His Chosen Bride

by Marcia Evanick

  She knew what he was referring to. He could give her pleasure, unlike any she had ever dreamed about. The fire was already started. She could feel it burning. It snatched her breath and stole her strength. The flames scorched her skin and caused her fingers to tremble as she reached for the sash of Mason’s robe. “It will do.” She tugged the sash and pushed the thick navy robe off his shoulders. The terry robe landed at his feet. Breathless at the sight of his readiness, she added, “For now.”

  Within a blink of an eye her robe joined his on the floor and he swept her up into his arms. Her breasts were crushed against his chest as her tightly budded nipples buried themselves beneath his black curls. His mouth was hungry when it captured hers, and she fed his hunger with everything she had. Breaths mingled, tongues danced and fingers searched for all the hidden places of pleasure.

  She knew what Mason liked. She knew where to touch and where to caress with her mouth. She also knew Mason liked to be in control in bed, as well as out of bed. Tonight he wouldn’t give her his heart, so she wasn’t going to give him his control. The instant Mason placed her on the wrinkled sheets and followed her down, she rolled.

  With a smile of triumph she straddled Mason’s hips and captured his hands. She wasn’t fool enough to believe she was actually holding him down. He could have easily reversed their position, but she had surprise on her side. Mason had curiosity on his.

  “Gillian, what do you think you’re doing?” He turned his head from side to side, gazing at his captured hands on either side of his head.

  She bent down and gently circled one of his dark brown nipples with her tongue. “Enjoying myself.” She repeated the action on the other hard nub. “Any complaints?”

  His hands clenched into fists but he didn’t move. “Not a one.”

  She could feel his arousal tremble with anticipation and she wiggled her hips. She bit down on her smile as Mason groaned. “You’ve always been on top and seemed to enjoy it.” She wiggled her hips again and playfully nipped at his lower lip. “Tonight, I think I’ll take a turn.”

  Mason swallowed hard. “I don’t think this is a very good idea, Gillian.”

  She captured his lip between her teeth and stroked it with her tongue. She released his mouth and glanced up. “Why?”

  “If it’s power you want, you already have it.” His hips arched off the bed.

  “It’s more than power.” She released his one hand and trailed her fingers down his chest. She circled his navel before threading her fingers into the thatch of thick curls surrounding his straining staff. Her fingers lightly stroked the length of his arousal. His hips arched off the bed with every stroke, but his hands stayed where she had put them. “It’s control, Mason.”

  Her fingers wrapped around his warmth and tenderly pumped. “Every night, you’re the one in control. Let it be me, just this once.” She looked into the heat of his gaze and knew he was listening very carefully to every word she said. “Trust me, Mason.” She gave him a wide smile. “It won’t hurt—” she tightened her grip just a fraction “—much.”

  Mason groaned and cupped her bottom. He raised her up so she was positioned directly on top of him. “You may have your control tonight, just hurry.”

  Gillian felt his shaft nudge her wet opening and slowly shook her head. “Control can’t be hurried, Mason. You should know that.” Very slowly she lowered herself and brought him deep inside. She could feel Mason’s fingers pressing into her buttocks but didn’t move. She wanted to set the pace.

  “Gillian, you’re killing me,” Mason grated through clenched teeth.

  “No, I’m not.” She slowly started to move. It felt strange to be the one setting the tempo. Strange but wonderful. Mason’s hips matched her rhythm. She bent down and tenderly kissed his mouth. “I’m making love to you.”

  * * *

  Mason stood at the end of the shopping aisle and gazed at his wife. How had she ever talked him into taking her and Birdie food shopping? He had a stack of paperwork waiting for him at home, yet the promise of Birdie’s fresh-baked oatmeal cookies had him reaching for his keys. Last week, Lottie, his cleaning lady, had driven Birdie to the food store. Lottie and Birdie had become fast friends. Tonight Gillian wanted to help with the shopping, and he had no option but to go with her. He really didn’t mind accompanying his wife. Gillian in a food store was just as fascinating as Gillian in his home.

