Captain Corcoran's Hoyden Bride

by Annie Burrows

  Her response was elemental, like the tides. Modesty was on the ebb, as wave after wave of passion surged through her. He did not think she had any idea that she was spreading her legs for him now, tilting her hips up invitingly.

  A low moan reverberated through her throat. He kissed it again.

  Her eyes were shut fast, now, her head thrashing back and forth.

  And she began to pulse about his finger.

  If ever there was an optimum time to take her, it was now, while she was riding the crest of her own wave.

  He mounted her and swiftly thrust into her. She gasped when he breached her barrier, but the full flood of her desire bore her over and through the pain. And as he kept on thrusting, her cry became one of ecstasy.

  ‘Oh! Oh! Oh,’ she cried, watching him wide-eyed with wonder as he shuddered to his own release. She clung tightly to him as they coasted down the other side. When he collapsed on top of her, spent and sated, he realised he was clinging to her just as tightly.

  ‘Oh, Septimus,’ she murmured, after a moment or two, when she had got her breath back. She ran her hands up and down his back, along his arms, hugged him, kissed his cheek, while he lay, panting, his face buried in her glorious hair.

  He hugged her back, lifting his head to kiss her, his passion rousing all over again. Taking Aimée to bed had been like the fulfilment of dreams of love he had never even been aware he’d had.

  Love? Why was he thinking in terms of love? On a jolt of panic, he broke the kiss and gently but firmly unclasped her arms. This had been sex, that was all.

  Fantastic sex, all the more enjoyable because he had been anticipating it for days. But he must not imbue the act with too much significance—or she could enslave him.

  He rolled off her and she turned on to her side, draping one arm over his waist, and kissing his chest as she snuggled into his body. And his momentary panic abated at this affectionate gesture. She was not playing some game with him, the way Miranda had done. Miranda, who had used words of love like weapons to bludgeon him into submission. He dropped a kiss on her sweat-damp brow. His prim little bride was nowhere near experienced enough to wield her sexual power as a weapon.

  Not yet.

  He frowned, tucking the sheets up round her as he noted a wave of gooseflesh sweep down her arm. She opened one eye, smiled up at him sleepily, heaved a contented sigh and was fast asleep within seconds.

  He suddenly felt old and jaded. He knew from bitter experience that sex was not love. You could pretty near detest someone, and still enjoy an energetic romp in bed with them.

  How he hoped Aimée would never have to learn that particular truth.

  Chapter Nine

  He woke during the night, surprised for a moment to find a woman curled up against his side. He had rarely spent the whole night in bed with a woman before. For the majority of the time he’d been married to Miranda, he had been away at sea.

  He rose up on one elbow, and looked down at Aimée. She was bare to the waist, the sheet clinging to the curve of her hip and hinting at the outlines of her long, slender legs. Silvered by the moonlight that filtered in through the slits in the shutters, her hair streaming across his pillows like that, she looked like a mermaid again, just like that time he had carried her in from the rain.

  He lifted a strand of hair to his face, and breathed in deeply, half-expecting to smell the tang of the sea.

  She stirred, half-opened her eyes and he froze, wondering how she would react to the sight of him, looming over her like some grotesque gargoyle in the dark, a great hank of her hair in his hand.

  She smiled sleepily, her eyes straying to the arm on which he was propped up. She lifted her hand and ran her fingers over the muscles, not hesitantly, inquisitively as she had done before, but with a proprietorial air.

  And then she sighed, shut her eyes and lay back, extending her arms above her head. As if in invitation.

  He kicked the sheet away, and, while she lay supine, gazed hungrily at the delectable sight of her, naked and completely relaxed.

  And just like that, he was so hard and hungry for her, he knew that sleep would be impossible until he’d had her again.

  Gently, he nudged her legs apart and dipped one finger inside her.

  ‘Mmhh,’ she sighed, and circled her hips lazily.

  He decided to take it slowly this time. She was halfasleep and still new at this, and he did not want to hurt her. So he kissed her. All over. Touched her. Learned her curves, her dips and hollows. The satin smoothness of her skin. The luxuriant softness of her hair.

  Watching her languorous responses was a pleasure in itself, for he could tell she was enjoying it as much as he was. For its own sake.

  She was not doing this as a favour to him, or to reward him for good behaviour, as Miranda would have done.

  ‘Aimée,’ he whispered, his heart swelling with an emotion that was totally foreign to him.

  Her eyes flew open as he mounted her. She reached up and caressed his cheek as he entered her. Wrapped her arms round his shoulders when he began to move inside her. This time, it was not so new and strange to her, and before long she closed her eyes and let her head loll back, relaxing into the rhythm he set up.

  He had never taken a woman at such a leisurely pace. Never been with a woman who seemed to wish to savour every nuance of his lovemaking like this. There had always been a slight edge of desperation to his encounters with Miranda. And since then, he had not been emotionally engaged in his occasional couplings at all. It had been a purely physical release, swiftly accomplished, with women whose faces he could not now even remember.

  It was all so different with Aimée. He wanted it to last for ever.

