*
Under the scrutiny of her gaze, Drake tugged the sheet up to conceal his form. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…I forgot,” he stammered, a wave of humiliated shame fanned out from his stomach. How could he forget? Christ, it was a wonder Emmaline hadn’t stormed screaming from the chambers. “I’m hardly the same gentleman I was before the war.”
His time fighting Napoleon had left him scarred both inside and out. He’d been humbled to return to England and see the hideous fascination the women he’d bedded had with his disfigurements. To them it had seemed he was nothing more than an oddity, a source of perverse entertainment. To have Emmaline look at him with distress in her eyes did something to him that none of the other women’s disgust had ever managed to do. Her horror cleaved him in two.
Emmaline reached out and ran a finger across the scar at his shoulder. She sat up on her knees and she strained to see just exactly where the mark continued; her gaze followed the path all the way across his middle back.
“You are correct, you did not return the same man.” She placed a kiss on his right shoulder and proceeded to trail kisses all the way down until she reached the mark. “You came back a better one.” Emmaline rested her head against his chest.
Drake knew he was fortunate to have lived when so many had sustained greater wounds, so many had lost their lives. And yet… as shallow as it was, it bothered him to face the imperfections that marred his body and mind, day in and day out. Drake cleared his throat. “I am horribly disfigured.”
Emmaline came up on her knees once again, and pressed her form to his. “You are perfection.” She smiled and kissed him. “These scars are part of you,” she said when she’d pulled away. “And I love every part of you, exactly as you are. Make love to me.”
Drake’s eyes grew hot and he swore to himself that it wasn’t tears but rather passion. “With pleasure, my lady.” He proceeded to relieve Emmaline of her gown.
He guided her down so her head met the satiny case of the pillow and trailed a series of kisses along the line of her jaw, down her collarbone, until he found the tip of her breast. He drew the erect tip into his mouth and sucked, alternately sucking and flicking it with his tongue. Emmaline thrashed her head back and forth, her brown, silken waves fanned about them like a curtain.
“Please,” she whispered, as her hips undulated with a wild abandon.
Drake responded by placing a hand between her legs and caressing her hot, moist center. Her lids closed and she smartly gave herself over to the feeling of his touch.
His aching shaft swelled, fairly begging to at last be sheathed deep inside her. Moving over her, he propped himself on his elbows and parted her thighs.
She froze at the feel of his manhood pressed against the entrance to her center.
“Easy, love,” he whispered into her ear, his words coming out as though he’d run a great distance. “Don’t be afraid.”
Emmaline reached up and twined her fingers in his golden hair. “I could never be afraid of you.”
With that, he slid deeper into her. He closed his eyes and took several, steadying breaths as he willed himself to go slowly. It was bloody torture. He’d longed for this moment since he’d seen her challenge Whitmore in the street with fire in her eyes and outrage on her plump, seductive lips. All he wanted to do was thrust high and deep into her.
She stiffened again and Drake brought a hand between their bodies, fondling her center. Emmaline moaned in response, her head nestling deeper into the feathered pillow beneath her head. Her thighs fell open wider in a sweet invitation.
“That’s it, love,” he breathed and with a sudden thrust, broke past her maidenhead.
Drake’s eyes slid closed as a hiss of breath left his lips. He’d never felt anything like this in his life. Her tightness quivered about his shaft, pulsating, thrumming. She felt like…home.
Emmaline’s eyes slid open and a gasp of pain escaped her.
“Just feel, my love.” He began to move.
He knew the moment Emmaline turned herself over to desire. She lifted her hips experimentally, then grew bolder. A loud, animalistic groan ripped from his throat.
Her hips picked up rhythm. He increased the depth of his strokes. A scream tore from her and she careened out of control. Her release drove Drake over the edge. He let out a triumphant shout, and poured his seed deep inside her. With a groan, he collapsed atop her.
Taking care not to crush her diminutive figure, he braced himself on his elbows, and placed a kiss on her closed lids.
