Biblically, the word for making love was to know. It had always seemed a hopelessly effete euphemism to Ash until now. Her taste on his lips was knowledge. He took her harder, pushing her, coaxing her with his tongue. The curve of her body around his, the tension in her muscles, the grip of her fingers—they were all knowledge, deeper and harder than anything he had ever understood before. Her body stiffened. He felt heat well up around her, felt the strength of her release against his lips.
And he knew her.
“Oh, God,” she said, her voice indistinct above him. “Oh, Ash. Ash. Ash.” Her hands clutched his shoulders, hard. He felt as if he were on a boat, rocked by an enormous swell of the ocean. He felt a little dazed. He could hear her breath, hard and thready.
He pushed himself up and leaned over her.
“Ash,” she said, looking into his eyes, “you are a magnificent creature.”
His blood rang in his ears. She sounded languid, satisfied, and he felt a fierce sense of possessive pride. “You should enjoy this,” he growled out, “this and many others like it. I’m not done.”
He spread her knees wider. He felt, rather than heard, her exhale as he placed the head of his penis against her opening. Hot. Liquid. Everything real and desirable. His hands shook where they clenched the coverlet, with the effort of his restraint. He could almost taste her surprised gasp as he rubbed the head in her juices. Her body welcomed his; he could feel it from head to toe, from the way her breasts brushed against his chest to the small thrust of her hips. That tiny movement was enough to slip the very tip of him inside her.
God, it felt good when her flesh closed about him—better than anything he’d ever known. Fantastic. Excruciating.
He pulled back only to push forward, farther. More. Better. She was tight around him, but not too tight. She opened her eyes and watched him, as if she were memorizing this moment. As if he might imprint on her bones.
And then she said the most ridiculous thing. “Don’t forget me, Ash. Not ever.” Her voice was a whisper against his skin.
He shut his eyes, letting the pure pleasure of their joining wash over him. “As if I could. You know I can’t. You know I won’t. You know me.”
She didn’t answer, not in words. But she drew him down.
He pushed all the way in, until he felt her pelvis against his, her legs coming to wrap around his. It was all he could do to hold back, to refrain from pounding the rising tide of want into her. She pulsed around him, quietly, rhythmically. He might have spent himself then.
He gritted his teeth and didn’t.
Instead, he began to stroke into her—slowly, gently, at first; then, as she met him, harder, faster, until he couldn’t tell where his pleasure left off and hers began. Until she gasped again, and he felt her clench about him, squeezing his cock as she came.
Then he, too, was following her over the edge, the wild, ragged pleasure overtaking him entirely.
Afterward, it was better than ever—fiercer and stronger and more tender. He had her beneath him, after all, to kiss, to lightly run his hands along her sides. He disengaged from her but pulled her close, holding her body against his, stroking her skin until his lids drooped, until his thoughts drifted from satisfaction into the near incoherence of sleep.
“Ash?” Her voice was a whisper. “Ash, we have to talk.”
“Very well,” he murmured on a yawn. “Talk.”
“You see, there’s something you need to know about me.”
“Hmm,” he said. Sleep beckoned. He could feel himself drifting away, finally sated, completely warm, his body tired from the night’s exertions.
“Ash?” She spoke from some warm cloud, somewhere very far away. “Ash, are you asleep?”
He wasn’t, not quite, but he wasn’t awake enough to respond. He was vaguely aware of her tapping his shoulder—once, twice—before sighing.
“Oh, very well,” she said. “It’s not as if I was eager to tell you anyway.”
The last thing he remembered was the feel of her relaxing against him in surrender.
Chapter Sixteen
MARGARET AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING with a shiver running down her spine.
There was certainly no reason to feel cold. She was snuggled up against Ash, his body a warm, comforting mass against her side. If she could stay here in his arms forever, she would never feel cold again.
Last night had been a thing of magic, something that would transmute the memory of him into gold. After her unfortunate encounter with Frederick, she’d believed that intercourse with a man would be about his taking from her: taking his pleasure, taking her body. But when Ash had made love to her, he’d given: affection, certainty and, most of all, that quiet strength that made her feel she could accomplish anything.
She had only to tiptoe into his presence and he drew her into his spell.
But the morning light gave a cold, rational cast to the room about her. It was very much his bedchamber—from the ivory-handled razor tossed carelessly by the basin in the corner, to the sharp corners of the mahogany chest of drawers. No matter how she turned her head, the angles of the room seemed precise and masculine. Demanding, even, as if his chambers were requiring more of her than he had himself.
The magic had dissipated. She needed to return to her father’s side. If he’d worsened in the night, she’d have heard the commotion. But he was gravely ill—and she was his daughter.
Ash hadn’t given her a gift last night. She’d stolen one from him.
She’d gone to his bed without telling him her true name, her birth. And that had been a betrayal in and of itself. It was that wrongness that made the warmth enfolding her feel so inadequate. No matter how much of his heat she took in, she had still lied, and when he found out the truth, he was going to despise her for it. He slept still, looking innocent, young in a way she’d never seen him look before.
It was a look of absolute trust, and she was about to shatter that.
