"I told you to shut up. You will go nowhere with Jeremy, my dear."
"Why? What do you mean?"
"I mean that I am his guardian. His legal guardian. You are nothing more than a female, his sister. I am responsible for the running of Camille Hall and the plantation. Emile is managing Camille Hall for me and Jeremy. Now, I should like to return to the hall and speak to my family. I wish to see if Douglas has accepted Alex as his wife."
"He has."
One of Ryder's eyebrows shot up. "Really? I understand that you were ever scarce there. You must be terribly observant to know my brother's feelings and be absent at the same time."
There was a distance between them that was growing even though they stood not two feet from each other. She couldn't blame him; but she couldn't blame herself either.
"Why?" she said at last. "Why, Ryder?"
"Why what?"
"Why don't you just let me go? Let me return to my home, resume my life."
"Ah, and what a life it would be. Even though your pretty neck would stay intact on your shoulders, you don't believe that all would be forgiven and forgotten, do you? You are the whore of Jamaica, my dear, and nothing will ever change that, even marriage to me. It's true. Everyone feels very sorry for me. You took advantage of my honorable nature and manipulated me into giving you my name. No, there is no going back for you, Sophie. There is only the present and that becomes the future soon enough. Now, I wish to return to the hall. Are you coming?"
He mounted his stallion, a magnificent barb she'd admired and fed whenever she'd been in the stables. His name was Genesis and she'd somehow known even before she'd been told that this was Ryder's horse. He looked down at her, arrogant, cold, aloof, and she hated it and accepted it.
"Tonight, as soon as it is politely possible to leave my family, you and I will adjourn to my bedchamber and I will take you and you will try your damnedest, Sophie, to act like a reasonable woman."
He said nothing more, merely gave her a small salute, wheeled Genesis around, and galloped away from her. She walked slowly to Lilah, climbed into the saddle, and rode after him.
CHAPTER
14
"My MOTHER STILL resists believing me, but it is perversity on her part, no real conviction that you aren't actually my legal wife," Ryder said to Sophie as he tugged off his cravat. "She will get over it and treat you at least as nicely as she does Alex, which isn't very nice at all, but it will do for the present. You appear to get along well with Douglas and Alex. Of course you would like Sinjun. She's a nosy brat— Lord knows I'm the brunt of her nosiness—but all in all, she's an incredible girl."
Ryder turned to face her as he unbuttoned his white shirt. "Jeremy appears pleased to be here. I will decide soon if he will have a tutor or go to Eton for the fall term. Incidentally, I'm delighted Alex put you in my bedchamber. I've never shared it before. It's strange to see your gowns next to my shirts and britches in the armoire."
Sophie was standing by the front windows. She was doing her best to affect a casual pose. The evening hadn't been all that long for Ryder wanted her very badly. She knew that. Even as she'd walked beside him up the wide staircase, she'd known that if she looked at him, she would have seen the desire in his eyes. She knew well what desire looked like, both on a man's face and between his legs. What she didn't know was what to do about it. She felt incredibly weary, incredibly experienced and jaded. She didn't know what to do about that either.
He said again, "Don't misunderstand me, Sophie. It pleases me to see your gowns beside my clothes. Yes, Alex did well."
"Douglas put me in here. Alex was ill and in bed with a cold."
"Smart man, my brother. I also like the gowns Alex gave you. The pink is very pretty with your coloring. We'll see to some more new gowns for you soon enough."
She wanted to yell at him that she didn't want him to buy her gowns or anything else for that matter, but she remained still and silent.
Ryder sat down in what he had told her was his favorite wing chair. He tugged off his boots as he said, "My mother isn't always amiable, as I'm sure you've learned since you've been here. I had hoped she might change her colors just a bit, and perhaps she will. I don't want you to feel hurt. You should have seen what she did to Alex upon her arrival."
He flicked his wrists and both boots flew toward the huge bed in the center of the bedchamber, sliding smoothly underneath. Only one heel stuck out from beneath the duster cover. Sophie stared at that heel. He grinned at the boots. "I'm a bit off. I've been doing that since I was a boy. I always beat Douglas. It's in the wrist, you know."
