“Yes, why?” Her voice turned thin with nerves.
He reached her maidenhead and nudged against it. It held fast. “When a bandage is stuck to a wound, is it better to rip it off, or peel it slowly?”
She hissed and then replied in a wavering voice, “Well, if it's a bad injury, you have to soak it, or you open the wound again and have to start over.”
Damn it, come on. “What about if it's small?”
“Rip it. Get the pain over with quickly.”
“All right then.”
He braced one hand on her uninjured hip and penetrated her with a hard thrust, tearing her hymen apart and filling her to the limit.
She squeaked in protest.
“I know that hurt, love. I'm sorry.” He stroked her hip. “That was the blockage I told you about.”
“Are we consummated now?” she asked breathlessly.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
And she's probably ready to be finished. I should withdraw, let her recover, he thought as her sex clenched and fluttered in protest of his girth. He groaned. Forgive me, love. I need you. “Are you able to take a few more moments?”
“Of what?” she asked, and then sucked in a breath as he slowly withdrew.
“Remember how good it felt when your pleasure peaked?” he asked, easing slowly back in. His breath hissed between his teeth as her clinging passage caressed his erection inch by glorious, tortuous inch.
“Yes.”
“I want one too.” He eased back.
“What do I do?” she asked. Then she whimpered as he pushed in again.
“Just stay still. I'll take care of it.”
She stayed still. He pulled back and thrust into her again. No wonder some men pursue virgins. Her tightness tantalized him. She caressed his erection with wanton sweetness as he carefully increased the speed and force of his thrusts. Each inward drive coaxed a whimper from her, and an answering squeeze of her sex. He groaned as his seed spilled, filling her belly. Panting, Christopher clutched his wife's hip, shuddering and gasping in the hardest, longest, most earth-shaking climax he'd ever experienced.
And then he gently withdrew from her clenching sex, lifting her from the pillows and arranging her on her bottom on the bed. She winced as her bruised buttocks landed on the sheets.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Making a bloodstain. Stay there.” To keep her still, he kissed her mouth. “Well, little wife, what did you think of that?”
“Interesting,” she said, and then giggled a bit hysterically.
“Did you hate it?” he asked, now feeling uncertain. Was it bad of me to ask for my own satisfaction? Was that selfish?
“Of course not,” she replied. She stroked his cheek. Then another thought chased across her face. “Um, it won't always hurt like that, will it?”
“No,” he promised. “I'll give you some time for the soreness to subside before I take you again. After you recover inside, the penetration will feel good for both of us.”
She considered, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. “Have you done this often before?”
“Fairly often, yes,” he admitted.
“Ah.”
“But we're married, Katerina. From now on my only partner is you.” Believe me, sweet girl. I mean it.
“I doubt I can live up to what you've had.”
Not doubting my fidelity, but her own worth. She's so uncertain of her value, poor darling, but she can't be more wrong. Her innocent loving had been quite pleasing, rather more than the jaded experience displayed by his previous lovers. He had to reassure her. Giving her a tender smile, he said, “Actually, dear, it was perfectly lovely, fully equal to anything I've done before. And you're mine, my wife. That's very special.” And it had been special, and much more powerful than he had realized it would be.
She smiled. Then she yawned hugely. “Sorry.”
No surprise. She's had a hard time of it. “Think nothing of it. Would you like to sleep for a while?”
“Yes please.”
She stretched out on the bed and Christopher covered her with the blankets, noting in passing that they had succeeded in making an obvious mark, her virgin blood mixed with his semen on the sheet. Proof. Excellent. He kissed her cheek, then realized there was something important he had to do. Quickly washing himself, he pulled on clean garments, he headed out into the hallway, and summoned the hotel's housekeeper, Mrs. Bristol and his valet, Mackenzie.
Within moments of him ringing the bell, a quiet scratch on the door revealed a plump, smiling woman in a gray dress, silver side curls bouncing around her face from under a white mob cap. Close on her heels, Mackenzie entered the sitting room, his uniform and hair rumpled, yawning hugely.