  Eventually though, her breathing came faster, each inhalation a gasp, each exhalation a moan of pleasure. She was almost there.

  And the knowledge that he had done this to her filled him with such fierce triumph that he could no longer restrain himself. With a few deep, rapid thrusts, he sent a single orgasm pulsing through them both.

  For a few seconds it was as though they were truly one flesh, merged and mingled together so completely that he wondered they did not melt into the sheets together like the stumps of two wax candles kindled on one plate.

  It felt wrong to withdraw when his heartbeat had slowed back to something approaching normal. To become two separate beings again, after achieving such a complete state of union.

  But he must be crushing her. He had collapsed, limp and spent on top of her, and she was bearing his entire weight. Contrite, he withdrew and gazed down at her anxiously.

  Aimée just sighed and rolled on to her side, looping her arm about his waist, and snuggling her head to his chest as though even in her sleep, she was as reluctant as he to know so much as half an inch between their bodies.

  He hugged her to him hard, burying his face in the soft fragrance of her hair. Did he really need to guard his heart against Aimée? So far, she seemed to be exhibiting the same kind of loyalty towards him that he expected from his men.

  When she was breathing deeply and evenly, he eased her from his side, sat up and reached for the blankets they had kicked into a ball at the foot of the bed. Tenderly drawing them up over her, he kissed her once more, and, having brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, settled down beside her.

  His future ashore suddenly looked as though it might turn out to be very different from the cold hard slog of duty he had been imagining. With Aimée at his side.

  Already, coming to Bowdon Manor was not the ordeal it had been the last time around. Oh, the Dowager was still as obstreperous, her daughter still as irritating. But the way Aimée had faced the Dowager down, exactly as he would have wished … it was like having, as he had mentioned to her, an able lieutenant at his side.

  She was quite a find! He had been right to advertise for a woman who was prepared to work for her living. He could not have stood being shackled to some vapid, decorative female who would dangle from his arm like some useless
ornament. Who would have to be berthed in some safe harbour while he went out learning about his vast new holdings.

  Much of his time from now on would be taken up with learning how to run all his newly acquired estates, finding men he could trust and putting them into key roles. He had already established she would not be a hindrance in his travels. She could pack and be ready to move out in the blink of an eye. She could manage without a maid. In short, she would make the perfect travelling companion.

  Should he want to take her with him on his travels.

  He grinned to himself in the dark. Why wouldn’t he want to take her with him, wherever he went, so that he could enjoy more nights like this one? It was not as though a woman like her would be a nuisance during the working day. Given half a chance, he would not be a bit surprised if she did not roll up her sleeves and set to work alongside him.

  Would it not be something, to have, encapsulated in the person of his wife, a true helpmeet, as well as a delightfully responsive lover? He would be glad of an equal to talk to. To share his hopes and dreams with. Discuss his concerns with. Confide in.

  He had been toying with the idea of setting up some kind of refuge for sailors, like Jenks, who, for one reason or another, were finding it hard to make a decent living ashore. He had been lucky enough to have loyal men with him, who had found him a place to stay, then nursed him back to health, when he had been too weak from the fever that followed his injury, and too raw from Miranda’s defection, to face his family. He had not wanted his mother or sisters to see him in that broken, wretched state. But there were others who had nobody. Poor devils left to decay in the various dockyards of England with no friends, no family, no means to pay for their food, never mind a doctor’s bills.

  He could see her feeling sympathetic towards those poor wretches he intended to help. She must have been down on her luck, herself, to have applied for work as a governess.

  And since she had already managed to charm the core of men who worked for him he could also envision her becoming an invaluable aid in taming some of the more severely damaged men he planned to drag, kicking and cursing, from the alehouses that offered them a dubious form of respite from their ills.

  He sighed with contentment, settling back on to the pillows with Aimée held in the crook of his arm.

  By heaven, he was glad she had answered his advertisement! She was a perfect fit. As if she had been tailor made for him.

  He could scarcely believe his luck.

  She was still sleeping when he woke next. Gently, he kissed the slope of one creamy shoulder. She pouted and rolled away from him, pulling the covers up round her ears.

  It was not like her to be a slug-a-bed. But then, she was not accustomed to spending the night-time making love, either!

  He grinned at the thought that it was his exertions that had left her so exhausted, then pushed himself reluctantly out of bed. He had a lot of work to do today. In any case, she might well be feeling somewhat tender this morning, given that she had been a virgin. Not that she had complained, during the night. Or given any indication that what he was doing caused her any discomfort.

  But he would let her sleep on. And wait for tonight.

  The anticipation would bring savour to the dreary grind of his day.

  And all the days to come. He had tonight to look forward to, and all the nights to come, for the rest of their lives.

  His smile took on a rueful cast as he took in the state of the room. Their clothing was strewn haphazardly all over the floor. Having been used to inhabiting the tiniest of spaces at sea, he disliked untidiness. But so intent had he been on getting her into bed last night, that he had cast his orderly habits to the four winds.

