"You don't have to do this," she said.
"Yes, I do," he replied. And it was true. He had dreamed of her nakedness, of her underneath him way too much. Of the way her sun-kissed skin glowed, even when the light was dim. Of the manner in which her green eyes sparkled with enthusiasm for life.
How would those eyes change when he pushed into her? Excitement thrummed in his veins, knowing she was his, knowing she was right there, near him, and that she would welcome him with enthusiasm.
Damnation, when he wasn't dreaming of her, he thought about her, about her vibrant outlook on life, her courage, the way she looked at him, how she felt in his arms, how erotic her dewy lips tasted. Perhaps if he consummated the marriage, he would get over this strange obsession. But what if having her once merely increased his need? The carriage stopped and he realized that soon he would discover the answer. Trying to ignore the tingling that coursed through him from inhaling the very air she breathed, he handed her down from the carriage, escorted her inside the mansion, then pointed her toward her bedchambers. "I must make love with you."
As each step drew them nearer the bed they would share, she wrung her hands and looked at him. "Malcolm?"
He knew she saw the grimness of his face. His lips were pressed together and his jaw locked. But didn't she see the fire inside? It damned well was burning him up. Very deliberately, he opened the door to her chamber.
"Do you honestly want me this time?"
Her lip trembled and his heart twisted. Taking her by the hand, he pulled her inside. "Heaven help me, but I do. I want you very much, and I'm not going to deny my desire for you anymore." His grip firm, he placed her palm against the aching length of him. Her eyes widened, and he felt her hand jerk in shock.
He wondered if she would be the one to call a halt this time. If she did, he didn't think he would survive.
"No, you shouldn't deny your desire," she murmured, her tone marveling. "Just as I'm not going to deny my own." Her eyes shimmered like heat waves off the road. "You are the most noble, honorable man I've ever known."
With his thumb, he raised her chin and gave her a fierce look. "Do not," he whispered, a frantic desperation clutching him.
"Do not what?"
"Do not go into this intimacy blindly. See me as I am, dark and self-serving."
She stared at him with guileless eyes. "I see you."
"Then welcome to the darkness," he said roughly.
He swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed. He decided to revel, to savor her magic, and to hell with the consequences—any increased hunger for her he would deal with later. "I'm going to undress you and every patch of skin that is revealed, I'm going to taste."
Her breath wafted across his neck before he set her on her feet. Holding her hand, he sat down upon the bed, pulling her between his legs. Then he turned her around. Her scent, all woodsy and whimsical, made him slightly dizzy, as did the nearness of her body to his groin. His fingers trembled as he worked free the buttons along her back.
As he exposed her delicate shoulders, he felt like an artist discovering his perfect model. Aware of her watching him through the mirror over the dresser, he carefully, tenderly unfastened the rest of the hooks down her back, noting the lovely curve where her derriere flared beneath her chemise. He couldn't help himself; he molded those small round globes with his hands, loving the feel of her. She gasped, then arched into his palms.
Her dress pooled at her feet along with her petticoats.
She started to turn around.
He grasped her hips to keep her in place. "I want to see first if you have dimples here." To emphasize, he caressed her buttocks. Grasping a handful of the gauzy chemise, he pulled it over her head.
"Lovely," he murmured, admiring the graceful line of her spine, the narrowness of her waist and her perfect backside. "They fit perfectly in my hands. And you do have dimples." He licked the indentations to show her where they were.
Her ragged breath came in gasps, and he rejoiced. In fact, his own was none too steady.
"Now, turn around."
She complied.
He looked his fill. "The mounds of your honey-hued breasts rival any painted image in the art collection at the Pavilion." He cupped them, testing their delicious weight in his palms, savoring her hardened nipples, then learned with his eyes and hands the concave softness of her belly and the reddish-blonde curls that hid her femininity. A spell held him enthralled.
"You are a magical pixie, Nicola," he said, and wondering if she would disappear in a cloud of glittering dust.
"These are for you," she whispered, and cupped her breasts. "Everything is for you."
He almost lost control right then and there. Somehow, he held on to reason. As he leaned forward to take those fragile, coral pink buds into his mouth, the sweet taste of her exploded through him.
"Now it's my turn," she said, reaching for the buttons of his waistcoat. Her fingers trembled but she made quick work of the task. She had his cravat off in no time.
"You're fast," he teased.
"I've had practice. And I realize now you must be sitting down to do this." She pulled his shirt over his head, leaning into him as she did. Her nipple brushed against his face, and she gasped at the roughness of his cheek.
"Let me finish," he growled, wanting to feel her against him. In haste, he kicked off his boots and trousers, then grasped her by the waist and pulled her atop him. Her body fit perfectly. The softness of her breasts against his chest and the heated furnace of her groin pressed against his own caused him to spiral in a dive from the skies.
