by Stacy Reid
Then war had arrived.
The months that his brother had been in the war, Marcellus had tried to get her to know him. It had been slow and painful. He had yearned for her day and night, but he had trod with such patience even his father had been amused. His father understood the craving Marcellus had for her, and bless his mother’s heart, she had invented the ruse about needing a companion to have Emmeline under the same roof. Marcellus had no doubt she would be mortified that his parents knew he had been trying for over a year to be in her arms.
The first time he had made her smile had been a ray of sunshine in his life.
The first time he had gotten her to unwind and play chess with him in the library had been a triumph.
The first time he had gotten her to accompany him to their estates to meet his tenants and saw what his work entailed had been more delightful than the pleasures he found in Emmeline’s embrace. He grunted softly at that.
Marcellus doubted he would ever get enough of her. Even now he wanted to comfort her, and then seat his cock into the heart of her, her wet and tight clasp holding him through the cold night. A few more weeks would never ease his yearning for her. But having Max home tomorrow would certainly ease her torment. Marcellus’s hands closed over her heaving form, hating that he would lose her.
* * * *
Emily woke early from a restless sleep, eyes feeling puffy and irritated. Winds howled, signaling the arrival of a winter storm. She could feel the nip in the air, despite the fireplace that roared. Willow Lake was not equipped with central heating as their London abode was, and from the fierceness of the wind she could predict they were in for another harsh winter. She twisted around and let out a shaky breath. The bed was empty. Marcellus had held her through the storm, comforting her. When she had turned to him, needing something more to burn away the grief, he had only held her, murmuring crooning words of comfort. He had gathered her close, gently rubbing her back and telling her winter stories. He had even cleaned between her legs with a warm washcloth, soothing the tender folds. That had shocked her. Everything about him had been gentle. She had felt when he slipped from her room but had not protested.
She scrambled from the bed, jerking the robe from its peg, and slipped it on. She rang the bell, and after a few minutes, Anna entered and Emily performed her toiletries in silence. She was surprised to realize she had slept past noon, and she blushed at the curious stares Anna gave her.
For the first time in weeks she selected something from her dressing room that was not black. She hesitated, not wanting to relinquish it altogether. It felt like she was abandoning Maxwell by choosing to wear color. She settled on a peach high-collared lace-trim blouse with a soft gray skirt, and lessened the severity of her hair by having a few tendrils loose.
First, she must speak with Marcellus. She’d decided to move up the wedding and desired his support. The hurt in her heart was easing somewhat, and she did not want a large wedding. She had rebelled against the idea but decided to try for Lady Harcourt and her mother. A large wedding was what she had planned with Maxwell. She could not do the same now. She wanted Marcellus to procure a special license and have the village vicar wed them as soon as possible. If there was one thing she’d learned from the war, it was that she could not take anything for granted. She would not wait or even bemoan the loss of life she had been privileged to have before. Marcellus’s words last night had cracked an ice-solid place in her heart. She did crave him, and life was too precious to fight what was burgeoning between them. While she would grieve for Maxwell for a very long time, possibly forever, Emily did not want to lose Marcellus. Her breath hitched at the thought of losing him too.
She walked down the corridor with firm resolve. At his door she inhaled, knocked once, then entered without waiting for his bidding. Marcellus stood at his window overlooking the rolling lawns of the estate. He spun at her entrance and then froze as she barreled into the room.
She frowned at the grief and need that flashed across his face. “Marcellus I—” Her voice broke off sharply, and she blinked several times, doubting her eyes. She could not believe it at first, did not want to believe that he could possibly be real. In appalled stasis, she remained frozen. Maxwell? It could not be. He stood in stark silhouette against the backdrop of the green drapes. Her gaze roved over him, drinking in every detail. She feared blinking because then he would disappear.
“Emily.” It was the deep rasp of his voice that let her know without a doubt it was Maxwell.
“Oh my heavens!” Her legs weakened.
The roaring in her eardrums became too loud; her head spun as pain stormed through her along with profound thankfulness. Maxwell was alive. He did not look ill or even ravaged. He was alive, but he’d stayed away from her? Tears built in her throat, and her eyes burned. The tears spilled unchecked as she labored to breathe.
