“Just one disappointment in what I suspect will be many,” he said, and moved away from her, his body stiff with anger.
Amelia watched him in disbelief.
“Not your first lovers’ spat already?” Maggie asked, coming up beside her.
“If I must spend my life walking on eggshells, this is going to be an extremely contentious marriage,” Amelia said darkly.
“What ever did you say to him now?”
“Me? Why do you assume I said something to him?”
Maggie smiled. “Because I cannot imagine Boone saying anything unkind to you,” she replied gently.
Amelia let out a puff of air. “I do believe he is upset that I love to dance, and asked him to partner me even though he explained that he does not know how.” Amelia pressed her lips together. “And I very well may have insinuated he looked more foolish not dancing at his wedding than he would dancing.”
“Oh, Amelia, you didn’t.”
Amelia gave her friend a mulish look. “I didn’t mean to sound quite so shrewish as it came out,” she said. “Honestly, the man is entirely too sensitive.”
“Of course he is, my dear. He’s fully aware you do not love him, that you would rather have returned home in complete ruin than marry him while he, himself, has fallen in love with you.”
“He hasn’t,” Amelia gasped.
“You cannot be that blind. The man looked like he might be ill when your entrance was delayed by only a few minutes.”
Amelia shook her head slowly, feeling true anguish at the thought that Boone loved her. “He cannot love me,” she said. “That only makes things far, far worse, you see.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“It’s only that I don’t love him at all,” she said not unkindly. “Not one bit.” Amelia looked up too, too late. She didn’t see the warning look on Maggie’s face, didn’t understand that hand upon her arm urging her to stop talking.
“Don’t worry,” Boone said, as if he were trying to ease her mind. “I already knew.” He even tried to smile.
Chapter 13
Boone went through the motions the rest of the day, smiling when he should, shaking men’s hands and slapping backs. He even kissed his new wife when the men, drunk on tequila and whiskey, started yelling for him to do so. He made it look good, too. He took her in his arms and crushed his mouth against hers, making her gasp in surprise as he thrust his tongue into her mouth. Then he smiled at her as if it was something he did every day, and pretended to enjoy the catcalls from the drunken men.
“That wasn’t very nice,” Amelia whispered harshly.
“Wasn’t supposed to be, darlin’.” He said it just as he’d heard his brother say it to her, and even pretended not to care when her face went deathly pale. The thing was, he wasn’t that man, he didn’t want to hurt her. He did love her and it killed him inside to know, without a doubt, that she didn’t love him, that she perhaps even pitied him for his love.
What an idiot. Two kisses and a wedding and he’d thought that maybe she loved him, maybe someone would finally love him. He cursed silently to himself, hating that he could be so pathetic.
“Give her time,” the countess had told him earlier when she’d pulled him aside. He pretended he didn’t care that his bride had told someone on her wedding day that she didn’t love him. He knew she wasn’t being purposefully cruel or hurtful when she’d said those words.
By the time the sun set, most of the men had gone to sleep off their drunk or to the hotel to keep it going. The only ones remaining were Lord Hollings and the countess, for they had nowhere else to go. The courtyard was a mess, and Three Legs was rooting along the ground, hoping to pick up a few scraps dropped from plates.
“That was one of the liveliest weddings I’ve ever attended,” Lord Hollings said heartily. “We don’t have this tequila in England. I could make a fortune importing it. Lovely stuff, this.”
“I think we should leave the tequila where it belongs,” Maggie said dryly. “I’m afraid you’re not used to it.”
“I am feeling a bit under the weather,” he said. His wife laid a hand on his arm and he looked down at her with such open devotion, it only made Boone more depressed. Clearly, the couple in front of him loved each other and didn’t care who knew.
“Our wedding was far more sedate, wasn’t it?” the countess asked.
“Wouldn’t have been if we’d had this,” Lord Hollings said, holding up his near-empty glass.
