Bad Boy Heroes Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  He tried to hand the vial to her, but she stood up and turned her back to him, tugging the towel loose and lowering it. “I can’t reach my back. Would you mind?”

  Ladies have trouble reaching the most interesting places…

  For a moment, he thought she was going to remove the towel entirely, but she wrapped it low around her hips, securing it—rather tenuously, he thought—with a quick tuck. Gathering her hair to one side, she draped it over her shoulder, then stood in expectant silence, her arms loose at her sides.

  Her back was as sleek and well shaped as the rest of her, her waist exquisitely slender. The damp linen towel hugged a beguilingly dimpled derriere. Luke’s hand twitched as he studied the spot where she’d tucked in the towel. All he’d have to do was pull it…

  Glancing over her shoulder at him, Lady Faithe said, “I can do the front while you do the back.” She lifted her hand, palm up. It took him a moment to realize what she wanted, and then he loosened his white-knuckled grip on the green vial and poured a bit of the oil into her palm. “Thank you.” She rubbed her hands together, and then began smoothing them over her chest. He couldn’t see what she was doing, of course, since her back was to him, but his imagination filled in the details. In his mind’s eye he saw her breasts, slick with oil. He felt their weight and warmth as she stroked them…

  “My lord?” she murmured. “Are you going to…”

  He choked out some sort of response, then tilted the vial onto his palm and laid it hesitantly on her shoulder. Her skin felt hot to the touch, and slightly damp, and so incredibly smooth already that he couldn’t imagine why she felt the need to soften it further. He moved his hand slowly, gliding it over an elegant shoulder blade and down along the inward curve toward her waist. As friction heated the oil, it released more of its intoxicating fragrance. He breathed the scent in deeply, letting it enter him, wreaking havoc with his equilibrium. He massaged her with firmer pressure, feeling the compact little muscles and smooth bones beneath the satin skin. He caressed her waist, her hips, reveling in her womanly contours and the sweet, feverish heat of her.

  It was intimate to be touching her this way, astonishingly intimate. To be privy to her toilette was disarming enough; to participate in it implied an understanding, a sort of sexual promise. Luke’s body reacted to that promise with a surge of arousal that stole his breath. His hand tightened reflexively around the curve of her hip as he swelled and rose beneath his tunic.

  “My lord?” As she turned to face him, he thrust the vial in her hand and walked away. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” He strode to the edge of the bed and looked down on it, picturing her naked and luminous on the wolfskin blanket.

  Fine? He was far from fine. He ached with need, he pulsated with it. She must know what she was doing to him. No woman could be this provocative unless she were deliberately trying to tempt a man. And yet, what did he know of women like her? The women he was used to were coarse creatures adept at firing a man’s lust and dispatching it as quickly as possible. Highborn women, according to his father, were largely blind to the passion they inspired in men and ill-prepared to deal with its consequences—which was why the chivalrous man must learn self-control.

  “Would you like me to undress you?” She came up behind him as he stood facing the bed.

  God yes . “That won’t be necessary.”

  He felt her hands brush the back of his neck as she untied the thong that secured his braid and unplaited it by trailing her fingers through his hair. His scalp tingled where she lightly grazed it.

  She closed a hand over his shoulder and urged him to face her. Her damp hair hung down on either side of her chest, cloaking her breasts. His gaze stole downward, along her flat stomach with its delicate navel, and then further, to speculate on mysteries barely obscured by the swath of flimsy toweling that stopped at her calves.

  “I’m your wife,” she said in a near whisper. He met her gaze and she abruptly looked away. “A wife ought to… do these things for her husband.”

  These things ? Just undressing him, or did she mean more? Regardless of what she meant, she was obviously uncomfortable—a wife performing her duty. Luke didn’t know precisely what he wanted to be to Lady Faithe, but he knew for certain that he didn’t want to be her duty. “You needn’t—”

  “I should.” She reached for his belt, and he stilled. He was so hard, so inflamed. Her hands as she unbuckled him hovered so close to the source of his hunger, yet never directly touched it. The effect was maddening. He wanted to throw her onto the bed and drive himself into her. He wanted to race from the room, to protect her from his animal lust.

