by Brenda Joyce
She didn’t speak.
He smiled, still holding her hand against his bare skin, leaning over her. “I am going to pleasure you again—and again.”
She breathed hard. “Sir Rex.” She swallowed.
He pulled her up into his arms, her bare breasts against his naked chest. She cried out, clinging to his shoulders. She was small and perfect against his larger frame, he thought. He held her more tightly, kissing her hair. “I would like to get rid of that dress,” he said softly. “Unless you have changed your mind?”
Her mouth moved, her lips brushing his chest. “If you will get rid of your clothes, I will, too.”
His heart soared. He smiled against her hair. “A bargain that is mutually beneficial,” he murmured. And because he could not resist, he lifted her chin and kissed her deeply, then bent and kissed her nipple.
She gasped and arched upward for him.
He sucked her slowly into his mouth, then pulled.
“Ohh,” she whispered.
He flung the sheets aside and meeting her gaze, reached for her skirts. In a moment, they were gone. He then tugged away chemise and petticoat, and finally, her silk drawers.
She slid under the sheets, but he had seen her slim, lovely body. “I am too thin,” she whispered, blushing.
“You are perfect,” he returned, tossing one shoe and stocking aside. He unbuttoned his trousers, his hands trembling. “Will the sight of my amputated leg offend you?” he asked casually, but the question wasn’t casual at all.
Her eyes widened. “I have seen you in nothing but your drawers, Sir Rex.”
His eyes widened.
“You have a habit of tossing all the covers aside when you sleep.” She was blushing now and staring not at his face, but at his hands—or what stood straining beneath them. “I nursed you, or have you forgotten?’
He paused, hands on his fly. “I recall waking up and finding you regarding my body with a singular intensity.” He was aware of how rough his tone had become, but his need was explosive.
“I was admiring your figure,” she said. Her tongue flitted over her lips. He knew it was a nervous and hungry gesture that she was entirely unconscious of.
“Good,” he said flatly. He slid his trousers and drawers down together, tossing them onto the floor. Then he lay down beside her. Her eyes were huge. He pulled her into his arms, but loosely. “I cannot help myself. I want you passionately. Is my passion offensive?”
She slowly lifted her eyes. “No.” She breathed hard, roughly. He felt her mind racing wildly. Her glance skidded down between them again. “Oh.”
He cuddled her, kissing her cheek, her temple, her hair. As he did, he quivered against her thigh, helpless not to. “If you are worried,” he whispered.
“No! No, I am not worried….” And she looked up, seizing his shoulders and kissing him wildly.
He was stunned, but only for a moment. He took over the kiss, rolling her beneath him and pushing her thighs apart with his good leg. He shifted against her inner thigh, trying not to groan and thrusting his tongue deep. She kissed him back and there was no mistaking her urgency now.
Holding her, he buried his face against her neck and began rubbing her loins with his erection. She cried out as he met wet, hot, distended flesh. Trying to caress her, he moved slowly, as lightly as possible, his massive head probing against her swollen lips.
“Oh dear!” she cried.
He wanted to smile but couldn’t. Sweat rolled off his temples and down his chest. He pushed his entire length beneath her, several times, when he wanted desperately to push into her. She gasped as he stroked the cleft of her buttocks, too.
And then he reared up over her and pressed flat against her belly, breathing hard. “I want to make love to you. I want to come inside you.” He kissed her ear. “But I do not want to rush you, Blanche.”
She wrapped her arms around him and he felt her calf move over his hip. “Sir Rex, yes!”
Desire surged. He shifted and pressed home. Her flesh was wet but tight. He gritted, trying to go slow. And as he pressed inside, there was so much pressure, he could not stand it. In that instant, he knew he was lost.
“Hell,” he gasped, and he thrust past her membrane, exploding uncontrollably. Somehow, in the throes of a violent climax, he stopped moving, buried deep inside her now and spilling so much seed and reveling in the glory of the huge release.
For he was with Blanche and it was glorious.
