The Winter Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance)

by Anne Gracie

  Afterward she’d scrubbed herself clean of him.

  But the trip from China to England had taken months and gradually she had become accustomed to the daily invasion of her body, and once or twice, despite all her efforts to block it out, she had felt . . . something. A slight shudder deep within her.

  He’d known, too, the captain, and he’d laughed at her, saying he’d always known she was a whore, that all women were whores deep down.

  It was an echo of what Papa had implied more than once.

  Now the most decent man she’d ever known sat behind her at the table, saying he was prepared to marry her to save her reputation—and his—and that he wouldn’t press her to lie with him as a wife lay with her husband. She could feel his gaze on her.

  Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  She would give herself to him tonight, with no reservations, with nothing held back, showing him her true self: Mama’s daughter.

  Then he’d know the full extent of what he was taking on if he married her.

  And if he didn’t? a little voice asked. If he was disgusted by her sensual nature, as Papa had been by Mama’s?

  Then at least she would have had her night with him. She thought of how it had been the previous night, sleeping in his arms. She tried to imagine him doing the things the captain had done to her, and couldn’t.

  But she knew the smell of him, clean and masculine, and his touch, and the way he looked at her. She knew the taste of him. That kiss by the graveside . . . how often had she relived it?

  A flutter of movement caught her eye. The robin was back, along with another little bird. His mate. They chirruped back and forth to each other in a series of fluting calls, hopping from twig to twig.

  She would take this chance.

  One night in his arms, without shame or fear. Giving him all she was, no holding back.

  Honesty. A terrifying prospect.

  But she had to know. She refused to live her life as Mama had, judged, condemned and found wanting for what was her nature. Best to know now and make her decision accordingly.

  She wiped down the bench, wrung out the rag then wiped it again, putting off the moment when she would turn and offer herself to him, brazenly. Risking all.

  The two little robins flew off together. She watched them until they were just dots in the sky.

  “Will you lie with me?” she said, the words coming out a little throaty.

  There was a long silence, then a chair scraped on the flagstones behind her. She turned, and he was standing there, so close she could feel his body heat. He gazed down at her with an expression she couldn’t read, his blue eyes ablaze.

  “Will you?”

  “You mean make love to you,” he corrected her gently.

  She nodded, twisting the washing-up rag between anxious fingers. She didn’t care what he called it, but now, having said it, she wanted it to be done and over, so she would know. She moved toward the bed.

  He put out his arm and stopped her, then cupped her face in his hands, framing it with his thumbs, caressing her. For a long moment he said nothing, just gazed into her eyes. She stared back, breathless, then with aching slowness he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her, a long, lingering kiss that sent warm shivers through her.

  His mouth caressed her, teasing, sending flickers of heat through her. His long, lean body pressed against hers. Her back was pressed against the bench, a line of coldness, but she didn’t mind.

  He teased her lips apart and stroked her with his tongue, sending hot ripples that made her body want to curl with delight.

  “What are you doing?” she managed to say when he finally broke the kiss and started nibbling on her neck. She still had the damp cloth wadded in her hand. It was pressed against his neck. He gently disengaged her fingers from it and tossed it aside.

  “Kissing you. Why? Didn’t you notice? I must have been doing it wrong,” he murmured. “Let me try it again.”

  “No, I—mmph!” She sagged against him as his mouth took possession of her again. The taste of him, dark, masculine and intoxicating, filled her. His fingers speared gently into her hair, loosening the knot she’d secured with a few pins. She felt it slide down around her shoulders.

  “Beautiful hair,” he murmured, feathering tiny kisses along her temple as he stroked her hair, combing his fingers through it. “Like the finest silk.”

  He made no move toward the bed. In the meantime, she was melting under his touch.

  “I didn’t mean kiss me,” she gasped when she had the opportunity. “I meant lie with me.”

  He drew back a little and gave her a long, thoughtful look.

  “I meant couple with me.” She pushed at his shoulders. Why didn’t he understand? “On the bed,” she added desperately. She wanted to get it over with, to know. These kisses, they were too . . . too dissolving. They made her want to float forever on the magic.

  But coupling was not like that, she knew; it was hard and fast and sweaty and not the slightest bit dissolving.

  And if this were to be the only time she lay with him, she wanted to be aware of every moment, every second of it, losing nothing, storing up every sensation for the long winter of loneliness ahead. And while he kept kissing her, she couldn’t concentrate.

  “You want us on the bed?” he said. “Very well.” And without warning he scooped her up, carried her to the bed, laid her on top of the covers and followed her down in a loose-limbed sprawl beside her. Before she could say anything, he was lying half on top of her, kissing her again.

  She pressed her palms against his chest, pushing him back a little. “I didn’t ask you to kiss me, I asked you to lie with me, to couple.”

  There was a short silence. She caught a flicker of some expression in his eyes but couldn’t interpret it. “The way I do it, the two go together.” He smoothed her hair back from her face. “This is just the preliminary.”

  “The preliminary?”

