“I’m . . . . ” Molly stopped in mid apology.
“I have some papers to go over. I’ll be in the study. If you need anything, ring for Larkin.”
Molly was left standing in the entryway alone. Her wedding gown trailed on a Persian carpet, and the ceiling was magnificently high. The afternoon sun shone through stained glass windows and left broken shards of light at Molly’s feet and all around. She was surrounded by beauty, fine art in gilded frames and furniture so delicate she was afraid to touch any of it. It was like standing in a castle, wearing a princess’s gown.
The problem was, Molly was no princess. It had never been her ambition to live in a castle, to have servants to ring for when she needed anything. Her dreams were simple, attainable, and realistic. At least, they’d always seemed realistic. She’d never counted on Wolf Trevelyan stepping in and changing everything.
Molly could get lost in this big house, and she felt more than a little lost already.
What on earth had he done? Wolf shuffled the papers before him needlessly, barely glancing at the figures. There was nothing here that couldn’t wait another day or two, but he’d had to get away from Molly.
Good God, married. Again. And there was no guarantee that this marriage would work out any better than the first one had.
Like a lovestruck boy, he’d allowed himself to rationalize until he found a way to get what he wanted, Molly Kincaid. Until now he’d been perfectly content to allow this branch of the Trevelyan family to end with him. To be honest, he’d never even considered his responsibility to carry on the family name.
It had certainly never bothered him that there was no one to leave his fortune to. Until now.
The little redhead had gotten under his skin, had made it perfectly clear that he couldn’t bed her unless he married her, and like a well-trained lap dog he’d willingly done just that.
She was a clever, mercenary witch. Not only had he actually married her, he’d promised to care for her dreadful family for the rest of their pitiful lives.
And all the while she watched him with those wide, gray, innocent eyes. For all he knew, she wasn’t even a virgin, as she’d claimed. It could have been part of a wickedly clever machination to trap him into marriage. Was Molly as innocent as she’d have him believe? He’d find out soon enough.
This faltering uncertainty was unlike him. He didn’t like it. Not at all.
Wolf tossed the papers into the top drawer and slammed it shut. What was done was done. He didn’t have to actually live with her. Nothing had to change. He’d go back to New York when he felt like it, and he’d leave Molly here. She’d be waiting whenever he came back.
Nothing had to change.
Wolf was unaccustomed to doubts of any sort, and he hated indecision of any kind, in himself as well as in others. He went after what he wanted and got it. Simple enough. But when the preacher had uttered his solemn “you may kiss the bride,” he had looked into Molly’s eyes and seen something impossible.
Hope.
It had to be an act.
He had a stiff brandy as he stood at the window and watched the last light of day die.
Somehow, someday, he would peel away the disguise and find the real Molly Kincaid . . . the real Molly Trevelyan. She hid it well, but Wolf knew they were two of a kind, that Molly was more like him than she cared to allow. There was a mercenary streak in her heart, just as there was in his, and when they wanted something they took it.
For the first time that day, a smile crossed his face. This marriage was likely to send a shock wave through New York to rival the first one. Foster would get a good laugh out of it, at the very idea of Wolf Trevelyan marrying a sweet, poor, simple girl. Adele would be furious to be sure, but he’d never promised her anything. Their relationship didn’t have to end just because he was married.
Unlike Molly, Adele could be bought. A bauble or two, and all would be forgiven.
Actually, Molly could be bought. Her price was high, frightfully so, but she was waiting for him, right now, he imagined. Her mother and her grandmother would be cared for for life, and Molly herself would certainly never want for anything.
Wolf poured himself another brandy and downed it quickly. Molly was waiting.
The house was quiet. Everyone had been bustling well before sunup, cooking and arranging flowers, cleaning the bedroom he had chosen to be Molly’s. It was next to his, and there was a connecting door.
Only the butler remained, to no surprise, standing stiffly at the foot of the stairs.
“Go on to bed, Larkin,” Wolf said as he passed the stern old man.
“Yes, sir.”
Larkin showed no indication that he might move from his post at the foot of the stairs.
Wolf smiled bitterly as he climbed the stairs, bravely presenting his back to the butler. Perhaps Larkin would stay there all night, in case another Trevelyan bride decided death was preferable to marriage.
The door to Molly’s room was slightly ajar, and Wolf pushed it open with a hard shove. The door crashed against the wall, and Wolf stepped into his wife’s room.
Molly was indeed waiting for him, sitting up in her plush, wide bed, candlelight illuminating her face and a cascade of red curls, shining bright on the white nightgown she wore and on the blue spread that covered her to the waist.
He closed the door behind him quietly.
“I thought maybe you wouldn’t come,” Molly said softly.
Wolf grinned at her as he began to unbutton his shirt. “Not a chance, Red.”
“Oh.”
Her voice was soft, but she didn’t appear to be afraid. Her gray eyes were wide, but not with fear, as she watched him shed his wedding suit. The hands that rested on her lap didn’t tremble, until he stood before her completely naked, and then it was more of a faint quiver that rippled through her.
Molly looked him over boldly, curiously, her eyes raking over him from his grin to the arousal that had grown and hardened as she’d watched.
