The Seduction of Sara

by Karen Hawkins

  Sara longed to reach out and trail her fingers through his hair, to touch the bold lines of his mouth, to brush her lips across his unshaven cheek. But she dared not; he would welcome no hint of affection from her now.

  Nick stirred restlessly, his brow furrowed. His face was pale beneath his tan, his hands tightening about the arms of the chair until the knuckles shone. The demons were in full force.

  Sara took a step closer. “Nick,” she said softly, “you must get into bed.”

  His eyes opened to a slit, the hard blue gleam startling between the thick lashes. “I told you to leave.”

  “No, you ordered me to leave. I don’t take orders well.”

  His mouth curved into a sneer. “Which is why I was left with no choice but to wed you.”

  Although she should have expected such a reaction, the words stung. She cleared her throat. “You should be in bed.”

  “I don’t want to be in bed. I want to be left alone.” He raised his head, his mouth white. “This is my fight, Sara, my problem. Not yours.” She didn’t answer and he sighed. “It is already easing, or I wouldn’t be in this chair. I just need another day, and then I shall return home.”

  “Surely there is medicine—”

  “No!” He winced at his own raised voice, dropping his head back against the chair once again. “Damn it, Sara, I don’t want anything or anyone. I just want to be left alone.”

  Sara’s frustration began to simmer. Here she was, trying to help the man, and all he did was order her about. “You, sir, are an ungrateful devil and a coward.”

  He turned slowly to face her, his hair a warm gold in the dim light. “What did you say?”

  “I said you were an ungrateful devil.”

  “And?” he prompted softly, his eyes unnaturally bright.

  Pushing Nick when he was ill was pure madness, but his refusal to accept her assistance angered her—as if she were too unimportant to be bothered with. She’d had enough of that with Julius, and she wouldn’t allow it to happen again. She lifted her chin. “I said you were a coward.”

  He was out of his chair and facing her in the beat of a heart. His eyes blazed down at her. “Say it again,” he said softly, the threat heavy.

  She squared her jaw. “You are afraid of this illness. I can see it in your eyes. I just don’t know why.”

  He grabbed her by the arm and stalked toward the bed, yanking her along behind him.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded, her heart pounding furiously.

  His grip tightened and he increased his pace. Fear chaining her feet, she stumbled on the edge of the rug. Nick gave a muffled curse, then picked her up and tossed her onto the mattress.

  Sara scrambled madly for the edge of the bed, but he was too quick. The weight of his body forced the air from her lungs and she lay caught, his large, warm body pinning her into the softness.

  His mouth touched her temple, his breath hot on her skin. “You wanted me in bed, and by God, that’s where you’ll have me.”

  “Get off me,” she responded through clenched teeth. “This is ridiculous. All I did was request that you get in bed because you are ill.”

  “Ah, to be blessed with such a caring and tender wife.” His voice brushed her ear, hard and unforgiving. “It isn’t a very natural role for you, Sara. Find another.”

  His sneer fired her anger to new heights. “Damn you, Nick! I’d appreciate it if you would move so that I can breathe.”

  His weight shifted slightly to one side, but his body still pinned her down. “There. Are you better now, dearest wife?”

  Sara hated the way he said the words, as if they tasted foul. “What do you want?”

  He lifted a strand of her hair and rubbed it against his cheek. “If I must go to bed, then it will be with my lusty wife. I’m glad you didn’t arrive last night, when I would have been unable to oblige your demands.”

  Sara sighed and ceased struggling. “Nick, I was just trying to alleviate your headache.”

  “How? By giving me an ache somewhere else?” He moved against her suggestively, and she could feel his arousal against her hip. Her body warmed instantly.

  His gaze darkened. “If you must doctor me, then tend me where you can do the best good.” A sensual smile flickered in his eyes, and he whispered huskily, “I should not be doing this, but I no longer care. Besides, who am I to refuse such a compelling woman?”

  “What you need is good food and rest. You’ve been working much too hard on the Hall.”

  His smile curved slowly. “If you want me to stay in bed, Sara, then you will have to entertain me.”

