by Tanya Wilde
“I’ll take a nap for an hour. Wake me when you are done,” he barked over his shoulder.
“I will be done much sooner than that,” she snapped back. “Since you already soaked up all the steaminess.”
Brahm said nothing, not trusting the words that threatened to erupt from his lips. Instead he only growled, a sound not unlike that of a crusty old bear, and left, slamming the door behind him with a loud thud.
Chapter 11
Holly stared at Brahm with wide eyes, uncertain if she had heard him correctly. He hadn’t spoken a direct word to her since the previous day, when he had left her alone in his room to go and rumple her bed, spreading his scent all over her sheets. Even now his voice was still low and guttural with hostility. Not that she blamed him, mind you. Holly had entrenched on the beast’s territory. And she had done so intentionally.
Heavens!
Every time she called to mind how he’d said her name during their argument, how he’d growled it on his lips, raw and deeply primitive, a delicious shiver tingled down her spine right to the tips of her toes. If she closed her eyes now, her brain imagined his mouth lowering to hers, his lips molding against hers with slow tenderness. She responded to his kiss in a light and playful way, teasing him—
“Miss Middleton.”
Holly blinked, the deep masculine voice of Brahm penetrating the swirl of her thoughts. Dear Lord! Even now the soft impatience sharply edging his tone brought her heart aflutter. It must be the close confines of the carriage and how his clean, manly scent permeated the air within.
“Yes?” she murmured, the word coming out in a breathless whisper.
He cast a dark scowl her way. “I said . . . come here.”
Holly glanced around the interior. “I am already here.”
“Do not play coy, Holly,” he held out his hand, “You wanted this, actively participated in having it come about, so now come here.”
Holly stared at Brahm, dumbstruck. Was he saying what she . . . did he want to kiss her? Here? Now?
But, of course, he wanted her!
This was her—
“Holly.”
A shiver of pure delight passed through her at the unrestrained desire in his voice. With not even the slightest bit of hesitation, she placed her hand in his palm. His entire hand swallowed hers as his fingers closed around her own. Before she could examine the sensation of their palms, flesh against flesh, he yanked her up against his chest.
“Are you going to kiss me?”
In response, he pressed his nose against the soft skin of her collarbone and inhaled. “As sure as I need to breathe.”
Holly’s head fell back when Brahm brushed his lips against her neck, moving up to the tender lobe of her ear. He bit down sensually there, and she whimpered.
“I much prefer you in that translucent little nightdress . . . within the hour.”
Within the hour? But they wouldn’t reach their destination that soon, would they? Confused, Holly shifted on his lap to pull away from him and ask, but her thoughts scattered the moment his hand lifted to cup her breast, his thumb grazing her nipple.
Mother Mary.
“I have wanted to do that since the moment we left the church.”
“You did?” She placed her hands on his shoulders, not to push him away but to keep herself steady. Her entire world felt unhinged. Well, everything except her senses, which appeared remarkably attuned to the marquis’s lips lightly grazing her ear as he spoke.
“Yes.”
His fingers began to tug on the pearl buttons of her dress, and another hand lifted her skirts, roaming the length of her leg. Holly, lost in the sensation of his tongue burning into her skin, did not protest when he laid her on the seat. Her breast now bared to his view, his hand began sliding over her most delicate, private—
“Holly.”
“Yes?”
Someone banged on the carriage door.
She lifted her lashes to stare into Brahm’s hypnotic emerald eyes. “Who could that be?”
“Me.”
“You? But you’re already here.”
“I’m no more here than you are.”
The banging grew louder.
“Don’t go,” Holly murmured when Brahm pulled away from her.
“I was never here, Holly.”
“Holly!”
She surged upright, her gaze darting around. She was in the familiar chamber of the inn, not their carriage. And she was alone.
A dream. It had all just been a dream.
With a shaky breath, her eyes flicked to the door, her heart still laboring from the sinfully wicked fantasy. Loud banging on the door accompanied Brahm’s voice.
“Damnation, Holly,” he called out. He fiddled with the doorknob. “If you don’t answer me this second I will kick this door in.” This time the unmistakable note of a growl entered his voice, followed by louder banging.
Holly closed her eyes. Of their own accord, her lips parted, and her skin stained red as she recalled that same mouth caressing the skin of—
She shook her head.
“I’ll be ready,” she croaked out, her voice still raspy from sleep.
There was a brief pause from the other side of the door, and then, after a moment, a softer whisper reached her ear. “Are you ill?”
Aye—mentally, perhaps.
“Not ill,” she murmured in a clearer voice. “I’ll be down shortly.”
She waited until she was satisfied that his footsteps had retreated before she breathed a sigh of relief. The dream had been all too vivid, stamping a lasting impression right down on her soul.
Her fantasy must be the result of ogling his exceptional naked body. Not to mention that the image of him napping on her sheets had wreaked havoc with her imagination before bed. It was only natural, Holly told herself, that she found herself more than a little breathless as she rose to prepare for the day.
Forty minutes later, Holly descended the stairs to a brooding marquis. She remained silent as his eyes scrutinized her face for any sign of ailment. He needn’t have bothered. What ailed her, no doctor could cure.