But when the last convulsions had ended, he was horrified. His grasp tightened, but he didn’t look at her. He remained fully sheathed and erect enough to stay that way. “Blanche, I am sorry,” he managed.
She was trembling. Her hands slid over his back, a shaky caress.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked roughly, now aghast at his premature ejaculation. But he had wanted her desperately for years. Still, his performance had not been impressive. Worse, she had not climaxed with him.
“Only for a moment,” she said hoarsely.
And he felt her throbbing against him.
Red passion blinded him. She still wanted him; she needed him. He breathed hard and moved slowly, deeply, and she gasped with pleasure. He smiled, a savage determination beginning, mingling with triumph. He would show her so much pleasure now, he thought, the blood racing to his arousal and stiffening it once again. He thrust slowly again and again, holding himself up so he could watch her now. Her eyes had closed. Her cheeks were pink. She was breathless, turning her head from side to side. He moved deeper, more swiftly and more purposefully; she cried out. Their gazes met.
And he saw from the dazed and unfocused look in her eyes, that she was spiraling toward the pleasure he wished for her. He smiled and withdrew. She protested, he entered her again, slowly and deeply, watching her closely now. She seized his arms, and he felt her nails cutting his skin.
“More?” he asked, lust consuming him.
She nodded.
He moved swiftly, pulled out, tongued her and entered her again. She clawed his arms, gasping. He stroked his head, now terribly swollen, over her cleft lips. She cried out, shuddering. And as he plunged deep, again and again, her eyes flew open and blindly met his.
She arched wildly, her nails slicing into his skin, her soft cries filling the night.
So much lust, desire, passion and pleasure consumed him. He arched back, deep now, exploding and crying out, loud and hoarse, with triumph. The euphoria was consuming and complete.
Blanche.
BLANCHE SLOWLY DRIFTED back to Sir Rex’s bed. She began to realize she had just experienced true passion—and tears of joy filled her eyes. She was lying naked in Sir Rex’s strong arms, her cheek in the crook of his shoulder and chest, her hands between them against his chest. He had his calf over both her legs. Oh dear lord, he had just made love to her, and she had found so much rapture.
Her heart swelled with love. Smiling, feeling uncertain and shy, she slowly looked up.
He was regarding her with such a tender expression that her smile faltered and her heart leaped wildly. He smiled, revealing his single dimple. His dark eyes, gold flecked, were searching and so wonderfully warm.
Blanche knew she flushed, as she now recalled not just his incredible male prowess, but how he liked to use his tongue. Oh, but she did not mind! And she loved being in his arms this way. She rubbed her cheek against his chest and felt a stirring against one of her thighs. Her gaze flew to his.
His dimple deepened. “You seem pleased,” he said softly.
“I am pleased…very much so.” She felt her cheeks warm as that very male part of him became stiff against her leg.
“I find you stunning and I cannot help wanting to please you again,” he whispered.
She hesitated, and then laid her hand on the hard, bulging muscle of his chest. “You are the stunning one.”
He chuckled.
Blanche had never heard such a warm, wonderful sound. “Are you pleased, Sir Rex?”
“I am beyond plea
sure, Blanche.” He reached up to clasp her face. “Darling, you must call me Rex.”
She smiled. “It sounds so odd…Sir Rex.”
His smile faded.
She felt hers fade, too. “What’s wrong?”
He shook his head. “I never thought to see this day, you and I, lovers, and soon to be wed.”
She reached up to touch his cheek. “Nor did I.” Then she saw a red scratch on his bicep. Her eyes widened—she was stricken.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said softly. “I am pleased to see that there is a wildcat in you.”
Blanche could not believe she had scratched Sir Rex and drawn his blood.
He pulled her closer. “I want to make you insane with passion.” He nuzzled her and she felt that large tip against her belly. Her blood quickened and she felt a very delicious tingle between her thighs.
“I cannot believe I did such a thing. I am sorry.”
“Do not apologize for losing your head while in my bed,” he said thickly, but with laughter. He slid his hand in a stunning caress down her back and over her buttock, where he clasped her. She met his gaze and saw the question there. “Am I being too manly and too forward? If you are tired or sore, simply say so. Otherwise, I wish to pleasure you again.”
