by Deana James
"But why?" he muttered. She moved restively. "Don't try to answer," he hastened to add. "This was your idea. But why did you decide to do it? Good lord! You can’t have fallen in love with me?"
She shook her head violently.
"No need to be quite so adamant about that," he said sarcastically. "A simple shake or nod will be sufficient." He took a sip of brandy while he stared at her with knitted brows.
A knock sounded before he could frame the next question. Watkins came in and closed the door behind him. "Beg pardon, milord, but they're beginning to search for her."
Vivian struggled to get up, the skirt of her riding habit holding her down and threatening to send her toppling over backward.
"Here, be careful." Piers caught at her and assisted her to stand. "Who is going to search for her?"
"Mrs. Felders told me, rather gladly I might add, that they've come for her. Her guardian, her lawyer, old Judge Penstaff, and the captain of the local garrison."
"Good lord. MacPherson."
"Yes, sir."
Vivian buried her face in her hands. She could not think what to do. Her guardian would find her. He would take her away. No matter how much she resisted him, fought him even, she would lose. In the end she would have to eat, and her food would be drugged. Even a simple cup of tea. She stumbled away toward the door. Better to run. The place had a back stairs. Better death in the cold, clean snow.
Piers followed her and caught hold of her shoulders. She was breathing hard, her body shaking. He turned her toward him and forced her to look up at him. "Is this why you came to me? For help?"
She nodded. Her eyes tried to communicate her terror and her desperate need.
"Mrs. Felders took a lot of pleasure in telling me they're in the parlor now," Watkins put in, his tone worried. "The lawyer's telling old Penstaff what to write down and he's doing it. MacPherson's men’ll be searching the house soon."
Piers let Vivian go and swung round. "They can't do that. My God! If they look in the cellar—”
"Yes, sir."
"Damn nuisance." He shot her an angry look, then flashed an ugly smile. "Looks like Larne's outsmarted himself this time. Oh, this is rich."
Watkins's face remained bland. "It would seem so, sir. Perhaps the best thing for all concerned would be for me to escort the lady downstairs and let them take her away."
At his words, Vivian twisted out from under Piers's hands and dashed for the door.
"Hold on there, damn you." Piers leaped after her to catch her shoulder and drag her back. Clapping one arm across the front of her body under her chin, he held her against him while he stared at Watkins. "They can’t take her away. She's my wife."
Vivian shook her head violently and stabbed her finger into the back of his hand. "No."
"Stop that clawing, damn you."
Watkins too shook his head. His eyes skittered up to a spot somewhere near where the wall met the ceiling. "You haven't made her your wife, sir. They know that, and they mean to have her out of here before you have a chance to-er—”
The viscount's arm fell away. He stared at his valet, a slow red creeping up his neck. Whether from anger or embarrassment, Vivian did not know. She only knew that too much time had been wasted. She caught up the trailing skirt. If she could slip down the back stairs and reach the stables, she could ride for her life.
"Stop trying to run out of here." He caught her a second time and pulled her back against his naked chest. His voice was harsh in her ear. "You came here for that, didn't you?"
Shocked color flooded her cheeks. She was terribly conscious of Watkins's having left off studying the wall to gather up the towels and screw the lid on the jar of salve.
"You came here to seduce me to make yourself my wife. You came to consummate our marriage."
She closed her eyes. The embarrassment was enough to kill her. She felt his chest heave.
"Then consummate it we shall. Leave us, Watkins, And try to lead them everywhere but here."
"Yes, sir." The relief was patent in the valet's voice. He moved to the door, then paused seeking direction. "Not the cellar, of course, milord."
"No, not the cellar. But everywhere but the cellar and here."
He held her against him till the door closed behind the valet, then he turned her in his arms and stared down into her face trying to read her thoughts. "You must be very afraid."
She nodded. Her eyes were dry and aching. Her throat swollen. Tears were not far away, but she could not let them fall. They might have only minutes. How long did it take!
He looked her up and down, feeling the tremors wracking her body. A door slammed somewhere below. She jumped. His fingers tightened. "When this is all over, you shall write me a long letter about what happened to you in London."
Suddenly, she was very aware that she was in the arms of a half-naked man. Excitement flushed her cheeks and she lifted her hands to his chest to push herself away.
"Don't do that," he murmured. "Don't push me away. Let it happen."
She bit her lip, a shiver running down her spine as the huskiness in his voice caressed her.
"Push your arms up around my neck,** he suggested just before he bent to kiss her.
She slid her hands as he directed. The palms rasped the hair on his chest.
His arms tightened fractionally as one of her nails encountered his erect nipple. He groaned softly into her mouth and flinched. "Lord, that's sweet."
Her hands paused at his shoulders, lightly brushing over the bandage. She wondered if the wound were aching badly, wondering if he were too hurt to make love. Then her arms went round his neck.
His arms tightened around her. He tilted his head and deepened his kiss. When she took a deep breath, it lifted her against him. Womanly breasts under velvet rubbed against him. He could feel himself grow hot and hard, could hear his blood humming. Even if her brain was defective, the rest of her was certainly better than normal.