  She was handling her virtual imprisonment extremely well, considering her independent nature. Last night he had found in his office a list she had started of all the things she wanted to do as soon as the culprit was apprehended. The first thing on the list was “Make love to my husband on a beach under the stars.” He wondered if she already had a specific place in mind. He was more than willing to make her list a reality, and that particular item, especially.

  He pushed the nearly filled cart down the aisle and watched as Gillian leaned over the freezer to reach for something in the bottom. The sweet curve of her denim clad derriere captured his attention. Oh, sweet marital bliss, why had he fought it so long? If it wasn’t for the dozen or so people shopping in this aisle, he would have loved to show his wife what the view of her bottom did to his anatomy.

  Instead he joined her and asked, “Need any help?” The freezer she was bending over contained ice cream and she was shuffling cartons around in search of something.

  “I’m looking to see if they have any pistachio ice cream.” She handed him containers of Rocky Road and Double Dip Fudge Brownie. “Could you put these in the cart for me?”

  He took the ice cream and placed it in the cart. “Planning a party?” He knew for a fact that there were already two or three containers of ice cream in the freezer at home.

  “Nope, just want something to pick on at night.” She continued her search.

  Mason shook his head in confusion. Obviously she wasn’t leaving without pistachio ice cream or until she checked every container in the freezer. He leaned over and started to search the other end. “Do they even make pistachio ice cream?”

  “Someone has to make it, Mason. I remember seeing it once.” She picked up a container, grinned and placed it in the cart.

  “You found it?”

  “Not yet. That was Watermelon Supreme.” She bent back over and continued searching.

  Mason frowned. What was with the ice cream? He never noticed Gillian’s apparent love for the stuff before. He glanced at the cart. The way it was going, his wife was either going to end up with freezer burn or enough ice cream to build Frosty the Snowman.

  Five minutes later he briskly rubbed his frozen fingers together. “I’m sorry, Gillian, but there isn’t a container of pistachio ice cream anywhere in the store.” Of course he now had five containers of strange ice cream in their cart. Whatever happened to vanilla and chocolate?

  Gillian stared at the ransacked freezer and pouted.

  He pulled her away before she picked up another carton of ice cream and kissed the enticing pout. “There’s an ice-cream specialty shop right around the corner from the courthouse. If you behave yourself tonight I’ll stop by on my way home from work tomorrow and see if they have pistachio.”

  A mischievous sparkle leaped into her eyes. She dropped her voice and seductively whispered, “What do you class as behaving myself?” Her gaze dropped to the front of his jeans.

  “Keep that up and I’ll buy you a gallon of the stuff.” He brushed her mouth with a promise and captured one of her hands. He pushed the cart, and pulled his wife down the aisle in his search for Birdie. He had to locate the cook before he could take Gillian home and see exactly what she would do for pistachio ice cream.

  The dawn had barely lightened the bedroom when Mason felt Gillian jump out of bed and run for the bathroom. Concerned, he followed her to the door, which, in her rush, she hadn’t closed all the way. He stared at the door, wondering what to do. Their marriage was indeed extremely intimate, but not so intimate that he would barge in on her while she was in the bathroom.


  The sound that greeted his ears had him pushing open the door. Privacy be damned, his wife was sick. He watched as Gillian reached for a washcloth, soaked it with cold water and pressed it to her pale face.

  “Gillian, are you all right?”

  She lowered the cloth, giving him a small, sicklylooking smile before losing the rest of her stomach’s contents into the toilet.

  Mason took a step into the room and glanced around frantically for something to do. He didn’t know what to do. All he knew was that he wanted Gillian well.

  She straightened back up, rinsed her mouth out and reached for the washcloth again.

  “Gil?”

  She lowered the cloth and tried desperately to give her husband a smile. “I believe we’re pregnant.”

  Chapter 11

  Gillian watched Mason’s face as her stomach cramped once more. She willed the nausea down and blinked rapidly, trying to clear the moisture from her eyes. She wanted to see her husband’s face as she shared the exciting news she’d been suspecting for the past week. They were going to have a baby!