“Sorry, boss,” the man said, the sounds of Yorkshire laying so heavily on his voice, Christopher almost couldn't understand him. It's always worse when he's tired.
“Not to worry,” Christopher replied. “When did you get back?”
“Around two in the morning,” Mackenzie said, rubbing his eyes. Their redness made the cornflower irises look even brighter. The young man tugged at his uniform.
“Is your mother better?” Christopher asked.
“Aye,” he replied, rumpling his already-messy reddish hair so it stood up like the flame of a candle.
Christopher nodded in acknowledgment and got straight to the point. “Friends,” he addressed them, “your discretion and service are excellent. And now I have a difficult request to ask of you both. I have married a lovely young woman who has suffered more than anyone should ever have to suffer. The abuse she has endured is beyond imagination. But she's mine now, and I will not allow her to be harmed again. As of a few minutes ago, we were married beyond all redemption. Do you understand?”
They nodded, faces wreathed in questions.
He continued. “First of all, no one is to know of the abuse. I don't want her embarrassed. If anyone asks, please say we were struck with a mad passion for each other and could do nothing other than marry as quickly as possible. It's not a lie, you understand?”
“Yes sir,” Mackenzie agreed. Mrs. Bristol nodded again.
“And then, I want you both to gossip like never before. Tell everyone who will listen how very… passionate our marriage is. Soon, I will take her out for a while. Mrs. Bristol, there is a bloodstain on the bed. You understand what this means.”
“I do,” the woman replied, her plump cheeks turning pink even as her lips curved into a smile. The skin around her blue eyes crinkled.
“It is vitally important that everyone know it was there. In fact, if you would be so kind as to save the sheet without cleaning it, it might be beneficial. But you must tell everyone how very… physical my wife and I are together. There can be no doubt, in the interests of her safety, that our marriage is completely legal. Can I count on you both?”
“Oh yes,” Mrs. Bristol said, and Mackenzie agreed easily.
The uncomfortable conversation finished, Christopher dismissed the two and flopped gracelessly on the sofa. At last, he'd accomplished his goal of ensuring Katerina's safety, and now, he suddenly felt overwhelmed by the events of the last twenty-four hours. As the adrenaline faded, his mind cleared. A square of paper caught his eye. He lifted it; the marriage license.
Dear Lord, I really married Katerina. What was I thinking? For the last eighteen hours he had been caught up in a frenzy of protectiveness towards this young woman, but to what personal cost? He desired her, but he barely knew her. And now she's my wife, my utterly irrevocable wife. Perhaps this impulsive act was not the only way to save her, but try though he might, he could think of no other. In order to preserve her, he had sacrificed himself; his future, his ability to choose a wife later, when he was ready. If she never healed, if she remained wary and damaged, or worse, went mad, there would be no recourse.
But then he remembered all their brief encounters. How sweet she is, how eager to be loved, to be touched. She even enjoyed bei
ng bedded. There was every chance that, in time, her natural passionate nature would emerge, and she would be a perfectly adequate wife. He imagined making love to her again, when her back was better, her bruises faded, when she was no longer sore. She'd done well all things considered, and it would be better the next time. A slow smile spread across his face. Passionate lovemaking is not the worst way to start a marriage.
A knock sounded at the door, actually, a loud hammering. Someone's beating with a fist. He opened quickly, not wanting Katerina's rest to be disturbed. Throwing it open, he found himself face to face with a thickset, dark-skinned man whose silver-streaked black hair had been slicked into submission with a rather excessive amount of pomade.
“Can I help you, sir?” Christopher asked coldly.
“Where is she?” The breath issuing from the interloper smelled strongly of liquor. Christopher made a face at the unpleasant aroma.
“Whom do you seek?” he asked in a rude drawl.
“You know. You have my daughter. I want her back.” The sounds of Italy lay heavily in the man's voice.
