The Lord's Inconvenient Vow (The Sinful Sinclairs Book 3)

by Lara Temple

  She felt ashamed, a failure before she’d even begun. He might be more mature than Ricki, less clumsy, but soon the recriminations would begin and this time she would truly shrivel because this time she wanted to feel. And to give.

  ‘I don’t want to sleep. I want to make you happy.’

  ‘Don’t look so agonised, Sam. This requires trust and we are neither of us very adept at that. Here, close your eyes again. The fate of the world does not hinge on anything that happens or doesn’t happen tonight.’

  She placed her hand on his where it lay on the bed beside her.

  ‘I want to trust you.’

  ‘Then close your eyes and trust me enough to know I will stop the moment you tell me to. I’ve never lied...to you, Sam.’

  Her eyes flickered at the strange hesitation in his voice, but whatever was beneath it, she knew it was true. She trusted Edge. As much as she trusted Lucas and Chase. How strange. Then she let her eyelids sink and settle, her hand just resting against his hip as he settled beside her again.

  ‘Good,’ he murmured. ‘Now breathe.’

  She breathed.

  ‘In and out.’

  She breathed in and out. His lips were brushing her hair, his hand resting lightly on her lower abdomen, brushing idly at the valley next to her hip bone, sending sprinkles of sensation down her leg and up to her breasts. Her body happily took back the clamouring rhythm of need and when his hand moved back over her thigh she trusted him. When he parted her legs again with his leg she rubbed against him, recapturing that sensation of strength and heat.

  When his fingers slipped between the curls and glided along the silky centre she still wasn’t prepared for the shiver of pleasure that swept through her as they found the sensitised nub waiting for him, but she pushed back at the fear that this, too, was a trap.

  This was Edge and, whatever else, she trusted him.

  She concentrated on the sensation of his lips moving very lightly against her cheek and neck, trying not to think about what he was doing down there, but her body was splitting from her mind, focusing on his fingers and the tension they were building. Then he lowered his head, his lips brushing the swell of her breast. Her shoulders hunched in a mix of yearning and resistance and a shivering moan rolled through her. He echoed it and that sound, between delight and abandonment, melted another layer of fear. She didn’t care any more what happened next. All she cared about was being closer, moving against his marvellous, beautiful hands.

  Her own hands were moving, too, mapping his body as he’d mapped hers, shaping him into her memory, swimming between amazement at what his fingers and mouth were doing to her and how brilliant a creation his body was. She couldn’t even remember what it felt like to touch Ricki, but she would remember each angle and dip of Edge’s body until she died. Which felt like it would happen very soon because what he was doing to her was unbearable...unbearably unbearable, but beautiful.

  He was right—it was beautiful. She was beautiful. And coming apart. This could not be safe. At the peak of the wave she tried to fight her way back to safety, her legs trying to close, her nails sinking into his back. But it was too late, she heard his voice against her ear, his breath warm like the desert wind.

  ‘I know, Sam. Let go, sweetheart, let it happen. Trust me.’

  So she let it happen, let go of the cliff face, but she didn’t fall—she floated, a great wave was raising her and all she had to do was... She cried out and lost her hold and fell apart into sweet, honeyed pleasure.

  ‘Edge...oh, no...’

  She felt his laugh against her throat as she floated down from bliss, but also the muscles of his back quiver under her hands. She didn’t want him to be tense when she felt so very, very blissful so she stroked his back to the rhythm of her body’s slowing pulse, soaking up his tension—the bunching of muscles as he held himself above her, the sharp angles of his shoulder blades that shifted as she traced them, the ridging of his spine and then the rise of his buttocks.

  She wanted to see him, but she hadn’t the energy to open her eyes.

  She wanted to feel him inside her, at the centre of this slowly pulsing heat with its memory of pleasure.

  That thought woke her a little. She’d never liked it when Ricki pushed inside her, but now she wanted all the tension knotting Edge’s back and legs connected to her, she wanted to feel his release against her just as he’d felt hers.

