Waiting.
She wasn’t capable of thinking, yet she knew. Knew there was more, that she wanted still more.
She wanted him. Not just inside her but with her.
He’d stilled, quieted; now he drew her upright and against him once more, holding her there, his hands moving over her, molding her to him.
Then his hands closed over her hips and he lifted her from him.
She made some sound—a whimper of disapproval. He answered with a harsh, very gravelly laugh.
“I want you beneath me.”
He wanted to feel her supple and pliant under him as he took her. Wanted to hear every little gasp, every moan. Wanted to know she was open and willing, her ripe body his to fill. A primitive, elemental want. A driving, almost-desperate desire. Gyles laid her down on the emerald satin, following her down, spreading her thighs wide and settling between. He filled her with a single powerful thrust, watched her body rock, watched her arch as he pressed deeper still, and she tilted her hips to take him in.
She reached for him, drawing him down to her. He went readily, hungry for the sensation of her body under his. He moved within her, upon her, and she clutched, and drew his face to hers. He met her lips, met the fire still glowing within her and stoked it back to flame.
Into an inferno.
The blaze cindered every last veil, every last vestige of his civilized facade. He plunged into her, into her mouth, into her body, with a greedy, ravenous need. He wanted, he took, and she gave. He knew when she yielded, when she surrendered completely to the moment, to the flames, to the glory, and he exulted in his victory. She opened to him, wrapped him in her arms and welcomed him in, not just into her body but into that citadel he had wanted, needed, to claim.
He was poised on the crest of delirium when the depth of that need hit him like a blow. Understanding—of himself, of that urgent fundamental want—came in a blinding revelation. But nothing, not even his deepest fears, could stop him from seizing that which he’d thought for so long he’d never seek.
She climaxed beneath him and he was with her, drinking in her cry, fleetingly glorying in her completion before following her into the void.
His victory, or hers?
Sunk beside his sleeping wife in the satin sheets of her bed, Gyles wasn’t sure. And wasn’t sure he cared. If he could have his cake and eat it, too, why should he complain?
Despite her unexpected knowledge, despite all that had occurred, only he knew what had happened. Only he knew that she was the only woman to ever touch his barbarian core, the only woman whose surrender could sate, satisfy, and fulfill his true self.
The only woman his true self wanted.
She couldn’t know, not unless he told her. Not unless he admitted the vulnerability out loud, in words.
Pigs would fly before he did.
Lifting one lid, he looked across the rumpled bed, now lit only by moonlight. She was slumped on her side, facing him. He could make out the wild tangle of her black curls, the paler band of her forehead, the small hand nestled on the pillow between them. Under the covers, he had one arm slung possessively over her waist. He left it there.
He couldn’t, in all conscience, wake her and have her again. He’d already done that once—bad form, of course, but what did a barbarian care? The memory of the way she’d turned to him, her eyes searching his in the night, then focusing on his lips, the way she’d met his kisses, then focused on him, on them, on what they would do, sent a shiver down his spine.
Closing his eye, he slumped deeper into the bed, trying to block out the scent of sated lust that hung heavily about them. Trying to ignore his arousal.
In the morning. Just because he’d surrendered on one front, didn’t mean he had to let lust rule him.
Chapter 8
It was full light when he awoke and reached for her.
And realized she no longer lay beside him.
Gyles opened his eyes and stared, then groggily glared at the rumpled space where his eager new wife should have lain, warm and soft and ready to be aroused. . . .
He bit back a groan, turned onto his back, and slung one arm across his eyes. Damn the woman!
Half a minute later, he lifted his arm, lifted his head, and looked about the room.
He sat up, then thrust back the covers and stalked to the door to her sitting room. He flung the door open. The room was empty. Not even a maid to send into hysterics.
Cursing, he shut the door, crossed the room, and righted the chair his loving bride had placed before the door to his room with the fell intention of keeping him out. Memories of the argument that had given rise to that event followed him into his room.
Five minutes later, fully dressed, he was striding across the lawns to the stables, no longer so sure of his victory of the night. Time and again he’d underestimated her, misjudged the way her mind worked. He’d thought last night would have smoothed their path, but had it? Or had he sunk himself deeper in the mire?
If he had, given her temper, given her resolution, what might she do?
Reaching the stables, he went quickly down the aisle to the mare’s box. The mare was in it; she lifted her head and stared him.
Gyles humphed and whirled.
“Shall I saddle up for you, m’lord?”
Jacobs, his head stableman, came trotting up from the tack room.
“Has anyone gone out this morning?” Jacobs would never imagine he was asking after his new wife.
“No, but I heard most of the visitors are gone.”
“Most, yes. I wondered if her ladyship’s uncle had gone out. He must be inside.” Dismissing Jacobs, Gyles strode back to the house.
He tried to put himself in “her ladyship’s” shoes, tried to imagine, if he were her, where he might go. To no avail—he had no idea what she might be thinking, feeling. Was she happy with their marriage, smugly content after last night? Ready to make the best of it, calmly resigned to the fact? Or was she sad, dismayed, even distraught that what she’d hoped would not be?
