by Stacy Reid
“No. Marcellus made love with you because it had been hell on him to hold out for you. You were the first woman we have both ever lusted for. You were the first woman he touched and I felt the phantom caress as if I were doing the touching. You are the only woman both of us have ever loved. You are the only one both of us long for. You’re everything we’ve ever dreamed of, Emily.”
Indecision flared in her. “What do you mean?”
“Both of us need you.”
She scoffed. “You want me to be a lover to Marcellus as well?”
He paused, then swallowed. “I want you to marry him.”
She jerked, betraying her shock. “What are you saying, Maxwell? You do not want me anymore?”
He moved closer, exuding warm reassurance. She noted he was careful not to touch her.
“Never. I will want you always. Marcellus will want you always, Emily. If I touch you, feel the softness of your skin, taste your lips, he feels it all. Not as keenly as I do, but he will endure everything I feel from you and for you. You are our heart.”
She lifted her fingers against his parted lips. “Please, say no more, Maxwell. I need some time alone.”
“Emily—”
“Please go.”
His gaze was filled with outright challenge. “I know how fierce you are. I know how much you love, and I damn well know you can take us both and all the love we have to give you. What are you afraid of?”
“Get out, Maxwell,” she ordered, surged to her feet, and then stormed to the door, wrenching it open.
He scowled, slowly coming to his feet. “You will not hide your feelings from us.”
Rage rushed through her bloodstream. Narrowing her eyes, she jabbed him in his hard chest with a finger when he reached her.
“You lied to me. Both of you! And I am angry. I am hurt because I trusted you both to be honest with me,” she snarled. “If I damn well choose to hide, run, or never speak to the both of you again, it is my right. And you will not tell me what to feel or when I should feel it. I am going to Langford for a few days. And yes, I am running. I do not care what you or Marcellus thinks. How dare you think I am too weak to understand the realities of life? Who gave you the right to make decisions for me, Maxwell? Loving me is sharing with me, trusting me, and not deceiving me for months. Now get out, and I swear if you try to follow me and not give me a few days to think, I will take Papa’s rifle and shoot you as how the man you want me to marry taught me. I cannot even begin to think about what you just revealed to me. I have felt so guilty since you came back, wanting to protect Marcellus. Believing that if you knew I had been with him, you would be devastated. I foolishly thought I was protecting you from his betrayal when you knew all along that he was fucking me.”
“Emily—”
“Get out, Maxwell,” she said it with affected calm. Discomfort stung her palm from the strength at which she gripped the doorknob.
Emily turned her head, refusing to look at Maxwell when he moved past her. Her breath hitched when he kissed her forehead. She closed the door behind him and furiously fought back the tears. Enough of them had been shed.
With determined strides she moved to her dressing room and snapped open her valise. She paused in the midst of packing and sank weakly onto a chair, burying her face in her hands, harsh sobs escaping from her. The anger fled as if it had never been. Maxwell was alive, and Marcellus had brought him home. She could not shy away from the knowledge that he had told her dozens of time when she screamed her grief that Maxwell lived and he would find him.
“Max lives, Emmeline, and I will bring him home to you. Trust me, Emmeline; Max lives and I will find him.”
The ghost of his voice whispered through her mind. She had never understood his reassurances.
A part of her understood why he’d done what he had, but it hurt too damn much to just let it go. She froze at her thoughts, and another harsh sob tore through her. She had to forgive them. For all she knew an air raid could happen now and she could lose them both. The horrors of war had taught her a valuable lesson. Cherish loved ones and hold them close. She could forgive them both. She loved them even though not in the same way. But what they wanted, she could never concede to. She could never be lover to two brothers.
Emily rose and went to the bed and curled onto it, hugging her pillow. She knew she had to choose before her journey to her mother. Indecision ravaged her, for her mind did not immediately accept that she must choose her beloved Maxwell.
