by Julia Quinn
They were in bed. There were lots of things to do in bed.
“I can keep you busy,” he murmured.
“What?”
But before she could get out more than a single word, he leaned over and kissed her.
He hadn’t thought about it. In fact, if he had stopped to think, he would have certainly told himself not to do it. That way lay madness, surely, and right then it felt like the only thing he still possessed was his sanity.
He kissed her because in that moment every instinct he possessed was crying for it. Some primitive part of him still thought she was his wife, that he had every right to touch her this way.
She’d told him they were married. She’d told him he’d said his vows.
Edward had attended enough wedding ceremonies to know the solemnization of marriage by heart. He knew what he would have said.
With my body I thee worship.
He wanted to worship her.
He wanted to worship her so damned much.
His hand wrapped around the back of her head, pulling her against him, holding her in place.
But she didn’t struggle. She didn’t try to escape. Instead, her arms came around him, and she kissed him back. She knew they weren’t married, he thought angrily, but she returned his passion with equal fervor. Her lips were eager, and she moaned with desire as her back arched, pressing her body even more tightly against his.
The spark that had been lit within him raged out of control. He rolled her beneath him, and his lips moved roughly along her neck, down to the neckline of that awful nightgown.
He wanted to bite the damned thing off.
“Edward!” she gasped, and all he could think was that she was his. She had said so, and who was he to deny it?
He wanted her under his dominion, in his thrall.
He shoved the hem of her nightgown up, growling with satisfaction as she parted her legs for him. He might be a brute, but as his mouth found her breast through the thin cotton of her nightgown, her fingers were digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave bruises. And the noises she was making . . .
They were the noises of a woman who wanted more.
“Please,” she begged.
“What do you want?” He looked up. Smiled like the devil.
She looked at him in confusion. “You know.”
His head moved in a slow shake. “You have to say it.” He was wearing his smalls, but when he ground himself against her, he knew she could feel the hard length of his desire. “Say it,” he demanded.
Her face colored, and he knew it wasn’t just from the passion. “I want you,” she cried. “You know it. You know it.”
“Well, then,” he drawled. “You shall have me.”
He yanked the nightgown over her head, leaving her bare in the morning light. For a moment he forgot all that had happened. His rage . . . his urgency . . . it seemed to melt in the face of her beauty. He could only gaze upon her, drinking in her perfection.
“You are so lovely,” he whispered. His kisses turned soft—still desperate, but without the anger that had been fueling him before. He tasted her skin, the salty-sweet essence of her as he traveled down her shoulder, along the planes of her chest.
He wanted all of her. He wanted to lose himself.
No, he wanted her to do so. He wanted to bring her to the excruciating brink of pleasure, and then he wanted to send her over the edge.
He wanted her to forget her very name.
He skimmed his palm along the tip of her breast, delighting as it pebbled with desire, but he did not stop there. His lips traveled to her ribs, to her belly, to the gentle jut of her hipbone.
“Edward?”
He ignored her. He knew what he was doing. He knew she’d like it.
And he knew he’d die if he didn’t taste her.
She gasped his name again, this time with urgency. “What are you doing?”
“Shhh . . .” he crooned, using his big hands to spread her legs wider. She squirmed, settling herself closer to his face. Her body seemed to know what it wanted, even if her mind was in a quandary.
“You can’t look at me there,” she gasped.
He kissed her just below her navel, just because he knew it would shock her. “You’re beautiful.”
“Not there!”
“I disagree.” He ran his fingers through her soft thatch of hair, skimming closer to her womanhood, parting her to his intimate gaze. Then he blew softly on her tender skin.
She let out a soft shriek of pleasure.
He let one of his fingers draw a lazy circle on her skin. “Do you like it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let me try one more thing,” he murmured, “then you can decide.”
“I don’t—oh . . .”
He smiled. Right up against her. Right where he’d licked her. “Do you like it?” he asked again.
And she whispered, “Yes.”
He licked her again, this time with a broad, hungry stroke, his body humming with satisfaction as her hips bucked off the mattress. “You need to hold still,” he purred, knowing he was tormenting her. “If you want to do this properly.”
“I can’t,” she gasped.
“I think you can.” But just to be helpful, he moved his hands to the creases between her torso and her legs, where he could increase the pressure and hold her firm.
Then he kissed her. He kissed her like he kissed her mouth, hard and deep. He drank her in, and he gloried in the shivers and shakes of her body beneath him. She was drunk on desire.
She was drunk on him. And he loved it.
“Do you want this?” he murmured, lifting his head so that he could see her face.
And also so that he could torture her. Just a little.
“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes! Don’t stop.”
He let his fingers take the place of his mouth, tickling her while he spoke maddening words. “How much do you want it?”
She didn’t answer, but she didn’t have to. He could see the confusion on her face.
“How much, Cecilia?” he asked. He kissed her again, but only briefly, only enough to flick her nub with his tongue.
