His Mail-Order Bride

by Tatiana March

  His eyes held hers. “I only mentioned it because I wanted you to know before we might make a baby that I wasn’t born of violence. I was born of love, just as any child of ours will be.”

  Charlotte touched his cheek with her fingertips, the way she had done on the day they first met. “I’m glad you found out the truth,” she told him. “But even if you had been born of violence, it is clear to me there is no cruelty in you. Whatever hardships you may have suffered while you were growing up, they didn’t poison your mind. They did the opposite. No man could be gentler or kinder. You’ll make a wonderful father to any child we may have.”

  Thomas accepted her comment with a wordless nod. His hand on her belly began to move around in a slow, lazy circle.

  Charlotte lay languid on the soft feather mattress. All her senses seemed heightened. She could feel the slight abrasion from the callused skin on Thomas’s palm, could feel the quivering in his muscles and knew he was restraining himself, forcing himself not to hurry, to give her time.

  Little by little, his hand edged up to her breast, cupping it gently. “It fits perfectly,” he said, cradling the weight in his palm. His thumb brushed across the nipple and Charlotte gave a moan of pleasure.

  “You like that?” Thomas said.

  “Yes. Oh, yes.”

  He repeated the caress, then let his hand slide downward, below her belly. Charlotte made another frantic, inarticulate sound and arched her back on the bed.

  “Yes, oh, yes.”

  A fire burned within her now. New, daunting sensations caught her and swept her along with them, like the ocean waves at Merlin’s Leap. Thomas leaned over her and kissed her, a deep, probing kiss that made the knot in her belly tighten until she thought she could bear it no longer.

  He lifted his head and looked into her face.

  “Ready to make a baby?”

  Her gaze swept along the curve of his shoulder, saw the healing scar there, and the puckered ridge where the bullet had skimmed his arm, and a new curiosity sparked in her.

  “Can I touch you, the way you touch me?”

  Thomas smiled. He rolled onto his back and crossed his forearms beneath his head. “You can touch me anywhere you like.”

  A little shy now, Charlotte rose to a kneeling position on the bed and studied his body in the soft glow of the lamplight.

  “Have you always been so big and strong?” she asked.

  “I was big even as a boy, but I only developed the strength when I worked the mines, and then on the farm. Hard labor makes muscles grow.”

  Tentatively, she ran her hand over the padded contours of his chest. When she brushed past a flat brown nipple, Thomas flinched, so she did it again. “I love your size and strength, because you use it to protect those who are vulnerable.”

  “And I love your courage and determination.” He reached out for her, tucked her into the curve of his body and rolled over, until he lay above her, his weight braced on his elbows, his legs sliding between hers. “And now you need to show some of that courage and determination, because I expect this will hurt.”

  “You bore a knife wound and a bullet without complaint.”

  There was a rueful tone to his voice. “I hope this won’t be quite as bad.”

  He lined his body with hers and slowly entered her. It did hurt. Charlotte gasped with the pain. Thomas kissed her—deep, comforting kisses—and between the kisses he whispered soothing words to her while his powerful body moved above her with the gentleness that was so much a part of him.

  And then the pain eased, and in its place came a new sensation, like a temptation that called for something more. Charlotte moved with him, her hands clutching his shoulders, seeking to meet the rhythm of his thrusts.

  Would it always be like this? This amazing sense of togetherness, of discovery, of belonging? Tension gathered deep inside her, and then it broke into an avalanche of pleasure. She wrapped her legs around Thomas’s waist and clung tight, holding him close, holding him to her, and felt the same waves of release roll through his body that had just buffeted her own.

  As Thomas sank beside her, she could hear his harsh breathing, could feel the trembling in his limbs, and realized they mirrored her own. He hauled her into his arms and held her close, her head tucked in the crook of his neck where she could feel the frantic thrumming of his pulse.

