Wicked Nights with a Lover

by Sophie Jordan

  “Marguerite,” he greeted, unable to stop the thickness from entering his voice. The sight of her did that to him. Had he ever thought her anything less than soul-stirringly beautiful? Had he only thought her a means to secure his business? To get back at her father? He snorted. If he wasn’t careful, he would start reciting poetry to her beauty.

  She said nothing. Her darting eyes reminded him of a panicked animal, skipping past him to the three lurking men. She thrust out her chin defiantly, once again girded in her invisible armor … almost as though last night hadn’t happened, hadn’t softened her toward him. Contrary yet again. He sighed. At least she would never bore him. There was no predicting with her. Unlike any other female of his acquaintance.

  Ash motioned to the lanky man with mutton-chop sideburns, stepping aside so that he could move forward. “This is the Reverend James, Marguerite.”

  “Miss,” the gentleman greeted, removing his hat and stepping fully inside, patting his gloved hands to his face for warmth. “Dismal weather, but with your happy festivity upon us, I am certain brighter weather is on the horizon. The Almighty shall see it so.”

  Ash swallowed a snort.

  “Reverend,” she murmured, her voice skeptical as she crossed her arms over her chest. Her boot peeped out from her hem, tapping out her ire. Fire sparked in her eyes, reminding him of the Marguerite he first met in St. Giles, ready to blast him with her venomous tongue.

  The reverend tipped his head. “Indeed I am.”

  “Then I am sorry for your trouble. There is no need of your services here.”

  Ash cast a glance heavenward and strove for patience and understanding. After she had given herself so ardently to him—multiple times—he believed she had accepted their union. Apparently, he was under a misapprehension.

  Her gaze drifted to him, as though sensing his annoyance. Her whiskey-eyed stare was flat, devoid of emotion. Nothing of the passionate creature from last night lurked there.

  The reverend clucked good-naturedly. “Well, now, I’ve never forced a truly unwilling maid to take vows. That would be unethical.” Mr. James flicked his wrist. “However, sometimes a lass simply doesn’t know her mind until I help her along.”

  Marguerite’s gaze snapped back to the reverend. “Indeed? And you credit yourself with the insight to know a woman’s mind?”

  He nodded cheerfully. “Precisely.”

  Ash winced, wishing the imbecile would hold his tongue. The fool wasn’t helping matters. Ash wasn’t going to force Marguerite to wed him.

  She cocked her head, a dangerous glint in her eyes. She no longer looked at the reverend but at him. “Do you deem me incapable of knowing my mind, Ash?”

  He couldn’t resist. “A more contrary female I never knew.”

  Heat colored her cheeks, but she didn’t deny his claim.

  “You want to marry me, Marguerite,” he murmured, staring intently into her eyes, certain of this but still seeking confirmation. After a short moment she nodded, the motion jerky, reluctant.

  “Shall we proceed?” Ash asked before she changed her mind again. He moved beside Marguerite’s stiff form. “Where shall we stand? Is this adequate?” he asked, taking Marguerite’s elbow and steering her before the hearth with him.

  “Ah, yes.” The reverend chuckled. “I’ve performed this ceremony in settings far worse than this simple abode.”

  “I’m certain,” Marguerite muttered, a hard statue beside him.

  Reaching down, Ash took her hand. Her fingers felt cold in his grasp, limp and lifeless. His gaze drifted to her face, only to find her already looking at him. Her fiery gaze locked with his eyes. Beneath the fire an emotion lurked he could not quite identify.

  He couldn’t fathom it. After yesterday, he knew she felt something for him. He could admit to the same. He felt something for her. Something real. Something besides the cold wrath that had compelled him to abduct her at the start of their journey.

  As shocking as it was, he’d come to believe they could have a real marriage, something based on desire if not actual affection. It was more than he had ever hoped for. It was reason enough for him to face the reverend and repeat the vows prompted without qualms.

  But not enough for him to stand beside Marguerite with her lips pressed shut in silent reproach, clearly refusing to repeat her vows.

