After the Kiss

by Joan Johnston

  “Marcus,” the Earl of Denbigh shouted. “Wait!”

  “Hurry, Lion,” the countess urged, following him down the center aisle. “They’re getting away!”

  Griggs stepped into the earl’s path. “His Grace said to tell you there’s food and drink for everyone in the dining room. You will find comfortable rooms have been prepared for you in the west wing of the Abbey. His Grace hopes you will enjoy your stay.”

  “I demand to speak with Blackthorne,” the Earl of Denbigh said through clenched jaws.

  “I need to know that Eliza is all right,” the countess said anxiously. “Please, may I see her?”

  “His Grace and his bride are not at home to company,” Griggs announced.

  “He will speak to me,” the Duke of Braddock said. “Or I will know why.”

  When Braddock moved toward the door where Blackthorne had disappeared with Eliza, Griggs put his one remaining hand up to stop him. The duke could easily have pushed by the sergeant, but he looked at the empty sleeve and stopped where he was.

  “Will you at least take a message to him?” Braddock said.

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  “Tell him there are rumors in Scotland of a stranger at Blackthorne Hall, a new laird married to the mistress there, who fits the description of Alastair Wharton, sixth Duke of Blackthorne.”

  Reggie grabbed Becky’s arm and whispered, “Father is alive!”

  Chapter 17

  Eliza did not know why she had not struggled when the Beast grabbed her wrist and dragged her from the chapel. If she had said a word of protest, Eliza was certain she would have been rescued. But to what purpose? The Beast was her husband now. She belonged to him.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked breathlessly, as he dragged her down a long, dark hallway.

  “To our room.”

  Our room? There was no such place. Only his room in this wing of the house and hers in the other.

  He had no sooner said the words than he opened the door to an immense bedchamber, pulled her inside, and shut the thick wooden door behind her with a thunk. He shoved home two heavy iron bolts that effectively locked the door against intruders. And made her his captive.

  Eliza’s gaze shifted quickly around the room, searching for an avenue of escape without finding one. Several candles burned in the room, but none of them were anywhere near the bed, which lay in deep shadow.

  That quick, futile glance was enough to convince her the Beast did not live in squalor. Brilliant tapestries hung on the wall; more subdued ones lay on the floor. Black velvet curtains shrouded the windows. And she had never seen such an impressive bed. The massive headboard and footboard were carved with scenes she could not distinguish in the dim light.

  Eliza scrutinized the cloaked and hooded man who was about to prove that he was her husband—in every way. Her heart thumped wildly. Her breathing was erratic. Not from the rapid walk to get there—her legs were nearly as long as his, and she had kept up with him stride for stride. But because she was afraid of what he would do to her now.

  As Eliza had learned long ago, the best defense against awkwardness in a social situation was to attack first. In this case, because she was also terrified, both her voice and her choice of words were more virulent than they might otherwise have been.

  Eliza lifted her chin defiantly and said, “Here I am, Your Grace. Ready to play your whore.”

  His body stiffened. His right hand balled into a fist, while the clawlike left merely twitched. “My whore?” he rasped. “I rather thought I had made you my wife.”

  “I am no better than a whore,” she accused. “You offer me nothing of yourself and want nothing of me—except the use of my body.” She yanked off the crown of wildflowers and threw it at his feet. The hand-held bouquet shot directly at his head.

  He moved subtly to one side, and it sailed past and landed on the floor behind him, skidding to a stop against the stone wall.

  “Come, Your Grace,” she said, gesturing him toward her with both hands. “Take what you want from me, so I may leave and go back to my other life.”

  “Other life?”

  “The real one. Where children play and servants sweep away the cobwebs and sunshine fills every room.” Her gaze left him and roamed the exotic bedroom, with its medieval bed and tapestries brought back from the Crusades. “This is a fantasy you have concocted for yourself and expect me to fulfill. So be it. You have your wife … and your whore. I am ready to do your bidding.”

  “So be it, wife!” he snarled. “If you wish to whore for me, whore you shall be!”

  He moved so fast Eliza did not realize what he had done until she heard pearls bouncing on the stone floor that edged the carpet.

  “My dress!” she cried. The gift from her mother was ruined. But there was no time to grieve it. With the bodice gaping loose, he yanked the shoulders down, and she was in danger of losing the ivory gown entirely.

  She reacted instinctively to his attack. Her hands curled into fists, and she punched out toward his face.

  Her right fist never got there. He caught it with a steely hand and forced it back behind her, then used his clawed hand to force the other fist back, where he was able to grip both wrists in his right hand. He used his painful hold to force her hips forward, pressing her tightly against his body from breast to thigh.

  “Whores want it over with quickly, so they can be paid. Is that what you want, Eliza?”

  Eliza could feel his hardened shaft pressing against her belly, feel his hot breath against her flesh. His eyes glittered with feral ruthlessness deep within the hood that shadowed his face. “I want it over,” she managed to gasp. “Hurry up and finish!”

  He released her suddenly and took a step back. “I think not. I think I would enjoy it done more slowly. After all, I am the one who must be pleased.”

