Anatole had seemed daunting enough with his clothes on. Seeing him out of them left Madeline feeling breathless and weak. He was a large man in every respect. From the broad reach of his shoulders, his muscular chest dusted with dark hair to the flat plane of his stomach and hips, his thighs and calves, tautly honed, not an inch of softness about him anywhere.
Madeline's gaze centered on the area between his legs, so very different from the statues her brother had sketched.
"You look swollen," she whispered in horrified fascination. "Does that hurt?"
"Only if it's left unattended to," Anatole said with a wry smile. He paced toward her, the fire in his eyes adding to the peculiar fluttery sensation stirring inside her rib cage.
"Now it's your turn," he murmured.
"Oh, no!" She backed away, folding her arms protectively across her bosom as though she'd already been stripped. "Please, I—I can't."
He cornered her against the bedpost, stroking one finger softly through her hair. "If we are going to accomplish anything tonight, my dear, you have to."
Although spoken gruffly, it was the first time Anatole had ever made any attempt at endearment. To be termed his "dear" spread a warm glow through her, even if it didn't quite remove her embarrassment.
She forced herself to lower her arms. "You're going to have to put the candle out."
"But I want to see you."
"No, you don't," she said miserably, remembering his previous disparagements about her size. "You'll only be disappointed. You've already said that you don't find me buxom enough."
"Then, I was a nearsighted idiot. Stripping you out of that blasted corset, I found I was much mistaken."
"When did you ever—" Madeline broke off, the suspicion she'd entertained that morning crystallizing into a dead certainty. "You were in my room last night."
For a moment she thought he'd try to deny it, but he shrugged and said, "I found you asleep tangled up in that damn corset. I only sought to make you more comfortable."
"But how did you get into the room?"
"There is a door that connects our two chambers."
"I know that, but it was bolted from my side. Are you some kind of phantom that you can walk through a door?" she asked with a half smile.
He didn't smile back.
An uneasiness skittered up her spine, and she began to question him more closely, an urgency coming into her voice she couldn't explain. "How were you able to undress me without waking me? And why didn't you just wake me? What were you doing in my room at such—"
"Enough," Anatole growled. "You will drive me to distraction with all these questions. There is one thing you should understand about lovemaking. It is best accomplished in silence."
"But—"
"No more talk." He stopped her mouth with his kiss, not harshly, not roughly, but his lips firmly sealing hers.
Strangely, in that instant, the candle flickered as though caught in a draft, the light snuffing out. She thought Anatole would move to relight it, but he didn't. He now seemed to prefer the darkness himself.
Just as the man preferred silence to questions.
Madeline tried to relax, telling herself she was making too much of the incident in her bedchamber. Anatole had obviously done nothing more than creep into her room, attempted to make her more comfortable. A considerate act, surely. Then why did the notion of him hovering over her bed, watching her sleep with his intent brooding eyes make her so nervous? As though there was something more, something that the man wasn't telling her.
And that something seemed to press between them like a heavy cloak of secrecy. He whispered kisses across her face, hinting of a hunger that made her quiver, his face masked by shadows, the black fall of his hair.
As he turned her about to undo the laces of her gown, Madeline changed her mind about wanting the candle out. She now would have welcomed a flood of light despite the fact that Anatole was undressing her. The darkness only made him seem more of a stranger, as though he were indeed a phantom lover, his fingers whisking over the bindings that came undone far too easily.
One by one her garments pooled to her feet, until only the thin protection of her shift remained, leaving her with a sense of panic, of events moving too fast, beyond her control.
She kept silent as long as she could. But then she simply had to speak. "Anatole, I can't do this without knowing. Without you telling me… things."
But exactly what things she wanted to hear him say, she wasn't even sure herself.
He eased her shift down one shoulder, and she felt the heat of his mouth press against her bare flesh, his voice a warm rasp that sent shivers through her.
