Between the Duke and the Devil

by Devon, Eva

  Bloody hell. He swallowed.

  She was magnificent. Terrifying even. In her certainty and determination to avoid the agonies that she had no doubt seen. She wasn’t shirking from what had to be done. If anything, she was taking charge of it.

  How could he not admire someone who survived like that?

  If only his sister had had her spirit. No. There wasn’t a comparison. They had been forged in different fires.

  A knock thudded against the door.

  They both tensed, the crackling energy between them holding.

  “Come,” he barked.

  The door opened and a servant girl scurried in with a tray.

  “Put it there,” Lady Annabelle instructed quickly.

  Without even lifting her cap-covered head, the girl did so. Then, she left as quickly as she’d entered.

  “Light the fire, if you would,” Lady Annabelle said, her face immovable. “I, for one, have no intention of going to bed in the cold.”

  He startled, realizing that somehow the woman he’d thought to save had suddenly seized this particular moment.

  Heading towards the fireplace, he felt his thoughts racing.

  The clink of glasses filled the room as he lifted logs from the bin by the fireplace. Quickly, he placed the small pieces of wood in the hearth. He arranged a few pieces of kindling before he took up the flint and breathed to life the small dancing sparks.

  As he fed the fire, he was tempted to look over his shoulder to see what she was busying herself with, and yet, he did not. He needed this moment to reclaim his senses.

  Who the devil was she?

  Victim? Villain?

  Christ. How was he to know?

  With all his heart, he longed to believe she was naught but a victim of circumstances. But even if she was. . . he couldn’t trust her, could he? For all her life, she had likely been used and learned to use in turn.

  Her own words made that clear.

  As soon as the fire was fed well and crackling, he brushed his hands.

  “Come, then, Your Grace. Let us do what must be done.”

  Slowly, he stood, his great coat brushing the dark green rug.

  She stood, glasses of blood red wine in her pale hands.

  The firelight turned her pale skin alabaster. And somehow, she’d managed to pull her hair down about her shoulders and divest herself of the upper half of her gown.

  She stood in her skirts, stays and chemise.

  “I find my gowns to be imprisoning,” she said as if noting his shock. She crossed to him.

  Much to his shock, he felt like a raw boy for a moment, catching his first sight of a scantily-dressed woman. “Ye were most quiet about it.”

  “I have learned to be silent. All women learn to be silent. If we do not, we perish.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “I suppose many do.”

  He thought of the vast array of women he’d known who hid their secret selves. In his experience, few men had ever truly known a woman. They didn’t wish to. They wished to be flattered. That was all.

  “So, then. . .” He arched a brow, suspicious of the game they might play. “Ye will please me?”

  “That is what a wife does, is it not?” she queried.

  “Yes, but we shall no’ have traditional roles, ye and I, I think.”

  She sauntered forward, her lush skirts whispering along the floor. Holding one of the glasses forward, she parted her lips. “What roles shall we have then?”

  As she gazed up at him, his heart began to pound. She was such a luminous creature. A woman who stole his breath and shook his mind.

  Women, in his experience, were so often prey. . . not this one. She had learned how to fight. In subtle ways. She was fighting now. Perhaps she thought he didn’t know.

  “Ye will be the Duchess of Ardore. Ye will reside in my residences. Ye will appear as my wife. But our marriage is for one reason. And it is no’ my pleasure.”

  For the briefest of moments, a look of revulsion crossed her face.

  Had he truly seen that? Or did he simply wish to see it? That she didn’t want to be the prince’s mistress.

  “What shall we be then?” she asked, sipping her wine. “Friends or enemies?”

  “Neither.”

  “No?” she queried.

  “No,” he confirmed.

  “Then what?”

  He gazed down at her, determined. “Allies.”

  She laughed again. “So, we shall keep our secrets and share when it is advantageous.”

  He gave her a tight smile. “Do ye trust me?”

  “No.”

  “Good. I doona trust ye.”

  She grimaced and took a deeper swallow of her wine. “Why must life be such a tangle?”

  “Why must the sun set?” He sighed. “The moon rise? The tide come in?”

  She laughed again. A dry sound. “You have quite a fanciful soul.”

  “No’ now,” he said, melancholy brushing him. “No’ any longer. Once.”

  “Once, we all were many things,” she whispered, her own voice rough.

  “Life does change us.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, her tone ragged. Then she drew in a deep breath. “I do not wish to speak of sad things now.”

  He nodded. “What shall we speak of?”

  “Your kiss,” she replied boldly. “The way your lips felt on mine. That is as real as anything else.”

  “It is the pleasure of the moment.”

  “Is there any other kind?”

  “Oh, Annabelle,” he breathed, once again, feeling himself pulled towards her, like a wave towards the shore. “Ye are dangerous.”

  A slow smile curved her lips. “I’m glad you noticed.”

  He took a long drink of his wine, draining half the cup, allowing the spicy liquid to sluice over his tongue and down his throat. Then, he slid his free hand over her naked collarbone, up to the nape of her neck. He wound his fingers into her hair then cocked her head back.

  He lifted his glass to her lips, their gazes locked. She parted her pink mouth and took up the offer. Never looking away, she drank. Deeply.

