by Anne Gracie
The unspoken words hung in the air between them. His convenience.
* * *
He came to her room that night, knocked and, at her response, entered. “Are you willing?” She was sitting up in bed, reading.
She looked a little surprised but answered, “Of course,” as a dutiful wife should. She put the book aside and moved over in the bed to make room for him. He hoped it wasn’t only duty, but did it really matter if it was? The result would be the same.
Somehow, it mattered.
The thought of those unaccounted-for couple of years had nagged at him from time to time during the day. If her false swain had been bought off when she was seventeen, why had her father disowned her two years later? What had happened?
But now was not the time to ask. Not if he wanted to lie with her tonight—and he did. He hadn’t planned to—he’d decided to punish her, ignore her for a few days until she came to him with a proper explanation. And an apology.
But despite his pique at her lack of virginity, and his exasperation at her refusal to show any proper contrition, his body had hummed with lust and anticipation all day. He hadn’t been able to get the scent of her skin and hair out of his mind. He’d eaten an apple at ten, a sandwich at noon, but the taste of her still lingered. And her skin, glowing gently by firelight, those breasts, those long, slender legs that wrapped so hungrily around him . . .
So he’d decided to forgive her.
Besides, he owed it to his ancestors to get an heir.
Now, the mere act of opening the connecting door, the sight of her sitting in bed, reading—perfectly decent and covered to the neck in a voluminous thick flannel nightgown—had him hard and ready.
Rain started to fall outside, spattering hard against the windows. The air in the room was chilly. He moved to the fireplace and added a few logs to the fire. The dry wood caught quickly, lightening the room and perfuming it with the clean, smoky scent of yew.
Cal straightened, staring into the flames a moment. He was on fire for her. He didn’t understand it, hadn’t been quite so . . . so consumed by lust since he was a green and randy youth.
He returned to the bed, leaving the candles burning—no need for discretion on behalf of virginal shyness now—and removed his dressing gown.
She took her time, examining him with frank appreciation. Or so he hoped. Her gaze moved across him like a touch, warming him despite the chill of the night air. He was erect already, but when her wide gray-green eyes studied him so thoughtfully, he couldn’t help but say, “Everything as it should be?”
She blinked, then blushed. “Sorry, was I staring? It is just that you are the first naked man I have ever seen.” And it was in the nature of a gift, he decided, that he was first in something.
“You approve?” Vanity, thy name is man. It shouldn’t matter whether she approved or not; they were married.
“Oh, very much so.” Her voice was soft, a little husky. He felt himself harden further.
“Would you care to return the favor?”
It took her a moment to understand his meaning. Her blush deepened and she nodded but made no move. He reached beneath the bedclothes and found the hem of her modest cream flannel nightgown. He glanced at her again, a query in his eyes, and she nodded.
Slowly he drew it up, over the long, lovely legs, past the dark thatch of curls at their junction, easing it under her bottom, and up to reveal the smooth curve of her belly. Her breasts emerged briefly, small and exquisite, the nipples high and pink, and he hesitated. She pulled the nightgown over her head and held it clutched against her chest, hiding behind it.
He drew the garment gently from her tight grip. “Not quite the confection of silk and nonsense you wore last night.” He tossed it aside and turned back to find her swathed to the chin in bedclothes. Modesty or shyness?
“I did not think you would come to me tonight,” she said in a low voice.
Not come to her? The truth was, he couldn’t stay away. He looked at the way she was huddled in the bedclothes. “You sure you don’t mind?”
She shook her head. It was the light making her shy, he decided. She’d probably never shown herself to anyone. They’d been naked together last night, but it had been dark and shadowy.
He drew the covers back, exposing her nakedness. She made a move, as if to cover herself with her hands, then with a sigh, dropped them.
He looked his fill in the soft candlelight. Her cheeks, chest and breasts turned rosy under his heated gaze. She swallowed and did not meet his eyes. Her nipples lifted.
Cold, or aroused? She wasn’t comfortable being looked at.
“You’re beautiful.” She was too, so beautiful his mouth dried.
Her mouth made a small movement, a moue or a grimace, as if she didn’t believe him and was too polite to say so.
Or maybe she was just cold and getting fed up with being stared at. He slid into the bed beside her and drew her into his arms.
He’d planned to take her with no nonsense, hard and fast and immensely satisfying—for him—and show her who was master in this marriage. But she came to him with a sigh of acceptance, wrapping her arms around his neck and bringing her mouth so sweetly up to his, he found he couldn’t do it, couldn’t bring himself to take her hard and fast and have it over within minutes.
He took his time, lavishing her with tender care, nibbling gently, slipping his tongue between her soft cherry-dark lips, caressing lightly at first, but sweeping deeper, tasting tea and tooth powder and musky dark honey. And woman. This woman.
His wife.
Her taste heated his blood like the finest brandy.
He kissed her, deeply, passionately, his tongue echoing the rhythm his body already rocked with. A low hum deep within her throat was his reward.