  He chuckled as he picked up one of Aimée’s stockings, pausing to run its silken length though his fingers before draping it over the footboard with a wicked grin. He next bent to retrieve her dress, shaking it out and spreading it over the back of a chair. Her petticoat lay in a froth of lace half under the bed itself.

  As he retrieved the garment, it made a dragging sound, completely alien from anything he would have expected from such delicate material. It was far heavier than he had imagined a lady’s petticoat would be, too. And when he shook off the dust it had gathered under the bed, there came a dull rattling sound.

  Frowning, he ran his fingers along the hem, where a succession of distinctive lumps caught his eye.

  Coins.

  His wife had quite a collection of coins sewn into her petticoat.

  But he was a rich man. He had told her he was a rich man. Why did she feel she had to keep money hidden about her person?

  As he placed the petticoat on top of her dress, he recalled the lengths she had gone to, to avoid letting him handle any of her undergarments the night before. He had been charmed at the time, thinking she was attempting to show him just how ready she really was to make love with him.

  But had she merely been intent on preventing him from finding out about this hidden cache of coin? There had been a glint of determination in her eyes as she had played with her breasts. Though he had not been able to tear his gaze from the sight, he had still been aware of her kicking her stays under the bed.

  Muttering an oath, he dropped to his knees, and retrieved them. He noticed nothing amiss at first. Only after he had turned them over three times did he detect the crackle of paper. He stumbled to his feet, went to her dressing table and, after a brief forage, discovered a pair of scissors, which he used to unpick the edge of one of the half-dozen specially constructed panels that would encircle her waist when she pulled the garment on. And saw banknotes. A thick wad of them.

  And if each of the other panels contained as much … His brows drew together in a quick frown. She had a small fortune!

  He went cold inside. She had not done that erotic little striptease to prove how willing she was, how much she wanted him. She had merely been distracting him, clearly considering it worthwhile demeaning herself, if that was what it took to prevent him from finding out about her secret hoard.

  The extent of her deception shook him to the core.

  He had begun to think she was a woman he could trust. He had lain awake, looking forward to discussing his plans with her.

  It was as though he had gone to bed with one woman and woken up with another. A complete stranger.

  He suddenly recalled the way she had sat at his dining table that first night, and calmly told him she would consider his proposal, when all the time she had been secretly planning that mad dash into the woods.

  Not so mad though, it occurred to him now, if she had all this money stitched into her clothing.

  He felt foolish beyond belief, standing there, naked, with her stays in one hand and her scissors in the other. He was shaking, he realised. His heart was pounding as though he was in the grip of some kind of fever.

  He turned and stared down at the woman who still lay calmly sleeping.

  Who was she, really? What did he know about her? Only that she could look him straight in the eye and lie to him.

  Could hold him in her arms, and make love with him as though he was all the world to her, so that he wondered if he was beginning to fall a little bit in love with her. He had almost believed it was safe to lower his defences, when all the while …

  He shook his head, a sense of baffled rage welling up inside him. He wanted to shake her awake and demand an explanation.

  He cast the scissors from him and strode to the bed, her stays clenched in his fists. Then stopped stone dead. He would look a bigger fool than ever if he started in on that angle. Love was not supposed to have been part of their bargain!

  And if he showed her the stays stuffed with banknotes, shoved them in her face and demanded an explanation, what might she confess? That she was a thief? On the run from the law?

  Was that why she had been so relieved to marry him? Why she had wept with relief on their wedding night? She felt safe, she had said. Well she would, under a new name! What better way to hi
de from the repercussions of whatever it was she had done to end up with all this money?

  She could have done anything. Be guilty of any crime.

  And if he forced her to tell him about it, and it turned out to be a hanging offence, what would he do then? Hand her over to the law? Hand his own wife over to the law?

  His stomach turned right over.

  Already, she had come to mean so much to him, he could not face the prospect of losing her. Not like that!

  But perhaps she was not guilty of anything too terrible. Surely Aimée must have come by that money honestly? And was just being cautious, hiding it away like that. Who could blame her, a woman travelling alone?

  So why had she not told him about it, and handed it over to him for safekeeping as soon as they were wed?

  He discovered he did not want to know the answer to that question either.

  With fingers that shook, he pulled the broken thread tight so that the money was hidden from view again, then knelt down and thrust the garment back under the bed. Leaving it exactly where she had wanted to hide it.

  Feeling as though she had just made him her accomplice.

  With a scowl, he seized the petticoat, screwed it into a ball and thrust it under the bed with her stays where he had found it.

  Then he stormed out of the bedroom and into the adjoining dressing room, tugging so hard on the bell pull to summon the valet that the whole wire came away in his hand. It felt like an omen. The whole damn place was falling apart around his ears, just like his foolish dreams of a happy marriage.

  God, he was such an idiot, he groaned, sinking on to a chair by his washstand and burying his head in his hands. How on earth could he expect a woman who had agreed to marry a perfect stranger to be trustworthy?

  For some time, he just sat there, kneading at his hair and cursing himself for being seven kinds of a fool.

  By the time Billy arrived with his shaving water, he had sponged himself down and pulled on a pair of breeches. And his scowl was no worse than the one that often darkened his brow first thing in the morning.