“Yes,” she breathed.
“Be quiet.”
At long last, Emmaline forgot about Sir Faithful.
And somehow, after they’d made love, Drake let peaceful sleep overtake him in his wife’s arms.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Emmaline laughed. She stretched a hand out to play with the cloying blackness; her other hand gripped Drake’s arm as he steered her blindfolded on a winding course through the house. “Are we there yet?”
“Hush,” he said, a playful edge infused into his words.
In the time they’d been married, the hard, cynical look Emmaline had come to expect from Drake, had been replaced with tiny lines that creased the corners of his eyes when he laughed. Oftentimes she would awaken in the middle of the night, to watch him as he slept. In his peaceful slumbering’s, a boy-like quality clung to him. The tightness around Drake’s lips, the firm set to his jaw, disappeared. It was in those stolen moments, she most loved studying him. Arrogant though it was, she loved that she was responsible for his happiness.
Emmaline had expected Drake would continue to go out and visit his clubs. Instead, he’d forsaken all trips to White’s and Brooks’s and insisted they decline the many invitations for the new Marquess and Marchioness of Drake. They alternated their time between reading gothic novels on the library sofa, and making love—oftentimes also on the library sofa.
Drake guided her to a halt. Carefully untying the length of fabric he’d used to cover her eyes, he removed the fabric. “We’re here.”
Emmaline blinked to accustom herself to the unexpected ray of sunshine.
Then blinked again.
The garden, walled off by solid brick, was a tangled mess of shrubs, flowers, and weeds. Branches were all twisted up in overgrown ivy weeds had long ago choked off and overrun the rosebushes throughout the space. The area was so vastly different than her mother’s well-tended, immaculate gardens.
Taking a long, slow look around…her fingers twitched with the urge to work on the space. Her mind conjured strategies of redesign. It was a blank canvas…and it was hers.
Drake rocked on the balls of his feet. “I purchased the home after seeing the garden. I imagined you working here. If it does not suit, if there is too much to be done, I will gladly bring in as many—”
Emmaline turned and threw her arms about his neck, squeezing tightly. “It is the most amazing gift anyone has ever given me.”
Drake took her lips in a slow, lingering kiss. Without a thought for propriety, he scooped Emmaline into his arms and carried her through the gardens, down the hall, up the stairs, down another hall, and into his bedchamber. The bedchamber they’d come to share.
Drake pressed the handle and carried her inside. He shoved the door closed with heel of his boot, and carried her to the bed. His ravaging mouth never broke contact, as he carefully set her down on the edge of the mattress.
Emmaline threw her head back and moaned her disapproval, when Drake pulled his lips away. But he only moved his exploration to her neck, to the line of her bodice. He made quick work of the tiny buttons along the back of her gown. Next, Drake tugged the bodice down, and divested her of her stays and chemise, so that her breasts were exposed to his hot gaze. The cool air, combined with his hungry jade stare made the tips of her breasts tighten painfully.
With breath held, she watched as his lips closed around the bud. A pool of warmth settled at the juncture of her thighs. Drake lowered her to bed, and followed her with his body. His hands expertly worked the hem of her gown up, inching it higher. Her thighs parted for him, urging him closer. He came over her, but Emmaline rolled away. Going up on her knees, she pressed her exposed breasts to the fabric of his blue coat. The rough material against the sensitive skin of her nipples nearly drove her to a fever pitch.
Drake’s emerald eyes darkened the color of onyx, his eyes clouded with passion.
“It seems you are in need of release,” she purred. She reached between them and through the fabric of his riding breeches, stroked his hard shaft.
“Emmaline, free me,” he said his voice scratchy with desire.
“My pleasure, my lord.” Emmaline unfastened the buttons at the front flap of his breeches and shoved him down to the mattress. She looked up at him with heavy eyes. “I’d show you pleasure like you showed me last night.”
*
Before Drake could fathom her intentions, Emmaline took him in her mouth.