He caressed her with hands and mouth, caressing the warm soft skin, the smooth, firm female flesh. He cupped the slight, silky breasts, his thumbs caressing the hard little pink nubbins, up-thrust and aching for his attention.
She trembled beneath his touch, caressing him in return, blindly, frenziedly, as if she did not quite know what she wanted. Or could not think.
He covered first one breast, then the other with his mouth, teasing, nibbling and sucking. She arched beneath him, making soft little noises that might have been protest, except that her fingers were tangled in his hair, holding him fast.
He stroked the smooth shallow curve of her stomach, feeling the quivers starting deep within her. His fingers slid into the thatch of dark curls at the base of her stomach and parted her. She was hot and slick and slippery, more than ready for him, but he wanted more. He sought and found the small sensitive pearl between the hot sleek folds, stroking it until she was writhing and trembling helplessly beneath him.
And then he slid down her body and put his mouth there, where his fingers had been, tasting heat and honey and salt-dark woman. His woman. She stiffened, uttering a small exclamation, but before she could make any objection, he sucked deeply and she arched beneath him on a high quivering moan.
His pulse thundered; his body, craving release, vibrated with the effort of control. Deep spasms rocked her: blind, oblivious, out of control.
He lifted himself and entered her in one long smooth thrust. The ancient, animal rhythm possessed him and he moved deep within her, thrusting fast and hard in glorious abandon until his climax took him, and he lay gasping and spent.
She came back to herself slowly and turned her face toward him. He lay on his side, watching her.
A damp curl straggled across her face. He reached out and smoothed it back with one finger. “All right?”
“Yes. More than all right.” She sighed and gave a small, sensual shiver. “I never knew . . . it could be . . . like that.”
“You never . . . ?”
She shook her head, blushing. “Only with you.”
It was another small gift. He was the first there too. He tried not to let his satisfaction show.
He hadn’t planned to spend the night in her bed—he never usually slept with a woman after congress—but somehow he couldn’t make himself move. He drew her against him, curving his body around her. “Get some sleep now. Another busy day tomorrow.”
She slipped into sleep almost immediately. He lay there holding her, listening to the rain and the wind outside, and wondered how he’d come to this. The marriage was supposed to be for purely practical purposes.
He’d never considered there would be . . . feelings involved.
His friends had all fallen in love at some time or other—usually with some impossible or unsuitable female. Drowning in the throes of love, they’d turned into hopeless, muddled wrecks of men, unable to think of anything except their beloved inamorata.
Cal had watched with bemusement—and a touch of disdain. Rutherford men didn’t fall in love. Cal certainly never had, even though he’d had several mistresses and conducted the odd few affairs over the years. None of the women he’d slept with had ever touched his heart. And at the age of eight-and-twenty he was obviously immune to it.
His friends’ love affairs had never lasted long. Eventually they returned to their senses—usually because the woman had moved on to drive some other unfortunate fellow insane—and went on with their lives, sadder but wiser men. And when they married, they married sensibly.
As he had.
Lust, that was all this was. He’d made a convenient marriage and it was very convenient that he lusted after his wife. But he didn’t want any emotional tangles. As soon as he’d tracked down his assassin, he’d be leaving England again, for who knew how long. He liked his job and he needed to keep his mind clear for it.
And in the meantime, he’d do his best to give her the child she wanted.
He made love to her again during the night, and again at dawn, having woken hard and aching and unable to resist the temptation of her lying next to him, all soft and enticing.
She woke as he slowly entered her, and she welcomed him with sleepy sensuality. He took her slow and leisurely, and it was just as intense.
He woke an hour later. The candles had long since guttered; the fire lay in ashes. His wife slept curled against him, one cheek pressed against his shoulder, her breathing even and steady. He wanted to take her again, but that would be too much. He slipped out of bed and felt her stir behind him.
“Where—?”
“I’m going for a ride.”
She sat up and made as if to get up. “I’ll come with—”
“No, I have work to do. Go back to sleep.”
* * *
The door shut firmly behind him and Emm battled with mixed emotions. Why couldn’t she just ask if she could go riding with him? She wasn’t usually so hesitant. It was seven years since she’d ridden, and she would have loved to accompany him as he reacquainted himself with his estate and his tenants.
But perhaps it was something he felt she had no part in. He was the earl and this was his home; she was the newcomer. He’d made it quite clear what he wanted of her—house refurbishing in preparation for the girls’ arrival while he dealt with estate matters. Take responsibility for his sisters and niece and free him to get on with his work. Whatever that work was.
Companionship wasn’t any part of their bargain.
She lay in bed, listening to the noisy chatter of birds outside the window. It had seemed like an offer she couldn’t refuse—security, position, riches and best of all, a family.
And now, after barely two days of marriage, she wanted more. She wanted to ride with him, to talk to him, get to know him better.
To make a friend of him.
Perhaps even make a real marriage of their convenient bargain.
Was she dreaming again, making castles in the air? Or simply greedy?
