He collapsed on top of her, his head buried in the mattress beside her head. Their sweat merged between their bodies where their skin touched, and she felt moisture leaking from her thighs.
It was messy, inelegant, and definitely dangerous.
It was heaven.
“Thank you,” she whispered as his breathing slowed. He fell asleep on top of her, one hand touching her face in a delicate gesture.
***
He’d been dreaming again, of another place where he’d been deposited amongst overbright foliage, paralyzed by something he didn’t understand. A snarling creature stood on his chest, baring its bright yellow teeth. A long trail of saliva dribbled from its jaws onto his bare chest.
Alasdair tried to push it away, but he couldn’t move his arms. The creature—it appeared to be half dragon, half snake—lowered its head to him, brushing his skin with a hot, steamy exhalation of breath. And lower, until Alasdair could feel the prickling of the spikes that protruded from its chin.
Then, suddenly, the creature was gone, disappearing in a flash of light and beating wings. He heard an enormous noise, like a crack of thunder, and felt his limbs begin to shake. The whole world was shaking, in fact. Up above, clouds scudded by as quickly as bullets on a battlefield. He tried to move, but was only able to lift his head, his mouth opening in a soundless scream.
He woke to find her kissing him. It was a reprieve from the agony, an oasis of bliss in the confusion of his thoughts. He had enough honor to have made sure it was what she wanted, but wasn’t certain he could stop if she didn’t. Thank God she wanted it as badly as he did.
Her skin was soft, so soft and smooth, and he wanted to enfold her completely, keeping them both safe from harm. Then desire, lust, and passion gripped him and he forgot about danger, could think only about the wanting of her, the taking that needed to happen.
When she came, his heart nearly burst out of his chest. When he came, he knew he’d found heaven.
He fell asleep as content as he’d been in years.
Chapter 14
“Good morning.” Mary opened her eyes to the delicious view of Alasdair’s chest. The scar, once you got used to it, was even exciting, in a rakish kind of way.
She trailed one finger over it. The flesh was puckered, and looked as if it had been poorly taken care of. That was one thing, of the many, she would have to address.
“Did you sleep well?” Mary forced herself to look into his eyes, not duck her head and reveal her insecurities about what had happened the previous night. After all, she knew he had found pleasure; the question coursing through her mind was “How much?” At least she knew that their … activities of the previous evening had to be better than suffering the agony of being without the drug.
His lips curled into an almost shy smile. “I did, thank you. And you, wife?” He propped his head on one hand and gazed down at her with an intensity that did funny things to her insides.
Good, funny things.
“Wonderfully.” Mary slid her hand down his side to his waist. His eyes tracked her movement.
“So I gather no regrets this morning?” Did she hear a note of apprehension in his voice? As though she might have been disappointed in him?
Mary raised her head and put her lips to his. “None,” she whispered against his mouth.
He drew her into his arms and she felt him exhale, hard, as though he’d been holding his breath.
If she hadn’t already been in danger of losing her heart to him, this new vulnerability might have done it. It touched her.
“What should we do today?” He kissed her, a soft touch of mouth to mouth.
And Mary’s heart melted even more.
“What would you like to do? We could be on our way, I suppose.”
“London will wait another day—won’t it?” He pushed her hair away from her shoulder and kissed her neck. “I thought that since we managed to find a habitable place to stay we could remain here another day.”
“Just—stay here?” Not run from her brother, or his cousin, or their unspoken hopes for the future—just be. It sounded like heaven to Mary.
“Yes, we could go for a walk through town, like a normal married couple would do.” He raised a brow. “Perhaps find you something else to wear. And then we could come back here …” His words trailed off, and Mary’s imagination took flight.
She was as addicted to him, it seemed, as he was to opium.
***
“If we lived here, I’d want to live in that house over there,” Mary said, pointing to a small cottage on the outskirts of the town. A plume of smoke curled from the chimney. She saw a few well-fed cats lazing on the steps leading inside.
“Although,” she continued, blushing, “that would be very poor housing for a marquess.”
“It would be ideal,” he said, grazing her cheek with his finger. “My favorite holding is my hunting cottage. It’s only a few rooms, barely any furnishings, just books and chairs deemed too worn-out to remain in the big house.”
“You hunt, then?” Mary asked. She’d never known anyone who hunted for sport, as she assumed he did.
“Not anymore.” His tone was clipped, and she knew enough not to pry. On this subject, at least.
“So what do you do there, if you’re not hunting?”
He guided her closer to the house she’d admired, then stopped and gazed up at—the roof?
By now, she recognized that he was trying to avoid her question. But she also trusted he would give her the answer she’d requested.
“I read. Read, and spend time alone.” He met her gaze. “It might seem as if someone in my position gets to do what they want all the time, but the truth of the matter is that we have terrible responsibilities.”
“Like marrying your wife?” she murmured.
He swallowed, dipping his head in a quick nod of assent. “Yes. She was chosen for me. Neither of us wanted the other. In fact,” he said, staring at that roof again, “she wanted my brother.”
