by Stacy Reid
He pulled from his love's embrace and walked them toward the conservatory, which should be warmer than outdoors. "I promise soon I'll give you the home you deserve. A manor with at least twenty rooms. Rolling lawns and several gardens. Servants and carriages. And I'll love you in this life and the next."
She jerked to a halt, forcing him to peer down at her.
“I do not know what we’d need twenty rooms for Gabriel Northcote. But I’ll take the gardens,” she whispered, her eyes searching his. “And the love you promise. I’ll take that.”
There was a shadow of doubt in her gaze, a hint of pain, and he knew the horrified rejection of his family had severely wounded her kind, gentle heart. He knew how much she wanted a family of her own—for their longs talks she’d often reminisce of the happy moments with her parents when they’d lived, her loneliness at not having a sibling, and the happiness she found with her Aunt Agatha and cousin Jane.
He’d seen the need, and he’d vowed to give her all she desired. Only now there was an uncomfortable anxiety in the pit of his stomach. What if he was unable to provide for her with his own fortunes? His father had the power to make life difficult for him, and Gabriel knew his father would believe with his heart he was saving his son from a reckless folly. The inheritance from his grandmother was not due to him for another three years, and in that time, he would be on his own without his family support to help provide for her. The money he had from selling his commission would only last for a few months, and then it would only be his half pay. “It will be hard at first,” he murmured. “But I’ll not stop working for you,” he said as they reached the conservatory.
The boiler there was lit, the air redolent with the many blossoms. A wrought iron bench was pushed against a corner, and he guided her there, lowered himself, and tugged her into his lap. She came happily, slipping her gloved hands around his neck. Her eyes searched his, and whatever she saw reassured her, for the tension eased from her delicate shoulders.
“We’ll rent a cottage. At least three rooms. I’ll hire someone from the village to do the cooking and the clean—”
“I can do that,” she said with a light laugh.
Surprise flared through him. Though she had no wealth and little connections, he knew she'd never lived such a life where she'd been required to cook for herself and clean her own household. "Do you know how to?" he asked, curious about a facet of her life he'd not yet explored.
Her cheeks dimpled in a smile. "No. But I am quite sure I can learn." She held up her fingers. "I've learned Latin, French, and Italian. I've studied the great philosophers, the law, and literature. I am even quite excellent at needlework. How hard can it be to learn to cook and tidy after ourselves?"
Her chin wobbled slightly, and it was then he saw how brave she was trying to be. And her beautiful eyes fired with a determination to walk beside him as they made their way in life. Some of the tension in his gut released, and he expelled a shaky breath. “I’ll help too,” he promised gruffly.
“With what?”
He kissed her temple tenderly. “The cooking.”
She spluttered. “Cooking!”
“Yes.” He pushed back a few tendrils behind her ears. “And the cleaning too.”
She laughed, the warm sound filling the cold bleakness that had tried to worm its way into his heart. She had one of those expressive faces where every thought and feeling was written across it. And he saw no doubt or even fear now. Just trust and love. How her faith humbled him, soothed the pain tearing through his heart from parting from his family.
“I do believe I would enjoy seeing such a spectacle!”
Unable to suppress the need, he pushed her to her feet, took her into his arms in a silent and intimate version of the waltz. She flowed with him, elegantly and gracefully. “Someday you’ll have servants, a carriage of your own and endless dresses,” he vowed softly, for she deserved that and far more.
“I do not need any of that,” she whispered achingly, wrapping her arms around his waist, resting her head against his pounding heart. “I only need you.”
And he wished to God he could believe their love would be enough. He ran a fingertip gently over her lower lip. I’ll take care of you, he vowed silently. He touched her cheek, amazed at her, just as he had been from the first moment he had seen her. “Merry Christmas, Primrose Markham.”
“And a jolly Christmas to you, Gabriel Northcote.”
Then he held her and danced, putting aside all thoughts to dream of being with her.