  She looked at the tempting line of his mouth, at the masculine strength of his throat, and she burned for him. Heavens, but he was enticing, and he was finally saying all the things she’d wanted him to say for the past week. But he was ill, she reluctantly reminded herself. “If you must be entertained, then I’ll find some cards for you to while away the time.”

  “I’d rather while away my time with you, madam. And on you.” He nuzzled her neck and murmured, “And in you.”

  Surely this couldn’t be good for him. Though she knew she should refuse him, her ability to do so was melting with each word.

  He cupped one breast through her dress, sending hot shivers to her stomach. “Ah, Sara. You smell heavenly; all fresh and spicy, like a walk through a summer garden after a rain.” His lips touched her throat, and tremors raced through her.

  His other hand slowly pulled up her skirt. The fine material slid along her leg, inching past her calf, where he finally slipped his hand beneath. His fingers were unnaturally hot as they skimmed her leg, her thigh. He found her most secret place, his long fingers opening the folds and touching her in a way that made her arch against him.

  She was on fire. She yearned for him, ached for him deep within. He kissed her cheek with the softest of touches, his mouth leaving a damp trail as he traced a line to her ear. His breath fluttered against her earlobe and sent a deluge of delicious shivers through her. He was slow, deliberate, his intent all too clear—he meant to make her crazy with desire, and then he’d take her, slake his pain in the ecstasy of their lovemaking.

  And why not? Why not use this method that gave them both such pleasure? If it gave him respite for an hour or two, it was the least she could do.

  He unlaced her gown, and before she knew it, he had her bare before him. She touched his face, gently smoothing away the lines about his mouth, then she tugged at his shirt. Without a word, he stripped. Sara ran her hands over his hot skin, kissing his throat, his chin.

  His hand cupped her breast again. “Look at me, Sara.”

  She opened her eyes. He was so incredibly beautiful, his golden skin damp with perspiration, his blue eyes vivid. Holding her gaze, he dropped his mouth to her breast and laved the peak, his hands now stroking higher, up her thigh, returning to the taut core of her womanhood.

  She gasped, her head thrown back. Nick soaked in the sight of Sara’s face as she gave herself to the passion. Her face flushed, her eyes glistened, her face softened with wonder.

  He covered her mouth with his and kissed her softly, deeply, mingling his soul with hers. Thank God she hadn’t come until this morning, after the unholy terror of the night had passed. But this…this was madness. Yet he was beyond caring, beyond anything other than the feel of this moment, this second. He lifted himself and poised above her, his hands tangled in her midnight black hair. “Love me, Sara. Let me come in.”

  Her thighs widened and she held him close. Nick lowered himself into her slowly, so slowly that she moaned her impatience. He held still, savoring his entry, reveling in the heat and tightness. Suddenly, he could take it no more and he pushed deep within, cupping her closer to him, losing himself inside her silken softness. Her eyes widened and she gasped, her body clenching about him. He ground his teeth against the waves of pleasure she gave him, losing himself in the onslaught of sensation. The silky tug yanked him over the edge, and he climaxed deep
inside her.

  For a long moment he lay there, absorbing her softness, her warmth. Then realization of what he’d done crept into his awareness. Dear God, no. What the hell had he been thinking? Cursing his own weakness, he forced himself upright, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He dropped his head into his hands. “Damn.”

  Sara lifted herself onto her elbow, and her voice instantly filled with concern. “Oh, no. Did it make your headache worse?”

  He glanced back at her, then could not look away. Her hair was tangled about her shoulders in a midnight cloud, her face flushed. A soft light shone in her pale blue eyes, her face alight with worry.

  Surely one mistake would not be a disaster. After all, she’d been married to Julius for three years and had not gotten pregnant. Relief washed over him at the thought, and he managed to shake his head. “Actually, my headache is almost gone.” And it was true—the pain was still there, but distant now, a mere memory of what it had been.

  “Almost?” She frowned and he could tell her mind was working furiously. “Nick, perhaps physical exertion is good for you.”

