Always Mine

by Cheryl Holt

  “I’ve confronted him,” he coldly said, “but it doesn’t wipe away my failing to protect Nathan.”

  She couldn’t deduce what that might mean, and she didn’t care about a stranger named Judah. But she cared very much about the other man: Nathan Blake. He was her half-brother, the one she remembered so vividly from the period before she’d been conveyed to Carter Crossing at age three.

  “Have you spoken to Lord Selby since you returned to England?” she asked.

  “Just once.”

  “How is he faring? Was he maimed during his ordeal? Has he recovered?”

  “He’s fine, thinner than he used to be, but fine. He’s angry with us, which is completely understandable, but he got married recently. After he arrived home? I think it’s helped to smooth over some of the trauma for him.”

  The news was unbelievably thrilling, but she was sad to realize how little she knew about him. It had her speculating again whether she shouldn’t write to him and explain who she was. Would he reply?

  “Have you met his wife?” she asked. “What’s she like?”

  “I haven’t met her, and it’s another mark of how awful this year has been. For over a decade, he was a best friend and constant companion, but he wed without informing me. He’s so enraged about what occurred in Africa, and it haunts me.”

  “What’s he like?” She prayed her query sounded blasé and nonchalant.

  “He’s smart and tough and brave. In any dicey debacle, he’d be the first to jump into the fray. You could count on him to guard your back.”

  “What a lovely compliment, and I’m sure—with your having had such a fond acquaintance in the past—you’ll reconcile with him someday.”

  “I hope so. It’s difficult to accept that he hates me now.”

  “I’m certain he doesn’t. What was his childhood like?”

  “He had a hard time as a boy. His father died when he was six, and afterward, he was forced to live with his grandfather—who was a monster.”

  “How was he a monster?”

  “Nathan was incorrigible when he was small, and his grandfather finally threw up his hands and sent him away to school. He was never allowed to visit after that.”

  “He must have been so lonely. Had he any siblings?”

  “No, no siblings.”

  So…he wouldn’t know about me. The prospect crushed her like a heavy weight.

  “How did he survive his rough upbringing?” she asked.

  “He and Sir Sidney’s son, Sebastian, were classmates, and Sir Sidney took him under his wing and shaped him into the man he’s become.”

  Each tidbit was like a gold nugget that she would tuck away for later evaluation. He might have just confirmed her memories that she’d resided with her brother when she was tiny. Her father had perished when she was three, so Nathan would have been six.

  She was disconcerted to learn that his childhood had been horrid. She’d imagined him wallowing in splendor at Selby, but it had been dreadful? Would his history make him more approachable? Might he be delighted to meet a half-sister he’d forgotten?

  “I wish I could journey back in time and fix what happened in Africa,” she said. “Or I wish I could wave a magic wand and erase all of it.”

  “Wouldn’t that be something?”

  “Will you ever travel there again?”

  “I doubt it. It wouldn’t be the same without Sir Sidney or Nathan. My other friend, Sebastian Sinclair? He’d have been the one to lead another expedition, but he shares my opinion. Our last trip was too harrowing, and it’s the reason I’m at Carter Crossing. I decided I should move on with my life.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My work with Sir Sidney was carried out simply to earn enough money to execute my plans for Beatrice and Clayton.”

  “Can I convince you not to?”

  He scoffed. “No. And don’t stare at me with those pretty blue eyes of yours. You can’t change my mind, so stop batting your lashes.”

  “I’ve never batted my lashes at a man, and I’m not about to start with you.”

  “What are you inclined to attempt? Why are you here?”

  “I can’t describe what’s motivating me. I was at the manor—mostly hiding from Clayton—and I was suffocating. So I went to your room, but you’d packed and left.”

  “I’m no good for you. You shouldn’t have sought me out.”

  “I know that.”

  “Whatever you’re expecting to receive from me, I can’t give it to you.”

  “I don’t know that. I hate that we quarreled, and I hate that you’re so angry. I hate that Clayton is so malicious. I hate that he’s cruel to Alex. I hate that Beatrice has always been spiteful. I hate that I have no control over my fate.”

  “That’s a lot of hating.”

  “Yes, and it’s so unlike me to be disgruntled. I just want to feel better. I want you to feel better. I want us to both be happy. It seems wrong that we’re not.”

  “You want me to be happy?” He pronounced the word happy as if it were an epithet. “There’s one way you can improve my mood.”

  “Tell me what it is, and I’ll try my best.”

  He paused, debating whether to apprise her or not. Ultimately, he said, “Let me show you.”

  He stood her on her feet, and he stood too and took a step toward the bedchamber. Through the open door, she could see the massive bed that was ostentatious enough for a king.

  She hesitated, looking at the bed, looking at him. She was perched on a moral cliff. She could leap over the edge into sin and perdition…or not. She could stay where she was or she could cast caution to the wind.

  A potent yearning swept over her. She longed to go with him. If she didn’t accompany him, would she regret it forever?

  She was positive she would.

  By proceeding, wouldn’t she bind herself to him? He liked her much more than he admitted. If she walked down this wicked road, wouldn’t she snag him for her husband? If they behaved precisely as they shouldn’t, he wouldn’t be able to escape unshackled. He’d have to wed her. It was the required ending for dissolute conduct.

