A Husband Returned: Men of Wicked Sorrow, Book One

by Wynne Roman

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I . . .” Words failed her, so she tried a different tactic. “What are you doing to me?”

  He gave a soft, satisfied laugh. “What do you mean?”

  She shook her head, refusing to meet his gaze, and he chuckled again. A moment later, he moved, pushing up on his knees and gazing directly down at her. That drew her regard.

  “Is it this?” His finger traced circles around one nipple, the other, and then leaned over to allow his tongue and teeth to do the same.

  She gasped, but his only response was to slip farther down the mattress. “I haven’t been here yet,” he noted as he dropped an open-mouthed kiss on her navel.

  She sighed, or did she moan? Neither, she thought wildly, because everything he did robbed her of breath. “Or here,” he added wickedly.

  “Nathan, no!”

  Her cry came too late. His fingers had already slipped over her feminine mound and dipped all the way between her legs.

  He peered up at her through the length of his hair and smiled sensuously. It was the first real smile she’d seen from him since his return. Or, maybe ever. The fleeting thought teased her.

  “Is this it?” he asked as he stroked his fingers over her femininity. “You didn’t want me to find out you’re wet?”

  She closed her eyes in humiliation, but they flew open again when he barked, “Mariah! None of that.” He moved his fingers through her damp slickness, toying with her and making shiver after shiver race through her. “Look at me.”

  She did but couldn’t stop herself from whispering, “What are you doing?”

  “Touching you.”

  “But . . .”

  Yes, she knew that, but what else could she say? Any questions weren’t so much about what he was doing; she was more bewildered about what he was making her feel. He seemed to share none of her concerns. Clearly, he wanted to touch her that way, and he didn’t act as though he were put off by her body’s reaction.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Like what?” she breathed.

  “My touch.”

  He didn’t give her the chance to answer before he leaned forward to take a nipple in his mouth again. His fingers remained busy, stroking between her legs, and when she would have tightened against his intrusion, he pushed her wide. His mouth on her breast made her legs move more anxiously.

  “Rye?”

  “What?” Was that hoarse whisper hers?

  “I asked if you liked it.”

  “What are you . . . doing to me?”

  “Pleasuring you.” His tone of satisfaction didn’t escape her, even in her physically intoxicated state.

  She lost a breath and had to try again. “Am I supposed to feel this way?”

  He swooped up until his lips rested lightly against hers. Her eyes grew wide, and she found herself looking straight into his deep, fierce gaze.

  “Like what?”

  “Like . . .” She shook her head. “Like I’m going to fly out of my body.”

  “Yeah, honey, you are,” he said against her mouth.

  He shifted again, moving to position himself between her legs. She remembered the stance from when he had come to her before. She had never called it lovemaking, but then he did things differently again.

  Crouching there, he pushed her legs up until her knees bent in an undoubtedly embarrassing and yet oddly arousing position. It revealed her private place to him—to his eyes—in a way that was very different from him merely touching her.

  Her eyes snapped shut as she caught a ragged breath, but he would have none of it. “Open those beautiful eyes, Rye,” he ordered. “Watch.”

  Watch. The tone of his voice demanded her cooperation. She opened her eyes despite her uncertainties, and he said it again. “Watch and see what we do.”

  He held his manhood, stroking up and down in a fierce, heavy way that both embarrassed and fascinated her. He shifted forward until he could drag the tip of it through her growing wetness. Up and down, down and up, until he swiped over a place just above her wetness where all sensation seemed to collect.

  A small shriek escaped her, leading to a low, heavy groan that sounded like it had been dragged from her. He did it again, touched that same frighteningly delicious place, and the same ragged sound came from deep within her.

  “You like that.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes,” she breathed.

  Something totally foreign and indescribable and mystifying was happening to her, and she couldn’t begin to understand. Her body was turning into some frightening physical being that she didn’t recognize.

  “You want me to make it feel better?”

  “Better?” She tried to answer his growling demand.

