by Linda Jones
She was right. His days with the Sedleys were flying past. His time there was more than half over.
And he was not ready to go.
She cut him a quick glance, and he saw the trace of fear in those magnificent eyes. Instinctively, he took her hand, and she quickly threaded her fingers through his.
*
Anya lifted her head from the pillow, awakening with the sun as she often did. She was still tired, though. She had not slept well in this strange bed, in this strange house. Her eyes slipped from the soft daylight at the window to her husband, who slept in a padded chair in the corner of this large room. His trousers had been loosened, his linen shirt and undershirt had been removed and tossed aside.
She had been so angry with him, of late. Most of the time she was not certain why. He annoyed her, as he had in those early days, and he was never out of her thoughts.
Whenever she became too annoyed, she remembered the way he had held her after the storm, the way he had held her even though she insisted she did not need to be comforted. He said he married her for his ship and sailors, that there was no tenderness in their arrangement. And yet, at times she did see affection in him. Affection he fought with every breath he took.
Poor Julian, he had almost turned green last night when he had realized that they would have to share a room. Why had he not thought of that before? There were a number of guests staying for the weekend. Grandmother and Valerie were sharing a room, and Seymour had passed the night with the youngest son of the house, a fact that did not please him. Of course, little pleased Seymour.
She rolled quietly from the bed, trying not to wake Julian. He had been miserable since the day his hussy had called upon him. Perhaps he had suffered long enough for his crimes of the past. He could never suffer enough for breaking her heart, but as he had not done so on purpose she would not make him agonize any longer.
She crossed the room, her hands skating down the nightshirt she wore. The maid who had packed her trunk had included two new nightgowns, but not the softly worn garment she had taken from Julian. She wore that nightshirt every night; it was one of her small comforts.
Julian had not protested at all when she had confiscated his other nightshirt last night. In fact, he had not seemed at all surprised.
Moving cautiously, she knelt down in front of her husband. In the complete relaxation of sleep, he had fallen back and allowed his legs to fall apart. She rested nicely between his thighs.
He did not love her. He did not plan to stay. But why could they not be truly together in the time they had left? She wanted him to be a true husband, just for a while, but he had been resistant to her initial advances.
Because he was a man who did not take what he wanted without reservation. His life was filled with reservations, with rules and morals. One of the rules he lived by was apparently that it was possible to have too much fun. That if something felt too good it must be immoral. Some nights her body ached for his, and she saw no reason why he could not put an end to that ache.
But gently, she had decided. Very gently.
She could wake him with a stroke to the bulge in his trousers, but he would not appreciate that. Not yet. He would likely come out of his chair with a shout that would wake the entire household, if she were so bold.
Besides, she wanted more from Julian. In the early days of their marriage, she had attempted to seduce him seeking two things: pleasure and a way to buy his affection and loyalty. But now she wanted more. And she was suddenly sure that there truly was more to be had.
“Julian,” she whispered, laying her hands on his thighs.
He made a deep moaning sound and turned his head to one side. Anya raised up and placed the flat of her hand on his chest. Here he was bare, firm, nicely muscled, and a sprinkling of hair dusted his chest. Her fingers danced, teasing him, and he took a deep breath and moved again. Just a little.
“Julian,” she whispered again.
“Anya,” he responded lowly, still more asleep than awake. His hand covered hers, there on his chest.
She rose a little bit higher, so her body leaned over his. “Julian, wake up.”
His eyes fluttered open and his sleepy gaze fell on her. For a moment that gaze was utterly wicked, and then he realized that this was not a dream and his dark, hooded eyes cleared.
“Is something wrong?”
“No.” She backed up slowly, took his hand, and stood. “But you should sleep in the bed for a while.”
“No,” he protested. “You can have it.”
“I will not sleep anymore, but it is too early to be prowling about a strange house. You sleep in the bed, I will sit here.”
“Are you sure…”
She leaned slightly forward and grinned. “I want you rested enough to dance with me tonight. You cannot be sleeping well in this chair.”
Julian mumbled his assent and rose, and Anya released his hand. Still half asleep, he headed for the rumpled bed. In a delightful boyish and charming way, he fell onto it and moaned in satisfaction as he grabbed a pillow.
Anya gave him a few minutes, which was all he needed to fall back into a deep sleep. She crossed the room, covered Julian with the coverlet, and after watching him sleep for a moment she crawled into the bed with him.
Julian’s body was warm, long, and strong and crying out for hers—whether he knew it or not. She snuggled against him and sighed, and in his sleep his arms encircled her. Yes, this is nice, she thought as she closed her eyes.
*
He came awake slowly, feeling content in spite of the dreams he’d had. Dreams about Anya, again. He buried his face into the pillow, searching for relief from the bright light that streamed through the window and pulled a sleeping Anya against his chest, where she cuddled and sighed.
