by Sophia Nash
She was so damned tight—far too small for a brute like him. God. What had he agreed to? As he sunk his finger a little deeper inside of her taut depths, his thumb circled the peak nestled in the curls, edging ever closer.
She was making inarticulate sounds, and it was driving him past the point of no return, past a point of madness no mortal man could withstand. It had never been like this. He’d never for a moment in his life ever lost control. But this ache began so deep inside of him. And then an easing coolness pressed against the small of his back, and he could not stop himself.
He was going to hurt her. Impale her. He was going to break her body and break his oath never to take advantage of a desperate, innocent woman.
A woman like Mary had once been.
No matter how much Elizabeth thought she wanted this, he knew it was wrong. But the black impurity that was ingrained in his wretched makeup would not allow him to stop. He closed the distance to her aching peak with his thumb, the friction causing a wave of desire to cross her beautiful face.
He was frantic to bring her pleasure. He would not stop until her breath caught and she appeared lost to the world. Only then did he reclaim the age-old position above her, his hand arranging her limbs wide to accommodate his monstrous frame.
Her dazed eyes were teary with emotion and it nearly killed him. His breath ragged, he flexed his hips forward until his hot, raging flesh found plush, wet relief.
Courting her body to accept him, he teased her opening just the merest bit until slickness eased the way. Black dots began multiplying in his field of vision, and through them he saw her passion-filled face below him, her lovely hair spread like that of an angel from the heavens.
With an unstoppable surge, the great length of him pierced her, and he was filled with the most pure sensation of both bodily pleasure and emotional pain so deep and yet perfect. At the same moment a terrible sound escaped from her clamped lips. Black horror flooded him—all the nightmares of the past were before him.
Suddenly, he felt her fingers interwoven with his own tenderly squeeze his hand in reassurance. He looked down at her, expecting to see regret and far worse.
“Rowland,” she whispered, tears flooding her cheeks, “Love me.”
He wanted to shrink away from her, but for the first time in the never-ending battle between his body and his mind, his body and his starving need won out.
He surged again inside of her, all the time knowing he was hurting her, despite her foolish words. He just could not stop himself. He pushed onward, always forward, could not remember to fall back. He grabbed her knee and pulled it higher and again plowed forward.
He felt her cooler hand on his back again, seeming to urge him. Blind with need, his body undulated again and again. Taking, always taking…until his hunger changed.
He felt such a deep desperation to make her happy, and yet he was incapable of such a feat when he was surely only bringing her pain. He stopped at the sound of a soft moan. Her mouth was half open in a silent plea. He slipped his hand under her hips and tilted her to more easily accommodate him.
Her lovely emerald eyes widened, and he plunged further inside of her. Relentlessly, slowly, he thrust, his tempo even and sure. He pulled her ever closer until flesh to flesh, he covered every inch of her, inside and out. She strained against him, and the whisper of a keening sound met his ear. With a groan he surged onward, grimly determined to give her everything he had, every drop of pleasure he could drag from her. With a cry, she slipped over the high edge of pleasure-pain to find a long, pulsing release.
His ballocks nearly numb with the ache of an iron grip on control, he finally let himself go. With astonishing speed, he withdrew and great pulses of pleasure rocked through him, leaving traces on the soft bed linens beside her.
His heavy head rested on her breast, and he gulped large batches of air. He could hear the wild beat of her heart beneath his ear. Without thought or care to any remaining bashfulness she might still harbor, he forced himself to search for confirmation of the carnal violence he had wrought.
His head reeled as he spied the telltale streaks of blood on her slender thighs. Again, spots of black appeared in his vision, making him feel as if he might very well pass out from the hard evidence of the last of the cardinal rules he had broken.
Elizabeth had known the crash back to the muddy ground of real life was inevitable. But still…it hurt.
One moment she had been reaching to stroke his hair, and the next, his eyes had grown wide and dark and he had rolled away, leaving her to shiver slightly at the sudden departure of his sheltering warmth.
“Please,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
He turned his head, unseeing.
“Will you not hold me?” she asked with a sadness she could not conceal. “I need your arms.”
Her emotions whirled; a sort of melancholia seeped inside as the cool night air reached her flesh. She wanted more of him. More time with him. And he was now staring at her with such guilt.
“Wait,” he said hoarsely. With his one long unbound arm he was able to reach a length of toweling on the washstand next to the bed. He dipped it in the basin of water.
Gazing at the blue ribbon still binding his wrist to hers comforted her. As long as it was there, they would be together.
She flinched as she felt the cool cloth brushing her thighs. She concentrated on the ribbon, unable to watch him minister to her. And yet, she knew he would not be able to rest until he had his way. And so she said not a word.
The flame of the candle flickered and threw a strange shadow on his back and buttocks. He was such a severely beautiful man. All sinew, and muscle, and bone.
He was improbable, like a great tree standing in a barren desert.