Never taking his mouth from hers, he shifted her slightly in his arms and unbuttoned her jacket. Even as she stiffened, his hand dived between the lapels, found the buttons of her shirtwaist and opened it, too. A single layer of sheer linen separated him from her beating heart.
His hand cupped her breast, then squeezed it.
She twisted. Her right leg bent, her knee involuntarily nudged him.
He pulled his mouth away from her and looked down. "Good lord. Who taught you to do that?"
She looked at him dazedly. He squeezed her breast again. She shuddered so powerfully that her whole body vibrated against him. Unable to control herself, unconscious of her own sensuality, she moved against him. Her knee slid up between his thighs.
He heard the thud of footsteps on the stairs. "They're coming." She threw a frightened look at the door, then back at him, her eyes pleading. Stooping, he slid one arm beneath her knees and lifted her high on his chest. "Keep your arms around my neck," he commanded. "And your mouth on mine."
She closed her eyes and complied, her body trembling.
A couple of quick strides and he laid her on the bed, her legs hanging over the side. He drew back from her, staring down into her pale face. "Are you sure this is what you want to happen?"
She swallowed. Another door slammed somewhere. She nodded.
He grinned mirthlessly. "I’ve never made love on demand before. Nor have I ever had to rush. You will remember that this is not the best way?"
She nodded. Feet thudded, a man's voice called out, demanded, too muffled to be understood.
He stepped back and lifted her skirts and petticoats. His hand reached for the drawstring and then found the opening in her thin linen drawers. "God," he murmured. "What an initiation."
He unbuttoned his own breeches. His eagerness surprised him. Instead of feeling offended and outraged, excitement sang in his veins. He had not known himself at all. She was a desperate girl besieged on all sides. He should be sympathizing with her.
But sympathy would do her no good. "Sp
read your legs," he commanded, surprised at the hoarseness in his voice. He found her opening. "Damn. You're as dry as a desert."
She looked at him fearfully, then closed her eyes. Her fists clawed up double handfuls of the spread beneath her.
He eased two fingers into her tiny opening. Her eyes squinched shut and a frown creased her forehead. She was tight. So tight. And undoubtedly a virgin.
"Stop. You can't go in there." Watkins protested vociferously in the hallway.
"Do your duty, Captain MacPherson." Sebastian's voice mirrored his triumph. "We've run the prey to ground."
They burst into Vivian's room next door.
She opened her eyes. Her unspoken command came to him as clearly as if she had shouted the words.
With a short nod he placed himself at the entrance to her body and leaned. It was too tight. Too damned tight. No, it was giving. He could feel his own excitement throbbing, throbbing.
She clawed at the spread. Sweat broke out on her forehead. The excruciating pain mounted. Surely there could not be more. Surely. She could stand no more. No more! But it mounted.
She opened her mouth. A scream built inside her. She pushed it out of her lungs. But nothing happened. Nothing at all.
And then suddenly, he burst through the gossamer shield. His long thick length slid into her virgin passage.
Behind him the door swung open, but he did not hear it. His own body reacted to the pressure, and the slickness, and the heat. He exploded. A cry of triumphant release burst from his lips.
In the doorway Sebastian Dawlish gave a groan and then cursed violently. He took a step toward the couple on the bed, but Captain Rory MacPherson caught him by the arm and dragged him back. "Looks like you got here too late, sir. The marriage has been consummated. And that's plain for all to see."
Chapter 9
"Have I killed you?"
Vivian opened her eyes. The canopy of the bed swam through a veil of tears; the folds of the material wavered. Never had she experienced anything so painful. I've been raped, she thought, irony keeping the tears at bay. And I begged my ravisher to do it. And hard on the heels of that thought, came the next. I should have killed myself. Death would have been preferable.
Piers lifted himself gingerly from between her slender thighs and slid to the side. As the bed sank beneath his weight, she lolled slightly, her shocked muscles flaccid.
He, too, stared at the canopy, his heart slowing, his breathing steadying. A wry smile curled on the corners of his mouth. Love on demand. And just in the nick of time. He was still pumping into her when he felt the rush of chill air on his buttocks. God! Sebastian must have been furious when he pushed opened that door. A minute more. So close.
In flagrante delicto had never had a truer interpretation. His sense had been blazing indeed.
Flexing the muscles of his arms which had borne the weight of his upper body above her, he grinned. He would have given much to see the expression on Sebby's face. But then he would not have been able to show Sebby his backside. Chuckling, he rolled over lazily to stare at his wife.
The girl beside him stirred.
He ran a hand over his chest, scratching reflectively. She lay almost as he had left her, except that she had thrown one arm across her eyes. In profile, she looked like a pile of clothing, her skirts and petticoats wadded around her waist. Her jacket and shirtwaist unbuttoned. One side of her linen chemise was pulled down to expose a small perfect breast peaked with a rosy nipple. He moistened his lips, wondering what she tasted like. Hastily he slid his eyes down to the froth of her petticoats. From beneath them he stared at a slender, curving thigh.
