He chuckled, and then hissed in pain. “Don’t make me laugh,” he ground out, but without rancor.
“But you have never smelled bad either,” she continued. He had a spicy, masculine scent. Clean, but something uniquely his. Given that she spent much of her time around the docks and with laborers, his scent was beyond pleasant. She might even say, intriguing.
“Damned by faint praise,” he muttered.
“Vanity, Grant,” she admonished. “I have never enjoyed the scent of blood. I would be grateful if you would stop releasing all that stuff onto my hands.”
“Of course, Sweet Irene. Anything for you.”
She didn’t answer. Truthfully, she was alarmed by the stickiness of his clothes where she supported him. He was walking steadily, but every once in a while, he would flinch, she would grip him tighter, and wetness would alarm her all over again.
Fortunately, they made it to the inn after a dozen more steps. Within moments, Irene had roused the innkeeper who sent for the night watch and a surgeon. Irene would have sent for a doctor, but Grant would have none of that.
“A doctor is for old ladies with a cough. I require stitching, and that, my dear, needs a surgeon.”
She didn’t argue. With the innkeeper at her side, they quickly divested Grant of his jacket and blood-soaked shirt. She tried not to look at the honey blond hair on his chest or the chiseled cut to his torso. He was injured, and she was a degenerate looking at him so hungrily. But she had only seen her husband half naked like this on a bed. Nate had been a large man, broad like his father. His skin had been weathered by the sun, and the muscles had bulged like living rocks.
Grant was constructed in lanky angles. His muscles stretched across his body. They did not look like rocks so much as ropes of corded strength, tightening as needed. It was mesmerizing to watch as he disrobed. And when she began to wipe away the blood with a wet cloth, she watched him flex against the pain.
She was hurting him, and yet her mouth was dry at the sight of his body. She felt her nipples tighten and her belly grow liquid. She did not want to be aroused. He was lying there bleeding, for God’s sake! And yet, he was a beautiful man.
“It’s not that bad,” the innkeeper said. “The surgeon will stitch it up all right and tight.”
Grant opened his eyes and wiggled his eyebrows. “Then I’ll have a dashing scar. All the best gentlemen do, you know.”
“I think you have plenty of those already,” she said tartly. She hadn’t intended to sound stern, but she felt so breathless around him. Especially as her eyes traced the thin white scars mostly along his forearms. But there were others too, set randomly about his chest and belly. “Machinery?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Stupidity, mostly. I was an idiot before I became a manager.”
She might have said something. The pain that haunted his eyes at those words meant something. But there wasn’t time to ask as both surgeon and constable arrived.
The next hour wasn’t pleasant, but it had to be done. She explained the incident to the constable. Sadly, that went rather quick with the following summary from the man: “Sounds like a footpad. Glad nothing was stolen, though of course, the knife cut is upsetting.”
That was it, beyond more sadness regarding Grant’s wound. Then the man tipped his hat and left, while the surgeon got down to business. She tried to distract Grant, but there was little she could do. In the end, he just gripped her hand while she winced at every push and pull of the needle.
“You are being very brave, you know,” she said, her voice strained.
“It takes little courage to lie in a bed,” he quipped, though the words came out as breathless gasps.
“I assure you, I am impressed by your strength. Would you like a piece of leather to bite down on?”
“I’d rather you promise to kiss me when it’s all said and done. A reward for my bravery.”
“Done,” she said.
“You promise? A kiss?”
She smiled. Trust the man to be making jokes between hisses of pain. “Yes, Lord Crowle, I will kiss you.”
“Maybe more than one?”
“My, you are feeling strong, aren’t you?”
He nodded in absolutely seriousness. “Very.”
“Then I shall promise you two kisses.” When he opened his mouth to ask for something more, she pressed her finger to his lips. “Do not ask for more, or I shall change my mind about the first two.”
He obediently nodded and pressed his lips closed. But his eyes stayed open and steady, looking at her the whole time. Eventually, it was done. It probably hadn’t taken that long. When she finally dared look, there were only a few stitches, but she felt as if she had run a footrace that lasted weeks. Any marks on his beautiful skin were wrong.