  Why wasn’t he doing anything?

  She woke further, opened her eyes and met his. They weren’t blank now. The ocean was in full storm and populated by sea dragons. The grooves beside his mouth were dark slashes beneath the carved granite of his cheekbones.

  ‘Why did you stop?’ Her voice was fuzzy and his head dipped a little.

  ‘I don’t want...to hurry you.’ His voice wasn’t fuzzy, it was choked. ‘You’re tired. It has been a long...week. There is no reason to hurry.’

  Hurry?

  Her mind was thoroughly awake now. Didn’t he want to...no, his arousal was hard and pulsing against her thigh—there was no doubt he wanted to consummate the union. As for being considerate, well, that was carrying chivalry several leagues too far. Surely he could not mistake she had enjoyed...more than enjoyed herself. She had never comprehended that such pleasure was within her reach merely by the wave of a hand. What a horrid waste of time. Now the very last thing she wanted was to deny him what he’d given her.

  ‘I’m not tired. Don’t you wish...?’ She searched for the words and suddenly he groaned, resting his forehead against hers. It was as damp and hot as his body.

  ‘Yes, I wish. Blast it, Sam.’

  ‘Then stop cursing me and do something about it, you stubborn lug.’

  His laugh was choked as he shifted, sinking between her legs, sliding one hand under her thigh to raise it. His hard heat pressed into her and she angled her hips to take him in as she had learned to do to make Ricki’s entry less painful. But unlike Ricki’s swift grunting thrusts, Edge entered her with excruciating slowness, as if savouring every inch of the voyage. She had never experienced this before—the slow coming together, the way her body gathered him in, the sensation of his thighs against hers, her body adjusting, shifting to take him in deeper and deeper. Then he stopped and for a moment they stayed just like that. And then with a sigh she raised her behind and rocked against him lightly. Just testing.

  His head was leaning against hers, his breath on her ear, and he caught her lobe between his teeth, his words a hiss against the sensitive hollows of her ear.

  ‘Don’t, one move and I’m finished. I don’t want to finish. Ever.’

  ‘One move? Like this?’

  ‘Sam...’

  He gave up restraints as if the cords holding him were torn. She held on as he moved inside and against her, his mouth against her, the words muffled, just her name rising as he climaxed as well. When he sank down on top of her she wrapped her arms around his back and let herself drift.

  My husband.

  It wasn’t terrifying any longer. Perhaps tomorrow it would be again, she thought half-absently as the world faded away, but right now it made perfect sense.

  Chapter Six

  The hawk swung low and settled on Leila’s shoulder. ‘That Gabriel being is still behind us. Stubborn.’

  ‘He thinks he is protecting me,’ Leila scoffed. ‘Why are humans so very foolish?’

  —The Sprite Queen,

  Desert Boy Book One

  Sam inspected her cabin aboard HMS Lark. The linen closet at Sinclair House would fit three of these. Once she stepped inside there would be room perhaps for a cat and two mice. The cot itself looked like a window ledge—long and just about wide enough for a few flowering pots, but for sleep? Sam could understand why Edge had chosen a hammock below decks rather than accept the Post Captain’s offer of the only other cabin on the ship.

  ‘Well
, at least if I fall I won’t roll far,’ Sam said and Edge nudged her inside, placing her sketching bag on a narrow shelf that served as a table. Even with half his body still in the passage the cabin shrank from tiny to stifling. He sighed, brushing back hair disordered by ducking under so many low lintels and missing a few.

  ‘I knew this was a bad idea. You should return with Poppy and Janet and wait until they sail on a more reasonable vessel built for actual passengers. There is still time; they won’t return to Cairo until tomorrow.’

