In an entirely masculine and companionable silence, which left a lot unsaid but much understood, Rogue and Marcus walked back to the barracks and soon thereafter Marcus took his leave to head back to Buckler's Hard.
And his own personal problem—how to persuade Mariah to accept his proposal.
Now he had a few more facts to ponder and he let his horse slow to a walk as he bordered the ocean along the coastal path. Mariah's late husband had been abusive, had he?
Along with being a complete and utter failure in bed. What an awful time it must have been for her. Marcus found himself wondering why she'd accepted him in the first place. A question he'd try to ask between fucking her senseless and avoiding having her bite his head off.
He felt his loins throb as he neared the farmhouse. She was a challenge, his Mariah, one that he was looking forward to meeting and winning. He knew in bed he could conquer her, override her objections and turn her to jelly in his hands.
The fact that he did more than a little jellifying himself...well, that was neither here nor there.
What he had to do was to find out her objections to their marriage. Why she was so adamantly refusing to even consider the notion. It was clear she thought him attractive. It was also clear she responded to him sexually like dry tinder to a spark of lightning. He had an acceptable title with a solid fortune attached—not that she'd ever even asked him—but it was there nonetheless. He doubted she'd ever heard of some of his more disreputable debauches. And anyway, they were behind him.
Most women would have stumbled over their own feet in their rush to accept. So why not Mariah?
The chimneys of the farmhouse were emitting little soft coils of smoke as Marcus rode down the path through the trees. One or two lights were beginning to glow, welcoming him.
He suddenly realized that he'd come to think of this as "home". Less than a day had passed since he crossed the threshold, but there was no doubt about it in his mind. He was indeed coming home.
To his woman. And their bed. Perhaps tonight he could begin convincing her of what he already knew—she was destined to be his for the rest of their natural lives.
Chapter Seven
Mariah was tired. But the sound of Marcus' horse clattering to the barn acted on her like a dose of tonic. Accompanied by a bolt of lightning to assorted locations beneath her serviceable gown.
He was back.
Somewhere in a tiny part of her brain, she'd wondered if he would, in fact, return. In her experience, men didn't always do what they said they were going to do. But she should have known better.
Her instincts told her that Marcus was an honorable man. However, the past had proved that trusting her instincts wasn't always the wisest course of action. She'd shoved the whole matter aside for the afternoon, doing what she always did—keeping busy around the farm and her home.
The morning's gathering had gone well, even after Marcus' dramatic appearance. Although it had taken her a few moments to restore order after his exit. Eventually though, she'd reassured her guests that she would give his offer serious consideration. And if she did, by any chance, accept, she would make it a condition that they stay exactly where they were. On the farm.
Which, upon reflection, would probably be enough to send him scurrying onto the London road posthaste. Not that it was a bad place to live, but for someone used to the elegancies of an aristocratic life? It would probably seem like punishment or something.
Mariah sighed as she closed the chicken coop gate and latched it securely. Ned had mentioned foxes in the area and her flock of chickens was precious to her. The eggs they provided on a daily basis were a staple in her larder and on the rare occasions they had to actually kill one for food—well, it was just awful.
Eating something one had raised from a yellow ball of fluff and even named...it never tasted quite the same and Mariah promptly turned craven at the mere idea, leaving the job of executioner to Ned.
The three cows had been milked, the pregnant sow had been fed...everything was cleaned up, stored for the night and Mariah heaved a sigh of relief when she realized that Peg had left a good-sized meat pie warming near the fireplace. They'd run late today and Mariah hadn't looked forward to cooking up something herself. If she'd been alone, she would have made do with bread and cheese.
But, of course, she wasn't alone and Peg knew it.
The reason she needed a pie that size walked into the kitchen moments after Mariah. "Hello, sweetheart. Miss me?"