Maggie took it from him and set it on a nearby table. The other man shrugged goodnaturedly, then placed a rather sloppy kiss upon his wife’s mouth. She giggled, and led him toward the house, wishing the bride and groom a good night, leaving Amelia and Boone alone for the first time since they’d said their vows.
“It was a lovely wedding,” Amelia said softly.
“Was it?”
“Yes, it was. I thought so anyway.”
Boone let out a rough sound. “I find that hard to believe.”
She lifted up her chin. “Believe what you will. I’m going to bed.”
“Alone?” he asked harshly, and watched as she stiffened.
She looked back. “Not by choice.”
It took three strides to reach her, and she lifted her chin higher, only her eyes giving away the alarm she felt. “It was your choice to marry me. No one forced you to. You could have gone home. You should have gone home,” he said, letting his words hang in the cool night air. To his disgust, all he wanted to do was kiss her senseless. “But you didn’t.”
“No. I didn’t.”
“You should have,” he repeated, then turned away and walked into the inky black night, away from her, away from his mockery of a marriage.
Boone didn’t go far. After perhaps a hundred yards, he stopped and looked toward the distant mountains, black as sin against the night sky.
He’d known she didn’t love him, so why did it bother him so much? It was damned unmanning, but he couldn’t rid himself of the feeling. He couldn’t drink it away, that was for certain. He couldn’t slam his fist into a wall, he couldn’t scream out his rage. He could only keep it inside with all the other pain that was eating his gut, making his entire body shake with it.
He scuffed the dry dirt with his shoe, the only sound other than the distant noise from the hotel and the faint rustling of the prairie grass in the wind. He wondered what England would be like, with its cold, damp air, crowded villages made of stone, where the memories that haunted him would be so far away.
“It’s only that I don’t love him at all. Not one bit.”
She’d sounded sad. Amelia would. She was a kind person who likely felt awful that he’d overheard her rather brutal honesty. Not one bit.
He stood staring at the mountains for a long time, wondering whether he should stay away from his bride, give her a way out, a way home. If he didn’t touch her, their marriage could be quickly and cleanly annulled. She could go home, probably to face ruin, but no one would ever have to know she’d been married. He would stay here, carry on, live his life.
That thought was so bleak, he pushed it away. He didn’t want to lose her; he didn’t want her to leave him. He wanted her to stay even if she didn’t love him, even if she wasn’t happy. He wanted her for him. It was perhaps one of the most selfish thoughts he’d ever had in his life. He simply couldn’t bear the thought of his endlessly lonely existence if he let her go.
His marriage would be consummated; he would give her no escape.
Amelia sat in her bed, wondering if she was supposed to be sitting in his. And wondering if he would come to her at all, which made her decision to be in her own bed rather wise.
She’d turned her oil lamp down low and stared at her closed door, listening intently for sounds that would indicate he was coming to her.
She wasn’t sure whether she hoped he did or prayed he didn’t. All she knew was she felt terrible about what Boone had overheard. She wasn’t even certain whether it was the truth.
She didn’t dislike him. In fact, she liked him quite a bit. Each time she thought about his overhearing her talking with Maggie, she felt a physical pain. She might not love Boone, but she certainly would never intentionally hurt him, and it was obvious that she had.
Even after these weeks with him, he was such a stranger to her. She didn’t know what made him laugh or smile. She didn’t know whether he could sing or play an instrument. She didn’t know whether he enjoyed sweets or swimming or playing card games. She knew nothing of him, so how on earth was she supposed to know whether she loved him or not? And despite what Maggie said about Boone loving her, she truly didn’t know whether he did or not. She knew only that she had the capacity to hurt him.
Amelia realized she could not trust her own judgment in such matters as love. Hadn’t she thought Carson loved her? Of course, Carson had actually told her he loved her, and she’d believed it with all her heart. She had a feeling if Boone ever uttered those words to her, they would hold far more meaning.
