Wish List

by Lisa Kleypas

  Clarissa shot to her feet and stood by the fire, logic deserting her.

  “You, my wife,” he said, rising to stand near her, “never lacked for spirit.”

  “I may disappoint you,” she said on a whisper. His mouth was just above hers, his body massive and pulsing with heat. He would kiss her, she knew, and it would be a kiss nothing like their winter garden kiss. There was no anger in Beau now, only desire.

  She was more comfortable with his anger.

  “You will never disappoint me,” he said softly as his mouth took hers.

  He was gentle when she had expected raw passion. She was grateful, for bold he might call her, but she was afraid. His arms wrapped around her and held her tenderly, warmly, welcoming her into his embrace. She sighed away her tension and her fear as his kiss lifted her up to meet his desire.

  With ease, he held her in his arms, kissing her face, her throat, her mouth, murmuring words she could not understand beyond his intent; he wished to soothe her, to arouse her. He was succeeding.

  And with that thought, she realized that she wanted him to succeed. His success would be hers. She wanted his arousal; had she not realized that before? She wanted him to want her, and he did, and in wanting her, he fed her own desire for him. For she did desire him.

  Bold as she was, she let him know it.

  “I want you,” she said against his throat, her arms wrapping themselves around him, her mouth hot against his skin.

  He could feel her nipples pushing against the thin lawn of her undergarment, feel the tension of fear leave her to be replaced by the tense demands of passion. She wanted him. The words settled upon him like golden netting. She wanted him for more than his Irish lands, and her decision to wed him had been grounded in more than hard practicality. In his heart he had known it. But how sweet the words.

  “Good,” he said to her, laying her upon the bed and lying atop her. She was soft and firm and willing; praise God for a willing virgin on the bridal bed. But he had not expected less from Clarissa. Fear and timidity would never rule her.

  He cupped her through her gown and she spread her legs wide for him, moaning her willingness. She was already wet, but he would not rush her. Her skin was white as cream and as smooth, her eyes dark and full in the flickering light, her mouth open and panting.

  “Bare yourself to me, Clarissa,” he commanded, sitting back from her.

  For a moment she paused, and then she smiled. “If you’ll do me the same courtesy, my lord.”

  With quick hands they slid off their remaining clothing. Naked on the bed, they studied each other. He was darkness to her fire and light, and they wished only to combine and consume each other.

  “Beautiful,” he said softly. His eyes scoured her and she shivered in response. He reached for her, pulling her to him by the back of her exposed and slender neck, and then urged her down at the foot of the bed.

  “Do it quickly,” she whispered.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, looking into her eyes.

  “Don’t hurt me,” she said, “but do it now. I cannot bear the waiting.”

  No, that would little suit her. Bold action was her way.

  Hands on her breasts, he touched her, arousing her, pleasuring her, thinking only of bringing her to such need that his taking of her would be a release and not a fear-filled memory to cloud their future together. His mouth moved everywhere upon her. Her skin was hot and soft, her limbs twitching with flares of passion as they surged through her. She was a most willing bride, trusting him to protect her and please her. He would. He would do nothing less.

  He spread her and she sighed. When he touched her, she groaned and pulled him to her breast. His mouth found her nipple and he teased her to the next level of desire.

  “Please. Hurry,” she said in a moan, thrashing beneath him.

  “A truth I was most anxious to hear,” he murmured against her skin. “It will be uncomfortable at first,” he said. “I will do all I can to keep you from pain.”

  “Yes. Do it,” she said breathlessly.

  She was wet and ready, and he slid just the bare tip of himself into her.

  “Oh.” She grunted, her limbs tightening against him.

  He kissed her mouth, his tongue gliding over hers, learning the inside of her. With his finger he pressed into her, widening her slightly. She was very tight. He did not know how to keep her from the pain of lost virginity.

  She pulled her mouth from his. “It’s going to hurt, isn’t it?”

  Her brown eyes were full of fear and trust. He did not know what to tell her that would ease her.

  “Tell me the truth,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Then do not hesitate,” she begged. “Let me get beyond it. Help me to be past it.”

  Yes, he understood her. And he marveled. She was a remarkable woman, as bold and astute as she had appeared. He could only do as she asked, though it pained him more than it would her; he did not want to hurt her, yet delaying the pain she knew was to come was a torture of its own.

  Staring down into her eyes, he thrust. She cried out and closed her eyes, thinking it accomplished. He was only halfway there. Waiting for her to soften around him, he thrust again. Home. She choked out a smothered scream and then instantly was still. He looked down at her, at her tense and expectant face, at her eyes pressed shut, and felt her soften around him still more.

  Home at last.

  “‘Tis done, Clarissa. The worst is done,” he said, kissing her mouth softly.

  “Good,” she said. “Is it over now?”

  Beau smiled. “No, not yet.”

  “Oh.” She frowned slightly.

  “It gets better,” he said, poised above her, holding himself still.

  “Oh,” she said, trying to look hopeful.

  Beau smiled and slowly withdrew. He ignored her look of relief and pumped back into her. Again. She was soft and wet. Again.

  “Oh!” Clarissa said, her hands clenching against his back.