  That stung. As had their discussion that morning when they reached Alexandria and Edge realised that HMS Lark was a sixth-rate frigate—as fast as any ship sailing the Mediterranean, but hardly built for comfort. The Post Captain, a mere couple of years older than Sam, had been shocked to learn he was expected to transport ‘A woman’. His shock had fizzled a little beneath Edge’s glacial stare, but the realities of the arrangements on the frigate had made his point just as well. Edge had tried to convince her to wait with Poppy and Janet until they sailed on the next available merchant ship, but Sam had done her calculations. Waiting for a slower ship meant they would arrive weeks after Edge. He might be hurt trying to find Rafe or he might even follow his brother’s trail to the Antipodes and the next time she would see him would be in another eight years. The fact that Edge could make this suggestion as if it was nothing more than her taking the carriage while he rode a hack on the way back from Richmond Park only made her blood boil.

  So they’d had their first argument as a married couple.

  Well, she’d argued while Edge stood like one of the Colossi of Memnon, staring past her and perhaps hoping she’d wear herself out like a tantrum-throwing toddler. She hadn’t and she wouldn’t but in the end she’d adopted the same approach—stony coldness and staying put. At least he hadn’t physically removed her from the ship when Poppy and Janet returned to the carriage, but he had told them to wait on the quay until he ‘resolved the matter’.

  Perhaps he’d expected her to change her mind when she saw the living arrangements.

  Well, he’d sorely underestimated her.

  She plopped herself resolutely on the cot. Not a smart move since it was hard and the rim of wood holding in the thin mattress was a great deal more painful than it looked. She would remember that if she had fantasies about rolling over to relieve a crick in her back in the middle of the night. She sucked in a breath and let it out.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sam...’

  ‘No! I know you, Edge. When you reach London you will insist on searching for Rafe on your own even when I tell you that my uncle can probably find him for you like that...’ She snapped her fingers. ‘And you will probably make a hash of things.’

  ‘Thank you for that vote of confidence, Sam, but I told you I have no intention of involving the law in this search.’

  ‘My uncle is not the law. He is a law unto himself.’

  ‘We are not having this conversation. Sam...’

  ‘Go find your hammock. I’m staying.’

  He didn’t slam the door, but neither did he close it, which was almost as much of a protest.

  * * *

  Two weeks was a long time to sustain a silent sulk, but then Edge was a master of the art.

  It didn’t show on the surface. He remained impeccably polite, just like an automaton of a boy she’d seen in Venice that could bow, tip its hat and extend its hand to an invisible handshake. In an automaton these achievements were awe-inspiring; in a man this mechanical performance of politeness and propriety was intimidating to the lesser men aboard the Lark and infuriating to Sam, who knew full well he was giving her one long cold shoulder.

  It added to the aches in her own shoulders from sleeping on the miniscule cot and wasn’t doing wonders for her temper. It was particularly awful in comparison to their amazing night in Cairo. The memory of bliss and pleasure faded with each passing day, cold look and aching muscle.

  She couldn’t even relieve her tension by moving about the ship. There wasn’t much of a ship to move about in and most of it was populated by hammocks, crates and cannons below decks and sailors above decks who swung between admiring awe and superstitious disgust at her presence. After a young ensign almost toppled overboard when she ventured above deck Captain Meacham begged her to remain in her cabin for her own safety, as he put it, but his gaze conveyed something else entirely. He looked so young and harassed she agreed.

  Edge, wisely, said nothing, meeting her glare as she returned to her cabin with a look as blank and empty as a grazing cow. But she knew that behind that Pharaonic façade was one big ‘I told you so’.

  She’d kicked her cot when she was back in her room, which didn’t help at all except to knock her narrow pillow to the floor, but at least that gave her the good idea of placing the mattress there as well which made her night marginally more comfortable since she didn’t have to worry about falling, just rolling when the ship pitched.

  The only relief was during mealtimes when she and Edge joined the officers. She dug deep to resurrect the social skills she’d discovered that fateful year of her debut in Venice and realised she had not completely lost her ability to charm and by the time they passed Gibraltar the young officers were sharing their hopes for their naval careers with her.

