by Stacy Reid
A soft moan slipped from her. Could it really be true? She frantically thought back on her life. While she fought with her mother on many things, most of the time Willow stopped herself from doing things because of her own doubts.
No more. Not if I am to be Alasdair’s marchioness. She would need to be even bolder and sure. She would host dinner parties, play with their babies.
Oh God, children. How would she care for them? Before she allowed any other fear to take root, she gently nudged Daisy’s sides. Willow knew the minute they exited the stables. The heat of the sun washed over her skin, and she breathed in the crispness of the air into her lungs. She urged the horse into a slow canter, trusting Daisy to lead her safely.
Invariably, her thoughts turned to Alasdair. He had not professed any tender words since the day he had asked her to marry him, but the way he treated her did not disguise his feelings. Every thought, every gentle kiss, communicated his adoration.
Oh, Alasdair, I’ve missed you so much.
A rare feeling of pure, undiluted happiness poured through her, and she threw back her head, lifting her face to the sun. Willow relaxed, exhilaration twisting inside of her, and she laughed without any decorum.
“I will never tire of hearing you laugh,” Alasdair’s voice said quietly.
Willow gripped the reins on Daisy and spun her toward his voice.
“I did not hear you canter close.”
“I am on foot,” he murmured.
“Your horse?”
“Grazing a few feet away. I dismounted when I saw you and walked over. You are riding astride.”
She could hear the pride in his voice, and her chest swelled. “When I had my accident, I was riding side saddle. I could not bring myself to sit on Daisy in such a manner earlier.”
“I am pleased you went ahead without me. I was called away to London, but on my way out I realized I would much rather be here with you. I sent a letter ahead with my solicitors.”
Emotions tightened her throat. He didn’t question where she found the courage. He simply accepted she had always been capable. Why would she think such a man would ever find her to be burdensome?
“It will indeed be glorious to be the lady of Westerham Park,” she offered in the companionable silence.
Firm hands pressed against her legs. She did not startle. She had smelled his alluring scent drifting closer. He gripped her hips and Willow relinquished the reins. She dismounted, clasping his shoulders, savoring the press of his body against her. The softest kiss brushed against her lips and sweet desire built.
He ended their too short embrace. He brushed his fingers gently over the points of her knuckles. “Let us stroll together, then we will eat. I still brought along the basket my cook prepared.”
She placed her hand on his arms and moved with him, a delighted feeling of contentment suffusing her veins. “How did you come to be the marquess?”
She listened to the soft cadence of his voice, the gentle dips as he told the story of his father and brothers. She heard the pain of loss in his voice, but also the acceptance. They came to a stop, and he leaned against a tree, drawing her into the comforting circle of his arms. They conversed at length, and Willow reveled in the moment and did her best to ignore the edge of doubts that still lingered.
Chapter 10
Everyone was gathered in the ancient chapel of Hadley House. Willow had wanted to pick flowers that morning in the gardens, but then the unexpected rain had fallen. Dressed in a simple but exquisite soft yellow gown, flowers decorating her hair, and a bouquet of rosebuds gripped tightly in her hand, her eyes were wide with apprehension, but she had never looked more beautiful.
After their walk and long talk the day before, Alasdair had not expected to see such a show of anxiety from her. But he understood this was a big step for her, and he was glad to note she had stopped speaking of her belief she was a burden. Instead, she had been avidly seeking his kisses, and the long talks and strolls they indulged in.
He squeezed her fingers in reassurance, and she favored him with a wobbly smile.
The Vicar started the ceremony. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony; which is an honourable estate, instituted of God in the time of man’s innocency.”
Alasdair listened to the Vicar’s words his eyes never leaving Willow’s face. She did not seem to be listening to the vicar or to him.
A few minutes later the Vicar turned to Alasdair. “Lord Alasdair Hugh Morley, Marquess of Westcliffe, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded Wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
“I will,” he vowed.
The Vicar shifted to Willow.
“Lady Willow Rosalind Arlington wilt thou have this man to thy wedded Husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”
Her throat convulsed. “I…I…”
Tears pooled behind her lids and tension twisted through Alasdair. The patter of rain seemed to echo in the silence. No one spoke or moved. The Vicar cleared his throat and looked from her to Alasdair with a frown on his face.
“Willow?” Alasdair asked softly.
Her fingers trembled in his. His unease sharpened.
“I am so sorry.” Her voice was hoarse with unshed tears.
His world narrowed to her face, taking in the grief and doubt in her eyes. “Please don’t,” he whispered, uncaring that everyone could hear him. “We will be fine, Willow. I love you.”
Something in him broke when she lowered her hands and dropped the rosebuds.
He had lost her.
She ran.
“Willow!”
The harsh sound of her mother’s voice rang out, blending with the gentler tones of her father to let her go. But she did not hesitate. She burst through the doors of the chapel as if the devil were on her heels. Her mind drew maps of the house as she moved with more speed than she thought possible.
Please don’t.