She reached out, wishing she could smooth away the wound with a caress. She couldn’t. In fact, the idea was silly, and she only interfered with the surgeon as he bandaged the area with brusque motions.
“That will keep you, my lord,” the man said. “I shall leave you some laudanum—”
“No, thank you,” Grant said, his voice strong.
“But it may help you to sleep. The pain—”
“Is not so bad that I shall need that. Take the bottle away.”
The man nodded and returned the vial to his bag. Meanwhile, Grant grabbed his purse to pull out a few meager coins to press in the surgeon’s hand.
“My lord!” the man said stiffly, curling his lip at the few coins. “I’m afraid that the cost is somewhat higher—”
“On the contrary,” Grant drawled. “I know exactly how much getting a few stitches costs, my man. I refuse to pay triple just because you learned I’ve got a title.”
The surgeon started to protest, but even he could see it was useless. He grabbed the few coins with a sniff. “If it starts to go rancid—”
“I can drain it myself.”
“You’ll do no such thing!” Irene cried. “I shall be sure to call the good surgeon back.”
Grant subsided with a shrug. “I’m afraid if it goes rancid, there is little either he or I can do. But let us pray that it doesn’t get to that.”
A glance at the surgeon saw that he agreed, though his expression sobered. “There are poultices and the like, my lady. Some things can be done. Call me if his condition worsens.”
Irene opened her mouth, about to protest that she wasn’t his wife, but a quick squeeze from Grant’s hand distracted her enough that the words never left her lips. And then the surgeon was bowing before he left, shutting the door quietly behind him, which left her and Grant alone.
“He thought I was your lady wife,” she said, embarrassment burning in her cheeks. Normally, she would simply laugh at the silliness, but a part of her took the idea a great deal more seriously. Enough that she couldn’t look at him as she said it. After all, she was a proper lady, but she was here unescorted in his bedroom. And he was half naked.
“I told him you were.”
She jolted in surprise. “But… why?”
He shrugged. “Because only a wife can stand by my bed and hold my hand. I’m sorry. That was selfish of me, but it’s the truth. I… I wanted you here, and that was the easiest way to do it.”
“You don’t care if you ruin me in the eyes of the London ton?” Her voice was calm, thank heaven, but inside she was twisting. She liked that he wanted her here. She’d wanted to remain by his side. But the lie wasn’t proper. Her being here wasn’t proper. And what Grant had just done was highly improper.
“He wasn’t of the ton. He was a surgeon, and…” He snapped his mouth shut.
No need to think twice about what he’d been about to say. “And no one believes we’re married anyway. They think…” She swallowed, the idea hitting her sideways. They already thought her his mistress.
“Absolutely not!” he said, starting to sit up. But a lance of pain contorted his face, and he dropped back with a grunt. “Irene, no one will think any the worse of you for tonight
. I swear it!”
She flashed him a quiet smile. She was being ridiculous. The rules were different for her than when she’d been an unwed girl. She was a widow now. She could do as she pleased, and few people would question her. A surgeon, an innkeeper, and a constable knew she was here. They were nothing in her life. After tonight, she’d likely never see them again. In truth, she didn’t really have a reputation. The ton knew nothing of her. Her in-laws thought she was with Wendy. She could spend the night in Grant’s arms and return home tomorrow completely secure. Nothing in her life would change.
It was a heady, seductive thought. “I should depart immediately,” she said, though she didn’t move.
“You could, but I never thought you one to shirk your debt.”
“What debt?” she asked, though she knew very well what he meant.
“Two kisses. You promised.”
“That was before you ruined me. What if Mama finds out that we pretended to be husband and wife all alone in an inn?”
“Immaterial. A promise has been made. It must be kept.” Then when she arched a skeptical brow, he placed a hand on his chest and mock groaned. “I am a wounded man, you know. I could die on the morrow.”