"Some things can't be explained, Madeline. Only experienced. Like riding a horse at a five bar gate. You simply have to throw your heart over."
"I've never been much of a horsewoman," she murmured with a weak laugh. And throwing her heart over was what had gotten her into this situation in the first place. Being undressed, preparing to do who knew what with a man she didn't know, who seemed more shadow than substance, his features lost in the darkness.
Anatole peeled away her shift, and she was left naked, trembling, feeling more vulnerable than she had ever been in her whole life. Slowly he turned her to face him, his eyes no more than a mysterious gleam, a phantom's eyes.
He drew her against him. Madeline gasped at the shock of her bare flesh meeting his, and the illusion of any phantom lover ended. The male body pressed to hers was hard, real, pulsing with life and heat.
His lips found hers in a kiss that began soft and built to complete possession, his tongue invading her mouth, melting, teasing, tasting. An odd notion flitted through Madelines head that she now knew how Eve must have felt when she sampled the forbidden fruit of knowledge. Frightened, but intrigued.
A whole new awareness, a world of new sensations rippled through her. Anatole's fingers roved over her back, molding her softness to his unyielding strength. Despite her ignorance, Madeline had a few vague notions regarding the mating process. She knew enough to guess that their bodies must fit together in some fashion if a child were ever to be planted in her womb.
As Anatole's hands slid down, cupping her buttocks, pressing the most intimate part of her closer against his heated shaft, she suddenly knew. Knew with startling clarity just how this coupling would be brought about.
The idea should have terrified her. And it did. He was such a large man, and she had never felt so fragile. But her fear ran at odds with the inexplicable heat pooling deep inside her, sweet and heavy.
She dragged her mouth away from his, her voice coming out in a soft quivering sigh. "Anatole, please. You must allow me one last question. Is—is it going to hurt?"
His breath, which had been coming quickly, seemed to still in the darkness.
Anatole cradled her face between his hands. In that moment he wished that he were either a better lover or a better liar.
"Yes," he said at last. "The first time I believe there will be some discomfort for you. I'm sorry."
Her hands came up to curl about his wrists, as though she were seeking to brace herself, her fingers all too slight and fragile. Just like the rest of her.
"Then, perhaps it would be better," she whispered. "If we did this quickly before my courage fails me."
He tangled his fingers in her hair, caressing back the silken strands, but he had run out of words to reassure her. All he could do was guide her toward the bed. He tumbled her down to the mattress, settling himself close beside her, aware of the tension in her, not knowing what to do about it.
In that moment Anatole made a mortifying discovery. He'd bedded many a wench, but he didn't know how to make love to one. Not really. His bed partners had always taken from him what they wanted as he took from them. Now his bride lay next to him in the darkness, frightened, expectant, waiting for something he didn't know how to give.
Carefully he drew her closer, brushing a tentative kiss across her lips. He'd doused the candle, but
not even a St. Leger could banish the moon. Its silvery glow crept past the curtains, invading the bed in a sliver of light that afforded him tantalizing glimpses of Madeline's naked beauty. The tangled fire of her hair, the soft swell of her shoulder, the teasing hint of her rosy-crested breast, the ivory curve of her hip.
Her body was perfectly formed, but dauntingly small and delicate compared to his hulking frame. The hand that he fit to her breast seemed far too large and rough, and he cupped her as gently as he could.
He handled her as carefully as if she were spun from the finest cut crystal, but to his frustration, she still tensed at his lightest touch, his most fleeting caress.
When he parted her thighs, seeking out her most intimate softness, he felt her tremble, and bit back a silent curse at the inconvenience of maidenhood.
It wasn't supposed to be this way. Tales of St. Leger men and the fiery desire they aroused in their chosen brides were as legendary as the passion of Lancelot and Guinevere. Virgins or not, those women were rumored to have been as hot-blooded as the men that claimed them.