“My,” she whispered softly. “What a . . . . ” Molly lifted her gaze sharply, meeting his stare at last. “Never mind.”
When he placed a knee on the side of the bed and yanked back the covers to toss them to the floor, Molly didn’t protest, but licked her lips slowly in a way that made Wolf impatient to feel her beneath and around his body. He couldn’t allow her to steal his control with such a simple maneuver of her tongue.
“Worried, Red?” Wolf growled as he slid her nightdress upward slowly, allowing his fingers to trail across the warm, soft skin of her legs.
“No,” she whispered, and she lifted her eyes to his. “I know you would never hurt me.”
His hands stilled, and in spite of his resolve not to let himself be fooled by her masquerade, Wolf leaned forward to kiss her waiting lips.
She raised her hands to his face, touched his cheeks tenderly as she parted her lips for him, moved her mouth instinctively against his.
Damn her, she was right. He wouldn’t hurt her for the world.
* * *
There was such a strong, strange beauty about her husband. Even in candlelight his features were harsh, his eyes too sharp to be called tender . . . but his hands were gentle, and his lips moved over hers so tenderly she wanted to cry with it.
Wolf scooted her nightgown up slowly, until he apparently lost patience and made short work of ridding her of the cumbersome thing.
Without it, she could feel the heat of his chest against hers, the wondrous sensation of flesh against flesh.
His body was so unlike hers, so hard and rough, with rippled muscles under dark skin and tiny, soft, dark hairs on his arms and chest. She should have felt weak beneath him, powerless, but that was not true. There was more power within her than there had ever been before.
“Red?” he whispered against her mouth.
“Yes?”
“I don’t want to hurt you, but I might —”
Molly silenced him with a kiss. “No, you won’t,” she breath
ed against his mouth.
“Dammit, Red,” he growled. “The first time . . . . ” He drew away from her slightly, and looked down at her with a strange expression on his face. Desire, frustration, maybe even a little embarrassment. “Didn’t your mother tell you anything?”
“She tried, but she was crying so hard I couldn’t understand a word she said.” It wasn’t funny, not really, but Molly started laughing. “Well, I did understand a few blubbery words. Close your eyes and lie very still. Does that sound about right?”
Wolf buried his face against her shoulder and groaned lowly.
“I’m afraid it does hurt the first time, Red. There’s nothing I can do but try to make it easy on you, and that’s going to be difficult.”
“Why?”
He lifted his head to look down at her. “Because I want you too much.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
He grinned crookedly. “I haven’t decided yet.”
Molly lifted her head and kissed her husband. His smile disappeared as he parted his lips and yielded his mouth to her. He forced her legs apart with his knee, and Molly spread her legs wide.
Wolf settled between her spread legs, deepened the kiss that could heal any hurt, and touched her.
It was shocking and wonderful, his tender fingers stroking her softly, and then thrust inside her.
Molly wanted more. She couldn’t understand why, or how, but she rocked against Wolf and wrapped her arms around his neck. She tingled where he touched her, and she was warm — hot — everywhere.
When he took his hand away she wanted to object, but she never got the chance. In one swift thrust he entered her, and in another he filled her. And it did hurt.
Wolf lay very still atop her, his swollen manhood buried inside her, filling her, stretching her.
“Oh,” she breathed. Wolf kissed her again, softly, deeply, and the pain faded.
It took a moment, but Molly felt herself relaxing, her body adjusting to Wolf’s inside her. As if he felt her response, as if he knew that the pain was gone, he began to move again, rocking back and thrusting. Slowly at first, and then quicker, harder.
It was a most shocking invasion, more powerful than she’d expected. Molly lifted her hips instinctively, clasped her hands against Wolf’s muscled back, and closed her eyes. What a magnificent and unexpected sensation this was, and it grew with every stroke.
As he moved above and inside her, Molly was certain Wolf would devour her, with his mouth, with his tender invasion of her body. The thought of being consumed by Wolf wasn’t frightening. It was exhilarating.
Just days ago she had accepted the fact that she loved him, and now she had to admit that it was more than that. He had made himself a part of her, and she would never be content to be alone again. Wolf possessed her, owned her body and soul.
And heart.
Wolf drove so deep it took her breath away, and then he shuddered above her, inside her. His lips, his arms. The completion shot through him, and she could feel it.
For a long moment he was very still, wonderfully heavy atop her, and when he lifted his head from his shoulder he kissed her again. “I’m sorry. I did hurt you . . . . ”
“Never apologize,” she whispered. For loving me. She kept that last to herself. Wolf wasn’t ready to admit that there was any love between them. Not yet.
Wolf woke with a start to find that he’d fallen asleep in Molly’s bed. She was snuggled up against his side, with her face buried against his ribs and one bare leg thrown over his.
She’d extinguished the candle earlier, and the only light in the room was pale moonlight that broke through the window. It was just enough to reveal the blurred outlines of the room, and the soft shape of his bride.
Unable to stop himself, Wolf lifted a strand of curling red hair that had fallen across his chest and caressed it easily before he released the strand and allowed it to fall back into place.
