Regency

Peter had taken a late dinner date with Lady Hertford at her grand mansion on the outskirts of the city. Her husband was away on business and Peter had designs upon winning his latest bet. Both money and his reputation depended upon it and he had to amuse himself somehow before the ball.

“Do you like my husband’s brandy?” the older, attractive, brown haired lady asked him directly across the small luncheon table.

Peter swirled the warm liquid in his hot palm, “I do. Your husband’s possessions are fine indeed. Can I pour you another glass of wine?”

“I shouldn’t,” she replied demurely, “although it is very fine. His taste has always been for the finer things in life. Pour, do.”

“Is that a squirrel in the garden?” Peter asked, peering through the French doors towards the sweeping greenery.

“Oh, where!” Lady Hertford asked and did not notice the white powder nimbly slipped into her glass from Peter’s ring. When she turned around, any trace was already vanished.

He passed her the beverage, “My mistake.”

Over the pristine white linen tablecloth, their eyes met lustily and Peter began to wonder if he had needed to introduce the drug after all.

“My, my,” she swooned, “is it hot in here?”

“A little. Perhaps I should open a window?” Peter watched her reactions closely. Her eyes had begun to bat languidly.

“Not necessary,” she smiled weakly and took another sip of wine.

“A turn around the garden perhaps?”

“No, sir, suddenly I feel rather tired.”

Peter measured his words carefully and let them fall heavily and deliberately from his mouth, “Then perhaps you should lie down? May I be of assistance?”

Lady Hertford took his offered hand. “I thought you would never ask.”

“Yes.” Peter softly laughed. “Gentlemanly behaviour will be my downfall, everyone claims it so.”

"I'm not here to argue with you, Rafe," Kyra said evenly, looking up into his face. The white thread of the scar still ran down one cheek, but there looked to be a few added abrasions and a noticeable, atrous bruise on his forehead, most of it hidden by the ragged strands of black hair that fell across his brow as he gazed down on her. His green-eyed gaze burned into her, but his brows were knit in pain. His jaw was tight and he was indeed genuinely angry, but in his voice, somewhere beyond the accusation, was a pleading, a need to understand. She found herself wanting to push the hair from his face, touch her lips to the contusions and somehow ease his mind.

"Then what are you here for?" Rafe prompted brusquely.

Kyra cocked her head. "To get you out of this." She nodded toward the camp. "To get us both out of all of this mess that I seem to have gotten us into." Kyra felt his grip on her shoulders relax a bit. Rafe stared at her vacantly for a moment, then gave a curt laugh.

"You are going to rescue me now, are you?" he asked bitterly. "The way you did at Mireflore?"

"Rafe, no, please stop. I thought I was doing the right thing! I did not know--"

"No, you stop!" Rafe's voice lowered and his eyes narrowed dangerously. "Is that the deal you were making in James' tent? What's one more king's bed after all?"

Kyra's face flushed and she attempted to break away once again. "That's enough!" she cried, trying to shove his shoulder aside, only to find herself caught and bound tightly in his arms, caught up breathlessly against his pounding chest.

She didn't fight him, unsure of what he wanted, what he needed from her. Kyra closed her eyes and pressed her back against the solidity of the Yew for support as his hands slid around her waist and moved freely across her body. She inhaled sharply as he grasped her hips and set about molding her body to his, his sinewy thigh sliding across hers, his hard stomach pressing against her quavering belly. His body burned through her clothing, hot and eager, as his mouth covered hers. There was no escape, but she couldn't have wished for a better release as she eagerly accepted his probing tongue, answering his unspoken question--she was still his.