Chapter Six
17 August 1918
Dear Emily,
I despair of ever coming home to you. Every time I think we have won the battle, another communication is received and I head out into more despair. Memories of screams and erupting gunfire are all I hear. Every breath I take, I inhale the putrid air of death. I now fear of ever returning to your arms. I must remain strong for my men, but I fear I grow disenchanted. I feel myself getting more vicious toward my enemy at the carnage I see. Men that have grown into brothers, I see writhing and screaming in puddles of blood. Shattered limbs, broken lives, and the reason for this war has been lost. We no longer understand, but we are compelled to press on to stop such waves of destruction from ever reaching you. I fight to come home to you, my darling, but I also fear that I may not make it into your arms. The memory of your laughter, the gaiety you glow with when you dance, and your generous spirit warms me when death’s cold fingers hover close. Promise me, my darling, if I do not make it, you will allow Marcellus to hold and comfort you. And when he offers you the protection of our name, not to resist or feel as if you are being unfaithful to me. There is no greater honor if you would trust my love and know when I say Marcellus will treasure you, protect you, love you, and honor you as I would.
Your love, Maxwell Wynwood
Emily had always known that Maxwell wanted her to have the protection of Marcellus if he died. But this she had not expected. She inhaled the bracing cold into her lungs, trudging through the snow to the east garden. The lakes that surrounded the estate were frozen, but the roses still bloomed. Perfect for the festive ball that would be held in a week’s time, the day before Christmas. The entire village would soon be aware that Maxwell was home, and then the callers would descend in droves. Their festival ball had turned into a homecoming celebration, and Emily would not want it any other way. The village had grieved for Maxwell as well. It only saddened her to know so many would be looking out for their sons, brothers, and fathers with no relief in sight. Unable to sleep last night, she had worked long into the night hanging mistletoe and boughs on the mantles and across the fireplaces. She had risen early this morning and had kept up with her ministrations. The manor had already been transformed by Mrs. Bough, and several maids and footmen under the supervision of Lady Harcourt. The manor smelled of fresh lemons, pine, and mistletoe, and was filled with good cheer. Emily had avoided Maxwell and Marcellus for the day. She needed the break from their intensity. When she made her decision, it would be without any coercion, gentle or otherwise.
The radio had played carols while they worked, and the hope infused in Emily’s heart and the air itself had been perfect. The duchess had been radiant as she sang “O Come All Ye Faithful” and “Joy to the World” while she decorated the massive Christmas tree in the drawing room with Emily. They had used miniature incandescent lamps to decorate the mantels and also to light the towering tree. Green and red drapes were added to the silver ones. Pinecones, evergreen, and mistletoe decorated nearly every room in the thirty-six-room manor. Lady Harcourt had picked up on Emily’s disquiet, but the duchess had been very circumspect indeed, granting Emily the privacy she desperately needed.
She eased down on the marble bench sheltered from the snowflakes by the cascading branches of the tall elm tree. Now that she was away from the bustle of preparation for the ball, doubt raked at her. Maxwell and Marcellus wanted to share her. How could they feel so? Surely such a desire was unnatural.
They were handsome and daring, hon
orable and sensual. Emily blanched as her vagina heated at the thought of both of them touching and loving her. She bit her lips nervously. They made her ache and want. Either separately or together, it made no difference. Her body hungered for them both. Even now she pulsed between her thighs. She was slick and wet. She waited in tense silence for the heavens to rip apart and the bolt of lightning to spear her for her wanton thoughts. When nothing happened, she glanced tentatively into the sky. It was as if the clear blue sky on the winter morning mocked her dismal thoughts.
She needed time to come to grips with herself and her desires. They were explicit, tormenting her with images of Maxwell and Marcellus loving her together. She should have felt shame, but somehow everything felt right. But she understood how precious life was, how easily one could be laughing, dancing with a beau, and the next nursing a wound infected from flying shrapnel, listening to frightened men and boys beg and plead with doctors to save them.