  Beau grinned in male satisfaction and bit her throat gently.

  He reached down and fingered, her pleased to hear her gasp at the contact, more pleased when she groaned and strained against his hand.

  Again he withdrew, and again he plunged into her, harder now.

  She met him, her hips lifting.

  Again.

  And again.

  He wrapped her legs around his hips, opening her further, plunging deeper. He kissed her, stealing her breath, breathing her scent and her cries until he merged with her completely.

  His hands roamed her breasts as he thrust into her, holding back his release until desire consumed her.

  “Hurry. Harder,” she cried, panting. “More.”

  He gave her more.

  With a scream, she shattered and he fell against her, breaking, feeling her release, pulsing against her spasms of fulfilled desire.

  Slowly she put her arms around his neck, and her breathing slowed. With a sigh of surprised contentment, she kissed his cheek. It was the sweetest kiss in all his life.

  “Thank you,” she said into his ear, and then she softly bit him on the lobe.

  He chuckled and said, “Did I manage to drive all thoughts of Ireland from you tonight?”

  “Stop talking,” she said dreamily, still managing to scold. “You’ll ruin it.”

  He laughed and slid out of her and then nestled her into his arms. They lay in a tangled and easy embrace, content. He ran his fingers through her hair, red even in the dim light of the curtained bed.

  “We’ll go soon.” He knew no explanation would be necessary. There was only one place she wanted to go, and all the world knew of it.

  “Good,” she said. “But I want to see Montwyn Hall first. All of it.”

  “You shall. Let’s spend Christmas Day here—we’ll invite your brothers if you like—and then we’ll go to Dantry House, which I think should please you, for the turning of the year. It will be a rough crossing, but
as eager as you are, I don’t think you’ll mind it.”

  “Mind? I would fly there if I could,” she said.

  “Not necessary. We’ll sail, thank you,” he said lightly.

  “Thank you again,” she whispered, squeezing his hand.

  “You are most welcome,” he replied. “Consider it a Christmas gift. I shall be giving you the first item on your of husbands: a fine Irish estate.”

  “It’s a home you’ve given me,” she said, “and nothing less.”

  “I think you’ll love it,” he said softly, feeling her begin to fall asleep in his arms.

  “I know I shall,” she murmured on a sigh, slipping into sleep, thoughts of Ireland accompanying her into the darkness.

  —

  Her skirts were dirty, her shoes muddy, her bonnet hanging down her back held only by the ribbons at her throat. She could feel them pressing against her throat.

  She was not supposed to be here. Her father had forbidden it. But she was with Perry. It was all right if she was with Perry.

  The smell of burning was strong, and she wanted to press a hand to her nose to keep out the smell.

  The sound of gunshots ripped against her ears, and she had to press her hands there to deaden the retort.

  Sobs came at her through the air, but she could not see for all the smoke.

  She was high in a tree. Perry had pushed her into the tree and he stood at the bottom, crying. Crying surrounded her from all sides.

  A cold wind swept by her, making a path through the smoke, and she could see.

  She did not want to see, but she did not know how to keep from seeing.

  She should not be here.

  Red cloth, soldiers’ coats, fire, and smoke. Redcoats and fire. A man, an Irishman, his head coated in pitch, was lit on fire by a British soldier. Pitchcapped. He ran, screaming, tearing at his skull. His only salvation was to tear off his own scalp. He tried. He screamed.

  She watched.

  Where was Perry?

  Redcoats came toward her, shouting. One soldier saw her.

  Perry was beneath her, pulling at her foot, shouting at her. Shouting something.

  She should not be here.

  The soldier who’d spotted her shot the Irishman who had been lit like a torch. He fell. He stopped screaming.

  The soldier ran toward her. He did not shout. He was quiet. She could not move, even with Perry’s pulling.

  She should not be here.

  The soldier grabbed her and lifted her in his arms. He pulled Perry behind him and then they ran to a stone wall that contained a field. The field was empty. The stones held nothing.

  Nothing.

  Only the sound of crying.

  —

  She awoke with a cry that strangled itself before it was fully born. Beau jerked upright beside her and reached for her. In the firelight, she looked into his eyes, the dream still as real as her last heartbeat.

  And when she looked into his eyes, so green and so full of concern, she recognized him.

  He was the one.

  “You,” she squeezed out past lungs still choked by remembered smoke and fire.

  “What is it? You were crying,” Beau said, folding her into his arms.

  “You!” she repeated, jerking away from his touch. “You’re the one.”

  He was the one. The monster from her nightly torture. He’d haunted her for ten years, and now she shared his bed. It could not be.

  “Clarissa,” he said slowly, not touching her. “Have a sip of wine. Calm yourself.”

  “It was you; don’t deny it. I recognize you now,” she said, the tears starting to press at the backs of her eyes. “You were there. You were in the regiment.”

  “Yes, with Lindley,” he said.

  “Lindley wasn’t there!” she shouted. He would not make Lindley a part of this. Lindley had no part in it. Only she.

  “Where, Clarissa?” he asked.

  Where? Where her dreams took her almost nightly. Where it had happened. “Wexford,” she murmured. It was like saying the name of a demon in the dark of hell.

