by Anna Gracie
He pulled the comforter down and gazed at her body with possessive,
heavy-lidded grey eyes which seemed to burn into her skin. Tallie
tried to shield herself from his stare, but he lifted her hands away,
saying, "I am your husband, Tallie. You don't have to hide yourself
from me."
He lowered his mouth to her breast again, and Tallie almost leapt out
of her skin as red-hot spears of pleasure pierced her. He muttered
inaudibly, caressing her with hands, mouth and tongue. Sensations
spiralled through her and she found herself shuddering convulsively.
What magic was he performing to make her feel this way? She wanted to
take his head in her hands and press him tighter against her breasts,
wanted to touch him as he was touching her. She pressed a small, shy
kiss on his hair instead.
He caressed her softly, tenderly, and so slowly. It was. lovely. At
one point he slowed, and seemed to hesitate, and Tallie opened her
eyes. He, too, had his eyes closed. He was breathing heavily and
gritting his teeth. She wondered for a fleeting second if he was in
pain. But she soon forgot that thought because--ohhh. The feeling of
his warm strong hands caressing, smoothing, shaping her body, learning
it. She knew now why some people called this possessing--Magnus was
possessing her. And it was wonderful.
She tentatively laid her hands on his shoulders and, light as
thistledown, stroked his skin. He felt warm, slightly damp with sweat,
and very, very good. His skin smelt of the cologne water he usually
wore, and some darker, musky scent that she knew was him. He didn't
react, didn't tell her to stop. Feeling braver, Tallie stroked the
wide muscular shoulders and the crisp dark hair on his arms, exulting
in the feel of his strength. Such a powerful man, and yet so tender
with it.
He rubbed his hands down over her stomach and hips, and the slightly
roughened skin of his palms set up a delicious friction on her soft
skin, then dipped between her thighs. Quivers ran through her, and
without conscious volition her legs fell open. He cupped her between
her legs and began small circular motions that soon had her gasping
with excitement. She felt his fingers moving intimately in the folds
of her flesh, and she parted her legs further, writhing in pleasure at
the sensations coursing through her body.
Groaning, he pushed her legs wider and settled himself between them,
his hands stroking, caressing, probing and teasing, his mouth hot and
hard on hers. She felt something hard and blunt nudging her between
her legs, and she stiffened.
He paused, looking deep into her eyes.
"I don't want to hurt you, but the first time, I fear, it is
inevitable."
Suddenly Tallie recalled her cousin's instructions. She closed her
eyes and grabbed the bottom sheet tight in her fists. He pushed, and
she wanted to wriggle away, but she remembered the bit about not
flinching and braced herself instead. He pushed harder, groaning, and
Tallie gasped. She wondered if it was hurting him as much as it was
hurting her, and then she stopped wondering as a sharp pain lanced
through her and she forced herself to remain motionless.
He hesitated.
"It's done now," he murmured, and caressed her cheek for a second.
Tallie, panting, was relieved, and waited for him to remove himself,
and the thing that was stretching her and stinging so dreadfully.
Instead he started to move inside her, moving back and forth, slowly at
first and then faster and faster. His mouth came back over hers, and
she realised his tongue was moving at the same pace, creating those
amazing sensations in her again.
She was not hurting so much now, but still an unbearable feeling of
tightness was growing inside her, until she thought she must burst.
She wanted to writhe and squirm and scratch, but she knew she could not
move, nor flinch or cry out or otherwise disgrace herself. Or him.
This was her husband, and she was now truly his wife, and this was what
husbands did to get their wives with child. But, oh--she wanted to take hold of him and hold herself hard against him
while he was doing this to her. But she couldn't.
She loved him, she realised suddenly. Against all her expectations
she'd fallen in love with this cold, kind, abrupt, gentle man. She
wanted to cry out and cover his face with kisses, but she owed it to
him to lie here without flinching, without crying out.
He mightn't love her, but she wanted him to be proud of her. His
movements built to a rapid crescendo, and she found herself panting
shallowly in time with them, feeling as though something was about to
happen. as though she was being swept away by some tide. She forced
herself to lie still. Finally, with a loud, unintelligible groan, her
husband gave one last heavy thrust, arching his body over her, his head
thrown back in pain--or exultation--she wasn't sure which-and subsided
heavily on top of her. They lay, unmoving, panting, their bodies
beginning to cool.
