by Erica Ridley
For the rest of the day and all night long, she was his.
She tugged at his cravat, yanking it away as quickly as her inexpert fingers could loosen the knots. He sat back on his heels, his hands making quick work of his jacket and waistcoat. His shirtsleeves billowed out along his arms, the fine white linen luminous in the waning sunlight. She stilled his hand when he moved to quit his shirt with the same efficiency. This would be her first view of his bare flesh. She wished to do the honors herself.
With trembling fingers, she ran her hands from his wide shoulders and down his arms. She loved the feel of the cool, slippery linen on the hard muscle of his upper arms. She lifted his hands from his lap and pushed them behind his back. He let them fall to the mattress on either side of her legs.
When she struggled to prop herself up on her elbows, he quickly moved and she knelt before him, knee to knee. Her heart thudded in anticipation.
Slowly, carefully, she tugged the hem of his shirt free from his breeches. His muscles were taut, his skin hot even through the linen, but he remained absolutely motionless as her fingers skimmed the edge of his waistband.
The buckskin of his breeches was buttery soft and molded to the muscles of his thighs. She slid her hands almost to his knees, then back up toward his waistband. This time, her fingers slipped out of sight beneath the hem of his shirt. Instead of the billowy linen, there was only buckskin between her hands and the warm flesh of his thighs.
As her hands crept higher, the pads of her fingers discovered the wide flaps of his fall, the cloth-covered buttons, the top of his waistband. Her heartbeat doubled as she reached even higher. Her palms touched his bare skin, his stomach flat and hot and hard. She hooked the hem of his shirt with her thumbs so that her fingers would drag the bottom of his shirt higher as she slid her hands up over his stomach, up over the wide expanse of his chest.
Although it was him she was touching and not the other way around, she sucked in a breath as her hands learned his body. When her fingertips brushed his nipples, her own tightened painfully beneath her shift. Every bare inch of him seemed to scald her palm.
When she reached his shoulders, he lifted his hands above his head so that she could slide his shirt completely off.
Instead, when the shirt was a cloud of linen about his wrists and forearms, she halted her movement. Imagining she held him captive, she lowered her face to his chest and touched her tongue to his nipple.
He moaned, as if both in pain and pleasure. When she lifted her mouth and pressed her lips to his, his shirt flew across the room. His hands gripped her hips. His mouth devoured hers.
He reached behind her to unlace her gown. She still wore the lavender confection she’d worn to the wedding. She wished she still had the crown of winter jasmine. She would’ve loved the petals strewn about the bed as she gave herself to her husband completely.
Laces undone, the bodice of her gown gapped open. Echoing her earlier action, he slipped his hands beneath the hem of her skirts and slowly, ever so slowly, began to push the fabric upward.
She was electrified to feel his bare hands on her knees, on her thighs, spreading her legs wider. Her breath came faster. She gasped as cool air licked between her legs, hinting at what was to come. His hands rose higher up her thighs, dragging her skirts up with them. Soon, everything would be bared to the cool air, to the heat of his eyes. An involuntary clench pulsed between her thighs at the thought of herself displayed in that way.
His fingers were now almost to her hips. She held her breath. Touch me, she ordered him in her mind. Touch me touch me touch me.
He leaned forward, capturing her mouth. His fingers sank between her legs. The pad of his thumb brushed the upper edge of her thigh, brushed her there. His thumb left a trail of wet heat as it stroked her inner thigh. She realized to her surprise that this was her heat, her wetness upon his fingers. The very realization only made her wetter, hotter, eager for his finger to do it again, to come closer, to press harder.
Without taking her mouth from his, she wiggled her hips a little beneath his hands, hoping he would take the hint without having to express her desire aloud.
Growling, he cupped her exactly where she wanted—and drove one of his fingers inside.
She gasped into his mouth as her body clenched around his finger. It was strange, it was foreign, it was oh so sinfully delicious. She wiggled her hips again, not to make him move, but to experiment with the feel of something inside her. Without removing his finger, he brushed his thumb back across the sensitive area he’d touched before. Wet heat coiled within her. Her body gripped him tighter and tighter.