She knew he was teasing. That in truth, he would probably heal quickly. But the specter of infection lingered over all wounds. And once a cut went foul, there was little anyone could do.
“Grant,” she whispered, worry in the word.
His expression immediately sobered. “I was only teasing.” Then he huffed loudly. “Keep your kisses if it makes you look so tragic.”
“Terribly tragic!” she shot back. But then she leaned over, bracing her arm on the far side of his head. Their faces were a foot apart. “You’re horribly ugly, you know. I shall have to do this with my eyes closed.”
“It’s the only respectable way anyway. Imagine trying to keep them open. You’d be cross-eyed and staring at my ear.”
“Well, your ear isn’t that hideous. I suppose I could look at it if I had to.”
“Don’t risk it,” he said in a terribly serious voice. “You never know what imperfection might appear, then you would come away with a sudden horror of ears. And those, my dear, you can’t avoid no matter what you do. Everyone has them.”
“Very true,” she said as she lowered closer to his lips. “I suppose I shall just have to close my eyes then.”
He reached up, his fingers slowly winding behind her neck, massaging gently before slipping into her hair. She’d kept the style simple, pinning up the sides, while the rest curled lazily down her back. Her locks were rather short anyway, and so she thought the look acceptable.
Apparently, he found it very acceptable because his hand slipped upward to cup the back of her head. He didn’t pull her down, but he coaxed her with his fingertips. And his lips teased her with his nearness. But what really caught her were his eyes. Dark brown with flecks of gold. They called to her. It wasn’t the gold. That was more an accent, a lightness that made the dark brown all the richer. She sunk into the fine mink of those eyes, felt them surround her and hold her safe. How odd to feel as if his eyes held her safe, but they did.
Then she touched her lips to his. Her eyes drifted closed. Not on purpose. Truth be told, she could stare into his eyes for years. But she wanted to experience his mouth without distraction. She wanted to enjoy the touch of his lips, the heat of his breath mixing with hers, and most of all, the thrust of his tongue against hers.
His lips were soft. That was a bit of a surprise as everything else about him was cut so lean. But the feel was exquisite—like the finest velvet—as he moved against her mouth. She thought at first that he was murmuring something, but the shift of his mouth was not so coarse as to form words. No, it felt more like a silent song in his kiss. A high tremble counterpoint to the darker, harder beat of his mouth.
She stilled against him, her breath suspended to feel more. But she could not hold herself apart for long. The temptation to join him was too strong. So she did. She brushed her lips against his. She tilted her head and opened her mouth, needing to feel his heat mix with her own.
His tongue dashed out—a strong, bold melody against her mouth. She matched it as she pressed harder against him, uninterested in the lighter notes now. She wanted the heavy beat of his thrusting tongue. He thrust, she played, and suddenly, this song was not enough.
She was a widow. She knew the orchestral dance of bodies. His mouth, her mouth, they were simply the prelude. The dance of one instrument. She pulled back, her eyes opening as she searched his. “How much does it hurt?” she rasped.
He blinked, a frown pulling his face tight. “No pain,” he whispered. Then his eyes blazed darker, his meaning scandalous. “Just fullness, Irene.”
She swallowed. “And I am so empty.”
She knew what she was asking, knew that what she wanted was immoral. But it had been so long, and she had spent much too long as a shell of a woman.
“Do you want…” He cut off his words with a swallow. “Be sure, Irene. Do you want… me?”
“Yes.” She didn’t even hesitate. Then when he searched her face, she repeated herself. “Yes, Grant. Please.”
His face split into a sudden grin, even as his nostrils flared, and his eyes became dark with hunger. But he didn’t move. “I’ve dreamed of this, you know.”
“What?”
“Every night since we danced in that inn, I have thought of you in my bed.”
Her lips curved, flattered. A little relieved as well because she had spent a few nights in fantasies of him. “Those aren’t exactly dreams,” she said.
He released a low rumble. “Oh yes, they were. You tormented my sleep.”
