Stormswept

by Sabrina Jeffries

  And he simply couldn’t. “I do trust you, cariad. I do.”

  Her silence spoke her disbelief.

  He stumbled for words and could only come up with the ones he’d spoken years before. “And . . . and I love you.”

  Her gaze shot to his, wild and luminous in the firelight, but her expression was skeptical.

  As it should be. He could scarcely believe he’d said the words himself. Yet he felt them. In the past two weeks, the beauty of what they’d had before had echoed in what they had now. He loved her now as much as he’d loved her then; perhaps more. It didn’t matter if she’d betrayed him. Nothing mattered but her.

  “Yes, I do love you,” he said. This was even more important to him than the first time he’d declared his heart to her. “I’ve loved you from the day I first saw you. I never stopped.”

  When she said nothing, he sucked in a harsh breath. “That’s why it nearly killed me to think you’d betrayed me. And then to see you with that damned English lord—”

  “He doesn’t mean anything to me, I swear.” There was frustration in her voice. “ ’Tis you I love.”

  “Then show me.” He hauled her into his arms. “Make love to me, darling.”

  “But Rhys—”

  He kissed her hard, urging her to respond. At first she resisted, but when he swept her lips with his tongue, she moaned and her mouth opened like a flower. He drove into her mouth, wanting to strike deep into the heart of her, to find that place she held separate from him and make it his.

  She pulled away. “This won’t solve anything . . . we have to talk about—”

  “I need you.” The savage need to make her forget everything but him clawed at him. “I love you more than breath, more than life. I have to know you need me, that you love me. Show me that Devon means nothing to you.”

  He drew her hands to the sash of his dressing gown. “Please,” he whispered through a throat taut with fear. “Make love to me.” If she rejected him now . . .

  Her eyes met his—then she undid the knot and peeled off his dressing gown.

  He reached for her, but she shook her head. “I’m making love to you, remember?” Keeping her eyes fixed on him, she shed her wrapper. When she shimmied out of her shift he caught his breath, drinking in the sight of her finely sculpted form—all feminine lines and curves and smooth, tempting surfaces.

  With a sensuous look, she drew his hands to her waist, then stretched up on tiptoe to fit her mouth to his. He reveled in the way her hard nipples pressed into his bare chest. Wrapping his arms about her, he opened his mouth over hers. His flesh strained against his too-snug drawers, wanting to be inside her.

  And when she darted her tongue into his mouth, he thought he’d lose his mind. He’d had no idea how it would affect him, to have her initiating everything. She teased his tongue with sweet, coaxing thrusts that intoxicated him.

  She smelled of spiced fruitcakes and ale, but before he could fully satisfy his craving to taste her, she was kissing down his throat and then his chest. When she stopped to tease his nipple, he uttered a groan that became a moan when she ran her tongue down the furrow of dark hair on his chest, scorching him. Her tongue delved into his navel, and the shock of pleasure that shot through him was so intense that he buried his fingers in her lush curls to hold her still.

  But she wasn’t finished with him. Her fingers worked loose the buttons of his drawers and then she tugged them down, freeing his aching shaft. She was kneeling now, and he suddenly realized through a haze of shock and excitement what she intended to do.

  “No,” he muttered thickly. Lightning illuminated the room with its quick flash, and when she touched her hot mouth to the tip of him, then swirled her tongue over the tight, aching skin, he thought the lightning had surely struck him. With a choked curse, he pulled away. “No, no, ’tis too much.”

  He dragged her up into his arms. “You’re a seductress, you know that?” he rasped as he scattered rough kisses over her rounded cheek . . . her damp, tangled hair . . . her wide, flawless brow.

  “I’m merely doing what you asked,” she said in a throaty voice, rubbing up against him, against his arousal full to bursting.

  “You’re driving me to distraction.” With a savage growl, he bent to suck her breast.