She trembled, aware of the heat and moisture gathering now. She stroked the scratch on his bicep instead of answering, relishing the feel of his skin and muscle. Then she slid her hand over the equally hard tendons in his forearm. He became still.
“Your physique is amazing,” she whispered, moving her hand over the other side of his chest. His nipple stiffened as her palm slid over that pectoral muscle.
He didn’t speak.
Blanche swallowed, sliding her hand over his ribs, amazed again that he should have no fat to spare. She paused when she reached his belly button. Even his abdomen was tight and hard.
He moaned.
Surprised, she looked at his face and saw that he had closed his eyes and flung his head back. He lay back against the pillows, the invitation clear and compelling.
The sheets were at the bottom of the bed. Blanche stared at his manhood, so much desire flooding her that she couldn’t move or think. Sir Rex was breathing hard.
She wanted to touch him the way he had touched her, but she hesitated.
His eyes still closed, he took her wrist and moved it lower, then released it.
Blanche inhaled and slid her fingers over the ripening tip. He gasped, his eyes flying open, and she saw that she was giving him the kind of pleasure he had given her. And she saw he desperately wished for her to touch him.
Her heart thundering, she ran her fingers down his length and to the heavy sacks below. He grunted and Blanche gave in. She gasped at the velvety feel, at the shocking heat, and at the steel hardness.
He sat, eyes blazing, pulling her into his arms and claiming her mouth with his. Blanche welcomed the assault, kissing him back, and as they went down onto the mattress, she slid her calf over his hip, running her hand down his back to his high, hard buttock. She didn’t want to wait. She wanted to feel him inside her; she wanted to be a part of this wonderful man. Rex seemed to understand exactly; he grunted, pushing her thighs apart with his, and then he was sliding into her.
Blanche felt so much pleasure and so much urgency she could not stand it; she grasped his shoulders, wanting him to hurry his invasion, and arching for him so she could take more of him inside. He gasped and hesitated, buried so deeply now that it was shocking, and she felt him pulsing there, almost inside her womb, and she felt her own throbbing response. He looked at her, eyes smoldering, and he slowly withdrew, inch after inch, until she was spread wide on him, and Blanche felt the wave cresting. He knew. He plunged and began thrusting and the wave broke. Blanche wept in pleasure this time.
And so did Sir Rex.
BRIGHT SUNLIGHT finally awoke her.
Blanche blinked, oddly aware of being deliciously happy, so much so that she felt as if she were floating. She sighed, and then she remembered the night she had just spent with Sir Rex.
Her eyes opened and she turned her head, but his side of the bed was empty. She glanced toward the window and saw that it was well into the morning, for the sun was high and bright in a brilliantly blue sky. She began to smile. Oh dear, she’d had no idea passion was so wonderful; Sir Rex was wonderful!
She cuddled into her pillow, recalling his passion and his affection—recalling her own shocking passion, her own outbursts and boldness. Even after the night they had shared, she felt hollow with need and desire. Dear, dear God, she was a woman of passion now.
Who would have ever thought it possible?
She smiled, thinking of his touch, his kisses, and his powerful lovemaking, which she knew he had kept somewhat restrained. She thought of his glorious body—and how he seemed to find her terribly attractive. They had made love many times—maybe she was with child. Oh, she prayed she was with child now!
And vaguely, she recalled his leaning over her and whispering that he had affairs to attend to but that she should sleep late. She felt certain he had kissed her hair before leaving the room. Suddenly tears began. He was a kind, gentle man, but only she knew it. And she was so deeply in love. Their marriage was going to be a successful one—there was simply no more doubt.
Joy swelled in her breast—and instantly, grief surged.
Blanche stiffened, as all of her happiness vanished, replaced with such despair and grief, such loneliness, she could not breathe. Images instantly appeared before her—her father as he lay in bed stricken with pneumonia, and her mother, but not as she appeared in her portrait at Harrington Hall. Blanche sat bolt upright, horrified, recalling her mother as their coach was besieged by the mob, her face stark white with fear. And the men had ripped the door from its hinges….