  Her shoulders hurt as she brought her hands forward to soothe her recently manacled wrists. She could see no mercy in the Beast. His body was taut, his stance threatening.

  He left her standing where she was and crossed to sit in a thronelike chair angled in the corner. He wrapped the full-length black cloak around him and pulled the hood forward, making certain his face was completely in the dark. She realized the single candle merely provided enough light to ensure she would be visible to him.

  “Come here, whore.”

  Eliza swallowed past the painful thickness in her throat and walked toward him, her satin skirt rustling with each step. She resisted the urge to clutch at the torn bodice. He had ripped the chemise beneath it as well, exposing a great deal of décolletage. Let him look. Let him drink his fill. The Beast could slake his desire with her body. But that was all he would have of her. Nothing more.

  It was hard to stand before him perfectly still, letting him look at her, waiting for him to do whatever it was he was going to do.

  “Undress for me.”

  Eliza ogled him. “What?”

  “Take off your clothes, Eliza,” he said in a silky voice. “Let me see what I have bought.”

  It should have been impossible for her to remove the dress by herself. The heirloom laced closed in back. When he had yanked on her bodice, the aged, fragile cord in back had broken. When Eliza reached up to pull the dress down, the laces fell loose all the way down her back.

  Her face flamed as she let the dress fall in an ivory puddle at her feet. She stepped over it, then reached down to pick it up, holding it against her bosom protectively.

  The Beast held out a hand to her, and Eliza realized he wanted the dress. Reluctantly, she handed it over to him.

  He took it from her and laid it across the wooden arm of the chair, caressing the satin fabric as though the dress still contained her warm flesh. “Take your time, my dear. I find the anticipation of bedding you immensely enjoyable.”

  Eliza stood before him in a chemise and pantalets that were inset with lace in pivotal places. They had been brought along with the dress for her wedding.

&nbs
p; Now she knew why. They were meant to entice her husband.

  Eliza could feel his eyes on her. Feel his desire across the short distance that separated them. To her horror she felt her own desire rising to meet his. Her belly curled, and she felt a dampness between her thighs. Her skin prickled with awareness of him.

  Eliza realized she was only making things worse by hesitating. She quickly stepped out of her satin slippers and pushed them to the side with her foot, then bent over to roll down her stocking.

  The Beast drew an audible breath.

  Eliza looked up without standing up, saw where his gaze seemed to be focused, then glanced down. Her torn chemise had fallen completely open. Her breasts were exposed to him all the way to the nipples. Which, as she watched, hardened into tight pink buds.

  Eliza resisted the urge to jerk herself upright and cover herself with her hands. Instead, she remained bent over, completely exposed, but lifted her head and stared directly at his face, into his eyes. Slowly, steadily, she rolled down her left stocking and then the right. Not until she had finished and was naked to the knee did she stand upright again.

  His right hand clutched a fistful of satin. His breathing was labored, the muscles of his thighs taut.

  “Shall I continue?” she asked in the same silky, insinuating voice he had used on her.

  “By all means,” the Beast said, his voice curt and harsh with what she was learning to recognize as leashed desire.

  Before she removed any more clothes, Eliza reached up to pull the pins from the knot that had held her hair in place at her crown. It fell heavily down her back. She pulled it forward over her shoulders. It would not hide her nakedness completely, but it satisfied her need for some modesty.

  “Go on,” he said in a guttural voice. “Finish it.”

  When Eliza reached for the tie on her chemise, her courage nearly failed her. But the Beast had already seen everything, had he not? And though she played the whore for him, she was his wife.

  She released the ribbon and let the chemise fall open all the way to her waist. She shrugged and the thin straps fell off her shoulders. A tug, and the chemise slid completely down her arms. She held it by her fingertips for a moment, then let it drop to the floor.

  Her mouth was dry, with no spit to swallow. She untied her pantalets and let them slide down over her hips to the floor, then stood where she was, her feet tangled in the cloth. Waiting.

  Marcus’s mouth had gone dry. She was exquisite, her breasts high and firm, the rosy nipples budded. Her waist was narrow, her hips wide enough for easy child-bearing. He could imagine her incredibly long, slender legs wrapped around his waist as he plunged into her.

  “Get into bed,” he said. “I will extinguish the candles.”

  For an instant, her eyes revealed stark terror. Then she was gone, scrambling under the covers he had asked Griggs to turn down, yanking the sheet all the way up to her neck like a terrified virgin. Which, of course, she was.

  He stared at the torn dress still clutched in his fist. He had not meant to ruin her gown, and he would find a way to mend it, but that was the least of his problems.

  She had begun this, Marcus thought angrily. Calling herself whore. As though he had not broken every vow he had ever made to himself to make her his wife. He had been ready to treat her as tenderly as any maiden on her wedding night, to soothe her fears as best he could. Knowing how she would be repulsed by his gloved hand. Knowing that she would fear the horribly scarred face she could not see. Knowing he would have to hurt her, because she was untried.

  She had denied her right to his kindness. Denied her right to his courtesy and respect. Denied her right to be treated as the inexperienced virgin she was, by calling herself whore.