That he’d never in his life spent so much as a minute worrying about any woman’s thoughts, much less her feelings, he shrugged aside as irrelevant. The gypsy was his wife—she was different.
He paused at the end of the yew walk to draw in a deeper breath, to ease the nonsensical fear that was closing about his chest. Hands on his hips, he tipped his head back.
And saw her.
On the battlements of the nearest tower.
He reached the house in seconds and raced through the corridors to the tower stair. By then, a sliver of sanity had punctured his fear. The gypsy was neither weak nor fragile. What exactly was he thinking?
He climbed the stairs at a normal pace, making no effort to be silent. Regardless of the fact that the battlements were quite safe, he didn’t want to frighten her by suddenly appearing beside her.
One arm on the stone coping, she was leaning on the battlements, looking out over the park. She turned her head as he opened the tower room door and stepped onto the wooden walk. Far from being shocked, he had the impression she was not surprised to see him.
He was the one surprised.
He hadn’t previously seen her in an ordinary gown—seen her as he would see her every day for the rest of his life. Taking in the simple voile gown, noting how it lovingly displayed her ample charms, how the soft material caressed her hips and thighs, the single flounce flirting about her ankles, he was acutely aware of the body the gown concealed. The lush body he’d enjoyed throughout the night.
Noting the black curls piled artlessly atop her head, tumbling about her ears and nape, noting how large and vivid were her eyes, how perfectly lashed, noticing anew the lushness of her lips, he wondered what he would have done, said, how he would have reacted if he’d seen her this way before he’d married her. He had to question his sanity in wedding her.
And knew he wouldn’t have it any other way.
“I wondered where you were.” He walked toward her, halting a yard
away.
She looked back at the vista of treetops. “I came up here for the views and fresh air.” After an instant, she added, “It seemed a good place to think.”
He wasn’t sure he wanted her to think, nor that he would like what she was thinking.
“The estate extends more to the east and west, I presume?”
“Yes. The escarpment’s the northern boundary.”
“And the Gatting property lies to the east?”
“Southeast.” He waited, then added, “I’ll take you to see it sometime, if you like.”
She inclined her head, then waved to where a glimmer of silver marked the course of the river. “The bridge that washed away—was it over there?”
“Farther upriver.”
“Was it wrecked?”
“Most of it’s gone. The only span still standing is badly weakened. We’ll have to rebuild completely, but meanwhile we’ve rigged a pulley system to ferry necessities across to the farms that way. I should go and inspect the progress—perhaps later today after the others have left.”
She started to slowly stroll, fingers trailing the stones. He followed, equally slowly, as she circled the tower.
“How many ‘others’ are still here? Who are they?”
“Mostly relatives too ancient to set out immediately after a feast. They’ll be leaving this afternoon. Your uncle, of course, is still here. He told me he planned to take a different route home and wanted to leave before luncheon. Devil and Honoria left last night—they asked me to explain that with their newest child so young, they felt they had to hurry back.”
Devil had seen him on his way out of the ballroom and mouthed one word: Coward. He had, however, winked, then smoothly intercepted one of Gyles’s uncles who’d been about to bend his ear, allowing him to escape unimpeded.
“Yes—Honoria told me.” Francesca glanced back briefly, very briefly met his eye. “She’s invited us to visit at Somersham.”
“We might go later in the year. We’ll certainly see them in town.”
“You’ve known Devil a long time?”
“Since Eton.”
She continued to stroll, leaving him studying her back—and wondering just what was going on. Just what tack she intended to take. Wondering why she, thus far so forthright, was being so elusive. She strolled out of the tower’s shadow and onto the parapet.
“All right—I give in. What the devil are you thinking?”
She flashed him a glance. “About what?”
“Our marriage.” He halted. Eventually, she did, too, still facing away from him with two yards between them. “I’m aware that, prior to yesterday, your expectations and mine were not the same.”
She turned her head and looked at him. Her eyes were wide, but her glance was too brief for him to place the expression in them. Turning back to the view, she peered over the coping at the forecourt below. “That was before we were wed.” Her husky tones reached him clearly, but conveyed nothing more than her words. “It would be faster, I think, if we left the past behind and considered instead what we each wish of our marriage now.”
He was very ready to leave the past behind. “What we wish now?”
“Yes. So—what do you wish of me as your wife?”
She started to stroll again. He hesitated, watching her hips sway, then fell in again at her heels. Her question was reasonable, sensible. Her tack was rationality incarnate. The wooden planks were firm under his feet—so why did he feel he was walking on thin ice?
“My requirements haven’t changed—I need you to fill the role of my countess, which you’re patently well able to do. I need you to provide me with heirs, meaning two, so there’s no chance of Osbert inheriting. Beyond that, your life will be yours to live as you wish.”
She said nothing for sometime, walking slowly ahead of him, then she softly echoed, “As I wish.”
He wished he could see her face, her eyes. He could tell very little from her voice, other than it wasn’t as strong as usual.
“Tell me, my lord.” She stopped beside the parapet and looked down.
