The Ghost

by Monica McCarty

  Every man had his breaking point, and Alex Seton had just found his. It had been hard enough to try to send her away when she appeared in his room like some erotic fantasy, standing one gentle push away from his bed in a chemise that revealed far more of her incredible body than it hid. But when she’d touched him, put her hand on his cock and squeezed, he lost whatever final vestiges of control he possessed.

  It felt so good he didn’t want her to stop—ever.

  It shouldn’t be that easy. He shouldn’t be that weak. But there was no way in hell he had the strength to push her away again, especially with her soft plea echoing in his ears.

  But he wasn’t happy about it. She was manipulating him. He knew it, and she knew it. But it was working, damn it. He knew that if he sent her away, she wouldn’t be coming back. And that he couldn’t concede. He would hold on to her any way he could.

  With a groan, he took what she offered and covered her sweet, red mouth in a hot, furious kiss. He’d never kissed her like this. He’d never kissed anyone like this. The bands of control, the chains of civility that had defined him had ripped free, revealing the fierce, primitive marauder underneath who wanted to plunder and conquer.

  He took everything she offered and more, moving his mouth over hers in a wicked frenzy of lust and desire. He filled her mouth with his tongue, leaving no part of that sweet cavern unconquered and unplundered.

  He kissed her until they both had lost their breath, until moans dissolved into pants that only increased the urgency. Until the fever that had taken hold of him inflamed them both. Everything seemed heightened—intensified. The smell of her hair was more floral, the honey taste of her mouth sweeter, the velvet of her skin softer. The passion between them hotter. The ache in his chest tighter.

  This meant something. It had to mean something.

  He was moving too fast, but he couldn’t hold back. She wouldn’t let him. She wrapped her hands around his neck, stretched against him, crushed her breasts to his chest, and returned the frenzied kiss with something akin to desperation.

  He felt her urgency as powerfully as his. Her tongue circled and sparred, egging him on with every stroke. He couldn’t get enough—couldn’t go fast enough.

  He touched her body as if it belonged to him. As if he had every right to cup her breast and run his thumb over the taut tip. As if his hands were meant to span the delicate circle of her waist. As if he’d held the taut curve of her bottom in his hand a thousand times to lift against him.

  But pressing wasn’t enough for either of them. He started to circle his hips in a slow, hard grind and his head nearly exploded behind his eyes. He could feel her heat through the thin layers of cloth, hear her moans of pleasure, feel her dissolving against him, and it drove him wild.

  Heat and passion engulfed him, took over, and possessed him with a madness he’d never experienced before. He didn’t recognize himself. The only thing that mattered, the only thing he could think about, was making her his.

  He eased her back onto the bed and came down on top of her—or rather, half on top of her as his body stretched along the length of hers.

  His mouth was on her lips, her throat, her breast. He didn’t take time to open her chemise—he didn’t have time—he just sucked and circled her nipple with his tongue through the fabric until he’d drawn her as tight as a bow. Until she was arching and straining and begging for his touch.

  He gave it to her. Sliding his hand under the edge of her chemise, he found the soft place between her legs warm and slick with need.

  The moan of pleasure she made when his finger slid inside her nearly undid him. He had to clench his teeth against the pressure pounding at the base of his spine. Pressure that had nowhere to go and wasn’t going to be able to wait much longer.

  But he would give her pleasure before he took his own release, damn it. God knew, he wasn’t going to last long once he was inside her.

  He stroked her. Soft and gently at first, and then with more urgency as her need intensified.

  He stopped kissing her to watch as her lips parted with sharp, uneven little breaths, as color flooded her cheeks, as her back arched, and finally as her beautiful eyes fixed on his and widened with surprise right before she broke apart. Surprise, damn it. That had been new.

  It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and the intensity of emotions swelling in his chest hurt.

  But the cries of release were like a siren’s call to his own need. Whether this was wrong or right no longer mattered. He couldn’t have turned back if he wanted to—and he sure as hell didn’t want to.

  He didn’t hesitate as he worked the ties of his braies.

  The feel of him pushing between her legs brought Joan harshly back to reality. She jolted from the dreamlike haze with something akin to panic as Alex nudged the thick head of his manhood deeper and deeper inside her.

  Wait! This isn’t . . . I didn’t mean . . .

  It wasn’t supposed to get this far. She was supposed to be in control. But then he’d started kissing her, and she’d completely forgotten about the powder and the missive she needed to find. After he’d touched her, she’d lost the power to think at all.

  The feel of his thick, callused finger sweeping over her—touching her—so intimately had made every inch of her body come alive. She’d never felt anything like it. The need, the frenzy, building inside her had been indescribable. When the sensations reached the apex and seemed to break apart . . . she thought she’d died and gone to heaven. Literally. She swore her heart stopped beating.

  It had been so wonderful, so beautiful, so perfect that when she realized what was happening, guilt and shame made her panic.

  She shouldn’t have come here like this; it was wrong. What they had was special, and it felt as if she’d somehow tainted that by using it against him. He would hate her if he ever discovered the truth. She knew how much he hated deceit and subterfuge.

