The Colonel and The Enchantress (An Enchantress Novel Book 4)

by Paullett Golden

  Her words halting mid-sentence, she made a sound akin to meep. He heard her breathing sharpen and felt her pulse quicken beneath his lips. Her skin was torrid. Ah, yes, this was more what he had in mind. Inhaling her lavender scent, he flicked his tongue across that fiery skin.

  “How many times have you done this?” she blurted out.

  His lips, poised inches from her skin, dried. Righting himself, he stared at her and frowned.

  “Not a conversation I want to have on my wedding night,” he said.

  “Afternoon. Wedding afternoon. But I want to know. Are you very experienced?”

  Grinning, he returned to her neck, murmuring between nibbles, “Let’s find out.”

  Hands to his chest, she pushed him away, however gently. “Are you avoiding the question for a reason?”

  He sighed. “I wouldn’t say I’m avoiding it so much as hoping we can skip the verbal serenade and begin the physical display of our undying love.”

  She giggled. He had not meant to make a joke.

  Thumping his head against the headboard, he said, “Two women. I never counted the number of times.”

  Her eyes widened. “On what basis will you be comparing me to them? I would hate to make a cake of myself. A few pointers would be appreciated. Are there things I should do or not do?”

  What else could he do but laugh? “Mary, I will not be comparing you to anyone. You’ll know what to do once we get started. I promise.”

  “What was it like?” she asked.

  His laughter died a slow death. “It was a long time ago. It was what it was. Hasn’t anyone taught you that ladies shouldn’t ask such questions, certainly not on their wedding night?”

  “Wedding afternoon.” She scolded with a giggle. “Who were they? When?”

  He heaved another sigh. Bending his leg, he draped his arm over his knee and ran a hand through his hair.

  “My first time was hardly worth remembering. I was, I don’t know, sixteen, maybe? The haberdasher’s niece came to town. We knew all about her, courtesy of the haberdasher’s son who regaled us with tales of his exotic and experienced cousin. No idea her age. Older. Nineteen maybe. I’m guessing here. If I recall, she took me to the stables for a roll in the hay. I’m sorry to disappoint you further, but I don’t remember her name, much less what she looked like. I was so nervous, I can’t even tell you if I enjoyed it. I suppose I did. It was over embarrassingly fast, and I was picking hay out of my clothes for the rest of the day.”

  He looked back at her, still frowning, his eyebrows raised. What else was he supposed to say about it? Dashed uncomfortable to say as much as he did.

  Nothing could douse him with cold water faster than such a memory. Really, any memory of a woman other than Mary would have such an effect, but most especially the memory of his first. He did have a vague recollection of her, at least more than he disclosed. Cynthia? Cindy? Sandy, maybe? Raven hair, not unlike Mary’s. Voluptuous, also not unlike Mary, though she was far more curvaceous. What he recalled most was not the itch he suffered in his nethers for a solid month after bedding her, but that her attentions were not exclusive to him. Each of his mates had a turn with her. That had been quite the blow to his ego. Ah yes, the haberdasher’s niece. Not one of his finer memories. At the time, though, he was pleased with himself for finally losing his virginity.

  “That doesn’t sound very exciting,” Mary said, moving to face him, sitting on her knees again. “What about the other woman?”

  Blowing air into his cheeks, he thumped his head against the headboard. “Cian’s wife was soon to enter confinement. He invited the family to London for the spring and summer months to celebrate. I was, let’s see, eighteen by then, I suppose, or thereabouts. I met a young widow in the park, and she fancied me. I fancied her, as well, as young lads do. I wouldn’t have called her a mistress, but I suppose that’s what she was, at least during that brief stay in London. Are you jealous?”

  Mary shook her head. “Go on.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Did you love her? Did you enjoy it?” she pressed.

  “Oh my goodness, Mary.” He laughed self-consciously. “I enjoyed having a bed partner, but that’s as far as the emotional attachment went. I don’t recall us having much in the way of conversations to be honest. I’d like to think I learned a thing or two that year about how to pleasure a woman, but what do I know? I was just a pup.”