Marcus strode to her, grabbed her by the waist and kissed her hard on the mouth, his tongue finding hers, teasing it, toying with it and generally making a delightful nuisance of itself. Sighing into the kiss, Mariah relaxed, finding an odd pleasure in letting someone else take her weight for a moment or two.
He tasted warm and wonderful, a flavor she was learning to crave. The feel of his arms, hard and strong around her waist—well, if she'd been asked to describe her concept of heaven, this moment would be very, very close.
Being the woman she was, Mariah promptly slammed the Pearly Gates shut.
"No, I didn't miss you at all." She tore herself from his arms.
"Liar." He grinned. "Ooh. Meat pie. Perhaps I should persuade Peg to run away with me instead."
"You can try." Mariah snorted. "Would you like cheese or something with it?"
"What?" Marcus' voice sounded from the depths of her pantry where he'd disappeared. "Here. Can I have some of these?" A hand appeared clutching some carrots she'd pulled from the ground earlier in the day.
"All right."
He remained closeted in the cool darkness and Mariah could hear things being opened and closed as he rummaged and she cleaned the vegetables for him. "I have bread too..." She paused, struck anew by how domestic and comfortable this interchange was.
Who could possibly have imagined she'd ever discuss fresh produce with a peer of the realm while he scuttled around her pantry?
"What's this?" He emerged holding a glass jar topped incongruously with a little bunch of dried flowers.
Mariah glanced over. "Honey. Nora Dunnigan has bees."
"I'm sorry to hear that." His eyes twinkled. "Do they bother her much?"
"Idiot." Mariah thumped the cleaned carrots down onto a plate and cut a large slice of the meat pie. "Nora's bees make the best heather honey this side of Southampton. She sells it occasionally, when she has enough. And she always brings me a pot when she can spare it."
"Mmm." Marcus had the top off and was sniffing appreciatively. "I can smell the heather." He put the pot down on the table. "I'd like to try some."
"Have the pie first."
"Yes, dear."
Mariah had added cheese, some cucumber—forcing herself to forget about Lucy's earlier lecture—and the carrots to his plate, then put some of the same things on her own plate. Honestly, she was going to cut her hands to shreds if she couldn't focus on what she was doing, rather than constantly veering into lascivious thoughts of sex with Marcus.
They took their seats, and without further ado, began their meal.
"So." Marcus paused between mouthfuls. "This is excellent pie, by the way. Remind me to tell Peg she's a treasure."
Mariah lifted an eyebrow. "So...what?"
He smiled. "So I learned a few things this afternoon."
"Such as?"
Dark eyes met hers. "Such as your late husband was an abusive drunkard."
Mariah swallowed, letting her eyes slide away from his gaze. "Yes."
"Tell me, Mariah."
He leaned across the table and brushed his fingers over the back of her hand. He kept touching her. Distracting her. It was...wonderful. And annoying. Both at the same time.
She straightened in her chair. "There's little to tell. My parents arranged the match. Before they succumbed to the influenza. I was wed and orphaned within two months."
He winced. "I'm sorry."
Mariah shrugged. "It happens. All too often. At least I was married and not left to fend for myself."
"Didn't your parents realize what sort of a man Dean was?"
This time Mariah made no effort to withhold a snort. "Oh, they knew. But his independent income outweighed any considerations. My father felt that stern discipline was vital to a marriage. He was...stern...to both my mother and myself." She risked a glance upward at Marcus' face, seeing his features harden at her words. But he should know it all.
"My father and my husband were kindred spirits, Marcus. Although I begged my mother to stop it, my marriage was inevitable. She was no more able to prevent my husband's abuse of me than she was able to prevent her own."
His fingers curled into a fist. "There is no excuse for raising one's hand to a woman, Mariah. None whatsoever."
Her head jerked up. "Do you think I don't know that?" She swallowed. "I refused to become the victim my mother had been. I fought back. Sometimes it worked. Especially when he was completely drunk. I began to hope he would drink himself insensate—at least I knew then I'd be relatively safe."