A hiss escaped his lips at the unexpectedness of her ministrations. He labored to open his eyes so he could view her as she pleasured him. His eyes slid closed. God, she was brilliant with her tongue. “Stop,” he commanded. He didn’t know how long he could last. The pull of her lips around his length was near torture.
Drake arched his hips upward. Her delicate tongue worked him and a groan ripped from somewhere deep in his chest.
A jerky hiss slipped from between his tightly clenched teeth when she pulled back, but she rucked her skirts above her knees and straddled him. Of their own volition, his hands went to her hips as she eased upon his hard shaft. A sweet, breathy sigh escaped her as she sheathed herself fully.
Emmaline moved upon him in a slow rhythmic motion at first that built into a frenzied movement as she violently rode him.
Drake stroked his palms over the swell of her buttocks. Her body stiffened and she came in long, rippling waves upon him, coating his shaft. With a little moan, she collapsed atop him.
And then, with a guttural cry wrenched from his throat, he spilled his seed deep inside her.
They continued to lay that way; their limbs entangled like old tree branches. The sound of silence filled the room, occasionally punctuated by the tick of the ormolu clock on the oak mantle of the fireplace.
Their efforts had brought the silken waves of her deep brown hair cascading about them. It fanned over them like a satin sheet.
Drake’s rapid breath began to slow. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to move again.”
Emmaline finally picked up her head from his chest and peered at him through sated, heavy eyes. “Was that—?”
“Do not even ask.” His lips found hers. He smiled at the pleased expression his words resulted in and pinched her right buttocks. “Don’t grow conceited, love.”
Emmaline curled into his side and rested her chin on his chest. He felt her smile against his naked skin.
“It’s been dreary going through life being adequate at everything. It is nice to know there is something I excel at.” She gave a long, exaggerated sigh. “It is unfortunate, others can’t know of my skills.” Drake pinched her on the buttocks again and she squealed.
“Do not even think about sharing your talents,” he growled. He heard the possessive flare in his tone. Just the idea of Emmaline with any other man enraged him to the point that he wanted to find the nonexistent bastard and grind his fist into the other man’s face.
“Don’t look like that.”
“Like what?”
Emmaline ran her fingers through his hair. “Like you are capable of murdering a phantom lover. How could I ever desire anyone else?”
Wordlessly he rose over her and gripped her hands within his. He raised them above her head.
Her eyes widened at the feel of his shaft stirring against her belly. “Again?”
“Again.”
He proceeded to show her why she could never desire another man.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
A low mewling sound penetrated the thick fog of sleep that had engulfed Emmaline. Her eyes fluttered open as she tried to make sense of the noise that had penetrated her dreamless state. Sleeping against the hard-muscled wall of Drake’s chest, she was loathe to move from the warm safety of his arms.
The whimpering increased in volume. Emmaline looked around for Sir Faithful. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the lack of light. The ink black of the night sky penetrated the gold gilt curtains which were slightly agape.
Sir Faithful barked.
The answering response was a short cry—a very human cry, that sent a shivery trail of bumps shooting up her spine. It jerked her attention back toward the bed.
Drake thrashed his head wildly upon his pillow. The golden strands of his hair glistened with so much sweat it was as though he’d been caught in a rainstorm. “No, no, no!”
The despair etched into each line of his slumbering face struck her like a physical blow. “Shh. I’m here, Drake.” She took his face between her hands and leaned close to him. “Do you hear me? I’m here.” She willed her words to bring him back from the hell that had dragged him by his heels and into this netherworld of horror. But it was unrelenting, unwilling to relinquish its hold.
His body stilled.
A sigh slipped from her lips in the form of a prayer. “Oh thank God, Drake. I—”
“For the love of God, don’t do it, man!” Drake screamed into the night, twisting in the covers, which only seemed to heighten his panic.
Emmaline gripped his arm, shaking him gently at first, and then harder. “Please, Drake, please.” Tears dripped down her cheeks and merged with his salty mementos of despair.