  He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, wondering if it were possible to go mad from sexual frustration.

  She tossed his belt onto the bed. Then, before he could object, she gathered up his tunic and shirt and pulled them both over his head, laying them next to the belt.

  “Your arm is better,” she said, lightly trailing her fingers over the bruised flesh, “but you could use some more spirit of rosemary on it.”

  He remembered the fire her innocent, healing touch had kindled in him last night. It would probably be a good idea to discourage such ministrations tonight. All he wanted was for her to turn her back long enough for him to get out of his chausses—which did little to mask his state of arousal—and under the covers. “‘Twill heal well enough without more liniment,” he said.

  “‘Twill heal better with it.” She dropped to her knees in front of him.

  Luke stepped back and felt the bed behind him. “What are you—”

  “Taking off your boots,” she said matter-of-factly, although he thought her fingers looked inordinantly clumsy as she tugged at the laces.

  “Stop that.” Her head was an inch from his groin; thank God she was looking down. “I can do that.”

  “I don’t mind—really.” As she worked the laces loose, the top of her head brushed up against him, generating a subtle but insistent stimulation that made him even harder. He wanted it to go on and on; he wanted it to stop before he lost control. He tried to back up farther, but there was nowhere to go.

  “Lift your foot.” She pulled off a boot and set it aside. “Now this one.”

  He heard her draw in a slow breath, and then she reached for the cord at the waistband of his chausses. “You don’t need to do this,” he rasped.

  “I want to,” she whispered unsteadily.

  Was it possible she knew what she was doing? She had to notice his condition, but she didn’t so much as blink as she wrestled with the knot he’d tied far too well. Luke’s heart pounded in his ears. Her palms brushed his erection as she plucked at the cord. He sucked in a breath.

  She looked up and met his gaze. He saw it in her eyes then, the resolution, the self-awareness. She knew exactly what she was doing.

  Any lingering doubts vaporized when she closed a hand over his straining flesh through his chausses, lightly but deliberately, without breaking eye contact. He throbbed at her touch. Gripping her hand, he drew it up his length, molding it to him.

  She did want him! She did know what she was asking for, and she wanted it as much as he did.

  He noticed something then. She was shivering, very slightly from head to toe.

  His ardor chilled instantly. She didn’t want him at all—not really. She wanted to do her wifely duty. She wanted to consummate the marriage, because it was expected. But she didn’t really want him at all. From all appearances, the prospect of giving herself to him unnerved her greatly.

  He released her abruptly. “Get up.”

  She looked up sharply. “But… don’t you want—”

  “Nay.” Not now, not like this. Not with her trembling like a hare in a trap. He seized her arms and pulled her to her feet.

  “Your body wants it.” She reached for him again, but he grabbed her wrist and held it tight.

  “That’s my body. My mind knows better. Get dressed.”

  “But�
�”

  “Get dressed,” he repeated, more harshly than he’d intended. He gentled his voice. “And we’ll talk.” His nerves were shattered, but he shouldn’t take it out on her. She’d merely been doing her duty as she perceived it; she wasn’t to blame. He wanted to explain things to her, wanted her to understand why he couldn’t take her on these terms, but he couldn’t hope to concentrate on what he had to say with her standing in front of him half naked.

  She didn’t move, except to lift her chin, her eyes blazing. “I won’t let you do this to me,” she said in a voice she seemed to be struggling to control.

  The intensity of her anger, and its suddenness, took Luke by surprise. “I’ve done nothing to you,” he said carefully.

  Her hands fisted in the towel draped around her. “Precisely.”

  Christ , but he wished she’d put some clothes on. Then, perhaps he could think. Opening the chest at the foot of the bed, he pulled out what looked to be a night shift and handed it to her. It was a shift, he saw when she unfolded it, but an exceptionally delicate one of tissue-thin linen, lightly embroidered. She jerked her towel off, and he spun around, rubbing the back of his neck while she got dressed.