The only thing she knew for certain was that her body loved it when he touched her. Or looked at her. Which was one reason she was sitting up in bed partly hoping he’d come to her.
They had kissed only a few times, but it was enough to know that his touch sent her nearly over the edge. It was disconcerting, to say the least. And rather nice.
She let out a puff of air and glanced at her lamp. She was debating whether to finally put it out and try to get some sleep, when her door opened. Boone stood there, a wild look about him, as if he’d been in a fierce wind storm and had just blown in. He stared at her, his eyes burning with an intensity she’d never seen, and she shivered beneath his gaze.
He entered the room without a word, slid the braces from his shoulders, and began unbuttoning his rumpled white shirt. He slipped it off, letting it fall to the floor, revealing a powerful chest lightly sprinkled with hair. Silently, he pulled off his shoes, then his pants and underclothes in one movement, leaving him completely naked and standing before her, staring at her.
He was clearly aroused, and Amelia flicked her eyes downward, curiosity overcoming her complete shock at seeing a man naked before her. Boone was a large man, even taller than Carson, but he seemed like a giant to her, standing unclothed in the shadowy lamplight in her tiny room.
She understood what happened to a man who was aroused, that his man parts grew larger and harder. But that was all she knew for certain.
“Take off your clothes.”
Amelia smiled. “You.” And she lifted her arms over her head to help him.
That one word seemed to act as a catalyst, for he was on her bed in a single stride, pulling her toward him with near violence. But instead of being frightened, Amelia threw her arms around his neck and welcomed him as he brought his mouth against hers in an almost desperate way. He fisted her nightgown in his hands and drew the garment over her head, tossing it aside, hardly breaking their kiss.
Ah, the feeling of skin against skin was an unexpectedly delicious sensation, and she let out a sound that she hardly recognized as coming from her. His body was so completely different from hers, his muscles hard and velvety beneath her seeking fingers.
“I’m going to touch you,” she said, then brought her hand boldly to his arousal and grasped it. His erection was quite fascinating, she realized, staring down at what she held. Hard and impossibly soft at the same time. He let out a groan that sounded almost pained, but Amelia knew better. He pushed her down onto the bed and covered her with his large body, pulling her close against the hard planes of his form. His hands stroked her from her neck to her thighs, learning her, molding her beneath him. And then he touched one breast, his eyes shining with lust. He stared at her breasts, touching her lightly with his fingertips, before he brought his mouth down upon one nipple and drew her into his mouth, almost as if he couldn’t stop himself. And he suckled her, causing such an exquisite feeling between her legs, she cried out.
He moved to the other breast, a starving man not knowing which delectable morsel to put in his mouth next. And then, while he made love to her breasts, one hand moved between her legs and it was her turn to groan aloud. Amelia arched up into his hand, mindless of her actions, only knowing that everywhere he touched made her feel such intense pleasure, she simply could not remain still.
She was wet between her legs, but she didn’t care. She only cared that he keep touching her there, oh, God, there. “There,” she said, gasping. And he did, he touched her and moved his hand against that perfect, wonderful spot. A finger slid into her, invaded her, filled her, and she only shook her head back and forth and begged him aloud not to stop, not to stop, because it felt too good. It felt as if she were going to scream.
And then she did, long and loud, her body arching, her toes curling, hips undulating, hands pulling his head up so she could taste him. Slowly, ever so slowly, she came back to herself, to the rather embarrassing realization that she’d acted rather unlike a lady in those last few moments.
She breathed into his neck, her hands on his slick back, and kissed his salty skin. “That was quite unexpected,” she said at last.
Still silent, he ravaged her mouth again with his, long, wet, drugging kisses, and Amelia wondered whether he’d been joking about his lack of experience. He certainly seemed to know precisely where to touch her, how to make her body catch fire.
Boone pushed himself up, so that his knees were between her bent legs, his arms straight down by her shoulders. He stared at her, not quite believing this responsive, beautiful woman was his. He didn’t care if she ever came to love him, as long as she gave him this.
