by Henke, Shirl
Thoughts of ripening led his mind to wonder again if she were indeed breeding. Would he recognize his own child? No difficulty if only Kasseim were involved, but since both Beth and the infamous Irishman had red hair, there would be no way to tell if Quinn had fathered her offspring. His troubling reverie was broken by the sudden sound of barking as a raggedy bundle of fur trotted around the side of the house, tail wagging excitedly.
Beth had felt the strange and disturbing undercurrent flow between them as Derrick lifted her from the phaeton. The sound of Percy's barking was a welcome distraction. Derrick's hands left her body as he turned toward the dog, attempting to keep the spaniel from tearing their finery.
“Oh, Percy, you should not wear yourself out,” she said, kneeling to pat his shaggy head and examine his wounds, which were healing nicely.
“Jacomo arrived early this morning with him in tow.”
He did not sound pleased. Beth looked up at her scowling husband. “He is your dog now that his old master is dead, and I—”
“And you are my wife, so of course, the dog comes with you. Only let him sleep with the lad in the servant's quarters. He has wreaked quite enough havoc with the household already. I scarce had an unchewed pair of dress boots or a cravat the blighter hadn't slobbered upon when I went to dress for our nuptials.”
She suppressed a grin. “You will behave from now on, won't you, Sir Percival?” she asked gravely of the dog, whose tail thumped furiously on the grass. The spaniel gave a sharp bark, looking from Beth to Derrick. “See there: He gives his word.”
Derrick cocked one dubious eyebrow and nodded as he extended his hand to help her up. “We shall see.”
Jacomo, who had been waiting with the other servants, stepped shyly forward at his new employer's summons and held the dog as Derrick made introductions to the staff, then escorted his new bride into the villa.
“Tis small, but comfortable, I think,” he murmured as they walked from the trellised portico inside the main foyer.
On one side of it three stone steps led to an airy parlor. Its glass-paned doors opened onto the terrace at the opposite end of the room. Across the entryway through another arched doorway an enchanting dining area was filled with fresh flowers. The fragrance of a slow-simmered marinara sauce wafted from the kitchen to the rear. Two places were set on the polished walnut table, hers close at the side of his in the master's chair.
In front of them a stone staircase, its treads hollowed out by centuries of footsteps, curved upward to the second story. “Our sleeping quarters are above. I instructed the servants to draw you a bath before we dine...if that is your wish.”
He sounded like a punctiliously polite stranger, not the teasing, carefree Derrick she had known. He's trying. You musty too, she reminded herself. “That would be lovely. This gown is so stiff and uncomfortable, I should like to get out of it.”
“I should like to see you out of it, too, my love,” he murmured, sweeping her once again into his arms and climbing the stairs. Once in the spacious bedroom, he set her down, then showed her to the balcony overlooking the countryside. The villa was built on a small hillside, and a lush vista of vineyards and fig orchards stretched to the horizon.
“Tis lovely,” she said.
“Yes, indeed,” he replied, nuzzling her neck while his fingers began unfastening the silk-covered buttons down the back of her dress.
“The servants—”
“Have orders not to disturb us until I summon them.”
She gave in to the heady rush of passion that his hands and warm lips evoked, leaning back against him, closing her eyes and remembering all the other times, the lazy afternoons and languid nights of loving him. But this is different, irrevocable, this will make you his wife.
As if sensing her hesitance, perhaps echoing his own, Derrick turned her into his embrace as he whisked the unfastened gown down her arms. It fell to her feet and lay in a glittering puddle. She stood in a thin white silk chemise and slip, both delicately embroidered with lace, the fabric so sheer that the warm tones of her flesh were almost visible through it. His seeking lips found the pulse hammering at the base of her throat. Her head dropped back and her arms draped over his shoulders, allowing him access to that which he so desperately craved.