“So much!” she practically screamed.
That was more like it.
He went back to work, worshipping her with his mouth.
He worshipped her so damned much.
He kissed her until she fell apart beneath him, her body rising from the bed with almost enough force to push him away. She grabbed his head with frantic fingers, clamped her legs around him like a vise.
She held him there until she was through with him, and he loved every moment. When she finally went limp, he moved above her, propping himself on his elbows as he gazed down upon her. Her eyes were closed, and she shivered in the morning air.
“Are you cold?” he whispered. She made a tiny nod, and he covered her sweat-sheened body with his own.
Her head lolled back at the contact, as if the weight of him had been the final pleasure before oblivion. He kissed along the taut column of her neck, down to the indentation of her collarbone. She tasted like desire.
Her desire.
His, too.
He reached between them to unfasten his undergarments. It seemed a sacrilege to have anything between them, even a thin layer of linen. Within seconds it joined her nightgown on the side of the bed, and he settled back down into the warm cradle of her body.
He poised at her entrance, held himself there, and then pressed forward until he was home.
He forgot everything. Nothing existed except this moment, in this bed. He moved without thought, acted with nothing but instinct. She moved to his rhythm, her hips meeting his with each thrust. The pleasure built inside, so sharp and deep it could almost be pain, and then suddenly she flinched, and with panic in her eyes she said, “Wait!”
He jerked back, and something like fear raced through his heart. “Did I hurt you?”
She shook her head. “No, but we have to stop. I—I
can’t be pregnant.”
He stared at her, trying to make sense of her words.
“Remember?” She swallowed miserably. “We talked about it.”
He remembered. It had meant something completely different before, though. She’d said she didn’t want to be pregnant on the journey back to England. And she didn’t want to have a baby in New York.
What she’d really meant was she couldn’t have a baby. Couldn’t allow herself to have one. Not without a marriage license.
For a moment he thought about denying her plea. He could finish inside of her, try to create a new life.
That would make this marriage real.
But then she whispered, “Please.”
He pulled out. It went against every instinct in his body, but he did it. He rolled onto his side, away from her, and focused all of his energy on simply remembering how to breathe.
“Edward?” She touched his shoulder.
He shook her off. “I need—I need a moment.”
“Yes, of course.” She edged away from him, her nervous movements rocking the mattress until he heard her feet land on the floor.
“Is . . . Is there something I can do?” she asked hesitantly. Her eyes fell on his manhood, still jutting ruthlessly out from his body. “To help?”
He thought about that.
“Edward?”
Her breath whispered through the silence, and he was amazed that he could hear her over the pounding of his own heart.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t apologize,” he snapped. He didn’t want to hear it. He rolled on his back and took a deep breath. He was still hard as a rock. He’d been so close to spilling inside of her, and now . . .
He swore.
“Maybe I should go,” she said hastily.
“That would probably be a wise idea.” His tone was not gentle, but it was the best he could manage. He might have to finish himself with his hand, and he was quite certain this would not suit her tender sensibilities.
He couldn’t believe he still cared about her tender sensibilities.
She dressed quickly and shot out of the room like a bolt, but by then the urgency of his situation had diminished, and there seemed no point in trying to see to himself.
Honestly, it would have felt pathetic.
He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, leaning his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. His entire life, he’d known what to do. He wasn’t perfect, not by any means. But the path between right and wrong had always been clearly defined.
He put his country before family.
His family before self.
And where had that got him? In love with a mirage.
Married to a ghost.
No, not married. He needed to remember that. He was not married to Cecilia Harcourt. What had just happened . . .
She was right about one thing. It couldn’t happen again. At least not until they wed for real.
He would marry her. He had to, or so he told himself. He didn’t particularly wish to examine the corner of his heart that wanted to marry her. It was the same corner that had been so desperately glad to be married to her.
That little corner of his heart . . . It was gullible, far too trusting. He didn’t have particular faith in its judgment, especially when another little voice was telling him to wait, take his time.
Let her squirm for a few days.
A frustrated shout tore from his throat, and he jammed his fingers into his hair, pulling hard. This was not his finest hour.
With another groan, he heaved himself up and off the bed, stalking forward to the wardrobe to fetch his clothing. Unlike Cecilia, he did have things to do today.
First on the agenda: a visit to Colonel Stubbs. Edward did not think he had learned much of use about the Connecticut seaports, but he was a soldier to his bones, and it was his duty to report what he had discovered. Not to mention he needed to tell the colonel where he’d been for so long. Tied up in a barn with a cat for company wasn’t particularly heroic, but it was a far cry from treason.
Plus, there was the matter of Thomas’s belongings. His trunk had been stored alongside Edward’s when they’d both left for Connecticut. Now that he had been officially declared dead, his things should be turned over to Cecilia.
Edward wondered if the miniature would be there.
