by Jade Lee
“And privately?” Before he could answer, she had already guessed what had happened. “Did they rob you of it?”
“Often. Which is how I first learned to thieve. I was robbed and had to steal the money back.”
“That’s amazing.”
He supposed it was. Given how incredibly unprepared he’d been, it was astonishing that he’d survived, much less thrived. But he’d learned quickly and fought desperately. “I did not do honorable things, Mari.” In fact, his honor had been the first and easiest casualty of his life in India.
She tilted her head. “I suspect you were as fair and honest as possible in the situation.”
He didn’t quibble with her words, even though she was very wrong. “There are things I don’t fully remember,” he said, barely even realizing he spoke at all. “Times I lost all sense of honor.”
Her fingers danced across his mouth, and he kissed them out of reflex. Like a man gripping his only lifeline in a stormy sea.
“You survived and came out stronger.”
He shook his head. Did she not know how fragile he felt? A scent could drag him back into his memories. Fetid water, heavily spiced food, the manic laughter of a trapped man. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, he was caught unprepared, and the experience always left him shattered.
“You have just returned,” she said, her fingers continuing to stroke across his face. “Perhaps you merely need more time to remember who you were.”
“I don’t want to remember who I was, Mari. Don’t you see? I came home with a purpose. Every moment in India made it all clearer.”
Her caress didn’t change, but he saw her eyes widen and her mouth curve with excitement. Here was what she’d been pressing him to explain but the idea was so precious to him he had difficulty voicing it. Thankfully, she knew how to be patient and wait for him, and in time he found the words.
“I saw such abuse in India. The wealthy destroyed the weak. The poor did anything to survive. Terrible things because it was that or die.”
“It can be a terrible country.”
“And so I came home, Mari. I came home to be damned sure that it does not happen here.”
She pulled back, clearly shocked. “Evil maharajas here? Mobs of beggars in the street? Don’t be ridiculous.”
He looked at her, seeing her innocence and the blind faith she had in her heritage. He didn’t blame her for it. Not so long ago, he had shared her opinion a thousandfold. But not now. Not anymore.
And it wasn’t long before she was biting her lip in consternation. “Well, yes, I suppose I will allow that there are thieves and bandits in England.”
“And beggars in the streets.”
She nodded slowly. “Yes, though not like it was in India.”
“Not in the same numbers or the same way, but the desperate poor exist everywhere.”
She took a breath. “Yes.”
“But you have been told to ignore them.”
She nodded. “There are too many and I cannot help one without a thousand—”
“Mobbing the carriage or murdering you in the street for what little you have.” He was merely reciting what he had believed and what the wealthy had been telling themselves for thousands of years. “It is not true, you know. You can help in small ways and it is a blessing.”
She nodded. “So is that what you want to do? Help the poor?”
“Not in the way you mean.”
He spread her fingers open as he traced the creases of her white palm. He noted with pleasure that she had calluses, so she was not completely a lady of leisure. In London, her time was occupied with husband hunting, but in the country, she probably did a great deal. “I saw the evil of men’s hearts in India, and it wasn’t just in the maharaja’s. The English were greedy.”
She winced but did not look away. “I am disheartened that we are not as civilized as we pretend.”
“I want to build a home here. I want to make Sommerfield a place that leaves no room for barbarity. I want to serve the people I protect and be sure that their needs are met.”
She tilted her head. “That is the responsibility of every lord over his land.”
“And yet so many do so little.”
Her eyes abruptly widened. “You mean to force them to live up to their responsibilities?”
He snorted. “I doubt any man has that power.” He took a breath. “I mean to begin with Sommerfield. And when that is a utopia, I will look to my compatriots.” He shrugged. “I hope my example and my voice in the House of Lords will help.”
She rocked back in her seat. Her gaze darted across his features, but steadied as she looked at his eyes. She was a woman who needed only a few pieces of a plan for her to fit much of the puzzle together. So he waited, feeling exposed for admitting so simple a thing.
Yet it wasn’t simple. Creating a utopia in the middle of England would be a constant battle against all the smaller vices. And that was nothing against the dread of sickness or natural disaster. Nothing brought out the barbarity in man faster than a few weeks of hunger and a few longer weeks of hopeless despair.
“I need to stand somewhere and have that place be strong and beautiful.”
“Sommerfield and England.” She smiled, and it chased the last of the shadows from his thoughts. “That’s a beautiful ambition.”
“Will you join me? As my wife?”
“Yes.” A single word, whispered at first and then repeated louder. “Yes.”
The most beautiful word in the English language.
He kissed her. First her hand that was still on his face. Then her wrist. But a moment later, she tumbled into his arms, her face pressed to his, her laughter filling his soul.
Yes.
Then she gasped against his neck, her breath hot but short with distress. He pulled back to look at her face, seeing her widened eyes while her hands clutched at his shoulders.