“No!” Not now, not today, she didn’t want to ever recall that horrific moment!
But the memory was there, and there was no disputing it or chasing it away—her mother had been holding her tightly until those men had torn the carriage door open, reaching inside to drag them into the street. Blanche cried out, reeling and dizzy. She clasped her head as the pain began, but it intensified, a butcher knife going through her skull.
She had to stop this now! She did not want to know what had happened next! She staggered from the bed when her mother screamed. Don’t kill my daughter! Spare my child! Please spare my child!
Blanche straightened, stunned to hear her mother begging the men for her life. A dozen men separated them, blood was everywhere, and Mama was begging again as they grabbed her and dragged her away, so that Blanche could not see her….
Blanche screamed. “Mama!” The child begged, terrified, “Mama!”
But she could not see her mother, as dozens of men wielding pikes and pitchforks were between her and the carriage now. The pale-eyed monster leered at her, holding up his hand. “Come out of the carriage, girl,” he said roughly, and it was an order.
She was so afraid she could not move, and his fury intensified.
“Don’t make me come and get you,” he warned.
She wet her drawers. “Mama!”
And the screams began.
Mama screamed—the screams of a woman being brutally tortured….
He reached for her, grinning. Blanche shrank back into the carriage as far as she could go. He cursed and leaped inside, seizing her. She fought uselessly and was dragged out to the street and thrown down onto the rough stone.
Mama wept and screamed, begging for her life, for Blanche’s life.
“Mama!” Blanche screamed.
“Blanche! Run! Hide!”
The monster loomed over her, reaching for her now, to torture her, too. Blanche twisted away and fell onto her hands and knees, cutting them on the cobbled street, crawling away as fast as she could, between and beneath so many raging men. Someone stepped on her hand. Pain exploded and she collapsed. Mama screamed endlessly.
“Got you!”
She covered her ears with her hands. Something terrible was happening to Mama and she knew it. She gave up, curling into a ball. Please stop, please stop, she thought desperately. “Mama, Mama, please stop, please stop, Mama, please stop!” She was frozen with terror, chanting until her own voice drowned out the screams of Mama dying and the shouts of the men, glorying in her death.
“Please stop,” she whispered, and suddenly she realized that the cobbled stones had vanished, and Mama’s screams were gone, too.
Blanche blinked. She was no longer in the London street, she realized, and she wasn’t six years old, either, but she was afraid to stop rocking herself, and the chant had become a soothing prayer of some sort. She knew she was an adult woman; she knew she was at Land’s End. She remained so frozen with fear that she couldn’t care. And she didn’t dare get up. She did not dare move from the far corner of the bedroom where she now sat, curled up in a ball.
The monsters lurked in the shadows of the morning, waiting to come back.
And she rocked and chanted for a long time, desperately.
“MY LADY, WHY DIDN’ T you call me? I would have helped you dress but his lordship told me you were not to be disturbed,” Meg cried.
Blanche stood before the open armoire, which was mostly empty now, as she had carefully taken most of her clothing out, laying everything on the bed. His lordship…Sir Rex. She did not want to think about him now. She knew her hold on her sanity was fragile, at best, and certainly temporary. She turned and smiled at Meg.
Meg’s eyes widened. “My lady?”
Blanche had never been so calm, so composed—or so detached. She felt as if she had been given a dose of some miraculous drug, or as if she were floating in a peaceful, stagnant pond. It didn’t matter. She had found a safe and quiet place inside of herself, and nothing was going to ever change that. However, every step had to be placed with care. She was terribly aware that she stood on the edge of a cliff.
“Good morning, Meg,” she said quietly. Sir Rex’s image loomed, his eyes dark and bold; she dismissed it. She must not think of him now. It would hurt, and God only knew what would happen if she allowed herself to feel pain. She did not want to go down that road or any other one. Every other road was dangerous and threatening. “Can you swiftly finish packing? I will order the coach brought round.”