His thumb flicked and circled as a second finger joined the first. Her head fell backward, exposing her neck to him, her bosom. His teeth tugged her loosened bodice from her breast. Her painfully taut nipples sprang up into the cool air.
She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. There was just his thumb, and his fingers, and now his mouth on her nipple, teasing and suckling just like his thumb was teasing and flicking…
In a burst of pleasure, her body fractured from within, her limbs galvanized as the spasms took her.
When she fell limp and sated against his arm, he lifted the gown over her head, then her stays, her shift. Her body snapped back to awareness. Save for her stockings, she was now naked before him. Her legs widened in invitation. She wanted more. She wanted him.
He shucked his boots, his breeches. Despite the fading sunlight, he was beautiful—and very big.
She fell back against the pillows, the sudden frisson of fear unable to dispel the yearning to feel that pleasure again, to experience it together, with him inside her.
He laced his fingers with hers, just above her head, as he positioned his hips over hers. She felt him at her entrance, hot and hard and ready. He slanted his mouth over hers as he began to push inside.
Her fingers squeezed his as her body stretched to fit him. It was pleasure, it was pain. It was perfect. When he was fully sheathed, he lifted his mouth from hers and peppered a line of fervent kisses along her jaw from her chin to her ear.
“Am I hurting you?” he whispered. “I can try to wait a little longer.”
“Am I hurting you?” she whispered back. When he shook his head, she wrapped her legs about him. “Then if you wait any longer, I will kill you.”
Laughing, he squeezed her hands and covered her mouth with his.
Slowly, he began to move. At first gently. Then longer strokes. Faster. Urgent. Demanding. Her body quickened in time with his pace. Her hips rose to meet him, luxuriating in the slide of his body against hers, in the heady fullness of having him inside her at last.
The strokes lengthened, then drove deeper. His kisses never ceased. She recognized the pressure coiling within her. He was going to make her do it again, to squeeze him as he thrust between her legs. He would be able to watch her this time, as the waves took her. He would see the pleasure on her face that he bestowed upon her body. Soon. Very soon. She gripped his hands tight. She wanted him to feel the same!
At the pressure of her fingers, he lifted his mouth from hers. His eyes were ablaze, his face pale, his breath ragged. She thrilled at the passion in his gaze. He did feel the same. An intoxicating sense of power flooded her body, and she clenched around him. He gasped and lowered his mouth to the side of her neck. He loosened his grip of her left hand only to tighten his fingers about the slender golden ring he had placed there only a few hours earlier.
“With this ring,” he panted against her throat, “I thee wed.”
Her thighs clamped tight around him. His thrusts came deeper, more insistent. Making her his.
His mouth brushed the side of her throat. “With my body, I thee worship.”
She no longer knew if it was the friction between her legs or the sound of his voice that was driving her over the edge. The pressure was building. Her mind spun even as her hips thrust to meet him. He wasn’t just making her his. She was making him hers. Forever.
; He dragged his mouth from her throat to her ear and nipped at the lobe. “With all that I have, I thee endow.”
She shattered, her hips meeting his as her muscles spasmed around him. He grunted twice and shuddered. Warmth infused her. He lifted his fingers and shoved his hands beneath the pillows as he collapsed on top of her. She slid her arms around his back and hugged him.
He pressed a ragged kiss into her hair. “Wake me up in twelve hours.”
She held him tight. How could she possibly leave at dawn? It was unthinkable.
She could never let him go.
Chapter 18
Grace awoke to the distant sound of carriage wheels grinding across the gravel drive. She yawned. How long had she been asleep? Her hired hack couldn’t possibly just now be leaving.
