Stormswept

by Sabrina Jeffries

  He looked stunned.

  She swallowed hard. “You don’t mind that I have impure blood, do you? Mama says all the Welsh and Scottish and Irish have it, and even a few Englishwomen, although well-bred women like me aren’t supposed to.”

  Something flickered in his eyes. “Your mother was wrong. Plenty of Englishwomen, even well-bred ones, have the feelings you speak of, although they pretend otherwise.”

  “Why would they pretend?”

  “Because people like your mother hold them to such an impossible standard that they don’t dare admit the truth.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Believe me, you have the purest blood of any woman around, and your enjoyment of what we shall do in this room together in no way reflects upon that.”

  Should she believe him? The way he made her feel had to be scandalous. Still, if he didn’t mind her having scandalous feelings, why should she? “You said we’d do more than kiss and touch. What did you mean?”

  She felt his dark smile to the tips of her toes. He grasped one end of the neckerchief tucked into her bodice and drew the piece of silk toward him so it whispered over her skin like butterfly kisses. Then he skimmed his knuckles over the swells of her partially exposed breasts, making her breath catch in her throat.

  His voice sounded almost strangled when he answered, “I think ’tis something better understood in the doing. All I ask is that you trust me.”

  That had an ominous ring. “Why?”

  “Because I intend to give you pleasure.” Then he began to undress her, showering her with hot, fervent kisses that made her blood race.

  Only when her corset fell away, leaving her in just her shift, did she pull back. Her high-necked nightdress hadn’t been nearly so revealing, and she felt almost naked. Still, with the fiery look he gave her, she scarcely noticed the chilly air.

  But when he began undressing, too, it gave her a start. After the night he’d caressed her beneath her nightdress while remaining fully clothed, she’d assumed lovemaking was one-sided—he did things to her and she let him.

  Apparently not, for he now wore only his breeches. And when she lifted her hand to stroke his bare chest and he growled, “Yes, touch me. God, please touch me,” she needed no more invitation to explore the dusting of black curls, the well-defined muscles, the skin taut and smooth over hard sinew, like silk over steel.

  Unlike her brothers, who were built like battle-axes, he was lean and sleek as a rapier and nearly as frightening, for she could feel the strength he held in check. The longer she stroked his skin, the more quickly his chest rose and fell, as if he couldn’t quite catch his breath.

  Oddly enough, neither could she. Especially when he moved her hand to the buttons of his breeches, his eyes darkening to a rich cobalt. She jerked back in shock.

  “I don’t suppose you’re ready for that,” he said in a rough rumble. “Never mind. I can do it.”

  He undid his breeches and removed them, although mercifully he left his drawers on. This time when he took her in his arms, she felt something she hadn’t noticed before, a hard bulge between his thighs that pressed into her skin.

  “Juliana,” he said hoarsely, “I want to touch you all over, as a husband touches his wife. Will you let me?”

  All over. It sounded wonderful. And scary, too. “Yes.”

  He wasted no time in slipping his hand inside her shift to cup her breast. With a happy sigh, she pressed herself into his palm. He’d done this before, and she’d liked it. A lot.

  He thumbed her nipples until they tingled, then filled both hands with her breasts. When she clutched his waist, he ravished her mouth, delving deep with his wicked tongue. She scarcely noticed when he dragged her shift down her until it whispered to the floor about her ankles.

  “Oh, Rhys,” she whispered, twining her arms about his neck.

  “There’s more, my love. So much more.” He gave her a scorching look as his hand slid sensuously down her belly to the secret, aching place between her legs. Unlike that night in her room, he was bold about what he wanted. Not content with merely cupping her and rubbing the cleft, he stroked further, until she felt his finger plunge inside her.

  What in heaven’s name? She tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her, capturing her mouth with a possessive kiss. This time his tongue stabbed restless and deep as his finger probed inside her. Soon her faint urge to protest faded. What he was doing was so delicious, she wanted more. His fingers created a strange ache and then soothed it, all at once. Blindly, she grabbed his shoulders, wanting him to . . . to . . .

