The Inconvenient Bride Series 1-3

by Sharon Ihle

  His words and the deliberately harsh way he'd said them were meant to scare her, to bully her into following his orders. Libby knew this without a doubt since she was, if only a little bit, frightened by his dark expression and the threats she saw glittering in his eyes. Instead of turning her away or giving her second thoughts, however, the sensation excited her, sending tiny shivers along her spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

  She moved a little closer to Donovan and gave him a long, slow smile. "Actually, I think I'd prefer it if you took the dress off—but try not to rip the material. It isn't mine, you know."

  With that remark, he did reach out and drag her into his arms, crushing the breath from her lungs in his fierce embrace. "Damn you, Libby—this isn't a game. Do you understand what you're asking for, looking the way you do in that dress, saying the things you're saying? Do you understand what you're doing to me at all?"

  Her pulse beat a rapid tattoo against her throat and she found it almost impossible to breathe, but Libby didn't hesitate with her answer. "I think," she murmured softly, "that maybe I do."

  "You don't give a man much of a chance to behave himself, do you." It wasn't a question. Donovan raised her up higher and tighter in his embrace, leaving just the tips of her toes beneath her for support. His arms rigid ropes of steel, his thighs and other parts of him, hot and hard where he pressed against her legs and belly, he caught her chin in one hand and forced her to look directly into his eyes.

  "Just exactly what is it you want from me?" Donovan asked, his voice no longer harsh, but thick and husky. "And this time, be sure you say exactly what you mean. Be very, very sure."

  All of your love, all of you, is what she caught herself thinking, but Libby still had barely enough control left to keep from vocalizing the thought. She almost said, "Nothing," because she knew he would never be hers, not even for one night if she were to ask for more than a few moments in his arms. But she couldn't keep from testing him just a little. Speaking in a breathless whisper, she asked, "What if I were to ask for... your soul?"

  Surprising her, Donovan uttered a short bitter laugh. "We wouldn't have a problem. I don't have one."

  The moment the last word was out, his mouth came down on hers, and in that moment, Libby felt as if she had everything she'd ever need right here in her arms.

  Chapter 12

  Libby's next lucid thought came when she realized she and Donovan were lying on the braided rug on the living room floor—and that she was wearing nothing but a pair of frilly drawers, black stockings, and the complicated corset Joy had talked her into donning. Given the way Donovan's fingers were tearing at the laces, she wouldn't be wearing it long. And then what? she wondered, gripped by a sudden attack of nerves.

  Aware that she'd tensed, Donovan stilled his hands. Then he looked up at her, his silvery blue eyes glittering wickedly in the pale moonlight, and whispered breathlessly, "I can still let you go, if you've changed your mind, but I have to warn you—this might be your last chance to get away. If you know what's good for you, you'll take it."

  Libby met his gaze with determination, hoping with all her heart that the room was dark enough to keep him from seeing the fear lurking there too. "I think I'm a better judge than you are of what's good for me. I happen to believe that staying right here might just be very, very good for me."

  "Libby... sweet Jesus." Her name and the way he said it was like an oath muttered in church, reverent blasphemy. He made a low rumbling noise in his throat, a sound akin to anguish, before giving her one final excuse to escape him. "I only hope you understand what's happening then, and that this is all I can give you. There won't be any promises of tomorrow or a future. Are you still so sure this is what you want?"

  Libby forced herself to take plenty of time before answering. What Donovan offered wasn't all she'd hoped for, not by a long shot, and yet she wanted him with a near desperation, needed him too much not to allow a few sacrifices. Besides, wasn't what he proposed the exact kind of relationship so many of her sisters in the cause recommended? "Free love," they shouted to any who'd listen, be free to love and free to leave. It was, supposedly, the only way for a woman even to admit that she cared for a man if she wanted to make any kind of a mark for herself in this society created for and by men.

  Shrugging off the last of her doubts, Libby looked Donovan right in the eye. "I understand what you mean completely. Now are you going to spend the rest of the night talking about what might happen, or do you think we could get to it?"