Primrose lived in contented bliss. They’d let a cottage of four rooms—two bedrooms, a small but tastefully furnished parlor, a private sitting room, a very large and surprisingly modern kitchen—surrounded by one of the most beautiful outdoor gardens. It was neat, tidy, well-furnished, and more than she’d ever dreamed of in a home. A soft breeze whispered through the trees, carrying through the open windows the scent of evergreen and pinecones.
The cottage was lit with several lamps—a frightful expense given the state of their economy—bathing the parlor in a warm, inviting glow. The fireplace crackled merrily, and Gabriel had procured an evergreen tree for their home, and they had laughingly decorated it with cones, twigs, and ribbons.
It had been five days since they departed Sancrest Manor with their belongings, and five days since they'd been living in glorious sin and happiness, while they waited to marry. The village folks hadn't yet realized they spent most of their time together, for Gabriel had rented a room above the local assembly room to keep up the proper appearances. But every day he slipped away to be with her and was always cautious in his coming and goings. Only one more day and all would be well. For they were to wed tomorrow morning by the local vicar, on the first day of the new year. Gabriel had just returned from London a few hours past, after using all his influence and a sizeable chunk of their money to procure a special license.
Gabriel had hired a widow to serve as a cook and housekeeper, managing the bare appearance of gentility for a gentleman of his station. The widow, Mrs. Wallwright, came in the day, tidied the cottage, prepared dinner, baked loaves of bread and cakes for the following day, and then left them for the night. Primrose insisted that she teach her everything as she cooked and she explained what needed to be done regularly to maintain their comfort. Several times Gabriel had promised Primrose a finer life as soon as he sold his novels, a horse where she could learn to ride, elegant dresses, hats, and all sorts of fripperies she’d never had. And each time she’d reassured him, he was all that she needed.
In the corner by the windows, a desk was set flush against the wall, and her husband to be was seated before the desk, his dark head bent, his shirt rolled to his elbows, and his fingertips smudged with ink as he lost himself in the world he'd created.
Drawn up before the fire, a sofa invited repose, but Primrose paced the floor of the cottage, devouring the riveting story unfolding on the sheaf of papers carefully clutched in her hands. Her love was the most amazing writer, and she believed in his vision. However, he had atrocious penmanship, and she helped him by carefully transcribing his jumbled scrawls into neat, clear, and elegant drafts.
Gabriel had fiercely opposed the idea of her working when she had suggested seeking a teaching post to assist with their living expenses. Primrose suspected she'd offended his pride. Their partnership worked out quite well, and he often remarked that her intelligent mind and gift for languages had elevated her to the status of his co-author. She quite liked the sound of it and loved working with him. Lowering the pages, she stared at him. “Mrs. Wallwright has left dinner for us. We should dine before our food grows cold."
He did not glance up from his furious scribbling. “One more—”
“Chapter,” she ended with a soft laugh. The very thing he’d said an hour ago. Primrose strolled over to him and pressed a kiss at his nape. Her lips curved, for immediately he lowered the quill and closed the inkwell. She would never tire of how he made her the center of his sole regard as if
she were the most important thing in his world.
Shifting in his chair, he smiled sheepishly and tugged her into his lap. With a laugh, she surrendered and tumbled into him, looping her hands around his neck. "And how is the rest of the book coming along?"
“Great,” he murmured, pressing a brief kiss to her lips.
When he tried to withdraw, she captured his mouth with hers in a more sensual kiss, sliding her tongue against his.
“You greedy minx,” he said with a teasing kiss. “How with so little effort you captivate me.”
“Magic perhaps,” she said with a light laugh, loving his playful nature.
“Must be, for I’m bewitched.”
“Tomorrow I’ll be Mrs. Northcote,” she whispered shyly.
Pleasure lit in his eyes. “That you’ll be, and I’ll be the most fortunate man this side of England.”
“Only this side?” she teased.
He smacked a loud kiss on her lips. “What did you think of the rest of the story?”
“Oh Gabriel, it is truly brilliant. I would, however, suggest not allowing Peter to believe even for a second that his Henrietta perished in the fire at the abbey. Surely that it is too heartbreaking."
