He closed his eyes, remembering the feel of her curves from that brief stolen time in her bed and was in no doubt that he could perform his duty with or without her cooperation. Of course, facing himself without absolute loathing the next morning if he hurt her was still in question.
He had to end this before one—or both—of them ended in the madhouse. He pressed his hand against her breast and felt the rapid beat of heart against his palm. “I feel honored to have such a martyr for my bed. Perhaps you’d like to take an ice bath before we conclude our bargain--the better to freeze off that most offensive part of me after it has satisfied the honor of my word?”
She turned away from him, and her skirts slipped up to expose the curve of one hip. “Can you not get on with it in silence?”
Silence? She wanted him to approach the matter like a monk approaching penance and be silent as well? He thought not.
“I’m afraid I need a little help, my dear,” he lied. “Since you will not provide it, I’ll have to rely on my own tongue.” He had a thought of how he’d like to use his tongue, but no doubt she’d break his neck between her thighs if he dared try such a thing.
If he’d had any doubts that she was still a virgin, he could not doubt it now. Why hadn’t Niall done the job properly? And why was he so glad he hadn’t? The woman was nothing but trouble. She’d threatened his own sister, though he very much doubted she could have brought herself to do what she threatened, no matter how angry she was.
“Did you know your skin is as white as a swan’s breast here?” He used his fingertip to brush his signature onto the skin of her exposed buttock, eliciting a flinch and a cascade of wool to hide the sight from his eyes. He was tempted to move the material himself, but instead said only, “You know this can’t be accomplished if you don’t let me touch, don’t you?”
She rolled onto her back and glared at him. Slowly, the woolen material retreated, exposing her thighs—pressed tightly together--once again.
He tickled the back of one tensed knee.
She exploded up without warning and he nearly tumbled from the bed trying to avoid being struck senseless by the force of the top of her skull against his jaw.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Kate rubbed her forehead and stared daggers at the man lying somewhat dazed on the floor, holding his jaw. Between clenched teeth, she managed to grit out, “I did not ask you to make love to me, only to breed with me like a horse, or mule.”
Like a daft child, he grinned at her, the reluctant and unhappy man of a few minutes before completely gone. “Mules don’t have the equipment for stud work.”
She felt the heat of a flush suffuse her entire body, even that exposed by the indecent disarrangement of her skirts. “Then a goat. Yes I think goat is appropriate example for you, my lord. Always bleating away.”
He propped himself up on his elbows, the muscles in his shoulders and chest flexing in such a way that she could no longer ignore he hadn’t a stitch on, no matter how she tried. She refused to look away. No doubt he expected her to. She settled for meeting his eyes squarely with her own.
He examined her with a curious light in his eye. “I can hardly do the work of goat or man with you all the way up there and me down here, now can I?”
Though he spoke nothing but the truth, she was absurdly reluctant to invite him back onto the bed. His touch had been disquieting, to say the least, though she had managed to keep her eyes closed and avoid the sight of him looming above her, for the most part. “You are enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“I don’t think that can be helped, love. A man just tends to enjoy dipping his wick.” As if he knew the leap her stomach would take at his words, he grinned more widely.
The idea that he could enjoy himself seemed grossly unfair. “Well, I wish you wouldn’t this time.” She’d rather he had all the pleasure of a thousand lashes.
He shrugged, a leisurely gesture, as if he didn’t mind sitting cold and unclothed on the floor. “If I didn’t enjoy it, I couldn’t do it. It’s the way a man is made and that’s a fact.”
She knew well enough that he spoke only the truth—but her outrage at the injustice didn’t ease. She glared at him, “It’s fortunate for you that I didn’t have control over such decisions—you would not be so happy then.”
He had the nerve to laugh, as if she’d made a jest. “There’s no reason to be angry at the way things are, Katie. You’re best off to accept them. You could enjoy it too, if you let yourself.”