  She had no parent or brother to speak for her. She was all alone, having to make her own choices, to forge her own path. She truly believed they shared a destiny and were being pushed in the same direction. When he tugged on her hand, she nodded and traipsed after him like a puppet on a string.

  * * * *

  As Raven marched into his bedroom, he was keen to figure out his plan. He felt as if he was out of his body and gazing down on some other deranged idiot who was about to commit a grave error.

  He never spent much time reflecting. He didn’t lament over the past or fret about the future. He simply did what needed to be done, and he’d been driven by one goal: vengeance.

  He was standing at the cusp of success, and he should have been celebrating, but he wasn’t. He was thrilled to ruin Beatrice and Clayton, but their downfall couldn’t alter history. His parents and sister were still deceased.

  Once he was finished tormenting them, where would he be? He wondered if he might not become invisible and float off into the sky. What was there to tether him to Oakley or Carter Crossing?

  Before Rebecca had strolled in, he’d been pondering her so furiously that—when she’d first appeared—he’d worried he was hallucinating. Since Mr. Melville had stumbled on them, she’d avoided him like the plague. On the verandah, when he’d intervened to stop Clayton from harassing her, she’d been snotty and ungrateful.

  Yet she’d arrived and was offering herself up to his depraved intentions. He couldn’t guess why she would, but he suspected—in her deluded feminine mind—she assumed it would encourage him to declare himself in love and wed her.

  Unfortunately for her, he had few emotions—if he’d ever had any. From the day they’d met, he’d recognized that he needed something from her. Was this it? Would he use and abuse her in his grand b
ed? Then what?

  He had no idea, but he was absolutely sure he would never regret what he was about to do.

  He wouldn’t give her a chance to reconsider, so he toppled them onto the mattress, rolling them so she was on her back and he was stretched out atop her. He kissed her as if he’d been drowning and she’d thrown him a rope, which wasn’t very far removed from his pathetic situation. The losses of the prior year were piling up so high that he was feeling buried.

  Might she ease some of his sorrow? If she surrendered what he should never have, would he be redeemed in some small fashion?

  She joined in the embrace with an incredible amount of enthusiasm, and he was so relieved to cradle her in his arms, to have her body pressed to his.

  His busy hands roamed over her torso, and her hair was driving him wild. It was tied with a ribbon, and with a nearly desperate yank, he jerked the ribbon away. Her beautiful locks fell free, and he riffled his fingers in the soft strands.

  The more he caressed her, the more frantic he was. He started unbuttoning her gown, lowering the bodice so he could slip a palm under her corset to massage her breast. She was merrily willing to participate, even when he began to pinch and squeeze the nipple, even when he nibbled a trail down her bosom and sucked that nipple into his mouth.

  She didn’t draw away, but scowled and said, “This is so sinful.”

  He grinned. “Yes, it is.”

  “If it’s a sin, it’s wrong.”

  “The preachers claim it is, but I never listen to religious men.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “We came in here to dally. Will you talk me to death instead?”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  “I don’t think I can let you.”

  He dipped down and sucked on her nipple again, and she groaned with what sounded like resignation. He bit and teased as he tugged the hem of her skirt up her legs, past her knees, her thighs, so he could glide his hand into her drawers and touch her where he longed to touch her.

  He slithered his fingers through her womanly hair and slid one into her sheath as his thumb flicked across the nub where all her pleasure was centered.

  Just that fast, just that easily, she cried out and soared to the heavens. He laughed, delighted to discover she was as lusty as he’d imagined her to be. She flew up and up, the agitation never seeming to end, until finally, she reached her peak and tumbled down.

  He captured her lips again, initiating a new round of torrid kisses that went on and on, and they were both so hot he figured they might burst into flames.

  He was beyond the spot where he could practice any restraint, and while there was a very loud voice in his head ordering him to stop and send her home, there was another, much louder voice telling him to proceed and damn the consequences.

  If he’d been more philosophical, he’d have paused to contemplate his motives. Though he appeared sinister and violent, when dealing with females, he was more or less a gentleman. He couldn’t abide scoundrels, and he’d punished more than a few of them.

  If he continued, was he any better or different from Clayton or any other cad? He held himself to a higher ethical standard than other men, so what was Rebecca’s crime against him? Was there one? If there wasn’t, why keep on?

  He was simply feeling so adrift, and he thought—if he fornicated with her—he might find some pieces of himself he’d lost along the way. He wasn’t about to hurt her so much as help himself during a rough patch.

  If his masculine senses hadn’t been ignited, if his cock hadn’t been pushed to its limit, his reasoning might have been clearer, but he was so aroused that he couldn’t fathom stepping away from the ledge where he was currently perched.

  “I’d like you to do something for me,” he said.

  “I know what it is, and I’m not sure I should agree.”

  “Didn’t you come to Oakley to give it to me?”

  “I think so, but now that I’m in the middle of it, I’m waffling.”

  “You’ll like it; I promise.”

  “Men always say that to women.”

  “And it will make me very happy.”

