Free Seacliff by Felicia Andrews

face her. “But surely you’re not ancient.”
    “No, I’m not that. But sometimes I feel as if I were. Sometimes Oliver makes me feel ….” She stopped herself, annoyed at her laxity in front of a virtual stranger. But when he pulled away the hand she’d clamped over her mouth, she admitted he didn’t feel like a stranger at all. The way his eyes penetrated to the rim of her soul, the way his fingers brushed over her palm—it was as if they’d known each other for centuries, not hours.
    “The pond,” she said without turning away. “It’s lovely.”
    “Beautiful,” he said quietly.
    She moistened her lips quickly, and swallowed, trying to ignore the hand moving up her arm. “My quiet place,” she said. “Oliver doesn’t like it here. Oliver thinks it’s a waste of time to sit and do nothing but think. He would rather be out, Oliver would.” She held her breath when she felt his hand reach her bare shoulder, but she did not shrug him away. “I often come here.”
    His eyes. She hadn’t realized how intense was their gaze, how dark their color or how flecked with points of fire, as if reflecting some field of distant candles.
    “I really can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done,” she said, barely getting the words out.
    “An honor, my lady Caitlin. An honor indeed.”
    All she’d been taught melted away under the pleasure she felt as his voice seemed to drift over her cheeks and circle her hair. And she did not stop him, because it was the first time in a long while that someone had liked her despite her connection to Oliver, instead of because of it. And she reveled in it. She didn’t care what cautions crept into her mind; she didn’t give a damn what her husband might think. She liked the way James Flint’s hand had worked its way under her flowing hair to the back of her head. She closed her eyes slowly, tilting her head back and rolling it to one side.
    “You’re tense, Caitlin,” he said. “Still not thinking about—”
    “No,” she said quickly. “No.” A sigh. “You handled yourself well.”
    “I’ve known my share of men like that, my lady. Enough.”
    His free hand caressed the other side of her neck. The wind gusted up suddenly, then settled down to rustle the bushes. The night birds in the distance trilled softly. She winced when his massaging hand accidentally pinched her, held her breath when he saw her pain and covered the hurt with a kiss.
    “James,” she whispered.
    He kissed her again. “An apology,” he said, “for not arriving sooner.”
    “You’re being silly.” Her hands squirmed in her lap, and when she felt her balance threatened she reached out, inadvertently placing them on his thighs. Then she lowered her gaze to the hollow of his throat and saw the pulse there. “I … I should return to the house,” she whispered, her mouth suddenly dry, the beat of her heart hard against her chest.
    “Yes,” he said reluctantly, though his hands remained where they were.
    “Oliver will be annoyed.” Her smile was sardonic. “Actually, no matter what you did, he’ll be furious.”
    “I’ve seen him so on occasion.”
    She reached up with every intention of pushing his hands away, and found herself tracing the line of his jaw instead.
    “James, we really shouldn’t stay here much longer.”
    He smiled. “But a little while, yes?”
    Before she could answer he’d covered her lips with his, his left hand cupping the back of her neck to hold her until the contact was broken and his fingers were buried in the thicket of her hair, caressing it. Watching him carefully while he watched her, she recalled the nights Oliver came to her in a stupor, or did not come at all.
    He kissed her again, and this time she allowed herself to respond; she needed the tenderness, even if it was only for one moment of one evening.
    His right hand slipped from her shoulder and swept tenderly over her breasts. She shuddered, almost pulling away, then without thinking