  She pushed him from her, then slowly circled him until she stood at his back. He could feel her breath on his tense muscles as she glided her hands over his back. Without warning, she cupped his buttocks, then smoothed and squeezed them in her deft hands.

  He flung his head back, his eyes sliding shut as she grabbed his shoulders and molded herself to him.

  He could feel her triangle of hair against his arse, the dewy fleece crushed against him. That was titillation enough—but when she anchored him to her by clasping his thighs so that her fingers were inches away from the part of him that ached to be buried inside her, his eyes shot open.

  “Is this to be my punishment for all my demands on you?” he asked hoarsely. “Are you deliberately tormenting me?”

  She went still. “Surely you know by now that I could never hurt you,” she said, her voice muffled against his back. “Do you so doubt my love?”

  He saw their images reflected in the wide pier glass hanging next to the bed. Her arms were around his hips and her hands on his thighs. The top of her head showed above his shoulders.

  Clasping her by the hand, he drew her to stand beside him, then nodded at the gilded mirror. “Look there.” He touched their clasped hands first to her creamy shoulder, and then his own scarred one. “While you’re as sweet and smooth and lovely as your skin, I’m grievously marred and angry and dark. Since my return, I’ve tormented you and deliberately sought to hurt you, even when you met my anger with kindness. If I doubt your love, ’tis only because I can’t believe you’d love me when there’s so little in me to love.”

  She faced him, eyes glowing. “You blind fool.” As he watched in the glass, she ran her hands over his ravaged shoulders. “For surviving this, I love you.” She fingered the scar at his temple. “For turning my brother’s punishments into a triumph, I love you.” She bracketed his face in her hands. “And most of all, for putting aside your vengeance so you could be my husband completely, I will always love you. Don’t you see? As long as I have life or breath, there will never be anyone else.”

  With a choked endearment, he lifted her into his arms and strode to the bed, laying her down and covering her with his body. “I don’t deserve you, but I don’t care. I love you, and I want you so badly, I’m drowning in it.”

  “Then take me,” she murmured, spreading her legs to fit him against her.

  With a guttural moan, he sheathed himself in the warmth he needed so badly. She was glove-tight and wet, and when she began to move under him, undulating to create the friction he craved, he thought he’d go mad.

  “Juliana . . . sweet Juliana . . .” he rasped against her neck as he joined her motion, sinking into her, wanting to lose his soul in her, to bury his fears in her welcoming body.

  Her breasts were crushed against him, and she smelled of rain and smoke and lavender. He wanted to devour her or have her devour him . . . to be so much a part of her that she could never leave him.

  Rain pounded the roof in time to the pounding of his heart as he thrust into her over and over. She was making enticing little cries and moans and her body moved against him, seeking fulfillment. He wanted her to find it . . . to find it in him, so he struggled to hold back his release until she could find hers as well. He fingered her until he felt her writhe beneath him urgently.

  “That’s it, my love,” he said in her ear. “That’s it . . .”

  She strained suddenly against him as her release overtook her. “Oh, Rhys . . . my husband! ”

  It was the first time she’d called him that since his return, and it sent him over the edge. He erupted in her with a guttural moan, her sweet spasms wringing him dry.

  Then he collapsed on her, feeling her shake be
neath him with the aftershocks of her pleasure. Never had he known this with any woman. He was awestruck that making love to her was so entirely satisfying.

  Outside, thunder and lightning still rampaged, but here in the cocoon of their bedchamber, with the fire blazing and the light of the candles reflecting off the creamy bed linens, he felt secure. Her body beneath him was warm and yielding, and he wished he could wrap it around him forever. This was what marriage was meant to be. The security of being locked away with one’s love, not needing the rest of the world.

  It wasn’t distrust that made him want her to stay here with him. It was love, only love.

  He rolled off her, pulling her against him until they lay spoon-fashion, and then nuzzled the drying ends of her hair aside so he could kiss her shoulder. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” she whispered.

  He lifted himself on one elbow to see her face better. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing seemed to have evened out. “Juliana?”