The quiet plea had been evident in Alasdair’s voice. The bleakness. He sounded as if she had shredded something in him. The doubts almost drowned her. She had once again rejected him. He would hate her now. A harsh sob clawed from her throat as she stumbled up the stairs. She needed her room, her sanctuary, to still the mess of emotions suffocating her.
She couldn’t do it. But how could she live without him? The pain of loss sliced through her. “Oh God, please let this pain stop,” Willow moaned as she reached the landing. She turned right and tried to walk with measured steps, her fingers gliding against the wall’s surface. She came to the fourth door and felt for the knob. She pushed inside, moving too fast and tripped.
She cried out as she fell forward. Unable to check her momentum, she braced for the impact that never came. Gentle hands caught her.
She froze. He had followed her? She had not smelled or heard him. Relief crashed into her. He was there. “Alasdair.” There was nothing calm about the way his name burst from her lips along with the sob. It was raw and ugly, and she did not care.
“Easy,” he reassured. “I have you.”
I will be your anchor when you falter…always.
Her chest constricted, and it seemed impossible to draw air. “I hurt you, again.” She pressed a fist to her mouth as he drew her to him, leaning her against his chest. His heat was a comfort and a temptation. “Forgive me, I never wanted to bring you pain ever again.”
His heat shifted slightly, and the door to her chamber closed. The snick of the lock as he thumbed it had her swallowing. “My parents will come.”
“No one would dare co
me up here. They understand I am trying to persuade you to be my wife. That I am trying to convince you of the depth and breadth of my love. The hounds of hell will not part me from you now, Willow. They saw that. I am the only one that followed you. The others have dispersed to the lawns.”
She nodded, her throat tightening. There was no anger in his voice, no pain, only patience, and understanding. This man loved her. Treasured her. He had been willing to marry her even without a dowry. Oh God, what had she done? “And the vicar?”
“I told the family and the vicar they can leave if we do not return. If we do not marry today I will not panic,” he said softly.
She waited for Alasdair to say more, to berate her, and nothing. The tension eased from her, and she relaxed into him. “You are not angry,” she observed fighting to control the pounding of her heart.
“No.”
“You are disappointed.”
“No.”
“You are hurt.”
He pushed her forward, walking deeper into her room.
“I feel only relief that I am holding you. All else faded the moment I touched you,” he confessed, raw emotions evident in his voice.
“Hold me, Alasdair, and do not let me go, ever.”
He drew her into his arms and hugged her tightly.
“Marry me, and you will never regret loving me,” Alasdair promised fiercely.
Her mind swirled, and her body came alive at the promise in his tone. If she didn’t trust him, the clawing empty ache that had been living inside her since the moment she told him she didn’t love him years ago would never be filled. And she loved him so much, she wept from the intensity. She had never stopped either, and since he came back, the possibilities of true happiness had been hovering, and she was tired of doubts belittling her joy. Only a fool would think the future was absolutely certain. And Willow was no fool. She wiggled in his arms, and he gave her enough space so she could tug his lips to her. “I want you, now and always—”
Her words were smothered as he seized her lips in a powerful kiss. Desire shot through her. His tongue stroked into her mouth with exquisite thoroughness, and any resistance she possessed caught fire and burned to ashes in mere seconds. He smelled lush and rich—evocative. He tasted even better. Alasdair pressed kisses over the arc of her throat, muttering sweet nonsense as he stormed all her defenses with bliss.
“I need you, Alasdair, love me,” she urged huskily.
He pulled from her. Sounds shifted in the room, and she inhaled sharply as she interpreted the sound of his shirt being drawn over his head and tossed away, followed by the soft purr of his breeches sliding off his skin. She waited, laden heat surging through her limbs. He pressed her body to his, and she jolted at the contact.
He was naked.
He undressed her in silence. Slowly unfastening the tiny buttons that adorned the back of the stiff satin of her dress, she listened to it as it swished to the carpet. He untied her lace festooned petticoats, and they joined her dress around her feet. His fingers moved to unlace her stays and swiftly they too slithered to the ground.
He turned her to him, and her heart clenched at the kiss he pressed against her forehead.
She stroked her hands over well-defined muscles, enjoying the heat and power of his body. Her fingers trailed over his abdomen down to his thighs and brushed against the heated length of him. She gasped at the silky feel. Her fingertips glided over his shaft, and a muttered curse slipped from him. He was long and thick, and she could feel the pulsing need within him. Willow had seen the male form presented in sculptures and paintings. And had been avidly curious about those parts that were so different from hers. The reality far exceeded everything she could have imagined. She gripped him tightly, her fingers barely closing around his length. As a whole he was magnificent. And she desperately wanted him. He buried his face in her neck, inhaled deeply, then gently stroked the tip of his finger over her back.
“Don’t ever doubt me, Willow. Don’t walk away from me, from this, from us,” he said, his voice now roughened.
His words splintered the dam of doubt she had been clinging onto. “Yes,” she whispered. “Never again. Whenever I falter, I will always trust you.”
