The Rogue to Ruin EPB

by Lorret, Vivienne

  Ainsley sagged over him, their bodies slick with perspiration. His skin tasted of salt as she ran kisses over his shoulder where she’d inadvertently marked him with her teeth.

  She panted, “I thought we . . . were both going . . . to die.”

  “We did,” he said with a smile in his voice, his hands coasting over her bare skin, and she felt herself starting to doze. But before she fell asleep, with his flesh still buried deep inside her, she thought she heard him say, “I’m sure this is heaven.”

  * * *

  They dozed for an hour or more, until the sky grew dark beyond the windows. Reed had gone down to add more logs to the fire a short while ago, and now, lying in the loft, he watched the flames fill the room in warm golden light, and gild the curling tendrils of Ainsley’s dark hair.

  His wife. He could scarcely believe it, and her response to their circumstances had surprised him in the best possible way. He’d never been more content in his life—and he never imagined he’d feel that way in this tiny cottage.

  In fact, he’d kept the property only to remind him of where he’d begun and to see how far he’d come since. Harrowfield—his true country house—was a mile up the lane and large enough to fit two dozen cottages within its walls, and adorned with such furnishings that even the Duchess of Holliford would be impressed.

  He’d brought Ainsley here, in part, to bring her out of whatever daze she’d been lost in. He was sure that the moment she saw these poor accommodations she would instantly rail at him and start shouting that she wanted an annulment. Not that he wished for such, but he just wanted the assurance that she was fully aware of the journey they had both embarked upon.

  That plan, however, quickly fell to the wayside when she climbed up to the loft. And somehow, she’d pulled him into a dream and they had both become lost in a daze together.

  He hoped they never awoke from it.

  Bare beneath the blanket, she stirred, snuggling back into the nook of his body. In turn, he kissed her shoulder and moved his hand from the lush curve of her hip to the warm soft flesh of her stomach, thinking about their future together. “Are you hungry?”

  “Famished,” she admitted sleepily. “But I don’t want either of us to move.”

  He nuzzled her neck. “Not move at all?”

  “Oh, perhaps a little wouldn’t be too terrible.” Arching for him, she exposed the side of her throat and sighed when he kissed her there. Then she covered his hand that rested over her midriff, her fingertips lightly caressing. “Do you think your child is growing inside of me this very moment?”

  “I’m not certain, but I know a way we could give it better odds.” He pulled her closer, letting her feel the hard jut of his arousal against the firm cushion of her bottom.

  She responded with a gentle nudge and a smile in her voice. “Is that so?”

  Chapter 27

  “Emma was almost ready to sink under the agitation of this moment. The dread of being awakened from the happiest dream, was perhaps the most prominent feeling.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  A woman should enter into marriage with a sound mind and a passionless heart. And yet, somehow, Ainsley had fallen in love with her husband.

  There was no other way to explain these tender, turbulent feelings. Even from that very first meeting, she’d experienced the most peculiar tingles beneath her skin like water agitated to a simmer. She hadn’t understood the volatile reaction then. But now . . . she wondered if she’d loved him all along.

  The notion sent a lance of fear through her.

  From the loft the following morning, she heard Reed singing outside the cottage. His robust baritone and bawdy lyrics made her blush. Although after yesterday and last night, she was surprised she still could.

  Oh, the things he’d done to her—scandalous, delicious things. Especially that second time. Proving his infinite patience, he’d touched and caressed her endlessly, taking his time to bring her to that desperate, breathless frenzy. Lost in the throes of passion and torment, she’d scolded him for being far too thorough. But her slow-handed husband had only laughed, low and wicked, and then sent her over the edge as he shunted deep.

  Even now, hours later, she could still feel his hands on her, and the aftershocks from the many times he’d made her quake. Her body clenched on the sweet memory, craving him.

  She sighed like a simpleton in love.

  Wrapping a blanket around herself, she made her way down the ladder, her movements revealing tenderness in places that she never even knew existed. Then her thoughts returned to last night and she smiled again.