She sighed. "When he received the magistrate's appointment to Buckler's Hard, I hoped that things would change. That having something practical to do would take his mind off being a gentleman of leisure, drinking too much...and all the other sins that go along with it."
"But—it didn't?"
"No. It turned out that he had a barely suppressed need to lord it over everybody he came in contact with. Shortly after we arrived here, he decided this farmhouse was useless and we should live in a fancy house, more like the one he'd left." She grimaced. "He'd gambled away most of his fortune by then. This property was still in the family, however, which is probably why he got the appointment in the first place. It was quiet, out of the way and unlikely to be an embarrassment to the lieutenant of the county who has to deal with such things."
"What happened?" Marcus' voice was unemotional.
"He was on his way back here after a day visiting likely mansions. He stopped at an inn—possibly several, I don't know—and never made it home. His body was found the next morning."
She lifted her head. "I was glad, Marcus. God forgive me, but I was glad, relieved...as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I knew at that moment that I would do everything in my power to help other women avoid brutality in their marriages."
He nodded, idly finishing the remains of his pie. "I see."
Mariah sought for the right way to explain, to voice beliefs she wasn't quite sure she understood fully herself. "It's wrong for a man to dominate a marriage by virtue of his physical strength. It's wrong for him to take out his anger or his frustrations against the one person who can help him overcome them—his wife. And it's absolutely appalling for a man to use violence."
Silence fell for a moment or two and Mariah used the time to clear away their dishes, rinsing them quietly in the sink, then drying her hands and turning to Marcus, who still sat motionless at the table. She'd spilled her guts to him so easily. What was it about him that had inspired her to reveal things she'd not spoken of in so long?
And why did it feel so much better now that she had?
"Mariah? Did he hurt you in bed?" Marcus' hand gripped her wrist and drew her to him, pulling her inexorably onto his lap and settling her there, for all the world as if she belonged exactly where she was.
Relaxing into his embrace, Mariah realized that she did indeed feel as if she belonged there. It was quite strange.
"Mariah?" Marcus' voice recalled her thoughts to his question.
"Um..." She paused. "Not really." How to talk of this? How to describe a marriage that had been such a disaster? "It was over quickly. He didn't hit me when he wanted to do...that. He had some common sense, I suppose. It hurt—a little. When he—when he—er—entered me."
She stumbled over her words. This was difficult for one as reticent as she. "But as I said, it was over very quickly. And...my late husband wasn't what you'd describe as—well, to use the common phrase—he didn't possess anything resembling equine equipment."
Marcus' chuckle rippled up Mariah's spine where she rested against him. "Not hung like a horse, huh?"
She couldn't help a slight giggle. "Not at all. Of course, I didn't realize it at the time. It wasn't until..." Her voice tapered off as she realized where this was heading.
"Until last night?" Strong arms tightened around her and she felt a light brush of his lips on her neck.
"Yes."
Reticent she was, but there was a need for honesty there too.
Marcus sighed. "He was a fool, Mariah."
"I know that now. More than ever before." The truth again. Good Lord, could she keep nothing private?
Marcus reached for the pot of honey and opened it, dipping his forefinger into the contents and gently moving it to and fro. He pulled it out and touched it to his tongue. "Mmm. Excellent."
Mariah absently watched. "I'm glad you like it. I'll tell Nora." She shifted a little on his lap.
The finger roamed to her lips and he stroked the sticky stuff over them.
Then he bent to her and kissed her, licking the honey and her tongue and blending the tastes together into a flavor that sent her senses reeling. A tiny moan of pleasure gurgled in her throat as they shared the sensation.
"Will you tell her about this?" Marcus grinned as he eased away from her.
"Uhh..." Mariah blushed. "Probably not."
Gently, Marcus unfastened her dress all the way to her waist and spread it apart, slipping her chemise away from her shoulders and baring her breasts. The finger dipped back into the honey and this time he dappled her nipples with it.