“I had the cook prepare a basket of bread and cheese,” he muttered, his voice curt. “You can eat on the road.”
Holly cast a frown his way. He seemed more out of sorts than usual. The bathing incident? It must be. Why else would he be in such a rush to be rid of her company?
Holly smothered a grin. She, the pale, waiflike girl, affected him, the big, brooding Marquis of Warton.
Perfect.
Secretly thrilled, she followed him outside to the awaiting carriage, pausing when an unbidden image of them arose in the exact spot where her dream had taken place. She blinked, recalling the evocative feel of his lips on her skin.
“Is something the matter?” Brahm said from behind her.
“No, not a thing,” she murmured and deliberately took his spot, forcing him to settle on the seat she usually occupied. Perhaps if they traded positions, she would not relive the wicked dream for the remainder of their journey. That would be torture, given its unlikelihood of becoming a reality, if his dark looks and furrowed brows were anything to go by.
He said nothing about the change of seating arrangements—only sent her a narrow-eyed look. Thus commenced the quiet carriage ride.
Holly settled more deeply into the corner, as far away from him as possible in an attempt to garner some space and privacy. She felt odd, unusually peculiar, having never dreamt about such wicked pleasures before, but then, never had Holly seen a naked man before.
What did transpire between husband and wife?
Of course, she knew a marriage must be consummated. But was there any pleasure involved? Would they both be naked? And shouldn’t someone have told her before she’d nearly walked down the aisle?
Then again, who could have told her? Usually, that role belonged to a mother or a married sister. In her case, that obligation ought to have fallen on her cousin Belle, who appeared to have been too w
rapped up in her own married life. It must have slipped her mind altogether.
Her sudden bewilderment put a pall on her victory. While Holly thought she had succeeded in her quest to unsettle Brahm, she had, quite unwittingly, discomposed herself in the undertaking.
Now Holly waged a battle against constant delight and terrible self-doubt. The man had seen her practically unclothed, and instead of appearing flustered and impassioned, he had withdrawn into a stony, aloof countenance. But then, his withdrawal could be because of suppressed desire. It was hard to ascertain.
Drat this confusion.
“Come here.”
Holly’s head whipped up, her heart expanding in her chest until she couldn’t breathe. “I beg your pardon?”
He leaned forward, motioning for her to follow suit. Nervous, she did, unsure whether he was about to snatch her from her seat and ravish her lips. Or not.
“You have something in your hair.”
And then he plucked a wayward leaf from her head and sat back in his seat again, oblivious to the wicked turmoil raging inside her.
“Thank you,” she murmured, painfully awkward.
“I know the reason you jilted St. Ives, but why did you agree to marry him?”
His question was so abrupt that Holly jerked back in her seat. Challenge shone out from those dark, turbulent eyes.
There was no easy answer.
It occurred to Holly then how she must look to Brahm. She had accepted a proposal from a duke just one day after she’d met him, only to run away on the day of the wedding. It must reveal a complete lack of commitment on her part but also a profound sense of selfishness.
Her actions brought even more words to mind, such as untrustworthy, reckless, and unreliable. Frivolous. All undesirable traits—traits no man would want in a wife.
“Tell me, Brahm, do you find me desperate?”
His brows pulled together in a fierce scowl.
“Or overeager?”
“Desperately overeager?” His lips pulled downward. “Those are quite the words. In what manner do you mean?”
To fall in love.
“For anything, I suppose.”
“Miss Middleton, at the risk of being insulting, you are not making a wit of sense. The only desperate or eager thing I have witnessed from you is your running away from your wedding.”
Brahm had reverted back to propriety, something he did, Holly now recognized, when he wished to detach himself from any form of close familiarity.
A small smile escaped her. “You must think me shallow and imprudent for the mess I made with the duke.”
“On the contrary. I’ve no doubt you regret the trouble you caused; I am merely curious. You did not strike me as a woman with lofty aspirations.”
“I’m not. But you would never understand,” she said, averting her gaze.
“Perhaps not, but tell me anyway.”
She searched for the right words, for the truth beneath all the fairy tale.
“Very well. If you must know, I have envisioned my wedding since the first day I can remember,” she admitted, her mind transporting her back to her years as a child. “I’d arrive on a snowy white steed with flowers in my hair. Not much, mind you—just three soft pink roses and maybe a twig or two. The ceremony would be held in a charming garden setting. Oh, and the dress! It would be a marvelous creation—perhaps a cream silk gown covered in green feathers and rose-flower patterns with a pale yellow bow tied around the waist.”
Brahm’s sudden cough gave her pause.
Holly shot him a curious glance. “Is something the matter?”
“You just described a new breed of bird.”
At her gasp, he continued, unperturbed by her shock, “And neither does it explain the wedding you walked out from, nor answer my question.”
Holly glared at him. “I was getting to that part,” she snapped, her chin lifting, “until you rudely interrupted me.”
“My apologies; please continue.” He had the good grace to look contrite.
“The thing is it never occurred to me that a dream wedding might not translate into a perfect marriage.”