  Perhaps love wasn’t too frightening. After all, at least he wasn’t the type of man who hid things like other families or maniacal tendencies. Reed never hid behind pretense. He was precisely the man he claimed to be. Nothing more. Nothing less. Her heart would be safe with him. Wouldn’t it?

  Padding over to the fire, she considered the answer. It reassured her to know that he possessed qualities like loyalty, honesty, and respect. And she could never have fallen in love with a man who kept things from her or who didn’t understand her nature.

  Suddenly, this terrible brimming love wasn’t so terrible after all. Perhaps she could trust her heart to make a sound decision.

  She felt like whistling, hoping her tune would blend with his. Pursing her lips, she blew a contented stream. But all she’d managed was a pathetic little squeak. And that was when Reed opened the door.

  Shirtless and glorious, he carried a pail of water in each hand. His brow arched rakishly as his gaze perused her form, from tangled head to bare toes. “Are you puckering your lips for a kiss, highness? I am ever-eager to oblige.”

  Absently, he kicked the door closed behind him and crossed the short distance to her, setting down the pails an instant before he gathered her in his arms.

  “I was attempting to whistle.” She gave a half-hearted push against his shoulders, practically purring as his warm hands stole inside the blanket to the dip of her waist, the curve of her hip, coasting over the swells of her bare bottom—

  She leapt back and clutched the wool around her. “You are too bold for the bright light of morning.”

  This did not deter him in the least. He only grinned and stole a kiss. “But this is the best time of day to see you, all rumpled and flushed. I should have added this to my list of fantasies. You look rather fetching in a blanket. Then again, as I recall, you look rather fetching out of it as well.”

  He eased his mouth over hers, tasting her in slow, deep pulls. Shamelessly, she sagged against him, his furred chest teasing the tender peaks of her breasts, his hands gliding beneath the blanket, bringing her to swift arousal.

  Yet when he ventured to the apex of her thighs, teasing the dark curls, she drew back once more. “I have not bathed.”

  “That is why I brought in water.”

  He began nibbling the underside of her jaw, pulling her flush. His woolen trousers abraded her naked skin, inviting her to rub against the heavy bulge beneath the fall front. And before she could control it, her hips tilted toward him.

  “Then allow me a bit of privacy and perhaps then . . .”

  “Let me take care of you,” he whispered, his lips trailing down her throat.

  He parted the blanket to find the full slope of her breast, drawing the tight crest into the warmth of his mouth. Her breath shuddered and she wove her hands through his hair. Unheeded, the blanket fell to the floor.

  He lifted her, walking back the two steps to the trestle table, then lowered her bottom to the age-smoothed surface. “Hold on to the edge, and stay just like this.”

  Body simmering and mind in a sensual fog, she watched dazedly as he dipped his hand into the water. “I thought you were going to take care—”

  She sucked in a breath as he cupped his dripping hand over her sex.

  “Oh, that’s cold.”

  “Is it?” he asked, slyly teasing the seam of her heated flesh, the callused pad of his finger drawin
g out a quiver of anticipation.

  Wordless, she nodded as he fondled and nudged between the passion-swelled flesh to the vulnerable throbbing bud. Turning her head, her lips sought his. She tasted his smile as the tip of his finger circled her. He was, indeed, taking care of her. Already close to the edge, she whimpered into his mouth.

  But he withdrew, and bent to dip his hand back into the water. Then he repeated those slow, torturous ministrations. “Still cold?”

  “Yes. Yes,” she said, shivering with need, her eyes closed. She wasn’t even sure what the question was.

  “Then let me warm you.”

  His mouth grazed her throat, nipping lightly along the way down, before he feasted on one breast and then the other. Leaving her panting, he roamed lower still, trailing over the soft rise of her stomach.

  It wasn’t until she felt his shoulders against her inner thighs that she opened her eyes and saw him kneeling in front of her.

  Embarrassed, she tried to close her knees, to cover her sex with her hands. “Wh-what are you doing?”