He was still inside her, she could feel him, though it was not so
uncomfortable now. He lay heavily on top of her and she could hardly
breathe, but Tallie decided she liked the feeling of being surrounded
by his strength and his warmth. His head was buried in the hollow of
her throat. Tentatively she lifted her hand and stroked the short
crisp curls on his head. They were damp. She trailed her fingers down
the side of his neck and across his shoulders. His skin was moist and
warm. He sighed and shuddered under her hand, and then moved away from
her. She felt his withdrawal and felt a momentary sense of loss. The
candle was still burning, and she felt him watching her in the
nickering golden light.
He smoothed back a damp curl from her face.
"Are you all right?" he asked softly.
She couldn't look at him, felt too full of emotion, so she just
nodded.
He slipped out of bed and disappeared into the dressing room. She
watched him leave and felt like bursting into tears. He was going to
dress and return to his own room.
He came back, still naked, carrying a cloth. She wanted to look at him
properly, to see exactly how he was made and how it all worked now that
she knew how he felt. But she was too shy to do more than cast a quick
flicker in his direction, then look away.
He came back to the bed and reached for her thighs.
"Again?" Tallie jumped, disconcerted.
He smiled ruefully.
"No, not tonight."
She sat back, relieved, then stiffened in shock as he parted her thighs
and began to wipe her with a damp cloth. She was sticky and sore
there, but for him to be doing such a thing! Her face burned with
embarrassment and she tried to stop him, but he took no notice.
Finally he finished, and stood up. She glanced at the cloth and saw to
her amazement that there were streaks of red on it.
Emmaline Pearce had been right, thought Tallie as her husband moved
around inside the dressing room. All those punishments from
Miss
Fisher for telling lies--and Emmaline had been right all along. There
was blood, and there certainly could have been screaming had Laetitia
not warned her it was not allowed.
Magnus returned and slipped into bed beside her, pulling the cover up
around them both.
"And now we sleep," he said, blowing out the candle and turning on his
side. He pulled her against him, holding her around the waist.
Despite her recent experience, and the knowledge that she loved him,
Tallie still felt odd, being naked in bed with him-with all that bare
skin.
"Shouldn't I put on my nightgown?"
He pulled her tighter against him and stroked a hand up over her hip,
briefly cupping her breast.
"You won't get cold," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear.
"Now hush, and try to sleep."
Tallie closed her eyes, and soon she heard the slow, deep breathing
that told her Magnus was asleep. She sighed, feeling unaccountably
miserable all of a sudden. A slow, solitary tear slipped down her
cheek, then another.
Chapter Nine
Six months? " Tallie's voice rose with surprise.
"In Paris?"
Magnus nodded.
"Unless, of course, you find yourself in a delicate condition before
then."
Tallie blushed. She knew now what he meant by 'a delicate
condition'.
The possibility she might be carrying his child made her heart beat
faster. But it also made things even more urgent. She had to get to
Italy before she became enceinte.
"I don't want to spend six months in Paris."
Magnus poke red up and looked down his nose, the way he usually did
when she questioned his decisions.
"I think you'll find six months is not long enough--or is that what you
mean?"
"No, not at all," Tallie said.
"Six months is far too long. If we stay in Paris for such a long time,
it will be near winter, and we shan't be able to cross the Alps into
Italy until next year."
"Cross the Alps?" His dark brows rose.
She nodded vigorously.
"Yes. I have heard so many tales of crossing the Alps. It sounds
monstrous exciting and I am most eager to do it.
And to reach Italy. " Her voice tailed off and she diffidently twirled
the wine glass in front of her.
"My parents' graves are in Italy," she said, not looking at him.
Magnus stared at her for a moment. It was the first time she'd
mentioned her parents.
"How old were you when they died?"
"Eleven, almost twelve."
"And how did they die?"
She hesitated for a long moment, toying with the apricot pastry in
front of her.
"I am not entirely sure," she said at last.
"I think there was a coach accident."
He frowned.
"You think?"
She nodded, pressed a crumb of sweet pastry onto her finger and
transferred it to her mouth.
"The stories" conflict. The official notification said their coach
overturned and both my parents died immediately, but then I received a
letter from someone who knew Mama which suggested that Mama died before
Papa. and not from her injuries in the accident. " Tallie licked the
grains of sugar which clung to her fingertips.
