by Anne O'Brien
‘You are so very tired,’ he murmured as she watched him, aloof and distant with a glazed expression.
‘No.’
Yes, you are, he thought, but could see the pulse beating wildly in her throat. She would not rest with so much tension tearing her apart, but he would make her.
He lifted her again and sat her on the edge of his bed, then stood back to look at her, hands fisted on hips. He made some rapid decisions, acting on pure instinct.
‘Sit there,’ he ordered as she attempted to slide to her feet.
‘But—’
‘Don’t argue with me, Kate.’
She did as she was bid, hands clasping and unclasping convulsively in her lap.
He left her and walked to the court cupboard to pour a generous pewter goblet of wine. She would refuse it, he knew, but there were ways of getting round that. He returned to sit on the bed beside her.
‘You need to relax a little.’
‘I cannot. And I don’t want wine.’ Her voice sounded to her own ears as if it were a million miles away.
‘I know you don’t, but it will do us both good.’
‘Why?’
‘Don’t argue. You are very difficult!’
He took a drink from the goblet and then passed it to her. He frowned at her momentary hesitation so she decided that obedience might be the best policy. She sipped.
‘Good.’ He took the cup, took another swallow, and handed it back again. ‘Take another.’
She did. She watched him with a detached interest as he left her side to pour water from the ewer into a bowl, wet a cloth and return to gently cleanse the scratches. They were not deep and would not scar, but they were painful and she winced.
‘Be brave, little one. This is the least you have dealt with this night.’
‘I thought she would die!’
‘So did I. But she did not.’
‘But I was responsible. If she had not come to trust my remedies, she would not have taken the draught so unquestioningly.’ There. She had said it.
‘I know. Stop thinking for a little while. Drink a little more.’
She obeyed as he removed the bowl, then returned to assess the affect of the wine. He took the cup from her. Colour had come back to her face, her cheeks were faintly flushed and her eyes had lost their glaze. More important, the rigid tension had gone from her body. She looked soft and pliant and suddenly impossibly young. His impulse was to push her back on to the bed and take her, submerge his own intense needs in the sweetness of her slight body—but that was no way forward. He sat again on the edge of the bed and took her hands in a light clasp, careful not to reveal his urgency, which might frighten her.
‘Look at me, Kate.’ She raised her eyes to his with a faint question but without hesitation. ‘I want you. I want to feel you in my arms, to take what is mine. With the contracts complete, the law now sanctions it.’
He bent his head to press his lips to the soft skin at her temple, her cheekbones, along her jaw, her throat, the lovely long line of it, dwelling at the place where her pulse beat like a fluttering bird below her skin.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ she whispered as his mouth brushed hers in a soft caress.
‘Fortunately I do.’ There was a ghost of a laugh in his reply.
‘I suppose that’s a good thing.’ She blinked at him. ‘I suppose you have known a lot of ladies at Court.’
‘I am sure it is a good thing. And, yes, I have. And it would be better for both of us if you do not see my every move as that of the enemy.’ There was the slightest question there.
‘Are you?’
‘Am I what? Sure or your enemy?’
‘Both. Neither. Perhaps I should not have drunk the wine.’ There was the faintest of laughs. It made his heart turn over in his chest and he thanked God for the power of a judicious measure of wine in releasing impossible tensions.
‘I am not your enemy, Viola.’
‘I know.’
With fingers that suddenly felt clumsy, he dealt with the fastening of her bodice, and allowed her skirt to fall free so that he might push it down around her ankles, leaving her in her linen chemise.
‘Can I ask something?’
‘Whatever you desire. As you see, I am at your feet.’ He had knelt before her to remove her shoes and roll down her stockings, allowing his hands to stroke her elegantly slender legs and feet.
‘Will you put out the candle?’ she asked in all seriousness.
‘Of course. In a moment.’ He rose from his knees to sit beside her. ‘Before I do, I would like you to unfasten my shirt.’