  “Just trust me,” he murmured against the sensitive skin of her throat. The deep timbre of his voice vibrated through her. “Relax. Let yourself go.”

  Her heart was thudding in her chest. Let yourself go. It was exactly what she was afraid of. But she needed to see what would happen. And how he would respond if she did truly let herself go.

  “Trust me,” he said again. “You have nothing to fear here.”

  She hoped that was true, but it wasn’t him she feared; it was herself. As he bent again to claim her mouth, she closed her eyes, wrapped her arms around him and gave herself up to him.

  As his mouth plundered hers and their tongues tangled, she rubbed her palms along his jawline, enjoying the friction of his unshaven skin, his rough to her smooth, her soft to his hard.

  And he was hard; she could feel it pressing against her. She was braced for him to drag up her skirts and plunge into her, but still he made no move to take her.

  His big hands roamed, stroking and caressing her even though she was still fully clothed. And despite the thickness of her dress and underclothes, she felt her nipples rising into hot, hard little buds. He cupped her breasts, his thumbs teasing at the thrusting buds until they were aching with need. Each movement sent delicious shivers through her.

  And always, always he returned to kiss her, as if somehow sensing she could never get enough of it, of him. She ran her fingers through his thick, dark gold hair, cupping his head, as she angled her mouth to deepen the kiss.

  “Let’s get this off you,” he muttered and half rolled her on top of him, so he could get to her laces at the back. In seconds, she felt a draft at her back, and as he pulled the dress off her shoulders, she ran her hands down his arms, over his shirtsleeves, and dropped her hands to his chest.

  “No.” She pushed him away and sat up abruptly, pulling her dress back up. This wasn’t right.

  “What is it? What’s th
e matter?” His eyes, blazing blue, searched her face with dark intensity; his hair was rumpled where her fingers had roamed; his unshaven jaw, dark gold and deliciously rough to the touch.

  She swallowed. This could very well be her only time with this man, and she wanted to have everything the way she’d dreamed it could be. Everything. She moistened her lips. “Take off your shirt,” she said, her voice oddly husky. She wanted to feel him, not just his clothing. And she wanted to look at him, feast her eyes on him.

  He stared at her a moment, then the gleam returned to his eyes as he smiled a slow smile. “Whatever my lady desires.”

  He rose and shrugged off his coat, then hung it on the back of the chair. Slowly he unbuttoned his waistcoat, one cloth-covered button at a time. Her mouth dried as she watched. They were just buttons and she’d already seen him in his shirtsleeves—and less—but there was something hypnotic about the slow way he was disrobing, and the way his eyes fastened on her so intensely the whole time.

  Finally the last button was undone and he let the waistcoat slide down his arms. Without taking his eyes off her, he tossed it carelessly toward the chair with the coat. It hit the chair, then slithered to the floor. Neither of them moved.

  He stood a moment in crumpled shirt, breeches and boots. He hadn’t bothered with a neck cloth.

  She was breathless, waiting for him to take off his shirt. She’d already seen much of his body when they’d been drenched the day before, but somehow, this was more . . . intimate. He was disrobing for her. At her request.

  He sat on the bed, then bent and pulled off his boots, then peeled off his woolen stockings and tossed them on top of the boots. “Those boots are ruined now,” he commented. “Pity, they were a favorite pair.”

  How could he make light talk at a moment like this? She made some sort of response. It came out as a kind of husky gurgle. She couldn’t drag her eyes off him.

  A lazy smile danced in his eyes as he rose to his feet again and faced her. “It was the shirt you wanted off, wasn’t it?”

  She nodded, but her gaze dropped to the fall of his breeches. There was a distinct bulge under it. She moistened her mouth. She wasn’t ready for that yet—she wanted to make the moment last.

  Slowly he unbuttoned his breeches, then tugged the shirttails free. In one movement he pulled the shirt off over his head and stood there, in nothing but his breeches, which sat low on his hips. There was a faint dusting of hair on his chest. A trail of darker hair ran down from his belly button and disappeared into his breeches.

  It was such a strange feeling, she being almost fully clothed and he almost naked. It gave her a sense of . . . power.

  He was one beautiful man. Perfectly proportioned, his skin gleaming like marble, but he was more beautiful than any statue she had seen; he had not an ounce of fat, was all hard-muscled masculine elegance.

  He saw her eating him up with her eyes and gave a faint smile. “It’s chilly; I’ll just build up the fire,” he said and turned away to put more wood on the fire. It gave her time to catch her breath.

  And to ogle him some more. She admired the breadth of his shoulders, the hard ropy arms, the line of his spine as he bent over the fire, and the very fine, firm male backside revealed by the tight-stretched buckskin breeches. And the way the firelight danced over his skin, gilding him.

  He stoked the fire to a blaze, then returned to the side of the bed. In one swift movement he dropped his breeches and stepped out of them. Now all he wore was a pair of fine cotton drawers. Through which she could see he was ready for her. More than ready.

  As she was ready for him. He joined her on the bed, and she braced herself for him to pull up her skirt and make a swift entry.