  The reverend stared at her, waiting for her to repeat the words he had intoned. Nothing. Finally, he shrugged a bone-thin shoulder and skimmed over her part as though she had declared her vows.

  With a snarl of disgust, Ash started from her side. He would not marry an unwilling woman. He couldn’t do it.

  He didn’t know what angered him more. Marguerite for her stubborn refusal, or himself for giving a damn. After last night he knew she wanted him. He was proposing an honorable arrangement. He should simply make the choice for her—he should just marry the blasted female who didn’t seem to know her own mind and be done with it.

  And yet he couldn’t. He’d spent too much of his life lacking choices. Upon the death of his parents, his first choice hadn’t been any choice at all. The streets or a foundling home. Even if he thought Marguerite daft to reject what he was offering, he wouldn’t deprive her of one shred of freedom.

  He stopped suddenly at the feel of her fingers on his arm, stalling him, urging him back.

  Her eyes locked with his, still full of that bewildering emotion. Watching him intensely, as though memorizing every line and hollow of his face, she repeated her vows with a slow solemnity that made his breath catch.

  For a moment no one moved, no one spoke. Her small hand on his arm could have been a burning vise for all that it immobilized him.

  She’d done it. She’d said the words that bound her to him with no prompting.

  A strange tightness seized his chest, locking his breath in his lungs. He took her chilled hands in his, squeezing the delicate fingers. With a tug, she tumbled into his arms and he kissed her hungrily, uncaring for their audience. He released her hands to grip her face, savoring her lips, determined that she not regret it. She returned his kiss, matching his fire.

  And that, he told himself, was enough. For now. Mr. James’s tones rang out. “I now pronounce you man and wife.”

  They broke apart at this announcement. Marguerite slipped from his arms, blinking in a dazed manner as if waking from a dream.

  Moments passed, blurred. He scarcely recalled signing the register alongside Marguerite … could only stare at her, his wife, trying to detect regret anywhere in her face, struggling to understand why she had changed her mind, and if she would do so again.

  “How long are we staying here?” she inquired, sinking down onto the chair after the others had left and they were alone once again.

  He shrugged as he added more wood to the fire. “A few days. I thought some time together would not be remiss. Have no fear. We won’t starve.” He gestured to the second, larger hamper by the door. “If need be I can cook, but I cannot promise to the degree of palatability.” He tossed her a self-deprecating grin. “We are husband and wife now. It would behoove us to get acquainted.”

  One corner of her mouth twisted into a half smile. “Don’t couples usually do that beforehand?”

  “I can’t claim to know. I only care for how we do things, Marguerite.” He circled to stand before her, and she resisted fidgeting. After last night there was hardly any call for shyness. After marrying him there was little call.

  His boots slid to a stop before her chair. “Why did you say those vows?” he asked.

  She shrugged, unsure what to say. Unsure if she even knew the reason why herself. Perhaps she wanted some control. If she was to believe Madame Foster, certain events were already decided, out of her control and destined through actions she had yet to commit but most assuredly would.

  So why fight it? Why fight this—him? Especially as her body and heart no longer wished to? Her body ached for him. She’d never felt such an attraction, never been affected by a man like
this before. Perhaps they were destined.

  Feasting her gaze on him, she couldn’t abide the notion of never being with him again. However many days were left to her, she wanted to spend them with him. She could embrace their marriage and still work to avoid the path that led to her demise. She believed that. She had to. It wasn’t hopeless.

  She simply needed more information, more details from Madame Foster, so that she knew what future events to avoid in order to avert the accident leading to her death.

  “I don’t know,” she hedged, not yet willing to tell him that she married him because she wished to. Because her toes curled in her slippers at the mere sound of his voice.

  She still didn’t know how he felt about her. His motivation for marrying her was based on business. She wasn’t about to bare her heart to him just to suffer his pitying stare.

  His gaze scoured her face, almost as though he could see within her, to all she hid. She looked away, alarmed at just what he might find.

