by Cheryl Holt
"You would," she dryly noted. "Are you always so adept at rationalizing your offensive behavior?"
"Yes." He grinned. "I'm never wrong. Just ask me; I'll tell you."
He'd thoroughly exasperated her, and she sighed, sounding like the most miserable person in the world, and her despondency was beginning to aggravate him.
He couldn't describe why he'd hounded her so relentlessly. Some of his resolve was spurred by her rejecting him. He was too vain to let Anne—or anyone at Gladstone—snub him, but there was more to it than that.
Though he couldn't fathom why, he'd been desperate to bind her to him so she could never leave. Whatever had caused the peculiar impulse, it had worked to her benefit, so why was she complaining?
She was now rich and powerful. Her sister, who'd done nothing but irk and chastise him, was safe under Jamie's protection.
What more could she want?
Well, maybe to have it all without his annoying self as her spouse, but that pesky detail couldn't be helped. He was part and parcel of the entire package, but he didn't plan to be in residence at Gladstone that much, so it would all be hers with hardly any bother.
"Apparently, it's my wedding day," she grumbled.
"Can't you at least lie and make a kind remark about why you proceeded? Can you stop being a brute for two seconds and tell me something nice?"
He pretended to ponder, then shook his head. "I can't think of a single thing."
"You are the most vile, unpleasant man I ever met."
"I'll grow on you."
"Like an irritating fungus."
He laughed and kissed her again, encouraged when she didn't shove him away. She didn't join in, but she didn't wrench away, either.
"Dearest Anne"—he rolled onto his back so she was draped across him—"how could we not have wed? What if we've already made a little Jamie Merrick?"
"A baby?" She frowned at her stomach. "Could I be in the family way?"
"That's the usual result from how we've been carrying on."
"But I thought we were... ah..." She blushed, not able to discuss fornication. "I hadn't considered the consequences. Not that it could happen so soon anyway."
"It can happen the very first time."
The prospect of her increasing, her belly swelled with his son, was oddly comforting, and Jamie suffered another possessive thrill that he couldn't comprehend. With her, the strangest sensations kept popping up.
He'd never wanted to be a husband, had never wished to be a father and was convinced he'd be a terrible one, but suddenly he was nearly giddy with what could only be joy.
"I'm a cad, I admit it, but after I ruined you, there was no alternative but marriage."
"So, you wed me because it was honorable?"
"No, I wed you because you make me happy."
"Because I..." She paused and glared at him. "You said something kind."
"Of course I did. I know how. I just don't do it very often. It wreaks havoc with my contemptible image."
"What do I do that makes you happy?"
"You're just you. Can we get on with our wedding night?"
"I know you don't care about our vows, but—"
"I care about them," he indignantly claimed. He'd merely be selective in which ones he heeded.
"Don't he to me!" She shook him again. "I can tell when you are."
He shrugged. "I'll try my best to live up to them."
"I realize that's the most I can expect from you, but I need you to understand that whenever you take another lover, it will break my heart."
He scowled. She made it sound as if he'd have hundreds of lovers, as if he'd have thousands, as if he might rush out that very instant to see which females were lurking in the hall so he could lift a few skirts and have at it.
He didn't like her to have such a low view of his character. While he'd never given her a reason to have a higher opinion, and his moral fiber was nothing to brag about, he wanted her to regard him as a better man than he actually was.
"I'd cut off my right arm before I'd hurt you," he vehemently insisted. "How could you suppose otherwise?"
"I think you really believe what you're saying." "You're my wife. I'll always respect and cherish you." "I hope so, Jamie. I truly, truly do." She studied him, her gaze astute and probing, and he
squirmed under the intense scrutiny. It seemed as if she could peer through bone and pore, clear down to the center of his black soul. She could see every falsehood he'd ever uttered, every swindle he'd ever instigated, every violent act he'd ever committed, and he detested her shrewd perception.