  At the name, his eyes went carefully blank. He knew what had happened in Wexford.

  “I was there. I saw you,” she accused, sounding like the eight-year-old girl she had been and was again, every night, in the darkness alone. Logic had no place in this memory; all was pure emotion, catching her up and tossing her about like a storm wind, her only companion the terror she had known and still knew. Every night.

  “You,” he said, his face a mask. “You were the girl. And the boy… that was Perry? Yes, it would have been,” he said carefully, all emotion bled from his voice.

  “I saw you! You killed him. You murdered him.”

  “No!” he said, grabbing her by the arms. She jerked away from his touch, but he would not let her go. Just like before. He would not let her go. “He was dead already. Do you think he wanted to die like that? Burned and mutilated? I showed him mercy; that was all.”

  “You killed him,” she said, her voice as hard as stone. “You wore the coat. You’re one of them.”

  “Who?”

  “The English! The English did it.”

  “Clarissa, you’re English.”

  “No! I’m not! I’m Irish! I’m not like that. I can’t be like that.”

  Beau jerked back the blankets and dragged a resisting Clarissa out of bed. He put her in one chair by the fire and seated himself in another. Naked, they faced each other, the glow of the fire lighting only half their faces, leaving the other side in deep shadow. But for the first time he saw all of her. And understood everything.

  Ireland was home because she had to be Irish. Because she could not bear to be English. The English pitchcapped. The English murdered. The English set ablaze the houses of the innocent. She could not be part of that, and so she renounced her culture and her race, seeking an innocence she did not feel.

  But the Irish were not innocent, not as she thought.

  Wexford had been a nightmare of careless cruelty.

  But what of Enniscorthy, where Irish Catholics had burned Irish Protestants by the hundreds? None had been innocent in the events that led to the union of Ireland with England.

  What could a girl of eight know of that? A woman sat before him, her face set and angry, but in her Irish heart she was a child still. A child scarred by what she had seen; a woman tortured by memory.

  Yet he had faith in the ultimate strength of Clarissa and her practical mind; Clarissa would not be ruled by the tyranny of raw emotion, not willingly. He had only to convince her to let go the pain of memory and grasp the cool peace of reason.

  “Clarissa, you did nothing wrong. The man who set the pitchcap was wrong. He was drummed out; I reported him myself. I did nothing wrong when I shot that man. I do not know if he was innocent of wrongdoing or guilty, but I know that I shortened his suffering, and I am not sorry.” When she would have spoken, in protest and argument, he was certain, he continued. “What of what I, an English officer, did for you? I was trying to save you. I saw a small girl and her equally small brother in a place where no child should be. I took you away. I kept you safe. I did not know you. I did not know that one day I would see you again as the woman you are.”

  He stopped and studied her face, delicate and stubborn and pulled into a frown. He had known it from the start: she was soft femininity and strong determination rolled together. He had known he loved her at her first volley of smiling insults. There was no one like her.

  “I did not know that I would one day love you.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she said coldly.

  “Which part?” he asked, smiling.

  “Any of it. All of it,” she said. “You are just trying to soothe me.”

  “Yes, I am trying to soothe you, but that does not mean that I am not being truthful. How much truth is there in you, Clarissa? You are English, whether you want to be or not. And Lindley was a soldier and Perry is about to buy his commission. Of what are th
ey guilty? Some Irish murder other Irish and some Irish never kill anyone. It is not nationality that determines a man’s acts, but the man himself.”

  “But you killed someone,” she whispered.

  “And you watched,” he said. “I am sorry for that. I was sorry then. But would I shoot him again? Yes. It is an uncomfortable truth, but it is the truth, and I believe that you want nothing less.”

  Did she? Some truths were very ugly, very painful. What sort of truth did she want? Only the truths that pleased her or served her? She would not be that sort of woman.

  But this truth was very hard; it challenged all that she had believed for a lifetime. Yet if what she had believed was half lie and half childish terror, what was gained by clinging to it?

  Yet what she felt in her heart was not so simple as that. Choosing a husband by cold logic was one thing; choosing a memory was quite another. And how much logic had there truly been in her choosing of Beau? She loved him, Englishman though he was.

  “I do not think I can do this,” she whispered.

  “I know you can,” Beau said, his voice warm with confidence.

  “This pain is not so easily dismissed,” she said, looking at the fire. “I think I may, after all, disappoint you.”

  “Never,” he said. “Never.”

  And when she looked into his eyes, he smiled his belief.

  “It will take time to forge a new memory and lay aside the horror of that day, but you will succeed. You are a woman ruled by reason and not emotion. Does any other woman compile a list?” He smiled gently. “We will attack this together and we will win.”

  They looked at each other, hope beginning to reign over her features, confidence riding his.

  “Do you believe me now?” he asked, reaching out his hand to hers. “Any and all of what I declare?”

  His hands were large and strong, the fingers long and graceful. Those hands had carried her to safety when she was a child. They would not drop her now.

  “I’m not certain,” she said, slowly taking his hand, feeling the hard warmth of him. “You did, did you not, say you loved me?”