  With a short, guttural laugh, Donovan crushed his mouth down on hers, the tender violence of the kiss touching her soul even as it rocked her body with its impact. Nudging her teeth apart with his tongue, he drove her wild with his explorations, teasing, tasting, tormenting every erotic sensation she held within her grasp. In the midst of his ever-deepening, head-spinning kiss, Libby felt Donovan's hands slide along her shoulders and return to her corset. His fingers busy at the laces again, moments later they were busy at her breasts, sending her deeper into chaos. Libby whimpered a little as his hands touched her nipples, caressing and worshipping them as if he'd never held such glorious treasures in his palm before. When his mouth followed suit, his sinful tongue exploring and laving her breasts even more thoroughly than her mouth, the sensations set off skyrockets within her, rivaling the display at the Savage mansion. Instinctively arching her back, she all but begged him to take her then and there.

  "Donovan, my God... do something."

  "Easy," he whispered, now feathering kisses across the tips of her rigid nipples. "This is something we don't want to rush."

  Oh, but she did want to rush, to hurry along to each new delight the way she used to on Christmas morning. Libby could never sit still and wait to patiently open her gifts one package at a time, the way her brother did. She tore into them in a frenzy of eager anticipation, flitting from one treasure to the next until at last, her curiosity was satisfied. She felt that way now, wanting to taste, feel, and experience all there was to know of Donovan, of what his caresses could do to her, of what she could do to him. And, she wanted it all this instant.

  Libby tugged at his tie, freeing the bow, then went after the buttons at his starched collar. Frustrated when her fingers couldn't quite manage to loosen the snug buttonhole, she cried, "Help me get your shirt off. I have to feel your chest against me."

  Chuckling deeply, Donovan propped himself up on one elbow and gazed down at her. "I had an idea you'd be a handful, sweetheart, but this..." he practically growled the rest of the sentence, "Damn, Libby—you're really something."

  "The buttons, Donovan."

  The shirt was made in France of the finest linen available, interwoven down the frilly button path with silk threads of sparkling gold. It was his favorite shirt, too, but Donovan tore it up the middle as if it were merely a cheap muslin pattern, not the finished product. His gaze still pinned to Libby's expectant features, he quickly shrugged off the shirt, vest and all, then slipped out of his trousers.

  Libby couldn't hide a gasp of surprise—or maybe it was sudden uncertainty. She'd had a really good look at every part of Donovan when he'd lost his trousers at the top of the stairs the other day. While the sight had been fascinating, to say the least, at the time, she hadn't concerned herself with the technicalities of the way his body would fit with hers. But now she had to wonder—could she accommodate a man such as this?

  Donovan returned to her then, and before she could even figure a way to raise the question, he gathered her in his embrace, the coarse hairs fanned across his upper chest feeling rough against her erect nipples, and Libby promptly forgot her reservations. Her breath caught at the sudden intensity of sensation, then left her panting, starving for air. When Donovan slipped his hand beneath the waistband of her drawers, caressing the sensitive spot just below her navel as he tugged the garment lower and lower, her breathing stopped altogether.

  "Relax," he said, tossing her drawers aside. "There's no hurry—remember?"
/>   But there was for Libby. She had a terrible need to hurry, especially now that he'd nudged her legs apart with his knee. She could feel herself radiating heat, craving his touch in the most private of places. And when he did touch her there at last, Libby thought she might die from the pleasure. Reacting with an almost primitive spontaneity, she clenched Donovan's upper arms, her fingers digging into the hard muscles there, then raised her hips to press herself against his fingers as hard as she could. It was an instinctual move, a way to make sure he continued to caress her until there were no more surprises. She sensed that something, the final discovery, lay just around the corner, a heartbeat away.

  "Donovan, don't stop... I feel so... so, oh..." The words, coming between gasps, sounded odd to her, husky, and almost foreign. "What do I do now? Tell me what you want me to do."

  "I do," he whispered, sounding vaguely amused. "You enjoy."