Propping himself up on his elbow, he saw that her feet still dangled over the edge of the bed. She still wore her hose and boots. He groaned and sank back. What an initiation! Would she ever let him touch her again?
She shuddered. Her fist clenched. Then she resolutely lowered her arm and pushed herself up on her elbows. He watched the slowly dawning horror as she stared at the lower half of her body. At the base of the flat plane of her belly, her pale hair was matted. Bright red blood stained it and smeared her thighs.
Her movement had the effect of tilting her pelvis. Hot liquid trickled out of her. Hideously embarrassed, she clamped her legs tight together and pushed clumsily at her petticoats.
"Don't." His voice rasped in her ears.
She shuddered. Her body swayed as her vision swirled and wavered.
He caught her by the elbow, tugging gently. "Lie back. This is not how we should leave this."
She shook her head. The movement seemed to drive out some of the nauseating dizziness.
"Don't go." He tried again, his voice a deep velvet sound. "We can make this right."
She looked at him, horror and disbelief in her face. Catching hold of the bedpost, she pulled herself to her feet. Her skirts fell down around her legs and more liquid coursed down her thighs. She stepped away from the bed. A quick agonized look over her shoulder drove the rich color into her cheeks. She had bled onto the spread.
He followed her look. "Don't be concerned about that. It's natural enough. It'll stop. It's probably stopped already."
Her eyes flickered, drawn against her will to his body. He still lounged naked with his pantaloons and small clothes crumpled around his knees. His limp organ nestled in the bush of dark red hair at the base of his belly. The bright red blood glistened on it. Against the stark white skin of the true redhead, it looked as if it curled on a bed of glowing coals.
Sick to her stomach, she swung around and staggered to the fire, holding out her shaking hands to warm them.
Behind her, he hastily struggled to his feet and pulled his clothing into place. When he had put himself to rights, he poured two brandies and pressed one on her. "Now, there's no need to run," he soothed. "Drink this."
She accepted it gratefully and tossed it down. Another shiver and another.
He went to pour another tot. "Another drink and then I'll carry you into your room where you can lie down. As I said, this is not the way to leave this."
She shook her head, turning away from the fire. With stiff fingers she buttoned her blouse and the jacket over it. Neither was enough. She felt vulnerable, helpless, exposed. Even a suit of medieval armor would never be enough.
Between her legs the torn edges of her flesh burned. The single glass had rendered her light-headed and swaying slightly on her feet.
Piers took a sip of his own brandy, regarding her narrowly, waiting to reach forward to steady her.
In the silence the knock on the door startled them both. The liquid sloshed in Piers's glass, and Vivian flung out a hand to clutch the back of a chair.
Her face was white but composed. She nodded to him.
"Come in."
"Begging pardon, milord, milady." Watkins's face was impassive. In no way did he betray his part in what had taken place only minutes before. "Lord Larnaervon requires your presence downstairs. The guests are departing and wish to make their farewells."
Piers gave a short bark of laughter. "I’ll bet a monkey they do." He laid a hand over her cold one. His eyes met hers. "You don't have to go if you don't want to. I can make your apologies."
She threw him a hopeful, grateful look.
He smiled encouragingly. "On the other hand, if you would face them with a smile, you'd never have any trouble again. Rowling would skip back to London with his tail between his legs. And Sebby—” While he spoke he slipped into the clean shirt that Watkins selected for him. "Come on, m'dear. Don't you want to throw a spoke into old Sebby's wheel?"
She shuddered.
The valet and the master exchanged knowing glances. Piers continued, his voice soothing and encouraging. "Actually, you don't ever have to see either one of them again, but you would do us a great favor if you'd present the happily-married-woman-act to that garrison captain. MacPherson is fast becoming a trial. Ambitious and honest. He just might take what he suspected to be your plight as his own crusade.
"
While he was speaking, he allowed Watkins to finish dressing him and to catch back his wild wine-dark hair in a black riband. He ran his hand across his chin. "I could do with a shave, but I don't suppose there's time for that."
Watkins shook his head. "I'm afraid not, sir. Mr. Dawlish was most belligerent. He was threatening and cursing when I left the room."
Piers laughed again. "And well he might. Bad enough if he'd just seen it himself. He could have lied about what he'd seen. But to have MacPherson see it too-It's rich."
Vivian thought she would faint from embarrassment so profound that it made her breath catch in her throat. At least three men had actually seen her beneath a man, in the act of fornication. Only by taking deep breaths could she control the ringing in her ears. How could he laugh? He was actually enjoying this whole thing hugely. While she had destroyed her honor and her reputation, he saw the whole affair as nothing more than a chance to score off her guardian.
Words bubbled in her throat, bubbled and boiled like a hell-broth, and fell back unsaid. Frustration with her disability made her ill. An all-consuming rage swept her. It drove away the dizziness and brought a little more color to her paper-white cheeks.
Piers saw it and nodded. "Ready to go down, wife?"
She lifted her hands to her hair and smoothed the errant strands back from her temples. Pulling the long skein over her left shoulder, she combed her fingers through it until it was smooth and she could swing it back.