She was tempted to go to the window and find out, but she was also just as tempted to stay right where she was: on her side, her head nestled atop her husband’s warm arm, his sleeping body cradling her from behind. She lifted his other hand from her belly to her lips and pressed a kiss to the back of his hand. The pads of his fingers were rough with scars and calluses. She shivered at the memory of their effect upon her nipples, her body.
These were the work-worn hands her grandmother had objected to. Grace threaded her fingers with Oliver’s. As far as she was concerned, his fingers wrought nothing but magic.
The rumble of carriage wheels grew closer. Definitely not the hack departing. She slid out of Oliver’s grasp. The wedding breakfast! There hadn’t been one, so if any of Oliver’s friends wished to congratulate them in person, of course they would have to come to the manor to do so. And here they were, naked! Before sunset!
She tumbled off the bed in search of her shift, her stays. She was supposed to be a countess now. Which probably meant dressed and presentable when dukes and the like came to call.
“What’s happening?” came Oliver’s groggy voice from the pillows. “Is it dinner? I could eat an elephant.”
Laughing, she tossed his waistcoat in the direction of his head. “It’s not the supper gong. I’m afraid we have guests.”
“Guests?” Oliver was off the bed and at the window in seconds. He froze at whatever he saw beyond the glass.
Shoulders tight with worry, Grace clutched her gown to her chest and joined him at the window. The distance was still great, but the owners of the stately black carriage were unmistakable. She’d commandeered that very coach just a few weeks earlier.
“My grandparents are here?”
He didn’t answer. If anything, he seemed excited beyond all cause, his body thrumming with energy. The corners of his mouth twitched. He snatched his breeches up off the floor and began shoving his feet into the legs.
Grace turned back to the window. The tiger had leapt down from his perch and was opening the door. He handed the first person out…Her grandmother, of course. No one would precede her in or out of a carriage. Her grandfather would climb out next, and—
No. The tiger was back, arm high to hand the next person out of the coach. The light was poor and the angle was wrong and the woman stepping out wore a bonnet too big to see her face, but there was no mistaking who had just arrived.
“My mother?” she squeaked, her head swimming too dizzily to make much sense out of what she was seeing. “Can this be happening?”
Grace’s dress fell from her hands as Oliver hauled her to him and swung her in a circle. “Your mother is finally here.”
“You did this?” she gasped, then punched him in the chest. “When? How? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“The day I promised to frank your letters. Just as soon as I returned home from the park. I couldn’t tell you, not when I didn’t know if my mad idea would even bear fruit. I contracted an ex-privateer. I ended up selling the Black Prince to cover the funds I’d promised him, but—”
“What did you just say?”
“It was my only option. I couldn’t waste time sending an emissary on a passenger liner, so I found a pirate for hire. A mercenary with a swift ship of his own and not too many questions about the nature of—”
“I know what a privateer is!” she exploded, glaring at him in a mix of awe and fury. “What I cannot believe is that you sold your prized family heirloom in order to hire a pirate to sail to America and kidnap my mother.”
Then she laughed. Of course he had done. It was exactly the sort of rescue he would rush out to do.
Unrepentant, Oliver grinned out the window at the front lawn and then back at her. “It worked, didn’t it?”
She covered her head with her hands. “You might’ve told me!”
“I didn’t know it would work.” His expression sobered. “I didn’t want to foster hopes if I failed to succeed.”
“I was going after her, you ninnyhammer!” She punched his shoulder, then sank back in his arms. He twirled her in laughing, giddy circles. “You did it, Oliver! You saved my mother.”
He showered her with kisses. “Now you don’t have to go anywhere at all. Except to greet your mother.”
He dropped her gown over her head and gave her one last kiss. She shoved her hands through the sleeves and barely waited for him to lace her back up before slipping into her shoes and racing out of his bedchamber and down to the main entrance.
Ferguson held the front door open as she flew outside. The last of her doubts fled from her body. It really was her mother. Mama was here!
Grace threw her arms about her mother and held on tight.
“I was afraid for so long,” she whispered into her mother’s hair.