Her quiescence only served to inflame him. Stand so languidly, would she?His desire was matched by a fierce need to have her want him as much as he wanted her—to have it be as it used to be when they had first become lovers. That seemed a lifetime ago now. He let his mouth travel across her collarbone, then down to the full high thrust of her breast, wetting the tip through the silk so that it stood out, a hardened little nub of deepening pink. When she moaned and drew his head closer, he swept her up and carried her over to the big high bed at the opposite end of the room.
He laid her on the bed quickly, almost dropping her on the soft pillows as he stepped back and began tearing off his own clothing. Beth's eyes flew open. She lay still, watching as he worked methodically and efficiently to rid himself of his wedding finery. How well she knew what lay beneath, the splendid male beauty of his flesh. He had undressed unashamedly in front of her often. But this was different. She could sense it and suddenly felt vulnerable, lying with her slippers and stockings still on, her dampened chemise clinging to her aching breasts.
It seemed but a moment until he was standing over her, completely naked, his staff hard and pulsing. The tip of it glistened with a pearly drop of semen as he placed one knee on the edge of the bed. He reached out wordlessly and took her hand, the left hand with the wedding ring on it, and placed it around him, shuddering when she stroked him, still saying nothing.
“Derrick—”
He reached down and lifted her up into his arms, his mouth smothering her entreaty, whatever it would have been. Kneeling on the bed, they shared a kiss of searing intensity. His tongue plundered deep inside, teasing forth a response from her, driving in and out as he held her pressed close against his hot, bare skin. The barrier of sheerest silk seemed to add a wicked enticement to their embrace. Then, without breaking the kiss, he began to slide the chemise straps down her arms, pausing when the garment caught on the tips of her breasts.
The soft rasp of the silk made her whimper with longing. She ached for his mouth on the sensitive nipples once more, but he only pulled the chemise past them, then untied the tapes of her slip and shoved all the undergarments down so they fell around her knees. Finally his mouth left hers, breaking off the kiss as if he were a drowning man struggling for breath. She could see the pulse pounding in the strong column of his neck. The muscles of his arms were taut as he guided her to lie back on the bed once more, then followed her, looming over her like some dark and desperate god.
His bare skin gleamed with perspiration as he braced his arms rigidly on either side of her while his knee parted her legs. The silk undergarments were tangled about her ankles now,but before she could protest, he plunged deep inside her with a great shuddering sigh, murmuring her name as his eyes closed. The old familiar heat of this joining scorched her, and she moved her hips restively when he remained still. Then, with a soft murmur he began to stroke, swiftly, powerfully.
He felt her skin, softer than the silken things he'd torn from her body, felt the wet heat of her tighten around him, her hips writhing, imploring him. And all he could think of was the sheer exquisite ecstasy of making love to her. Making her my wife. No, he did not want to think of that. He only wanted to feel, to revel in the way they fitted together, the way she was his and only his, to exorcise from their consciousness the memories of Quinn and Kasseim and any other lovers she might have taken after he'd left Naples.
Any child she had would be his. He would think of it no other way. But that had proven impossible for him ever since Blackthorne had raised the issue. This then was his despair. But when he smelled her scent, touched her flesh, felt the searing need for her pounding through his veins, then all thought was obliterated. In loving her he found surcease for the
moments that the mindless bliss lasted.
He labored to make it last, gritting his teeth, holding back his completion as he felt her body spasm around his, the tight rhythmic contractions squeezing him as he held on, slowing down, waiting for her whimpers of pleasure to quiet, for her body to relax in satiation. Then he began again.. and again .
There was an almost demonic frenzy to his lovemaking, a driven despair that frightened her. But in spite of it, her body, so hungry for his, could only give in to the pleasure he brought her. Her eyes opened as she looked up into his face, seeing the fierce grimace of concentration. He was holding back, letting her climax three times while he still did not allow himself satiation. She ran her hands up over his arms and chest, down his hard belly and around his straining back, feeling the sweat-slicked muscles bunch and flex, the blood pounding through his veins.