  Again, he recalled more than he said, though his words were truthful. Lydia had been her name, the widow of a viscount. The peer had lost his life in a duel over another man’s wife. Lydia favored Duncan because he was not a peer more than for any other reason. He could not even remember how he wound up at her townhouse the first time. He did remember visiting nearly every night for the length of his visit. It was a far different experience than his first. Their parting had been amicable. It ended with a romp in the entrance hall, her skirts about her waist, and her legs wrapped about him, the butler horrified when he walked in on them. Duncan could still remember her laugh when she saw the poor man’s face, as though it were all a farce to her.

  “And there was no one else?” Mary asked.

  Why the devil were they having this conversation? One thing was certain, at least; she appeared to have lost her nervousness. She watched him in earnest, an avid listener. Boldly, he reached a hand to one of her breasts and circled it with his index finger, watching the nipple harden through the thin fabric.

  “I was just about twenty and had my eye on the farmer’s daughter. I was considering courting her, though I had not decided. I took a ride to the lake, fancying a swim and a think, and before my eyes, a goddess appeared on horseback. From that moment, my world changed.”

  “Oh, you mean you met me.”

  Laughing, he circled the other breast until that nipple puckered to match the first. How was she not coming undone? Though he had lost some of his earlier fervor, he could feel himself rousing for action again. The mere sight and now the feel of her breasts were readying him.

  “Of course, I mean you,” he muttered, concentrating on teasing the nipples, alternating from one to the other.

  She gave a low moan but then asked another question, her voice lower, her words stilted. “Did you always want to join the Army?”

  For pity’s sake.

  Dropping his hand to the sheets with a growl, he said, “Yes and no. I romanticized it all during childhood. By the time I reached the point where I was tupping haberdasher nieces in barns, I had lost interest. If you must know, I was planning to become a farmer. It’s how I met the farmer’s daughter I mentioned. I was helping him, learning the trade and all that. But then I met you, and everything changed.”

  “Why didn’t you want to be a farmer anymore after meeting me? You never mentioned it.” Her words were defensive, her tone hurt.

  “No, I never mentioned it because I knew if I were to court a duke’s daughter, I needed a better plan. Your mother would have laughed me out of the house if I said I was a farmer. I thought as a high-ranking officer, I could earn a modicum of her respect. Then came the injury, and here we are now. I never did ask her permission, but it’s probably for the best. I suspect I’ll never earn her respect.”

  Ignoring his words of her mother, she asked, “You don’t still want to be a farmer?”

  “No.” Realizing his tone was exasperated, he softened his next words. “I want to be your husband and run the estate I’ve been gifted. From there, we’ll see. What else would you like to discuss? We have all afternoon and evening it would seem.”

  He folded his arms over his chest, ready to spend the afternoon talking. At some point before tomorrow’s dawn, he would remove that night-rail of hers. He hoped.

  “If you’d only been with those two women, and you favored me, why did you never accept my invitations?” Mary asked, remembering all her failed advance
s.

  Duncan had been the consummate gentleman. Well, no, not quite. There had been some heated moments by the lake in her youth when she thought they were seconds from disrobing, but he never followed through. It was no end of frustration for her. She was certain her mother would allow them to marry if they had been intimate. How else were they to be together? Or so she had questioned at the time.

  “Those women were different, and you know it.” He cast her a knowing look, firelight dancing across his chiseled features. “I wouldn’t mind one of those advances now, though. I promise to accept.”

  She laughed, looking at him from beneath her lashes.

  Of all the times to be nervous, Mary was embarrassed to find it was her wedding day. For so long, she had wanted to feel his arms around her, to know what it was to be loved, and yet now that the moment had arrived, she was inordinately nervous. What if he found her too prudish? Conversely, what if he found her too wanton?