She murmured something inaudible; a pleased smile played about her lips.
“What was that, love?”
“That was wonderful,” she murmured drowsily, and then promptly fell asleep.
Drake rolled beside her, and pulled her into the fold of his arms.
He continued to hold her like that for several hours, not wanting to relinquish this moment of sated peace which had eluded him for years. His eyes grew heavy and he jerked awake as his body tried to pull him into a deep slumber. Drake set her away. He pulled the sheets over her naked form.
Emmaline burrowed into the covers with a contented sigh. He placed one more lingering kiss upon her lips, and went to find his sleep elsewhere.
Drake hovered in the doorway fighting the deep pull to return to her side. He closed his eyes and gripped the sides of the doorway. He could not trust himself to be alone with her—not when he was besieged by nightmares.
With a sigh, he glanced over his shoulder at her, and took his leave.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Emmaline shivered and nestled into the thick blankets, inching to the opposite side of the bed in search of Drake’s warmth. It wasn’t until she had made her way across the entire bed and hovered at the edge did she realize his spot was empty.
She fought back a yawn and rubbed her eyes. Her gaze landed on the rumpled spot beside her. With a frown, she reached out and ran her fingers over the fabric. Empty and cold, she amended.
Where the devil had her husband gone to?
Emmaline pushed herself up on her elbows, and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. A shiver wracked her frame as her feet collided with a thin maroon rug that did little to dull the biting edge of nighttime’s cool spring air.
“Drake?” Her gaze did a quick sweep of the room. She folded her arms across her chest to rub warmth into them and walked over to the windows. Emmaline pulled back the curtains. The stars twinkled up in the dark sky like so many gems thrown onto a black blanket. Emmaline looked at the clock on the fireplace mantle.
Two o’clock in the morning.
She retrieved her rumpled silk nightgown and tugged it over her head, and then searched the room for her robe. Finding it on the floor, she picked it up, and stuffed her arms into the sleeves.
Emmaline sank down onto the edge of her mattress and ran her fingers in circles along the coverlet. A strand of hair fell across her eye and she blew it back. Well, blast and damn, Drake had abandoned her on their wedding night. She considered her husband’s absence, and tried to work out what it meant. Mayhap he’d left because…because…
She tapped her foot in annoyance. Well, damn and blast again, she couldn’t come up with a single, justifiable reason for him to scurry off to….to—wherever it was he’d gone.
And the longer she sat their thinking about it, the more her ire grew. How dare he leave her alone on their wedding night? Emmaline jumped up and with purpose in her steps, crossed to the armoire. She flung the doors open and fished around for a more modest nightgown and wrapper, which she donned in place of the scandalous piece she’d worn for Drake.
Then she set out in search of Drake.
She paused at the door immediately next to her room. Emmaline turned the knob and pushed her way inside. It took her eyes some time to adjust to the darkness of Drake’s chambers. When they finally did, she peered around and noted his untouched bed.
So her husband had not sought out his own bed. Which was only slig
htly more mollifying.
She closed the door on a soft click and then moved down the hall. Generally, all candles would have been extinguished. Yet here, in Drakes home the lit sconces illuminated her way. Eerie shadows danced and flickered off the walls around her and she frowned as a shiver of nervousness stole along her spine.
“Don’t be a ninny,” she said into the quiet, soothed by the sound of her own voice. Still, she picked up her pace, unsure of her next destination. Emmaline came to a long hall that split into two directions. She paused, chewing her lip.
Well, she wasn’t going to find him standing still. Turning down the hallway that would lead her to the rooms on the left side of the townhouse, she approached the first door and poked her head inside. It was a parlor. She wrinkled her nose. A very dark and dreary parlor devoid of feminine frills and adornment. She would see to that.
Emmaline moved to the next door and found what she assumed was Drake’s office. It too, was empty. Continuing on, she noted a flicker of a light under the crack of one doorway, and made her way over to it.