His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in nearly a day. Cecilia had probably ordered breakfast. With luck, it would be hot and waiting for him when he went down to the dining room.
Food first, then Colonel Stubbs. This was good, having some structure to the day. He felt a bit more like himself when he knew what he needed to do.
For today, at least.
Chapter 19
We are finally seeing the first signs of spring, and I am thankful. Please give Captain Rokesby one of these crocuses. I hope I pressed them correctly. I thought you both would enjoy a small piece of England.
—from Cecilia Harcourt to her brother Thomas
Later that morning, Cecilia took a walk down to the harbor. Edward had told her at breakfast that he was meeting with Colonel Stubbs, and he did not know how long he would be busy. She’d been left to her own devices, possibly for the entire day. She’d gone back up to their room with the intention of finishing the book of poems she’d been plodding through for the past week, but after only a few minutes it was clear that she needed to go outside.
The room felt too tight, the walls too close, and every time she tried to focus on the typeset words on the page, her eyes filled with tears.
She was raw.
For so many reasons.
And so she decided a walk was in order. The fresh air would do her good, and she’d be far less likely to spontaneously burst into tears if there were witnesses.
Goal for today: Don’t cry in public.
It seemed manageable.
The weather was very fine, not too hot, with a light breeze coming off the water. The air smelled of salt and seaweed, which was a pleasant surprise, considering how often the wind carried on it the stench of the prison ships that moored just a little ways off the coast.
Cecilia had been in New York long enough to have learned a little something about the patterns of the port. Ships arrived almost daily, but very rarely did they carry civilian travelers. Most were merchant vessels, bringing in much-needed supplies for the British Army. A few of these had been fitted to carry paying passengers; that was how Cecilia had made it across from Liverpool. The Lady Miranda’s main purpose had been to bring foodstuffs and armaments for the soldiers stationed in New York. But she had also borne fourteen passengers. Needless to say, Cecilia had gotten to know most of them quite well on the five-week voyage. They’d had little in common except that they were all making a dangerous voyage across a temperamental ocean into an embattled coastal area of a landmass at war.
In other words, they were all plumb crazy.
It almost made her smile. She still couldn’t quite believe she’d had the gumption to make the crossing. She’d been fueled by desperation, to be sure, and she hadn’t had many other options, but still . . .
She was proud of herself. For that, at least.
There were several ships in the harbor that day, including one that Cecilia had heard belonged to the same fleet as the Lady Miranda. The Rhiannon, it was called, and it had journeyed to New York from Cork, in Ireland. The wife of one of the officers who took his supper at the Devil’s Head had sailed in on it. Cecilia had not met her personally, but her arrival in town had been the source of much gossip and good cheer. With all the gossip that rang through the dining room each night, it would have been impossible not to have heard of it.
She wandered closer to the docks, using the tall mast of the Rhiannon as her North Star. She knew the way, of course, but it felt almost whimsical to be led there using her primitive navigation. How long had the Rhiannon been in New York? Not yet a week, if she recalled correctly, which meant that
it would probably remain at dock for at least a few more days before heading back across the ocean. The holds needed to be unloaded and then loaded with new cargo. To say nothing of the sailors, who surely deserved time on dry land after a long voyage.
As Cecilia reached the harbor, the world seemed to open up like a spring flower. Bright midday light poured forth, unhindered by the three- and four-story buildings that had been blocking the sun. There was something about the water that made the earth seem endless, even if the docks weren’t quite at the open ocean. It was easy to see Brooklyn in the distance, and Cecilia knew how quickly a ship could navigate through the bay and out to the Atlantic.
It was really rather pretty, she thought, even if the tableau was far too different from home to ever etch itself permanently on her heart. But she liked it all the same, especially the way the water whipped up into foam-crested waves, then slapped the retaining wall like an impatient nanny.
The ocean was gray here, but out over the horizon it would darken to a deep, fathomless blue. Some days—the turbulent ones—it had even looked green.
Another little fact she’d never have known if she had not ventured from her safe little home in Derbyshire. She was glad she’d come. Truly, she was. She would be leaving with a broken heart—for more reasons than one—but it would be worth it. She was a better person—no, she was a stronger person.
A better person would not have lied for so long.
Still, it was a good thing she’d come. For herself, and maybe even for Edward. His fever had risen dangerously high two days before he woke up. She’d remained by his side throughout the night, placing cooling cloths on his skin. She would never know if she’d actually saved his life, but if she had, then this all would have been worth it.
She had to hold on to that notion. It would keep her company for the rest of her life.
It was then that she realized she was already thinking in terms of leaving. She glanced down to her waist. She could be pregnant; she’d not yet had proof otherwise. But it was unlikely, and she knew she had to prepare herself for the logistics of travel.
Hence her trip to the harbor. She had not consciously considered why her feet were leading her to the water, but now, as she watched two longshoremen loading crates into the hold of the Rhiannon, it was quite obvious that she was there to make inquiries.
