A Touch of Passion_A Rouge Regency Romance

by Bronwen Evans

  He should be given a medal for holding still, but every one of his senses locked on her and the small cry she gave. He wished he could crush her to him and kiss the pain away but her injury kept him still, cursing silently for having hurt her.

  Instead, he pressed kisses along the blemish-free skin where her graceful neck met her shoulder. “Is the pain too bad?”

  Portia blew out a breath. “No. It’s easing.”

  “And your ribs?” He shuddered as her inner muscles clenched tightly around him, and he battled with his sanity not to move until she was ready.

  Her nails dug deep. “If you think you’re stopping now …”

  He laughed and breathed a sigh of relief as he felt her ease around his cock.

  It appeared Portia was more impatient than him, for she said, “Is that it? I hardly think so, for Rose would not have mused so poetically.”

  In answer to her question he withdrew almost to her entrance and slid gently back in, while one hand stroked over her hip, slipped through her curls, and applied pressure to her hardened nub.

  Her moan filled the cabin and was accompanied by a flex of her hips. The late afternoon sun coming through the porthole bathed her skin in a golden glow as he rocked into her gently but steadily. Soon she was matching his rhythm perfectly—too perfectly. She was so tight and hot and wet that he knew he would not last long. Probably good, given her condition.

  Portia began to understand what Rose was talking about when she mentioned the intimacy and exhilaration of making love to a man who makes your heart fly.

  She reveled in the feeling, and urged Grayson on. She knew he was holding back, frightened of hurting her ribs, but the exquisite slowness of each stoke was torture.

  Her mind couldn’t quite believe she was here, with him. It was so much better, indescribably so … She was now a woman, being loved by a man who’d owned her heart for years. Now all she had to do was win his in return.

  She let him lead her, teach her, and she was a quick learner, matching him stroke for stroke. She grabbed the opportunity to learn about pleasure and desire, and though she sensed his restraint she knew he wanted her to reach that unequivocal peak once more.

  Frustration at his pace was matched by her disappointment that she could not do more to enhance his pleasure. To make the man she loved lose control, to learn what he liked, to return the pleasure he gave her would be amazing. Love was sharing, and she dreamed of the day he shared not only his body with her but his heart. That would be the ultimate prize of all.

  She delighted in the ragged sounds of their breathing, in the urgency beginning to grip him as his thrusts became less gentle, and they finally began to strive for the pinnacle, body to body and heart to thudding heart.

  She closed her eyes, waiting for him to catch up with her. She wanted to climb the mountain together, to soar free with him. He groaned, thrusting deep and hard, before sinking his teeth into her shoulder, and an explosion of sensation rocked her. She cried out, reaching around to tightly grip his buttocks, drawing him deeper, willing him to let go and fly with her.

  For two heartbeats, Grayson savored her release. His jaw ached from gritting and holding on. As he felt the first ripples of her sheath, tight and powerful, convulse around him, he gave in and let her orgasm milk him. Release swept over him, through him, consumed him, letting his shuddering body follow her into ecstasy. He’d never experienced such pleasure, and it scared him.

  Portia had never known such bliss. She didn’t know whether it was the brandy she’d drunk or losing her virginity to the man who owned her heart, but an unusual sense of peace seeped into her heart.

  Grayson stirred behind her, his strong, powerful body still holding her. He eased back and let her roll over. “Your side must be aching,” he murmured.

  Not as much as my heart, she wanted to reply.

  He propped himself on his side, up on one elbow, and smiled down at her. The smile hit her hard. It was one of ownership and satisfaction. His hair was slightly ruffled where she’d run her hands through it, His features were warily assessing until she felt her lips curve; then they relaxed. He was so handsome that her body responded once more.

  “That was rather wonderful. Do you think we could do it again?”

  “How are your ribs feeling? I suspect once the euphoria of the moment and the brandy wear off, you’ll be sorry.” At her frown he added, “We have plenty of time to learn each other’s desires and wants once we are married.”

  It was only then Portia noticed the ship rocking. “We’ve left port. How long before we reach England?”

  “I told Seaton to cast off immediately. It should take only a few days to reach Calais if the winds are right, and then not long after that. Long enough for you to heal. The next time we make love I want you fully able to participate.” His husky words sent more heat skittering over her skin.

  The setting sun started to cast shadows over the room. “Does making love always make you feel so sleepy?”

  He bent his head to press a kiss on her nose. “That and the brandy and whiskey you’ve drunk.”

  He looked as if he were deep in thought, his face a mask of concentration, as he ran his fingers through her hair. “Having regrets?” she asked.

  “No. Our marriage was inevitable the minute you were kidnapped by an enemy using my name.”

  Portia chose to ignore his comment. She was too happy to be contrary. Courtesy of her injury, her participation had been curtailed, and she wondered what Grayson thought of their joining. No doubt she was a disappointment compared to his previous lovers. Was he comparing her to them? Perhaps that was why he was so quiet. “I realize in my condition it may not have been as enjoyable for you, but I thought you should know it surpassed my wildest imaginings.”

  He lay down beside her with a sigh. “It was perfect. I’m humbled by your comment and honored by the fact you chose me to be your first and only lover. Now try to get some sleep before the brandy wears off.”