She gently turned the handle and pushed it forward. Seated in a leather winged back chair, with his legs propped on a table in front of him, Drake stared off into the flickering flames of the lit fireplace, an open book, seemingly forgotten on his lap. Sir Faithful rested soundly at his feet.
“Drake?”
Drake did not give any indication that he’d been startled by her unexpected appearance. Sir Faithful, however, raised his head drowsily to determine who’d intruded on his sleep, before giving a big yawn and resting his head on his paws.
“He is not much of a guard dog,” she said, breaking the thick silence.
He finally spared her a brief glance. “Emmaline.” His tone was flat.
Emmaline wet her lips nervously. “You left me.” She flinched at the hurt little accusatory edge to her words.
Drake looked away, but not before she glimpsed the blankness in his expression. “I’m not tired.”
Was this the same man who’d made sweet love to her mere hours ago? Emmaline cleared her throat. “That isn’t possible. After the wedding? Our travels?” Our lovemaking.
His jaw set stonily. “I slept in the carriage.”
Emmaline sidled closer. “It is past two o’clock in the morning.” The fireplace flame danced off the gold lettering of the book on his lap, pulling her attention to that which had drawn him away from her bed.
She started. And then her lips twitched with gloating amusement. The Castle of Wolfenbach.
Drake saw the direction of her notice and flushed. He shifted in his seat as though he was a naughty child caught pilfering treats from the kitchen.
“Drake?”
“Yes.”
“Are you reading a Gothic novel?”
Drake reached out and before she could anticipate his intentions, he dragged her across his lap and began nuzzling the sensitive spot behind her ear. He trailed his tongue along the skin until she shivered. His skilled fingers inched her modest dressing gown up, higher, and higher, so her naked thighs were exposed to the night air.
She swatted at his fingers. “You didn’t answer me.”
He proceeded to nibble the corner of her lip. “I think you can see I was,” he said on a silken whisper.
She angled her head away from him. “Stop trying to distract me. Apologize.”
“I’m trying not to be offended by your lack of interest in my advances, love,” he drawled.
“Apologize,” she pressed, fighting the allure of his seductive smile.
Drake sighed. “I’m sorry for kissing you…”
Emmaline laughed and took another playful swipe. “Don’t be a great lummox. Tell me I was right, and how wonderful a good Gothic novel is.”
Drake laid his head back on the leather of the chair and shook his head back and forth. “Are we truly having this discussion now?”
She jutted her chin out. “Yes.”
“I still hold your gothic novels are over-dramatic, ridiculous—”
Her gasp quashed his tirade. “You cannot disparage them and then read them clandestinely. It’s—”
“May I finish, my lady?”
Emmaline folded her arms across her chest. “Finish.”
Clearing his throat, Drake continued. “It is true. Since I stumbled upon you at the Old Corner Bookshop and read Glenarvon, I found, to my utter amazement,” he muttered beneath his breath, “they do indeed make for occasionally bloody, interesting reading. So, I offer my most humble apologies, my lady. You were indeed correct. A gothic novel can be very entertaining.”
Emmaline leaned down and placed a long, slow, lingering kiss upon his lips.
His hand resumed its earlier ministrations, climbing the path of her white thigh, higher, higher, just to the juncture of her thighs, when she swiped at him again.
Drake’s hand fell to the arm of the chair. He sighed. “Yes?”
“That isn’t all,” she reminded him.
Drake’s brow furrowed. “It isn’t? He resumed his exploration of her body.
“No, it isn’t. You left me.”
With his fingers, he parted the folds of her womanhood. In spite of her best efforts to the contrary, her body responded eagerly to his touch. With a keening moan, she arched into his hand, writhing helplessly in his lap.
“Stop,” she panted, shimmying away from him. She flung the skirts of her nightgown back down into place.
Drake gave a long-suffering sigh. “Must I?”
“I’m not amused, Drake.”