  “Is this better, my lord?” she said acidly.

  He turned around. The nightgown scooped low in front, exposing the upper slopes of her breasts—remarkably generous breasts for such a fine-boned woman. The gossamer fabric floated around her like a whisper, revealing as much as it concealed. He saw the rosy smudges of her nipples, and a shadowy hint of what lay between her legs.

  His body stirred anew, but then she said, “I know why you won’t bed me,” and his arousal quickly waned.

  “Why?”

  Her chin rose higher; her fists quivered. He admired her pluck, despite this perplexing stand she seemed to be taking. “Consummating this marriage would make me your wife in every sense. I’d be protected against—”

  “What?” A pressure began to swell behind his eyes. “That’s what this is about? That’s why you want me to bed you? To protect yourself?”

  “I married you in good faith,” she said, her voice quavering. “As your wife, I have certain legal rights… the right not to be cast aside—”

  “Legal rights?” he roared. Dear God, this was about legal rights. She hadn’t wanted him at all. Nor had she been simply trying to do her wifely duty. She’d cold-bloodedly seduced him—or attempted to—in order to protect her legal position as his wife. Luke felt as if his head were going to burst.

  He wheeled around, fists clenched, looking for something to smash. The depth of his anger unnerved him. Once the beast within him was fully wakened, God knew what it would do. An image flashed through his mind of the dead Saxon in the loft of that Cottwyk brothel. Luke had already committed murder; he was capable of anything.

  “My lord—”

  “Don’t call me that!”

  A spark of fear flared in her eyes before she banished it. She should be frightened. She’d roused the Black Dragon. She should be praying for mercy.

  Instead, she had the temerity to take a step toward him. “I only want what any wife has the right to expect.”

  Seizing her roughly, he tossed her onto the bed, then leapt on top of her, his fair flying in his face. “Is this what you want?” He whipped her skirt up, watching himself as if from above, wondering how far he would go. “Is this what you expect?”

  For a moment she just stared at him, her eyes widened in shock. “Nay,” she gasped, scrambling backward across the bed.

  “What’s wrong?” He grabbed her hips to still her. Pinning her beneath him, he yanked her legs apart. “Isn’t this what you’ve been asking for?” He thrust against her, although he’d never felt less aroused. It was not lust that drove him—the fear in her eyes would have vanquished that—but a darker, more uncontrollable passion.

  She swung a fist, catching him on the nose. The burst of pain only fueled the demon within him. Grabbing her wrists, he held them down and thrust again. “An expedient fuck? Will that protect your rights? Perhaps we should call in witnesses.”

  “Nay!” She thrashed beneath him, striving to free herself. “Nay! My lord, please—”

  “Call me by my name!”

  “Just let me—”

  “My name!” Two droplets of blood fell onto her cheek from his nose.

  “Luke,” she choked out. “Luke…” She stilled, breathless. “Don’t do this. Don’t do this, Luke, please.”

  He felt her heart thundering through her thin gown. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

  “Christ, don’t cry,” he said huskily.

  “I won’t. I wouldn’t. Not in front of…” She looked away, struggling to compose herself.

  Not in front of him. Of course not. He was the last person to whom she would expose her soft underbelly—especially after this little display of savagery.

  He could feel the rage dissipating in the face of her fear and helplessness, feel the beast retreating to its lair, deep within him. Thank God he’d managed to rein it in before it could vent the full measure of its fury. Never in the past had it been so easily subdued.

  She returned her gaze to his. “Let me go, Luke. You don’t want to… to…”

  “God, no.” Luke released her wrists and cupped her face with tremulous hands. He and Faithe were both shaking uncontrollably. “The last thing I’d ever want to do is hurt you. I’m sorry, my lady, I’m so—”

  “Faithe,” she whispered raggedly.