One eye drifted open. What was she doing here? Hell, he was so tired he didn’t care. No wonder he’d dreamed that Anya had stripped off that nightshirt and climbed atop his willing body to ride him, her breasts and hair swaying, her body wrapped around his. It had been a dream, hadn’t it? He lifted the covers and peeked beneath. He still wore his trousers, and Anya still wore the nightshirt. Pity.
“Anya.” He shook her lightly and tried to set her body away from his. “Wake up, Anya.”
She smiled and purred but did not wake up. Her leg lifted and hooked over his hip.
One glance at the window told him it was late morning, long past the time the festivities had been slated to begin with a large breakfast in the opulent dining room downstairs. “Anya.” He shook her a little more forcefully, and she finally opened her eyes.
“Good morning, caro,” she said huskily.
“I thought you said you did not need any more sleep.”
She sighed and worked the muscles of her lithe body, stretching like a cat. “I did not think I was tired at all, but soon after you fell asleep I dozed off in the chair for a few minutes. Then I woke up and I was so chilly.”
“It’s July. It is not chilly.”
“Not any longer,” she said, not at all chastised. “You are quite warm.” She tilted her head and smiled at him, as if she wasn’t doing this on purpose. This was no vulgar grab or titillating dance, but it was seduction all the same.
“We should have been downstairs quite a while ago.”
“I know.” Unconcerned, she laid her head down again, snuggling against his bare chest. “When the maid came to wake us, I sent her away.”
“I didn’t hear a thing.”
“You were sleeping so soundly I did not dare to wake you. But she did bring us coffee and biscuits, in case you are hungry.”
Julian lifted his head and saw the silver tray beneath a carafe and plate of biscuits on the table by the chair where he had slept for a few early-morning hours. For most of the night he’d sat in that uncomfortable chair and watched Anya sleep. He’d watched the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, the expression of peacefulness as she rested, the gentle sway of her body as she’d moved in time to a dream
. Studying her every move was painful, but it was a torture he could not make himself end.
“It is all cold by now, I imagine,” Anya said with a yawn.
“The maid was in this room,” Julian said.
Anya hummed an affirmative answer.
“And you were… here.”
“Of course.” Anya lifted her head, all golden skin and tempting freckles and wild red hair. “I told her to be quiet, as you had had a strenuous night and needed your rest.”
“Strenuous?”
“All that unpacking,” Anya said sensibly. “The maid seemed to understand just what I meant.”
“I’m sure she did.”
“You would have been proud of me,” Anya said with a smile. “I was very polite. I thanked her, and when she tripped over your shirt and almost dropped the coffee, I did not call her a clumsy idiot.”
“What did you call her?” Julian asked suspiciously.
“Nothing. I simply suggested that she be more careful, lest she hurt herself.”
“Very good,” he mumbled.
He could not leave the bed, not yet. And Anya showed no indication that she might be leaving soon. She collapsed onto the bed and closed her eyes. “This is a wonderful bed,” she said. “So soft. Do you think it would be rude if we spent the entire weekend right here?”
“Extremely rude.” Though it didn’t sound like such a bad idea. “We have already missed breakfast, though.”
“We may soon miss lunch,” Anya countered with a smile.
Sometimes his wife made him think that perhaps he was wrong. Wrong about… everything. Anya was not like Margaret, not at all. What little deceit she practiced was so apparent it couldn’t be labeled deceit at all. She did not have a conniving bone in her body. As for the physical relationship… maybe the theories were incorrect. Perhaps, just perhaps, there would be nothing wrong with following his natural instincts. He had fought those instincts for more than two months, but with every day that passed he lost a small battle. He wanted his wife. He craved her, dreamed about her, became sure, in some heated moments, that he needed her in order to survive. Maybe the “experts” were mistaken, just this once.
He rolled up and placed his hand on the opposite side of Anya, effectively trapping her beside him. She looked up at him as if she had no idea what was on his mind.
“You are very beautiful in the morning,” he said softly.
“So are you.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
She reached up and touched his cheek. “You need a shave, your hair is mussed, and your eyes are dreamy. It is the one time of the day that I can clearly see the beast within you.”
No doubt.
For once in his life, he didn’t want to think about what he was doing. He just wanted to follow his instincts and feel deeply, the way Anya felt. This was the wrong time, the wrong place, and still… it seemed right. Very right. More right than anything he had ever known.
Anya’s hand remained on his face, gently caressing. He lowered himself slowly, his eyes on her lips.
He was drawn there like a fly to honey, like a moth to the flame. Like a beast to the prey that patiently waited to be devoured.
The hand at his face drifted through his hair, as Anya’s arm encircled his neck. Everything between them was about to change. Everything.
He closed his eyes and groaned when the sharp knock sounded at the door. A moment later it flew open, and Valerie stormed in.
“There you are! Are you sick? Why weren’t you down for breakfast? It’s almost time for lunch!”
Julian pushed himself up and away and Anya sat up, a smile on her face. “We overslept.”
Valerie, a woman he was learning to dearly hate, didn’t even have the decency to blush. “Well, hurry up. William Mathias is here.”
“Ah, the man who is in love with your bosom.”