  “Hmm?” she said dreamily.

  “You like being here with me, don’t you?”

  “Mmm.” She snuggled against him.

  “And you understand why I can’t bear to let you go to this dinner, don’t you? You’ll stay here with me. You won’t leave me.”

  When she was silent, her breathing slow and deep, he realized she was asleep.

  No matter. He drew the counterpane up over them and sank onto the pillow. After tonight, she must understand how he felt. And surely in the morning, when they could discuss it more rationally, she’d agree with him. Let her sleep.

  But Juliana wasn’t sleeping as she lay with her body curved into his, fighting hard to keep her breathing even.

  Just as she’d warned him, making love had changed nothing for him. But it had changed a great deal for her. She couldn’t go on with him like this. The truth of what had happened six years ago had to be faced. His overwhelming jealousy and fear of letting her out of his sight showed that he still didn’t accept that she hadn’t betrayed him.

  That hadn’t prevented him from recognizing that he loved her. And doubtless he accepted that by telling himself she was different now—that her betrayal no longer mattered, that it was all in the past.

  But nothing was ever completely in the past. Like a thorn that festered if it wasn’t removed, his doubts about her would eat away at him, and his love for her, if he didn’t face them.

  So she must make him face them—and she could think of only one way to do that. Go to the dinner, with or without him. Leave tonight, before he could make it impossible for her to leave by going back to his old ways of having the grooms refuse to give her a mount. Then she’d have to pray that he followed . . . or that he didn’t spurn her when she returned.

  The storm finally subsided, and the rain dropped to a gentle drizzle. Shifting to her back, she peeked at him. He was asleep, his breath even. She stared at the lips half-parted in sleep, the jaw shadowed with his evening whiskers, and the dark slashes of his eyebrows. His peaceful expression clutched at her heart.

  What if she took this bold step and it proved too much for the fragile trust he’d begun to feel for her? What if it shattered everything between them?

  But if she didn’t do this, how long before fear of betrayal devoured him until he couldn’t let her out of his sight? How long before she struck out against his unreasonable demands and destroyed whatever remained between them?

  No, she had to do this. He had to learn if he loved her enough to brave his fears. Or there was no chance for them.

  Her decision made, she slipped out of bed and began gathering clothing for a trip to Carmarthen.

  21

  Sad outlaw, I’ve no ransom,

  Shut out from her town and home.

  She to her outlaw’s bosom

  Sent but longing, bitter doom.

  —DAFYDD AP GWILYM, “HIS AFFLICTION”

  Rhys awakened to find the room empty. His wife had certainly risen early. Where the devil was she?

  He got up and dressed. He was about to ring for a servant when he saw a note propped against the pier glass addressed to him. In his wife’s handwriting.

  That couldn’t be good.

  With his heart thundering, he opened the note and read:

  Dearest Rhys,

  I’ve gone to Northcliffe Hall. If you search your heart, you’ll understand that I must settle matters between me and Lord Devon. I also wish to be reconciled with my brothers, devious though they are.

  I know you don’t see matters as I do and will be furious at me. I realize that my furtive departure may only increase your distrust of me, but you left me no choice. I only pray you can find some measure of forgiveness in your heart.

  You told me you wanted me to share your life in every way, and I agreed to that. Now I’m asking you to share mine. Put aside your fears and come to me at Northcliffe Hall. Sit beside me when I face Lord Devon. Show me that you trust me to do the right thing.

  I well know what a great thing I ask of you. If you can’t do it, I will understand. In either case, know this: You always have my love.

  Juliana

  He could hear the words as clearly as if she stood right there entreating him, and every one was a dagger through his breast. He read the letter thrice, trying to fathom her thoughts, but each reading only tormented him more.

  She’d promised him her love forever, but she hadn’t said when she would return . . . if she would return. Worst of all, she hadn’t said what she’d do if he didn’t come—though he feared he knew. If he refused to be husband to her in this, wouldn’t she have the right to refuse to be wife to him?