“You’re alive.” So alive and vibrant he took her breath away.
She stuffed a fist in her mouth, staring at him, eyes wide with disbelief. He sported a beard, and it only served to make him look harder somehow, older, but still so handsome he stole her thoughts.
“Come here, my darling.” He held open his arms, and Emily did not hesitate. She threw herself in his arms, hugging him tight.
He felt smaller but still muscled. Her tears flowed, and Emily could not prevent herself from touching him all over. A sound from behind reached her ears, and she glanced in a daze over his shoulder to see Marcellus staring from the doorway. His guarded look had her heart thudding. Pain shifted in his gaze, which had her heart clamoring and confusion rushing inside of her.
“You brought him home, Marcellus?” she demanded, her voice hoarse.
He nodded.
“How? I don’t understand…”
He tried to bury the look of guilt, but Emily saw it. She froze, gripping Maxwell’s shirt by the fistful. “How long have you known he was alive?”
“I knew he never died,” Marcellus said softly.
A cry clawed from her throat powerful enough that her body jerked. She couldn’t escape the sense of betrayal she felt. Marcellus had lied to her. Even as he loved her, kissed her, reached into the depths of her, he had lied, but he had also brought Maxwell home. She disengaged from Maxwell and hesitated for only a moment, then flung herself into Marcellus’s arms, hugging him. There was no hesitation from him as he gripped her even tighter, burying his face in her neck.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you so much, Marcellus.”
Without waiting for a response she wrenched away and spun to face Maxwell. She launched at him, the sobs tearing freely from her throat. She heard a distant scream of what sounded like his mother’s voice, the clatter of dishes, and several shouts. All through it a loud noise pounded in her head, and she could not let him go. The low murmur of his voice washed over her, the soothing touches as he rubbed his hand on her back felt from a distance. The last thing she remembered before succumbing to the darkness was Maxwell’s rough, tormented murmur promising never to leave her again.
* * * *
Emily’s eyes fluttered open. She turned her head frantically toward the form she glimpsed in her periphery. She stared into the unfathomable gray eyes of the man that held her heart and soul. A shaky laugh escaped her lips, and she shifted to sit on the bed. Maxwell was alive. It had not been a dream. Joy stormed through her along with questions. Where had he been? Was he well?
Her eyes widened as she took in his naked form. She lifted her eyes to his face. His gaze roved her body, narrowing with lust. She looked over his lean form and inhaled sharply. His erection rose, hard, thick, and engorged, to his abdomen. He surged from the chair and stalked to the bed, his intent unmistakable. Emily thought to protest, to demand they speak first, but what she saw on his face halted her. It was loneliness—stark and agonizing.
He stopped by the edge of the bed, and her heart slammed painfully against her ribs. Without speaking he drew her to her knees. His lips took hers in a sweet, f
iery kiss that melted her completely. He dipped his tongue, caressing and sucking hers lightly. He drew her response, drinking in her soft moans and needy whimpers. Gripping her head he tilted it as he sank in for a greedier kiss.
He released her and removed her gown with more patience than his kiss. He lifted her off the bed and pulled off her shift, drawers, brassiere, and stockings. And Emily allowed him to. The torment in his eyes, she wanted to vanquish it. He grazed her cheeks with his mouth, and then kissed her lips with sweetness. He swept his tongue into the moist confines of her mouth. His kiss was delicious, hot, and carnal, but so tender.
“Do you know how long I’ve waited to touch you, to kiss you, to hear you cry your love for me?” he growled, lifting and placing her in the center of his bed. Maxwell came over her, resting his weight on his left arm. He cupped her cheek with his other hand, peppering soft kisses over her lips, then down to her collar. “I missed you so damn much, Emily,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with arousal.
“I know,” she gasped. “I missed you so, Maxwell.”
He drew her closer to him, grazing the tips of her breasts that were overly sensitive. Trailing his hands down, he cupped her breasts, which felt so heavy and swollen with desire. He rolled her nipples between his fingers, pinching and then soothing them with silken caresses of his moistened thumbs.