  That was her problem in a nutshell—honor. She had five brothers—while only four were now alive, she would always have five brothers, as Robert was permanently in her heart—and they too spouted on about honor. She’d seen fights when they were younger over slights and foolish male pride. Moving on into adulthood, three of her brothers had been involved in duels, usually over women. Honor seemed to be another word for wounded pride.

  Except honor for a man like Grayson Devlin was a real and tangible entity. This was why he’d proposed in the first place. He demonstrated his integrity in every word he said, each deed—in fact, in every aspect of his life. Perhaps the sacrifices he’d made in respect to his honor meant she couldn’t go forward to the altar without winning his heart first. It wasn’t fair to him. He deserved to be happy. To have someone to love, to have a woman who loved him with equal passion.

  She wanted to be the woman who loved him for the rest of her life, but she also desired him to love her in return. She didn’t wish to be his “honor bride.”

  The idea of being his wife thrilled her and at the same time horrified her. If she could not win his heart, at some point another woman would. He was capable of such love and passion that it was inevitable. Then they would both be stuck and she’d be in misery.

  She tried to push the panic from her mind. To marry Grayson without love was not something she could bear. However, she wasn’t dumb enough to miss the fact that now they’d been intimate, she’d backed herself into a corner. She wished she could stay awake longer to talk to him but her eyelids felt as heavy as her bed warmer. Soon she slipped into sleep, for once not sure of the course she should plot.

  Grayson watched her as she drifted into sleep, and his heart lurched in his chest. She looked so delicate and tiny lying beside him, but he of all people knew she had a core of steel.

  He turned onto his back, keeping distance between himself and her ribs. He should go to his own cabin but he couldn’t bring himself to leave her side. Everything about her drew him as surely
as dawn drew the sun. He’d been fighting her pull since the night of her debut. Up until that night she’d been the annoying brat who followed him and the rest of her brothers everywhere.

  When she’d walked down the stairs at Flagstaff Castle he’d never seen such a vision, and he’d almost fallen to his knees. Her hair was vibrant in the candlelight, piled upon her head with pearls threaded through, just as he’d imagined a mermaid would look like. Her dress was demure, most of her décolletage covered, yet he’d never seen anything so sensual in his life. The soft cream silk hugged every lithe curve, and the pearl strands crisscrossing her pert breasts didn’t entice as much as her pretty pink lips. She looked a vision. She appeared to be a demure and innocent angel.

  At that moment he’d considered her the future Lady Blackwood.

  However, over the coming months he quickly realized appearances were deceptive. Yes, her looks set his body on fire, but her personality challenged him constantly. She was outspoken, correcting him and any other male she thought was wrong. Then she’d started her cider business. She didn’t just fund it and employ a manager. She rolled up her sleeves and did it all, from the cider’s taste to the distribution agreements. She’d haggled with tavern owners, store owners, and even the Royal Navy. The ton was aghast.

  Even worse, whenever they were together, for some reason they grated on each other. Her opinions were too modern, so different from his mother’s, and it became clear her impression of marriage was so far removed from his that it would never work between them. She thought a marriage was a partnership, while he knew that marriage needed one strong leader—him. His parents had taught him how a marriage that was peaceful, respectful, and workable came about, and it was because of his father’s firm hand.

  That didn’t mean he hadn’t been immune to Portia’s abundant charms. What had kept him away from her was that he was not the only male to find those charms so appealing. Why, when he did not want her, did he get so angry when other men did? He couldn’t stand watching men make idiots of themselves trying to win her affections. They didn’t understand that Portia could see through their false declarations. She was far clever than most of the sycophantic throng. They would not win her with meaningless poetry and flowers.

  He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. No. Lady Portia wanted something he couldn’t give. She wanted a man’s heart, love, and faithfulness. She wanted to take at least one of the reins. Life with her would be neither peaceful nor harmonious.

  Unfortunately, despite her intelligence she’d set her sights on the wrong man. He would be the ruler in his own home. He had too much at stake to let a hellion share his home and bear his children.

  Yet here he was, about to marry exactly what he did not want. Why then did his body stir at the knowledge she was now his?

  Grayson waited until she’d drifted off to sleep and then slipped from her bed. His countenance darkened as he made his way below to the cargo hold, where he would join Seaton and see what he had learned from the two men they’d captured.

  He might not be happy with the situation he found himself in, but it was not Portia’s fault, and he wasn’t about to let any man hurt her.

  She’s mine.

  Seaton and one of his men were still working on the man who’d strangled Portia. One eye was swollen shut and his nose bled. When Grayson remembered the marks around Portia’s neck and her bruised and battered body, he wished he’d delivered some of the punches to the man himself.

  Seaton pushed off the wall he’d been leaning against. “The first scoundrel we released. He knew nothing. He was simply a thug hired in Gibraltar. But this one”—he indicated with his head—“knows a lot more than he’s sharing.”

  Grayson drew himself up to his full height and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, since he’d not fully dressed when leaving Portia’s cabin. In a voice that would make the devil think twice, he declared, “Then he obviously needs more persuasion.”