  She didn’t know what. When she arched into his hand, rubbing against his palm, he whispered, “You like that, don’t you? You’re so warm, so wet . . .”

  He bent to seize her breast in his mouth and she clamped his head to her in a kind of half-mad joy that made no sense. It was like the quick pierce of fear and anticipation whenever she raced her horse. His mouth drew on her breast, hot and ravening, making her body hum with excitement, especially in that place between her legs where his fingers still plundered her.

  Then he drew back to shuck off his drawers before walking her backward to the bed, his mouth scorching kisses over every inch of skin he could find. He tumbled her down and lay half over her, one knee parting her legs. She wanted his fingers inside her again, but didn’t know how to ask for such an embarrassing thing. When his knee brushed between her thighs, she arched upward in an unconscious bid for more.

  With a sound half-laugh, half-groan, he caught her face in his hands. “Listen to me, my dear, wanton wife. I’m going to put myself inside you. ’Twill hurt a bit at first, but I’ll make it as easy for you as I can.”

  You’ve already put your fingers inside me and it didn’t hurt, she wanted to say, but he silenced that with kisses, long, hungry ones that intensified the sweet ache in her lower belly.

  Then his legs were between hers, spreading her thighs apart, opening her to his questing fingers. Suddenly those were replaced by something else, something long and hard and wholly unfamiliar, sliding up inside her.

  She tore her mouth from his. “Rhys, what—”

  “Trust me,” he choked out. “I promise I’ll be gentle.”

  As that mysterious part of him pushed deeper, stretching her inside, she wiggled beneath him. “Oh, but you’re not! It feels . . . too tight. There’s something wrong! ”

  “Nay, ’tis always this way the first time for a woman.” He kissed her neck, then slid his tongue along her jaw.

  “How do you know? You’re a man,” she snapped.

  “Trust me, my love. If you’ll relax a little, it will go better.”

  He worked his hand down between their bodies, then caressed the hidden nub that seemed to be the source of all her enjoyment. She gasped and arched upward, planting him further inside her.

  But that wasn’t enough for him, for he inched forward. “Hold on, love, and ’twill be all right in the end.” Then he thrust deep, making her cry out as something tore inside her.

  “Rhys,” she whimpered helplessly. “Please . . .”

  His mouth cut off her protest, all warmth and sweetness. Then he moved again, drawing out, then in, then out in a motion that at first gave her discomfort.

  “Never forget that I love you,” Rhys whispered against her lips. “It gets better, I promise. But you must relax.”

  She tried to do as he bade, and to her surprise felt the intrusive pressure lessen. And as he slid into her with slow, long strokes, his movements even began to warm her.

  “Ah, cariad,” he murmured, “you feel so good, so tight.” He lowered his mouth to feed on hers, making her forget the invasion in her nether regions.

  The more he caressed her mouth while driving that hard part of him into her, the less discomfort she seemed to feel. Her breath started to quicken and her heart to pound in anticipation of she knew not what.

  Soon conscious thought forsook her. Her body seemed taken over by a wonderful bundle of urges that made her cry out witho
ut meaning to, arch up without her mind giving the command, and strain toward a greater closeness with him.

  Apparently he felt it, too, for he abandoned any attempt to be gentle. His arms bracketed her body, the muscles straining as he fell into a driving motion that put him deeper inside with every thrust. To her shock, she reveled in the lusty way he plunged into her, keeping her breathless. He was consuming her . . . no, he was annihilating her and in the annihilation was such . . . untold freedom. To give one’s body up like this . . .

  “Juliana . . . my love . . . fy annwyl mhriod . . .” he said, but she was so beyond thought she scarcely heard him calling her his “darling wife.”

  He drove himself into her until they merged like two streams joining a torrent rushing to the sea. The current swept them both up, pushing them faster and faster toward the edge of a cliff by the dark, wild ocean, their limbs tangled together.