A single golden brow arched at her words. “Darling, I’m hard and aching. The last thing I want to discuss on our wedding night is my reading preferences or why I left you.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“Emmaline, I don’t think you’ve done a thing wrong in your life.”
Emmaline snorted and roll her eyes. “Oh, I assure you Sebastian would be glad to point out just how wrong you are on that score.”
“And I assure you, the last person I want to think about with you sitting on my lap and my shaft hard for you is your brother.”
Emmaline laughed. “Fair enough.”
Silence fell, and when he didn’t seem eager to fill it, she nudged him in the ribs. “I’m waiting.”
“I don’t sleep well at night, Emmaline.” He moved her off his lap and raked an agitated hand through tousled golden hair. “I have nightmares about the war. Sometimes I am violent. I don’t feel…comfortable knowing you might be unsafe.” The words came out clipped in an emotionless tone. A dry humorless laugh bubbled eerily in his throat. “There you have it. I’m afraid to sleep next to my own wife. What have I become?”
Besieged by a wave of helplessness, Emmaline stood frozen beside Drake’s chair not knowing what to do. Or say. The Drake before her was not one she was familiar with. She knew him as the confident, unflappable gentleman, possessed of a wry wit and single-minded determination. This man before her, humbled and hesitant, made her reassess the façade of invincibility she’d constructed around him. With a delicate touch, she reached out and ran her fingers through his hair. He flinched. “You must know I will not allow you to sleep anywhere but beside me.”
Drake made a sound in his throat and turned into her caress. “Emmaline, please do not ask this of me. That day in your garden, when I knocked you down…I thought I would go mad. I would never forgive myself if I hurt you again.”
She tapped a finger along his chin. “Don’t you see? I’m yours unconditionally. Not only when life is easy.” Sinking beside his chair, she knelt at his feet. “I want to be here for you. It is time you let me in. I need you, all of you.” She framed his face between her hands. “Come to bed.”
*
An inner battle waged within Drake. The devil in him that only cared about how Emmaline made him feel, urged him to pick her up and carry her to bed. Consequences be damned. The practical part that had ruled him since his return from the Peninsula, paraded every time he�
��d been awakened by demons from his past, through his memory.
Go with her, the devil urged. Perhaps he was a friend of the devil, after all, because he was the one Drake chose to listen to.
Wordlessly he climbed to his feet and swept Emmaline into his arms. He carried her through the silent household, their rapid breaths the only punctuation in the night quiet. That, and the gentle padding of Sir Faithful’s paws on the soft carpet as Drake weaved his way down the hallway, up the stairs, and to her bedchamber.
Drake kicked the door shut with the tip of his foot and carried Emmaline to the rumpled bed. He lowered her down and Sir Faithful began to bark noisily. “Hush.” The dog sat, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.
Drake returned his attention to Emmaline.
She eyed the dog. “He is watching us,” she said in a hushed whisper.
He didn’t pause from his efforts of removing her nightgown and robe, kissing each spot of flesh he exposed. “I assure you, he cannot understand your words, so there really is no need to whisper,” he murmured between kisses.
He then devoted his attention to her mouth. Kissing the corner of her lips, he claimed the plump lower bud of flesh between his teeth and suckled.
The world, but for the two of them, ceased to exist.
At least for Drake.
Emmaline cast another nervous glance down when Sir Faithful whimpered.
“He is watching.”
In the midst of lowering his head to worship her ruby red nipple, Drake paused. He dropped his head resignedly between her breasts. “He was your gift.” Then, he closed his mouth around her nipple.
She cried out in protest when he stopped. He slid down further and further until his head was at the juncture of her thighs. His breath fanned the dark thatch of curls, the hot, musk of her scent drove him to near delirium. He needed to taste her.
Her hand fell to his head, halting his movements. “Yes he was my gift, but…”
Drake paused yet again. “Emmaline.”
Lords of the Isles Page 91
