered in the air between them. It beckoned her to trust, to let herself believe again—
The coach started to slow. They had reached Maidenshop.
She slid off his lap and pulled her skirts down. Ned didn’t move. Instead, he turned his head toward her. His lips curved into a satisfied smile. Dear Lord, he was so handsome, but not because of the arrangement of his eyes and his nose. No, what made him handsome in her sight were his values, his willingness to give his all, his intelligence, and even his stubbornness.
“Do you think we can ask him to drive up and down this road a few times more?”
His question startled a laugh out of her. “What a good idea.” Her body still hummed. She felt full, content . . . and eager for more. Unfortunately, one of them had to have their wits about them. “Although, we’d best put ourselves together before the coachman catches us.”
With a regretful sigh, he began rebuttoning his breeches.
She glanced outside. The sun was almost down on a mild early evening. Mr. Burnham was out in his front garden talking to his brother, the blacksmith, as if they had finished up late and were parting company. The lights were on in Mrs. Warbler’s house.
She prayed the woman didn’t see her arrive in the coach and notice her companion. There would be more lectures and who knows what recriminations—
No. Gemma would not entertain any regrets. Not one. She would never apologize for what had just happened between herself and Ned.
The coach rolled to a stop in front of The Garland.
Ned jumped out and offered Gemma his hand. As he helped her down, she gave his hand a squeeze. He lifted it to his lips. “We’re not done here—” he promised.
She prayed he wasn’t, and yet common sense was returning. Her strongest desire was ready to throw herself at him again. She was saved from doing so by Mrs. Warbler calling to the coachman. She was on the other side of the coach and had not yet seen them.
“Here now. Are you from the Balfour estate?”
Ned’s mouth flattened in annoyance. “She knows this is Balfour’s coach. She is the one who shared the news when he purchased it.”
And then Mrs. Warbler was coming around the coach. “Oh, Gemma, there you . . . are.” The woman’s steps slowed as she took in Mr. Thurlowe’s presence . . . and that he still held Gemma’s hand. “Oh.” The word sounded faint, dismayed. It was followed by a stronger “Oh” as her neighbor formed her conclusions.
He released her hand.
“Mr. Thurlowe,” Mrs. Warbler said, acknowledging his presence. His name was a statement in and of itself. She seemed to force the next words out. “Do we have good news about the Balfours?”
“We do. Mr. and Mrs. Balfour are the proud parents of a baby girl. I believe they are naming her Anne,” he said as if tossing the woman a bone of gossip.
“Ah, isn’t that lovely?” Her words would have been more sincere if the clock wheels of her mind weren’t turning frantically. “Gemma, do you feel quite the thing?”
That was an odd question. “Yes, I do.”