When She Said I Do

by Celeste Bradley

  He hadn’t cared. Why would he want to live in the world? To frighten children and make pretty girls scream at the sight of him? To make the local villagers twitch their fingers against the evil eye when they were forced by necessity to make deliveries to his cellar and his larder?

  His hand dropped to his side and he gazed at his entire face.

  Good morning, Mrs. Porter. How did you sleep last night, bedded in with your lurching Caliban of a husband?

  One swift step brought him close enough to send his fist into the mirror, smashing the glass and cracking the elderly wooden frame into three pieces. As he placed his hand on the latch of his bride’s chamber door, Ren noticed his bleeding knuckles.

  More scars for his collection.

  * * *

  “Keep washing.” The deep voice came from the doorway behind Callie, sending a jolt of surprise through her. She sensed him moving across the room toward her but kept her gaze on the small blue and gold flames darting through the coals of the fire.

  “Keep washing.”

  Slowly she bent to wet her cloth, then raised her arms to wring it, letting the rivulets flow down them to trickle over her body. The drops of hot water struck her chilled skin and she shivered at the contrast.

  Then she ran the cloth over her arms to her shoulders and the back of her neck. A large warm hand covered hers there, taking the cloth from her.

  “Allow me.”

  The gracious phrase did not have the ring of a request.

  Command.

  For the second time that day, he bathed her. The warm cloth moved over her back, around to her belly, over her breasts, between her legs. Callie writhed slightly at his thoroughness. Why was this so much more intimate, more invasive, than his shocking exploration of her body last night?

  Perhaps it was the tender care he took, or the way he swept her hair off the nape of her neck with one hand while he washed it with the other, or the way his warm exhalation tickled her ear when he reached around her from behind and she heard his breath catch as he slid both wet hands over her skin.

  The night wrapped hushed about them. The house hovered silently over them like a protective shell, shutting out the world and its noise and bother, leaving only the soft shush of the washcloth on her skin and the crystalline pings of the water dripping back into the washbowl and the breathless thundering of Callie’s heartbeat in her ears.

  It was arousal, yes, most definitely, but it was so much more—it was the way he spread her fingers to wash carefully between, as if she were a tiny child, and the way he cupped her chin in his warm fingers as he turned her cheek toward him to remove a smudge she’d missed.

  When he put down the washcloth and picked up her hairbrush, Callie felt her throat close at the considerate, careful strokes of the bristles through her tangled hair.

  She relaxed into the brush, sitting silent and naked with the fire warming her skin in front and Mr. Porter’s large presence warming her from behind. He kept on, stroke after stroke, long after her hair was shining and tangle-free.

  She’d not known she needed such a thing until it was given to her. She’d not realized how the long years of nurturing others had kindled a deep and silent ache to be cosseted and cared for.

  He had known. Mr. Porter must surely understand the arid lack of such in her life, or he would not handle her thus.

  The poor man.

  The poor, kind, good man.

  “I like it when you are naked. I like it even better when you are naked and wet.”

  Perhaps “good” wasn’t precisely the right description.

  Yet Callie felt not even the slightest shiver of fear. He had saved her life today. The ladder … well, he clearly didn’t believe her, but once she’d worked the shaking out of her knees, she’d realized she could hardly think him guilty of endangering her and in the same breath thank heaven he’d been there to catch her!

  Quite frankly, if he gave her the slightest encouragement to accost him, she would have him down on the carpet in a heartbeat, showing him exactly how much his thoughtfulness meant to her.

  Slowly, now. Mustn’t frighten the wary wild thing away.

  If she waited, patiently—well, stubbornly, anyway—and pretended a passivity she didn’t feel, he would show himself to her.

  Oh, not the hood. She had no hope of that anytime soon. No, he revealed himself with the way he touched her. The sensation of being touched with such longing and deep, aching need was most exhilarating. Especially now that she knew that not only would he not harm her, but that he would go to great lengths to protect her.