He wanted to be a mystery to her, and it was unsettling to know that he'd never be able to keep any secrets.
He rolled them again, so she was on her back. "I'm tired of talking."
"I'm surprised you let me chatter on as long as I have."
"So am I, and we're done hashing things out. For the rest of the evening, I'm not listening to anything you say, unless it's, 'Oh, Jamie, do that to me again.'"
He'd finally managed to make her smile.
"You're impossible."
"I know, but as I told you: I'll grow on you."
"You already are, but remember this...." She grabbed him, flipped him over, and pinned him down. "If you tie or gag me ever again, I'll wait till you let me loose, then I'll murder you in your sleep."
"It's a deal," he fibbed. He'd behave however he pleased—even if it drove her to distraction. "Now can we get on with it?"
"Yes, now we can."
With the haggling over, he was awkward as a lad with his first girl. She wasn't a virgin anymore, so he didn't need to delay or worry about maidenly anxiety, yet he was suffering from the most insane urge to make the interlude special for her.
All women dreamed of their wedding day, but he'd given her none of the fancy fripperies for which they yearned. She'd have no pleasant memories of the actual day, itself, but if he could proceed in a tender and passionate manner, he could give her the night to recollect fondly over the years.
He slowed, reining in his rampaging desire.
He didn't want to rip off her clothes, to ram his phallus into her and call the marriage an accomplished fact. He wanted to woo and seduce and, in the end, he wanted her to be glad he was the one.
He pulled away and took her hand.
"Come with me."
'To where?"
"We're going to do this like an ordinary married couple."
"In light of our dubious beginning, is that possible?" "Yes."
He led her to the dressing room that separated their bedchambers, and with it containing only her meager wardrobe, the space seemed very empty. He made a mental note to remedy the situation immediately. He'd accouter her in a way that would accentuate her new status, that would have fussy, fashionable Ophelia looking like an old frump.
'Turn around so I can unbutton you." He hesitated. "Unless you'd like me to ring for a maid?"
"At this late date, I don't see why we should be too conventional."
"Neither do I."
He spun her, taking a quick nibble at her nape, then he unfastened her garments, but he didn't remove anything. Instead, he retrieved her robe and offered it to her.
"Put this on," he explained. 'Then come to my bedchamber. Whenever you're ready. I'll be waiting for you."
He'd decided they should finish it in the earl's bed, not the countess's, and she needed to join him of her own accord. He was positive he'd calmed her sufficiently so that she'd accede to his polite request.
She peered over her shoulder, her bodice loose, a fist clutching it to her chest, and the gesture reminded him that though he had stolen her virginity, she wasn't much past it. The realization made him feel like a heel. He was too used to dabbling with whores, and he had limited notions of how to carry on with a genuine lady.
He was always pushing her further than she knew how to go, but then, it was her own fault. She was so wonderful, and he lusted after her as he'd lusted after no woman
before her.
He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek; then he left for his own room, and he stripped to his breeches and reclined on the bed. He was so impatient that it seemed an eternity before she arrived, and his relief was so immense that it was a good thing he was lying down or she might have perceived his peculiar fit of nerves.
She came in, and he was tickled to see that she'd taken down her hair, but her robe was cinched so tightly that barely an inch of skin was exposed.
She appeared so young, so shy and lovely, and he smiled and held out a hand to her. With a few faltering steps, she was at the bed, and he seized her fingers and kissed her knuckles.
"Welcome, Mrs. Merrick," he murmured, and he helped her climb up next to him.
"I feel so... scared." She chuckled selfconsciously. "Like I'm a real bride and I don't know what's about to happen."
"You silly goose! You are a real bride."
He eased her down on the pillows, and as he studied her, his heart did the oddest flip-flop, his earlier possessiveness sweeping through him again, but there was another emotion, too, a deeper one he didn't recognize. He was just so very, very thrilled that she was his, and he would never let her go.