  The look on Mason’s face wasn’t what she had been envisioning. He not only appeared to be in shock—that she had been expecting—but he looked disappointed, even angry. Didn’t he want the baby? Her hand instinctively covered her abdomen, where she was positive their child lay. “Mason?”

  His gaze was riveted to her hand covering her abdomen. “You’re pregnant?”

  “No.” She shook her head and offered up another smile of hope. “We’re pregnant.” She hadn’t done anything on her own. They had created this life together. Wasn’t this child, and hopefully others, the main reason behind their marriage? Wasn’t this the reason the Council matched them up in the first place, so they could create life?

  By Mason’s expression someone would gather it was the last thing he wanted. Lord, what if it was the last thing he wanted! Her stomach twisted and rolled with that distressing thought. Mason didn’t want their child. How could that be? She must be misreading the expression on his face. Tossing up what felt like everything she ate this week must be affecting her vision. How could her husband, the man she loved, not want their child?

  “Mason,” she asked softly, “don’t you want children?” She held her breath and waited for his laughter. Of course he wanted children. She was working herself up over nothing. Pregnant women were notorious for that, weren’t they?

  Mason slowly looked up from where her hand sheltered the life that was possibly growing within her. He saw the concern and the hope pooling in her eyes. Eyes the color of the morning sky when she was happy. Eyes that turned a turbulent shade of bluish gray when the heat of passion burnt between them. Eyes he couldn’t lie to. He took a deep breath and gave Gillian the truth. “No.”

  Gillian felt that single word pierce her heart. Mason didn’t want their child! She closed her eyes against the anguish storming in her heart. Softly, she asked, “Do you hear that sound?”

  Mason stiffened and cocked his head toward the doorway. “What sound?”

  She knew he was scanning the house for the slightest sound that might mean an intruder. “It’s the sound of crystal breaking.”

  Mason jerked around and stared at her.

  She saw the color seep from his face and hardened what was left of her heart. Her voice trembled, but it was strong and clear. “Get out of here.”

  “Gillian…”

  She took a step closer and physically pushed him toward the door. She wanted to cry and she was about to heave whatever was left in her stomach. She’d be damned if she’d do it in front of a man who didn’t love her or their child. Her second push was more forceful. Mason stumbled backward into the doorway.

  “Damn your black heart, Mason Blacksword!” she shouted as she clutched the door. Screaming relieved the tension threatening to swamp her and it helped hold the tears at bay. She refused to buckle under the strain. “Damn your selfish, pigheaded control, and damn the Council!” Her voice echoed off the walls and bounced from mirror to mirror.

  Mason backed up another step as the door started to close in his face.

  She took one last look at Mason’s pale face and felt herself start to crumble. “And damn my foolish heart for caring.” The door closed softly, but the loud click of the lock was final.

  Gillian wrapped her robe more tightly around her and slowly sank to the floor. Mason didn’t want their child. How could that be? It didn’t make sense. All week long she had been anticipating his reaction when she told him. She had envisioned a candlelight dinner and soft romantic music playing in the background when she told him they were going to become parents. Instead she had broken the news by tossing up her cookies at five o’clock in the morning.

  It shouldn’t have mattered. Mason had no right to tell her he didn’t want their child. He should have kept his mouth shut, grinned like an idiot and helped her back to bed while lovingly patting her stomach. That was how it happened in the movies. Why couldn’t it have happened like that in real life?

  She wiped at the tears slowly rolling down her face with the sleeve of the robe. In real life Mason never lied. He always spoke the truth no matter what. He had never given her false words of love, but she had thought he was content in their marriage and had cared. Now she knew the truth. Mason would never love her.

  The cold tiles surrounding the whirlpool bath chilled her back through the robe. She didn’t care. It felt good to feel something besides the ache in her chest where her heart used to be. Her hand dropped protectively to her still-flat stomach. No, that wasn’t right. She did feel something. She felt love for their child. No matter how things worked out between Mason and her, she would always love this child they had managed to create.