  There, seated before her, fully aroused and making free with her breasts, was a man wearing nothing but a thin nightshirt. With the right word from her, he would be on top of her. She wanted it. She feared it. What if he found her wanting? The longer she delayed, the more anxious she became, for her body ached with an indescribable yearning. Her breasts were tight and sore, her abdomen fluttering, between her thighs moist and thrumming with each beat of her quickened pulse.

  “Come here,” he said.

  She hesitated, running the tip of her tongue over her dry lips.

  He held out an arm. “Come here. I only want to hold you. We can talk all day if you’d like. We’ve a lifetime together, remember? Let’s talk.”

  She scooted to him, nestling to his side as his arm came about her. At the mere touch of him, her body burned with longing. Finally, she would be loved. If only she could relax.

  “Do you suppose the pendants on the ceiling are to hang one’s hat?” He asked.

  “Absurd! Everyone knows they’re in place to remove the King’s wig when he enters the room. One step in, and the first pendant would sweep the wig off his head.”

  “Must be a tall wig,” Duncan said in complete seriousness.

  “You’ve a good point, sir. They must be for the Queen’s wig, then.”

  Duncan laughed, kissing her forehead. “I always loved this about you, Mary. We spent hours at that lake laughing over ridiculous things. Do you remember? I’ve never felt so comfortable with someone in my life.” Lowering his mouth to her ear, he said, “It does help that you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.”

  Mary buried her face against his chest. The rumble of his chuckle tickled her nose. With a deep inhale, she breathed in the heady aroma of his cologne, a scent mingled with freshly bathed man. A glimpse of the chest hair at the hollow of his throat recalled the time she had seen him shirtless. How differently he would look now once he removed the nightshirt, strong and lustful.

  Curious, she reached a hand to touch the hair. It was soft and downy. She ran her fingers through it, slipping over the neck of the shirt to feel more.

  “Take it off,” she commanded.

  Without a word or a moment’s hesitation, he reached back to grab the nightshirt and tugged it over his head. A flick of the wrist, and it was on the floor.

  Oh, yes, he looked remarkably different than the last time she saw his chest bare. Running a hand across his hot flesh, she reveled in the softness of the hair, desperate to know what it would feel like against her breasts but not brave enough to say so. The myriad scars from war rubbed against her palm, silken smooth lines. Fascinated, she explored his torso. The dusting of hair was only on his chest above taut nipples. A narrow line of hair ran from chest to belly button and continued below the bedcovers. Her fingers followed the line until she met with the edge of the sheets.

  At the sharp intake of his breath, she looked up. “Are you still ticklish on your sides?”

  “Am I—I beg your pardon?” He stared at her, perplexed.

  “You were always the most ticklish along your sides. Do officers lose that as they move up in ranks?”

  His expression was one of such confusion, she could not help but laugh and test the theory. Flexing her tickling fingers, she raked gentle nails down his side then fluttered the fingers against his skin.

  In a flash of movement, accompanied by the sound of a gasp, Duncan grabbed her wrists and tossed her on her back, pinning her arms over her head. He hovered above her, his face lowering to hers.

  Just when she thought he was going to kiss her, he said, “You brought this on yourself.”

  Releasing her wrists, he sought revenge, tickling her sides in retribution.

  With a violent jerk away from his hands, she screeched, scrambling to escape both him and the fierce stabbing of desire that lanced through her as his hands raked her body in spasms of tickles. Still trying to angle away from his reach, she went in for a counterattack, fluttering her fingers over his flesh.

  She was not sure who kissed whom first. One moment hands were at sides, the chamber filled with shrieks of glee, and the next, his mouth was on hers, tongues wrestling in fevered hunger. She wrapped her arms around his neck to capture him as she kissed back with as much ferocity, if not more. He stretched himself next to her, his body pressed to her side, a leg twining with hers. Against her hip, she felt his hardness.

  Panting against his mouth, she said, “My nightdress.”