  Yet a part of him urged understanding, urged compassion, urged tendernesss. That small voice could barely be heard beneath the heavy beat of his pulse, the steady throb of his arousal.

  Marcus rose and circled the room blowing out candles, until only one was left. His hand was cupped around it, his head bent to snuff the flame, when she made a sound from the bed.

  “Did you say something?”

  He saw the struggle on her face before she said, “Please. Do not extinguish all the light.”

  “I must,” he said sadly, blowing out the last flame.

  He undressed himself quickly, knowing that the longer she lay alone in bed, the more difficult it would be to broach her. He debated whether to remove the leather glove, but left it on. It was smoother than the ravaged skin beneath it.

  Eliza was panting, like a cornered fox, when he slid under the covers to join her.

  “Don’t touch me!” she cried.

  He heard the panic in her voice. “Eliza,” he said, quietly, “You are my wife—”

  “Your whore!” she spat.

  “I have tired of this game,” he said curtly. Marcus levered himself on top of her, the weight of his body enough to prevent her escape. The shock of her flesh mated to his, her breasts rising against his chest, their bodies fitted exactly at waist and belly, left him feeling dizzy and breathless.

  “Get off, you oaf!” she ranted, shoving against his shoulders. “You are too heavy!”

  He knew she was afraid, but her vituperative words stung. He gritted his teeth against a vitriolic response, took most of his weight on his elbows, and used his knees to force her legs apart and make room for his hips between her thighs. “There is no way to do what must be done without some pain. If you resist me, it will only make it worse.”

  She bit back a sob, but her body writhed beneath him, resisting him, inflaming him.

  He would rather have loved her before he put himself inside her. But it had been too long since he had bedded a woman. He was afraid if he waited he would spill himself on the sheets, and she would remain unbroached. He could not bear that ignominy on top of everything else. He was determined to make her his wife tonight. There was no turning back.

  He threaded his hands into her hair to keep her from escaping and began pushing himself inside her.

  “Stop!” she cried, bucking to free herself. “It hurts!”

  He had never before lain with a virgin. There was no way he knew to prevent the pain this first time. He bit his lip and thrust hard, breaking through the thin membrane and burying himself to the hilt inside her.

  She quivered beneath him.

  “The worst is over,” he grated through clenched teeth. He withdrew as slowly as he could bear, trying not to injure her further, and realized with a start that the passage was not difficult, as he had expected it to be. She was not dry inside; she was slick and wet.

  Ready for him. Excited by him. Wanting him.

  He slid back inside her and heard her groan. Her hands clutched at his shoulders. Her nails dug crescents in his skin.

  “Put your legs around me, Eliza,” he whispered in her ear. “Hold tight to me.”

  Her legs cinched tightly around his buttocks, and she thrust her hips upward, causing an exquisite friction as he thrust down into her.

  He wanted to go slow. He wanted to wait. But he did not pump into her more than once or twice before he spilled his seed. He withdrew, knowing he had left her unsatisfied. Knowing how frustrated she must feel, but unwilling to admit his own fault in the matter. That he had wanted her too badly. That he had been like a green boy with his first woman, unable to control his excitement enough to ensure her pleasure before he took his own.

  Marcus levered himself off his wife and shifted to his side of the bed, lying on his back staring up into the dark, his right hand behind his head, the left beside him.

  He could tell from the muffled sounds from the other side of the bed that she was crying. He felt the covers pull away and realized she was leaving the bed.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To my own bed.”

  “This is your bed,” he said curtly, terrified that she would refuse to return and make him use force to keep her there.

  “I have a room of
my own on the other side of the Abbey,” she said wearily. “I would like to go there.”

  “In the morning,” he said brusquely. “Your nights are mine. That was the bargain.”

  He heard her swallow.

  “I cannot bear …”

  “Get into bed, Eliza. There will be no pain the next time, I promise you.”

  Eliza was half-asleep when she felt something move on her shoulder. She brushed at it with her hand to get it off, but it persisted.

  “Eliza. Wake up.”

  Her eyes opened wide, and she found herself staring into pitch blackness.

  She remembered everything. How terrified she had been, alone in the dark for those few, timeless moments before he had joined her in bed. And even then, how her imagination had created a beast where none existed. He had hurt her, it was true, but she had been warned of that pain. She had only wanted to stop him because, despite everything, she could feel herself succumbing to desire. It was fear of losing her soul that had made her fight the beast—instead of loving the man.

  Eliza could only be grateful she had not been able to see into his eyes—and find love missing. Grateful that he had not been able to see into hers—and find love there.

  She did not understand her feelings, nor could she explain them. How could she love the Beast? How could she want him? He was willing to make a whore of her.

  No, Eliza. Not him. You are the one who started the game. He is the one who ended it.

  She quivered as she felt the Beast’s hand trace her ribs back and forth until he reached her belly. His fingertips seemed so smooth, not at all callused like—Eliza suddenly knew why his touch felt so strangely erotic.

  “That is your gloved hand!” she gasped.

  “It is,” he admitted. “A hand. In a glove.”

  “I would much rather feel flesh against my flesh,” she said. “When I think of your hand in that glove, I cannot help imagining a black spider crawling on my belly.”