  It was possible, he supposed; he’d never really tried it. As he wondered if perhaps she was right, her hand slipped into his lap and found his manhood. It leapt to life at her touch, growing harder as her fingers tightened about him. “Nick,” she said softly. “If our first try didn’t rid you of all your pain, then perhaps once more would completely cure you.”

  She stroked him and Nick had to bite his lip to keep from moaning aloud. She was erotic and yet innocent, the combination as intoxicating as brandy. And he was addicted—he craved her, desired her, wanted her with every breath he took.

  Yet the thought of her face when she realized he was too weak to fight the pain by himself, of what she’d think of him when he finally had to turn to laudanum for relief, made him cringe inwardly. He could bear a lot of things, even the loss of Hibberton Hall and his own pride. He could accept the loss of everything but her.

  He took Sara’s hand from his groin and placed it above her head. Then he captured her other hand and held it there as well. She immediately rubbed her hips against his, her nakedness brushing over his manhood in a way that made him grit his teeth. “Sara, stop. We can’t do this.”

  She looked at him and smiled, thrusting her hips toward him again. “Why not?”

  “Because I said so.” He placed a quick kiss on her forehead, released her, and rolled out of bed. He must be crazed to have taken this as far as he had. He yanked on his trousers, pulled his shirt over his head, and grabbed his boots, feeling guilty.

  “Nick.” Sara’s voice was low and husky, the voice of a woman who wanted to be touched. “Please come back to bed.”

  He kept his back to her and fastened his breeches. He didn’t trust himself to even look at her. “Not now.” He heard a rustle from the bed as if she had moved to the edge.

  “Nick, I—”

  “Get dressed, Sara.” He dropped a quick kiss on her hair, then left, closing the door behind him.

  Out in the hallway he paused, his hand still on the doorknob, his heart aching worse than his head ever had. He rested his forehead against the smooth wooden door and closed his eyes. God help him, he was becoming too attached to Sara, his happiness too involved in hers. It would be better for them both if they maintained their distance, coming together for mutual pleasure and no more.

  He should not have allowed her to muddle his thinking, but he’d been powerless to resist her. And once he’d had her in his bed, he’d been unable to let her go. He craved her fiercely; his every waking thought was tangled up with images of her. Was it simply because of her proximity day in and day out? Or was it more?

  Though he’d thought it would have the opposite effect, the fact that she now belonged to him made her all the more entrancing. He’d never thought of marriage as an erotic experience, but it was, intensely so—Sara’s every move, the timbre of her voice, the fresh scent of her skin, the thick tangle of her hair—they belonged to him and no one else. To his shock, he was discovering he was a possessive man.

  He closed his eyes as a massive rope of tightness banded about his throat and threatened to stop his breathing. His headache had melted during their lovemaking, but now it returned, pounding through his brain. He had to resist her. And if he could not, then he would leave her.

  For Nicholas Montrose, there was no middle road. There never had been.

  Chapter 19

  A week later, Anthony Elliot, the Earl of Greyley, climbed out of his carriage and turned toward the house he’d rented for his stay in Bath. It was well built and free from the frills found in most Bath architecture, so he was considering purchasing it, if the owner could be convinced. After all, Sara was established here now, and it would be convenient to have a permanent residence nearby.

  He walked up the steps to the front door. It had been three weeks since Sara had married. Marcus and he had taken turns going to visit her, reporting back on what they found. Yesterday it had been his turn, and the visit had unsettled him.

  Sara had been pale and restless, her thoughts far away. But it had been her expression when Bridgeton walked into the room that had caused Anthony to wince. Whether she knew it or not, Sara was in love. Worse, it was obvious from the longing glance she turned toward her husband that she didn’t believe that love reciprocated.

  Anthony balled his hand into a fist. What had Marcus been thinking in arranging the marriage? Hell, what had he been thinking? He should have put his foot down and prevented the whole damnable match.

  The door opened as he reached the landing, and he passed his coat and hat to the waiting butler, then turned to the study.