  Grayson approached the man as if he wanted to remove his head from his body. “It was my fiancée you put your filthy hands on. What would you do to a man who touched your woman?”

  Their captive made a fatal mistake. “She’s not your woman. We’s only used her to set you up, guv.” He smiled.

  It was clear to Grayson that whoever had a grudge against him had obviously been watching him and monitoring his business and affairs for quite some time, because they obviously knew he had not been romantically involved with Portia. Then why had they kidnapped her?

  Grayson’s fist smashed into man’s face. “She’s my fiancée now because of your meddling.”

  The man took a moment to gather himself before replying. “Is that what you’re so angry about? Don’t know why. She looked a mighty fine piece to me.”

  That remark made Grayson’s second punch so much easier. This time it took a few minutes for the man to regain enough of his senses to talk.

  Grayson stood over him, a seething mass of temper. “Who’s ‘we’?”

  The man’s face paled as he realized his slip.

  Grayson took a step back and began rolling his sleeves back down. “Seaton, he’s obviously not going to talk, so we may as well feed him to the sharks.” The ship’s captain made as if to seize the man and drag him up on deck.

  The man cried out, “No!”

  Seaton looked at Grayson. “My lord?”

  “I’m willing to take him safely back to English soil if he tells me what I wish to know.”

  “You won’t throw me overboard?”

  “No. I give you my word.”

  The man caved almost immediately. “All I knows is, the gent who hired us don’t want the lady to reach England alive.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “I was only told what I needed to know. Kill the girl before she made it back to England, and if possible make it look as if you’d done it.”

  The man’s words formed a circle of stone-cold dread around Grayson’s heart. Portia was targeted for death.

  “Will they attack again?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Those hungry sharks are circling. I’d think harder,” Grayson suggested.

  Their prisoner remained sullen for a few moments before saying, “We heard the captain here”—he nodded in Seaton’s direction—“is pickin’ up merchandise in Calais.” He didn’t need to add that Calais was where they would be staging another attack.

  “Details would help.”

  Their prisoner’s face turned green. “I don’t know nothin’. Safer that way.” At Grayson’s silence he pleaded, “Please believe me,” and sweat broke out on his forehead. “I don’t know a thing.”

  Grayson turned to Seaton. “Is there a room we can keep him locked in?”

  “There’s a small room I keep any brandy in. Just in case the sailors get ideas. It’s empty until Calais.”

  Grayson left Seaton to take care of the prisoner, and he returned to the stateroom.

  It was well after midnight and he should have been tired, but when he peered into Portia’s cabin he was mesmerized. The full moon shining through the large window at the end bathed the cabin in a silvery glow. It seemed to be caressing Portia as she lay on her uninjured side, facing the wall. He couldn’t see her face. The sheet had slipped down to her waist, and his eyes trailed over her slim shoulders and bare back down to her waist, the curving rise of her hip, and the beginning swell of her bottom.

  She looked so beautiful. Her skin had an ethereal glow, and though she looked delicate, he could see strength in the sinewy muscles clasping her bones.

  She would be his viscountess. Pride rose to hug him. She was unlike any other woman he knew: intelligent, loyal, kind, and generous. Everything he wanted in a wife. However, she was also opinionated and stubborn, and she never cared about the rules.

  For a viscount who wanted to make a difference, to get his peers to change their long-held beliefs on issues that needed to be addressed, his name had to have social standing. If his wife was seen as co
nfrontational or, worse still, unconventional, how would he be perceived? He’d become a laughingstock if he couldn’t control his wife.

  But damn, she was beautiful. A pity she didn’t keep her opinions to herself. She would certainly never be boring.

  He’d thought her wildness a bad thing, but it was certainly stimulating. Perhaps he should give her the benefit of the doubt. She was, after all, a good woman at heart.

  Like the moonlight flooding the room, emotions flooded through his heart. Mixed emotions. Confusing emotions. He tried to dam the rising tide of warmth and longing, but the flow was too strong.

  He needed to think carefully where she was concerned. His idea to test what could be between them would see him treading a fine line. He had to take his emotions out of the situation and think logically. Therefore, he would not share her bed again until they married, no matter how much he longed to. If they made love once more, she might figure out how susceptible he was to her charms. That would weaken his position.

  Coward. It is not your social standing that has you running, it’s fear. He thought of his parents, his innocent little sister, and Robert, and grief seized every scrap of air in his lungs. It felt as if someone had shot an arrow straight through his heart, leaving a gaping, raw mess—one he knew could never be mended. The savage pain of loss was too great a price to pay for love.

  He ran his fingers through his hair and tried to make sense of all that had happened since Christian had been accused of rape. Was there something bigger going on than he’d imagined? Framing him for murdering Portia was an extreme way to stop his investigation into Christian’s innocence.

  One thing he did know was he’d never let anyone get near Portia again. Grayson shuddered to even think about the possibility of her death.

  Chapter 9

  Over the past few days Portia had lost count of the times she’d cursed her attacker. Grayson declared that he would not come to her bed again until he could touch her bruised side without causing her to flinch. No matter how stoic she tried to be, his probing fingers gave the wound’s painfulness away.