Maxwell said they hungered for her, both loved her, and God, she feared she felt the same for both of them.
Did she have the capacity to love both of them? A harsh breath puffed from her lips. Emily knew she already did, but it was so unseemly. Lover to two brothers? She doubted she could, but then that would mean she needed to choose. Confusion rose in her. What did it mean if she stood firm and chose Maxwell? Every time they came together, Marcellus would feel it. She could not believe such a thing was possible.
Everything in her clamored to flee for a few days to escape their intensity. She had not gone down to dinner the night before and had taken breakfast in her room. She had spent hours analyzing her feelings and not shying away from them. She was trying desperately not to run. Two years ago that was what she had done. She had fled from Marcellus’s intensity. Maxwell had pursued and charmed her, and she had fallen in love with him.
Ever since Maxwell went to fight in the war and Lady Harcourt had contrived to have her stay with her, she had avoided Marcellus’s overtures. She had fled from him hard and long, and she had hardly been aware when he broke down her barriers. She had always run from him. Now she was so much different. Life was too fleeting, everything was too fleeting, and she couldn’t leave without seeing him. Before she made a choice between them, she had to understand. It shook her that it wasn’t Maxwell’s arms she currently yearned to be around her, and that it wasn’t his words or explanation she wanted to hear. She would have never imagined that the arms she wanted to be wrapped in would have been Marcellus’s.
* * * *
Marcellus pushed back the doubt that tried to cripple him. A smile edged his lips as he watched Emmeline trudge painfully through the snow. The lush ripeness of her lips were flattened in determined lines, and from the way she marched toward the manor, he knew she’d decided to fight. The relief he felt almost felled him. He had ruthlessly prevented himself from going to her after Maxwell communicated what had happened.
Marcellus had been slowly examining thoughts of giving her up. Allowing her to marry Max, and Marcellus would stay as far away from her as possible. If she refused him, he would hardly have any other choice. It would be hell, but he’d conceded it was a hell he was willing to accept.
The days she had been with Max had been the sweetest torture Marcellus had ever felt. He then realized the closer he was to Max, the more he felt through their connection. The first day when she had fainted and Max swept her away, after explaining everything to his frantic mother, Marcellus had driven along the countryside. For hours he had only felt mere caresses, sometimes so fleeting he had wondered if the bond was working properly.
He had learned differently that night. The closer he was, the more amplified were the feelings. He’d almost drowned under the pleasure he felt. Emmeline had not given him that satisfaction as yet, so he had almost lost it when he felt her hot, moist mouth closing over Max’s cock. Pleasure had streaked through Marcellus’s veins and owned him as he felt every kiss of her lips, every scrape of her teeth, and every wet glide of her tongue. The feelings had been too intense even though it had been an echo of what Max felt, enveloped by her sensual lips. Marcellus had felt the softness of her skin when Max touched her reverently. She was exquisitely curvy, with high, full breasts and rounded hips that he caressed through Max’s touch. Marcellus had become painfully aware that if he had to give her up, he could not reside in the same county.
He waited as the clock ticked the minutes away, taunting him. He controlled his smile when the door burst open and she swept in, shaking the snowflakes from her hair. She pulled off her gloves, and coat, brows furrowing while she looked at him. Her green eyes were worried, her expression somber. She closed the door gently and leaned against it while her emotions chased across her face—anger, frustration, and desire. He shielded his thoughts, waiting for her to reveal her intentions. When she did, it felt like an iron fist to his gut.
“If I only want one lover, can you live with that? Maxwell makes it seem as if it is impossible.”
Marcellus struggled not to show the feelings that ravaged him, and considered the emotions that roiled in her eyes.
“I love you, Emmeline. If Max is the only one that you truly love, I will step aside. It will be painful, but I will.”
Her eyes flared at his declaration, and she gripped her gloves.
Exhaling, she sauntered toward him. She tilted her head, searching his face, her expression guarded. “I profess I do not understand fully, but I am not sure if I want you to step aside.”