  Later, when their heated bodies had cooled and their swift heartbeats calmed, Thomas pushed up on one elbow and looked into her face. “Welcome home, Mrs. Greenwood,” he said. “I forgot to say that when I lifted you down from the cart.” His eyes searched hers. “I love you, and now that you truly belong to me, I trust you will never try to leave me again.”

  * * *

  Thomas yawned and stretched his limbs on the big four-poster bed at the Palace Hotel in San Francisco. Beside him, a breakfast tray from the room service sat upon a marble-topped nightstand. A streetcar clattered by outside. Dawn light rimmed the thick curtains that blocked out the view over the city.

  Charlotte was already up, sitting on a plush velvet sofa. A cream satin nightgown hugged her feminine curves. She adjusted his mother’s shawl on her shoulders and leaned down to pick up another document from the low table in front of her. Turning over the page, she studied the text in the light of the electric lamp on a stand beside her.

  “Come back to bed,” Thomas called out to her.

  His wife glanced over at him and smiled. “In a bit.”

  His whole body tingled with love and contentment. He couldn’t decide which part of marriage he liked the best. To sleep beside his wife all night, with her curled up against him, just as she had on their first night together, when he had tried to stay awake to enjoy every moment of it. Or to join their bodies in the act of love and bring pleasure to each other, with greedy touches and fevered kisses as their passion rose. Or to simply watch her in idle moments, just as this.

  To talk. To share. To cherish.

  To love and be loved.

  Charlotte rose and walked over to him, her steps soundless on the thick carpet, the satin gown rippling against her slender frame. Thomas let desire flood over him. He’d been right to believe God had been just in his creation, giving men and women an equal capacity to enjoy the physical side of marriage. His fragile wife had proved anything but fragile when it came to satisfying his needs and her own.

  “I need you to sign this.” She held out a parchment deed and a pen.

  Thomas scooted up on the bed. “Is it important to you?”

  “It is.”

  He nodded, took the document that would transfer his land into their joint names. Warmth filled him at the thought that despite all her wealth it mattered to Charlotte that they would share the ownership of his valley. At first, he’d been alarmed to find out he’d married a rich woman. He’d worried she might want him to go and live in some fancy mansion in the East.

  His relief had been great when he learned that the only home she wanted was his sheltered valley. His fears allayed, he had learned there were benefits to having money. Room service and satin nightgowns. Lavender soap and bathtubs big enough for two. Generators ordered from Edison Machine Works.

  They had engaged Pinkerton detectives to track down Charlotte’s sisters. So far, there had been no news, but it was early days. He could tell Charlotte was worried. He loved to hear her reminiscing about the feisty Miranda and the young, sensitive Annabel. His sisters-in-law. Thomas looked forward to welcoming them, having a warm, loving family, something he’d missed all his life.

  He glanced at the deed in his hand. There was a blank line after the description to identify the parcel of land. He looked up at his wife. “It says nothing where the name should be.” Charlotte had told him she wanted to name the place. He’d always just called it “The Valley” or “The Farm.” Others might say “Greenwood’s pl
ace.”

  “Sign the document first,” she told him.

  He carefully wrote out his name.

  “Aren’t you going to read it first?” his wife asked.

  Thomas smiled, a little rueful. “I trust you’ll not lie to me again, ever. You learned your lesson the hard way. I hope you learned it well.”

  “I did,” she said, a little shamefaced. And rightly so.

  He handed the deed back to her. “What’s the name?”

  She lifted the document to her face and blew on it to dry the ink, lips pursed into a circle that made him want to reach up and kiss her. Satisfied that his signature wouldn’t smudge, Charlotte clutched the deed to her breast, raised her eyes to him and said, “Paradise. The name of our valley is Paradise.”

  * * * * *

  If you enjoyed this story, make sure you

  check out these short, sexy reads

  from Tatiana March

  THE VIRGIN’S DEBT

  SUBMIT TO THE WARRIOR

  SURRENDER TO THE KNIGHT

  THE DRIFTER’S BRIDE

  Keep reading for an excerpt from SURRENDER TO THE MARQUESS by Louise Allen.