Enjoy herself? With him? She hardly thought so. “I don’t have to, though, do I?” She knew, from the gossip that women did. But she didn’t think it was necessary. Given her choice, she’d rather it hurt badly enough that she’d never miss being a wife again for as long as she lived.
“No. There is no requirement for a woman to enjoy herself.” His gaze darkened for a moment. “She can be asleep or unconscious or unwilling if the man is a fiend and takes his pleasure from someone else’s pain.”
“I don’t suppose, considering what it took for me to get you here at all, that I have to worry about such violence from you.” A small part of her suddenly recognized that she was lucky he was not a man to lightly give her what she’d asked for. She couldn’t quite understand how she was lucky, but she knew she was all the same.
“Never.” As suddenly as it had come upon him, he shrugged away the anger. He put his hand over his heart. “You’ll never have to worry about such things with me, Katie girl. If I have my way, you’ll enjoy yourself every bit as much as I do.”
She didn’t like how much her heart leaped at the thought of having a night of pleasure with him—the night she might have had five years ago. “I don’t want to enjoy it, I want to get it over with. Come up here and do it,” she ordered. She fell back to the bed, prepared to feel the weight of him, the humiliation and pain of his invasion. It would all be worth it if she had a child, she told herself.
But he did not join her on the bed. His voice, annoyingly amused, came floating up from the floor. “Katie, I don’t think you really want me to do this.”
She sat up again, exasperated. “Haven’t I offered you a fortune? Threatened to turn your sister in to the sheriff?” She didn’t like the way her voice rose in an uncontrolled squeak of dismay. She paused a moment and then said, as firmly as she could, “Of course I want you to do this.” She added for good measure when he showed no sign of complying, “Quickly, too.”
Still, he did not move from the floor. “Is that so?” He opened his arms wide and then lay down with them crossed under his head, so that he lay totally exposed to her. “Then come and have your way with me.”
She tried not to look anywhere but at his face and didn’t succeed. Nor did she move. “You are on the floor.”
“Men and women can do this dance anywhere—in the stable on a bed of hay, on a tabletop, in a chair, even against the wall if space is limited and need is urgent. The floor will do for us well enough.”
“You are a fool to expose yourself on the floor like that when it is still winter and cold enough to give you pleurisy.” Kate looked at the wall, trying to imagine how—
“The wall is not for us, Katie.” He sat up. “Not your first time, at least. Before you leave—“ He reached out toward the bed, leaving his sentence unfinished. Not that she needed to hear the rest of the words when the picture of the two of the pressed against the wall, moving together somehow, was clear in her mind.
Worried that he was going to grab her, she fell back with a squeak of alarm. But all he did was pull one of the blankets folded at the end of the bed down around himself and command, “If you are certain that this is what you want, come down to me, Katie.”
She stared at him mutely. This was not how she had planned things. She had wanted to close her eyes, pretend she was not there as he did all the work that was necessary for the process to be successful. She had been prepared to hold her breath, grit her teeth, force back tears. Whatever was necessary. Except this. To be the one in charge. The one
who--
He arranged the blanket under himself and pulled another to soften his makeshift bed. At last he pulled down a final blanket and covered himself—at least the lower part of himself, though his long feet stuck out in the cold air. Propped on one elbow, looking as comfortable as could be, he lifted an eyebrow in query. “Do you need instructions on what to do?”
Instructions. No, she needed a dagger to cut out his black heart. Sadly, that would not serve her current purpose. “No.”
He laughed. “I assure you, I’m ready and willing, I only need you to--”
“I’m familiar with the process--theoretically, at least.” She worried her lower lip between her teeth. Still she did not move.
He sat up and held out his hand to her. “If you can’t manage it, my little virgin, you shall have to let me be the teacher for today--and you will have to follow my lead.”
“I’d rather not.” With a deep breath, she dropped to the floor, stepped over him, lifted her skirts, and sat down to straddle his lap. She felt the bulge of his shaft and pressed against it with all her might. She looked up into his face, pleased to see she had shocked him yet again. “There. This should get the job done without all the prattle.”
