Chuckling, he lowered his head and kissed her chilled, sputtering mouth. He deepened the kiss until he’d chased the cold from both their lips. Until his body warmed from the inside.
He slipped a hand beneath her body, bringing her up toward him and off the cold ground. Moaning, she circled her arms around his neck, clinging to him as if she would never let go.
He cursed their cumbersome clothes, thick and unwieldy between them. Mindless of the snow, he tugged her cloak open and pulled at her scarf, baring her throat for his lips. He kissed her neck, grazing the delicate arch with his teeth. She shivered. From him or exposure to cold, he didn’t know. He only knew he had to have her.
Vaulting to his feet, he dragged her up with him. Clutching her hand, he strode swiftly back toward the lodge.
“The holly, the boughs,” she cried breathlessly.
“I’ll come back for them,” he growled, increasing his pace.
Several times, she tripped and he pulled her upright. After a moment, he finally gave up on dragging her through the snow with so little regard. Without pause, he swept her up into his arms and carried her the last of the way.
His breath fell fast and hard, blood pumping as he entered the lodge, kicking the door shut behind them.
Her mouth already worked its magic on him, kissing up his neck, feathering along his jaw. Their hands worked in a frenzy, tugging and tearing clothes off of each other.
Her eagerness heightened his, and he freed himself with savage movements. Naked first, his hands darted to her hair, tugging the pins free and running his fingers through the strands, loosening the dark mass. He pulled her to him, kissing her, open mouth to open mouth.
She squirmed against him with a laughing moan, her hands managing to shed the last of her garments until she was flush against him. Bare flesh to bare flesh.
In their frenzy, they did not reach the bed. Limbs entangled, they fell on the fur rug before the fire in a pile.
Ash laughed against her neck. Rolling, kissing, crawling over each other, their hands never stopped—clinging, gripping, seizing, stroking.
Ash slid between her parted thighs. She wiggled herself up until she was perfectly positioned for him, her heat cradling his hardness in welcome. He slid inside her with one slick thrust.
She cried out, arching beneath him, her neck falling back, exposing the fine curve of her throat to his mouth. She shuddered at the first press of his lips there, at the gentle nip of his teeth on the cords of her neck as he moved in and out of her, setting a slow, sinuous pace.
She clawed his back, nails scoring his flesh. She thrust her hips up to meet him, pushing him to increase his pace, to take her swifter. His strokes quickened, drove deeper, wringing him of his control.
He buried his face in her neck, breathing in the sweet milk and honey of her skin, certain he had never smelled a woman like her before. “Marguerite,” he panted, wondering how every inch of him could feel so hot with winter sweeping outside.
Her hands slid down his back, seized his buttocks and squeezed. He bucked against her, growling out his release as he slammed inside her a final time.
She shivered, convulsed in his arms as her own release swept her. He fell atop her, still buried inside her delicious warmth, the aftershock of his climax ripping through him in shudders.
After a moment, he rolled off her, an arm still wrapped around her waist. On her side, eyes shut, her breath labored as if she’d sprinted a great distance.
He stared at her face, flushed from their lovemaking, the tip of her nose still pink from the cold outdoors.
He stretched his arm to the nearby chair and grabbed the quilt folded there, pulling it over them, making certain she was fully covered.
“Hmm,” she murmured contentedly, nestling against him as she settled deeper into the fur rug. “I could grow accustomed to this.”
Making love in the middle of the day? Napping like a fat cat without a care or responsibility? Despite the wealth and power he’d acquired over the last few years, he’d never permitted himself the indulgence. He’d always prided himself on his labors, working more than he rested or played. He was no blue-blooded aristocrat who inherited a silver spoon in his mouth. And yet he knew what she meant.
As her breathing evened to slow pulls, he studied her face, so relaxed and young in repose.
“Me, too,” he murmured, an odd tightness squeezing in his chest. “Me, too.”
Chapter 18
When Marguerite woke, dusk was settling in a soft blanket over the day, tingeing the air sifting through the window to soft pinks, purples, and grays. She yawned, surprised at how long she’d napped. A quick glance around revealed the bed empty. Ash was gone.
Although she knew he couldn’t have gone far, an odd pang penetrated her chest. Rising, she quickly dressed, heat creeping over her face to realize she had slept these several hours naked. She’d never slept completely nude before. At Penwich, forty odd girls slept in one large dormitory. Even with little privacy to be had, she’d clung to her modesty and managed to reveal very little of herself when undressing. Somehow, with Ash, she lacked all such modesty.
Now she was a veritable siren, forsaking her clothes as though accustomed to sharing a bed, her body, with a man.
Dressed, she entered the lodge’s main room and found Ash bent over the table, pulling a loaf of bread from the hamper.
She sniffed the air. “Something smells heavenly.”
“I’ve made a stew.”
Her eyes widened, landing on a large pot beside him on the table. “You cook?”
His lips twitched. “I do a great many things.”
It was then she noticed the holly and boughs sitting in a great pile by the door. “You fetched our holly,” she murmured.
He shrugged one shoulder. “Thought you might like to arrange them this evening.”