"I'm delighted that you're my wife," he blurted out when he hadn't planned to wax on, and she assessed him with a great deal of suspicion.
"You're not just saying that, are you?"
"No. I'm very glad."
He commenced, dawdling as he never had in his amorous pursuits. He had all night, he had the rest of his life, to make love to her, and there was no reason to hurry. He could take his time, and as he did, he was stunned to learn that the journey was as enjoyable as the conclusion—maybe more so.
Gradually, he opened her robe, slackening the belt and tugging at the lapels so he could slip his fingers inside. He toyed and played with her breasts, massaging and stroking, then meandering down to suck a nipple in his mouth.
He nursed till she was groaning in agony, till she was begging for mercy; then he continued on, blazing a trail down her belly, her abdomen. As he reached her woman's hair, she tensed and raised up to glare at him.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Let me show you something."
"Tell me what it is first."
"You trust me, don't you?"
"No farther than I could throw you."
He grinned. "Lie back."
"Jamie!"
"It'll make you feel better."
"I already feel pretty good."
"Lie back," he repeated, and she acquiesced, flopping down and staring up at the ceiling, looking miserable, as if he were about to perform an unspeakable surgery on her innards.
He eased her thighs apart and wedged himself between them; then he leaned in and licked her. She lurched away and sat up.
"What was that?"
"Everything's allowed, Anne? Remember?"
"I know, but when you said that, I never imagined you'd do anything quite so ... so ..."
To stifle further complaint, he simply dragged her to him and tossed her legs over his shoulders. He laved her again and again, while she moaned and writhed.
Her taste and scent inflamed him, luring him to his doom, and he could have kept on and on, but she was rapidly losing the fight against desire. He slid two fingers inside her, and the instant he did, she came and came, bucking and wrestling to escape his torment.
As she spiraled down, he was nuzzling his way up her torso.
"You are so wicked," she said, giggling. "I can't deny it."
"Can we do that again sometime?" "Whenever you wish, my little beauty." "You are going to kill me with pleasure." "That's my intent."
He gazed down at her, letting his affection shine through as he fussed with the buttons on his trousers.
He was so aroused, and she was so eager.
He clasped her hips and entered her in one smooth thrust. As they joined together, he decided that the wedding vows had to be more powerful than he'd understood, because the strangest sensation rushed over him. He felt as if he was finally home, as if he'd finally arrived right where he belonged.
For a fleeting moment, the world narrowed to just her, and it seemed as if it hadn't been Gladstone and the earldom at all that had brought him back to England, but his chance for the universe to ensure that he found her.
He wasn't a romantic, though, and he paid no heed to ridiculous, maudlin premonitions. He wanted only to copulate with her, and to do it over and over again till some of his mad attraction was sated. No woman could keep his interest, and there had to be a limit to his infatuation. He merely needed to reach it, which he was certain would happen soon.
"Mine, Anne," he murmured, his seed rising, the end coming.
"Yours, Jamie," she agreed.
"Mine forever."
He flexed and let go, flooding her womb with a relish that bordered on desperation. The novel coupling had bonded them in ways that went beyond vows or human comprehension, as if they truly could never be separated till death.
He pumped into her till every drop was spent, till his heart was hammering so hard that he worried it might quit beating. Then he fell onto her, crushing her with his weight, as he struggled to breathe, to think.
His erection hadn't waned in the slightest, and it occurred to him that he could have sex with her for a hundred years and never have his fill.
Alarmed, disturbed, he closed his eyes, wondering what he'd gotten himself into and frantic over how he'd ever get himself out of it.
Sixteen
“I had no idea it would be like this." "I'm glad for you." "He's a marvelous husband."
"I must say that I'm extremely amazed to hear it."
Anne smiled at Sarah, then stared out the window toward the stables. Jamie was leaned against a fence and talking to his brother, and she relished having the chance to spy on him without his being aware.