He stood, his hands going to the buttons of his britches. She watched his long brown fingers on the buttons as he said, "How does it feel to be back in England?"
"It's cold," she said, still staring at his fingers. "I'd forgotten. Also, living in Jamaica for four years thinned my blood."
He smiled at her and pulled down his pants.
She closed her eyes, which was absurd really because she'd seen him naked, seen his sex swelled, seen him sprawled on the cottage bed with Dahlia over him. She swallowed.
"Sophie."
His voice was quiet, very warm and intimate. She opened her eyes. He was standing not three feet from her, quite naked and quite relaxed. He was smiling at her, his hand held to her. "You are my wife. Come here."
She didn't move.
"Should you like me to undress you? Is that why you've waited?"
"I should like a bath."
He blinked at her. "Very well. Let me ring."
He strode away from her and pulled on the silver-tasseled bellcord. He turned, then said as he climbed into the huge bed, "It is just as well. I have much more to say to you and we can have a pleasant chat while you bathe. If I touched you right now, I suspect we wouldn't say much until morning."
He wouldn't leave. She hadn't expected him to. He was behaving quite nicely, really, not lashing out at her, not condemning her, or calling her horrible names like her uncle had when she'd gone against his wishes.
It was another thirty minutes before Sophie was seated in front of the fireplace in the deep copper bathtub. She'd undressed in the shadows by the window and slipped on a dressing gown. However, to step into the tub, she'd had to take the damned thing off and she knew he was watching her. And she thought, I must accustom myself. He will do whatever he wishes to do to me for as long as I live. Then she shook her head at her thoughts, for nothing was right, nothing was as she'd expected it to be. He was acting so normal, so relaxed, as if they'd been here, in this bedchamber, chatting about everything and nothing for the past ten years.
He said nothing until she was soaping herself. "I like your hair wet around your shoulders and streaming over your breasts. I'm smiling, if you would but look at me once. I am happy to see you. I can't wait to get my hands on you, but I'm sure you recognize all the male signs—the lust-glazed eyes, the erratic speech, nonsense, most of it. I even like the way your legs are sticking up. The flesh behind your knees is very tender, by the by, and I will show you how much you will enjoy me touching and kissing you there. I must remember to kiss that small birthmark of yours too."
She lathered her hair with a vengeance. It would take a good hour to dry it.
"I can't wait to kiss you silly. Perhaps I can convince you to return my kiss. I will try my best." He sounded so sure of himself, so completely confident. She rubbed her scalp until it hurt. He also sounded amused.
"Shall I come and rub your back for you?"
"I wish you would go away," Sophie said, opening her eyes through a haze of soap. It stung and she gasped, ducking her head under the water.
"Very well," he said agreeably. "I will doze here in bed and wait for you. I really forgot everything I wanted to say to you. Why, I won't even think of you—my wife—all naked and wet and soft. You have five more minutes, Sophie, not a second more." He consulted the clock on the mantel as he spoke. Then he leaned his head back against the pillow and cl
osed his eyes. He crossed his arms over his bare chest.
When he opened his eyes she was standing swathed in a voluminous white nightgown. Her hair was matted and tangled wet down her back. If she got any closer to the fireplace, she'd be standing atop the flames.
She was trying to dry her hair.
"Hold still," he said and rose. Ryder wasn't a randy boy. He was a man and he'd proved not only to himself but to her that he could be patient. He would continue to be patient. He took another towel from the chair beside the copper tub and pointed to his wing chair. "Sit down."
She sat like a prim schoolgirl on the edge of the chair, her hands in her lap. "Now, where are your comb and brush?"
He spent another fifteen minutes brushing her thick hair. He set the brush aside. He smiled down at her. "You look like a Madonna. You are quite lovely, Sophie. You please me. Your hair has so many varied shades in it. Yes, you're lovely. You would please me even more if you opened your eyes. I'm naked, 'tis true, but you've seen me on several occasions. Surely I don't displease you?"