  Put aside your fears and come to me at Northcliffe Hall.

  With a curse, he balled up the note and threw it at the pier glass where their images had been linked last night, when she’d opened herself to him so passionately.

  And then had slipped out of their bed, leaving just this foul note asking him to sell his soul for her. Devil take her! Was this her way of repaying him for all his misuse of her? She said she knew what she was asking of him—but obviously she didn’t, or she wouldn’t ask it.

  Go to the house of his enemy? Break bread with him? Watch her greet a man who’d once sworn to marry her, and pretend it didn’t ravage him?

  She had no right to ask this! Her brothers had sent him into hell, and Lord Devon had meant to enjoy the fruits of that betrayal. Damn the lot of them! How dared she expect him to go and pretend civility, when he detested them? If she loved him, she wouldn’t ask this.

  Damn her if she thought she could bend him to her will! She’d disobeyed his direct order, and she thought to force his hand.

  Well, he was not so easily manipulated. Let her sup with her foppish suitor and her infernal family. He wouldn’t come to heel like some sad hound trailing after the master. Nay, he would not!

  And if she couldn’t accept his terms, then that was her loss. He wouldn’t force her to remain in a marriage she found too binding.

  At that thought, such pain tore through him that he swore and swept her dressing table clean with one fist. He watched with bitter satisfaction as perfume bottles shattered and the jewelry she kept in several small chests went flying. He stalked toward the door, his boots crunching over the broken glass as the stench of mingled perfumes assailed him.

  He nearly slipped as his shoe came down on something larger, and his weight snapped it in two. He kicked it aside—then froze as he saw what it was.

  A love spoon. The one he’d carved and given Juliana on the night he’d proposed.

  Oh God. He crouched to pick up the two halves, then spotted the jeweled case she’d kept it in. The cloth that he’d used to wrap it in was lying inside, worn and yellowed with age.

  He stared at the case, crafted to fit the love spoon, and then at the two pieces. She’d kept his gift all these years. She hadn’t thrown it away. She might have kept their marriage secret from the world, but here was proof that she’d remembered it in
private.

  He closed his fingers around the ancient emblem of Welsh marriages . . . the emblem he’d broken, as surely as his refusal to go to Northcliffe would break his marriage.

  “Ah, my love,” he whispered hoarsely. “What have I done to you?”

  How foolish his plans had been when he’d stormed into Northcliffe Hall a few weeks ago. He’d thought to make her suffer, but it didn’t matter how much he railed against her. It didn’t matter that he’d lived without her once, and ought to be able to live without her again. He couldn’t. If she left him, there would be nothing in his life of worth.

  And the choice was wholly his. She was forcing him to choose whether to live with her or without her. And if he chose wrongly, he’d have no one to blame but himself.

  It was the hour when breakfast was served at Northcliffe Hall, and Juliana sat at the table awaiting her family. No one yet knew she was here. Since she’d arrived in the middle of the night, she’d asked the housekeeper not to awaken anyone and had retired to her old bedchamber.

  Unfortunately, she’d slept little. How could she, when all she could think of was Rhys’s face when he’d touched their joined hands to his scars? He’d been so unsure of her, and now she’d given him new cause to doubt her loyalty and love.

  But she couldn’t have acted any other way. And by now, he’d read her note and realized what she intended.

  Would he come?

  Would he follow her here in a fury, ready to drag her back to Llynwydd? That would devastate her, for it would show that he still lacked regard for her needs and wants.

  If he didn’t attend the dinner, that would devastate her, too. How could she bear it if he refused to give her this proof of his trust?

  “The housekeeper said you were here,” Darcy said from the doorway. “Thank God you’ve come.”

  It had been three weeks since she’d seen him, but the changes in him made it seem like a lifetime. His face was as gaunt as a death mask; his eyes glittered like a man too aware of the pain being inflicted on him. His clothes hung on him, and he seemed uncharacteristically lethargic.