The mad impulse to scoot from her seat and crawl atop him where he sat and press her mouth anywhere his skin was exposed seized her. She remembered his skin. The warmth and give of it, the tempting texture slightly rougher than her own.
The taste.
She was bolder around him. Wanton. Not herself . . . or perhaps this was who she really was. Could that be possible? Was this who Mercy was? Who she was meant to be? Could she be more of her true self with him?
She lifted her gaze to find him considering her with his deep brown eyes. She went all soft and fuzzy beneath that gleaming, bottomless gaze. She lowered her head, dropping her forehead to his shoulder as though not looking at him might give her the strength to resist him.
She took several breaths. “I really should go upstairs,” she murmured into the warm and tempting buffer of his shoulder.
His thumb swept over her nape. Goose bumps sprang up all over her skin. “Then go, if you like.”
She did not like.
She closed her eyes against him, against the very reasonable words he presented to her.
She should take his advice, his invitation for her to go, but she did not wish to leave the security of his arms. And yet it was more than that. She was making excuses. Lying to herself even . . . telling herself this was only about comfort and friendship. How pathetic was that?
She wanted to be with him as she had been before. She ached for him. She wanted to kiss him again and do all the things with him again. And again.
Quite simply . . . she wanted.
She was no girl who had to invent reasons to be with a lad she fancied. She was well past such girlhood modesty. She had never been that girl at any age. And she could not claim shyness either. Of course she had never been interested in a specific lad—or man—before. Until now.
That had changed.
He had changed her.
She pulled back and looked into his eyes, wondering if there was anything in those depths and within him that echoed even a fraction of the longing tremoring through her.
He was no stranger to this—to desire. If he was even feeling that. It was rather arrogant of her to assume, but assume she did. Or rather she hoped.
He was not like her. She was not his first liaison. Perhaps he was fine with just the once between them. Perhaps he did not crave more.
He was here for one reason, after all, and it was not to bed her. It was not to be a shoulder to cry on either. He had made it clear upon his arrival that he was here to verify whether or not she was with child. For no other reason than that. He was not here for any repeat dalliances.
She could read nothing in his eyes. He was not holding her hostage. By word and deed, he was permitting her to go. Permitting? More like encouraging.
Then go, if you like.
“It is late,” she murmured by way of agreement, giving a single jerky nod.
“It is,” he agreed. “And you wake early,” he reminded her.
“I do. I am a perpetual early riser. There is always so much to do . . . but you’ve been getting up early, too.” She was rambling and could not seem to stop herself. “You don’t have to do that, you know. You’re a guest. You should not be laboring like a farmhand. I feel as though I am taking advantage of you. Perhaps tomorrow you could sleep at least until sunrise,” she suggested.
“Doubtful, and I don’t mind. I don’t spend much time sleeping.”
“Why is that?”
He shrugged. “I have never been one to sleep well.”
She shook her head. “That is a shame. And it can’t be good for you. My father always said a soul needs a minimum of eight hours of sleep at night to repair itself and ready for the next day.”
“Eight hours? That would be decadent.”
She frowned, not liking that he should not have the rest he deserved—and not liking that she should care so much. But she did. “There has to be a reason you sleep so little.”
“Your concern is touching. You needn’t fret, however. I have subsisted on very little sleep ever since I can remember and I am no worse for wear.”
She felt her frown deepen. She did not approve. He needed healing rest as did everyone.
“Perhaps if you discovered why you cannot sleep, you could work on that and then sleep better. Longer.”
He smiled. “Knowing your problems does not make them go away. It is not that simple. Life is not so simple as that.”
She felt those words keenly. She knew about a complicated life. About a life riddled with problems. He was one such problem. Her problem, she supposed.
He’d become her problem the moment Bede arrived home to tell her that he had lost their home to him. He had continued to be her problem after that, too. In London. And now here.
He was her problem and he was not going away. At least not anytime soon. Not until her menses arrived and she said the words that would send him away.
She moistened her lips.
Perhaps you will never have them to say.
The thought slipped into her mind like an intruder, quickly and unexpected.
She gave her head a swift shake. She did not mean that. She could not wish herself the scandal of being unwed and with child. To what purpose? To push him into marriage? He had not promised that.
Did she think he would change his mind? Would the bond of a child be enough to keep him with her?
She did not want that. She did not want him compelled—no, forced—to be in her life.
“What is going through that mind of yours?” His voice dragged over her skin like a physical caress.
She looked into his discerning gaze, and then deliberately looked at his mouth, letting her eyes settle there, letting him see and feel her attention there.
Letting him know her mind since he had asked.
His head dipped, almost tentatively, giving her plenty of time to pull away. She did not.
His warm mouth came down on hers, sending a jolt of heat through her that shot to all her aching places—her squeezing belly, her suddenly heavy and tingling breasts, her throbbing sex. She could not pull back. She could not say no, could not reject this. This was what she wanted, after all.
There was only one thing left to do. The thing she wanted. All the things she wanted.
She kissed him back.
Chapter Eighteen
Mercy’s mouth moved against Silas’s, and what should not happen did. Her brain shut down. Broke. This man and his delicious mouth had broken her brain.
The kiss swelled between them, melting her bones and turning her to pudding. Their tongues met and a dazed fog rolled over her, eradicating all thoughts, all logic. There were only feelings. Sensation.
Her arms coiled around his neck. He leaned forward just as she did, their two bodies merging, fusing, becoming one.
His lips ate hungrily from hers as though she was his first meal after a long famine. His hands found her breasts, cupping them over the rough scratch of her wool nightgown.
Heat coursed through her as he massaged the mounds. Everything inside her turned melty and so achy it almost hurt. She fidgeted, eager to part her legs and welcome him inside her.
His erection rose hard and prodding against her hip, pushing, seeking. The pressure of him there was unsatisfactory. He was in the wrong place. She wanted him between her thighs. Hard and deep and fast.
It was both too much and not enough.
His name tore from her throat, spilling into his mouth, into his kiss.