The True Love Wedding Dress

by Barbara Metzger, Connie Brockway, Casey Claybourne; Catherine Anderson

She reached up and stripped the material from his shoulders, letting the dress drop into the puddle of water at his feet. She needed to see it all now, the visual evidence of how near to death he’d marched, all the wounds, the scars, the mementos of war, the evidence of a life barely saved.

  “Sevastopol,” she murmured again as she found the crescent-shaped mark on his left triceps where a bayonet had pierced his uniform. She edged closer, fingers trailing lightly, testingly, on his torso, her gaze searching for the . . . there, on his left breast beside his arm, a dime-sized puckered piece of flesh. A pistol shot, fired from too far away to do more than “be an annoyance.”

  “Inkerman,” she murmured, blinking away the brilliance suddenly threatening her vision. Without conscious volition, she leaned forward, brushing a fleeting kiss across the ruined flesh as though she could somehow soothe the old wound and heal it anew. He inhaled sharply.

  And these were only the ones she knew about. There were other marks, too, though all fainter and smaller. Marks that would eventually fade away as though they had never been. But she would remember. Every single one.

  She looked up and found him looking down into her eyes, his dark brows drawn together at the bridge of his nose.

  “How do you . . .” He shook his head. “You read the dispatches.”

  “No,” she said. “Your mother. She let me read your letters.”

  “She never told me.”

  “I made her promise not to. When you were over there I didn’t want you . . . I didn’t want to distract you. After you returned and you never came . . .” She tried to smile. “I believe I have already mentioned my overabundance of pride?”

  “I didn’t know.”

  This time she managed the smile. “It’s all right.”

  “No.” Abruptly, she became aware of his half-naked state. “It’s not all right.”

  His chest gleamed in the saffron light of the gas globe, rising and falling deeply with each breath he took. The whorls of dark hair covering it thickened into a dark line that followed a riverbed between the muscles flanking either side of his flat belly and disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers. She looked down. Even his feet, long and naked, were masculine.

  She fell back a step, but he reached out and caught her by the upper arms, his touch gentle but firm, his eyes questioning and compelling. “It hasn’t been right for two years.”

  “Alex.”

  “Lucy. All you ever said to me was yes. Don’t start saying no now.”

  “All you ever said to me was no.”

  He lifted one hand, sweeping the hair back from her temple, and in doing so releasing a cascade of glittering pins and combs. The heavy mass of auburn hair fell about her shoulders. A small sound of pleasure rumbled from his throat. “Never again.”

  His fingers curled around, cupping the back of her head, holding her still. Slowly he pulled her to him, crushing the crinoline skirt between them as he looked down into her face. His pale gray eyes glittered with the unspoken question, his face stark and hungry in the shadows.

  She hesitated for a heartbeat, no more, and then she was pulling his head down and he was crushing her in his embrace, his mouth falling hungrily on hers. There was nothing of gentleness or sweet lassitude in his ardency. Hunger, rampant and ungovernable, exploded between them, seeking an outlet for all the weeks and months of denial.

  His kisses were rough, wanton, his tongue sweeping inside her mouth, plundering and fierce, a little brutal, a little punishing. Mouths melded together, he reached between them, wrenching at the tabs and ribbons holding her crinoline in place, finally pulling the last of the bands free. The crinoline slipped from her waist and held, imprisoned between their bodies. With a harsh sound, he caught her as her knees buckled, lifting her lightly as she shed the heavy crinoline and skirts like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. He straightened, his gaze scouring the room.

  “Not here.” He strode out of the bedroom and down the hall, stopping at the next door. “Whose?”

  “Mine,” she managed to breathe.

  He did not answer. He kicked the door open with his bare foot and backed into the room, his gaze scouring the shadowed interior. The curtains were drawn back from the huge single window on the far wall, letting in the soft, diffuse light from the street-lamp outside. Rain sparkled and shimmered as it fell against the panes. The bed was pristine and virginal-looking in the semidarkness, the counterpane cool and white, the pillow smooth and unmarked. In the corner stood a folding screen behind which he could make out a water pitcher and basin.

