She was not so naïve to think he loved her. She knew he wanted her, and that one kiss they shared had nearly singed her clothing right off. But the fact that he stopped also showed her that, though he was attracted, he respected her, too. And tonight, his instinctive impulse to protect her made her feel warm and secure and as if she truly mattered.
Wasn’t that the first step to love?
She knew he had secrets, but how terrible could they be? Whatever it was, she could forgive him. Whatever darkness lurked in his past, she would stand by his side. And perhaps if she shared her secret with him, then he might be willing to confide in her about his. After all, she trusted John in a way she had never trusted Bradley. She knew that he would never betray her, that he would lay down his life to protect her. That was the sort of man he was.
She knew what she needed to do. She would bare her soul to John, show him that she trusted him with her deepest secrets. Then he would certainly forgive her, confide in her, and together they would heal.
And maybe they would find something wonderful with each other that would last a lifetime.
John entered his room with a bruised ego and a foul temper. First Black Bill had made him look like a fool, then Virgil Bailey had ripped him soundly about his failure to protect Annabelle. But no matter how virulent the words hurled at him by Annabelle’s father, they burned far less than the ones he inflicted on himself.
He had failed tonight. Roundly. Too many times he had allowed himself to be distracted by Genny’s flirtations from the coach window. Had he been paying less attention to her and more to his duties, Black Bill might not have caught them by surprise.
Someone had left a lamp burning on the bureau. He was grateful for the soft glow as he stripped off his coat and tie and tossed them on the bed, then jerked the edges of his shirt from his trousers. Rubbing his hands across his face, he went to the bureau and poured a bit of water from the pitcher into the basin, then splashed his face.
A soft squeak broke the silence, and for a moment he thought it was Precious. Then he remembered he had returned the tiny kitten to the barn this morning. Another sound—the swish of material, then another—the quiet click of the door being shut, alerted him he was not alone.
Blinking against the water dripping from his lashes, he reached for the towel. The cloth was pushed into his hand by one smaller and softer than his own. He scrubbed it across his face, then opened his eyes.
Genny.
“I need to talk to you,” she whispered.
“It could not wait until morning?” Dear God, she was dressed for bed. A voluminous nightgown of plain white cotton, her hair in a long braid down her back. She looked like a novice at a nunnery.
He felt like a ravaging beast.
“No, it cannot.” She took the towel from his hands. The scent of honeysuckle rising from her skin intoxicated him.
“What are you doing in here?” He yanked the towel from her and threw it atop the bureau. “You know what would happen if someone discovered you here—to both of us. Go back to bed.”
“Do not talk to me like I am a child.”
“Then stop acting like one.” He wanted to shake her, to make her understand. But he knew if he touched her, they would both end up in the bed and there would be no turning back. “You cannot come into a man’s room, especially in such deshabille, and . . . and . . .”
“And what?”
“You just cannot. Now please leave.”
“Not until I have said what I came here to say.” She walked away from him, going over to the bed and running her hand along the coverlet.
His mouth grew dry. “We can talk tomorrow.”
“When, John? At breakfast??”
“Yes, yes. At breakfast.” He could not tear his gaze away from her hand, innocently stroking the bedclothes.
“We cannot talk about this at breakfast, John. Or anywhere else that is not private.” She perched on the edge of the bed, biting her lower lip. “I realize my visit tonight is somewhat improper—”
He tensed, stimulated by the sight of her on his bed, where he had imagined her more times than he could count. “Improper? I can think of a better word. More than one. Insane. Reckless. Utterly mad.”
“Oh, John.” She laughed.
“You find this amusing? To come into a man’s room in your nightdress and flirt with him? I don’t think it is very funny.”
“I apologize,” she said. “I did not expect to embarrass you.”
“I am not embarrassed.” He clamped his lips shut. Why was he encouraging her?
Because he wanted to stretch her out on the bed, shove that nightdress up to her waist, and take her hard and fast, just like he had imagined.
“You cannot possibly know what you are doing to me,” he said. “I know a lady like you is unaware of such things, so I am going to send you back to your own room now, and we can forget this ever happened.”
“Perhaps,” she said with a little smile, “I am not as unaware as you think.”
Lust surged through him, glorious, painful. “What the devil does that mean?”
Her smile faltered. “I do not want you to be cross with me, John. I have something important to tell you. And a proposition.”
A proposition? Immediately his male mind jumped to a hundred impossible propositions he would love to hear from her lips. But she was a lady, the daughter of an admiral. An unmarried, innocent—
“I want to go to America with you.”
The breath he had been holding whooshed from his lungs. Not exactly the proposal he had imagined. “Why in God’s name would you want to do that?”
“To be with you.” She stood, her prim white nightdress ineffectual to hide the high, firm roundness of her breasts, the curve of her hips. “We were almost killed tonight, and I do not want to let another moment pass without telling you how I feel.”
“Don’t.” The word exploded before he realized how harsh it sounded. But the startled hurt on her face told him, and he felt like a cad.
Again.
He took a breath, tried to remember to keep doing that, keep breathing. Get through this torment.