  So when he held out the shimmering little symbol of their bargain, she took the pearl upon her tongue and closed her eyes.

  He stood and, taking her hand, brought her to stand up before him. The heat radiating from his body surrounded her, soothing and burning at the same moment.

  “You belong to me, Mrs. Porter. For this little while, you are mine. I have bought you.”

  Callie nodded, lowering her head in submission. The rough emphasis in his voice when he said the word “mine” … a streak of hot fire went through her at his intensity. It was a heady combination, this mingled excitement and trust, anticipation and faith. What might have been frightening became intense and stimulating. What might have shrunken her soul with fear became glowing and empowering. To be wanted the way this man wanted her … she’d never thought to know such a thing!

  She wondered if she would want him the same when she had him in her grasp at last. She heard the rustle of fabric and knew that he had removed his hood. His face …

  One really shouldn’t care about superficial things like that … yet, didn’t she revel in his lust for her body? Didn’t she want to be wanted? Surely he wanted to be wanted, as well?

  Oh. Oh, my. It was as though the key to him fell into her hands as she stood compliant at his command. He wanted her to want him … so he thought to make her want him so intensely, to taunt her body so wild with lust, that she wouldn’t care about his damaged face and form.

  The sharp bite of sympathy went through her. Not pity. He was too powerful and intimidating to truly stir her pity. Yet, to be so sure one was unworthy of love … to think that manipulation and extortion was the only way … it was just bloody heartbreaking, that’s what it was!

  She felt him lean in even closer. The crisp, clean scent of him was quite astonishing. Her rigid nipples brushed the silk of his dressing gown.

  They stood so close they were almost one.

  He leaned closer yet … and softly kissed her neck.

  The exquisite tenderness of it quite took Callie’s breath away. Oddly, her eyes stung behind her closed lids as he trailed a line of small, warm kisses down her throat and then up the other side of her neck to her jaw.

  She turned her head instinctively, seeking to meet his lips with her own. She felt him draw back.

  “Be very still.”

  Yes, he liked her to remain still. She would obey. She would be as still as a hunting cat in the dusk.

  He kissed her cheek, then her temple, where his breath stirred the tiny hairs at her brow. He kissed below her ear and then traveled back, tilting her head down to kiss the back of her neck, moving around her slowly, working his mouth, now softer and warmer, now hot and wet, around the back of her neck and out along the ridge of one shoulder.

  Then he came to stand in front of her again. This time when he kissed her throat, she lifted her chin and leaned slightly into his kiss. She couldn’t help herself. How was she supposed to feel when from the darkness came soft, tender lips and hot, tracing tongue and gently nibbling teeth? He was fair to driving her mad and he’d not yet shifted below her collarbone!

  And then he did, dipping down her sternum until his lips pressed directly between her breasts.

  Oh, yes. Yes, please. Please …

  Then his mouth, seeking slowly, found her nipple at last.

  Where before she’d experienced the demanding intensity of his hands, it had in n
o way prepared her for his mouth.

  * * *

  Fierce. Urgent.

  Oh, Sweet Charlotte’s Arse! Oh, the heat! The swirling tongue and the way his teeth brushed gently across her hardening nipple, the way he sucked her in, deeper. A cry escaped her lips, wordless and wild. She could feel his need as he fed upon her …

  A hot throb of wetness erupted between her thighs and her knees wobbled.

  His response was to wrap both his big hands about her rib cage and pull her up, arching her back to bring her breasts to his seeking hot volcanic mouth.

  She rose to stand on tiptoe, with no fear of falling whilst in his hot urgent grasp. Her head fell back in complete submission while he sucked first one nipple, then the other—sucked, licked, nibbled, sucked again, harder as she felt her nipples swell and spring forward as if begging for more. She would have begged as well, had not the pearl in her mouth kept her silent.