  She strained against him, feeling the roar of pleasure in her ears. She didn’t know when she began chanting his name, writhing mindlessly beneath him, with him.

  “Juliana! ” he cried hoarsely. “My God, Juliana! ”

  “Yes . . . oh yes . . .”

  Suddenly he gave a mighty thrust, and it was as if they both hurtled over the waterfall and into the thunder of vast, crashing waves. With a choked cry, he poured his seed into her and she reveled in the feel of it, clutching him to her until she was swamped by an enjoyment she’d never dreamed of.

  For a moment, she feared she’d drown in it, die like this in his arms. Her body shook, and only when she realized that Rhys’s body did the same did she lose her fear.

  Some time passed before the wildness subsided. Rhys buried his head in her neck with a sigh, his whiskers tickling her skin. He stayed silent so long, she almost feared he might be dead. She felt near to death herself—and yet utterly satisfied.

  Nothing she’d ever experienced compared to this. If this heaven was allowed only to impure women, then she pitied all those Englishwomen with pure blood.

  After a while, his weight began to crush her. “Rhys, I can’t . . . breathe.”

  With a groan, he shifted off her, lying on his side and propping his head up with one hand. He bent to kiss her shoulder. “Sorry, my love. You make a pleasant bed.”

  Now that he no longer lay atop her, she felt an odd stickiness between her thighs. She looked down to see blood smearing her skin.

  She sat up in alarm. “Good Lord, I’m bleeding! ” Although she felt only a vague soreness between her legs, he must have wrought terrible damage inside her.

  “It’s all right.” He laughed, pulling her back into his arms. “A virgin usually bleeds the first time a man takes her.”

  She eyed him uncertainly. “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure, dear wife of mine.” He kissed her on the lips. “But the second time is much less messy . . .” Trailing off with a meaningful smile, he slid his hand over her breast.

  She could feel his arousal growing against her thigh, but his certainty about the blood worried her. “How do you know so much about what happens when a man . . . when he . . .”

  “Makes love to a virgin?” He smiled. “Well, other men warn a man of these things. ’Tis a pity women aren’t as forthcoming about such matters to each other.”

  “True,” she said absently, but her mind now wandered to Rhys’s apparent experience with women. He’d undressed her so easily. He’d seemed to know exactly how a woman’s clothes were fastened, and how they came undone. “Am I the only woman you’ve ever done these things with?”

  His smile faded. “You’re the only virgin.”

  Jealousy surged through her, startling in its intensity. She tried to sound nonchalant. “So you’ve made love to another woman.”

  “No one that mattered, I assure you.”

  “Who, then?”

  He groaned. “None of them are even worth talking about.”

  “None of them? More than one?” She thought of him touching other women’s bodies, kissing them and sliding his fingers deep inside them. Mama had told her people only did these things with the ones they married. Was that a lie, too?

  He slipped from the bed and went to the washbasin. After wetting a towel, he washed her blood off himself, then returned to the bed and sat down to cleanse her.

  “You’re not going to tell me, are you?” she asked.

  A muscle worked in his jaw. “Do you really want to hear a recitation of the women I’ve bedded?” When she just stared at him, he said, “All right then, there was Mrs. Abernathy, the young wife of one of my tutors, who invited me to tea when her husband wasn’t home, and the dairymaid at Llynwydd—”

  “Enough.” She realized she didn’t want to know any of it.

  “Listen, my darling wife.” He leaned over her. “There were only a few. They were experienced women who wanted to have a tumble with a young, randy buck of tolerable looks. It meant as little to them as to me.” He kissed her, his eyes solemn. “And not a one of them was good enough to touch your boots, do you hear? Not a one.”

  The look in his eyes warmed her, but she was still confused. “Some of these women were . . . married?”

  He sighed. “Some of them.”

  “But Rhys, I thought married women weren’t supposed to . . . well, do these things with men who weren’t their husbands.”