He wasn't a typical aristocrat. He couldn't abide sloth, and he worked from dawn till dusk, fixing and changing things so they were done his way instead of Percy's. The tenants and servants seemed to like Jamie, when they'd never liked Percy, so he was gradually winning them over.
It was a hot afternoon, and he pulled off his shirt and dipped his hands in the water trough, splashing his hair and face. As he stood, water trickled off him, the summer sun shining on his bronzed skin, and her breath hitched with delight.
At his instigation, she'd become a wanton, a slave to
him and the naughty deeds he'd taught her to perform. There was nothing she wouldn't do to please him, nothing she wouldn't try at his suggestion. He could be sweet and tender, or stern and demanding, and she was so consumed by desire that she felt he was a sorcerer who had cast a spell on her.
He seemed equally obsessed, and there was no sight in the world so fine as Jamie Merrick gazing at her with love and affection.
And she was positive he was starting to love her. A person couldn't fake such devotion, so her dream was coming true. She was cherished by her husband, and she couldn't believe how lucky she was that he'd forced her into their marriage.
Whenever she remembered how she'd fought to escape his clutches, she shuddered at her stupidity. What if he hadn't been so adamant? What if he'd given up on her?
"Look at him," she murmured, her fondness clear and difficult to mask. "He's posed like a Greek god."
"He certainly is. It annoys me that he's so handsome."
"He knows it, too. The man doesn't have a humble bone in his body."
Sarah chuckled. "You love him, don't you?"
Did she love Jamie? Was it possible? Her feelings were so conflicted, so new and raw. When he was near, she suffered such quivery, insane surges of joy, and if that was an indication of love, she'd never admit it. Sarah would deem her mad.
"No, I don't love him." She scoffed, struggling to appear blas6 about the topic. "I just find him so... so ... remarkable."
"You don't have to explain it to me," Sarah said gently. "I'm happy for you.
I just hope ..."
"Hope what?" Anne asked when Sarah couldn't finish.
"It's nothing. Don't pay any attention to me."
"No, tell me."
"I hope he stays, that's all."
"You think he won't?"
Anne was horrified that Sarah could have so little faith in him, but then, in the beginning, before she and Jamie had grown so close, Anne had worried over the same.
But no longer! He'd stay because she was at Gladstone. He would never leave her.
"Don't mind me," Sarah said. "He's totally besotted with you."
"He is? Really?" At the prospect, Anne was as excited as an adolescent girl with her first crush.
"He's too smitten to hide it."
Sarah came to the window, too, as Jamie turned to the trough again, and he soaked his shirt in the water and stroked it across his heated chest. He was sexy and decadent, too delicious for words.
They could see all of his back, and old whip marks were visible, providing silent evidence of his hard life as a boy. Anne had gotten used to all his prior wounds and had ceased to notice the numerous spots where he'd been marred by violence.
Sarah mentioned, "I hate those scars."
"So do I. They're awful."
"Jack has them, too. I can't bear that they were beaten so viciously—and at such a young age."
Sarah froze, realizing how peculiar her comment had been, and there was an awkward pause as Anne tried to digest it.
Tentatively, Anne inquired, "How would you know that Mr. Merrick has flogging scars?"
"I don't," Sarah insisted, her panic palpable, "and I have no idea why I said such a thing."
The two sisters stared and stared. Finally, Anne broke the tense moment.
"Sarah, is there something you'd like to tell me?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Very sure. I... ah ..." She wrenched away and headed for the door. "It's been a tiring afternoon. I should take a nap."
She raced out, and as Anne listened to her go, she was unnerved.
Was Sarah having an affair with Mr. Merrick? How else would she have learned such an intimate detail about his anatomy? It wasn't as if Jack Merrick wandered the estate without his clothes.
If Sarah was cavorting with Mr. Merrick, why lie about it? Anne knew—better than any woman alive— how irresistible a Merrick could be. She was in no position to judge.