Mama held on just as tight. “So was I. When Blackheart showed up—”
Grace stepped back to stare at her mother. “Who?”
“The ship’s captain. That isn’t his given name, of course, but it’s difficult to think of a rogue like that as a ‘Mister’ anything. He’s just so…”
Grace’s lips quirked. “Piratey, I imagine.”
“You wouldn’t be wrong. It was quite the adventure. But I was so weak, I slept through most of it.”
Grace raised a brow at her husband.
“No, don’t blame him. He sent plenty of coin and explicit instructions that I not be moved if I were not able. But of course I came. There isn’t much difference between convalescing in my home, and convalescing in a cabin.”
“On a pirate ship. In the middle of the ocean. With a man named Blackheart.” Grace couldn’t believe her ears. “No difference at all.”
“I’m just sorry I missed your wedding. My fever had just broken, and I was unsteady on my feet—”
“Mama!” Grace’s hands reached out to her mother. To be ill, and to make that voyage…
“—so we went to my parents’ house.” Her brow creased. “Mother got rid of the privateer without so much as a fare-thee-well—”
“As was only right,” Grandmother Mayer interrupted with a sniff. “I’ve never seen such a disreputable blackguard in my life.”
“—but then she and Father tucked me abed in front of a warm fire. When next I awoke, we hurried to the church, but we had missed you and the ceremony was over. My baby! Married. I cannot credit it.”
Grace put her hand in Oliver’s. He kissed the top of her head.
“Mama, it is my deepest pleasure to present to you my husband. Oliver York, Earl of Carlisle.” Gooseflesh shivered down Grace’s spine as she spoke the words aloud for the first time. Lord Carlisle. Her husband. “Oliver, this is my mother, Mrs. Clara Halton.”
He let go of Grace’s hand in order to sketch an extremely elegant bow.
Grandmother Mayer rapped Grace’s mother in the foot with her walking stick. “See that? That is how a gentleman is supposed to greet a lady. Not growling and waving about pistols like a wild animal.”
“I collect the pirate made an impression on Grandmother,” Grace murmured.
Her mother shook her head, eyes twinkling. “Best we don’t talk about that.”
“Please. Come inside.” Oliver motioned them all tow
ard the house. “I haven’t much, but I can at least offer fire to warm you from the cold, and a nice hot cup of tea with milk and honey.”
Grandmother nodded and strode toward the manor.
“Just a moment,” said Grace’s grandfather, nodding his head toward the carriage. “Aren’t we forgetting something?”
Mama clasped her hands together. “Oh! Do you mind, Father?”
Before he could so much as open the carriage door, the tiger jumped down from his perch and helped wrest an enormous, paper-wrapped rectangle from inside the coach. An enormous, princely sized rectangle.
“I’ve a different wedding gift for you,” Mama said to Grace with a secretive smile. “This one is for your husband.”
Oliver’s hand shook as he reached out to touch the edge of the brown paper, as if he feared the entirety to be a mirage. At the contact, the paper wrinkled in such a way as to indicate—if it weren’t obvious already—that he’d touched the frame of a very large painting.
He stared at Grace’s mother in joy and disbelief. “You purchased the Black Prince? For me?”
“She didn’t.” Grandmother jabbed her walking stick in the direction of her husband. “That was Mr. Mayer’s doing. Try as I might, he’s always been a soft heart. Clara was still asleep. She didn’t even know she was rich yet.”
Grace blinked at her mother. “You’re…rich?”
Mama grinned back at her. “I knew I’d be disowned when I ran away to America. But unbeknownst to me—”
“Or to me,” Grandmother interrupted with a harrumph.
“—your grandfather invested my dowry in a trust for me. It’s been collecting an exorbitant amount of interest for twenty-three years. You should see the bank statement. I couldn’t possibly spend that much in a lifetime.” She grasped Grace’s hands. “So I’m giving most of it to you. Happy wedding day, daughter.”
“To me?” Grace’s head swam. More money than could be spent in a lifetime?