Bending his head, he seized her nipple between his teeth before laving the sensitive flesh with a tormenting tongue tip. The wet heat of his mouth enveloped the tight bud fully, and she cried out in wantonness. He stroked his tongue over her nipple, sending shards of pleasure to her womb. Then he suckled at her breast with hard pulls of his lips. Without releasing her from his mouth, he trailed his hand down to cup her between her legs. He probed, teasing with the tips of his fingers, never sinking in too deep, torturing her. The sensation was so intense she moaned.
“Your pussy is so wet for me,” he murmured, burying two fingers into her drenched core. His voice was rough, but his touch was gentle, arousing. And she desperately needed that, as she was still slightly sore from Marcellus’s excess. Guilt suffused her at the thought of Marcellus. Thoughts of his brother faded as Maxwell slowly roused her hunger to a fever pitch.
He traveled down her body slowly, loving her with his lips and hands. Emily felt aflame and alive from his touch. His tongue dipped into her navel, circled once, and then continued down.
“Oh God! I’ve missed you so much, Maxwell.”
“I dreamed of you day and night, your smile, the way you teased me, your scent, and the delightful expression that chased your features as you read a book. Everything about you I missed and hungered for, Emily.” His voice throbbed with sexual intensity. He tormented her with erotic skill, licking her with sensuality. She felt his tongue rim her entrance, so tenderly, before he pushed it inside. He was soft, gentle as he tongued between her legs. It was sheer bliss.
“Lick me deeper.” Her voice was hoarse, beseeching for relief.
He drove his tongue into her, evocative delight sizzled in her veins, and her hips arched as a cry burst from her lips. He rose above her, widened her thighs, and settled between them. She tossed upon the bed as he flexed his hips and worked his thick erection inside her. He stretched her, sinking his full length slowly.
“God, you’re perfect,” he rasped, buried to the hilt.
The biting pleasure from his thrust was ecstasy. Delight arced over her body, then into it. He kissed her lips, the corner of her mouth, and then her eyelids.
“Are you okay?” his husky rasp spiked hunger in her.
“Yes.” She twined her hands around his neck, drawing him to her, tears slipping from her eyes. She shifted her legs, twining one around his hips and the other around his thigh. A piercing sweetness stabbed through her. “I am holding you again, Maxwell. I am complete.”
His movements were deliberate and controlled as he loved her with fierce passion. She writhed beneath him, lifting her hips to meet his thrusts. She raised her body and met each steady plunge that slowly increased in strength. She whimpered, feeling the arousal build in her womb as it was stoked to a pitch by every forceful movement.
“So responsive, so wet and sweet,” he groaned with aching gentleness. “Wrap your legs high around my back.”
She complied. He went deeper. So deep she lost the ability to breathe. She could only clasp his sweat-slicked back and bite into his shoulder. He began to move with increased strength, driving her harder into the bed. He was voracious in his passion, and Emily felt as if fire consumed her. She shuddered. Waves of pleasure pulsed through her as she screamed, “I love you, Maxwell.”
“You make me forget the world exists. The horror of the war is burned away when I am in you, surrounded by your love, your responses, the wetness and heat of your cunt. I adore you, Emily.” His voice was rough, hot, and it peaked her need further.
Her pleasure built gradually like soft ripples that eventually crashed her with a wave of delight. He reached between their bodies, while he remained propped on his other elbow. He found her clitoris and slowly pressed. Spasms of delight racked her frame. She held him tight, afraid to relinquish him, as he shuddered in her arms, releasing inside her.
* * * *
Emily gazed at his sleeping form, still amazed that Maxwell was in her arms. He had fallen asleep within seconds of loving her thoroughly. She shifted and winced. He had been insatiable, taking her several times in the two nights she’d slept in his room. He had been unhurried. He worshipped her, licked her all over, and ensured she wept from pleasure.
She brushed locks of hair from his forehead and leaned over to kiss his lips softly. He slept in relaxed repose, his chest gently lifting with each even breath. She pulled away the covers to look at his scarred flesh. She had seen it before but had been too distracted by the hunger that bled from him to fully examine it.