  A drop of blood landed on her upper lip. He wiped it off with his thumb.

  “Faithe,” he breathed, loving the simplicity of her name, the soft feel of it in his mouth. He rubbed his thumb over the drops on her cheek.

  Her gaze focused on his nose. “I’m sorry for that.”

  “You had every right to do that, and worse.” He eased away from her, drawing her skirt down as he rolled to the side. “Christ.” He threw an arm over his face. “I’m an animal. I should be locked up in a cage.”

  He felt her rise from the bed, and then he heard her soft footsteps in the rushes, and the sound of water being poured from the ewer into the washbasin. Presently, the mattress dipped as she sat next to him. Something cold touched his nose, and he flinched. “What—”

  “Shh…”

  She sat over him, dabbing gingerly at his nose and upper lip with a wet cloth, which quickly turned red. She dipped it in the basin, which she’d brought to the night table, and continued cleaning off the blood. Luke watched her as she tended to him, her forehead slightly creased with concentration, her eyes dark with concern.

  For him. She obviously felt contrite for having hurt him—ludicrous, given the provocation—and now, ever the healer, she’d taken it upon herself to nurse him. The injury to his nose, although it still pulsed with pain, was inconsequential. Part of him wanted to reject her succor; he didn’t deserve it. But another part wanted to stay like this forever, basking in her tender attentions. For her to take care of him this way, after what he’d done, humbled him.

  “That’s better.” She rinsed the cloth thoroughly, wrung it out, and gently stroked it across his forehead. It felt so cool, so infinitely soothing. His eyes closed; his hands fell open limply at his sides. She bathed his face and throat and arms until he lay in dazed gratification, and then she dropped the cloth in the basin and curled up next to him.

  Luke turned to her as naturally as if he’d done it a thousand times, and gathered her in his arms. She returned the embrace, gliding her arms around him and fitting her body to his. He stroked her hair as their heartbeats synchronized, breathing in the essence of almonds and thyme.

  He felt the warmth of her body through her whisper-thin gown, felt her breasts crushed to his bare chest. Yet, curiously, he felt a far greater measure of contentment than desire. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d held someone just for the comfort of it; in fact, he didn’t think he ever had.

  “I’m such an idiot,” she whispered.

  He
pulled back a little to look upon her face. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  “I thought I knew why you didn’t want to bed me,” she said into his shoulder. “I thought you wanted to annul the marriage.”

  He rose onto an elbow. “Why, for God’s sake?”

  “So that you’d get Hauekleah without… having to be wed to me.”

  She thought he’d wanted to take her estate from her! No wonder she’d been so desperate as to resort to this bungled seduction. He understood now, but still, it stung to discover that her motives had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with Hauekleah. “I should have known your purpose in… tempting me that way… went deeper than mere duty. What kind of woman would voluntarily bed the Black Dragon, even if it were expected of her?”

  “Luke…” Her eyes closed; she shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry.”

  He tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “For a moment there, I thought you actually wanted me.” A grim chuckle escaped him. “You’d think I’d be old enough not to let wishful thinking influence my judgment.”

  Her arms tightened around him. “Luke…”

  “It’s been a very, very long time since there was anything good and pure in my life,” he said quietly. “Now there’s Hauekleah… and you.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “For once, I’m surrounded not by ugliness and death, but…” He trailed his fingertips lightly over her face; she closed her eyes and bit her lip. “I don’t want to sully what I’ve been given. Our marriage may have been a coldhearted arrangement, but that doesn’t mean it has to be a coldhearted marriage.”

  He shook his head in frustration at the inadequacy of words and flopped down on his back to study the network of massive timbers supporting the steeply pitched ceiling. “What I’m trying to say is, I don’t want you on just any terms. I certainly don’t want you if you’re just submitting to me out of a sense of duty, or to protect your rights as my wife. And I don’t want you if you fear me, even a little. When you give yourself to me—if you ever do—I want it to be because that’s what you truly want.”