“Now, Derrick, fill me!” she murmured, arching high as her legs locked around his hips.
And he was lost. A deep guttural cry tore from him as he spilled his seed deep within her in the most intense, wrenching orgasm of his life. He collapsed on top of her, panting and sweat-soaked, his face buried in the sweet fragrance of her hair. One of the opal combs lay tangled in the ruins of her elaborate coiffure, winking at him. He rolled off her, closed his eyes and fell instantly into an exhausted sleep with his arm stretched across her waist just beneath her breasts. Holding her possessively, Derrick could not relinquish their closeness, even if it was only physical.
Beth lay beside him, looking at his face as he slept. She reached over and brushed at the black lock that fell across his brow, then stroked his jawline. His face appeared younger in repose, all the wariness evaporated, the harsh mocking gleam in those blue eyes gone for the moment. She felt his despair still hanging in the air, a palpable thing, and knew that what had just passed between them had everything to do with possession. And nothing to do with love.
Tears burned her eyes, but she blinked them back, staring up at the canopy overhead. Her body was satiated almost to the point of numbness, but her soul remained hungry. Oh, Derrick, husband, what have we done?
She gently removed his arm and swung her legs over the side of the bed, wincing at the tenderness inside her. He had used her hard, glorying in her helpless cries of release, yet trying to hold himself aloof. That he had not been able to do it gave her satisfaction. Only when she stood up did she realize that her torn silken undergarments still clung to her ankles. She kicked them away, looking down at her snagged stockings. One garter was pulled lower than the other. Both slippers had been lost in the bedclothes. Rather than search for them, she picked up the undergarments and walked from the bedroom into the dressing room, where she sat down on a chair. She felt in dire need of that hot bath Derrick had promised her when they first arrived.
* * * *
Bright moonlight splashed across the bed, spilling inside the canopy curtains, which had not been drawn. Derrick awakened slowly, as if from a trance. At once his hand groped across the bed,searching automatically for Beth. She was not there. He rolled over and felt something prod him in the back. Reaching for it, he saw that it was one of her gold silk slippers. Its mate lay at the foot of the bed. Then the desperate interlude from earlier in the evening came back to him, and he clutched the slipper so tightly that he crushed it in his hands. Just as he had crushed her with his lust and despair. He had made her his wife, but he had treated her badly, perhaps even hurt her physically. Feeling sick, he tossed the slipper away and placed his head in his hands.
Oh, Beth, I am so sorry!
He looked at the wreckage of the room. His clothes were strewn hither and yon, but her beautiful wedding dress was not there. Other than the slippers, nothing else of hers remained. He remembered yanking the sheer silk undergarments from her body, not even bothering to remove her shoes or stockings. He was certain no servant had come in to take her clothing. She must have done it herself. God above, please don't let me have injured her!
He rose and pulled on his breeches, then went in search of his wife. The moisture from a bath hung in the dressing room air, fragrant with the faint essence of vanilla, her favorite scent. There he found her wedding gown, carefully hung on the wall rack. One hand reached up to touch the crisp brocaded silk, his eyes scanning it for damage. Only a couple of buttons were torn loose, thank heavens. Then he saw the dull gleam of white from one corner. Her chemise, slip and stockings lay hopelessly ripped and snagged, but at least there was no blood on them. He must find her and beg her forgiveness.
Derrick found her asleep in the guest bedroom at the opposite end of the hall. She lay on top of the covers, as if unwilling to disturb them and let the servants see that she was not sleeping with the master. Her body was coiled into a fetal position, wrapped in a heavy dark robe, and Percy lay cuddled in the curve of her legs. Swallowing the lump of misery in his throat, he walked silently to the bed and sat down beside her. The dog watched him warily, not quite growling but very alert as Derrick reached over and gently stroked a few stray tendrils of hair from her face.
Were there traces of tears? In the dim moonlight he could not tell, but his puss was not given to tears. She was the bravest woman he'd ever known. When he leaned down to kiss her, the dog did growl, sitting up as if to protect her from his erstwhile master. “So,'tis apparent you've switched your loyalties. Can't say I blame you,” he murmured.