"You're so hot," she whispered, innocently squeezing her legs together.
Her action trapped the hard length of him. It was his turn to gasp as fierce tension ripped through him.
"Oh, my," she said, her eyes wide. "Did I hurt you?"
"If that's pain, I want more," he growled. He rubbed against her soft feminine folds and almost regretted it, since he held on to his self-control merely by a thread... and it was unraveling. The gleam of passion in her eyes wasn't helping.
Her musky feminine scent surrounded him. He savored the feel of her legs wrapped around him, the way she opened to him. Soon he was penetrating that soft part of her.
"Oh, Malcolm, yes, yes," she said with a moan as he entered her to the hilt.
"Hold still a moment, my sweet," he said between gritted teeth, forcing himself to breathe deeply.
The action of her hips as she withdrew, then wriggled up to him again was his undoing. By pulling the thread of his self-control, she unraveled him. He came, bursting in a rainbow of prisms shattering all around him.
By her cry that mingled with his, he knew she experienced the same kind of earth-shattering experience. For her first time, it amazed him, humbled him.
She said, "Oh, my. I never knew..."
"Never knew what?"
"That was the most beautiful, sacred thing that has ever happened to me. I feel as if I'm forever changed, deep inside. I never knew how fulfilled, how whole, you could make me feel."
Her words scared him, because he feared the same change had occurred in himself. "Don't get all poetic on me," he said. "Remember, your expertise is color."
"Then I feel as if I could create a whole new palette of exquisite hues." She nuzzled his neck.
The action made him more contented than he remembered. He should leave—leave before he became too attached. But he felt so comfortable, so at home, for the first time in his life. As he reveled in the delicate warmth of her femininity, he told himself he would move from her bed in just a little while. "Why Clockwork Blue?"
"Mm?"
"Why name the color Clockwork Blue?"
"The hue came from an old clock of my grandmother's. The copper gears had tarnished to an aquamarine-blue shade so beautiful, I had to capture it."
"I always wondered." He sighed as a drowsy contentedness stole over him. He kept his arms wrapped around her as time ticked by.
"Mal
colm?" Her voice was soft, hesitant, barely enough to penetrate the lull of semi-sleep that enveloped him.
"Hmm?" He found the strength to grunt that small response, but that was all. He breathing was slow, his eyes too heavy with satisfaction to open.
"I-I love you."
"Hmm."
Her voice echoed in his mind, trying to draw him back from slumber. Had she said she loved him? No. It was merely a dream. He'd once had such dreams, that he was worthy of things like love and happiness, but that was all they had ever been. Just dreams. His thoughts drifted like vapor from a steam car ….
Malcolm opened his eyes to a frilly pink mantle and knew he'd made a terrible mistake. Bloody hell, now she would expect him to love her back, to accept her into his life, something he could never do. His brother's face appeared in his mind's you, the way he'd appeared the week before the fatal accident. How could Malcolm ever embrace love and happiness when his soul rotted from past murderous actions? The only way he could atone for his past sins was to deny himself, to keep happiness at bay—and that meant sending Nicola back to Nottingham alone. The sooner the better.
Carefully he slipped out of bed, trying not to jostle her. He even avoided looking toward her for fear that the mere sight would make him want to crawl back under the mantle and experience their intimacies all over again. Hastily he donned his wrinkled trousers and shirt, then retrieved his waistcoat from the floor, all the while blocking any sounds she might make—her delicate, sexy breaths or sighs. Those whimsical sounds might be his undoing. It struck him then how very quiet she was being. Bracing himself against her allure, he turned.
The bed was empty.
Astounded, he continued to stare, as if by doing so he could make her appear. Where had she gone? How dare she leave him after their glorious night together.
It was then that he heard her muffled voice from the other side of the door. He didn't understand what she said, but her tone was musical and so distinctive that he couldn't mistake it. Striding toward the adjacent chamber, he swung open the barrier and stepped over the threshold.
Gowns, frilly chemises and petticoats lay everywhere. Nicola paced, rummaging through the items. "No, I don't want the magenta gown, just the Clockwork Blues and the rose beige. And a couple of the greens." Her face was flushed. "Oh, I don't care anymore. Just hurry!"
"Yes, ma'am," her tiny maid said and rushed to comply.
Watching Nicola's frenzied moves as she stuffed a petticoat into one of her bags, he felt unaccountably hurt.
"So, was our night so bad that you're running away from me?"
"What? Oh, Malcolm, don't jest. I've got to return home."
"Home? Why?"
"The pixies called me."
"Bloody hell, Nicola. Don't start that talk about pixies again. You can't just leave. You are needed in my bed."
"Shhh, we don't have time for that." With a blush, she held up her finger to her lips, still slightly swollen from their kissing, and glanced at her maid.
