A Kiss at Midnight

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Carrick's mind was suddenly cast back to those first few days in the crumbling ruins of the house he was banished to. How the night seemed to be an endless stretch of darkness. How the size of the bed taunted him that no one was here to comfort him.
How he was out of sight and out of Sebastian Ellis's mind entirely.
How his own mother, his features so similar to hers looked at him as if she regretted the resemblance.
How he sagged to the cold stones beneath his feet, knowing no one wanted him anymore.
Love.
Marriage.
They would never find him.

He had been wrong.
Ilona loved him that he knew, Carrick just hadn't realise how much she did. That of all the gentlemen she could choose, she chose him. Saw him as the husband she wanted to spend a lifetime with. It was only then did he realise his mistake. His eyes widening. Lost in thought he hadn't said anything further in the passing seconds and that stung Ilona. Something in her expression was about shutter, to shield against the painful barb of rejection.

Oh no, you don't.
He moved, sweeping her into his arms. His lips becoming slanted over hers, one hand shaping itself to the side of her face. The other fisted the back of her gown, anchoring her to his form. Ilona laced her arms around his neck.
Storm clouds gathering to meet the turbulent nature of an ocean.
He broke off the kiss yet continued to hold her close. The uneven beat of his breathing could not stop the words, guttural in their sound from pushing past his lips. His skin molten from her very touch and the teasing caress of sunlight.

"I would love nothing more than for you to wear it."

Ilona's lips curved into a smile, a sight to banish all darkness from his mind. His hand moved, to trail down one of her arms until their fingers became intertwined.

"Follow me," he said for he had to do something to quell his body's yearning for her.
While the idea of having his cock sheathed in her sweet heat held a lot of appeal, his mind did decide to give him a sharp reminder that they were at the present moment in public. However, recalling his study of the map of Barrymore's estate, there was one place that could dampen his ardour for Ilona while also providing some sense of privacy.
She arched a brow but allowed him to guide her forwards.

Carrick's path diverted left. The distant chatter of the other guests fell silent with each passing step. A thicket of brambles leaving the land beyond obscure to one's vision. Trees standing guard on either side of the brambles. He paused, raising a low hanging branch to allow Ilona to pass through. The trees here had retreated to the edges and in their place was a pond, one large enough for a person to swim comfortably in. The far end of the pond was framed by a series of weathered rock, the water's source.
Ilona finding a patch of grass by the water's edge, flopped down in a flurry of teal. Her fingers slipping free of her gloves, her chignon soon escaping the confines of her bonnet. She tilted her head upwards, sunlight a golden blush across her cheeks. Ilona turned to look at Carrick and froze.

Once a cloak of snowy white upon his shoulders, his shirt was now in danger of slipping off one broad ledge. Its fate to be the same as that of his jacket which lay in a crumpled heap on the ground. Many an eye would map out the jagged landscape of his scars but Ilona chose a different route; her gaze charting out the wide expanse of his back. Noting the waltz of his muscles as his shirt was pushed towards its fate. His hands moving to perform the next step.

Her gaze was sent tumbling down as Carrick let his breeches fall to his feet. Desire, a sinful whisper grazed the shell of one ear, coaxing her lips to part. Her body, a puppet to the thrall of his physique as she leaned forwards. Carrick was not unaware of the effect he was having on Ilona, the broken harmony of her breathing encircling his senses. Yet he didn't turn around, striding towards the pond. Water's cold embrace greeted him on a stage of pebbles beneath his bare feet. He waded in until the water reached his hips then Carrick plunged himself below the surface. The feathery fronds of the plant, Hornwort beckoned him to follow, to pass through the murky streets of willow moss. He refused to heed its call. With a kick, he rose back up only to be ensnared by what awaited him above the surface.