  His hands roamed her body before she had finished speaking the words, pulling the fabric up and over until it met with his nightshirt on the floor. He returned to her mouth to finish their kiss, his lips tender, suckling her bottom lip.

  Duncan paused, then, propping himself on an elbow, and looked down at her. He studied her for long moments, running a finger down her cheek to trace her jaw. Then his gaze roamed lower. She swallowed, trying not to be self-conscious.

  He took her in, his appreciation slow and thorough. His eyes lingered on her breasts, his hand following to cup each, running a thumb over the nipples until they hardened. Everywhere he touched, a fire rippled. The pads of his fingers were filled with magic, for though he touched her breasts, she could feel the sensation straight to her core. She moaned, hoping it was not a terribly unladylike thing to do under the circumstances.

  Half of him came over her then, his chest brushing against one breast, the hair titillating the erect nipple. His lips met hers, his hand cupping her cheek.

  “Am I dreaming?” Duncan asked when their lips parted. His eyes searched hers. “You’re so perfect. You can’t possibly be my wife. Tell me I’m not dreaming, and I can keep you.”

  Mary tugged at his waist, trying to pull him onto her. “If this is a dream, you had better hurry before you awake, and we both miss the best part.”

  Chuckling, unhurried, he rained kisses over her face.

  Oh! This must be love! Nothing could feel more glorious than his lips to her skin or his body pressed to hers. Finally, the physical closeness for which she had always longed.

  Wrapping her leg over his hip, she tugged him with her foot until he rolled on top of her.

  His weight stole her breath in captivating ways. She did not care if she ever breathed again so long as she remained compressed beneath him, but then the weight lifted as he held himself up to look down at her. Oh, what a sight! She had no way of knowing if she smiled, frowned, giggled, moaned, or whatever women did when faced with such arousal. All she knew was the gloriousness that was Duncan. Muscled and hard-jawed, but with an expression most tender.

  Adjusting his footing, he parted her legs with his knees. The soles of her feet slid up until flat against the sheets. Licking her lips, she thought this must be what it was like to ride a horse astride. With that curious thought, she began to explore his chest with her hands, raising ever so slightly to kiss the side of his neck. His mouth found hers, pressing her back into the pillow. She kne
w he had lowered himself when she felt the chest hair grazing her nipples. Her body arched against him at the touch.

  His lips moved down to her jaw and over to her ear, tugging lightly at her earlobe. “This will hurt, but I promise it won’t hurt for long,” he said.

  Before she could wrap her mind around what he meant, she felt an uncomfortable pressure at her core, a hard object much too large, demanding entrance. In a moment’s panic, she pushed a hand against his chest. She was too late.

  He slid into her with a long, steady stroke that widened and ached and sent a sharp pain through her abdomen. She cried out in shock. Her nails dug into his flesh. She experienced a horrible sensation of being filled to burst, stretched to discomfort. Not until he kissed her cheeks did she realize they were wet. Oh, how embarrassing! She wanted to hide her face in the pillow. Instead, Duncan cupped her cheek with a palm and wiped the wetness with his thumb. She did not fail to notice he was still deep inside of her.

  “Relax,” he said. “You feel like heaven. I want you to enjoy this as much as, if not more than, I do.”

  She wanted to laugh. How could anyone enjoy this? This was not at all what she had thought it would be. This was nothing like she expected. This was uncomfortable, humiliating even.

  Mary gasped when he withdrew, her body tensing at the release of pressure. Instead of looking at Duncan, she turned her head, embarrassed by the whole experience.

  “Mary,” he said, his lips close to her ear, his breath against her cheek. “Look at me.”

  Eyelashes wet and vision blurred, she turned to him with an ungenteel sniffle. His expression was so full of loving concern, she opened her mouth to apologize. He pressed a finger to her lips then brought the hand between their bodies. When his fingers touched her mons, she squeaked. Then they slid lower, parting her folds. Slippery circles the fingers made, caressing a part of her that initiated unexpected waves of pleasure.

  “Relax, my love,” he said again.