She seated herself across from him at the table. “Of course, I should do something. While I slept the day away, you’ve been quite productive.”
“I’ve dragged you across the country. You’re due your rest.” His eyes took on that seductive glint she was coming to expect. “Especially as you have a long night ahead of you.”
“Oh,” she murmured, watching with her heart in her throat as he lifted the lid from the pot and stirred its steaming contents. A man waiting on her was quite an unfamiliar sensation.
Her stomach growled, a reminder that she hadn’t eaten since that morning. As he spooned the savory-looking stew into bowls, she cut the loaf of bread into thick slices, feeling the need to occupy her hands, to ease her discomfort at having her new husband wait on her.
They ate in silence.
“This is very good,” she finally remarked.
“Not the finest Christmas Eve dinner you’ve ever had, I’m certain.”
She started. “It’s Christmas Eve?” She’d lost track of days in the last week, so intent was she on escaping him … escaping her fate. Her gaze swung sharply to the window, as if she would see some evidence of the day in the softly falling snow.
“Yes.”
Unbidden, the thought came to her. Her last Christmas. She shook her head fiercely in denial and blinked suddenly burning eyes. Not the last. This would not be the last. She would cease such dismal thinking. Especially with a man she was coming to …
She gave herself a mental shake. What? What was it she was coming to feel for Ash? Love? The word whispered across her mind. She squeezed her eyes in a tight blink. Yes, that was the sum of it. She’d already realized as much. How else could she take such a risk with him?
“I’m sorry,” he said roughly, almost angrily, clearly misreading her reaction as she sat across from him in stunned silence. His spoon clanked against the inside of the bowl. “I’m sure there were countless ways you would have preferred to spend the holiday. I did not think of the timing when I took you from your father’s—”
“Don’t be sorry,” she rushed to say, almost astounding herself with her next words, but
needing to say them. “I’m not. I’m glad you came when you did. If you had come a day later, a moment later, you would have missed me entirely.”
And that was the truth. He would have missed her. One of her sisters would be sitting here on Christmas Eve with him.
She wouldn’t have been abducted. She wouldn’t have married him … wouldn’t have this. So much, she realized, was left to chance. Or fate. And she wasn’t sorry for it. Wasn’t sorry for any of this—for him.
No matter what the year brought her, she would hold no regret. Everyone faced death sooner or later. If she faced it sooner, at least she would have truly tasted life. And love.
His features relaxed at her words, the harshly cut lines softening in the flickering firelight. “Very well then. I’m not sorry either. Not that I ever really was.” With a grimace, he motioned to their bowls of stew, their simple surroundings. “I simply wanted something better than this for you on our first Christmas.”
Lifting the spoon to her lips, she held his gaze and took a sip. “This is the best Christmas I’ve ever had.”
Later that night, Marguerite woke to an empty bed and wondered if skulking from beds was a habit when it came to Ash. Did the man never sleep?
Slipping her shift over her head, she padded out into the larger room, chafing her chilled arms and marveling at how comfortable the little lodge had become to her. The idea of staying, lingering here forever, didn’t strike her as altogether … bad. Perhaps danger wouldn’t find her here … or whatever accident was meant to befall her. Perhaps here she could hide from the specter of death. She and Ash could build their own safe little world. A pleasant dream—even if it could never happen.
She found Ash sitting in the chair before the fire. He wore only his trousers, and his broad naked back gleamed in the firelight as he bent over something, his shoulders and biceps working, flexing and rippling as he labored.
Hugging herself, she approached silently, stopping behind him. A faint scratching sound filled the air.
“Ash?”
He looked swiftly over his shoulder. “Oh. I thought you were sleeping.” He glanced to the window. She followed his gaze, noticing the faint purple light of impending morning. “Happy Christmas,” he murmured, rising to his feet.
He offered her what he had been working on. A set of crudely carved figures filled his palms. She instantly recognized the three figures. She touched them with a shaking hand.
“I didn’t have time to craft all the figures.” His voice was rough with apology.
She took them from him, examining them as if they were the finest-crafted crystal. The small Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus fit snugly into her palms. “You stayed up making these for me?”
He shrugged. “I’ll finish the set for you someday. Perhaps next Christmas. If you like them.”
Next Christmas.
“I love them,” she managed to say, squeezing the words out thickly.
Her eyes burned at the thought of him finishing the set, and the Christmases to come when they could display them in their drawing room on a bed of holly. The children that would surround them, singing carols …
She stopped, shaking her head at the fanciful notion.
Before he saw the tears in her eyes and misunderstood, she flung her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly, speaking into the warm flesh of his neck. “I love them.” I love you.
His arms came up, surrounding her, making her feel safe, protected, loved. And she prayed that she would be. That nothing would tear her from what she’d found with him. That this could last.
His hand trailed through her hair, dragging through the dark snarls. “I almost hate to leave this place.”
She released a breathy laugh. “Me, too.” Resting her cheek on the smooth skin of his shoulder, she added, “But we must.” She had much to accomplish.
“Yes, I’m sure your father is worried about you.”
She snorted. “I’m certain he’s not. And even if he were, I would not care.”
“He is your father, Marguerite. He should be told.”