He grinned at the surprise on her face, the quick frown at his deliberate distraction. ‘It is very simple.’
She was not shy, he thought. She applied herself to the laces with utmost concentration, frowning a little, to push the heavy linen from his shoulders. She let her hands linger on the broad well-defined planes of his chest. She felt his body tense, his breath catch, as she allowed her palms to slide down his hard body.
Then she pushed herself from the bed to stand beside him, surprising him by leaning against him to release the black ribbon that confined his hair. She ran her fingers through it with a little purr of pleasure as it brushed his shoulders in heavy dark waves.
‘I like it better than mine.’ She smiled and leaned again to touch his lips with her own in the lightest of movements. It was a touch of such delicacy and sweetness that his blood ran hot. At that, with an abrupt gesture, he doused the candle and engulfed the room in darkness.
Kate found herself lifted and placed in the middle of Marlbrooke’s bed, her chemise drawn efficiently over her head to be cast aside, the sheets cool against her skin. She shivered.
‘Are you cold?’
‘No. I am afraid, I think.’ But, in truth, the warmth of the wine, which had spread through her blood, unravelling the knots in her muscles, releasing the tensions in her mind and body, made her thoughts anything but clear.
He rapidly stripped away the remainder of his clothes and stretched beside her.
‘Your hair is beginning to grow.’ He allowed it to curl intimately round his fingers before clenching his fists and holding her powerless while his mouth sought hers. For Kate it began a journey of initiation, an emotional awakening, conducted with the most exquisite tenderness and consideration. The memory of it would haunt her for ever. And the Viscount’s loving possession of her would be branded on her soul.
Marlbrooke’s self-control was limitless, subjugating his own urgent desires, the need to drive on to his own fulfilment, to bury himself in her. Did she realise the enticement of her delicious body as she relaxed and warmed under his hands? No, she would not, he realised. Not now. But in the future he would have the pleasure of showing her.
‘Viola.’ His hands skimmed down her body, all satin curves and dips and hollows, surprising him by their femininity in such a slight frame. He let his palm brush her breast, his gut and loins tightening when he felt her sigh and tremble in his arms. He abandoned her soft lips to touched his tongue to a nipple, savouring the taste of her, the instant reaction when she became taut and erect. She was so slender, so finely boned but gloriously feminine. She clung to him and buried her face against his shoulder.
‘Marcus,’ she gasped, ‘I cannot …’ But she did not know what she could not do. She felt totally serene, her fears banished by the confident touch of his hands, the strains of the day far distant. He had told her that he was not her enemy, and at that moment she believed him implicitly. What she could not believe was the intense pleasure created by his hands touching, stroking, soothing. It was disturbing, perhaps a little frightening, but so enticing. And he was so careful with her. She was conscious of the control in the muscles of his back and arms. So hard. So smooth. He seemed to know every sensitive place in her body. She flushed from her head to her feet at the intimate invasion of some of his caresses. She was grateful indeed for the darkness.
‘Yes, you can. It is so eas
y. Just let me pleasure you.’ He let his hands stroke hip and thigh, the dip of her waist, and then return to her tempting breast. When his thumb encircled her nipple she gasped and would have pulled away, the first hint of alarm in her response, but he was sufficiently sure of her now that he would not permit it. He took possession of her lips once more, this time forceful and possessive, holding her still under the increased demands of his touch. He was hard for her and knew his control would not last for ever.
‘We would get further if you would spread your thighs for me,’ he murmured against her mouth.
She did not know how to react to that—to be shocked or to laugh—but she opened to him and felt his fingers slide along the soft skin of her inner thighs. The heat in her body, the intense ache and tension in her belly startled her, but she did not resist. She held her breath.
‘What do I do?’ she whispered when she remembered to breath again.
‘Nothing. Just let me show you.’
He lifted himself above her, taking the weight on his arms. She was aware of nothing but his nearness, the solid mass of his body, the exquisite touch of his fingers, the outline of his broad shoulders above her in the greying light.