All his dreams, all his fantasies, didn’t come close to the reality of having her beneath him, crying out with pleasure. He had to restrain himself, had to stop himself from licking and kissing and touching every inch of her. He was a starving man at the most sumptuous feast in creation, and he could not stop himself from wanting to devour every morsel. He hardly recognized the man he became with her, but he liked that man, liked his sureness, his confidence.
With one hand, he reached down for his member and guided it toward the junction of her thighs, not looking anywhere but at her lovely face. The tip of him entered her, hot and wet and perfect, and he thought he just might die from the pleasure of her heat. Gently, he pushed forward, his entire body trembling from the restraint it took not to simply thrust forward. He was so damned close already to that shattering release.
“It’s all right,” she said, and moved her hips slightly, giving him permission to push inside.
He did, closing his eyes against the most agonizingly intense pleasure he’d ever experienced in his twenty-eight years. She let out the smallest sound when he drove past her barrier and he kissed her face, over and over, her cheek, her mouth, her nose, as he buried himself deep inside his wife. His wife.
If he moved, it would be over, and he didn’t want it to be over. So he remained still, throbbing, hovering between pain and pleasure, letting them both get used to the feeling of him inside of her. He pushed up to see her face, and she smiled at him, and that was his undoing. He began thrusting, fiercely, his body taken over by raw need. Finally, he came, pushing his head down beside hers, letting himself flow into her, letting himself pulse until he realized he was still alive and lying with his wife.
He lay there, catching his breath, happier than he’d ever been in his life, happier by far than he’d ever thought he could be. She lay beneath him, her hands lightly caressing his sweat-slick shoulders.
Boone pulled out, already wondering when he could make love to her again.
“Wasn’t that wonderful?” she asked, sounding unsure, which was quite unlike her.
“Yes, ma’am. It sure was.”
And then, he got up and pulled on his pants and left, returning moments later with a wet cloth. He gently pulled down the covers that she must have pulled up, smiling a bit when he felt momentary resistance.
“Oh.” She looked entirely mortified that he
was going to wipe up the blood and semen drying on her inner thigh. “I hadn’t realized making love would be quite so messy.” He gently cleaned her and moved the covers over her naked body once again with a small amount of regret. He wished he had hours and hours just to stare at her, to memorize every curve, every tiny birthmark, every feminine bit of her.
“You’re all right?” he asked.
“Yes. Fine. Thank you.” She looked up at him, her blue eyes uncertain, and he wished it was different between them. He wished he could stay and hold her all night. But, of course, he couldn’t.
“Good night, then.”
He turned to go, the joy seeping away.
“Boone.”
She sounded rather exasperated, so he turned to her.
“Where are you going?”
“To bed. I’m beat.”
Her cheeks flushed slightly. “I thought, perhaps, we could sleep in the same bed.”
Boone swallowed, a slight bit of panic twisting his gut. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said slowly, as if saying the words that way would stop them from hurting her. “I don’t sleep well and I’d just keep you awake.”
She smiled briefly. “Certainly. I understand.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to stay here, it’s that…”
She held up her hand, her eyes flashing. “It’s fine, Boone. I understand. In fact, most couples do not share a bed at all. Ever. My own parents had separate rooms and it worked out wonderfully. They did have three children, after all.”
Boone stared at the floor. Why the hell was she doing this? Why was she making him love her even more? Part of him wanted to beg her to come with him to his bed, to lie next to him, to wrap her arms around him and keep the demons away. But he feared even she could not. Not only were his nightmares violent, he would sometimes wake up standing, punching the air, stalking around his room in confusion. He’d punched Carson more than once in his sleep when his brother came into his room to make sure he wasn’t endangering himself. Carson could take a punch; he was a big man. But Amelia. One punch could kill her.
Jane Goodger Page 18