  Ren could not get enough. He slid his hands down her smooth back to grasp her bottom hard. Lifting her, he sat her upon the vanity to more easily avail himself of those lush, white mounds. He moved between her widened knees in order to feast upon her.

  His bride tasted of salt and rosemary, of sweet creamy virgin and wicked temptress. Inflamed, he squeezed her bottom hard, making her gasp and wiggle in his gasp. God, he wanted to devour her, to consume her, to engulf her until there was nothing left of him.

  Bending, he dropped his mouth down to the soft pale curve of her belly, to the saucy flare of each hip, to the peach-and-cream perfection of her open thighs. There was no stopping.

  Almost kneeling before her now, he kissed his way up from each knee, her skin getting warmer as he moved higher, warm and damp and then the sweet-salt taste of her desire upon her inner thighs.

  No, he dared not. If he plunged his starving tongue into that sugared, tangy delicacy, he would not stop until he’d ravaged her body in every imaginable way. Twice.

  Dizzy lust almost overwhelmed him at the thought.

  No. He was too hot, too wild tonight. Control … he’d meant to exert control.

  So, with agonizing restraint, he planted one fervent, promising kiss upon the short damp curls of her mound, and then he took a single agonizing step back.

  Oh, no. Not again.

  Chapter 9

  Callie couldn’t believe it. Again Mr. Porter brought her to such a damp and throbbing arousal and again he meant to leave her like this?

  I am going to make him pay for this somehow. Gone were her sympathetic leanings. She was near tears of sheer frustration.

  Mr. Porter, I’m going to make you moan and ache and writhe … and then I’m going to step back and let you sit cold and empty and alone!

  The door closed. Callie opened her eyes. The first thing she noticed was that he’d knocked the little shell bowl from the vanity in his want. Her pearls were spilled across the floor. Two pearls. She opened her mouth and removed the third.

  When exactly did he plan to consummate their bizarre bargain? Perhaps upon the tenth pearl? The twentieth? A celebration of the first hundred?

  Oh, blast, what a terrifying thought.

  * * *

  Ren strode down the hall, cursing himself and her and then, abruptly, rejoicing in the memory of the taste of her sweet flesh.

  Bloody hell, he’d never wanted someone so, not even his fiancée, Lisbeth.

  Odd. He’d dwelled upon the pain of Lisbeth’s rejection for so long … and yet in this moment, he could not quite put a hand upon that formerly ready pain.

  He’d been so enamored of Lisbeth’s doe eyes and shy smile … although she’d not been shy at all, he realized now. He’d been too young and stupid to know then that he was being hunted most professionally. She’d laughed at his poor jests and beamed up at him with those large soulful eyes, and when he really thought about it, she’d never really said much about herself, never really said much of anything, except how wonderful/brave/interesting he was.

  Nothing like his bride. Irritating Calliope wouldn’t shut up. All she did was talk about that bloody family of hers.

  Except when he put a pearl in her mouth. Then she became something else, something soft and malleable in his hands. At that moment she wasn’t his outrageous, outspoken, unconventional bride, she was … she was whatever he wished her to be.

  Every man’s dream, no doubt. And he’d created this creature. He’d designed it.

  He was beginning to hate it.

  How could he have been so witless? If a man wanted nothing more than willingness, he could pay for it—although Ren couldn’t bear the thought of a whore’s reluctant exercises whilst hiding her revulsion.

  But Calliope’s willingness was based on something strange and wrong. He’d extorted this from her, taking advantage of the impossible position her family had put her in. That he had put her in, damn it.

  This twisted perversion of passion wasn’t good for her. He only hoped he hadn’t ruined her forever.

  Perhaps the only way to break her from this strange enchantment was to shock her out of it? She was so compliant … what would it take to make her push him away?

  Suddenly, bitterly, perversely, he felt the need to discover that limit. She would leave him someday soon anyway.

  Why not discover what would really drive her away from Amberdell?

  * * *

  The next morning, Callie had scarcely reached the bottom of the stair when the knocker on the great door startled her into flinching.