  His voice rolled across the air between them, rippling her flesh. “It was the last thing I expected …”

  Agreeing to marry him? She laughed, the sound parchment-thin. “Well, I didn’t quite expect it of myself, either.”

  Madame Foster was right. There were choices along the way, opportunities, chances for her to change her fate. Except as far as she could tell, she continued to make choices leading to the fate Madame Foster predicted.

  He placed his hands on the arms of her chair, leaning his face close, caging her in. The breadth of him overwhelmed her, his sheer masculinity flooding her senses. “I don’t want you to regret this.”

  I don’t want to regret this either. Emotion surged inside her. She nodded her head fiercely. “I won’t.”

  “Good.” With a nod, he pushed up from the chair and strode toward the door, his Hessians biting into the wood planks.

  She rose to her feet, calling after him. “Where are you going?” A quick glance to the window revealed that it had started snowing again. “It’s practically a storm out there.”

  “And why we need more wood.”

  At the door he stopped, pausing there for a moment before turning back around and sweeping her into his arms for a kiss that left her panting and aching for more.

  Coming up for air, his eyes glittered obsidian down at her. “I could grow used to this,” he drawled.

  “What?” she whispered, her tongue darting out to wet her bruised lips.

  “You.”

  Then he was gone. She stared around the silent room, her throat thick, her eyes stinging.

  She would have that, too. Have him growing used to her. For many years to come.

  Chapter 17

  The snow fell harder now, dropping in a thick veil with no relief, and she began to fret that he would freeze out there. She vowed when he returned to wear a disposition befitting a newlywed. She had spoken those vows, after all. There had been no coercion.

  She vaulted to her feet when the door banged open. A gust of wind swirled in the room with Ash. He shook the snow from his broad shoulders and stomped his boots on the rug.

  She fixed a smile to her lips and helped his great cape from his shoulders. Hanging the dark coat on a peg by the door, she turned back around with cheerful words on her lips. The words never came.

  He hauled her into his arms, lifting her off her feet in a breath-robbing kiss. His cold lips quickly warmed on hers, stirring a matching fire in her belly.

  He broke away for a moment. Holding her face, he looked at her with his pitch eyes, deep and penetrating, seeing what even she couldn’t see of herself, what she didn’t even know was there. “I’ve kissed a thousand times—”

  She felt herself wince and tried to tug away, not liking the reminder of his experience—the women who doubtlessly pleased him and possessed more skill than she. His hands tightened on her face, pulling her forward with a fierceness that made her gasp.

  “But never before you,” he growled with an intensity that made her belly quiver. “Never before you. Everything with you is new. Fresher and sweeter. I won’t give that up. I don’t care that I said I wanted a name-in-only marriage. Now I want this. I want you. I want it all.”

  It was too much. She didn’t let him finish. She couldn’t. She pushed her face the last few inches separating him and kissed him, pressed her lips to his in clumsy eagerness. Hunger soon melted away any awkwardness. He groaned into her mouth.

  After several moments, she came up for air, murmuring against his lips, “Whatever shall we do? This is a honeymoon of sorts, is it not?”

  “Indeed it is,” his voice rumbled against her lips. “And Christmastime, too.”

  Her smile threatened to slip. She had almost forgotten. Christmastime had only ever been a series of days, one following another, much like any other time. Only cold.

  “Yes,” she murmured.

  He kissed the corner of her mouth, looping his arms comfortably around her waist. It felt natural, right. Like he’d held her just this way countless times before. “I’m afraid it will be a quiet affair with just the two of us. How do you usually celebrate it? Parties? Caroling?”

  “In recent years, I have visited friends.” In her youth, she had done nothing. Sometimes she had even been left alone if her mother was fortunate enough to be called to Town to join Jack. “What of you?”

  “Actually, your father usually has me to dinner. Quite a grand affair with several people.”