  “Better.”

  Her head thrashed from side to side. “I can’t think.”

  He kissed her fully, his tongue surging in and out of her mouth. She tried to kiss him back, but he straightened with a wicked grin. “You don’t need to think, honey. I’ll take care of you.”

  What did he mean? Her mind had gone soft and even more confused.

  She felt him then, the crown of his cock pressed into her wetness. She blinked when he didn’t shove himself forward like he’d always done before. Rather, she stared into his fierce gaze as he took his time entering her. Slow and steady, he pushed until he reached the hilt. She knew it by the feel of his hips tight against her.

  “Goddamn, you feel good,” he groaned.

  “I do?” she asked, admitting only to herself that it felt different—she felt different—than ever before.

  “Tight. Wet. Perfect.”

  Her body tightened with the last word. Perfect. Nothing about her had ever seemed perfect to anyone before. Not to herself, and especially not her husband.

  He started to move then, slowly at first. He withdrew, pushed forward, pulled back, and advanced again. He kept his pace steady, again and again, and she found her hips wanted to move with him. Odd, mewling sounds bubbled up from deep within her, but she had no way to stop them. She could do nothing except follow wherever Nathan led her, and she went willingly.

  An odd excitement had begun to build within her, leaving her anxious and searching. Some new sensation lurked just beyond her reach, leaving her bemused about what it was and why she suddenly wanted it so badly. It only became worse when his hand settled between them and his thumb began to stroke over that strangely sensitive spot.

  “Nathan!” she cried as he drove quicker, harder, and caressed that one magical place.

  “I know, honey.” He sounded both rough and satisfied at the same time. “I know. Let me have it, and I’ll make it better.”

  Have it? Have what? she wondered dimly, but then she lost all train of thought. His thrusting became longer, deeper, harder, faster, and the pressure of his thumb increased. She lost all capacity to think; she could only react to the myriad sensations that crashed over her.

  “Nathan!” She screamed his name in mindless abandon as her body exploded into pure bliss. It drove her to the edge of . . . something. Unconsciousness?

  She couldn’t collect any part of her to know anything beyond her husband, shouting that shortened version of her name. “Rye. Oh, Christ, Rye.”

  She lost a part of herself then. She became a part of Nathan in a way she’d never known, and she let herself follow him down into his pleasure.

  11

  Nathan awoke early the following morning, as he’d done for all of his life. Mariah lay on her side facing him, her body tucked against his, and her head on his shoulder. Her long black hair spread out behind her like a silky veil, and her naked form looked as delicious as it had last night.

  His body tightened, his already stiff cock growing harder at the sight of her. He grunted and pulled away slowly, careful not to wake her. Part of him wanted to take her again, but the rest of him refused to allow it. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, need her that much.

  He tugged the covers over her delightfully naked body, e
arning a satisfied sigh as she settled into her pillow. He must have worn her out. The thought might have made him smile, but he wouldn’t give into it.

  He turned away from his wife and pulled on his clothes, carrying his boots with him out the door. He tugged them on in the hall and started for the stairs.

  He had done what he’d set out to do. Seduced his wife. He didn’t regret it; he’d meant it when he had decided to restart their relationship in the way he meant to go forward. No, he couldn’t have what he really wanted, but after everything the last four years had wrought, he couldn’t stomach the thought of spending the rest of his life in undeclared warfare against what he did have.

  He simply hadn’t expected her to be so responsive. Her nipples had tightened to diamonds, begging for his mouth. Her pussy had gone so wet, demanding his cock, and he’d given her what she wanted. Needed. She’d done whatever he asked of her, completely submissive to his desires.

  So why couldn’t he love her?

  He cared about her, or at least about what happened to her. Was that the same as caring for her? And how could that compare to love? To the feelings he had for Wren? It had never been enough to allow for affection or tenderness when it had been Susannah in his heart.