There was laughter in the crinkles around his eyes, but desire, too. This close there was no mistaking that he wanted her. “The blanket may cause a bit of a problem, though, don’t you think?” She could feel the beat of his heart, the warm rush of his uneven breathing against her cheek.
She felt the thick wool against her most private parts and realized she had not gotten quite so far as she had hoped. With a moan of annoyance she closed her eyes, gritted her teeth and rose to her knees. “Move it out of the way, please.”
“The blanket, or—“
Would he persist in humiliating her to the very end? “The blanket.”
He steadied her with one hand on her bare hip and the other prodded down in between them, his warm fingers touching where they shouldn’t, sending little shocks straight through her until she felt the part of him she needed to make use of touch against her, hot and hard. She pushed against him, pleased to note he wasn’t laughing now. In fact, his breath had hitched when she moved and he had swallowed quite audibly.
She pushed against him, and his hands gripped her hips, forcing her into an unfamiliar rhythm. Was this all there was to it? “Why all the fuss? This is quite easily done.” There were even pleasant little tingles of sensation that were quite nice. Not that she needed them. Or wanted them.
Sean didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She rubbed against him so warm and inviting and she thought the deed done. He moved against her, enjoying the sensation, wondering whether he should tell her she had not yet achieved her aim.
He held her hips and kissed her neck, her jaw, her ear. With his lips he unfastened the top of her gown, but she let go of her tight hold on his shoulders to ward him off. “No.”
“You do like to tease a man, don’t you my lady.”
She ground herself against him. Enjoyably, but not fruitfully. “Is this not what you want? What you enjoy?” For a moment, he thought she might inadvertently position herself correctly, but she moved too quickly and the moment was lost.
Shaking with need, but determined that it must be Kate and not he who determined the outcome of their evening, he said softly, “There is still a connection to be made. Or do you not need me to point out that the stud isn’t engaged with the mare.”
She laughed, rising up against him, with him, as if she thought he knew nothing. “How difficult can it be?” But the connection remained elusive and she gave an impatient gasp after a moment.
He kissed her neck and moved his hips against hers, but he didn’t make any effort to bring them together, other than rubbing himself against her to point out the lack of fruitful contact.
She hissed at him, apparently at a loss for words, her color hectic.
“Do you want my advice?” He nuzzled her neck. “It will cost you a kiss.”
“No thank you, I shall manage to figure it out for myself. It is a puzzle, and I am good at puzzles.”
“This is one most men and women figure out.” He gasped a little when her fingers gripped him and tried to push him up into her as if she were stuffing a sausage into a goose. Which, perhaps was as good an analogy as any.
“Have I hurt you?” She released him.
“No. In fact, if you move your fingers just so,” --he brought his hand to grasp hers between their bodies, demonstrating his words as he spoke. “I will soon present you with the seed you so desire--only not in the most useful of receptacles.”
She closed her eyes and for a moment he thought she would give up control to him at last. Instead she shifted her hips and positioned him correctly this time. With a fierce push of her hips she seated him as firmly as he might have liked to do himself. He felt the stunning rush of pleasure as she twisted in his lap and made a little cry of triumph or pain, or both. “There.”
For a moment all he could do was press her to him and enjoy the sensation of being inside her at last. He wanted to move, to push, to roll her beneath him and move until he gave her what she wanted, all of him. Instead, he waited for her to set the rhythm. After a time, he realized that she did not realize what movement was still required.
He opened her eyes to see that she stared up at him in confusion. She whispered, “Well? Is that it?”
“Almost.” He sighed as her brows knit and she chewed her lower lip, but still didn’t move. “A little persuasion is necessary.” He nudged her hips and she moved infinitesimally. He nudged her again, determined not to take over, despite his body’s insistence that he do so immediately. “In my condition I don’t need too much encouragement, but you’ll have to do better than that.”