His invasion of her body was not easy. He had not been able to promise her that it would be, but he did his best. She would have cried out at his first thrust, at the shock, the thorough possession of her body, but he covered her mouth and absorbed her tangled emotions into himself. Then held himself still to allow her to become accustomed, to tolerate his size and weight. He stroked her, comforted her until he felt her relax around him and her breathing settle again.
‘Hold on to me. I will not hurt you now.’
He began to move slowly, easing his way further into her, withdrawing and pushing forward again, as smoothly and gently as might be, his skin damp with the effort of holding back from his desire to possess and conquer. Until his hard-held control finally snapped. He surged deeply within her, shuddering into his own climax. She simply lay in his arms, stunned by the events, but surprised at her own relaxed acceptance of what was a shockingly intimate act. But she had trusted him, and he had not hurt her—well, no more than she could bear. The warmth and closeness gave her a sense of profound well being. She turned her face into his soft hair, pressed her lips to his throat and breathed in the male scent of him. And smiled a little.
He withdrew from her to lie beside her and gather her close. ‘Kate? Did you survive?’ She could hear the concern in his voice—but there was something else there that she did not recognise.
‘Oh, yes. It was not so very bad after all. I did not need to be afraid, did I?’
‘Thank you for your compliment! Now why had I expected flattery from you, of all people?’ He recognised the extreme tiredness in the slight slurring of her words. She felt totally warm and relaxed against him and he knew she would sleep. He had been successful in at least one of his aims.
He felt her smile against him in the dark. ‘I did not dislike it, my lord.’
For a virgin initiation, and given the circumstances, that, he supposed, was as good as it got. He felt a surge of intense masculine satisfaction spread through him. He gathered her into his arms and kissed her with gentle intensity. ‘I did not dislike it either. Perhaps we will suit. I promise that it will be better next time.’
‘Yes.’ She was drifting into sleep. ‘I would like that.’ As he drew her head to rest on his shoulder, a faint sly shiver of dread touched his skin. It had been a deliberate and calculated decision to tell her that he loved her, to put his future into her hands. And such pretty hands they were. He closed his hand warmly over the one that lay on his chest. But where would he be if she could never return his love, but always saw him with suspicion and hostility as the damned Oxenden who had destroyed her family? It would leave him empty, emotionally adrift, when what had just occurred had shown him the splendid possibilities in a future lifetime of loving her. And yet she had turned to him with trust and had not disliked the experience. He shrugged mentally. He would do all in his power to make her happy and hope that love would follow. When she murmured against him, he pressed his lips lightly to her hair and she smiled.
He allowed her to sink into sleep, her body pulled close against his, and gradually followed her.
Kate woke, alone in Marlbrooke’s bed, with clear light illuminating the dark panelling and heavy drapes which at some time had been pulled back. She pushed herself up on the pillows and tried to collect her scattered thoughts as she registered the sly aches and pains in her body. She felt that she had slept deeply, a sleep of exhaustion, and thought that it must be near to mid-day. The events of the previous day and night seemed so distant and out of focus, as if they had involved someone else. Or been in another lifetime. But she knew that the outcome of the near tragedy was very much her concern and she must face it. Her heart began to beat more rapidly at the prospect and her mouth dried.
And now there was Marlbrooke to consider. What had she done? It was all his fault!—and the effect of the wine that he had given her, which had so effectively smoothed out the nervous tension, destroying her reserve in her dealings with him. Colour flooded her cheeks. She would not think about it—not yet. What she must do was find some clothes to put on so that she could escape to Widemarsh before Marlbrooke returned, or any of the servants discovered that she had not slept in her own room. Legal contracts were one thing, the blessing of the Church was another. She wondered idly what her mother would say if she knew—but somehow it did not matter. She tore her mind away from the image of her body in Marlbrooke’s arms, the caress of his fine hands as his lips blazed a pathway from ear to throat to breast … She would not think of him. But her innate honesty compelled her to accept that she no longer hated him. Nor was she merely indifferent. Marlbrooke was no enemy of hers. She pressed her fingers against her tender lips as a delicious shiver rippled through her body.