  She made a sound of surprise when he closed the last few inches with a thrust. Surprise, not pain. At least not that kind of pain. He was a big man, and his size was making itself known with a certain amount of discomfort as her body struggled to accommodate him.

  Their eyes met. She tried to pretend she did not see the flicker of disappointment in his gaze, but the knife of pain that twisted between her ribs proved otherwise.

  She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Had he thought it all a lie?

  It wasn’t. Not all of it, at least. And not the important part if that look in his eyes was any indication.

  She was not a maid. She had lain with another man. But . . .

  She wanted to tell him how different it was. How this was nothing like what had happened before. How what had been taken from her coldly and cruelly at the age of fifteen when a man she’d trusted—a man she thought she’d cared for—had held her down and forced himself between her legs, was nothing like what was happening between them now. How that man had taken something from her that day that she’d never thought to get back, but Alex had made her feel again.

  But would it really matter?

  He must have read some of the torment in her eyes. “Are you all right?”

  She wanted to tell him everything, wanted to tell him of the man who’d forced her, wanted to confess her shame at her reason for being here, wanted to tell him that the feel of him inside her—of them joined together—made her feel alive.

  Wanted to tell him that if things were different she could fall . . .

  They aren’t different, she reminded herself; she couldn’t say any of those things. They would only make him ask questions that she could not answer. Questions that would be dangerous and could prevent her from doing her job.

  So instead of telling him the whole truth, she told him only part of it. “I’m perfect.” Their eyes met, and despite the intimacy—or maybe because of the intimacy—a blush stole up her cheeks. “You feel good.”

  It must have been the right thing to say, because he threw back his head and gr
oaned. “So do you, sweetheart, so do you.”

  He started to move. Slowly at first, as if he could draw out every bit of sensation and every ounce of pleasure with one long stroke.

  He felt so big and powerful inside her. Filling her. Possessing her. Loving her.

  God, she was such a fool. But that was how it felt. Each tender stroke and circle of his hips seemed like a declaration. A silent vow. A promise. A claim to more of her heart.

  Her body started to respond, her hips rising up to meet those incredible strokes with a message of its own. Faster . . . harder . . . deeper. Give me everything.

  The sensations he’d stirred with his hand returned. Stronger this time, and even more intense because this time she wasn’t alone. He was with her, and watching the pleasure building in his eyes and turning the shadowed lines of his handsome face taut with strain was something she would never forget. It transformed him; it made him hers.

  The slow pace began to quicken, the tender strokes surging harder and deeper, claiming more and more of her. Her fingers dug into the solid muscles of his arms to hold herself steady against the shattering force of the powerful thrusts that tore her last defenses to shreds.

  When she looked into his eyes there was no hiding the truth. A truth she thought she saw mirrored in his own.

  “Oh God, sweetheart, I’m sorry . . . I can’t . . . Too long. I’m going to . . .”

  The words were lost in the cry of pleasure that tore from his soul. His entire body seemed to stiffen and then break apart. A warm rush shot between her legs and then spread through her as the wonder of the moment unfurled.

  It was the most beautiful, romantic experience of her life.

  And it was over far too soon.

  No sooner had she felt the returning beat of his heart against her chest where he’d collapsed on top of her, than he stiffened again and swore. An instant later he rolled off her, and the connection that moments ago had seemed so strong and powerful snapped like a small twig.

  What the hell have I done? Alex stared at the ceiling in disbelief, not wanting to answer the question.

  He knew exactly what he’d done. Quickly and rather furiously, which under the circumstances was probably to be expected.

  Bloody hell.

  Shame crawled over him, eating away at all the euphoria, all the joy, and all the tenderness, leaving only guilt and self-disgust.

  He’d dishonored her and himself. Years of discipline, of waiting for the bonds of marriage, had been rendered meaningless. He’d done what he’d vowed he would never do again.

  When Alex was nineteen, his brother had done him a “favor” and taken him to a whore to lose his virginity. Chris had had a woman in his bed since he was seventeen, and he didn’t understand his younger brother’s reluctance to accept one of the many propositions that had been thrown his way because of his “golden boy” good looks.

  “If I had your face,” Chris had said, “I’d never spend a night alone.”

  But the experience had been an unmitigated disaster. Alex’s body had cooperated, but every minute of it had felt wrong, and when it was over, he hadn’t felt like pounding his chest or boasting of his prowess and telling jests like the other lads did, he’d felt like retching.

  Which is exactly what he’d done. Even after all these years, it was still humiliating to think about. He’d run out of there half-dressed and barely made it outside before losing the contents of his stomach in the innkeeper’s flower box.

  Chris had patted his back and cautioned him against drinking too much whisky, but Alex suspected that he’d guessed the truth. There had been no more “favors” or trips to the local inn.

  Alex had vowed then and there that he would never dishonor another woman like that. He would never take someone to his bed for the simple reason of slaking his lust. Something so intimate had to mean something, and he vowed to give it the respect it deserved. He would not take another woman to bed who was not his wife.