She moved once vigorously, nearly unseating him. He followed to keep them joined and she winced and stopped, staring at him in horror at the position she found herself in. At last she let out a little sob. “What a horrid business this is. You could help, you insufferable oaf, instead of just sitting there, smiling at me as if you didn’t care one way or another.”
The tear in the corner of her eye decided him. With a muffled oath he rolled over, taking her with him. He buried his face against the soft wool of her bodice and inhaled the scent of roses. “Hush, mo mhuirnin. The hardest part’s over. I’ll do the rest.”
“Mauverneen.” Her arms came around his neck. “I used to love it when you called me that.”
He moved gently at first, but the sensation was too unbearably intoxicating. He had wanted her for so long. Now, with what had seemed an impossible dream in his arms, he could not hold himself back. He wanted to bury himself as deeply inside her as he could. So deep that she could never doubt she had been his wife, once. Soon he found himself gasping and thrusting like the goat she had named him until he lay spent on the woolen armor that protected the softness of her breasts from an incursion by his invading hands and lips.
He put his arms around her, to pull her close to him, to reassure her that next time he would see she took her pleasure with him. She let out a soft exhalation and pushed him away before the last pleasurable pulsation had finished echoing through his body. “There, that wasn’t so bad.”
As he caught his breath, she rose from the floor, her skirts falling back into place. She looked hardly disarranged at all as she moved to the dressing room. He heard the splashing of water in the basin as he leaped up to throw on his shirt, suddenly feeling uncomfortably exposed, despite the fact he was in his own bedroom.
“Not so bad?” he muttered, furious at her complete lack of appreciation for his consideration. He strode over to the dressing room door to tell her so and stopped, the words dying on his lips. She leaned against the cold stone of the abbey wall, her neck bent like the broken stem of a one of her roses, her head hanging down.
He turned away. Perhaps now was not the time to tell her she should be grateful he had made the process as painless as possible. Or that next
time would be easier. It didn’t look as though she would be as eager at the idea as he was. For a man who had been ungrudgingly celibate for years, he found the ability to ignore that part of him nearly impossible now that he’d indulged.
Would she change her mind, now that she knew what she asked? Considering her bravado scant minutes before, he doubted she would call a halt to their bargain. He slipped out the door. He’d let her prepare for bed…he stopped by the door for a moment. Was she planning to sleep in her woolen armor? She’d not be comfortable. He sighed.
“I’ll be sleeping elsewhere tonight, love, you’ve the room to yourself,” he called.
There was no answer from the dressing room.
He left the room, closing the door softly behind him. His hand remained on the latch as he debated if there was some salve he could provide to her wounds, or if he would be the stinging salt she didn’t need right now. The quiet slide of the lock into place on the other side of the door was all the answer he needed to that one.
“Don’t mind the ghost--it’s only Lady Dilys’s husband, the sad Englishman who starved himself to death here for longing of his homeland, because he would not leave his wife and son behind, dead or not. He’ll not bother you…” He knew it would sound silly, but he might as well give her all the superstition now, or one of the servants would tomorrow. “…as long as you don’t bounce upon the mattress like a…naughty child.” There was little likelihood of that, he supposed, even though he found the idea much more appealing that was wise.
Again, there was no answer. No doubt she thought he was taunting her. He hoped poor Dilys’s husband would sense her distress and leave off his moaning and sighs tonight. Come the morning, though, he wouldn’t be surprised if she had decided to leave Ireland behind her forever.
The morning light brought more truth than Kate was willing to face immediately. She was no longer in Lady Dilys’s gentle care, she was alone in her bed, and she was no longer a virgin.
He had left her alone again and the pain was so unbearable that she no longer had any illusion about why she had come to Ireland. She wanted to be a wife to the infuriating man, even if he never set foot out of Ireland again.
A Very Romantic Christmas Page 34