  A cynical smile played over his lips. “You thought right. But as you’ve seen, lovemaking is quite pleasurable. People sometimes do it for its own sake, not because of any deep feelings for the person they join with. If their husbands—or wives—won’t oblige them, or don’t give them pleasure, they may not choose to abide by society’s rules.”

  She sucked in a breath. “Did I give you pleasure?”

  “Oh yes. A great deal of pleasure.”

  “So then you will abide by society’s rules.” She didn’t think she could bear it if he made love to other women after making love to her.

  He looked stricken. “Of course. What I did before . . . ’tis what most young men do in their salad days.” He stroked her hair. “But people who love each other don’t need anyone else. And I love you very much. It shall take me till the end of our lives and beyond to express how much.”

  How could she stay peeved with him when he said such sweet things and looked at her with such adoration? She could forgive him those other women as long as he was hers, now.

  When he saw her smile, he let out a long breath. “All right?”

  “All right.” Then she added, “And I shall abide by society’s rules, too. I promise.”

  He quirked one eyebrow up. “You’d better. Some men beat their wives for such behavior, you know.”

  “Oh?” Her eyes went round. “You would never beat me for anything, would you?”

  Lowering himself to cover her, he murmured in a husky voice, “Never. I plan to cherish you all my life.” He nudged her knees apart as he bent his head to suck her breast, starting an ache deep inside her. “Beginning now, cariad.”

  Then he demonstrated exactly how he intended to cherish her.

  6

  A tryste with Morfudd true I made,

  ’Twas not the first, in greenwood glade,

  In hope to make her flee with me;

  But useless all, as you will see.

  —ANONYMOUS, “THE MIST”

  Darcy and his brother rode like fiends toward the White Oak. Juliana had run away with that damned radical Vaughan. He would never have believed the boy who’d been sent to alert them, if he and Overton hadn’t found Juliana’s room empty and a note left there for the family that read:

  Dear Papa and Mama,

  Don’t be alarmed. Rhys Vaughan and I have decided to marry, and since we knew you wouldn’t allow it, we’ve run off together. Please try to be happy for us. Rhys and I are very much in love, and hope you will come to accept this marriage in time.

  With great affection,

  Juliana

  Just thinking of it made his blood boil. �
�When I get my hands on that scoundrel, I’ll kill him! ”

  “The boy said they were already married, so they must have left the house hours ago,” Overton replied. “They may be gone by now.”

  “Could Vaughan have gotten a special license?”

  “The Welsh bishop might have given him one. He’s none too fond of Father.”

  So how was he to deal with Vaughan? Killing the bastard wouldn’t be wise. Too many people knew of the battle between the squire and Father, so if Vaughan were found dead, the family would be under suspicion, and that would hurt Darcy’s political plans.

  But having a deuced radical for a brother-in-law wouldn’t help his plans, either. Besides, Darcy hated that Vaughan was using this deceitful way to get his hands on Llynwydd. Juliana would soon discover that Vaughan hadn’t married her for love, though he’d somehow seduced her into believing otherwise.

  And if she’d been so blind as to run off with the man, she wouldn’t listen to reason. So how was he to get her out of this once he wrenched her from Rhys? What if the marriage had been consummated? He had to manage this so Juliana wasn’t ruined, by having either her reputation sullied or her heart broken.

  When they reached the inn, the owner ran out to greet them. “My lord, I hope I wasn’t mistaken about recognizing your sister, but I felt sure—”

  “You weren’t mistaken.” Darcy glanced up at the darkened windows. “How long have they been here?”

  “More than an hour, I’m afraid.” The innkeeper dropped his gaze to the ground. “And I believe they’ve been . . . ah . . . using that time to . . . well . . .”

  “I understand.” Darcy clenched his fists. The bastard. So much for putting a stop to the consummation. “Where are they?”

  “Their room is at the top of the stairs, but Vaughan came down a few moments ago to ask about the coach and get food. My servant is making a cold supper for them while Vaughan waits in the kitchen.”