Another pause. Mary waited, biting her tongue as the questions poured through her mind—what was Anthony like? What was Judith like? How did she die?
“I know that, you see, because Judith was with child when we wed.”
“What happened?”
Another pause.
“She died in childbirth. It was—she was a girl. The infant, I mean.”
“I am so sorry, Alasdair.” Almost without thinking, she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him in to her. His body shuddered, and she clutched him even tighter.
He bent his head down to her shoulder, and she felt—tears? Yes, definitely tears. He was sobbing against her, silent, wracking sobs that engulfed his entire being.
“Should we go back to the room?” she murmured, glancing around. There was no one in the vicinity, but she doubted his pride could stand even one random villager, even in this tiny Scottish town, seeing his pain.
That he was allowing her to see it felt as though he was entrusting her with something much more important, more meaningful, than his body: with my Body I thee worship. Perhaps the traditional vows should be altered to say “with my secrets I thee entrust.”
Because, even though she had experienced delicious bliss in his arms the night before, this moment, here, now, was where trust—dare she think love?—was built.
Dear lord, she was falling in love with him.
Dear lord, she should not be falling in love with him.
“Thank you,” he said, as he finally stopped shaking. He lifted his head and looked at her, tears spiking his dark lashes.
It was humbling to see someone so arrogant, so proud, so confident, in the throes of such emotion.
He used the back of his hand to wipe his eyes, then held his arm out to her. “Shall we?”
Mary took his arm. I gather our intimate moment of sharing is over, she thought. That it happened at all was a miracle.
***
Like the previous evening, dinner was a simple but tasty me
al served in their room. She dressed for dinner, even though it was just them, because she could not stand to wear her old gown one moment longer.
He’d asked if she wanted to eat down in the common area, but she had refused. For one thing, she’d said, they were definitely not from here, and would be conspicuous if any of their followers stumbled into the town. For another, he was still prone to sudden attacks of agonizing pain, and it would be more prudent to stay away from prying eyes.
What she didn’t share with him was that she wanted to be alone with him. His confession about his first marriage had shaken her.
She did not want to leave him. Nor would she force him to remain married to someone he didn’t love—as he’d done before.
And, of course, that didn’t even begin to address the fact that she was entirely unsuited to be the wife of a marquess, even if she had not been illegitimate. She knew nothing of estate management, or etiquette, or anything to do with being a lady. A proper lady.
One who, for example, would not waken her husband to ravish him on their wedding night when he’d vowed not to touch her.
At that, she smiled. She still couldn’t believe she’d done it. And that it had felt so right.
“Thinking about something, wife?” he asked, placing his fork onto the plate. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and leaned forward to touch her hand lying on the table. “Thank you for last night.”
“I thought we had covered that,” Mary said in a prim voice. But her smile belied her tone.
His fingers encircled her wrist, and she felt her entire body begin to respond.
“I presume you are finished with dinner, my lord?” she asked.
He slid his hand further up her arm. “Yes,” he replied. “And now I would like dessert.”
“We don’t—oh!” Mary said as she realized what he’d meant. Her hand covered her mouth and her eyes widened.
He nodded, a humorous expression lighting his green gaze. “Precisely. If it pleases you, wife, I would like us to retire to our bed.”
***
When he woke, it was barely dawn; the sun’s rays were trying to sneak into the room through the smeared glass windows. She lay on her side, her hand curled under his arm in a gesture of trust. It pulled at his heart.
Gently, so as not to wake her, he rose from the bed, stalking to where he’d left his clothing. He glanced back to make sure she was still sleeping. He didn’t want to have to confront the truth about what had happened, or not right now, at least.
He pulled his breeches on and threw his shirt over his head, tucking it in untidily. His jacket was hanging where she’d put it, on the hook near the door. He eased the door open and closed it just as quietly, creeping down in the hall in the preday gloom.
The village they were in was just large enough not to be called a hamlet; from where he stood, in front of the inn, he could see the blacksmith where they’d been married, a general-goods store, and a milliner’s.
He hadn’t noticed much of the town during their walk yesterday. He’d been too focused on her, on what they’d done, on what they might do.
On telling her about himself.
Even now, that made his throat tighten. He’d never admitted the truth of his marriage to anyone. Naturally, his family knew, but they’d never spoken about it.
They were far too proper.
Whereas he? He was hardly proper at all. He didn’t deserve to be in her company. He was using her for the comfort she gave him, for the trust she’d bestowed upon him.
Once again, he was responsible for someone who deserved far better than him.
Alasdair ran a hand through his hair. Last night, things had seemed so—different. Special. But this morning, the harsh ugly truth of his life stood out as clearly as the freshly painted sign indicating a pub.
It couldn’t hurt, could it, to go in and have a drink? Without questioning it further, he strode toward the inn, his pace almost frantic, his coat flapping behind him. The sun had emerged and was fighting a battle with a few ominous clouds.