  She inhaled a stinging breath through her nose, thinking of how she had never spent a Christmas with her father. Because he never wanted her there. “Was there a goose?” she asked, her throat unaccountably tight.

  At Penwich, during the cold winter nights, she had always envisioned being called home for the holiday and sitting down to a fat, succulent goose on Christmas Eve.

  “I suppose so, yes. Although we are always so befuddled from his housekeeper’s deliciously potent wassail that I hardly recall the food.” The humor in his voice was contagious and she began to smile. Until she recalled she was discussing her father. And the Christmases he never invited her to share. Her smile faded.

  As if sensing her change in mood, he brushed her cheek with his thumb, staring at her deeply, his gaze uncomfortably probing. Fearful that he’d glimpsed some of her thoughts, she forced a smile.

  “I’m quite certain we’ll find a way to enjoy this holiday with each other,” he said with a slow nod. She did not mistake the glint in his dark eyes. Nor did she miss the tightening in her own belly.

  They had days alone together. What else was there to do but occupy themselves with each other? Her cheeks heated at what all that might involve. After last night, her mind raced and her body burned at the possibilities.

  He pulled both their cloaks off the pegs. Spinning her around, he helped her into hers. “Come.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked, feeling dizzy and not a little giddy.

  “To gather holly, of course. And boughs.”

  “Holly?” She looked over her shoulder at him. “Surely, you jest?”

  Eyes dancing, he gave her a mockingly stern look as he bundled her into his coat. “We’ve much to do.” With a wave of his hand, he gestured around them. “Do you not see the barren spots requiring festive embellishment? We’ve much to do in preparation.”

  She glanced about the room, speechless. He intended for them to decorate for the season? Here?

  Snatching her scarf, he wrapped it around both her head and neck. He then helped her with her gloves, paying particular attention to each of her fingers. She studied his bent head, admiring the sun-kissed strands and wondering if anyone had ever shown her such care.

  Finished, he looked up at her, a ready smile on his face that melted her heart. Their eyes held, clung, and she realized with a sinking sensation that she was quite done for.

  She’d fallen in love with the very man who abducted her and married her. The one man above all she should not lose her heart to.

  “What is
it?” he asked softly, his gaze crawling her face, leaving a burn trail in its wake.

  She shook her head. “Nothing,” she murmured. “Let’s hurry. Before all the pine is gone.”

  With a chuckle, he held open the door and led them out into the sweeping cold.

  Freezing air hissed past him as Ash fell from the tree and hit the ground. He laid there for a moment, stunned, the wind knocked from him, arms still full of itchy pine. He credited most of his astonishment to the fact that he had been so clumsy to lose his balance and fall in the first place—not that he had seriously harmed himself. The snow cushioned his fall.

  “Ash!” Marguerite cried. He marveled at the panicked sound of the cry, inordinately pleased that his wife of one day should care so much for his safety.

  “Ash!” Her boots pounded the snow-covered earth, crossing the distance from where she had been gathering holly. “Are you hurt?”

  Perhaps it was wicked of him, but he did not hasten to reassure her, instead he held still, eyes shut, waiting for her tender ministrations, eager for the first touch of her hands.

  She dropped beside him, bringing an icy breeze with her. Her urgent little hands flattened against his chest, exerting the slightest pressure as she patted him, checking for life. He stifled a laugh when her hands arrived at a ticklish spot low on his ribs. He bit back the sound.

  A glove warmed over his cheek, chafing fiercely. “Ash, darling, can you hear me? Speak to me!”

  Darling.

  Her sweet breath fanned his face, a puff of warmth on his chilled lips, so close and misty-sweet he couldn’t resist.

  In one swift move, he grabbed hold of her and rolled her beneath him. She yelped, clinging to his shoulders.

  She blinked wide eyes up at him. “You—you—” “Marvelous man,” he supplied. “World’s best lover?”

  She swatted him in the shoulder, scowling. “Fraud! I thought you were hurt. I was already envisioning how I was going to drag the great hulk of you back to the lodge.”