She blinked and opened her eyes, rolling over and looking up at him. He could see no alarm or revulsion on her face and thanked God for that. But he did see confusion and a deep hurt. “Are you injured?” he asked, his voice a croaking whisper over the soft growling of the dog.
She shook her head, patting Percy to quiet him. “No, no, I'm not injured.” He reached out then and gently touched one curl hanging over her shoulder. She felt his remorse even before he spoke.
“Beth, I am so sorry.” His voice cracked and he removed his hand from her hair and turned away, staring out the window at the night sky. “I only wanted to make you belong to me, no one else. Can you forgive me?”
She scooted up against the pillows, then replied, ”I do belong only to you, Derrick. You are my husband and I will try to be a good wife.”
Percy sat at the foot of the bed, watching protectively as Derrick asked again, “Will you grant me your forgiveness? Let us begin anew?”
He held his breath. She could sense it. “Yes, Derrick. I forgive you. I understand that you wed me out of obligation, to protect me.” When he started to protest, she placed her fingertips over his lips, shaking her head. “No, my love, do not deny it...I have something to tell you.” Her hair dipped like a curtain, hiding her face in shadow as she explained, “My courses began tonight. I am not with child.”
He felt as if the weight of the world had lifted from his shoulders until she added, “If you wish, you can obtain—”
“No!” Derrick surprised himself with the vehemence of his answer. Only later would he recognize that he was far more concerned with keeping her as his wife than he was with learning that she was not pregnant. His outburst startled Percy, who began to growl once more. Ignoring the dog, he took one of her hands in his, saying, “We'll not dissolve this marriage. You are my wife and I will have no other. I will try my damnedest to be a good husband.”
* * * *
And so the days passed as summer drew to a close. Derrick and Beth resumed a variation on their original relationship. She continued to paint, converting one of the extra bedrooms into a studio. Although it was much smaller than her quarters at the contessa's villa, the east light was good. She found that overseeing their small household was a pleasure and continued her old rounds with the fishermen and produce vendors, much to her father's dislike. His daughter had always been a tomboy, dressing unconventionally and running with her brothers, but that was back in the safety of Georgia, not in cutthroat-infested Old World slums!
Derrick completed his assignment with the British charge d'affaires, then devoted his energies to helpin
g Piero establish a shipping operation in the city. Quint Blackthorne stayed on, helping with the business, since he, too, was one of Dev's partners. When Derrick was not busy at the new office of Torres Merchandisers, he often accompanied Beth on jaunts to bargain for oysters and figs. Her commissions on portraits were lucrative and his business income began to grow steadily, assuring them of a comfortable—if unconventional—life. They had both vowed to make their unusual arrangement work. And it did...after a fashion.
Derrick found himself drawn into the contessa's circle of belle lettres, attending poetry readings and art exhibits with his wife. She, in turn, attended court functions with him whenever the British Government requested his presence. If their days were at times an uneasy compromise, their nights were unfailingly filled with heady passion. Derrick had never imagined that he could be content with one woman, but he was. Beth, relishing the permanence of a relationship that did not interfere with her art career, no longer felt compelled to test her husband's patience or stir his jealousy as she had earlier.
Within a few weeks of their marriage, they received the handsome gift of a sterling tea service from Drum, who congratulated their having the good sense to see reason and regularize their relationship as Alex and Joss had done. Derrick and Beth read his clever, witty missive, glad to know that he had survived the ordeal of a storm-tossed return voyage to “Albion's soil” after leaving them in Algiers.
He also informed them that he had just had a run of good fortune at the gaming tables, winning some sort of tavern in the backwoods of Georgia, and he was off to America to visit his friends and inspect his new property. A chapter in their lives had ended with Drum's exodus. After all, it was his letter to Quintin Blackthorne that had changed their relationship forever.