“Mari?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, embarrassment pinkening her cheeks. “I must get out of this corset. It’s too tight.”
He grinned. Well, if it was a matter of her health, then of course he must oblige.
Twenty-one
It was amazing how everything in life could align in an instant. Her wants, her husband, her entire future lay before her now—a glorious picture of a home and children, with happy workers in a peaceful country. And in the center of it all was this man working steadily to maintain the noble civilization that was every Englishman’s birthright. She saw it as clearly as daylight, and it fit her like a dream come true.
In fact, the only thing that did not fit was this dress and her blasted corset. And while a certain degree of breathlessness added to the excitement of being wayward, this was too much. The last thing she wanted was to faint just when she’d finally gotten the answers she sought.
So she leaned back. This was a working woman’s dress, and so the buttons were in front. She started to reach for them, but he blocked her hands and set them on his shoulders.
“Let me,” he said.
She did, and the sight of his large fingers deftly releasing her buttons had her heart beating triply fast in her throat. He was undressing her. And she wanted him to.
The buttons went farther down, lost in the folds of the dress. Rather than search for them, he slipped his hands beneath the fabric and bracketed her waist with his two hands.
“Good God, that’s whalebone. No wonder you can’t breathe.”
Of course it was whalebone. That’s what a proper woman wore. And it apparently made it very easy for him to lift her up and set her on her feet before him. She wasn’t a tiny woman, and so the thrill of him doing such a thing made her belly quiver with delight.
“Turn around,” he said as he gently guided her.
Her dress pooled as she moved. Then she felt his fingers on her bac
k, pulling at the ties that cut off her breath. And then…a miracle…they began to loosen.
She took a breath and then another. Air. Thank heaven. She was light-headed from the sudden freedom.
“Do you want it just loose or off?”
“Off.” She wanted to be completely, totally, irrevocably free. And now that she was an engaged woman, she could cease the strict restraint of every aspect of her life. She could breathe in so many ways. And maybe even wear patterned clothing.
The ties fell apart, and she pushed the hated thing down before kicking it away.
She wore only her shift now, fine muslin that fell to her knees. And he was behind her, his hands on her hips, his fingers gripping her slightly as she filled her lungs with air and leaned back against him. He braced her on her sides, warmed her back and bottom, and pressed his mouth to the curve of her neck.
“You smell like English ale,” he said.
She twisted slightly. “What?”
He tightened his hold so she couldn’t pull away. “I like ale.” Then she felt the scrape of his teeth across her skin and the wetness of his tongue. “But you taste sweeter.” Another slow nip. “And spicier.”
She wanted to say something clever. Some sort of worldly response to his seduction, but she had no words. Just the shivering delight of his body around hers. His lips at her neck and his hands gently sliding around her hips to her belly.
“What should I do?” she whispered.
“You will marry me.”
It wasn’t a question, but she answered it nonetheless. “Yes.”
She felt him smile against her neck, and then he tugged her fully against him. She felt the sheer size of his body behind her, the strength in his thighs as he bracketed her, and the breadth of his shoulders as he pulled her arms up over her head.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice thick.
“Hold on to me.”
There was nothing to hold, arched as she was like this. Her left fingers found his head and played in the thick curls of his hair. Her right hand touched nothing but air, but he balanced her back against him so she remained stretched out in the most decadent pose she could ever imagine. Especially as his hands were now free to roam over her body.
He skimmed over her belly, but quickly found her breasts. His touch was light through the muslin as he stroked across her nipples. The feel was both rough and too light as the fabric scraped across her peak. “Take it off me,” she whispered. She didn’t know how she had the temerity to say such a thing.
He stilled for a moment. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
He lifted up her shift. He worked slowly, first gathering it up in his fists at her waist, then raising it all the way off while she shivered at her sudden nakedness. Her arms came down, and she meant to cover herself. There was bold, and then there was brazen. This was beyond both.
“Shhhh,” he whispered against her temple. “You’re beautiful. Let me look.”
He gathered her arms and again pulled them high, draping them over his shoulders. She again found his curls—this time with her right hand—while he stroked the underside of her left arm where it stretched over their heads. Then he turned them both a bit.
“Look how beautiful you are.”
She opened her eyes, startled to realize she’d shut them tight. But at his urging, she focused on a round mirror on the wall. It wasn’t so large as to show her full body, but she saw enough. Skin pink and pale in the candlelight. Her body narrow as she arched, her breasts heavy. And there he was behind her. His eyes were nearly luminous as he looked at her. His hands were tan, his shirtsleeves a rough blue, and he held her as if she were porcelain.
“Take off your shirt,” she said. She wanted to feel him as naked as she. His flesh, his heat. He smiled and pulled back to strip off his workman’s shirt.
“Wait a moment,” he said.
She watched in the mirror as he stripped off everything. Shirt, shoes, and stockings, then his pants. All until he stood naked and proud. His organ was large, even in the reflection, and she saw the dark reddish color of it amidst the golden of his hair and skin.