“You did not think it strange that St. Ives proposed shortly after your first meeting?”
“It is not unheard of for a gentleman to declare his love soon after being introduced.”
“So you imagined he fell in love . . . at first sight.”
“Yes.” There was no apology in her answer.
Brahm nodded. “You are an idealist.”
“I prefer the word romanticist.”
“Does that word even exist?” He turned thoughtful. “Sentimentalist, then.”
Holly scoffed. “Call it what you will, but I believe in romance—the sort that is cloaked in glamour and mystery.”
“And how has that worked out?”
She sent him a wicked smile. “I cannot say. My story has yet to end.”
“I’d say it concluded with your sister receiving your wedding band.”
“True, but I choose to see that as the beginning of her story, not the end of mine.”
“And just how do you imagine your story ending?”
“In the arms of a man.”
An instant shade of red flushed over his skin.
Holly could not tell whether it was out of a sense of anger or something else entirely. It did, nonetheless, give her immense pleasure to observe.
“After you are married, I hope.”
“Marriage is the sensible option, is it not?” Holly murmured, hoping to lure a reaction from him, even if it were purely a jealous one. She needed to crack through this hard exterior of his, or she’d never get access to the passion she knew hid behind it. If she didn’t break through his barriers, they’d never have a chance to figure out what was between them—she’d never get him to see how wonderful falling in love could be. “Else I will forever be looking over my shoulder, wondering when St. Ives will find me.”
Holly had said the last in a teasing tone, but Brahm’s eyes hardened to stone.
Oh, for goodness sake! Was stony always the man’s fallback?
“You ought to take this more seriously . . .” He shook his head. “Never mind. There is only so much reasoning a man can take from a woman.”
“How utterly male of you to point out,” she murmured, then lifted her chin. “I’ll have you know, I take nothing for granted.”
He ignored her, his jaw clenched as he said, “We will arrive at our destination by nightfall. I will remain the night but will be off at the break of day.”
Holly’s heart skipped a beat. Two beats. Three beats.
From the start, he had said he only meant to deliver her to a safe place. She had not, however, taken his declaration to heart—hadn’t thought he would truly leave her so swiftly.
“You are leaving me?” She couldn’t prevent the words from surging out of her mouth.
The insufferable lift of his thick, black brow annoyed her. He remained coolly detached as he studied her.
There must be a way for her to make him stay. Urge him to stay. Perhaps she could appeal to his more tender side? Which existed. Somewhere.
“That has been the arrangement from the very beginning. You will be quite safe there.”
Holly glanced away, her mind racing with possibilities. They needed more time, but she had no valid excuse to offer him to convince him to stay.
Doubt flooded her. Did she have it all wrong? She couldn’t be wrong about this, too, could she?
She glanced at him again. For a moment, she felt seared by the heat in his eyes before he glanced away.
There.
No, she wasn’t wrong. She just needed to make his control snap. But how? The man was a skittish stallion, and any direct attempt at flirtation, any direct attempt to kiss him might be met with rejection or, even worse, a scolding.
Perhaps she needed to incite his lust again? There had been a moment during the bathing incident that would have been promising had she not been so disori
ented and irritated at the time. Perhaps she could forget a towel when she bathed and urge him to bring her one? Or she could pretend to be cold, hide all the blankets, and be forced to sleep in the same bed as he?
Holly bit her lip, debating.
For the love of all things, why couldn’t this man just kiss her?
Chapter 12
They arrived at his estate just before nightfall. A modest strip of land with a quaint two-story cottage, it was about an hour’s drive from the nearest village, from civilization. The air was crisp, and the initial slight breeze rapidly strengthened into a mighty wind. Thunderclouds ahead signaled a storm. The sharp burst of air swept up her hair, tugging her small frame in the direction it desired.
Holly cast a nervous glance to the clouds. Storms were not uncommon in these parts, but they did wreak havoc with the terrain, known at times to even demolish houses not built sturdily enough. Her gaze drifted to her temporary home in a skeptical frown.
She stumbled over her feet when another gust of wind propelled her sideways. A solid arm snaked around her waist then, hefting her tightly against his rock-hard body. She’d never been so grateful for the wind—or the support.
Locked together, they dashed for the house, her shorter strides battling to keep up with his long, stronger ones. A loud curse rang in her ears, and she was lifted, much as she imagined a sack of potatoes would be, and deposited over his shoulder.
Holly did not even squeak a protest as Brahm ran with her into the house. Indeed, she enjoyed the contact. It was jarring—to say the least—but his hand gripped her thighs just below her buttocks, leaving a warm imprint.
Too soon he lowered her to the steady floor of the parlor.
His eyes blazed as they boldly roamed her before he nodded once, turned on his heel, and ran for the door.
“I need to secure my horse,” Brahm said. “The coachman refuses to stay, he is returning to the village.”
“Is he mad? He might not make it back in this weather!”
“Tell that to his stubborn hide,” he shouted over his shoulder, as he disappeared into the tempest.
With a sigh, Holly circled the parlor, inhaling the musky scent of the uninhabited space. All men were stubborn, it seemed.