  Get rewarded every time you buy a Harlequin ebook!

  Click here to Join Harlequin My Rewards

  http://www.harlequin.com/myrewards.html?mt=loyalty&cmpid=EBOOBPBPA201602010003

  We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin Historical.

  You dream of wicked rakes, gorgeous Highlanders, muscled Viking warriors and rugged Wild West cowboys from another era. Harlequin Historical has them all! Emotionally intense stories set across many time periods.

  Enjoy six new stories from Harlequin Historical every month!

  Connect with us on Harlequin.com for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!

  Other ways to keep in touch:

  Harlequin.com/newsletters

  Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks

  Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks

  HarlequinBlog.com

  Join Harlequin My Rewards & Instantly earn a FREE ebook of your choice.

  Earn points for every Harlequin print and ebook you buy, wherever & whenever you shop.

  Turn your points into FREE BOOKS.

  Don’t miss out. Reward the book lover in you!

  Register Today & Earn a FREE BOOK*

  *New members who join before April 30th, 2017 will receive 2000 points redeemable for eligible titles.

  Click here to register

  Or visit us online to register at

  http://www.harlequin.com/myrewards.html?mt=loyalty&cmpid=EBOOBPBPA201602010001

  Surrender to the Marquess

  by Louise Allen

  Chapter One

  September 1818—Sandbay, Dorset

  It was an elegant shop front with its sea-green paintwork, touches of gilding and sparkling clean windows. Aphrodite’s Seashell. A risqué choice of name, Lucian thought, considering that Aphrodite was the Greek goddess of love, born from the sea foam when Cronus cut off Uranus’s male parts and threw them into the ocean. Otherwise it looked feminine and mildly frivolous as befitted its function and location. Not a place he would normally set foot in unless absolutely desperate.

  But Mr L. J. Dunton Esquire, otherwise known in polite society as Lucian John Dunton Avery, Marquess of Cannock, was desperate. Otherwise he would not be found dead within a hundred miles of an obscure seaside resort in the not very fashionable time of mid-September. That desperation had driven him to ask for advice and the landlord at the rigidly respectable Royal Promenade Hotel had recommended this place, so he pushed open the door to a tinkle of bells and stepped inside.

  * * *

  Sara gave one last twitch to the draperies and stepped back to admire the display of artists’ equipment she had just set up beside the counter—easel, palette, a box of watercolour paints, the beginnings of a rough sketch of the bay on the canvas—all tastefully made into a still life with the addition of a parasol set amidst a drift of large seashells and colourful beach pebbles.

  There, she thought, giving it an approving nod. That should inspire customers to buy an armful of equipment and rush to the nearest scenic viewpoint to create a masterpiece.

  She replaced the jars of shells she had used on their shelf next to the other glass vessels full of coloured sands and assorted mysterious boxes and tins designed to stir the curiosity of the browser. A glance to her left across the shop reassured her that the bookshelves, the rack of picture frames and the table scattered with leaflets and journals looked invitingly informal rather than simply muddled.

  Behind her the doorbells tinkled their warning. Sara turned, then modified her welcoming smile of greeting into something more restrained. This was not one of her usual clients. Not a lady at all, in fact. This visitor was not only unfamiliar, but male. Very male and a highly superior specimen of the sex at that. She kept the smile cool. She was female and most certainly young enough to be appreciative, but she had too much pride to show it.

  ‘Good morning, sir. I think you may have gone astray—the circulating library and reading room is just two buildings further up the street on this side.’

  He was studying the shop interior, but looked round when she spoke and removed his hat. That was a very superior specimen as well. ‘I was looking for Aphrodite’s Seashell, not the library.’

  ‘Then you have found it. Welcome. May I assist you, sir?’