  Goodness, she’d nearly forgotten there were other people in the world!

  The parcel she was given at the door was a gift, a great jar of crystallized ginger. “Oh, dear,” Callie murmured. There was no signature on the card, although the handwriting seemed familiar.

  “I despise candied ginger,” Mr. Porter said dismissively. “You may have it.”

  Callie gazed at the giant jar with dismay. “I can’t say I care for it, either,” she murmured to no one, for Mr. Porter, who had only emerged for a moment when the unaccustomed sound of voices in the hall had roused his interest, was already gone. Of course, the insufferable lout had waited until the post boy had left, taking Callie’s last penny with him.

  Now the silence of the house descended once more and Callie fought an unbearable urge to flee the place.

  Eyeing the ginger with her nose wrinkled, she let out a breath. “There must be two pounds of it in there, at least. A shameful waste.”

  Her gaze slid to the brilliant spring day visible through the open door. Another waste, that lovely day …

  Worthingtons were never wasteful.

  An hour later, Callie had on her spencer and her best bonnet and her feet under her. It had been quite fun, tying up portions of the gifted ginger into pretty little muslin packets and tying them with odd bits of ribbon from her workbasket. They made a cheery pile in the basket she carried over her arm and an even better excuse to visit the village and introduce herself there.

  It was more than a mile to the village. The day was crisp and sweet-smelling and the lane stretched out before and behind her. The great house was long out of sight and the village not yet near. Callie was entirely alone. No clamoring family. No brooding bridegroom.

  A short laugh of delight burst from her lips. To test the surety of such an unheard-of moment, she picked up her skirts and did a twirl in the middle of the lane.

  Heaven. It was as if she were the only person in the entire world!

  She dipped a deep, ironic curtsy to no one at all.

  Go on, fellow, grab your girl.

  Take her hand and let her whirl!

  If she comes back, then dance you on.

  If she don’t, then hell, she’s gone!

  Take the next one, she might do.

  If she won’t, then take you two!

  Callie was none too sure of the words of the bawdy country dance but once upon a rainy evening, Cas and Poll had entertained them all performing such dances. Poll had looked most fetching in Callie’s old dress, al
though Ellie had later complained that he’d distorted her best bonnet by shoving it down on his big fat head.

  Now Callie spun and dipped and curtsied to her happy solitude, laughingly mangling the bawdy song until she had to stop, gasping and grinning in the sunlight.

  “Idiot,” she admonished herself fondly. When she’d caught her breath, she spared a moment to pin her hair back up properly and to brush some of the dust from her hem.

  Then, very lady-of-the-manor, she made her way sedately down the lane. The only remaining sign of her silliness was a small, beribboned packet fallen deep in the high grass on the bank.

  Slowly, at a pace guaranteed not to catch up to a strolling pedestrian, a horse’s giant black hooves clopped down the lane. When they reached the bright bauble left behind, they stopped.

  Ren gazed down at the pretty parcel, but in his mind all he could see was the woman, skirts picked up high to reveal sweetly turned ankles and calves and the occasional maddening glimpse of ivory thigh, dancing and laughing in the light of day.

  Callie’s high spirits did not last past the first glimpse of the village of Amberdell. It was a pretty enough place—the quintessential English spot, just prosperous enough to be proud, but not a center of industry. The nexus of activity was of course the high street, with its handful of essential shops and a smithy.

  It wasn’t the village itself that drained Callie’s good cheer as much as it was the way everyone in the village seemed to turn and gaze at her in the selfsame instant. Callie became abruptly aware of herself in a way she’d never quite felt before. It was as if she were being examined beneath a convex glass, the way Orion would magnify plants and insects for study. In London, the Worthingtons were considered eccentric, but that was genially tolerated due to their long acquaintance with, well … everyone. Callie was accustomed to a rather blithe disregard for opinion, bolstered by old family connections and the simple fact that in her family, she was considered quite unremarkable.