She scrubbed at her cheeks. Her sadness would do him no good. Emmaline found strength in fury. How dare these demons take him from her? She would be damned if this nightmare stole him from her. They were memories. Hideous, horrible, ugly memories. She, however, was real. She was here. She would not relinquish him to a dream. If he could feel her, if he could taste her then maybe she could rescue him from the memories she’d never be able to see.
“Drake, I am not letting you go. Come back to me. Now!”
His eyes flew open and he stared at her with a blank gaze.
Emmaline swallowed. He was still gone to her.
Drake shouted over and over, the piteous sound reverberated off the walls.
She registered the frantic footsteps outside their chamber. The door opened and then closed with a loud slam.
Emmaline looked to the entryway just as Drake roared. He threw his forearm out and elbowed her in the chin. The force of the blow knocked her over and tangled as she was in the sheets, Emmaline went reeling into the side of the nightstand. She fell from the bed; her hip struck the floor.
A blast of stars danced behind her eyes. Emmaline blinked back oblivion.
Sir Faithful whimpered and lapped her cheek with his coarse, pink tongue. It dragged Emmaline back from the edge of blackness.
“My lady? Are you all right?” Drake’s valet’s question came as if he spoke down a long hallway.
She couldn’t muster the appropriate humility over the impropriety of James viewing her en dishabille. Instead, she motioned to Drake. “Help me.” The words came out garbled.
When the valet, rushed to her side, his gaze averted from the sheet draped around her form, Emmaline shook her head. No, not me. Help me, help him. “Help him.” She forced the words out deliberate, one at a time.
Seeming torn, James hesitated, and then directed his attention to Drake.
Drake’s body stilled. Emmaline didn’t know whether the nightmare had run its course or whether her husband responded to the familiarity of James’ presence but his ragged breaths settled into a smooth, even pattern.
James pulled the coverlet over Drake. “May I be of assistance, my lady?” He very deliberately fixed his gaze on her husband.
“That is all,” she assured him. Her head continued to ache, but the dull throb had lessened. “Thank you, James.”
He nodded and made to take his leave and then, paused at the doorway, his back to her. “My lady, he is a good man.”
“I don’t need convincing of Lord Drake’s character,” she said, gently. She knew more about Drake than anyone suspected. She knew about Valiant and the men he’d saved. “I know he is a good man.”
James hesitated, as though there was something more he wished to say, but then bowed. “My lady.” He closed the door behind him with a quiet click.
James’ exit appeared to have a greater impact than all of Emmaline’s pleading.
Drake bolted upright. “Emmaline?”
*
Drake had to tell his mind that he was safely ensconced in his bedroom and not fighting for his life on the battlefields of the Peninsula.
He looked around the room and frowned. He’d acquiesced to Emmaline’s wishes and agreed to sleep with her. Where had she gone?
As if she’d heard his unspoken question, her voice called up to him. “Here.”
He peered about and then blinked back a fog of confusion. Why in hell was she on the…A surge of bile climbed up his throat and choked him. Knowing intuitively what he’d find, he leaned over. His fingers gripped the edge of the mattress and he clung to the material object, certain it was all that kept him from tumbling off into madness. Nausea roiled in his gut, nearly overwhelming him with its intensity. What have I done?
Drake clenched his eyes tight. He wanted to wail like the beast he was. His greatest fear, a fear now realized, stared up at him.
“Christ,” he hissed.
“I’m fine, Drake,” she whispered. A faint quaver underlined her words.
His gaze did a sweep of her form and settled on the large knot at her temple. The delicate skin had already begun to turn a purpling-black. It matched the bruise that had begun to form on her cheek.
Drake came off the bed in one fluid motion and dropped to his knees. “What have I done?”