Christopher's jaw clenched with icy rage. He leaned insouciantly against the door frame and challenged the other man with a sneer. “No.”
Signore Valentino's face turned red. “I'll have the law on you.”
“Go ahead,” Christopher offered, examining his fingernails. “You no longer have any legal right to her.”
“What?” The dark face contorted in rage.
“We're married, Katerina and I, and she's safe from you.” Christopher met the dark angry eyes with a bit of his own ill will.
“Safe? What the hell do you mean?” The other man's eyes shifted nervously.
“I saw what you did to her,” Christopher said, letting more of his anger show, “but you'll never hurt her again.”
A vein in Valentino's temple began to throb. “Did that lying little whore say I did something to her?”
Christopher wanted to hit him. His fingers actually itched with the urge, but he forced himself to hold back. “To the best of my knowledge she's never lied, someone did something terrible to her. And as for her being a whore, not likely. She gave me her first kiss. Her virgin blood is staining my sheets as we speak. So, you see, Katerina Valentino no longer exists, only a very satisfied Mrs. Christopher Bennett. Good day to you.”
This provoked an extended round of Italian curses, which Christopher found utterly unimpressive. He began to close the door. A heavy fist clamped onto the wood.
“You'll never be free of me, signore. I keep what's mine.”
“Then you should have treated her better. She's not yours anymore. Now release the damned door or I'll close it on your hand.”
The hand disappeared, and Christopher slammed the door shut and locked it.
A soft sound emanated from the bedroom and he followed it. Katerina sat up in the bed, tears streaming down her lovely face, her shoulders shaking. He slid into the bed beside her, taking her in his arms. She shook in his arms like a leaf in a thunderstorm.
“Did you hear that, love?” he asked tenderly.
“Ye…yes,” she managed to choke out.
“He's gone. You're safe.” He stroked her scars below her shoulder blades.
“No one has ever protected me, not since my mother died.” At that admission, she sobbed deeply, struggling to hold back a flood of grief.
“Everything is different now,” he reminded her. “You're a married woman. Your safety is my responsibility.” I don't regret that, he realized. I'm happy to have made this decision. That she reached out to him for comfort caused a feeling of warmth to spread out from the vicinity of his chest, warming every finger and toe. But despite the power of the moment, she still had much ground to cover. “You've been through hell, haven't you?”
“Yes,” she admitted choking on the word.
“Then let it out. Don't hold back. You're allowed to grieve. Your childhood was a nightmare. Your future is much brighter, but you have to grieve that past before you can move on. Let go, darling.”
He stroked her hair, and the tender touch lanced deep into a festering sore. A lifetime of misery came tumbling out of her in hysterical, wracking sobs. She cried and cried until at last, she cried herself to sleep in the safety of her husband's arms. He lowered her to the bed, positioning her gently on her side. That wasn't the end of it. Not even close, he realized. There's no way to cure a decade of abuse in a single good cry, but it's a start. She feels safe enough with me to share the vulnerability of her tears. Suddenly exhausted, Christopher lay down beside his wife and succumbed to slumber himself.
* * *
Giovanni cursed to himself as he stormed out of the hotel. Damned man. How dare he meddle with my property? Does the gall of these self-important peasants know no bounds? Giovanni was descended from a long line of the highest rank in Florence, where he had been born. On his mother's side, they could trace their heritage all the way back to the Medicis. Granted, it was not exactly a legitimate line, but real and traceable nonetheless. We are descended from royalty. On his father's side, he was sole heir to a wealthy shipping company from Naples. It was a less exalted connection, but the company ran itself without his interference and provided him a great deal of income. No longer welcome in Florence, he had relocated here, hoping England, with its powerful queen, would be more respectful of his elevated rank. But here, like in Italy, jumped-up farmers and working-class rabble had risen above their station and were challenging the right of those ordained by heaven to rule.