She opened her eyes then and looked him straight in the face. "Please tell me the truth, Ryder. Did you truly believe I was pregnant?"
Their wedding and the subsequent damnable night were stark in his mind, but he managed an indifferent shrug. "I had no idea. You refused to tell me the course of your monthly flow. It was possible you were pregnant, based upon my knowing nothing." He wondered if and when he would tell her the truth. Ah, soon, he knew, for he hated lies. They were always lying in wait to trip a man up. And Sophie was fast-witted. If he didn't tell her, she would catch him and he didn't want the consequences of that. Actually, though, she would know it was a lie soon enough.
Always his wit, she thought numbly. He drowned her in his damnable wit, in the easy flow of his speech. Had she used to be like that? Had she mocked him and teased him as he now did her? Memories flooded through her. Ah yes, she'd done it with great skill, even to touching him just so to make him mad with lust for her. But now she was a silent fool, dull-tongued and stupid. Why couldn't she treat him as she had Sir Robert? She sometimes wished she had herself back again but then she'd realize she wasn't exactly certain who that self really was.
She felt his hands on her wrists. He pulled her upright and against him. He said, his breath warm against her damp hair, "Now let me tell you how we're going to spend the greater part of this wonderful evening. I will not rush you. We must take time to learn each other. I will kiss you and—"
He paused, kissed her lightly on her mouth, then said, "No, let me just show you. Do me a favor, Sophie. Forget all those damned men. Just forget them. They have nothing to do with us, with this. This is private, this is us alone, a man and his wife together."
But she couldn't. She also knew she couldn't refuse him. He was her husband; he had full and complete control over her, more control, in fact, than her uncle had exercised, which had been unbearable. If he wanted to strip her naked and tie her to the bed, why he could do it. She tried to be calm. After all, she'd had weeks and weeks to come to grips with it. She'd learned that much, surely she had. She wouldn't start screaming or become hysterical. She wasn't that way, and even if she had ever been that way, her uncle Theo would have beaten it all out of her long ago.
When Ryder pulled her nightgown over her head, leaving her as naked as he was, she drew back, hunching over, unable to stop herself. He lightly touched his fingertips to her ribs. "No more bruises. Have you had any more pain?"
She shook her head. "Good," he said and brought her against him again.
For the first time he held her naked against him. His heart was pounding in deep, fast strokes. He wanted to come inside her this very instant and bury himself in her, his wife. He wanted to hold very still, to feel her around his sex, to feel the gentle tensing movements of her inner muscles. But he wasn't stupid. She needed every bit of his expertise. Ah, that was the rub. She was making it a damned serious business. Ryder had always laughed before, for to him making love was a grand pastime filled with mirth and smacking kisses and shared moans and sighs. He wasn't laughing now; he didn't have a single jest in his head. It was going to be a grim business.
It would be enough, this expertise of his. He'd never failed with a woman before, never. He caressed her mouth, nibbled on her ear, found that very sensitive place in the hollow of her throat that made every woman he'd ever known squirm and moan when he'd caressed there with his tongue.
He told her how beautiful she was as he stroked his hands over her breasts, told her how much she pleased him, how much he wanted to touch her everywhere, with his hands and with his mouth. Her nipples were a dark pink and when he took one in his mouth he thought he'd spill his seed. The taste of her, her texture, were nothing he'd ever experienced before, which was surely false, but it seemed true to him now. He frowned even as he let the feelings settle deep within him.
He clasped his hands beneath her hips and lifted her onto her back on the bed. He came down over her, kissing her breasts, caressing and lifting them, wanting her desperately, more and more as each instant passed.
He slid his left hand over her belly, stilling a moment when he remembered the ugly bruises. God, he'd never forget them or the soul-deep rage he'd felt. She'd been hurt so badly. He slowed his hand, easing his fingers lower, until he was cupping her and he felt the stiffness of her body, despite her softness, and he pressed his fingers between her thighs. He found her woman's flesh and gently probed. He wanted to come into her now, this moment, for his need for her was so great that he trembled with it. Unlike the Ryder Sherbrooke before he'd met Sophie, he didn't want to lose his control. But it had been so very long that he'd wanted her, so very long that he'd been celibate, that he simply didn't know if he could hold himself under control.