No time? Their night of lovemaking had been the most earth-shattering experience he'd ever had, and she could be so blithe about it? "This is your home. Your home is with me." As soon as he said it, he could have guillotined his tongue. He had always made it clear that her home was in Nottingham and that they would live separate lives. Or at least he had tried to make it clear. The notion now caused a hollow ache in the middle of his gut.
How could he become so confused over the whole issue? He grasped her by the wrist as she tried to fly by him. "A spell. You've cast a spell on me. It's the only explanation."
"I don't have time to talk to you about magic and such," she said, pulling against his hold. "I must leave."
He let go. "You aren't going anywhere." Moments ago he'd been thinking about how to send her away back to Nottingham. Now here she was, leaving of her own accord. The irony that he was deeply offended wasn't lost on him.
"I'm not going to argue with you. I'm needed at home—er, I mean at my father's house."
"What about the Busbys?"
"They'll be fine now that Thomas Hill is out of the way."
He frowned, trying to think of another excuse. "Then think of the Prince Regent's ball tonight."
"You can make excuses for me."
"Bloody hell, Nicola, I need you here, not in Nottingham."
The maid had halted her packing and stared at him as if he'd sprouted wings. Then she smiled in an idiotic fashion. He motioned to the door. "Leave us."
"Yes, my lord." Clasping her hands together and emitting a gusty sigh, the small-boned woman wasted no time in fleeing. Now he was certain the servants would be buzzing about what a changed man he'd become. Bloody hell, he didn't need this. "What do you think is happening at home?"
"Not think—know. You don't understand, and I don't have time to explain."
"No, I don't. Mayhap it's something to do with your quirky ideas, your optimism and stubbornness, but I can't get enough of you. At least I haven't yet." He took her in his arms and realized she was trembling. She was upset. Why? With a tenderness foreign to him, he asked, "Nicola, sweeting, what's wrong?"
Grasping his waist tightly, she shuddered. "I'm worried about Ramsey!"
It wasn't what he'd expected. "Ramsey? What does your leaving have to do with him?"
She pushed away and gazed into his eyes. "There's going to be another Luddite uprising at the end of the week, and I've got to stop Ramsey from participating."
He saw the panic in her eyes. "How do you know?"
"The pixies—"
Her answer frustrated him. "Why don't you merely tell me that your father sent a missive or that you read it in the Times?"
"Because that would be a fib."
"Nicola—"
She broke away, a bundle of nervous energy, as if she couldn't stand still. "Botheration, I don't have time to debate with you about the existence of the pixies."
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. "A missive for my lady," the tiny maid said as she held out a letter.
Nicola rushed across the room and took it. "Oh my, it's from Papa."
"Why didn't I guess that?" Malcolm responded, barely noting the maid had once again left.
He watched her gaze flit across the masculine, slightly shaky scrawl. "He heard from one of Ramsey's friends that the trouble is to occur tomorrow!"
"What? Your pixies were wrong?"
"Perhaps the Luddites changed the date. Oh, I don't know, but I've got to go now!" She tossed the letter aside, closed her bag and hefted it off the table.
Not for one more moment could he bear that stricken look of hers. "Hold."
Something in his tone must have penetrated her panicked thoughts, for she stopped and glanced at him.
"I'm going with you."
"What?"
"You heard me." The way he gritted his teeth caused his head to hurt.
"What about your business deal? Your meeting with the Prince Regent?"
"Forget Prinny and any bloody uniforms," he grumbled, then couldn't believe he'd lost sight of his goals. What was he doing catering to his wife when he should be attending the ball?
Nicola gave him a wide-eyed stare. "But what can you say to dissuade Ramsey? You'll just teach him another one of your eastern fighting techniques."
Grinding his teeth, he stalked toward the bedchamber and bent to get his boots. "Have confidence in me, Nicola."
Following, she watched him pull on first one boot, then the other. "Why are you doing this?"
"Because I remember how you tried to stop your cousin in the workroom with that axe. He doesn't listen to you too well. Somebody has to save his neck. And yours." Hell, he didn't know why he was doing this.
He expected her to protest more, but she didn't. With a gentleness he'd never expressed to anyone in his life, he took her by the chin and stroked her cheek. "Besides, I'm not finished with you."
Her lower jaw dropped.
"Remember how I told you we must be together frequently?
"
"Yes."
"How can I be with you if you are in Nottingham and I'm here?" Taking her by the hand, he led her to the foyer where he found his butler. "Have the phaeton brought around, please. We are going to Nottingham. And have my belongings sent to me later."
"Yes, my lord."
As he assisted Nicola into the high carriage made for speed, he wondered when his life had become so convoluted.
"Nothing you can say will induce me to leave the Rebellion," Ramsey announced.
Clockwork Blue (The Lumière Chronicles) Page 27