  When at last she was done, he slipped the wine away then studied the faint trace of red upon her lips.

  He put his empty cup onto the mantel. Then, transfixed, he dragged his thumb over her lower lip. He then sucked it in own his mouth, savoring the wine that had so recently stained her skin.

  Her eyes widened.

  Plucking her glass from her fingertips, he placed it beside his. He didn’t wish her to be drunk. . . merely relaxed. If she could be.

  It was all he could do not to devour her now. The tide of hunger he felt for her was growing again. Like the first sight of a storm. And tonight. . . tonight he could give in.

  “We doona ken each other, Annabelle. But none of that matters.”

  Her breath came in shallow takes, her breasts pressing against her stays.

  “We doona ken the secrets of each other’s souls,” he continued. “We doona have to ken them to share this.”

  He slid his free hand to the tie at the back of her skirts and petticoats and tugged.

  “This is all we need,” he growled, feeling more wild than he had since he was a boy. Since he was free from the knowledge of the pain in this world.

  The fabric whooshed to the ground, exposing her stockinged legs and the base of her stays, the edge of her chemise.

  “But. . . we can have this,” he rumbled. “And here, we can be honest. Together, we can be free. If just for a few moments. Is that what ye wish?”

  Her mouth widened as she gazed up at him, seemingly overtaken with awe.

  She licked her bottom lip, her eyes darting over his face.

  Then, as if to answer, she took his hand and led it to the ties of her stays. “Free me then,” she whispered. “Let us be free together.”

  The symbolism was impossible to ignore. Impossible not to be struck by.

  So, he un-wove his hand from her long locks then braced bot
h hands around her slim waist.

  He tugged at the strings and she gasped. It was a moan of half-pain and half-pleasure whispering over her lips as he managed to release the pressure.

  One by one, he pulled the cords free of their fastenings.

  She bit her lower lip as he pressed the garment into her flesh.

  Until at last, he was able to pull the device, meant to keep women out of breath and underweight, from her body. He held it out, locking eyes with her, then dropped it to the floor.

  The light of the fire bathed her body in shadowy silhouette.

  Her breasts, her ribs, her stomach, the apex of her thighs now taunted him from behind the thin fabric.

  The strangest mixture of emotions laced through him. Anger, desire, anticipation. Awe. Awe at her. Awe at how his life had so entirely changed because he had encountered her under the moon.

  Something beast-like overtook him then and he seized her chemise and pulled it down over her shoulders in one firm gesture.

  It tumbled to the ground. A pool of featherlike linen about her booted feet.

  Standing naked before him, she tensed for a moment. But then, she squared her shoulders back, her small but perfect breasts high.

  God, she was something. Something more.

  And he couldn’t stop admiring her for it.

  Slowly, carefully, she reached out and grabbed hold of his coat. “You are overdressed, Your Grace.”

  Those words, low, shaking ever so slowly, were his undoing and he yanked her towards him. He didn’t give a damn that he was, indeed, overdressed.

  All he cared about was her. Her body before him. About claiming her and making her his in this moment.

  He took her mouth then. Took it with every part of him that felt as if she’d seized his fate somehow.

  But he also took out of sheer enthrallment.

  She enthralled him.

  There it was.

  If he was not careful, like a siren, she would lead him to crash upon the rocks.

  But now?

  In this moment, he was going to give in to the wildness of her call and not look back. And he was going to take her with him into that madness.

  Chapter 12

  A hint of fear only sharpened Annabelle’s anticipation. Oh, she wasn’t afraid of him, even though he seemed on the verge of some mad need. Nor was she afraid of the pain she’d been told came from the first act.

  No.

  She was afraid of being thrust so entirely into the unknown. Of having no control of this situation. For she had no idea what truly was about to happen. Knowing, having witnessed the act, having talked about it, could never actually prepare one for the actual reality of it.

  So, when his mouth seized hers, demanding, taking, giving, she dared to give in to that unknown. She would match him, she promised herself. She wouldn’t be cowed or tamed.

  She was bold.

  As he had said, this was her chance to be free with him.

  There were no words now. No lies. Just bodies. Just touch. Just passion.

  They need not dance with each other, manipulating, maneuvering. No. Here, they could simply. . . be.

  And, oh, the glory of that being.

  Every inch of her screamed with excitement. Screamed with desire to be shown the pleasure that he so clearly was capable of evoking.

  So, when he crushed her naked body to his clad one, she didn’t protest. Quite the opposite. She wrapped her arms around his back, pressing forward as if somehow she could climb inside him.

  Their tongues tangled, teeth nipped. Her hair was wild about them.

  Every breath grew ragged.

  His hands roamed her back, cupping her bottom. Liquid heat pooled in her stomach and the ache between her thighs demanded she arch her core into his.

  He kneaded the flesh of her hip then trailed his fingers to the apex of her thighs.

  She knew.

  She knew what could happen next. Yet, when his fingers slid into her folds, she was astonished to find that she was slick. His fingers met ease and he stroked her. Stroked her as if knew exactly how to make her mad.

  And mad, she felt.