  Nathan reached the bottom of the stairs just as Tristan stepped into the hallway from his study. It was the same room from which Jordan had ruled his empire, planned his family’s legacy, and doled out his punishments. The brothers stared at each other.

  “Breakfast in the bunkhouse,” Tristan said and turned for the front door. Nathan followed silently.

  The dogtrot style bunkhouse had cooking and dining facilities on one side, with a large sleeping room on the other. Cowboy paraphernalia, shaving basins, and a large, droopy-looking hound shared the dogtrot between them. Tristan ignored it all and headed straight for the dining area. Nathan stepped into place behind him and walked right into the scent of scorched biscuits.

  “Who drew cooking duty?” Tristan demanded, his voice sharp with irritation.

  “Who do you think?” Gabriel stood just inside the door, next to a smaller, sheepish-looking man.

  “Hell fire, Luther, you think I’m going to take you off kitchen duty just because you burn the biscuits every goddamn time?”

  Luther, young and clearly inexperienced, hung his head. He was dressed like the others in heavy work pants and flannel shirt. “No, boss. I just can’t get the durned temperature right.”

  Tristan gave a brief nod. What more was there to say? Nathan remembered ranch life well enough to know that they’d eat the burned biscuits and whatever else Luther had cooked. They had no other choice.

  “We need to hire a cook,” Gabriel observed pointedly as he stepped close to Nathan and Tristan. The Segundo kept his voice low enough that no one else could hear. “The men can’t keep up their strength surviving on these kinds of rations.”

  Tristan gave another of those noncommittal nods as Nathan asked, “What happened to Cookie?”

  “He disappeared with Rosa, according to Mariah.”

  Nathan looked at his brother. “So, the vaqueros have been left to fend for themselves?”

  Tristan lifted a shoulder, but it was Gabriel who said, “Mariah helps out as she can. It’s not always possible, though.”

  “Hell, no,” Nathan snapped. “Not when Carolyn uses her like a personal maid.”

  “Talk to your wife about that,” Tristan said sharply. “I keep telling her to ignore the demands.”

  Nathan shot his brother a disgusted look. “Rye would never do that, and you know it. She was—what?—five when Missus Carpenter died? She missed her mother, and Carolyn has always taken advantage of it.”

  The other men shared a knowing look, unable to argue with Nathan’s pronouncement. Carolyn’s maternal instincts had always been half-hearted at best. If they hadn’t been enough for two rowdy sons, how could she come anywhere near being the mother figure a distressed young woman might need?

  One by one, the ranch cowboys began filing into the room. All of them grumbled about the stench, reminding Nathan of the question at hand. A new cook.

  “We’re adding new men every week,” Gabriel commented as though he, too, remembered. “Ben came this week, Luis a week ago. Past time to start looking for a cook.”

  Tristan and his Segundo began discussing the Sangre Real’s options, but Nathan listened only half-heartedly. He didn’t disagree with the idea of a full-time cook; it was the way the ranch had always operated before the war. For the moment, however, he was more interested in observing Gabriel without drawing attention to himself.

  The other man was taller, topping Nathan by perhaps an inch or two. His blond hair was long, not quite like Nathan’s but almost so, and his beard looked more like only several days’ growth of whiskers. A black leather eyepatch covered one eye, a stark pink-and-white scar snaking out to curve down over his cheek. The other eye was keen and blue and missed nothing.

  Nathan recognized Gabriel’s attentiveness and knew it for exactly what it was.

  Gabriel Bonham had shown an interest in Mariah, and Nathan had returned to ruin it. Her claim that they were just friends may have been true. On her part, at least. Nathan knew better when he looked at Gabriel.

  The man wanted her. It was up to Nathan to assert his rights. In everything.

  “Are you interested in my opinion?” he interjected coolly.

  “Your opinion?” Tristan snapped. “You’ve been back for a day. Less. It’s too soon for you to have formed an opinion that’s worth a damn.”