  “My lord,” the butler said. “Lady Bridgeton arrived a half hour ago.”

  Sara? A sense of foreboding engulfed him as he crossed the foyer and entered the sitting room. Sara stood before the fire, her arms wrapped around her as if she was trying to ward off a chill. Her mind was obviously far away for she hadn’t heard him enter, but continued to stare with unseeing eyes at the flickering fire.

  Anthony noted the delicate shadows beneath her eyes. What had Bridgeton done to his sister? He took a step forward. “Sara?”

  She started. “Oh, I didn’t see you! How long have you been there?”

  “I just came in.” He regarded her closely. “I take it this isn’t a social call.”

  She managed a wan smile. “I need your advice, Anthony.”

  For God’s sake, his advice would be to walk away from the bastard and never look back. Still…Anthony looked into his sister’s eyes and saw tears welling. “Of course,” he said hastily. “Come and sit down.” He waited until she took a chair and then he sank into the one opposite. “Sara, what has happened?”

  She took a shuddering breath. “This is so awkward. But I must talk to someone and…Anthony, I need to ask you something very—”

  “Perhaps you should speak to Aunt Delphi?” Anthony said, alarmed.

  “I thought of her, but she’s been acting so unusual lately.”

  Anthony had noticed that himself. Bloody hell, he was surrounded with teary-eyed females, and there wasn’t a drop of decent brandy in the house. “Aunt Delphi is probably just missing you.”

  “I think it is more than that,” Sara said with a watery smile. “But I cannot ask her to help me with my problems when she obviously has her own. I also thought about asking Anna for advice, but—”

  “No,” he said vehemently. “That blasted woman doesn’t know a damn thing about men.” Not that she’d admit such a thing; women like Anna Thraxton never admitted they weren’t an expert on any topic.

  “Her experience is rather limited in this area, so I—” Sara bit her lip. “I thought perhaps you could assist me.”

  Anthony braced himself. “What is the problem? I assume we are talking about Bridgeton.”

  “Yes, and I would appreciate it if you would put your dislike of him aside.” She suddenly stood and paced a short dista
nce away, then returned, her movements jerky and unsettled. “Anthony, I need to understand how men think.”

  Well, that didn’t seem too difficult. “Oh?”

  “Nick…wants me.”

  “Wants—” Surely she didn’t mean—

  “I can tell that he does. He touches me all the time and—”

  “Good God,” he muttered.

  Sara looked at him. “What?”

  “Nothing,” he said hastily. “Go on.”

  She eyed him uncertainly. “Very well. Nick wants me, but he’s decided not to…to…” She floundered to a halt and the tears that threatened in her eyes became reality. One, single drop slipped down her cheek.

  Bloody hell. Anthony raked a hand through his hair. “Do you mean to tell me that Bridgeton is not…er, fulfilling his husbandly duties?”

  She nodded miserably. “Oh, Anthony, what am I to do?”

  He closed his eyes. God above. He was a decent man, one who took his responsibilities seriously. He was a good friend, an excellent landlord, and he never cheated at cards, unless it was with one of his own brothers. What had he done to deserve this?

  “I knew I shouldn’t have asked you,” Sara said, her voice quavering. She pulled a handkerchief from her reticule and mopped her eyes. “Never mind; I’m sorry I bothered you—”

  “Damn it, Sara, you haven’t bothered me at all,” Anthony snapped. “Sit back down while I think this through.” If he didn’t help her, she’d go to that Thraxton woman, and heaven knew what hare-brained advice she might give.

  Sara’s eyes brightened. “You’re thinking?”

  “Don’t look so surprised.” She had the grace to smile a little, and he relaxed. “Now sit.” He pointed to the chair she’d abandoned. She obediently came and perched on the edge, her gaze glued to his face.

  Anthony seriously wished he’d had a drink. Hell, two would be better. “You’ll have to give me more details. Has Bridgeton ever…” He gestured vaguely, not quite believing he was having this conversation.

  She turned a bright pink, a dreamy expression softening her eyes. “Oh, yes.”