“They’ll once again find each other, my love.”
"But how? He's caught up in the war, and he'd been stationed in India, and she is a nurse in Edinburgh. Their journey is so exciting, but it feels impossible."
“They’ll meet up again at the Dover’s Inn in Tunbridge Wells, where they first met, and all will be well."
A happy sigh slipped from her. “I do like happy endings,” she murmured, kissing his chin.
He kissed the soft hollow between her shoulder blades and caressed the fullness of her rounded bottom through her day gown. As was their way as lovers, they kissed endlessly as if they could not get enough of each other. His erection rose hard and sure beneath her bottom, and she purred her approval against his lips.
Grabbing her hips, he lifted and positioned her on his lap so that she straddled him, her thighs bracketing the outside of his. He hiked her day gown with one hand, pushing them up to her legs and reaching beneath to find the heart of her through the slit of her drawers. He tapped a finger on her clitoris, those small tender strikes burning her with wanton cravings.
“Has your sweet cunt been missing me?”
A dark thrill skated down her spine and anticipation heated her blood. “Desperately, my insatiable stallion,” she purred. Since their night of untamed loving back at Sancrest Manor, he had been quite gentlemanly with his passions. Tender, sweet, rocking into her with lazy strokes each night which still had the power to sweep her to agonizing pleasure but lacking the dark wickedness which had flowed between them that first night. “I miss your filthy mouth,” she confessed softly.
She felt the pulse of his cock as it jerked in his pants. With surprising swiftness he had her from his lap, standing, her back to his. There he kissed her neck, tenderly.
“How do you want me to love you tonight?” his voice was a low murmur of need, and a thrill went through her.
The blush rising through her body surprised her, and she bit her lips. She felt the curve of his mouth against her neck.
"Shall I pummel your pussy with my cock and fuck you until sitting would be a delicate exercise for you, is that what you want, my darling?"
Primrose trembled, a wanton heat flaring through her entire body.
He turned her to face him, his gaze kissing over her face with possessive intensity. “I can see that sweet, perfect harlot staring at me through these beautiful eyes.” He dragged his thumb over her lips roughly, his voice a gravelly rasp of lust. "You're in a mood for your pussy to be broken, aren't you…and I'm in the mood to give it to you."
His words were wicked and sensual, yet his touch was so tender.
He challenged her to understand his desires and to explore those awakening in her wanton heart. Primrose tipped on her toes, leaned in, and licked along the seam of his lips. “Tonight I want it all,” she whispered achingly. “Love me sweetly, ravish me, break me, fuck me and let me feel the tender hurt in my cunt days after you’ve had me. ”
His groan of approval and want whispered through the air. With shaking fingers, her lover started to undo the devilish rows of buttons on her day dress. Impatient arousal bit at her, but her lover was enticingly slow, peppering kisses over her lips with each button undone. Parting her gown, he lowered his lips and licked along the plump flesh of her breast, right above the top bone of her corset. He unlaced her, tugging at each string sensually slow, kissing her deeply the entire time.
Primrose was a quiver of sensation by the time her lover had finished undressing her. Leaving her only in her white stockings, he lowered himself back in the chair and tugged her into his lap, adjusting her legs over the wide wooden arms of the chair. Her cunny was open and vulnerable to his hungry gaze.
With deliberate movements, he unpinned her hair so that the curtain of her hair fell around them in cascading waves. He flicked a finger over her nipple, and she gasped, arching into the touch. His wicked fingers delved lower, finding the hot, wet heart of her. Three fingers suddenly speared inside of her, deep and hard. A cry tore from her throat as pleasure swept through Primrose.
He groaned, and placed a wet kiss on her neck, and then a nip. “You like when I stretch you, don’t you, my wicked, delightful harlot?”
“Yes,” she gasped against his mouth.
Her skin was sensitive, her breasts swollen with arousal, her cunt clenching in need. He worked her with his fingers widening her snug channel. The sensation of being stretched was so erotic Primrose quivered, and a low moan, raw and fractured, echoed from her lips as wetness gushed his hands.