“Are you frightened?” he asked. “I’m large, but we will fit, I promise you.”
“I should be.”
“But you’re not?”
No. She was intrigued. Excited. She looked into his eyes. “I’m delighted.” Finally, she could begin her life unfettered.
He grinned in answer, but when she went to kiss him, he stopped her. “I have dreamed of this,” he said. “Let me watch you before I lose control.”
“Watch?” she asked, but then he turned her back to the mirror. He guided her arms again, stretching her out against him as he touched her. Skin on skin, calluses brushing across her in increasingly powerful caresses.
He stroked her breasts, then palmed her nipples. She gloried at the size of his hands and the way his eyes watched her flesh spilling through his fingers.
Then he took hold of her nipples and twisted them, pinching and pulling while she writhed against him.
He supported her as she arched into his hands. He nudged her head back, and she relaxed against his shoulder. And she moved up and down on the hot fire of his organ where it pressed thick and wet against her bottom.
“Lift your knee,” he said.
She had no idea what he meant until he nudged his thigh between her legs. She bent her left knee, and he immediately used his leg to pull her open as he braced his foot on a nearby stool.
She still wore her stockings, bright white against the dark hair of his leg. The mirror didn’t show below her navel, but she could see his leg and hers intertwined when she looked down. And she could feel as his finger pressed down her belly before sliding to the wetness below.
She had felt this before. She knew this sensation. The fullness, the erotic rub. He spread her and speared her. Touching everywhere with thick, callused fingers.
Then the invasion deep inside her that wasn’t enough. She ground against his hand, wanting more.
Her breath caught, and fire burned across her skin.
“Yes,” he said against her ear. “Come for me.”
She barely heard him, though she knew the tone of command. How silly to order such a thing, and yet she strained to obey. Faster and faster he rubbed her, tighter against her nub. Deeper inside her as she moved in ways outside of her control.
She had no idea how he kept her upright. Perhaps he held her. But her thoughts, her body, all of them spiraled to the movement of his hand, the heat of his breath, and his one single word.
“Now.”
Yes!
Sweet detonation as she fractured apart in his arms. A flood of sensation too myriad to contain. Yes!
Then suddenly she was in his arms more literally. While her mind had been floating, the pulses continuing at a slowing pace, he had picked up her boneless form. He was carrying her to his bedroom, cradling her in his arms.
She blinked, too pleasured to do more than press a kiss to his neck.
She felt his hands tighten where he held her, then he gently set her on his bed. Her head was pillowed in the blanket. Her legs dangled off the side.
“Mari,” he whispered.
She stroked the hard angle of his jaw as he leaned down above her.
“You will be my wife,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I cannot wait for our wedding night.” This time his statement was almost a question. Almost, but not really.
“I know.” She didn’t truly know. Her mind was not yet her own. But as she spoke, he began to caress her breasts again. Brief strokes, almost reverent. Then she felt his lips there. Suckling on her nipple and bringing everything back into focus.
He couldn’t wait for their wedding night. He meant to take her now. As a husband did a wife. As a man
possessed a woman.
He spread her legs, easily stepping between her knees.
He would have her virginity, and she would be completely, irrevocably tied to him.
She felt him there, a large presence at the entrance to her womb, but he didn’t push inside. His hands slid to her flanks, lifting her knees until she gripped him. Then he leaned forward, his expression stark, his eyes dark.
“Mari,” he whispered. “Mari, say yes.”
She touched his jaw, feeling the muscles twitch there. She touched the sensuous curve of his mouth, and then she tightened her knees.
“Husband,” she whispered. “Yes.”
He thrust.
Pain flashed through her consciousness. Bright and sharp enough to make her cry out. He was so big. He was so very there.
He stopped when he was fully embedded. His mouth was tight, and she saw him swallow, but his eyes were on hers. He watched her face as she breathed shallowly and waited.
She softened.
She didn’t know how it happened. Perhaps it was just the pain fading away. She was still stretched and too full, except not as much. Not bad.
Oh. Oh yes.
She began to like the feeling of fullness.
“Is there more?” she asked.
He flashed a grin. “Much more.”
He eased back slowly. She felt his withdrawal and whimpered.
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her nose. Then another to her cheek. Then her lips, teasing them with his tongue.
She teased back. Nipping. Kissing. Entwining tongues in a dance—
Thrust.
He pushed inside her again. Hard but not sharp this time.
Nice, especially as he ground his pelvis down against her.
Right there.
Very nice.
Then he raised up away from her mouth. Somehow her hands had gone to his shoulders, holding him to her, but she was not strong enough to keep him with her.
“Again,” she said.
Thrust.
Very nice!
She gripped his hips, wanting to hold him to her. Wanting to increase the pressure. Just wanting. Then she smiled at him.