She did not know what to say to him now that the intimacy of the moment was past. She wanted to tell him the rapture she had experienced, wanted to assure him that he had not truly hurt her.
Yes, there had been pain, but there had also been such wondrous feelings coursing through her—as if they were one, as if she was forever a part of him now and he a part of her. Even if they were torn apart they would forever remember these moments together.
She studied his back as his breathing became even.
She squinted. There was a small mark on one of his buttocks.
Without thinking, she reached out her finger and traced the mark on his skin.
He flinched. His head turned toward her, his eyes piercing in the candlelight.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“It’s to warn you,” he said, his voice devoid of any emotion. One brow kicked up. “Although I played unfairly, I suppose. You were supposed to notice that earlier. Before we…”
“What do you mean? What is it?”
“The mark of a blackguard.”
“What?”
“You heard rightly. It’s a tattoo.”
“Why did you…”
He laughed, the bitterness inescapable. “Oh, Elizabeth…surely, you’ve endured enough nightmares for one day.”
“Who did that to you?”
The question hung in the darkness, like a secret in a worthless, useless boy—a long forgotten mudlark.
Chapter 13
Rowland debated in the privacy of his mind while she babbled about his bloody tattoo. Oh, he knew what he would do. He had known what he would do as he watched the bravest woman he had ever known risk her damned little neck to win five thousand pounds to save his worthless hide.
“Elizabeth…enough. I need to tell you what I’ve arranged for you.”
“Not until you tell me how you acquired that mark.”
He shook his head. What did it matter? “It’s nothing.”
“I’m listening.”
He toyed with a small lock of her hair on the pillow next to him. “All boys and men brawl, be they gentlemen or commoners. I lost once—the odds were a bit off. The punishment was this crude tattoo.”
“Is that someone
’s initial?”
“No,” he spoke his words soft, slow. “Can’t you guess?” When her gaze did not falter he finished. “B is for bastard, Elizabeth. So I would not forget.”
Over his shoulder, he watched her rise slowly and lay her cheek on his back. She rolled forward and kissed the tattoo, like a mother would do to soothe a child’s hurt.
He swallowed. “You’re going to France. I’ve arranged for Joshua to take you to the coast at first light.”
“France?” she jerked upright.
He felt like the worst sort of lecher for looking at the beauty of her fragile, naked form. “Yes. It’s the only way.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ll never be able to return to England, of course. But, isn’t that a small price to pay for avoiding Pymm?” He didn’t add that it would also have the advantage of allowing her to cut herself off from the insanity of the two of them together.
“But he would then announce the contents of those French letters to all and sundry.”
“And the French will bow at your feet—and protect their own. Since your mother was French, you can claim allegiance, renounce your British citizenship.”
“But…but I would have nothing…I barely speak the language. And I would leave behind everyone. I would never see—”
He wouldn’t let her continue, couldn’t stand the look on her face. “You would have a portion of the winnings from the race to get you settled.”
“But you need the money. You probably need much more than that if I have the right of it.”
He lied smoothly without hesitation. “No. I’ve a contract with the cavalry. I only need a thousand pounds or so at the moment.”
She looked at him with doubt.
“I’ll provide more for you later. If it’s needed.” He wasn’t sure how he would get it, but he’d sell the last bit of his soul if required. He could always go back to the beds of the duchesses, marchionesses, and countesses who had courted his caresses, and lined his pockets, and provided part of the funds for his stable. The ones he had sworn off forever. “And your French relatives will probably take you in.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think you understand. They don’t know me at all. I don’t think I could expect them to…and my uncle might be out of favor. His division—”
“Well, you must try,” he cut in.
“No. Not yet. I’m not ready to give up. I was at a low point—despairing earlier. There’s still a chance I will find a way out of this.”
He shook his head. “Every day—every event you attend binds you closer to Pymm. You must go away while you still can.” Without thinking, he lifted his hand to touch her cheek.
And as surely as his words warned, the movement caused the blue ribbon to come unbound from his wrist. It fluttered uselessly from hers.
She did not doze more than a dozen minutes during any portion of the night. He kept her cradled in his embrace, touching her, stroking her with a reverence that made her ache for what would not last. She nestled ever closer to him, murmuring his name over and over because it became obvious that he drew such happiness from her words, and her soft kisses.
But as surely as time crawled inexorably forward, dawn broke through the shelter of darkness that had blanketed them.
At the sound of a light knock at the door, Elizabeth came full awake.
Rowland was three steps ahead of her, struggling with his breeches as she wrapped the bedclothes about her.
She recognized the muffled voice of the maid who had served her yesterday. “Miss? Last eve, the dowager duchess asked me to arrange a tray and bathwater for you. Shall I bring it inside?”
“No, Marie.” Elizabeth stayed in the bed. “But I’d be most grateful if you’d leave it.”
The maid’s voice traveled from the other side of the door. “Her Grace said to tell you she will wait on you after she rises.”