  But the more they thawed, the more Edge ossified. He was unfailingly polite, but he concentrated all his conversation on the ship’s surgeon who shared his interest in Greco-Roman culture. Every time she tried to join their conversation he became so deferential she barely restrained the urge to kick him under the table.

  She wondered what these men thought of their marriage. She wondered most of all what Edge thought of their marriage. With a kind of superstitious fear she clung to the hope that once they reached London they would somehow mend matters between them. All she had to do was survive that long without Edge’s ominous calm breaking and having him toss her overboard.

  * * *

  It broke three days before they reached England, set off by the most inconsequential thing. That particular evening the waves made dinner a challenging exercise and Sam excused herself early, followed by Edge, maintaining the façade of an attentive spouse. Just as she reached her door the ship pitched and Sam almost went with it, but Edge caught her, bracing himself against the wall. For a moment as the ship righted itself they stood there in a parody of an embrace. Sam closed her eyes, breathing him in, her skin warming and softening even as her mind warned her any moment now he would put her away.

  He did precisely that. Very carefully untangling himself and reaching past her to open the door. In a fit of desperation Sam grabbed his coat and pulled him inside. Only his quick reaction saved him from smashing his head against the lintel and before he could recover she shut the door behind him and pressed her back to it.

  The tiny space shrank by several sizes, emptying of air. She rushed into speech before he put her aside again and marched out.

  ‘I’m sorry, Edge. I know you’re furious and I’m a horrid person, but please...can’t we stop this stalemate? It is exhausting. I feel like I am under siege.’

  ‘You feel like you are under siege!’ Edge wiped a hand over his mouth and jaw as if physically strangling the words. His eyes were dark with anger and she pressed back against the door. Perhaps forcing this particular panther into a cage with her was not the most intelligent move at the moment.

  She raised her hands. She would have waved a white handkerchief, but he did not look in the mood for whimsical gestures.

  ‘I know you are regretting marrying me—’

  ‘What I am regretting,’ he interrupted, ‘is not throwing you over my shoulder and taking you back to Poppy and Janet so you could travel to England in a more...proper manner. I should have listened to Captain Meacham instead of you.’

  ‘He doesn’t appear to mind my presence on board any longer...’

  ‘Of
course he doesn’t mind your presence! The young fool is infatuated with you. I’m only grateful you’ve preserved enough sense to stay below decks or we’d find ourselves run aground on the first shoal if he mooned after you on deck the way you encourage him to do across the dinner table.’

  ‘I do not encourage him! And he does not moon.’

  ‘Fine. Drool.’

  ‘Captain Meacham’s manners are impeccable. As opposed to yours, Lord Friday-Faced-Fussock.’

  ‘If you are going to resort to childish name calling, try for accuracy rather than alliteration. Fussock means a lazy woman.’

  ‘It does? That wasn’t at all the image I had in my mind.’

  ‘I won’t ask what was. My point stands.’

  ‘What is your point?’

  ‘That you’re a menace! If I have to sit through one more...’ He swiped his face again.

  ‘I’ll stay in my cabin,’ she offered, a little shocked at the degree of his anger and with his belief she really meant to encourage poor Captain Meacham. ‘I am tired of trying to be charming anyway. I was never good at it and it is almost as exhausting as weathering your disapproval. You may tell them I always become ill once we pass Gibraltar.’

  As if to make her point, the ship tipped and sank beneath them again. She reached out to steady herself and her palms met his chest. The ship rolled back, but she stayed there. The urge to move closer and sink into his warmth was so powerful she stepped back and immediately regretted it. She was behaving ridiculously. She was a widow, not a newly deflowered virgin.

  If anything he’d re-flowered her that night in Cairo. That was what it had felt like with the scent of the gardens weaving into the warm air around them as he’d coaxed her into heaven. He’d made her body bloom. She hesitated and then placed her palm once more against his chest. His pulse wasn’t as fast as hers, but it still felt swift and harsh.