She needed a chemise—and focused on the one lying across the foot of the bed. She pulled it towards her with some relief—but this was not hers. It was beautiful. Her fingers stroked the soft creamy linen, sewn with such tiny stitches and marvelled at the fine lace trimming the narrow cuffs. For want of anything else, she pulled it over her head. How could she resist such an exquisitely feminine garment? A pattern of roses and honeysuckle rioted in pink silk embroidery round the neck and laced opening. She sighed with pleasure at the softness of it against her skin.
The smile still lit her face when the door opened. Marlbrooke entered, dressed hastily and informally in breeches and unlaced shirt, carrying a tray. He placed it on the bed beside her and surveyed her with raised brows. She returned his gaze, refusing to succumb to the nervousness that threatened to overwhelm her and reduce her to an embarrassed silence.
‘I have a headache,’ she informed him accusingly. ‘It was undoubtedly the wine you gave me last night.’
‘I thought you might have. I wager you ate nothing yesterday.’ He sat on the edge of the bed and removed the cloth to uncover the tray. ‘This should help a little.’
‘I don’t want food.’
‘Yes, you do. I have discovered, my dear Kate, that you can be very difficult. Eat this.’ He handed her a piece of bread cut from a new loaf.
‘And you can be—’
‘Masterful!’
‘The word I was thinking of was manipulative!’
He grinned, his eyes alight with laughter, and touched her face, skimming his fingers over the curve of her cheek with a gentleness that made her catch her breath. ‘You look rested this morning. And undoubtedly very pretty. The chemise looks well.’
She blushed and dropped her eyes as embarrassment won. She could no longer blank out the intimate demands of his hands and lips and the manner in which her body had responded. She obediently ate some of the bread and took a sip of the weak beer.
With a smile he left her to eat and strode to the window to look out over the gardens. Her eyes followed him. He might smile at her but his s
houlders were tense, and she sensed a preoccupation in his manner. Kate knew that she must talk to him about the poisoning. That she must be prepared to see condemnation and suspicion return to his face when he looked at her. How could she bear it when she had seen such tenderness and understanding?
He turned to face her, leaning back against the window frame, arms folded. ‘Better?’
‘Yes.’ She took a deep breath. ‘How is Lady Elizabeth this morning?’
‘Weak. Tired. Looking very fragile but sitting up, and asking to see you. I told her you would come in a little while.’
There was no criticism here in Marlbrooke’s comment or his expression, but Kate feared the worst and could not remain silent. The words spilled out. ‘I did not poison her. I did not leave the jar of aconitum. I know there is no proof and that I have both the knowledge and the opportunity—Mistress Felicity had the truth of it—but I would never—’
He moved quickly to cover the space between them and his firm hand on her arm stilled the words. ‘I know it. There is no need for you to distress yourself. I do not need proof or arguments. I know that you would never harm my mother, Kate.’
‘But Felicity said that—’
‘If you had left the poison,’ he interrupted, his voice gentle but inexorable, ‘I doubt that you would have worked so assiduously to rid her system of the deadly essence and so heal her.’
‘Perhaps.’ Her fingers tightened in the bed linen until he covered them with his own to still them.
‘Whoever prepared it and left it in her bedchamber knew that my mother would drink it without question, believing it was from you and so would bring her relief. It is not your fault. You were used, as much as my mother was used, most likely to attack me. I have to accept that I have enemies. Now leave it.’
‘I cannot bear to think that—’
‘I do not hold you in any way responsible for so cowardly an act, dearest Kate. Does that satisfy you?’
‘Very well.’ There was nothing more she could say, but she was determined to do all in her power to discover the culprit. ‘I think I need to talk to Aunt Gilliver.’