Now Valerie blushed. “I want to know what you think of him. Hurry.”
“I will be right down,” Anya promised.
Julian had a feeling he would not.
When the door closed behind an excited Valerie, Anya turned to Julian. “I suppose I should go meet this man.”
“I suppose.”
“We cannot have Valerie taken with a man who loves her for her money.” A shadow crossed Anya’s face. Perhaps she was remembering that Julian himself had married her for a ship and a handful of sailors. “It is much better for a woman to be loved for her bosom.”
She began to leave the bed, but Julian stopped her with his hand on her wrist. Obediently, she turned to silently ask him what he wanted. Eyes wide, lips parted, she waited.
“I just thought that perhaps this would be a good time to tell you that I adore your bosom.”
She smiled. “Do you?”
“I most especially like the freckled parts.”
“Then I shall use Grandmother’s cream only on my nose.”
“Throw Grandmother’s bloody cream away,” he said huskily. His hand tightened on her wrist.
“You said bloody.”
“Yes, I did.”
Anya didn’t crawl, she threw her body back onto the bed and hovered over him. She took his face in her hands, tilted her head, and moved her lips toward his. “Tell me if I should stop,” she whispered when her mouth was almost on his.
“You’d better not stop,” he whispered. And if Valerie came to the door again, he was going to borrow Anya’s knife and make good use of it.
Anya laid her lips on his, softly, with innocence and emotion. Her eyes drifted closed. Her lips moved, very slightly raking over his.
Julian placed his hand at the back of her head, so she could not move away. His fingers speared through her hair and he held on for dear life as she sucked and nibbled and he answered in kind. He parted her lips with the tip of his tongue. She moaned, deep in her throat, a sound of pure, sensual pleasure that almost sent him over the edge.
Her body was close to his, but only their mouths touched. It was enough. It was miraculous. He had never known a kiss could be so powerful.
He released her, because if he didn’t do it now he might never be able to let her go.
“Now I have been kissed,” she whispered, kneeling over him. Her face was more radiant than usual, the color in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes high and bright.
“Yes, you have.”
“I do hope it will not be my last kiss.”
“It won’t be. Trust me.”
He traced the line of her jaw with a lazy finger, needing to touch her, not yet ready to let her go.
“I did not know I would feel a kiss through my entire body,” she whispered. “Julian, I felt it in my toes and at the top of my head.”
“So did I.”
“No one ever told me a kiss was so wonderful.”
“I’m a little surprised, myself.”
Anya rolled from the bed with the most satisfied smile on her face. “Oh, why must I meet this William Mathias now?”
“Because you love your cousin and will not allow her to be mistreated.”
“Yes,” she said, twirling about until his nightshirt floated around her body like a cloud. “And I love you.” She stopped twirling and laid her eyes on him. Her smile faded, became uncertain. “I love you, marido.”
Before he could answer she turned away and reached for the washcloth at the bath stand with one hand and began to unbutton the nightshirt with the other.
“Anya,” he said, leaning back in the bed to watch. He would not run and hide, no more. He would not pretend he did not want his wife to distraction. That time was past.
“Yes?”
“Look at me.”
She turned to face him, the nightshirt unbuttoned to her navel, wild hair spilling around her shoulders. And he was not bothered, because for the first time he knew that she was his, now and forever. The freckles, the bosom, the temper and the knowledge of endless curse words in every language known to man.
“You are worth so much more than a
ship,” he said. “More than a thousand ships. More than a thousand ships and a cargo of gold in each of those ships and ten thousand sailors to sail them.” In truth, she was priceless.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“Any man would consider himself incredibly lucky to have you as a wife,” he continued, trying as he spoke to come up with just the right words for this extraordinary moment.
She smiled. “Are you trying to say that you love me?”
So simple, so frightening. So true. “Yes.”
Anya flew to the bed, jumped on to join him, and took his face in her hands to kiss him again. Quickly. Too quickly.
“You know,” he said when she moved away again, “I’m quite sure this William whoever-he-is is a fine man who loves Valerie for her bosom.”
“Are you suggesting that we stay in this room for the rest of the day?”
“Yes.” What was he thinking? “No, of course not. Your grandmother would not be pleased.”
“It is not my grandmother I am thinking of pleasing.”
He was about to agree with her when Valerie knocked on the door again. “Are you ready yet?” she called.
Julian’s eyes scoured the room. “Where’s that knife?”
Chapter 9
Anya drifted through the day in a dream, a strange warmth at her center, an odd happiness bringing a permanent half-smile to her face. In many ways she had been right about Julian. He did want her. There was a beast within him waiting to be set free.
But she had been wrong, too. Julian loved her. He cared for her in the way a man might care for a woman with whom he would spend a lifetime. She had never thought he could, or that he would truly love her. She had only hoped, on rare occasions.
There was so much more to loving a man than she knew. She had thought she knew everything, that there was nothing new to learn… but there was much to learn, she suspected. There was pleasure, yes, and that was good. But there was something else. Something elusive that could not be so easily identified, or learned.