  He pressed a kiss to the top of one thigh and then the other. “Shh . . . Just relax and think of this as part of your new bathing ritual.”

  Taking her hands, he parted them like a curtain. Then, before she knew what he was about, he leaned in to press his mouth to her sex.

  She nearly choked on a gasp, her hands flying to his head to push him back. “But you cannot . . . that is . . . you should not.”

  The scoundrel was undeterred. He licked her so slowly that she could feel the texture of his tongue, the heat of his mouth, the vibration of his throat when he murmured appreciative noises. “Mmm . . . You’re so soft and sweet and wet, I’d like to stay here for hours. Make a meal out of you.”

  “You”—she swallowed, feebly attempting to push him away—“shouldn’t.”

  “Are you asking me to stop, or are you being shy?”

  She thought for a moment, considering. She didn’t want to be too hasty. “It’s just . . . well that’s a place where we . . . where you and I . . . and it’s for the purpose of . . .”

  “Pleasure?”

  “Procreation.”

  He gave another slow lick, the flat of his tongue exciting every nerve at once, jarring the pulse at her sex into an insistent throb. “But doesn’t this feel good?”

  “It feels . . .” She watched him in bashful fascination, her legs widening of their own accord, heat spreading in waves over her skin. “Scandalous.”

  He chuckled, nipping her playfully. “Then perhaps you should tell me what part of my body is allowed to touch this sweetest part of yours. That way, we won’t have a misunderstanding in the future. What about my fingers?”

  He demonstrated. Her body clenched around the blunt tip of his finger, welcoming the slow, thick slide all the way to his knuckle and then out again. Breathlessly, she said, “Yes, yes, your finger is good. Quite good.”

  “And my lips?”

  “Mmm-hmm . . .” was all she could say as he swept back and forth over her tautly furled flesh.

  “And what about my tongue?” He sealed his mouth over her, his clever tongue swirling around the heavy wanton pulse.

  She could only gasp a response, her head falling back. Then twining her fingers in his hair, she allowed—no, encouraged—him to do the most wicked, wonderful things. She didn’t know what he was doing to her, but she never wanted him to stop.

  Reed bathed her for endless minutes. Lifting her knees to his shoulders, he sampled the tender swollen flesh until her cries reached the rafters. The pleasure was so intense, she feared it would break her apart.

  “Let go, highness,” he urged, his voice hoarse and needy. “Lie back. Let me have you. All of you.”

  She lifted her hands free of his hair and began to dip toward the table, but something stopped her. The thought of lying on her back, vulnerable and exposed, without any control, sent a spear of trepidation leaping inside her chest.

  So she stopped halfway and groped at his shoulders. “I—I need you inside me.”

  Giving in to her wishes, he stood. She grabbed desperately at the fastenings on his trousers, freeing him. And without hesitation, he pushed inside her eager, aching body, the sudden thick invasion a blessed relief.

  Closing her eyes, she clung to him as he drove in deeply, on and on, until helpless spasms racked her, ripping his name from her lips. Then he jolted once—twice—filling her with violent liquid pulses.

  It took a long moment to catch their breath. All the while, he smoothed his hands over her face, tucking away strands of bedraggled hair, soothing her. Then, with his flesh still wedged inside, he took her mouth and kissed her with infinite patience.

  “Just so you know,” he said softly, “I’ll only take what you’re willing to give. And I’ll wait as long as you need me to.”

  Apparently, he’d noticed her hesitation. And while she offered a nod in response, she was afraid he was in for a very long wait.

  Worry niggled the back of her mind, making her wonder if, perhaps, she didn’t feel completely secure. While she knew Reed would never let anything happen to her, now that her heart was involved, there were new risks she hadn’t anticipated.

  What if he tired of her? What if she never mattered to him? What if he walked away without ever looking back?

  A cold shudder seeped into her bones at the thought.

  Picking up the blanket, he draped it over her shoulders and kissed her forehead. “How about I make tea for us, hmm?”