  Without a word, he bent and ripped the coverlet away. The wooden slats beneath the mattress creaked as his knee sank into it. He eased her onto the bed and leaned over her, bridging her body on straight arms as he looked down.

  There was nothing familiar in his expression. No sweet, fevered frustration, nothing tested and tender. His expression was certain, unfaltering, resolute.

  “I dreamt of this. Of you,” he murmured, his gaze moving over her like a caress, making her flush. “Some of the other men found ease in the beds of the camp followers or some women in the towns we passed through. But I . . . I would rather have had what my imagination could conjure than any poor substitute of flesh and bone.”

  His gaze trapped hers, holding her with him in the past. His smile was a little crooked, a little self-effacing, but when he settled himself beside her hip and reached down, there was nothing hesitant or uncertain in his actions. He unfastened the front of her bodice and, with the delicacy of a man unwrapping a fragile relic, parted the satin and folded the edges back, revealing the sheer little chemise beneath. His gaze fell on the sight of her breasts rising and falling with passionate anticipation. Her body felt afire, awash with sensation, abraded by frustration and longing.

  “In my dreams I touched you. Every measure of your body. I taste every portion of your flesh.” His voice was smoky, languid.

  She reached up, holding her arms out. His hand slipped beneath her head, sinking into her hair and angling her face toward his as he bent and kissed her mouth. She opened her lips eagerly for him, meeting his tongue with her own.

  For long moments their kisses grew hotter, more urgent. Then his lips slid down the side of her neck, along her collarbone. Impatiently, he brushed the chemise down to her waist and filled a hand with her small breast, curving beneath the soft mound and lifting it to his lips.

  She gasped as he drew her nipple deep into his mouth. He had never . . . It was more wicked than anything . . . It was . . .

  Her back arched off the bed as he stroked her nipple with his tongue, suckling softly. The pleasure was exquisite, overwhelming . . . and carnal . . . erotic. She reached down, clutching handfuls of sheet and twisting the material to keep from raking his back with her nails. His free hand slipped beneath her, arching her up even farther, the stubble on his jaw rasping across her tender flesh. It was a delicate pain that she relished.

  “You drove me mad,” he whispered as he savored her breasts and shoulders and throat. He lifted his dark head. “How many years did I spend hanging by the barest thread of control?”

  She swallowed, transfixed by his crooked smile, the damning gentleness, uncertain if he meant to teach her pleasure or retribution. He eased her back, his gentleness at odds with the dark promise in his smoldering eyes.

  She lifted her arms beseechingly. “Alex?”

  His eyes closed at the sound of his whispered name. His lips parted a little, and then he was turning away from her and reaching down, stripping the belt from his waist and pulling off his trousers and smallclothes.

  He did not wait for her approval or consent. Instead, he turned back, clasping her wrists and pulling her arms over her head. Naked, hard, and heavy, he rolled his big body over hers, keeping her hands captive above them.

  She felt his erection, swollen and hot, pressed against the skin bared at the top of her pantaloons, but then his mouth found hers in a slow, searing kiss, and she forgot everything but t
he sensations he roused so effortlessly from her, the fire he’d started in her muscles and joints and tingling flesh. He moved his tongue in and out of her mouth, sweeping against the sleek lining of her cheeks, drawing her own tongue into his mouth and gently sucking the tip of it.

  Desire pooled in her breast and between her legs. She twisted, trying to find some means of alleviating the growing want. He released her mouth, pressing his damp forehead against her shoulder.

  He breathed a sound like a curse as she tried to twist her hands free to comb her fingers through his hair, to return his mouth to hers. “Slow.” He sounded out of breath, his chest moving like a bellows. “Slow.”

  “Please.”

  He let go of her hands and rolled on his hip to the side, his hand falling in a long, slow caress down her arm, her side, to her hip, and forward. He pulled the ribbon holding her pantaloons in place free and peeled back the fabric before returning his fingertips to their sensual trip down her body to the vee at the apex of her thighs. She clutched his arms, shivering as he made a small circle with the tip of his finger at the very top of the folds that hid the entrance to her body. Her thighs fell slightly apart and her hips lifted against his hand.