With the tip of her finger, she gently traced the scar from his hip to midthigh. She noted the changes in him. Her heart clenched in pain for what he must have suffered. He had lost weight, his hair was longer, and there were dashes of silver at his left temple. His chest bore three different scars, and the slight beard gave him a rakish look. Despite all that he still sounded and touched her like her Maxwell. The only time he had taken her rough was when she was awakened earlier by his tortured groans and shook him awake from his nightmare. His eyes had been wild as he stared at her, his face drawn into savage lines of torment. Without speaking he had drawn her underneath him and then buried his length without any preliminaries.
She gently rose from the bed, not wanting to wake him. The speed with which he had fallen into slumber indicated the depth of his exhaustion. She dressed silently, her mind whirring with questions. She had pushed those thoughts away for the past days, focusing only on having her beloved back in her arms and soothing the pain and loneliness that bled from him so profusely. She could not even begin to fathom how he could be alive and how Marcellus had known.
She eased open his door and slipped into the hall and froze at the sight of his father, Lord Edward Wynwood, the Duke of Harcourt, walking toward his son’s room.
Emily raked her hands through hair that was still mussed. The fire in her cheeks spread and burned through her entire body. “I…”
“Be at ease, my dear. I had expected you to be in his room. I hope my presence has not discomforted you in any way,” he reassured her, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “I fear I must confer with him on an urgent matter.”
She felt flummoxed. She had expected outrage or something other than humor. She had been in Maxwell’s room for two nights. And they were not married.
“He is asleep, but please wake him if it is urgent. I…I am heading to my room,” she burst out and swept past him.
“Emily.”
She froze, then spun at how he said her name. The kindness in his blue eyes almost felled her.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Marcellus paces the library like a caged tiger,” he said
kindly. She saw the knowledge in the duke’s eyes. He knew she had been with both of his sons. Emily wanted to die.
She sucked in a harsh breath and could only nod mutely. He forced things to her mind that she wanted to keep banished until Maxwell woke. She wanted to speak with Maxwell first. She feared she could not face Marcellus. The agony that ravaged her at his deception was too painful, too real, and too surprising.
She went into her room, rang the bell, and ordered a bath. Her mind churned in confusion at what to do. She sat in the bath for almost an hour, soaking her muscles and the tender ache in her core. Tears ran down her face. She had given herself to both brothers. God, what did that make her? They were both intense and passionate but loved her so differently. Her body burned as she remembered that Maxwell had wanted to take her a third time the first day they came together. It had been impossible. Mortifying heat had crawled up her face. If she had not been with Marcellus only a few hours before, it would have been different. Dread had frozen her when she’d had the thought. She’d fretted if Maxwell would have been able to tell that she had been with someone else. She couldn’t imagine how she would function being in Marcellus’s presence now that Maxwell was back. What a mess.
She rose from the water and dried without assistance. She walked to her armoire and withdrew a simple blue day dress and clothed herself. She could do nothing with her tumbled hair. She decided not to ring for Anna as she had the sudden urge to confer with Marcellus before Maxwell woke.
She looked in the mirror, and her eyes widened. She had expected to look pale and bloodless, but instead she glowed. Her eyes glinted, and her cheeks were flushed. She banished the traitorous thought that she was excited to see Marcellus and swept from the room.
Chapter Five
19 December 1917
Dearest Emily,
Happy birthday, my love. I wish I was there to celebrate with you. We need such lightness of celebration in the midst of this unceasing despair. I order you not to feel guilty at the lavish party your mother organized for you. You are now twenty-one, and I believe she is proud of the wonderful young lady that you are. I know that we are in wartimes, but I want you to consider the fear that Lady Langford is feeling. Everything she knows has been displaced, and it is all changing. This may be her way of clinging to what she knows and what brings her comfort. I love that you adore the gifts Marcellus has bestowed upon you. Do not think they are lavish. That is his way of letting you know how valued you are. I pray I will be there on your next celebration. I welcome all letters that tell me of the simple things that brighten your day.