Prospero was said to have once seduced a lady away from another man at the very altar. Anatole's own grandfather, it was whispered, had disappeared into the bedchamber on his wedding night only to emerge three days later with his wife still sighing for more.
But as Anatole clasped his nervous bride in his arms, he felt less of a legend than a mere mortal, a man being driven close to the brink by his own throbbing needs. Perhaps Madeline was right. Perhaps this first time, it would be better simply to get it over with.
Easing her onto her back, he cradled himself between her legs. Braced on both arms, he poised above her, trying not to look too deep into her wide, frightened eyes.
"Are you ready?" he whispered.
A foolish question. The woman stiffened beneath him like a defeated duelist braced to receive the fatal thrust.
But Madeline nodded bravely.
Gritting his teeth, Anatole positioned himself to ease inside her, fighting against his baser male instinct to plunge hard and deep into her welcoming warmth, trying to be as gentle as he could.
But by the sweet fires of heaven, the woman was so tight. He had no choice but to thrust, severing her maidenhead in a single swift stroke. The feel of his flesh joined to hers was incredible, but Madeline's soft cry of pain nearly unmanned him.
Holding himself as still inside her as he could, he asked, “Are you all right?"
She nodded again, but he couldn't help noting how she dug her hands into the mattress on either side of him.
Anatole grimaced. With more heroism than he ever knew he possessed, he rasped, "Do you want me to stop?"
There was a pause in which he felt she held his entire sanity in her hands. Then her reply came to him, so soft he barely caught the word.
"N-no."
The kiss he bestowed upon her was more grateful than passionate. With a low groan he settled himself deeper inside of her. Holding her breath, Madeline released it and seemed to relax a little beneath him.
Was it possible that after the initial pain, the passion could still come? That if he began slowly enough, with all the skill he possessed, he could yet coax his bride into some semblance of desire.
Hovering over Madeline, he trailed kisses along her neck, with a grim determination, attempting to set a rhythmic stroking. But he'd been too long without a woman, and Madeline sheathed him like a velvet glove, tight and warm and perfect. He thrust harder and deeper, the pressure building inside him to the point of pain, the kisses he pressed to her face growing ever fiercer, more feverish.
He broke over her with all the fury of the storms the sea often lashed at his lands, the suddenness taking him unawares. Shock waves of sensation shuddered through him, racking his frame. He emitted a hoarse cry as he spilled his seed deep inside of her.
The release left him spent, exhausted, and he collapsed, panting for breath. He lay that way for a long moment, chagrined by his loss of control. A chagrin that became worse when he realized that Madeline was pinned beneath his full weight.
Horrified, he dragged himself off of her. She'd gone so still, he half feared that she lay crushed, broken.
"Madeline?" He tugged at her shoulder. She quivered at his touch, but didn't answer him, her fiery hair tumbled across her face. Damning himself for a careless brute, Anatole brushed the strands aside with awkward fingers.
The eyes that Madeline had been holding tightly closed fluttered open. "Is it over?" she asked, gazing uncertainly up at him.
"Yes," Anatole said hoarsely.
Wincing a little, she sat up slowly, dragging the coverlet over her breasts to cover her nakedness.
"Am I permitted to talk now?"
He half dreaded what she might say, but he nodded. She had every right to upbraid him for his brutality, his lack of self-control, his clumsiness. If only she didn't start weeping. He prayed to heaven she wouldn't do that. He was already feeling enough of a monster.
Madeline tilted her head to one side, the way she always did when considering something. Anatole braced himself.
"What we just did…" she began. "Is it possible? I mean… am I now with child?"
A child? As usual, Madeline managed to take him by surprise with her questions. Getting her with child had been the last thing on his mind when he'd taken Madeline into his arms tonight.
He felt an unexpected curling of dread, imagining that at one time his own mother must have been very like Madeline at this moment. All soft and dreamy-eyed with hope, contemplating the prospect of bearing a child. Then he had been born___
"It doesn't always happen right away," he said quickly. "Usually it takes many more couplings."