Bemused, Mariah could only watch as the languid heat of arousal spread through her limbs and rendered her motionless.
"D'you think she'd like to know about this?"
In anticipation, Mariah found herself arching her spine, inviting those lips, urging that mouth to lick away the sweet stuff from the hard buds taut beneath their shiny topping. When he finally suckled her, she had to fight the little cry of pleasure.
Tingles of sharp delight shot from her nipples to her groin, a shattering explosion of desire making her shiver in his arms. "Oh God, Marcus..."
"Oh yes, Mariah." His tongue laved her, teasing her nipples with tender skill. Then he opened his mouth wide and sucked hard on her breast, almost engulfing it with his wet heat.
She arched even more, angry at the clothing that chafed her body, wanting only the touch of his hands, his skin—the hardness she could feel throbbing beneath her buttocks where she rested on his lap.
Magician that he was, he could render her insane with the slightest touch of his mouth. And she was willingly rushing headlong into the madness.
Suddenly she was standing, clothes tumbling around her arms, blinking at Marcus as he stripped rapidly. "I want you naked. I want you now."
"But..." She glanced at the door leading to the stairs and her bed. "Here?"
"Here." His voice was firm and brooked no argument. Within seconds, his clothing lay scattered around them and he was busily unfastening and untying everything Mariah wore, carelessly tossing it aside to join the pile beside them.
"Here—and now." His eyes were dark pools as his hair swung free of its ribbon around his shoulders.
God, he was beautiful. Mariah's gaze fell to his cock, reddened and hard, protruding eagerly from between his legs.
Fired by her desire, freed by the honesty that now lay between them, Mariah reached out and touched him.
He sucked in a breath.
"Am I hurting you?" She glanced up at his face.
"Dear God, no, sweetheart. No, you're not hurting me. Do what you will. The pleasure—" His lips firmed as she ran her hand experimentally along the length of his cock. "The pleasure you give me is extraordinary."
Mariah felt a tiny smile curve her lips. "Oh good."
She reached for the pot of honey, then slowly lowered herself to her knees in front of Marcus.
Knees rapidly weakening and head spinning, Marcus watched Mariah
as she knelt before him, her smile doing as much to make him tremble as what she was about to do. Dear Lord, she looked wicked—and wanton. And what man on God's earth could ask for more?
He gripped the back of the chair with one hand, set his teeth and clung to his sanity like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood.
When she touched him, delicately, gently, he let go of the driftwood and simply drowned.
When she brought a honey-tipped finger to his cock and coated him—well, he was sure he could hear choirs of angels singing in his ears. Although Saint Peter was probably looking the other way and blushing.
Her mouth, her tongue—Christ, she was devouring him from his cock to his earlobes, long sweeps of moist heat licking the honey clean and tugging so sweetly on his sensitive skin.
Marcus' breath was ragged as he fought for control, fought the urge to thrust deeply into her throat and empty himself into her soul. He'd been pleasured like this so many times before—but never had he enjoyed it more. Nor had he experienced the rare delight of being the object both of straightforward passion and honest curiosity.
Mariah was investigating him, with honeyed fingers and tongue, with her eyes as she discovered his balls and gently caressed them, her expression intense as she continued her explorations.
She ran her lips down his cock and back up, licking her way along its length, toying with the tiny dips and ridges along the way and lingering at the swollen head. She sucked a little drip of his arousal, then swirled it with honey, tasting it, savoring it—by God, if he died at this moment, it would be as a happy man.
Her fingers still a little sticky, she wandered around the tops of his thighs, making him shiver as she dipped between them, softly discovering all the places that set him on fire.
When she returned to grasp his cock and suck him deep, he smothered a gasp of ecstasy. There might have been more orally talented women in the world, but for Marcus—from this moment on—there was only Mariah. And he doubted that he'd ever be able to eat honey again without thinking of her and this experience.
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