  He abruptly shifted his hips after that, and in the next instant, pushed something hot and hard gently against her maidenhead. Donovan hovered there for what seemed like forever, slowly gaining entrance to her body, then gathered her tightly in his arms. With a muttered oath she couldn't understand, at last he drove home with one final thrust.

  Pain lanced through her, swift and sword-like, and Libby had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. She couldn't turn into a blubbering baby now, not after all the coaxing she'd done to urge him to bring her this far so fast. Hadn't he warned her to slow down? Donovan shifted his body again, and preparing herself, she quickly braced for another wave of pain. It didn't happen. Instead of withdrawing and thrusting into her again, he only moved back far enough to see if she was all right. Far enough, in fact, to see the tear pooled at the corner of her eye, a betrayal of the promise she'd made to herself.

  "I hurt you," he murmured, his voice hoarse with emotion. "I'm sorry."

  "No, you didn't. Not really."

  But he didn't believe her. If he had, he wouldn't have cupped her face between his hands the way he did, or gently kissed the teardrop away. Funny, how that little show of affection touched her, tough and independent as Liberty Ann Justice considered herself to be, for that innocent gesture prompted more tears, sent them spilling over both eyelids in a flood of embarrassment.

  "Oh, my God, I'm sorry. I don't know what's come over me." Libby hiccuped, feeling like an idiot. "I don't mean to be so—"

  "Eager?" he said, making it easy for her.

  At his bemused tone, the gentle, non-accusing way he spoke, Libby dared a glance into Donovan's eyes. They were smiling warmly, as was his mouth—a mouth, she suddenly realized, she couldn't wait to feel against her own again. Still feeling slightly silly, Libby nodded, teeth tugging at the spot she'd bitten on her bottom lip, and whispered, "Maybe a little too eager, I guess."

  He laughed deeply. "In that case, I guess I ought to see if I can't get you going again."

  Before she could question or even encourage him, Donovan was kissing her, plumbing her more deeply and thoroughly than before. When she began to stir restlessly beneath him, he slipped his hand between their bodies and quickly brought her back to the edge of that final surprise. Then he started moving within her, hard pulsating male driving in and out of velvety soft female, filling and stretching her until she thought she'd go mad from the delicious frustration of it all. A moment later, with a sudden and surprising intensity, she climaxed in a hard, molten rush, an explosion so fiery, Libby was sure she must have melted at her very core.

  Right on the heels of her own release, before she'd gathered an ounce of her wits again, Donovan collapsed against her breasts, his body jerking and thrusting in the final throes of his own passion. Then at once, he stilled and, bodies locked together as one, they rested.

  * * *

  Libby stirred in her own bed the next morning, satisfied, but vaguely disappointed. She felt almost robbed. As she slowly awakened and regained a few of her senses, the night and Donovan's fiercely gratifying love-making came back to her. That's when she realized what was missing.

  Donovan.

  Opening her eyes, Libby turned her head from side to side, even though she knew in advance what she'd find. She was alone, and had been since he'd gallantly escorted her upstairs to her room. He'd left quickly after that, muttering something about taking care of business, and urging her to get a good night's sleep. But she hadn't slept all that well, she recalled, still feeling bereft and unfulfilled.

  Oh, she was physically satisfied all right, and in ways she'd never imagined the body could be satisfied. In fact, had she not personally met Zeke, the rancher, she might almost have understood how his wife could have stayed with him long enough to bear at least the first child, if not all thirteen. Almost.

  Physical satisfaction obviously hadn't been enough for the poor rancher's woman—and it sure as hell wasn't enough for Libby. She knew now that she wanted more, much, much more, and to hell with Victoria Woodhull and those who claimed that "free love" was the only way for an intelligent, independent woman to live. If she hadn't guessed it about herself before, Libby now knew for certain that she didn't want to be "free" to love other men. She wanted Donovan, and only Donovan, for as long as she lived. And, impossible a dream as it might be, she wanted him to want only her.