"Oh. You mean we're going to have to do this again?"
Her dismay was so evident, it was like a slap in the face.
"Well, not right away," he said.
"Good! I don't think that I could."
"Did I hurt you so badly, then?" he asked bleakly.
"Oh, no. But I am a little sore in some rather unusual places." Looking rather embarrassed by this confession, she adjusted the covers more tightly around her. "And so what do we do now?"
"Go to sleep, I suppose."
"In our own beds?"
He understood at once what she was hinting at.
"Of course," he said. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and began groping for his discarded clothing. He jammed himself back into his breeches, gathered up his shirt and boots. By the time he'd done so, Madeline was already stretched out underneath the covers, apparently not even daring to fetch her night shift while he remained in the room. She burrowed against the pillows, watching, waiting for him to be gone.
Anatole didn't know why the notion should bother him so much, but it did. Heaven knows, when he'd bedded other women, he'd always been impatient enough to take his leave when the lovemaking was finished. Why should it be any different this time?
Perhaps because he couldn't help wondering if Madeline would have been so anxious for him to quit her bed if he had possessed more of the attributes of Prospero. Or of the handsome face he'd created in that damnable portrait.
But no. He was only Anatole, rough, scarred, and unrefined. His lips twisted bitterly. The monster…
"Well… g'night," he said awkwardly, and backed away from the bed. But as he approached the door connecting to his own chamber, he was arrested by the sound of her voice.
"Anatole?"
He paused, glancing back. She was sitting up in bed, haloed by moonlight, her hair rivulets of dark fire cascading over the pale outline of her shoulders. He was appalled to realize how much he wanted to stay with her, just to touch her, hold her a little longer… how little it would have taken to make him want to love her all over again.
He swallowed thickly. "Yes? What is it?"
"About tonight… I just wanted you to know…" She plucked at the bed-coverings. "It—it wasn't nearly as bad as I'd thought it was going to be."
Ana
tole flinched. Not nearly as bad as she'd thought it would be? The smile she offered him was shy and sweet. But he still felt as though she'd just poured acid over what remained of his pride. Without another word he left her room and returned to his own bedchamber.
Only when he had gone did Madeline stretch out, nestling against her pillow. The tension of the last hours, nay the last few days caught up to her at last, and she felt exhausted, too tired to even fetch her nightgown.
Besides, there was something deliciously sensual about the brush of the sheets against her bare skin. Sleeping naked made her feel somehow bold and daring, more aware of her own body than she had ever been before.
Hugging the coverlets close to her, she thought of the thing that Anatole had just done to her. A rather strange and wondrous thing, the way his body had joined with hers. And not nearly as terrifying as she'd imagined.
It had hurt at first, just as he'd said. But Anatole had been amazingly considerate, almost shy in his caresses, his efforts to be gentle. Beyond the discomfort she had experienced something—she could not describe just what it had been. A feeling, a promise, a hope, that the next time there might be something more—
It astonished her to discover that she would ever consider doing that again. But she was considering it… a great deal.
And why not? she thought, hugging her pillow to her with a soft smile. She was no longer the innocent virgin, the naive spinster. She'd feigned a lofty indifference when her younger sisters had whispered and giggled over "married lady matters." But it had filled her with a certain wistfulness, a sense of melancholy.
She'd always felt so much an outsider, so much at odds with her sisters, indeed all the rest of her sex. While she had read and philosophized about the nature of life, Juliette and Louisa had experienced it, flirted, married, possessed themselves of secrets as old as Adam.
Now those secrets were Madeline's as well. She'd ever been a quick study, and she flattered herself that she had learned a great deal about men tonight, about Anatole. She was finally, in truth, a wife. And possibly before the year was out—Madeline's hand drifted over the region of her womb—possibly in nine months' time, she could be a mother.
St. Leger 1: The Bride Finder Page 14