It was not a declaration of love, but it was good enough for him. He pulled her against his body, unable to wait another moment to touch her. She shifted in his arms, snaking her hands to clasp his shoulders, her soft belly pressed against his cock. He pressed his lips to hers with untamed hunger. She strained toward him, lifting on the tips of her toes to deepen the kiss. Marcellus groaned into her mouth and feasted on her lips.
She was lithe, beautiful, generous, and spirited, and he wanted her to love him so bad he almost wept from the hunger of it. A fever burned inside him, and he hoisted her, spinning with her to the oak desk. He sat her on it and nudged her legs open, stepping between them. She drew her lips from his, her forehead dropping to his chest.
“Marcellus?” There was fear and desire in her voice, and he tried to restrain the lust that savaged him.
He cupped her breast and she cried out, and the sound went straight to his cock. She wrenched from him, leaning away, and that fear he hated shone from her eyes.
“Why do you fear me, Emmeline? I would never hurt you.”
He grasped her face and tilted it to him. She closed her eyes tightly, and he waited with patience until they fluttered open. “I have never feared you, Marcellus. I am frightened of the things you make me feel. You make me burn in ways that Maxwell doesn’t, and that scares me.”
He scraped his thumb against her full lips, and he smiled when she gently nipped it. “It relieves me.”
She frowned. “Relieves you?”
“If you had felt the same way for Max and I, you wouldn’t need both of us, Emmeline. I doubt Max feels the same cravings I have with you. Yes, we both love you. We will both cherish you all our days. Max wants to take you riding. I want to dance the tango with you. Max will prefer when the rains fall to cuddle with you while you read to our children by the fire. I would want to be on the lake, rowing, feeling the rain on our skin while I make love to you. Yes, we will share you and share moments with you, but we will also need you in separate ways. Know that we will love you always, treasure you, and never hurt you,” he swore fervently.
She clasped his hands.
“God, Marcellus, you speak so easily of sharing me. What does that mean? Who would I marry? What if one of you fell in love with someone else?”
“That will never happen. You are our heart.”
“It is not natural.”
“It is natural for us,” he soothed, drawing her toward him. “I hunger for you. We hunger for you. Tell me you do not feel a similar desire
for both of us. Tell me you only feel it for Max, and I will leave.”
“I am petrified by what I feel,” she confessed softly. “But it is not for Maxwell alone.”
Suddenly he understood the fear so much better. She was petrified of her body’s needs. Of what he made her feel. Of what Max made her hunger for.
“We only want your happiness, your pleasure, to fulfill all your desires. There is no shame in what you feel with us, Emmeline,” Marcellus said, his voice low and filled with sensual promise.
“It cannot be right. What will people think?”
“It is no one’s business. You will marry one of us but live with both of us.”
“That is the most ludicrous notion I have ever heard. How will that escape the notice of everyone that I am with the both of you?”
“Are all your worries about people’s opinions?”
“Aren’t you? What of our children? The scandal and destruction that could arise if it is ever let out—we would have to be very circumspect. My God, our children! We would never know who the father is. Even now I could be pregnant, Marcellus.”
“Maxwell and I are well-adjusted. My father and Grayson are well-adjusted.”
Her face whitened. “I beg your pardon?”
He released her and stepped back, giving her some space. He knew how forceful he could be, and he did not want to pressure her. He stared at her, unflinching. “My father warned us from when we were youths that there would come a time when we would want the same woman, and we would both love her. We scoffed, finding the idea ludicrous. We understood fully after we met you. That is how it is with Mother, our uncle, and Father. They are both hers.”
He noted the shock that glazed her eyes and dilated her pupils. He refused to go to her, forcing her to understand what he spoke of.
“Mother married Father, as he is the eldest, securing the title for her sons. They have both been hers for thirty-two years. Maxwell and I could be sons of our father or Uncle Grayson. It matters not who donated the actual seed.”