She stiffened in his arms. Yes, Ash would want him to know.
“Marguerite?” He pulled back to stare into her face. “What is it?”
She studied him closely. Was it still about that for him? Revenging himself on her father? Showing her father that he could be denied nothing?
“You’re anxious to see my father?” she asked, her voice halting and suspicious. She could not help herself. “To inform him of our marriage?”
“Marguerite.” A touch of exasperation laced his voice. He clearly read her suspicions. “It’s not like that.”
“Indeed?” She shrugged free of his arms, calling herself ten kinds of fool to let herself be seduced into thinking he actually cared for her. That this had become about them.
“Indeed,” he echoed crisply, pulling her back into his embrace, indifferent to her stiff and resisting body. “You’ve come to mean more to me in this short time than any resentment I harbored toward your father. Than any matter of business.”
“Such matters bore weight before. Why should I believe they no longer do?”
He slid a hand over her cheek, gripping her face. “You’ll come to believe me,” he vowed, his eyes glittering down at her. “If keeping you meant I had to turn everything over to Jack, renounce my share of the hells, the mine, the factory, then I would. I was angry before, determined to get as much of the properties as I could for myself, but now I know that I can stand on my own. I don’t need Jack Hadley. I need you.”
She glanced down at the carved figures in her hand, and realized that perhaps she needed him, too.
He continued, “I’ve not felt this way—” Stopping, a stark look came into his dark eyes. In a more even voice, he said, “I mean to be a true husband to you, Marguerite. I will make you happy.”
He kissed her then. A fortunate circumstance. Closing her eyes, relief stole over her that he could not see the tears gathering. Because she wanted what he promised with every fiber of her being, craved the happiness he spoke of but doubted its possibility.
A sensation seized her then as he deepened the kiss, slanting his mouth against hers. She slid her fingers into his thick hair, kissing him back with equal fervor.
Burning conviction filled her. Determination.
As soon as they reached Town, she would return to St. Giles and confront Madame Foster. Marguerite would glean every bit of information that she could about her demise and do whatever necessary to stay alive. To stay with Ash. It was no longer for herself. It was for the both of them.
Chapter 19
Ash guided Marguerite to a long cushioned bench before a crackling fire at the inn where they stopped to change horses.
Sighing her relief, she slipped her gloved hands from her muff and extended them to the warming flames. It has been a hard day of travel, but they were close to Town.
“I shall see to a repast while we wait,” Ash said. “Warm yourself.” With a caressing stroke to her cheek, he ventured off to see to her comfort. The journey south had been full of smiles and caresses and decadent kisses, convincing Marguerite that she had made the right decision. She lifted her fingers to her lips, tracing a secret smile there, imagining she could still feel the warm imprint of his mouth.
She looked up at the sound of her name, her hand dropping away. The blood washed from her face at the sight of the man striding toward her, his cloak whipping about him like a dark wind. A coldness swept through her that rivaled the winter winds outside.
She staggered to her feet, then dropped back down at the unsteadiness of her limbs. Her dry and aching eyes swept over the man as though he were a terrible apparition come to life.
“Marguerite, is it truly you?”
“R-Roger.” A quick glance beyond his shoulder showed no sight of Ash. Much to her relief.
He grasped her by the arms and pulled her into his embrace. “I feared something ill befell you when you vanished.”
“
I am well,” she murmured, arching away from his arms.
“What happened to you?”
She shook her head, struggling for words.
Roger pushed on, heedless of her explanation. His eyes swept over her hungrily, his voice husky. “Whatever the case, you are a vision. Did I not have my sisters with me, I would claim you now—take a room upstairs and not emerge for days.”
She shook her head harder. “Roger, you don’t understand—”
“Unfortunately, the girls are stretching their legs out in the yard and I am not free to do so.” He cupped her cheek and dared to slide his thumb over her mouth. With a small cry, she pulled her head free from his bold touch and opened her mouth to apprise him of her recent married status.
She did not have the chance.
Roger was ripped from her side and tossed through the air. He crashed into the bench with a horrible gurgled cry, shattering it to splinters. Ash jumped upon him before Marguerite could even move.
She cringed at the first smack of Ash’s fist, the terrible crunch of bone on bone reminding her of that day in St. Giles when she first spied him beating another man to an inch of his life.
“Ash! No!” She grasped hold of his arm and hung on, stopping him from striking Roger again.
Ash sent her a quick glare. “He gave you insult.”
“You don’t understand!” she cried. Aware of the gathering crowd in the public room, she leaned closer, hissing hurriedly in his ear, “He is my protector.
Or rather, I had intended for him to be. He’s the one I was journeying to Spain with …”
Ash’s sinewy arm tensed beneath her fingers, turning to stone.
Then, he moved, slamming one final blow that snapped Roger’s head back. The viscount fell to the floor. Ash stepped forward, his legs braced wide. Roger stared up at him with unfocused eyes, blood dribbling thickly from a misshapen nose.
Ash reached down and grabbed him by his bloodstained cravat. “She is no longer your concern. Look at her, touch her, and I shall kill you. She’s mine now.”
Wicked Nights with a Lover Page 15