God help him, he had to get her out of here. Because if she said another word . . . if she said what he thought she was going to say. . .
“Why are you upset with me?” Genny asked. “You keep talking about going to America, starting over. I know that you want me . . . and maybe you have some feelings for me as well? I thought we could go together.”
A day ago, he might have actually considered her sweet offer. He did want a wife, and he did want a family. But now, he was about to commit the worst sort of social suicide, and if things went badly, he would end up with a noose around his neck. He would not subject her to that.
Because, God help him, he loved her.
The realization stunned him. When had that happened?
“John?” She was waiting for his answer. His little warrior. His heart did a slow turn in his chest. She would stay by his side, battle tooth and nail to uncover the truth, no matter what it cost her.
He could not let her do that. She deserved more than a man with shadows and blood in his past.
“You do still want me?” The insecurity in her voice threatened his tenuous control. He wanted to take her in his arms and reassure her that everything was going to be all right.
Which was why he had to get her out of there immediately, before he did something stupid.
“Want you? I doubt you even know what that means.”
She lifted her chin. “Yes, I do.”
He started toward her, certain it was a mistake with every step, but unable to stop himself. “When a man wants a woman, he doesn’t want tea parties and witty banter and someone to read poetry with.”
She tensed, but held her ground. “I know.”
“When a man wants a woman, he wants someone to get naked with him. Get sweaty. Do improper things.” He stopped just short of touching distance. “Things most ladies don’t like. T
here’s a difference between a lady and a woman, Genny, and I need a woman. Not a lady.”
She threw her shoulders back, thrusting her breasts at him . . . deliberately? “I know.”
“You don’t know, that’s what I am telling you.” He waved a hand toward the door. “If you did, you would be as far away from here, from me, as you could be.”
“Maybe it is you who does not know.” She did the unthinkable, the unimaginable, and took that last step closer to him. Her scent taunted him, made him clench his hands against the impulse to grab her. “I have been trying to tell you something important, John. I trust you. Trust you enough to tell you this because I think we have a real chance. I know you will protect me and . . . well, I am longer a . . . no longer innocent. There, I said it.”
No longer innocent.
Roaring sounded in his ears. She had just thrown a juicy steak at the snarling beast of his libido and at the same time handed him the perfect ammunition to send her away. But dear God, he did not want to use it. No, what he wanted was to take her to bed and sate the beast once and for all. “Who was it?” he demanded. “I’ll wring his neck.”
“You know who,” she snapped, spinning away and stalking across the room to the bureau. She looked at herself in the mirror, tucked a dangling strand behind her ear.
He could see his reflection behind hers, his expression stunned. Angry. Hungry. “Blasted Bradley Overton? I’ll see him keelhauled!”
“No, you will not.” Mutiny lurked in her eyes as she looked at him through the mirror.
“How in God’s name is it that your father did not drag the two of you to the nearest church?”
“Because I did not tell him. I have told no one but you.” As she turned to face him, the candlelight shone through her nightdress, innocently presenting him with a silhouette of every delectable curve. He gritted his teeth, then nearly bit his tongue in half as she folded her arms against those succulent breasts. “Once I found out Bradley’s real reasons for marrying me,” she continued, “I wouldn’t have it or him.”
He blew out a long breath. “What were you thinking?”
“That he loved me. That I was going to marry him. That such . . . intimacy . . . was what he wanted.” Her lips twisted in a cynicism that seemed far too harsh for her tender years. “I was a fool.” She started pacing, proving there was a God as she finally moved away from the candle. “Now I find myself the daughter of an admiral—”
“The unmarried daughter of an admiral.”
She scowled. “Do not help me. The unmarried daughter of an admiral, who must make a good match or disgrace her family yet who cannot offer chastity to her gentleman husband.”
“You do have a problem.”
She stopped pacing, but kept her arms folded. “I think you and I are a good match for each other. You know my secret now. You are the only man to whom I could ever imagine confiding such a thing because I know you will not despise me or think me a whore. I could be the woman you need. I could be your wife, John.”
“Impossible. You cannot leave England. Your family is here. Your friends.”
“You left England. If you can do it, so can I.”
“This is not about me. I had no choice. You do.”
“And you are my choice,” she said. “I know you will not judge me. I think you and I would do well together. I think we could have something special.”
“You do not know what you are suggesting. It is difficult to leave everything you know and travel to a foreign place to make your home.”
“I am willing to do whatever is necessary to achieve a better future. So tell me, John, will you marry me?” She toyed with the end of the braid hanging over her shoulder.
He watched her play with her hair, looking so innocent and yet so alluring. For one moment, he was tempted to take her up on her offer. She had enough grit to make a man a good wife, and he could imagine some hot, lusty nights with her between the sheets.
But no. He was about to step into a hornet’s nest, and he would not drag anyone down with him. He cared too much for her to put her in danger—cared enough that the mere thought made his blood run cold. He had to do this to rescue his nieces from Randall’s greed, but he was only willing to sacrifice himself. She could not be any part of this.