  “No, no. I’ll make the tea . . . with the other pail of water, of course.” She clutched the blanket around her and slipped down from the table, feeling the slick of him between her thighs. She would clean up when he left, she decided, and quickly skirted to the side. “I’ll rummage through the basket and make you a fine breakfast.”

  “Is that so?” He grinned, but there was a distinctly dubious lift of his brows.

  “I’ll have you know that I’ve helped Mrs. Darden on many occasions. Why, I’ll have a feast prepared in no time at all. Do you think you can manage to find an occupation out of doors for a few minutes?”

  “That depends.”

  Ainsley nearly set her hands on her hips, but didn’t dare risk losing the blanket. “On what?”

  “On whether or not you’re going to cook naked.”

  She blushed all the way to her bare toes. Then, taking his shirt from where it dried by the fire, she pushed it into his hands and shooed him out the door.

  Once he was out of sight, she bathed in earnest and donned the wrinkled dress she’d worn yesterday and the day before. She was a frightful sight, to be sure. And without a looking glass in the cottage, she wasn’t sure what her hair looked like after she brushed it out and pinned it up in a twist.

  However, since it wasn’t something she could alter, she set about making a hearty breakfast. While she might not be able to let go completely, she could at least fill her husband’s stomach.

  Foraging through the basket from the vicar’s wife, she found a round loaf of rye bread, a mincemeat pie, a pudding crock, and other prepared foods. There was a pint of cream and a bowl of fresh eggs as well.

  It had been quite a number of years since she’d helped Mrs. Darden in the kitchen, but Ainsley believed she could make a decent batch of coddled eggs and toasted bread.

  As she cracked the eggs and dropped them one by one into the empty pot hanging over the edge of the fire, she started to think about her new role as a wife.

  Perhaps, during the agency’s slower times, they could return here. This cottage would be a welcome respite from their busy London lives. And should they become blessed with children, their laughter would fill this cozy space.

  Resting a hand over her midriff and lost in this dream, Ainsley forgot the reason she no longer helped Mrs. Darden in the kitchen.

  Or rather, why Mrs. Darden no longer allowed Ainsley to help her.

  Smoke rose from the uneven slices of bread near the fire and from the po
t, the acrid smell of char wafting in the air. Using the hem of her dress, she took it off the hook and laid it on the hearth stones. Then she stared down at the disaster. Another failure.

  How had the bottom turned black and crispy so quickly while the top was still pale and runny? And why was toasting bread so bloody difficult? Every single slice had caught fire.

  They were still smoldering when Reed walked inside.

  Hesitating on the threshold, he took in the carnage at a glance. His brow furrowed as he looked to an errant flame erupting from one of the slices on the hearth ledge. Then the corner of his mouth twitched and he chafed his hands together. “I’m famished. What have you . . . cooked for us, hmm?”

  “Toasted bread.” And because of her overeager aspirations, there was nothing left of the loaf.

  He walked over and peered into the pot, speculating over the contents. Before he could ask, she supplied, “Coddled eggs.”

  “Ah. Well, I’m certain they’ll be delicious.”

  Ainsley felt a mortifying prickle of tears at her failure. “How dare you be kind and polite. You’re supposed to be goading me into an argument. Why, next you’ll likely offer to eat every morsel.”

  His eyes went wide as saucers and he swallowed. “Let’s not be too hasty. I was merely showing my support.”

  “Well . . . stop.” She swatted at him as he crowded closer, and her hands came to rest on his shoulders. “It only makes it worse. I cannot cook to save my life, or yours, apparently. And I cannot even whistle.”

  “Now, now, highness. Everyone can whistle.”

  She shook her head and demonstrated, issuing a hard-fought, pathetic little chirrup. “See? It’s clear that I’m not good at anything that matters.”

  He slid his arms around her waist and tugged her against him, their bodies aligning perfectly where he was hard and she was soft. “I happen to know you’re good at a number of things.”

  “I was talking about being a wife.”

  “So was I,” he leaned in to whisper, grazing the underside of her ear, “and I’d say you’re rather exceptional at being my wife.”