He wanted to wake Molly and take her again, but he knew it was too soon for her, his virgin bride. Still, he was tempted. Her chest rose and fell steadily against his side, and the sensation of her heartbeat and her breath were oddly stimulating.
Wolf extricated himself slowly, gently, so he wouldn’t wake her, and slipped from the bed. Molly moaned softly, rolled onto her stomach, and clutched her pillow.
He stood by the bed for a long time. The air was chilly against his bare skin, and he was uncommonly tired, but he wouldn’t allow himself to crawl back into the warm bed with Molly.
The bed that was waiting for him in the room next door was no more appealing than the idea of standing here and watching Molly as the night passed. Less appealing, and that was something Wolf wouldn’t allow.
He turned away from her, and gathered his clothes as he approached the door that separated his room from hers. Separate. He had to remember that he and Molly would lead separate lives, that only when he desired her body would he think of her as a real wife.
If he weren’t so tired, he thought, as he tossed his clothes over the back of a chair in his own room, he wouldn’t be forced to remind himself of that fact.
The wide bed looked unappealing, at the moment, so Wolf fixed himself a brandy at the small bar that was always well-stocked, and took his favorite chair to stare into an empty fireplace.
A few more nights like this one, and his obsession with Molly would surely vanish. At the very least it should fade to a manageable condition. He’d been infatuated with women before, and it never lasted.
He had to admit, grudgingly, that it had never been this strong, either.
He also had to admit, every bit as grudgingly, that he’d never known a woman like Molly before.
Wolf finished his brandy and glanced warily to the bed that awaited. After a few hours with Molly in his arms, the uninhabited bed was vastly wide, and cold, and empty, and extraordinarily repugnant.
There was a hint of light in the sky when Wolf finally dozed off there in the chair, wondering as he drifted off why Molly had married him.
Chapter Eight
Molly smiled brightly at the man who waited stoically at the foot of the stairs. “Good morning, Mr. Larkin,” she greeted cheerfully, hoping for a returning smile. She didn’t get one.
“Good morning, madam.”
“Have you seen Wolf this morning? I thought we might have breakfast together.” She’d been disappointed to find her husband gone when she’d awakened, but she couldn’t stay disappointed for long. She was much too happy.
Wolf’s butler watched her every move as she descended the staircase, his stern, unblinking eyes following her intently. “Mr. Trevelyan doesn’t take breakfast, madam.”
“Oh. Well . . . . ” Molly held her head high and continued to smile, refusing to allow the forbidding man to ruin her happiness. “I’m always starving when I wake, and I find that I have a particularly beastly hunger this morning.”
“Yes, madam.”
Mr. Larkin was awfully uncooperative this morning, and Molly wondered if he was always so cross. “Where’s the kitchen?”
She could almost think that she had shocked the man. His steely eyes widened, just slightly. “If you’ll wait in the dining room, I’ll serve your breakfast shortly, madam.”
Her first morning as Mrs. Trevelyan, and already she’d made a mistake. Was the lady of the manor forbidden from entering the kitchen? “Of course, Mr. Larkin.”
Molly turned to make her way down the long, echoing hallway. Perhaps Wolf didn’t eat breakfast, but she still wanted to see him. Would he give her a good morning kiss? A smile bloomed across her face at the very thought.
She peeked into the parlor where they’d been married. Every sign that a ceremony had taken place in the room was gone: the makeshift altar, the roses, the neatly arranged chairs. Still, it was a nice room, the only room in the house she’d seen thus far that had even a hint of a feminine influence.
It was empty, but that didn’t surprise her. She couldn’t imagine Wolf in this brig
htly lit room. When she thought of him, when she imagined him, it was in the shadows of the forest, or by soft candlelight in a darkened room.
The next room was a library, as dark as the parlor was bright, as masculine as the parlor was feminine. She’d never seen so many books in all her life. The bookshelves that lined the walls were filled with leather bound books, and there were several comfortable-looking leather chairs and lamps with colored shades.
It might be a very nice room, if those heavy drapes were opened, and a vase of roses was placed here or there. Light and color, that was what this house needed.
Molly closed the door silently and moved to the next room. She swung the door inward, as she had the others, and found herself face to face with her husband.
Wolf jerked his head up from the papers on his desk, a scowl on his face. “Don’t you know how to knock?” he grumbled.
Molly closed the door, took a deep breath, and rapped her knuckles lightly against the heavy wood. And waited. After a moment of silence, she knocked again. Nothing.
She opened the door and stepped into the study. “Don’t you know how to say ‘come in?’ ”
Wolf leaned back in his chair and stared at her. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought you might like to have breakfast with me.” She wasn’t going to allow his sour mood to spoil this lovely morning.
“I don’t eat breakfast.” He dismissed her with a wave of his hand and returned his attention to the papers on his desk.
“That’s what Mr. Larkin said.”
Wolf lifted his eyes slowly.
“But perhaps if you had breakfast you wouldn’t be such a grumpy old man in the morning.”
“Molly, I have work to do.”
She stepped forward until she could see the stack of papers on his desk. Figures and scribbled notes filled much of the paper. “Oh. Well, I guess I should leave you alone for a while.”
“I guess you should.”
Big Bad Wolf Page 9