That was all it took.
He yanked her hard against his chest and claimed her lips. Devoured her. He trailed kisses against her neck and down to her breasts, which were heavy with arousal. She bucked as he flicked his tongue over her throbbing nipple. As if impatient, he swung her into his arms and carried her to the bed in the center of the room. He laid her down and kept trailing kisses over her body without breaking his tender assault. He slid his tongue down to her stomach, licking her navel, and then even lower to her most intimate valley. Willow’s breathing fractured as confusion and lust hazed her mind. He wouldn’t. He did. She arched her hips, lost in the bliss twisting through her veins. He licked and nibbled at her wet flesh, drawing moans and whimpers from her lips.
Her body was on fire with sensations.
She lowered her hand, feeling and encountering his head. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to grip the strands of his curly hair as she arched even more onto his tormenting tongue. She was rewarded with waves of ecstasy splintering through her body. He did not stop his sensual assault, now combining fingers with his tongue. He slipped one, two, and then three fingers inside of her slickness.
“Alasdair,” she gasped.
The sharp bite of pain had a sob clawing from her throat. Then the sweetest of pleasure rushed through her veins. She lost awareness of everything, but the feel of his fingers deep inside of her.
He climbed over her, all power and grace. The heat of his body, the strength of him, caged her, protected even as it intimidated. He was pure hardness where she was voluptuously soft. He tilted her hips and pressed against her wet aching entrance, and then he plunged deep. Willow gasped at the shock of his entry, tightening her grip on his sweat slicked shoulders.
Alasdair held himself still, kissing her until she squirmed, desperate for him to move and end the pressure low in her stomach. But a greater need to bare her soul to him rose in her.
“I should never have run from your love, your passion. I feel safe with you,” she confessed. “I feel loved and protected. I feel like me. Like nothing has changed, and I can be who I am, without being pitied and doubted. I worried my disability would wear on you and eventually turn you to disdain. But I see now that it is not possible. Because you love me with all your being. The adoration I feel in your touch can never fade. And I love you with all of me, Alasdair.”
He trembled in reaction to her declaration, dropping his forehead to hers.
She coasted her hands over his back, and curved her hands possessively over his buttocks, pressed her heels into the bed and arched up to him. It was all the encouragement he needed.
Sweet heavens. The pull of his flesh as he withdrew and then sank into her was glorious. Pleasure cascaded through her and she moaned into his kiss, loving the strength he took her with. She did not feel fragile, but like a woman, his woman. She gloried in the feel of his powerful body surging inside of her. The sweetest erotic pain blended with the pleasure of each deep thrust, but she never wanted him to stop.
She never wanted this interlude to end.
She loved him.
Alasdair kept his thrusts slow and deep, delighting in the way Willow clung to him, and the sweet moans spilling from her throat. Passionately, she yielded to him, and he took it all. It was a feast of the senses as they licked and explored each other. Every touch was an imprint, a brand across his soul. Every sob of pleasure that slipped from her chained him deeper into need. He had to give her everything.
Her delicate fingers skimmed across his brow.
“I desire to be your wife, Alasdair.”
He stilled his thrusting and peered down at her. Joy, wonder, and lust suffused her face. She lifted her mouth to his, and he succumbed to the need burning inside of him. She did not wrest his control from h
im, he willingly surrendered it at her declaration, trusting her to meet his passion.
He nudged her legs open wider, pushing her knees back toward her shoulder and sank into her with stunning strength. Her cries wrapped around him, soothing and encouraging. She gripped him with sublime tightness, a litany of love spilling from her lips as he rode her with deep hard thrusts. She clawed at his back, undulated her hips against his strokes, taking him, chaining him to the desire that flowed between them.
He swallowed her moans, smothering his shout of satisfaction, as she rippled over his cock tighter than anything he had ever felt, drawing his release from him. He tumbled with her into more than pleasure.
He dived into love and the promise of happiness with her.
Epilogue
Fifteen months later
“Our daughter has your features. Beautiful dark hair, the greenest of eyes and the palest of skin. I can see I will have gray hair before my time.”
His sweet wife chuckled, delight chasing her features.
“And our son?” she asked, glancing toward his voice.
Alasdair gaze shifted to the babe cradled on Willow’s left side. “A perfect little man, but he has more of my features.”
She had only given birth a few hours ago, but she glowed with love and excitement instead of exhaustion.
“Aren’t they perfect?” she crooned, dipping to inhale their scent before placing gentle kisses unerringly on the tops of their heads.
The past year had been filled with passion and adventure. Willow still played the pianoforte every morning but also added horse riding as a part of her routine. At first, she had been hesitant in how far she rode Daisy, and Alasdair had been with her every step of the way, guiding and helping her. Within weeks, she had been galloping across the plains of the estate, trusting him and her horse, recalling her former skill as an expert horsewoman. He had not been surprised when only after six months of marriage she had become with child. He made love to her every night and at least twice in the day.