  His brother was trying to goad him; Nathan could see the tactic for what it was. Jordan had used methods like that often, particularly when he meant to keep his two sons at odds. If you anger a weaker man, his father had counseled them more than once, then he’ll come at you rash and unthinking. It gives you power.

  Nathan would be giving Tristan none of his power if he could help it.

  “I lived here all my life,” he said with deliberate indifference. “Learned the same lessons from Jordan that you did. As my inheritance, I’d say it’s more my decision than anyone else’s.”

  The other two men went still. Oddly so, Nathan thought, and a cold chill snaked up his spine. He stared at his brother, demanding an explanation. Tristan looked back implacably.

  “The day goes as planned,” he instructed Gabriel. “I’ll be out later.”

  “Breakfast?” Gabriel asked carefully.

  Tristan shook his head. “I’ll have Mariah fix us something. Right now, my brother and I need to talk.”

  He wasn’t going to like it, Nathan thought as he trailed Tristan across the yard. He had a bad feeling about whatever his brother was going to say.

  Tristan diverted them toward the cookhouse, where smoke drifted lazily from the chimney. Mariah was there, her siren hair wound up in that very proper hairdo, and she was dressed in another plain black gown. Her smile looked a bit wary while she mixed biscuit dough in a large bowl.

  “Coffee?” Tristan demanded without benefit of a good morning or any other greeting.

  She blinked, reached for two enameled cups on a shelf. Wordlessly, she filled each with coffee, handed Nathan his, and then offered Tristan the other.

  A corner of his brother’s mouth quirked, but he only said, “We’ll be in the study. No interruptions.”

  She raised a brow. “Will you want breakfast when you’re finished?”

  Tristan merely nodded and turned on his heel. Nathan followed guardedly, almost missing the soft, “Good morning, Nathan,” as he stepped through the doorway.

  Instinct borne during one too many battles warned him away from the distraction, even one as simple as exchanging greetings with his wife. He trusted Tristan as much as he’d ever trusted their father, which was not at all. Too much time had passed, too much had changed, and the result could mean anything.

  Tristan seated himself behind what Nathan still considered Jordan’s desk. Nathan took a seat on the tufted leather sofa n
earby, rather than settle into one of the two wine-colored leather chairs that faced the overlarge desk. He was already at a disadvantage; he needn’t play into any games Tristan was trying to produce.

  He took a drink of coffee. “You wanted to talk?” he asked, pitching his voice to show only idle curiosity.

  Tristan stared at him. “A lot changed while we were gone.”

  “So it appears.”

  “You were reported dead shortly after Jordan died.”

  “Mariah told me.”

  “His will hadn’t yet gone through probate.”

  “And?”

  “By the time that happened, I had become the legal heir.”

  Something within Nathan froze as though an arctic wind had suddenly blown in through the window and encased his body in ice. Tristan’s cold words echoed in his head like the reverberations of cannon fire.

  I had become the legal heir.

  “What?” He spoke as soft and low as possible and still make the word audible. Even that couldn’t disguise the deadly tone that echoed between them. Nathan recognized every unspoken threat that careened through his mind, but he could do nothing to mask his emotions.

  Tristan shrugged carelessly. “They learned that I was alive, so I was declared the heir. Legally, I possess it all.”

  The booming announcement in his head changed. I possess it all. I possess it all.

  Nathan said nothing, just stared at Tristan’s expression. He searched deeply, looking for . . . something. Sorrow. Regret. Even smugness.

  There was nothing.

  “What do you mean?” He should have been able to think of a better question, but there was nothing. Simply a gaping emptiness inside his head, his heart, his soul.

  Tristan shrugged. “The Rancho de Sangre Real. It’s all mine.”

  “Mistakenly.” The word sounded dead.

  “It doesn’t matter. The will was probated, and it’s legal.”

  “Are you certain about that?” Nathan hadn’t intended to reveal the dare in his voice, but it was there, all the same.

  “As much as I can be with the deed in my name.” Tristan sounded bored.