Or was it simply the aftereffects of lying with him, giving her body to him? There was a reason they called it “making love.” It created the illusion of love, and she knew enough now to be wary of ascribing emotions to the purely physical sensations he engendered in her.
Mostly, she thought, her desire to know him better was rooted in simple compassion for the neglected and lonely little boy of the housekeeper’s stories, the child who’d been sent off to school at the age of seven and had never, it seemed, been welcomed back. Was there still some remnant of that small boy in the brusque, decisive, self-contained man she’d married? She suspected there was.
There was kindness in him, even though he tried so hard to hide it. It was probably why he found it so hard to manage his difficult sisters—he couldn’t bring himself to be harsh with them.
And there was kindness, just now, in his telling her to go back to sleep. Because he’d woken her several times in the night to make love to her.
She hadn’t minded being woken at all. The whole physical side of marriage had taken her utterly by surprise. She hadn’t expected to find such . . . such pleasure in it.
Pleasure being a wholly inadequate word. Two nights she’d been married. Two nights he’d . . . amazed her. Shocked her a little too, but taken her to . . . ecstasy.
She stretched, her body tingling with lazy sensual awareness as remembrance washed over her in slow, pleasurable waves.
Perhaps she was just being impatient. She had a whole new, privileged life before her. There would be plenty of time to go riding.
She had duties to perform, a homecoming to prepare. The girls would be here this afternoon. She was determined to make this big old mausoleum into a place of welcome. A home.
* * *
Cal hadn’t intended to ride out so soon in search of the next man on his list, but this one lived close, just a few hours away. He didn’t like the thought of someone who might turn out to be the Scorpion living on his doorstep, not with Emmaline and the girls so close. Best he check and be sure.
He’d dealt with the most pressing of the estate needs. The manager was a good man, and though Henry had caused problems by ignoring all the manager’s correspondence, a year’s neglect was not so much to repair. When Cal returned to Europe he could leave the place with a clear conscience.
He reached a crossroads, consulted the sign and turned left. After this fellow, there were only two brothers living locally, though some distance away—a good day’s ride there and back. The rest of his portion of the list lived in more distant places and would involve overnight stays.
He came to the village and was at first treated with some slight suspicion—clearly gentlemen didn’t often venture there in search of ordinary folks. But on production of a silver coin, he was soon directed to a shabby little cottage on the outskirts of the village. It backed onto the forest.
The man’s wife answered the door—pregnant, if he wasn’t mistaken—and her immediate reaction alerted his suspicions. She blanched at the sight of him and clung to the door with white-knuckled hands, peering past him to see if anyone had come with him. When he asked after Saul Whitmore, she pretended not to know who he meant. But she was a poor liar.
All Cal’s instincts prickled to life. It might have been better to have brought someone with him, but Cal was armed with two loaded pistols and a knife in his boot. He could see at a glance that the mean little one-room cottage concealed nobody, so he decided to investigate further afield. The woman followed him, wringing her hands and saying variously, “Melord, there ain’t nobody called Saul Whitmore livin’ around here. He left long ago, he did. He ain’t here, I promise you.”
Cal ignored her. He was heading toward a tumbledown outbuilding when he caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye. A man emerged from the forest, carrying a load of wood. Two dead hares dangled from his waist.
“Run, Saul, run!” the woman screamed. She jumped on Cal, nearly knocking him over. He staggered and tried to shak
e her off, but she clung fiercely to his arm, dragging him down with her weight, determined to hold him back. Cal could have knocked her out in an instant, but he’d never hit a woman in his life, let alone a pregnant one.
The man dropped his load of wood and took to his heels. Observing the manner of his retreat, Cal instantly stopped struggling.
The man ran with a pronounced, ungainly limp. He disappeared into the trees.
“What’s the matter with his foot?” Cal asked the woman, who still clung to him with all her might. Unless the injury to the fellow’s foot was recent, he couldn’t possibly be the assassin whom Cal had last seen escaping fleet-footed and nimble over Portuguese rooftops.
She took a moment to understand his question.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, let go of me, woman,” he told her irritably. “I’m not going to chase after your husband. He probably knows that forest like the back of his hand. Just tell me, what’s wrong with his foot?”
She eyed him suspiciously, then loosened her frenetic grip slightly. “Got ’is foot shot off in the war,” she said eventually. “Makes it hard for ’im to get work, ’specially in winter.”
“Then he’s not the man I’m looking for,” Cal told her.
“He’s not?” Cal felt the tension drain out of her. “You’re not after ’im for . . . for . . .” She broke off, biting her lip. “It’s just a couple of hares.”
And suddenly Cal realized what he’d seen: a crippled former soldier, carrying illegally gathered wood and poached game—providing winter warmth and food for himself and his pregnant wife.
Hanging offenses in some places. Transportation to the other side of the world at the very least.
No wonder she was so frightened.
“I have no interest in you or your husband,” he told her gently. “It was another man I was looking for. This was a mistake.”
She gave him a troubled look and slowly released his sleeve. “You won’t say nothing about . . . ?”