"What do you mean?" Magnus frowned, watching her.
She shrugged.
"I know no more than that. But it is why I wish so much to go to
Italy. I would like to see their graves." There was a lot more to it,
but she did not wish to explain it to him. Not with him being so cool,
and frowning as he was. As he had been since they had left Boulogne.
Tallie sighed.
It had been almost a sennight since that momentous night, and he had
been so cold and distant and abrupt with her that she could almost
believe it had been a dream. Except that her body told her it
wasn't.
Despite the initial soreness and stiffness, her body still sang with
the memory of how it had felt to have him hold her and caress her and
possess her. She knew the difference now between dreams and reality.
But he had not shared her bed since. Nor had he so much as touched
her, except to help her into the coach and such things, and even then
he drew back his hand afterwards, as if she was hot metal. And when he
spoke to her it was in such a formal manner he might well have been
addressing the House of Lords, she thought despairingly.
She had, indeed, married an Icicle.
Magnus watched the changing expressions flit over her countenance and
frowned again. It was not going at all as he had planned. His desire
for his wife's body had not been slaked by that one night in
Boulogne--it had only whetted his appetite for more. He'd watched her
licking the sugar off her small pink fingers and felt more than ever
like a rampant green youth.
But it was not to be thought of, he told himself sternly. She'd been
an untried innocent and was not yet healed--he could tell by the way
she tensed up when he came close to her. He would wait until they
reached Paris before he shared her bed again. It was the only decent
thing to do.
And besides, he had no intention of allowing himself to fall in thrall
to a woman's charms. Down that path lay disaster. He'd seen it
before--his father and a dozen others, dancing to a woman's tune,
helpless in the face of feminine betrayal. A few sparkling grains of
sugar clung to her lips. Magnus refused to notice them.
"We shall reach Paris on the morrow," he announced, rising from the
table.
"We shall depart this inn at first light, so you had best retire early.
I bid you goodnight, madam." He bowed.
Madam. Tallie rose, a lump in her throat at his cool indifference. In
a husky voice she murmured goodnight and left the private parlour.
"Tallie."
She turned on the stairs, a tiny surge of hope rising in her at his
voice.
"You will like Paris, I know," said Magnus from the doorway.
"For a start, you will have a great many fine new gowns and hats and so
on.
Neither the Terror nor the war has managed to extinguish Paris's
reputation for modishness. "
"Oh. Yes," she murmured dully.
"I suppose not."
"Think of it--gowns of silk, satin and lace--day gowns, evening
gowns--the finest that money can buy."
She stared down at him in silence.
"And gloves, slippers, French perfume. And balls and routs and
glittering assemblies--you will enjoy it very much," he insisted,
frowning.
"Yes, my lord, if you say so." She turned and mounted the stairs to
her chamber.
Curse the woman! What was the matter with her? Magnus watched her go,
watched the sway of her hips under the dreary gown she wore. She was
dressed like the veri est drab and he had promised her the finest gowns
money could buy. So why could she not offer him at least a smile? Any
one of the mistresses he had kept in the past would have shrieked with
delight and flung her arms around his neck at such an offer. She--his
wife--had responded with a dutiful murmur of obedience!
Damn it! He would never understand women! Here he was, allowing
himself to be dragged off to foreign parts for her benefit, enduring
bad roads, poor accommodation and hard- mouthed horses for her benefit,
opening his purse for her benefit and--not least of all--restraining
his desires for her benefit!
And was she grateful? Not in the least! Swearing, Magnus took himself
off to his cold, empty chamber and his cold, empty bed. He brooded on
his wife's unnatural behaviour as he disrobed. He'd wanted a plain,
convenient, grateful wife! Hah! He shrugged himself out of his tight
coat and tossed it on the bed. She was none of those.
Plain! Even the dowdy gowns she wore hadn't been able to disguise her
attractions--not since his so-called wedding night, when he'd put her
to bed. He ripped off his cravat and shirt and flung them on a chair.
And as for convenient--why, that was sheer bloody fustian! He sat down
on the bed. She was putting him to a vast deal of blasted
inconvenience, he thought, tugging furiously at his long boots. He'd
even had to do without his valet because of her passion to go to
France--the fool had been too frightened to return to his native