As the maid’s footfalls from the stair faded, Rowland retrieved the food and a number of steaming buckets. “How did she know you were here?”
“Ata’s the only one. I told her I wanted to spend the last night here since Pymm…occasionally knocks on my door in the castle, and brings little gifts. It’s unnerving and I detest it.”
He shook his head. “Of course you have a disgust of presents. You are a traitor to your sex.”
Elizabeth smiled. She spied her gown and chemise too far away to reach, and so grasped Rowland’s large white linen shirt and pulled it over her head as he brought the tray to the narrow bed.
“I like that on you,” he murmured.
“When I was a little girl I used to secretly wear one of my father’s shirts to bed when he was away on some distant battlefield.”
“Where did you live?” He glanced up from arranging the cup and saucer.
“In Portsmouth. I was sent to my aunt, who took great exception to my choice in nightclothes. But then”—she hesitated—“there were many things she took great exception to. Not that I didn’t deserve her censure. My best friend was a fisherman’s son who longed to join the Royal Navy. We were forever getting into scrapes, and I was forever in disgrace for not befriending more noble children.” She sighed.
She could see laughter teasing one corner of his mouth as he poured milk into the porcelain cup, and then tea. It warmed her heart that he remembered exactly how she preferred her tea.
“And so your father one day rescued you from his tyrant sister?”
“No. He held out hope for far too long that I could be formed into a proper young lady. I was fourteen when I was sent to a school in Hertfordshire that took on boarders.”
He turned the handle of the cup in her direction. “So this was the place where you learned how to poison a man’s tea and ride like a banshee?”
“Partially.”
He cocked an eyebrow.
“I befriended the cook, an older woman from France, who taught me everything about preparing food and also sheltered me from the worst of the headmistress’s constant harangues and punishments.” She brought the steaming tea to her lips and the scent was delicious. It eased the words she had never dared to admit to anyone. “The school was where I learned I was a complete failure as a young lady.”
He waited for her to continue.
She rushed to fill the silence. “I could not be taught to play any musical instrument, or sing, or embroider, or draw, or paint. I was abysmal in mathematics. The only thing I learned was how to dance, aside from reading books about history, which I’d always enjoyed and…”
“Yes?”
“…gothic novels.”
“Of course,” he said, his lips holding back a smile.
“And so at sixteen I threatened to run away. My father knew me well enough by then to know I would make good on my promise.”
“Smart man.”
There was something about the way he didn’t utter falsities designed to comfort her that made her realize how trifling her trials as a child had been. Here, before her, was a man who had endured terrible hardships and sacrifice.
“Father gave up all attempts to curb my ‘impossible exuberance’—as the headmistress called it, and allowed me to join him in London. He put up little resistance when the Peninsular War began and I insisted on going with him.”
“How long were you with him?”
“Five years.”
“How old are you, Elizabeth?”
“Too old to reveal it willingly.” She laughed awkwardly and then picked up a piece of toast and buttered it before smearing a dollop of apricot jam upon it. “If you share this toast with me, perhaps you can wheedle the number from me.”
He quickly rose, only to come behind her—flustering her. His unshaven beard abraded the skin on her neck as he nuzzled her. She was too slow to understand his intent.
“I have another method for extracting the number from you,” he whispered. His fingers hovered near her ribs, ready to tickle her.
“Rowland,” she said, ignoring h
im, “why do you do this? Why do you deny yourself?” She turned to face him on the bed.
He dropped his hands.
“I won’t play this game any longer,” she said, her voice low. “Tell me. Does it have something to do with Mary?”
He started. “Who told you anything about Mary?”
“I heard you murmur her name a few times last night. I think you were dreaming. Was she someone you once loved? Or did she love you?” She tried to keep her voice even, despite her heart constricting.
“Yes.” It came out with the smallest huff of air. “But I did not deserve her devotion.”
Elizabeth waited, the pain of his revelation engulfing her mind.
His voice was so low she barely made out the words. “She was my sister. Two years younger than I.”
“Your sister? But I thought you only had brothers.”
“Elizabeth,” he said, “enough.”
There was such pain in the depths of his eyes, she couldn’t bring herself to force him. “I am eight and twenty,” she said. “And you?”
“Far too old for you.” His eyes showed the truth of his years.
She had always assumed him to be much older than she. Surely beyond his fourth decade. “How old?”
“Thirty-bloody-eight.”
She smiled. “You’re in the prime of your life.” She retrieved the forgotten piece of toast and bit into it. With great care she offered it inches from his mouth.
He gave her a pained expression and took a bite.
She knew he did it only to stop her questions. She pressed her advantage and gave him the rest before cracking the tip of the soft-boiled egg and devouring the contents with a spoon. The second one she prepared for him and he took it without comment.
She poured a cup of tea for him and watched him gulp the fragrant brew.
He waved away her offer to pour more, his eyes still hungry. “How much more time before that harridan comes looking for you?”