  She heard him suck in a sharp breath before he rocked the heel of his hand against her mound. Her fingers dug into the hard muscles of his shoulders, and her head pushed back into the pillow as she gasped with amazed pleasure.

  And now his mouth was on her breast as his hand was on her mons, his fingers slipping through the sleekness, stroking, moving, playing with the fold of hooded flesh, making her tremble and pant, making her hips jerk involuntarily with every little tug and pull. And when she thought she would surely die from the pleasure of it, from the promise of it, he moved back on top of her, pushing his legs between her knees. Gently, he wrapped a hand around her thigh and notched her knee above his hip.

  She had never felt more vulnerable, more defense-less, more eager. His gaze locked with hers as his hips rolled forward and she felt his cock pushing inside of her. Inside of her. Stretching her, easing inside of her . . . Except there was nothing easy about it. He filled her.

  She shrank away, trying to pull free of his possession.

  No. No. She was supposed to find a release to the building sensations, fulfill that intense need. She wanted to sob. “I . . . don’t think this is going to . . . work!”

  He froze. She raised her face to his, expecting to see pity, understanding, perhaps frustration, but certainly acquiescence.

  She didn’t. He was breathing heavily. His mouth opened to release lungfuls of air in short, harsh bursts. His eyes glowed, pale and intent, and his expression was ironical. Nothing more; nothing less.

  “All these years she nearly killed me with yeses, nearly drove me mad with yeses, and now she says no.” He pinned her with his gaze, inimical, commanding. “Lucy, you aren’t leading anymore. You are going to have to trust me. Do you understand? You have to trust me.”

  He wasn’t going to roll off her and comfort her with soothing words and sweet kisses. He wasn’t even going to push her away and stride from the room, cursing her and himself and everything in between.

  He was going to make love to her.

  She stiffened as he shifted forward, his erection pushing deeper inside of her. His lips touched her tense face and moved gently against her temple. “Relax. I swear I am made no different from other men, and I swear you are made no different from other women.”

  “How do you know?” She tried not to whimper. She wasn’t certain she succeeded.

  She felt him smile against her skin. “I know. Trust. Remember?” His arms shook as he spoke. He pulled back, and she nearly sighed with relief that he had come to his senses and realized that they were not—He pushed inside, deeper this time.

  Her betrayed gaze flew to his. His expression was strained, intent, a fine sheen of perspiration glistening on his forehead. He pushed himself up, bracing himself on rigid arms above her, and rocked forward.

  She waited for another, sharper pain. None happened. Instead, the movement dragged the root of his erection against the nerve-rich kernel of flesh he’d teased, sending little flutters of gratification shivering through her. He pulled back, his eyes fixed on her face, reading every little moue of discomfort, every start of surprise, every shiver of excitement.

  Slowly he sank into her again, inciting a rush of pleasure. Intense pleasure. Her eyes widened, and this time when he withdrew, her hips lifted to follow his retreat, brokering a grim smile from him. He watched her as he thrust into her. The last remnants of discomfort dissolved as a rush of excitement took root and bloomed within her. Her palms slipped from his arms, smoothed over his heaving chest, and linked behind his neck.

  “Do you want me to stop?’ His tone was lightly mocking, but his expression was almost tender.

  “No,” she whispered. “No!”

  “Every time you left me, you left me in the state you are now in. Every time you bid me stay I had to fight against the pull that you feel. Unspent passion makes a very special sort of hell, don’t you think?”

  She captured his face between her hands and pulled his mouth down to hers. “No. No. You mustn’t. You can’t.”

  “No. I won’t. I can’t.” He lowered himself to her, sliding his hands beneath her buttocks and lifting her, taking her deeper this time. Her reaction was immediate and instinctive. She dug her heels into the mattress, clinging to him as she tilted her hips up.