Finally, Gabriel pulled his fingers from her, undoing the buttons so the front flap fell down and his engorged cock sprang free. His hands slid down and cupped her bottom and then positioned her over his length. Then slowly, so slowly, he pulled her onto his cock and began to penetrate her. So hot, pressing inside her, opening her, stretching her…
“Gabriel,” she moaned huskily, her fingers biting into his shoulder. Though she was wet and welcoming the tight stretch was almost painful.
He pushed in inexorably despite her whimpers, seating himself to the hilt. She held her breath as one of his hands left her buttocks and slipped around to her where they joined to her nub. His thumb flicked and then pressed hard, then rubbed, then pinched. Her eyes widened in shock at the brutal punch of pleasure. Fire and pleasure.
She leaned in, caught his lower lip between her teeth, and bit lightly, then licked the sting away. His rumble of approval vibrated through her.
“Fuck me with your sweet, tight pussy, my wicked little minx," he urged against her lips, gripping her buttocks tightly with his other hand.
It was all so wicked and wonderful. With a sigh of surrender, Primrose rode him, with short then deep rolls of her hips, her head thrown back in wanton abandon. His diabolical finger never stopped rubbing or pinching her knot of pleasure, driving her to heights of extreme bliss. Her nails dug into his shoulders as each stroke of his cock pushed her deeper toward a release so intense, so brutal it bordered on pain. The storm gathered inside her, and she wantonly chased it, sobbing his name, then screaming it. Throwing her head back, she let out a keening cry, her back arching as currents of pure pleasure jolted through her.
Lifting her in his arms, he walked with her impaled on his cock to their bedroom and tumbled with her onto the bed. His warm, masculine body covered her like a sensual blanket, and she wrapped her legs high around his hips, holding him deep inside her.
They kissed, his hips rolled, and pleasure lashed at her. Primrose wasn’t sure how long they made love for, but it felt like hours before she tumbled into a deep, exhausted sleep, a smile on her lips.
Chapter 7
Primrose wasn't altogether certain what made her surge awake. The room was slightly chilled. She slipped from the bed, padded barefoot acros
s the room to spark the fire in the hearth. Once she had coaxed the flames to life, she returned to the bed and slid beneath the coverlets, careful not to jostle Gabriel.
He slept in relaxed repose, his chest gently lifting with each even breath. She smiled, leaned over, pressed a kiss to his chest and froze. Gabriel was warm to the touch. With a frown, she assessed him keenly. His chest rose and fell evenly, he did not stir restlessly. She placed her hand on his chest, and satisfied his heart wasn't racing oddly, she removed the tangled blanket from around his legs and snuggled into his arms.
Tomorrow Gabriel would be forever hers. With a soft smile and a contented sigh, she slipped back into the welcome arms of sleep.
Later, Primrose jerked awake, disoriented, uncertain what had pulled her from rest. She pushed up on her elbows and glanced around, almost certainly an odd sound in the night had disturbed her sleep.
The fire had burned low once again, and their bedroom was cast in more shadows than light. A flash of blue light lit the room, the windowpane rattled at the crash of thunder, and the rain pattered on the roof. A garbled whimper had her shifting her gaze to Gabriel. He thrashed, and sweat glistened on his skin. Pushing back the blankets which she had pulled over her body sometime during the night, she inched closer to him.
“Gabriel?”
A gentle brush against his furrowed brows revealed that his skin was on fire. Worry jerked her heart in a fierce rhythm. He was fevered and muttering. She tried to shake him awake, but he did not budge, and fear filled her heart. Pushing from the bed, she hurriedly lit the lamp.
Dashing through the room, the small hallway, and into the kitchen, she collected a towel, and a basin, which she filled with water, moving as efficiently as possible. She made her way back to him, sat on the edge of the bed, and she sponged him down with the cold water. His thrashing ceased after several minutes of ministration, and his breathing calmed, yet still, he did not wake.