Deep in his ruminations, he failed to notice a young clerk hurrying the other direction with a sheaf of papers clutched in his arms. The two men collided, sending the sheets fluttering in all directions. Giovanni growled in annoyance at the youth's clumsiness, and hurried on, deliberately planting his wet and muddy boot on one of the meticulously prepared documents, reducing it to trash.
What is wrong with people? Even Carolina, his late wife, had struggled for years against his God-given authority. He'd finally had to be very hard on her, and she'd not taken care of her wounds properly and become septic. Silly cow. She never understood what a favor I'd done her, lifting her from the dirt of her father's olive farm and allowing her the privilege of carrying my child. Katerina has always been better, more submissive.
His daughter had never argued with him, had taken her punishments without complaint. Her playing soothed him when he was angry. Yet she had dared defy him and had fled like a hare into a man's arms. It's that man. He must have dishonored her. What a puttana. Just like her mother, easily seduced. Giovanni shook his head. Black and ugly rage roiled in his head until the world seemed bathed in a dark and ominous haze. I need another drink and a method for venting my rage. But what to do? Ah yes, my favorite brothel. They will have a whip and a girl. That will definitely help. As he walked along towards the discreet townhouse, he considered what must be done. This insult cannot go unpunished. His whore of a daughter and her disrespectful cotton weaver would pay for this insult.
Chapter 8
Katerina woke suddenly as the late afternoon sun began slanting through the window across her face. She felt more relaxed than she ever could remember feeling. She was warm and comfortable… and nude; completely naked lying in bed with her astonishing husband. She took a moment to admire his handsomeness: his dark brown hair, nearly as dark as hers, his finely chiseled face, almost angelic in its symmetrical proportions, his flexible lips, which felt so wonderful pressed against hers, his beautiful silver eyes, now closed in slumber, long lashes resting on his cheeks, his firm and manly jaw. He's glorious, and he's mine; my savior, my lover, my husband. He sacrificed himself for me. I'll have to try hard to make him happy. He had earned a lifetime's worth in a single day.
His eyes opened, showing their lovely misty color, and the corners crinkled as he smiled at her. She smiled back shyly.
“Did you rest well, sweet girl?” he asked, and her stomach swooped.
She smiled a bit wider. “Yes. I fee
l very good. You?”
The corner of his mouth turned up. “Excellent. Are you sore?”
“Where?” she asked, her cheeks heating as various interpretations flitted through her mind.
“Everywhere.”
Katerina took stock of herself. “I think my back is a little better.”
He gave a brief nod. “Good. Your belly?”
She pressed against the bruises. “It hurts, but not as much as yesterday.”
“And here?” His fingers trailed through the hair at the apex of her thighs. She blushed.
“Sore. Quite sore.”
His boyish half-grin turned regretful. “Not surprising. You were rather hard to deflower.”
Katerina studied the eyelet pattern of the bedspread. “Sorry.”
He lifted her face with one finger under her chin. “It's the way you were made, love. I just hated hurting you.”
Every time he opens his mouth, he says something even sweeter. “I didn't mind, honestly. I have a pretty high tolerance. It wasn't the worst thing I've felt.”
“I can imagine,” he replied grimly. “And now, are you hungry?”
At the mention of food, her stomach gurgled loudly. “Yes, I am. Famished actually.”
“Me too. I have an idea. Shall we see if my parents would be interested in having us for dinner?”
Parents? Oh dear. Julia. What will she think about all this? “Will they be upset?”
“About what?”
“That we married without telling them,” Katerina explained.
Christopher shook his head. “I doubt it. Mother wanted us together. She understood the urgency. She'll explain it to father. All will be well, love. You're a Bennett now.”
Katerina smiled. “That sounds perfect.”
“Then get dressed. You look lovely, but it's rather much for going visiting.”
She laughed, startled to notice it felt a bit rusty. How long had it been since she'd been comfortable enough to laugh? I can't remember. She scrambled stiffly from the bed, lifting her chemise uncertainly. “This is disgusting.”
Keeping Katerina (The Victorians Book 1) Page 8