  She snorted. “I suppose it will. But what about me? Will it make me happy?”

  “Yes, definitely—or I wouldn’t consider it.”

  “We’re not married,” she pointed out.

  “We don’t have to be. It’s just physical conduct.”

  “It’s physical conduct that’s expected to have a moral attachment.”

  He shrugged. “You’re winding us back to the preachers, and I’ve already stated my view of them.”

  “What if I’d like it to have some meaning?” she asked. “What if I believe there should be a moral attachment?”

  “Will you crawl out of this bed and sneak back to Carter Crossing? Is that the conclusion you’ll accept?”

  She pondered, then shook her head. “No, I’m not leaving.”

  He brushed a kiss across her lips. “I want to know you like this. It will be marvelous. I swear.”

  She moaned with dismay. “I have no willpower to resist you.”

  “This has been our path from the very start. Can’t you feel it?”

  “Yes, but where will I be when we’re through?”

  “You’ll be right here with me—glad to have done it.”

  She gave the slightest nod, which he took as assent and permission.

  He wasn’t patient, wasn’t the sort to dither and debate, and he’d engaged in all the discussion he could stand. If he didn’t get on with it—and soon!—his body might explode. He was that anxious to finish it.

  He began kissing her yet again, keeping her busy and distracted so she didn’t have the opportunity to second guess.

  Of course they shouldn’t proceed. Of course she shouldn’t participate, but it was too late to retreat and pick a different road.

  As he teased and cajoled, as he tantalized and seduced, he was gradually stripping her of her clothes. There went her shoes and stockings. There went her gown and corset. When he had her down to chemise and drawers, he shifted away and removed his shirt.

  She studied his torso and grinned. “I can’t recollect ever seeing a man’s chest before.”

  “What is your opinion of it?”

  “May I touch you?”

  “You’d better.”

  He clasped her hands and placed them on his skin, her palms like lightning to his phallus, and he was suddenly wishing he could make the event more special for her.

  In many ways, it was her wedding night. After all, a woman only had her first time once in her life, but he was much too titillated to provide the amorous experience she deserved. He was too overwhelmed to slow down or talk about what was coming.

  “Do you know what happens now?” he asked.

  “I have a fairly good idea.”

  “It’s very intimate.”

  “I’ve heard that.”

  “It’s not like anything you’ve ever tried.” A wave of guilt swamped him, but he shoved it away. “Promise me you won’t ever regret this.”

  “Me? Regret being here with you? I never could.” She scoffed and said, “You should promise you won’t regret it. You not quite the scoundrel you pretend to be.”

  He smiled. “I won’t ever regret it.”

  Swiftly, he divested her of her remaining clothes. All the while, he was caressing her, whispering encouragement about how beautiful she was, how much she pleased him. He’d have liked to strip off his own clothes, but he was in too much of a hurry. He unbuttoned his trousers and pulled them down to his flanks. Then he widened her thighs and centered himself, wedging his cock precisely where it was demanding to be.

  She finally exhibited a hint of virginal alarm as she broke off their strident kiss and inquired, “Will it hurt? I’ve been told that it hurts.”

  “It won’t hurt.” He uttered the small lie with a straight face.

  “And aft
erward, I’ll be yours?”

  “Yes, you’ll be mine forever.”

  “Forever…” she murmured. “I like the sound of that.”

  He suspected she would interpret the comment in exactly the wrong way, that she’d assume he was offering marriage, but he couldn’t predict what would occur the next hour, let alone the next day or week. He only knew that he had to be inside her or he’d melt with unquenched desire.

  He kissed her and played with her nipples, as his naughty fingers stroked her down below. As her ardor escalated, as she cried out her passion, he gripped her hips, and he thrust into her, once, and again, and again, and he was fully impaled. He held himself very still, allowing her anatomy to acclimate to her new situation.

  He gazed down at her, wondering what she’d thought of the monumental occasion, and she smirked and said, “I’ve got you now. I’m yours forever, but you’re mine too. You’ll never escape my dastardly clutches.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  “A little, but I’m fine. Are we finished?”

  “Just about. There’s a bit more to it.”

  Tears flooded her eyes, and he couldn’t decide if her deflowering had actually been painful, and she’d fibbed about it or if she was overcome by emotion. He was feeling quite overcome himself, which was strange. He was never barraged by sentiment, but he was being pelted by powerful male urges: to protect her, to cherish her, to keep her with him throughout eternity.

  There were a thousand remarks on the tip of his tongue. He yearned to tell her how much he cared about her, how precious the interval was, but he never waxed poetic, and he wasn’t about to start.

  He tossed the peculiar sensations away so he could march down the carnal road to the end. He pushed in all the way and pulled out all the way, watching her expression as she adapted and joined in.

  At first, it was awkward, but she rapidly figured out how the deed was accomplished. She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him as he proceeded toward the riveting conclusion. He delayed as long as he could, but much before he was ready, his seed surged from his loins. He shoved in and spilled himself against her womb.

  He should have withdrawn to ensure they were safe from any consequences, but the pathetic fact was that she’d aroused him to the point where he couldn’t restrain himself.