  In the hallway outside Libby's room, Donovan leaned against her door, fingers splayed around the doorjamb. He'd been standing there for ten minutes dreading what he was sure would turn out to be the kind of confrontation he'd avoided all his life—mainly because he'd had enough sense to avoid virgins. But then, along had come Libby. Absently caressing the mound of wood beneath his palm the way he'd caressed her satiny skin the night before, he considered the fact that women like Libby probably didn't give up their virginity easily—and that when they did, such a gift most surely came with strings. Ties he was not interested in making.

  So he continued to stand there, terrified of the strings she might have in mind for him, thinking that by now she'd had time to weave them into a piece of hemp thick enough to hang him. How could he have let himself get into this situation? Had he completely lost his mind? Donovan had wondered that same thing last night after taking Libby up to her room. He'd run out of his own house like his ass was on fire, run like a frightened rabbit—him, frightened, and of a woman, of all things.

  Rationalizing what he'd done, what he had to do now, Donovan decided that not much of what had happened last night had been his fault. He was almost certain that Libby would never have bedded him, had he not turned out to be a Savage. She'd gotten what she'd wanted—just not for as long as she'd hoped. So why should he feel guilty?

  Relaxing a little at the thought, he finally worked up enough courage to tap on her door. He heard what he thought was a muffled yes, so he opened the door a crack and peeked in. "Libby? May I come in?"

  "Oh, ah... of course."

  He heard the rustle of the bed coverings and of Libby adjusting her position. Giving her enough privacy to put herself together, Donovan kept his gaze averted until he'd reach the foot of the bed. When he finally did chance a look at her, he was surprised by what he saw.

  There were no recriminating glances or signs of regret in her expression, no pouts or remorseful sighs. In fact, after the wild night they'd spent together, he could hardly believe how bright and innocent she looked this morning. She was wrapped up to her neck in a virginal white nightgown, her loose auburn hair mussed, but tamed enough to tumble over her shoulders in seductive waves. He managed to shake off the urge to plunge his hands back into that silken hair, and might have been able to resist the impulse to get close enough to inhale another whiff of her springtime scent—but then she turned those big calf eyes on him, eyes that demanded no promises and told no lies.

  Donovan inched his way to the edge of the bed. "Mind if I sit down?"

  "Of course not." She patted the mattress next to her hip. As he sat down beside her, she went on in a much softer voice. "I missed you last night. I wish you could have stayed in here with me."


  "I, er," he cleared his throat, not quite as prepared for the confrontation as he'd thought. "I had to go back to the saloon. I work there, you know." Something had changed in her eyes. They were no longer calf-like, but predatory, with the kind of look that said she'd staked her claim on him—on a Savage. That thought made it easy for Donovan to explain the way things were while he still could. "Libby, let me make this clear. Even if I hadn't gone back to Lil's last night, I wouldn't have stayed in here with you. I make it a habit not to sleep with... well, I like to sleep in my own bed, alone."

  "Oh," she said breezily, "I guess that does make sense, now that I think of it. No complications that way, right? No getting used to a person snuggled beside you during the night, waking you up, and all."

  "Ah, that'd be about it, all right."

  He narrowed his gaze, studying her deeply, the way he studied a new player in a poker game. Something was amiss. She was too cheerful, too understanding, but her expression was impossible to read well enough to figure out what she was up to. If she'd been playing poker, she probably could have bluffed him out of a boxed flush with that expression. It occurred to him then that she might not be bluffing, that she didn't care any more than he did, and his "no strings attached" terms really were just fine with her.

  Oddly disappointed by the thought, he snapped, "I might as well get right to the point of why I stopped to talk to you before I went to my own room."

  "Please do." Beneath the quilt, she drew her legs up and hugged them to her chest. Then she dropped her chin to her knees and glanced up at him like a mournful little puppy.

  Donovan had to look elsewhere before he could go on. He settled his gaze on the little bit of lace at her wrists. "I'm trying to be as delicate as I can about this, without causing you any embarrassment."

  "Why should I be embarrassed?"

  Oddly disconcerted himself, he shrugged. Libby gave him a tight smile, gesturing for him to go on. Feeling as if he'd just been invited to dig his own grave—with his tongue—he explained himself. "I just wanted to make sure you remembered what I told you last night, and that you're not expecting too much from me today."