  There were no words to express the exquisite torture of his fingers swirling over her.

  A strangled cry of need tore from her lips. As if he, too, felt that torture, he picked her up, wrapping her legs about his waist.

  She barely knew what was happening as he guided her to the small, oak table near the fire. He sat her upon it then pushed her back, legs dangling over the edge.

  Completely exposed, she couldn’t help feeling as if she were a banquet he was about to consume.

  He worked the folds of his breeches and as he released his cock, her eyes widened.

  She’d seen men’s sex.

  His was hard, large, and she longed to reach out and touch it.

  Something inside her cried, mine.

  She started to do just that but he shook his head, and entwined her fingers with his and locked her hands down on the table.

  He bent down, bowed over her. Then with little preliminary, he took her most private place into his mouth.

  She bucked against him and she exhaled sharply at his assault.

  Of course, she knew about this. . . but the doing of it? It was beyond anything she could ever have contemplated.

  He sucked and licked, forcing her higher and higher towards the promise of something she couldn’t quite grasp.

  She swallowed, her head turning side to side as she struggled against his mouth, struggled towards that promise.

  But then he stood.

  He wiped his mouth with his broad hand then he pushed her thighs further apart.

  ’Twas as if a beast had taken over the calm, cold, dangerous man she’d known.

  He lifted her hips and stepped forward between them.

  Meeting her gaze, he pressed his cock to her opening. “It will hurt.”

  She nodded, amazed that even now, he was giving her the chance to cease. “I want this.”

  A growl of pleasure rumbled from his chest and he thrust home.

  Pain pierced the pleasure. The muscles in his chest and back strained as he paused.

  She could scarcely draw breath. He was not entirely in. She knew this. Despite the pain, as he paused, her body began to adjust.

  She blinked, holding as still as she might. Then in slow degrees, she relaxed. Suddenly, it didn’t hurt anymore.

  A muscle in his jaw tightened, “Are ye—”

  “I’m well,” she breathed. “Don’t cease now.”

  He stared at her for a long moment then he began to thrust.

  The sensation was still shocking. She felt stretched. Full. But no longer in pain.

  His fingers slid between them and, once again, began to tease.

  With each thrust, he stroked and circled his touch upon her sensitive folds.

  And within moments, she was gasping and arching off the table.

  Good God, he was beautiful. It struck her as he took her, his body laboring, his muscles tense, revealing every inch of his sinew, that he was absolutely beautiful.

  Beautiful in a way she’d never known possible.

  They were beautiful in this raw moment and, somehow, that thought, that freeing thought, sent her over the edge.

  She cried out, her inner muscles squeezing over and over in pleasure. The sensation stole her breath and stole her thoughts and all she could do was ride the waves of pleasure and sheer joy.

  He thrust hard and deep then yelled with delight. As he did so, he lowered his body over hers. His hands wound into her hair and he kissed her then.

  Their wild breathing mingled as did their pleasure.

  And while their bodies melded, she couldn’t help but feeling this was the beginning of something that neither of them would be able to control.

  And to her, that was more terrifying than anything else could ever be.

  Tristan lingered over her, not certain what action to take next. Did he hold her? Di
d he pull away?

  She was his wife, and yet, they were not lovers. Not in any sort of traditional sense. Yet, he felt more passion for her than he had any woman.

  So, he allowed himself to pause.

  He savored the feel of her pliant body beneath his.

  She felt boneless in her completed pleasure.

  And in this moment, her arms were wrapped around him, holding him close.

  Their breathing was slowing, his heartbeat coming to something that didn’t feel riotous.

  Ever so slowly, he stood, pulling her up with him.

  It was temping to simply stand and part. To cut off any sort of closeness. But he couldn’t do that to her. Not in this, her first time.

  He wouldn’t allow himself to be cruel.

  So, still inside her, he lifted her from the table, wrapping her body around his and strode to the bed.

  He lowered her to the soft mattress and said softly, “More wine.”

  She nodded and he crossed to the flagon and glasses.

  They’d need the soft and warming effects of the beverage if they were to survive the strange night.

  “Are you going to stay?” she asked, naked, from the bed.

  It would have been simple to assume her nudity made her vulnerable. But it wasn’t her nakedness that revealed any susceptibility. Oh, no. It was her suddenly soft voice.

  “Do ye wish me to?” he asked.

  “Only if you wish to.”

  He sighed then. A low, dismayed laugh rumbled from his lips. “Oh, dear.”

  “Yes?” she ventured.

  He studied the wine, wondering how best to proceed. “Neither of us is quite willing to expose ourselves.”

  “I am quite exposed, thank you,” she teased.

  He arched a brow, turning towards her. “Do ye want me to stay?”

  She met his gaze. Then, as if she couldn’t confess it to his face, she looked to the wall. “Yes.”

  “Then I will.”

  “Do you wish to?”

  “Yes.”

  She turned back to him, her gaze warm. “Good.”

  But it was there, an unspoken understanding that this was a spell. A moment of magic. A stolen season that would vanish at the rays of dawn upon the floor.

  Their understanding would not exist in the cold light of day.

  So, he carried the wine to the bed.