  Instead he pulled her hard against him and started kissing her again. Long, hot, drugging, glorious kisses. She returned them eagerly. She could never get enough of being kissed.

  She rubbed her fingertips lightly over the smooth, hard curves of his shoulders, smoothing her palms over his chest, learning his texture, his taste, loving the feel of his firm flesh, the powerful muscles. His body was hard, cool skinned yet hot beneath, and she loved the feel of it, the feel of him.

  His hands sought her breasts again, and as he teased, she ached and squirmed against him, wanting more. He rolled over a little, taking her with him. His knee edged between her thighs against the part of her that throbbed. She hugged her legs tightly around him, pressing his knee against her core and making tiny involuntary rocking movements against him. She was hungry, aching, needy—for what, she wasn’t sure. All she felt was that this was right . . . so right.

  He kissed and nibbled his way down her neck, and she felt a draft as he peeled the top of her dress down, freeing her breasts to the cool hair.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured and caressed them with big warm hands. She arched under his ministrations. She felt the faint brush of his unshaven jaw against the tender skin, scraping lightly over the aching tips in a delicious abrasion. She shivered in helpless bliss as he teased her tender nipples first with his tongue and then very lightly with his teeth, nipping gently, sucking and biting. Her thighs tightened, hugging him to her, her fingers buried in his thick hair, caressing him, clutching him almost frantically as the tension built within her.

  His mouth closed around one aching peak. He sucked and she bucked, gasping as a jolt of fiery, sweet-hot lightning arced through her, leaving her breathless and wondering. Before she could gather her wits he’d transferred his attentions to the other breast. Vaguely she felt him pulling up her skirts. She was grateful for the cold air on her thighs; she was hot, so hot.

  At the first touch of his hands, her thighs trembled with need, falling apart, as he stroked and caressed, moving ever closer to the part of her that ached most. He cupped her, pressing with the heel of his hand, and she pushed against it in jerky rhythmic movements, shamelessly begging for more.

  He moved, and suddenly her breasts were cool and damp, still aching and tender from his ministrations. She groped for him, wanting him to keep going, and then her eyes flew open with a small scream of surprise as his thumbs parted her and his hot, eager, wicked mouth closed over her aching center.

  She bucked and shuddered around him, thrashing as wave after wave of sensation crashed through her, as if she were possessed. She clutched at him with frantic fingers, wanting him to stop, wanting him never to stop, wanting . . .

  The pressure inside her built and built. Her world narrowed . . . and blurred.

  She heard, as if from a distance, someone scream . . . as her world splintered and shattered and was no more. . . .

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “Our pleasures in this world are always to be paid for.”

  —JANE AUSTEN, NORTHANGER ABBEY

  "La petite mort, the French call it,” Freddy murmured as her eyes fluttered open. “The little death.”

  She blinked at him in adorable confusion. “What . . . ?”

  Her first orgasm. He tried not to feel smug at the thought, but it was hard not to. She’d come apart so beautifully in his embrace. More than smug, he felt . . . proud, tender, possessive.

  Possessive? He took that thought out and examined it cautiously. When had he ever felt possessive of a woman? He tucked it away to consider later. First things first. He still had a raging cock-stand to deal with.

  It had taken all his considerable self-control to keep himself in check. But when he entered her for the first time, he wanted her to know it, to be aware, to watch him with those big beautiful brown eyes as he took her.

  And he wanted her naked. Skin to skin.

  “Shall we get rid of this?” he murmured and began to remove her dress. She lay bonelessly, looking sated and a little like the cat who’d eaten the cream, making no particular attempt to help him as he pulled and tugged, stripping her of first her dress, then her corset and stockings, and then, last of all, her chemi
se.

  She was slender, creamy and completely enticing, all silken curves and velvet shadows. “It’s a crime to cover such loveliness with clothes,” he murmured and bent to kiss her beautiful mouth, now reddened and a little swollen. It curved under his, smiling as he tasted her, her tongue curling around his in sensual play, her fingers sliding into his hair as she pulled him closer.

  His fingers slid between her thighs and her eyes widened as he caressed and aroused her anew. He could feel the deep ripples starting within her again. He pressed his face between her breasts and inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of her, essence of relaxed, aroused female.

  Almost relaxed. She pushed his seeking hand away. “Haven’t you forgotten something?” she said in a throaty murmur. She reached out a languid hand and tugged at his drawers. “Off.”

  Impatiently he kicked them off, aware of the way she watched him, the gleam of female approval. He was hard and aching, trembling with the effort to retain control.

  “Now,” he said, reaching between her thighs again. She was moist and slick and more than ready for him. He moved over her and positioned himself at her entrance.

  She closed her eyes and braced herself. What the devil?

  With an effort he held himself back.

  “Look at me,” he growled.

  Her eyes opened. The sleepy, aroused look had gone. She looked . . . determined. Somehow gritted.

  “Trust me,” he murmured. He entered her slowly and felt her body ripple as she accommodated him. The gritted look faded from her eyes and they darkened. He stroked her where they were joined, and she gasped and jerked and started to move against him in a series of demanding little shoves.