“What’ll it be, then?” the barkeep asked, almost as soon as Alasdair had entered the building and stood blinking in the sudden darkness. Even though it wasn’t yet seven o’clock in the morning, there were at least four men in various stages of inebriation scattered around the pub.
Alasdair took a seat at the table closest to the door. From here, he could see the inn. If she woke, and went looking for him, he’d spot her right away. “Whiskey,” he replied.
Within minutes, he’d downed half the glass, its fiery warmth burning a hole in his stomach. “Another?” the barkeep asked.
“No, th—,” Alasdair began to reply, then realized the man was speaking to what looked like the least drunk of the other patrons. The man nodded, swept his drink up from the bar, and pulled a chair up to Alasdair’s table.
“You’re not from around here.”
“No.” Alasdair finished his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His fingers still smelled of her. Why did the thought of her make his throat tighten? Scare him?
“You need something, you come to Nick. That’s me.” The man winked. “Women, papers, something stronger than that whiskey there. I got it.”
“Anything?”
***
Until a month ago, she’d never slept past six. She thought it was already past eight o’clock, although it was cloudy outside. The noises of the day leaked through their window; the rumble of carriage wheels, shouts of children, a woman yelling “Polly”—all normal village noises. It was comforting, and it sounded like home. But now? Now home was with him.
She turned her head on the pillow and regarded him. Asleep, the hard lines on his face receded. He looked younger than he did awake, although no less beautiful. The clean, angled planes of his face revealed his bone structure: the high, slashing cheekbones, his strong jaw, the arrogant nose.
Looking at him, it was hard to believe the past few days had really happened. But she knew they had—long after he’d fallen asleep last night, she’d lain awake, thinking about what had changed. And what hadn’t changed at all.
He was still arrogant, addicted, changeable. She enjoyed his company, obviously, and more, but could she trust him?
Up to a certain point, of course, but with herself? Her future?
She gave him one last look, then rose from the bed, careful not to jostle him. He muttered something in his sleep, but rolled over onto his side without waking. He truly was handsome, and she reveled in how he made her feel. Even if it was just for now.
For the first time since her father’s death, she felt … happy. She still wasn’t sure what the future held, but for now, she was happy.
Mary picked her clothing up from the floor, blushing as she saw her shift lying in a heap at the end of the bed. She’d dress quickly and go out to get some breakfast, maybe pick some of the flowers they’d tromped through on the way into town. Before they were married. Before last night.
Mary found his coat lying on the floor, not where she’d hung it the night before. She frowned, but shrugged and felt inside his breast pocket. She’d seen him put the money there, and she just needed a bit of change for her errand.
She pulled out the few items in his pocket, the coins jingling in her hand. Along with a small vial of—she stared at the bottle, frozen.
***
“What—what are you doing?” Alasdair’s head throbbed. The morning light streamed through the curtains, silhouetting Mary, who was standing at the table. She was fully dressed, and had his coat in her hands.
She turned to look at him, her expression unforgiving. Or was that his guilty conscience? “I am leaving.”
Her words stabbed into his gut. “Why?” He raised himself up in the bed, shaking his head to clear it. It didn’t work.
“Was I—was it …?” He rubbed his face with his hands, unable to put it into words: that he was beginning to care for her. “If so, I apologize.” His heart constricted. Did she still think t
heir marriage was a mistake?
“Exactly,” she said. “That is the problem. I cannot trust my life, myself, to you.”
The words woke him as all his head-shaking couldn’t. He scrambled out of bed, barely noticing he was naked.
He clasped a hand on her arm. She glared at it, then at him. Anger glinted in her eyes. “You knew before, what—what I am.”
She removed his hand from her arm. “Yes, but my father always said true goodness is not who you are, but who you want to be. And you wanted to be—” She stopped and shook her head. “And this morning,” she finished in a broken voice.
She placed the vial on the table like a judgment.
He grabbed her arm back and gripped it tight. “Your father was a rutting cur who left his daughter alone with his blackguard son. Who sold you to me, if you recall.” He held on to the back of the chair so he wouldn’t fall. God help him if she left.
“Do you think I haven’t done anything but think about that?” Her voice shook. “But my father’s indiscretion doesn’t mean he was wrong about everything.”
Alasdair could hear the hurt in her voice. “What were you going to say?”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.” She opened her eyes and looked at him so intently he flinched. “When you welcomed me to hell, I didn’t think it would be this bad. I’ve been accused of being too optimistic”—she laughed wryly—“but I don’t think I am anymore.”
No one had ever told him no. And who was she to deny him? Damn her.
He glared at her, willing her to change her mind. She regarded him with a mournful look in her eyes. He couldn’t bear to see the disappointment there.
“I can’t help you, my lord, not if you succumb as easily as this.” Her voice broke toward the end.
“You cannot leave me.” He was ashamed at how needy he sounded. How could she do this to him? He’d just made a mistake. An awful mistake.
Her face crumpled at his words, but when she spoke, her tone was implacable. “I can. I must.” She continued, in a tone so low he could barely hear her. “I cannot hope to change people if they do not wish to be changed.”
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