With hands that shook, he inspected the damage he’d caused. He gently probed the lump near her temple. She flinched under his touch and his hands fell to his side. He was a monster. Oh, he’d allowed himself to believe in the weeks since they’d married that he’d begun to improve. He’d assured himself that the episodes were coming less frequently, his sleep less interrupted. He’d attributed it to her, she was his beacon. She gave him strength.
Drake now realized he’d deluded himself. What was worse than his self-delusion was that he’d put Emmaline in danger. Good God, he could have killed her. He abruptly fell onto his haunches, putting distance between him and Emmaline—physical and emotional. Wearily, he dropped his head to his hands.
“Look at me,” she said. “Look at me,” she repeated when he still didn’t acknowledge her.
Forcing himself to look at her, his stomach turned at the sight of her bruised face. “Forgive me?” he pleaded.
Emmaline’s lower lip quivered. She reached out a hand and he stared down at her unsteady fingers. “There is nothing to forgive, Drake.”
A hollow, mirthless laugh rang from his chest. “There is everything to forgive. I hurt you. I should have never married you.”
She flinched. “I love you.”
Drake gritted his teeth. “Love is not enough, Emmaline.”
Emmaline gasped and it was all he could do to keep from taking her in his arms. He erected an emotionless wall of indifference.
Drake stood and helped her up. He guided her to the edge of the bed. Her full, red lips that would haunt him for the rest of his days parted, as if she intended to speak. “Not another word. We will finish this tomorrow. I am ringing for supplies to tend your—your…” He couldn’t finish.
“Drake…”
Drake spun on his heels and rang for a servant. Within moments, knuckles brushed the wood panel of the door and Drake yanked the door open. “I need strips of cloth and water.”
The servant bowed and beat a hasty retreat.
Drake took a slow, steadying breath and turned around to face his wife. His body recoiled the same way it had when he’d taken a bullet to the shoulder.
If Mallen could see her, Drake would be a dead man. A black laugh erupted from his lips, the sound eerie to his own ears.
“What are you thinking?” Emmaline whispered.
Drake ignored her. Mayhap that was what he should do. Call for the Duke of Mallen, le
t the man see his sister, then…his turbulent thoughts were interrupted by a perfunctory knock. In three strides, Drake crossed the room and pulled open the door.
Accepting the items from James without so much as a word of thanks, he shut the door with a quiet click.
Drake closed his eyes momentarily. When he opened them, he trained his gaze on the wood panel of the door. The time of cowardice was at an end. In order to see to her injuries, he had to face her.
Taking a deep breath, he turned around.
With a soft tread, he crossed to the bed and eased the basin of water onto the nightstand. Then, gently, so as to hardly compress the mattress, he sat beside her.
With fingers that shook, he brought the compress to her cheek. He saw her effortful attempts not to flinch and his guilt swelled. “I am so sorry.”
Emmaline caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I am fine.”
A mirthless laugh escaped him. “Yes, that lump and black bruise on your cheek are just fine.” He dipped a cloth into the basin. His jerky movements sent water over the sides of the white porcelain, and sprayed the floor.
“You don’t need to be so cavalier.”
He flung the cloth against the opposite wall and Emmaline flinched. The sopping fabric left a watery trail along the pale blue plaster. “Cavalier? You call me cavalier?” Beset by the hopelessness of it all, he leapt to his feet and began to pace. “This has all been a terrible mistake,” he said.
A flash of fury sparked in her brown eyes. “I understand you feel guilty. It is however, unpardonable for you to say such a thing.” Fury made her chest rise and fall swiftly, it reddened her cheeks. She stormed across the room and planted herself in front of him. “How dare you say that?” She jabbed a finger at his chest.
Drake dragged a hand through his hair and fixed his stare at a point beyond her shoulder, unable to meet her accusing gaze. Fire fairly leapt in her eyes. Emmaline should be furious…but only with the fact that he’d subjected her to a life of dangerous uncertainty.
“We are not discussing this tonight,” he growled. He stepped around her and made his way toward the door. She followed close at his heels.
Lords of the Isles Page 92