But she was right, she had a problem. He just did not think he was the solution.
“John?” she prompted, when he did not answer.
“You should not have come here,” he said.
“But I am here.” She came right up to him, her face set in determination. “I want you. I want this heart”—she flattened her palm against his chest—“and your arms around me.” She leaned against him, her curves molding to his body as if she were made to fit there.
“Genny . . .”
She stood on tiptoe and kissed him.
All reason flew out of his head. He closed his hands around her upper arms. Push her away. Think. But that sweet mouth . . . that lush, female body . . . He dragged her closer, stumbling backwards. Landed on the bed.
With a cry of alarm, she fell with him, their kiss torn apart as they landed in a tangle of limbs on the bed, with her sprawled atop him. She squirmed, trying to find purchase. He tried to help. Her nightgown rode up, and his palm landed on the silken skin of her bottom.
They both froze for a long moment. Then she raised her head. The look in her eyes spoke of dawning discovery and desire.
He could not stop himself; he smoothed his palm across the sweet curve beneath his hand, watching her eyes, ready to stop. She hissed in a quick breath, her eyelids drooping halfway in a look of pure sensual enjoyment.
God damn it. He took her mouth in a long, hot kiss.
She tried to kiss him back, her inexperience stoking all kinds of fires she could not know existed. He squeezed her buttock, then splayed his hand across her whole bottom and pressed her against him. She made a little sound of surprise, then rubbed herself against his erection in one slow, tentative movement.
Dear God, he was only human.
The thought burned through his mind as he rolled over, gathering her beneath him. Every inch of her pressed against every inch of him. Delicious torment. He could slide into her right now. Have her.
“Touch me,” she begged.
He wrapped her braid around his hand and bent her head back so he could probe her mouth, touching his tongue to hers. Teaching her. She responded—a prize pupil. He slipped his hand beneath her nightgown, found the hot feminine folds. Stroked her. Once. Twice.
She cried out beneath his mouth, arching her hips into his touch. “John.”
Her voice moaning his name shattered his tenuous control. He shoved her nightdress to her waist, stroked his hands over her flesh. Belly, thighs. Soft. Female. His.
The scent of her arousal clouded his mind to everything but mating. He jerked her nightdress higher, but it caught beneath her. At the same time, she gripped his shirt with both hands, tugged.
“Off,” she gasped, then stole his breath with a wet, openmouthed kiss.
They tangled, hands and arms and clothing. He jerked off his shirt, tossed it aside. She helped him strip the nightdress away, threw it somewhere toward the head of the bed, then stretched out beneath him in a sensual display of the female form.
What she lacked in height, she made up for in curves. Her breasts were larger than most women’s, a bit more than a handful for him. Her waist dipped inward, flaring out to generous hips. Those smooth, round thighs cradled a dark thatch of hair that guarded the delicate folds he had caressed only moments before.
His, damn it. All his.
He stretched out over her, pressing her into the mattress, her plump breasts crushed beneath his chest, her hands stroking over his back in silent encouragement. She whispered his name, over and over again. Like a prayer. Like a plea. Arched her hips against him.
He kissed her, lost himself in the taste of her, in the sweet way she tried to kiss him back, how she wrapped her legs around his waist. H
e fed on those succulent curves, touched, kissed, sucked, nipped. She gasped, she moaned, she whispered his name over and over again. Encouraged him with her hands and her voice until he sensed she was ready.
He slipped his hand downward and stroked the moist treasure he had discovered between her trembling thighs, focusing all his skill on bringing her pleasure, watching her face as he brought her closer and closer. Her eyes had slid closed, and the wonderment on her face as the pressure built held him in rapt attention.
“That’s it, sweet girl. Let it take you.”
She clenched her fists in the bedclothes, arched her hips, tossed her head from side to side. Keened, whimpered, begged. Finally, she arched and stiffened, coating his hand with the hot rush of her climax.
Watching her take her pleasure destroyed the fragments of his control. As she lay there panting, he got off the bed and stripped off the rest of his clothes. She made a sound of protest when he left her, but it changed to a purr of pleasure as he came back naked, hard, and ready.
“Yes.” She arched her hips. “I have been dreaming of this. Please, John . . .”
He took her hips in his hands, pushed inside her, shuddering as her hot, wet female flesh closed around him. Home. His. All rational thought spun away.
She clung to him with her arms and legs, met his thrusts with touching eagerness that spiked his hunger even higher. He kissed her lips, licked her throat, cupped her bottom, and held her steady to take him even deeper inside her. The shocked wonder in her gasp stroked over him like a hand on his cock. He buried his face in her throat as the orgasm roared through him, ripping a hoarse groan from his lips.
The pleasure continued to thrum through him as he slowly came back to himself.
Genny’s heart pounded beneath the cheek pillowed against one generous breast. Her hands stroked over his back, his hair. She let out a long, contented sigh. “I never knew it could be like that.”
The awe in her tone cut through his sexual satisfaction. He nearly groaned. What the devil had he done?
Too Wicked to Love Page 15