She pulled back, not really intending to go anywhere. “Well, if you think it torment.”
He tightened his grip on her head, his other hand wending around her back. “I think you owe me another kiss, Irene.”
She arched her brow and started to lean down, but this time his tightened fingers held her back. “Not so fast,” he said.
“Grant?”
His grin widened. “I get to pick the where of that kiss.”
“You do?” she asked.
“I do.” And then he slowly—firmly—rolled her down onto the bed.
Ten
Grant did not love music. He didn’t hate it, of course, but his soul loved the things he saw. The soaring architecture of a building. The intricate pattern woven into fabric. And the beautiful lines of a woman. He adored the arch of a cheek, echoed in the line of a brow. He worshipped the fullness of a woman’s mouth, as puckered and ripe as what glistened between her thighs.
So it was disconcerting when he heard music as he looked at Irene. At first he thought it a new manifestation of his madness, but this song was her, and that did not feel insane. It felt beautiful. And if he were going insane, then he did not care. So he focused on her as she lay beneath him, her eyes filled with promise, her mouth red and plump in invitation. He felt her breath—soft, sweet gasps—as he slowly stroked a hand over her breasts. But what he heard was a rapid staccato of a melody, high and tight and much too fast.
To counter that sound, he stroked in long, languid caresses. Her ballgown was soft as it shaped her breasts, but it was not nearly the whisper of her skin. Like one long note, he traced from her neck across her shoulders, and down to circle that ruby of a nipple. Then he remembered he wanted to trace that same path with his lips and tongue. So he leaned down, edging light nips and swirling notes along the melody of her neck and chest. Her breath hitched, adding its own accent to what he did. And he felt her clutch his arms and shift her legs restlessly.
Her heartbeat fluttered against his lips, and her gasps became urgent. But it was too quick—the movements of her pelvis beneath him too urgent. He was mesmerized by the sounds he heard as he looked at her, the song of their exploration. But she was rushing things, and he did not like it. So he pulled back, gentling her with his fingertips along the sweep of her neck.
“Easy, easy.”
She looked at him, her expression almost frenzied. “Mr. Grant,” she panted, desperation in the sound.
It was that name that shocked him. He had been called Mr. Grant for five years now, but it had been like five years in a prison. There had been no pleasure, no relaxation in that time. Only work, the endless march of numbers and fabric. Sturdy fabric, coarse fabric, and the beautiful designs of his luxury goods. The name Mr. Grant fit with work and textiles.
That this woman with her soft pants and white skin could whisper that name in the midst of her passion was like a ray of sunlight patterned across the mill floor. A reminder of beauty, a whisper of inspiration, and something that he’d learned to cherish as the gift from God that it was.
Except she was more than a ray of light. She was a whole rainbow of sound and beauty, and it was all given to Mr. Grant. Not just Grant, the spoiled aristocrat who’d once taken women with a careless abandon, but to Mr. Grant, the worker. The gift left him breathless.
At his silence, she began to frown. “Is it your side? Are you in pain?”
Yes. No. How to explain? “No pain,” he finally rasped out. “I just… please, this is so new.”
She blinked, obviously startled. “But I thought… I mean, I assumed…”
He flashed a rueful smile. “Sex is not new, Irene. It is you. So fresh…” He shook his head. “I have no words.”
She touched his cheek. “I am certainly not fresh or new. I am not a virgin, you know. You needn’t be careful with me.”
That would be like going rough with a perfect rose. He would not do it. It offended him down to his soul. But he didn’t know how to say that, especially since his logical side pointed out that he had often enjoyed rough bed sport. Perhaps she was one such woman. But he couldn’t do it. Not now. And so he said something else, hoping to satisfy them both.
He trailed his fingers along the edge of her bodice, watching as her skin blossomed pink under his touch. “May I take this off you? Please, may I undress you?”
She frowned down at herself, obviously a little surprised. “Are you sure you are up to it? I don’t wish to cause you pain.”
Jade Lee - [Bridal Favors 03] Page 10