He stopped a few feet away, watching her.
“Are you saying that, beyond the bearing of your heirs, I will not need to be faithful?”
The thought rocked him. It took him some time to formulate an answer, one he could force himself to say. “I am not encouraging you to be unfaithful, but if, after providing me with the necessary heirs, you wish to develop liaisons, that will be entirely up to you.”
“Provided I was discreet.”
He thought he saw her lips lift wryly as she turned away and started strolling again. “I would expect my countess always to be discreet.”
“And you? Will you always be discreet in pursuing the liaisons I assume you wish to be free to pursue?”
There were always whispers, rumors. “To the best of my ability, I am always discreet.”
“But I—you expect me to always succeed in being discreet.” Before he could answer, she continued, “Tell me, my lord, when would this mutual discretion of ours start?”
He frowned. “Once you’ve given me the heirs I require—”
“I do not think that is a viable option. Who knows how many girls you may sire? I may never get a chance to exercise my discretion, although I’m quite sure you will be exercising yours.”
He wasn’t about to discuss that point, and he was getting very tired of talking to her back.
“I do not think that is fair. What I propose is that we both agree to remain faithful until such time as we are satisfied I’m carrying your child. From that agreed date, we go our separate ways, until I’m delivered of the child. Then, once again, we return to faithfulness, and so on, until you have your heirs. Once that point is reached, we will both henceforth be free to pursue whatever liaisons and discreet connections we please.”
He stopped walking.
He hadn’t realized the barbarian was so close to his surface. He was suddenly very glad she was facing the other way. Hands clenched at his sides, he struggled to contain his reaction. It took him a good minute to suppress the reactive rage, the instinctive urge to roar “No!”
It took another thirty seconds before he could say, “If that’s what you wish.”
She heard the change, the undercurrent of violence in his voice. She halted, stiffened; her head rose. Then she spoke in a tone he had not before heard from her. “I have desires, needs, and requirements of my own that you have chosen not to fulfill within our marriage. I’m merely ensuring that while fulfilling your requirements, I’ll be able to pursue my own goals.”
Abruptly, she swung to face him, head high, her expression reflecting a determination as stubborn as his own. “That is my requirement of our marriage. I do not think it’s one you can refuse.”
Her eyes were brilliant but screened. The distance between them had grown to several yards; he was content that it was so. It took every ounce of control he possessed to remain still, to stop himself reaching for her, to stop himself . . .
When he could trust himself to move that much, he inclined his head. “Very well, madam. We have an agreement.”
If his clipped tones bothered her, she gave no sign. Coolly, she inclined her head back, then turned and strolled on to the second tower’s door. “I imagine breakfast will be served soon.”
He had to breathe deeply before he could say, “If you wish, you may remain in our apartments.” He started after her. “No one will be counting on seeing us this morning, or even today.”
Opening the door, she turned as he neared. Her gaze touched his, then shifted past him. One brow arched, her expression calmly considering. Then she shook her head, turned, and stepped into the tower. “I do not think hiding is a good idea. I believe I had best start out as I mean to go on.”
Holding the door, Gyles watched her cross the tower room and start down the stairs. Not once did she glance back. Stepping over the threshold, he closed the door, and followed her down the stairs.
She’
d agreed to be everything he wished for in a wife. Within an hour, he’d been put on notice that she could, and would, deliver on her side of their agreement handsomely.
Why that left him so grumpy he couldn’t understand. Perhaps because it meant that, once she was pregnant, coping with the practicalities of being his countess was clearly not going to challenge her enough to distract her from pursuing her own, currently unstated goals.
Not that he needed to hear them stated—he could guess what they were.
While he sat at the head of the breakfast table, coffee cup in hand, and lent a deaf ear to one of his great-uncle Mortimer’s war stories, Gyles inwardly kicked himself for agreeing to anything. At the other end of the table, separated from him by sixteen interested elderly relatives, his wife serenely dispensed calm and gracious order along with cups of tea.
Francesca could feel his gaze on her, could sense his disaffection with the bargain they’d struck. It wasn’t the bargain she’d wished for, but it was a bargain she’d accept. She hadn’t been sure he would agree to her proposal, her alternate plan, but now he had, they both knew where they stood, and it was simply a matter of getting on with life.
And reconciling herself to second best.
“Well, my dear—or should I say ‘my lady’?”
Francesca looked up to see Charles smiling down at her as he drew out the chair beside her. The distant cousin who had filled it had just departed to oversee her packing.
“Uncle.” Impulsively, she stood and kissed Charles’s cheek.
He beamed and patted her hand. “So, all’s well with you?”
“Indeed.” With a quick smile, Franceca sat. As Charles took his seat, she glanced around. “Is Ester coming down?”
“Shortly.” Charles flicked out the napkin a footman handed him. “Franni’s still asleep.”
“Asleep?” Franni was usually up at daybreak.
“We had to dose her last night. She wouldn’t quiet without it.”
Franni sometimes needed laudanum when she became overwrought. Francesca nibbled her toast while Charles made his selection from the platters the footmen offered.
All About Passion Page 15