  If there was a child. She hadn’t seen a doctor, or even taken one of those pregnancy tests you did at home. Her body had been giving her the signals. She was two weeks late for her normally regular period, eating ice cream as if someone was giving it away, and this morning she heaved while the sun was rising. She and Mason made love every night since their wedding, and they had never once used birth control. She was no obstetrician, but it spelled pregnancy to her.

  She had planned on calling the doctor this morning, after Mason left for work, to make an appointment. Now she didn’t want to. It would feel funny having the doctor know she was pregnant without telling her parents, or Mason’s mom. Once the parents knew, her sister and brothers would know and Mason’s sisters, too. Her grandmother would have to be told, and then the society. She didn’t want the society to know, at least not yet.

  The society had been known to throw huge celebrations when a prominent member was expecting. She wasn’t the special member, Mason was. In time, Mason would, in all likelihood, sit on the Council. The Council surely would want to throw a gala celebration to announce the pending birth of Mason’s child. The whole thing would be a farce, one she wasn’t up to attending. Not until she had some answers.

  Why had Mason married her, if he was so opposed to children? He knew that was the reason behind the match in the first place. Why hadn’t he stopped it?

  Didn’t Mason want any children? Or just hers? Her mind racked itself looking for the answers. She remembered seeing Mason with his two new nephews from Russia, Alex and Nick, at the wedding. Mason had seemed both patient and indulgent with the rambunctious four-year-old twins. Not the sign of a man who hated children. He had even volunteered to hold her three-year-old nephew, Turner, their ring bearer, during one of the endless photo sessions in the senator’s garden. Celeste, her six-year-old niece, had even gotten a dance out of him. Mason wasn’t an ogre when it came to children.

  Why hadn’t they discussed children before they had gotten married? All couples surely talked about something as important as children. But not in their case. Their marriage was specifically arranged so they could have children, hopefully a lot of children. It had never crossed her mind that Mason might be opposed to the idea.

  The one thing she
had looked so forward to in this marriage was the one thing her husband didn’t want. What an ironic twist of fate. Her dream of a large, happy family with a loving husband and a house full of children had been smashed with one simple word—no. Do you want children, Mason? He didn’t even hesitate in his response. No.

  Her hands protectively covered her abdomen as tears ran unchecked down her face. It didn’t matter that Mason didn’t want children. It didn’t matter that she did. The fact remained that they were going to have one, and somehow, someway, they were going to have to work something out.

  A faint knock interrupted her musing. “Gillian,” Mason called softly, “are you all right?”

  No! screamed her mind, I’m not all right. You just shattered my heart and my life. She swiped at the tears and sniffed. “Go away!”

  “I think we should talk.”

  She glared at the door, where his robe was still hanging. The last thing she wanted to do now was talk. Maybe later when her stomach calmed down and the tears dried. But not now. “We’ll talk later.”

  There was a long pause before he answered. “I have to be in court later this morning.”

  Gillian glared harder. Lord save anyone who would dare mess with Mason’s schedule. Not even the disastrous announcement of his pending fatherhood could interfere with his career. His Honor would be in court on time or heads would roll. She didn’t care about his court or his precious schedule. For weeks her career was put on hold while some madman threatened her. Sympathy for his nine-o’clock court date wasn’t forthcoming. “So what’s stopping you?” He was free to go where he pleased.

  “You’re in our bathroom.”

  Gillian glanced around the room as if seeing it for the first time. The once-stark black-and-white room had changed dramatically since her arrival. Two huge plants now sat in front of the double windows overlooking the backyard. The plants gave the feel of the jungle when lounging in the whirlpool tub. She had relegated Mason’s black and white towels to the other bathrooms and had gone out and bought huge thick towels and rugs in apricot. The double-sink counter, which had been barren, was now littered with her hairbrush, a couple of barrettes, her blow-dryer and a bottle of her favorite perfume. The eight-inch-wide rim behind the tub was now crammed with baskets of washcloths and soaps, crystal containers holding bath salts and bubble bath and two ceramic statues of brightly colored parrots.