  Aphrodite, I presume? The question was obviously on the tip of his tongue, but he caught it with the faintest twitch of his lips and said only, ‘I hope you may.’ He glanced down at her hand, saw her wedding ring. ‘Mrs—?’ His voice was cultured, cool and very assured.

  She recognised the type, or perhaps breed was the better word. Her father was one of them, her brother another, although those two conformed only in their own unique way. Corinthians, bloods of the first stare, non-pareils, aristocrats with the total, unthinking, self-confidence that came from generations of privilege. But they were also hard men who worked to keep at the peak of fitness so they could excel at the pastimes of their class—riding, driving, sport, fighting, war.

  Whether such gentlemen had money or not was almost impossible to tell at first glance because they would starve rather than appear less than immaculately turned out. Their manners were perfect and their attitude to women—their women—was indulgent and protective. Nothing mattered more than honour and the honour of these men was invested in their women, in whose name they would duel to the death in order to avenge the slightest slur.

  It was not an attitude she enjoyed or approved of. She feared it. Nor did she approve of their attitude to the rest of the females they came into contact with. Respectable women, of whatever class, were to be treated with courtesy and respect. The one exception, in terms of respect, although the courtesy would always be there, was attractive widows. And Sara knew herself to be an attractive widow.

  She conjured up the mental image of a very large, very possessive, husband. ‘Mrs Harcourt.’

  The warmth in his eyes, the faint, undeniably attractive, compression of the lines at their outer corners that hinted at a smile, was the only clue to what she suspected his thoughts were.

  He was a very handsome specimen, she supposed, managing, with an effort that was deeply annoying, not to let her thoughts show on her face. He was tall, well proportioned, with thick medium-brown hair and hazel eyes. His nose was slightly aquiline, his chin decided, his mouth...wicked. Sara was not quite certain why that was, only that staring at it was definitely unwise.

  ‘Sir?’ she prompted.

  ‘I have a sister. She is eighteen and in rather delicate health; her spirits are low and she is not at all happy to be here in Sandbay.’

  ‘She is bored, perhaps?’

  ‘Very,
’ he admitted. Then, when she made no response, he condescended to explain. ‘She is not well enough for sea bathing and, in any case, she is unused to the ocean. That unfamiliarity makes her rather nervous of walking on the beach. She has no friends here and there are few very young ladies resident here, as far as I can see. At home, were she well enough, she would be attending parties and picnics, going to the theatre and dances, or shopping. At least her friends would be on hand. Here, she is not up to evening entertainments.’

  ‘You hope to find an occupation for her, something that will help her to pass the time during the day. I can understand that it might help. Can she draw or paint?’

  ‘Her governess taught her, but I do not think she ever applied herself to perfect her art. Marguerite was always too restless for that.’

  If the girl was naturally active then convalescence and its restrictions must be even more galling. ‘Can she walk at all?’

  ‘A few hundred yards along the promenade seems achievable. Then she flags and asks to return. I cannot tell whether her reluctance is weakness or depressed spirits.’

  ‘Would she come here and visit the shop to see what we can offer?’

  ‘I do not know,’ he admitted. ‘Not if I suggest it.’ He shut his mouth, tight lips betraying his anger with himself for allowing that flash of irritation to escape.

  So, the young lady was at outs with her brother. Probably she wanted to be in London with her friends, however unhealthy that grimy city was for her. ‘Then shall I come to her? I could bring some ideas for crafts she might like to try, some drawing equipment, perhaps.’ As she spoke Sara made a slight gesture with her hand at the bounty of objects in the shop. ‘Something might tempt her.’

  ‘Temptation?’ The word, spoken in that warm voice, was like a touch. He really could stand very still for a man of his size. It was faintly unnerving for some reason, even though her closest male relatives had the same quality of stillness. It came from power and fitness and the knowledge that they did not have to move to make their presence felt. But this was not her father or her brother. ‘That would be most obliging of you, Mrs Harcourt. But who would mind your shop for you? Your husband, perhaps?’