  It was beyond intimate. Alex possessed her. She drowned in him, in pleasure so intense that tears slipped from the corners of her eyes and washed down the sides of her face. Her heart pounded faster and stronger with each second, each muscle in her body contracting.

  Again and again she met his thrust, the pressure inside building, spiraling toward some indiscernible summit. It was so close. So . . . close. She sobbed with the effort. Her back arched off the mattress, and her shoulders bowed back and toward each other, her legs straightened, her toes pointing, her feet arching. Every point of her body rose, giving itself to him, to the place they joined. The walls inside her body contracted, eliciting a shudder from Alex.

  “Yes,” she panted. “Yes . . . yes!”

  Her breath caught in her chest. Her eyes squeezed shut. Wave after wave of pleasure lifted her and held her for one glorious eternity on an apex of sensation. And then she was falling, a tumble of ecstasy and relief, echoes of pleasure throbbing in her.

  Above, she heard a sound both masculine and exultant. Her body lifted again, raised by strong hands. One powerful thrust and Alex held her there, his body straining as shivers rippled through his big body. With a low sound replete with satisfaction, he sank down on her. His breath beat harsh and heated against her neck. His heart thundered against her.

  For a long moment they did not move. Then, without warning, he rolled her over so that she sprawled on top of him. He pushed the mass of auburn hair from her face and traced her lower lip with his finger. She felt oddly shy then, and uncertain. But he smiled and she felt her heart flop in her chest like a green girl with her first beau.

  And he had been her first, her last, her only beau. She smiled back, pleased with herself. She had no regrets. Her plan had worked out perfectly. Finally.

  “Well, Alex,” she said, stopping when she discovered she could not resist dropping a light kiss against his mouth. He tried to follow her when she lifted her head, but she only laughed and pushed his shoulders back against the mattress. Beneath her, he was hard and warm and dense, a wonderful bed.

  “Well, Alex,” she repeated pertly, her confidence growing with each passing moment, “now that I have finally managed to seduce you, will you at last do the right thing by me and make me your wife?”

  Chapter Nine

  For a few moments he had been so captivated by the reality of a gloriously naked Lucy sprawled indecently across his body that he hadn’t understood what she’d said. She could have sworn he was a green giant and he would have agreed
. But then her words began penetrating his besotted brain, and he laughed. “You seduced me?”

  She nodded. “Yes, and a good thing I did, too, otherwise we might have ended up wasting another two years.”

  He pressed her face between his hands. She was so delicately formed, so ethereal, and yet there was nothing insubstantial about the manner of her lovemaking. It had been fierce and passionate. “I hate to disturb this little fantasy,” he said, pulling her down for an all too brief kiss, “but you did not seduce me. I seduced you.”

  She pushed herself upright in order to better glower down at him, in the process digging her elbows into his stomach. “Really, Alex. You don’t have to play the gentleman for me. I am perfectly willing to admit to being the instrument of your downfall.”

  “Instrument of my downfall?” he echoed incredulously. “Pray, where did I fall from?”

  Only Lucy St, James could have said something outrageous enough to distract him from the feel of the warm feminine curves spread in the most intimate manner against him. Thigh to thigh, belly to belly, her small, perfectly formed breasts jiggling deliciously in her indignation, the nipples brushing his chest . . .

  “—pedestal of moral superiority you live on!”

  “Hm?” He was growing hard again.

  “Are you ignoring me?” she asked, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

  “No. Never.”

  “Yes, you are,” she accused. “You’d never let me get away with saying that if you weren’t lost in some . . . some lecherous fantasy, I suppose!”

  What the deuce had she said, anyway? Not that he particularly cared. Her eyes were flashing with the intense blue at the heart of a flame, and her lower lip was thrust out in a manner designed to make a man forget his name, let alone the words in a conversation.

  “Guilty,” he said. He reached behind her and trailed the backs of his fingers down the valley made by her spine and had the satisfaction of feeling her shiver. “Care to join me?”

  “No!” She swatted his hand away. “Why can’t you just admit that I seduced you?”