Perhaps, he thought, staring down at her, just perhaps this was why he'd wanted to marry her. Perhaps he'd known that she would do this to him, that she would be like no other woman in his life. He closed his eyes as he eased his middle finger inside her. His breath hitched with the effort to keep control of himself. The feel of her around his finger, the softness of her, the heat of her, made him grit his teeth. She made a soft keening sound and he took it for burgeoning passion. It had to be. Sweet God, it had to be passion. How could she not want him when he was edging toward madness with need for her?
She was tight, her muscles squeezing his finger. He knew it would be over for him soon. He eased deeper until he touched her maidenhead. He smiled; he realized now he'd known he would find it. He widened her as best he could for he didn't want to hurt her too much.
He pulled her thighs wide and came down between them. He looked at her face. "Sophie, I'm coming inside you now. No, open your eyes. Remember, there's no reason for you to be embarrassed. We've already done this. There is nothing new here. Believe me. If you could try to relax, you just might enjoy it."
She looked at him as if he were mad. She closed her eyes against the urgency of his expression, then opened them again. No, she would bear all that he did to her. It wouldn't be bad. It would be over soon enough.
That damnable lie. He had believed it would help her to relax with him. It hadn't appeared to do anything of the sort. He knew he couldn't wait. He guided himself slowly inside her. He promised himself he would only come into her for a very short time and then he would ease out of her and give her his mouth. Yes, just a bit more, just until he knew she accepted him, for he wanted her to experience having him inside her before he brought her to pleasure. He said as he came deeper, "You are my wife," and there was wonder and satisfaction in his voice. "It is very odd for me, you know. I've never had a wife before, never thought to have one, but you are here with me and we are in my bed and I'm coming inside you. Please accept me, Sophie."
Accept him, she thought, holding herself as still as possible. She had no choice but to accept him. She waited, afraid, willing it to be over, willing him to make those ugly grunting noises the men made, the noises that soon mea
nt they would be through, their sex shriveled, and shortly asleep and snoring.
She was a virgin and she was his wife and she would be his now. When his sex butted her maidenhead, he pushed forward as gently as he could. It held. He cursed, knowing he should withdraw from her. He tried, he really did, but he couldn't make himself pull out of her. He looked down at himself inside her. He shook and tried to pull away again. He couldn't. He leaned down and kissed her instead. His tongue was deep in her mouth when he groaned and thrust deep, tearing through her maidenhead until he was touching her womb and then it was simply too much. Even as he became aware that she was struggling against him, even as he tasted her tears in his mouth, he groaned again, feeling such swirling, utterly wild feelings, that he jerked frantically at the intensity of his release.
He stilled. She lay quiet beneath him. He was heavy on top of her, his breath still deep and fast, his body damp with sweat, his face on the pillow beside hers.
She hadn't expected the pain. Dahlia had never complained of pain, not that Sophie had ever asked her, but, on the other hand, Dahlia gave her opinions on everything with lazy abandon, comparing the men down to such details as the noises they made during their release. Sophie couldn't imagine that Dahlia would suffer pain willingly or in silence. Thus, this pain did surprise her and she burned deep inside with the stinging of it, and the alien fullness of him. She knew about a man's seed and knew it was in her as was the pain he'd inflicted upon her. How could a woman possibly enjoy this if it hurt so badly?
She'd known all about intimacies, known all about six men and their bodies and their needs, but she'd never realized that his sex entering her joined them in such a way. He was deep inside her still and she could feel him, feel every slick bit of him. If was as if he were trying to be a part of her but she wouldn't allow it. No, he was the different one and soon he would separate himself from her. She pressed her hips deeper into the mattress. She sucked in her breath, wishing he would just be done with her and leave her.
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