  He’d never told anyone of his vow. Most of his fellow soldiers probably assumed he just kept such things private. Alex suspected that Raider and maybe a couple of the others had guessed—they’d spent too much time together to not notice him never taking a woman to his bed—but surprisingly no one had ever said anything.

  Even when they could have. He cringed when he thought of all the self-righteous condemnation he’d heaped on Raider for taking Rosalin to his bed while she’d been their hostage. If Boyd had loved her, Alex had accused him, he should have proved it by marrying her, not seducing her.

  Alex had thought himself above such base desires as lust and held himself to a higher standard. But look at him. He was every inch the unprincipled, uncivilized barbarian he’d accused his former partner of being.

  He’d condemned his partner for the very thing he’d just done, and the irony was as bitter as it was unwelcome.

  “Alex?”

  He heard the question in her voice, and he wanted to say something to ease it, but he was too ashamed to even look at her. And maybe a little too angry as well. Not just for coming to his room as she had, but for not caring enough to realize this was special. For not realizing how much it meant. What had happened between them was incredible—special—how could she not see that?

  When she leaned over and put her hand on his chest, he flinched as if burned and practically jumped off the bed.

  The first thing he saw was the cup of whisky she’d set down on the table. It seemed he was weak after all.

  He reached for the cup.

  “Alex, no! Wait!”

  She tried to grab his arm, but he ignored her and downed the cup in one long swallow. The trail of fire had barely reached his stomach before he reached for the jug to pour another.

  Only after a third did he brace himself to turn to look at her.

  She looked like a debauched angel. Her dark-as-night hair was gorgeously mussed with one long silken thread tangled in her lashes, her mouth was slightly swollen and as red as crushed strawberries, her delicate skin was pink from the scrape of his beard along her jaw and throat, and her chemise had come open and was slinking around her shoulders provocatively.

  The visible proof of his dishonor should fill him with shame. Instead, his heart lurched when he realized she was close to tears. Christ, he was an arse. He was so wrapped up in his own head, he hadn’t thought how she might be feeling.

  “I’m sorry . . .” she said.

  Why was she apologizing? It was his fault. He took a step toward the bed. “Nay, I’m . . .”

  He stopped. What had he been about to say? He blinked a few times and then squinted through the haze that seemed to be fogging his vision. He reached out to grab the wooden post of the bed as the room started to tilt.

  “What the hell?”

  He was conscious of her taking his arm and easing him back down on the bed. “You’re tired,” she said in such a soft voice she might have been miles away. “Rest.”

  It was the last thing he remembered before waking with his head feeling as if it had been split apart by an axe.

  He rolled the pillow over his head to block out the offending light. Thank God, he didn’t have a bloody window. The sunshine would have been too much to bear.

  Christ, how much had he drunk last night?

  Last night. Suddenly it all came back to him, although with the grogginess it took him a few minutes to sort out the fantasies from the reality. He might have thought it all fantasy if his pillow didn’t smell like flowers.

  What had he expected? That she would still be here in the morning? Had she slipped out of the room in the middle of the night or waited until morning?

  Both images filled him with distaste, and neither was going to happen again.

  He knew exactly what he had to do. Joan might not like it, but it was too late for that.

  With grim determination, Alex fought off the blistering headache and swirling stomach with a dunking of cold water from the pitcher, and began to don his armor. He was going
into battle, and this was a war he wasn’t going to lose.

  14

  JOAN LOOKED UP at the sound of the door, her pulse jumping like that of a startled hare. The needle she’d been about to push through the piece of linen stilled in her hand as she waited . . .

  Bess. It was only the serving maid, bringing refreshment.

  Her heart fell from her throat back into its normal position. Returning her gaze to her embroidery, she finished the stitch.

  The deflating sigh that settled through her body was one of relief. It certainly wasn’t disappointment. She was glad Alex hadn’t come bursting through the door to her cousin’s antechamber this morning after discovering her gone. Of course she was.

  Her nervous edginess this morning—jumping at doors, startling at footsteps—was silly. He probably didn’t remember anything. The drug had hit him so hard. In her nervousness she must have poured too much powder into the cup, and coupled with the amount of whisky he’d drunk, he probably remembered very little from last night. It must all seem a haze of confused dreams.

  That explained why he hadn’t come storming in here with his sword drawn demanding satisfaction—in this case, marriage. She knew him; his overabundance of honor would demand it.

  She was relieved that he hadn’t. Of course, she was. This way she didn’t have to refuse him. She could pretend as if nothing had happened.

  It was what she wanted, wasn’t it?

  The silly ache in her chest seemed to disagree. But what had she expected? Poetry and flowers? Platitudes and promises?

  She was far too cynical for heartfelt declarations; she didn’t need reassurance that she’d done everything all right. That she hadn’t been the only one who thought what they shared was wonderful and amazing and special.

  But she might not have objected to a few tender words afterward. And if she harbored a secret hope that he would remember something so important no matter what, she knew it wasn’t fair.

  As soon as Bess had set down the tray and left, Margaret turned to her. “Are you sure you are telling me everything?” She looked furtively at the closed door. “Nothing—”