She gently moved his arm and pulled out from under the covers. She shrugged into her discarded shift, wishing that she had a wrapper—or better yet, a fresh change of clothing. She hadn’t expected to sleep with him. Anyone who caught a glimpse of her in the hall would know what had happened. If she’d thought this through, she would have made sure to bring a change of clothing. A comb.
If she had thought this through, she would never have done it.
Out the window, she saw the last gray mists of the summer morning clinging to the wet grass below. The storm had passed; in another half hour, the sun would scour the fog away, and there would be no place for her to hide.
Behind her, Ash stirred and made a sleepy noise deep in his throat. That sound caught at her, and she stared at his sleeping form. I have to tell him.
As if she’d spoken those words aloud, his eyes fluttered open. He blinked several times and then his vision fixed on her. A warm smile crept over his face.
“Margaret.” He held out a hand. “What are you doing all the way over there? Come back to bed.”
“I have to tell you something.” She took a deep breath. Her heart pounded so loudly she could almost hear it in her ears, a relentless, rhythmic canter… But no. She glanced out the window again. That wasn’t her heart pounding. Those were hoofbeats. A man was approaching on horseback. His form cut through the mist like a dark rock in water. And she froze on the inhale. She knew that man. She knew that horse.
She was barely ready to tell Ash. She couldn’t face this—not now, not here.
She whirled around. “I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here now.” She scrambled across the room.
Ash leaped from bed with a grace that belied the sleep-rumpled look of his hair. His arms found her, wrapping around her, supporting her.
“What is it?” he asked. The concern in his voice fed her panic. Her world was collapsing. Her little rebellion had reached its natural conclusion. The troops had arrived, and if she were caught in his arms, Margaret’s little bit of defiance would take on
a cast that rather resembled treason.
“Let me go.”
Ash kept his hands on her shoulders. “You’re upset. You’re trembling. You must know I won’t let anything happen to you.”
She looked into his eyes—so sincere, so clear—and felt a twinge of shame, twining with regret. “Oh, Ash. You can’t stop it. It’s already happened.”
She could no longer see the horseman; she could only imagine the door below swinging open for him in silent greeting, as it had done for so many years.
“Tell me,” Ash insisted. “Just tell me. If I can steal a dukedom, I can do anything.”
“Please. Get me something to wear. And quickly.”
He gave her a measured look and then pulled his own robe off the chest of drawers and set it around her shoulders. The warmth enveloped her once again, and with it, his scent, a complex mix of bergamot and bay rum. As she hugged it around her, he donned a pair of trousers. She could hear footfalls ascending the stairs now. If she was quick, she could make it up the servants’ stairs before he arrived. He wouldn’t need to know. She turned the handle.
Ash turned his head to the side, no doubt hearing those same footsteps. He set his hand against the door, open one scant inch. Margaret pulled, but he held it in place.
“Someone arrived. Someone who was granted unquestioned entrance.” His eyes narrowed. “That’s Richard Dalrymple, isn’t it?” His voice darkened. “Or Edmund. I can guess what he did to you. Don’t let him worry you. He can’t hurt you. I won’t let him.”
She wrenched the door back another inch, and got her foot through before he caught her wrist. “You don’t understand. I have to leave. I have to leave now.”
“I’ll protect you.”
“You can’t protect me from this.” Margaret wrenched the door open.
He set his hands on her waist. “We can face this together.”
But there was no together. There could be no together. Because at that moment, Richard came up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He froze at the sight before him. Margaret knew precisely how this tableau must appear to him. Ash was bare to the waist, his hands on Margaret. They were framed in the doorway, with an obviously rumpled bed behind them. It was only a moment that Richard stood there, his mouth open. And then he charged forward almost blindly.
“Richard!” Margaret shouted. “You mustn’t—”
“You fiend!” Richard screamed as he barreled into Ash. The two men slammed into the doorway at an awkward angle. Before Ash could react, Richard beat his fists into Ash’s chest again and again. Those ineffectual slaps punctuated the morning.
Ash reached out and grabbed Richard’s wrist as he threw the next punch and wrenched his arm hard to his side. Richard let out a hiss of pain, thrashed and subsided.
“Listen to me,” Ash said, his voice whisper-quiet in its intensity, “and listen well. You relinquished all claim to her when you left her here alone. She’s mine now, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” He shoved the man hard and Richard staggered into the room, hitting the wardrobe behind him. He slouched there as if dazed, raising a hand to his head.
“Stop it! Both of you!” Margaret screamed.
Ash flicked a glance at her and moved to stand between them. “Curb your sentimentality, my dear. This beating has been a long time coming.”
“You son of a bitch.” Richard struggled to his feet. “Get your bloody hands off my sister.”
Ash froze. Margaret could see his mouth go slack. He turned to her—and just as he did, Richard threw a punch, smashing his fist into Ash’s eye.
Ash staggered back, raising his hand to his face. “Your sister?”
She could see all of the easy affection draining from his expression. She could almost taste the loss. His breath sucked in. He shook his hand out, and then he raised his eyes to Margaret’s, as if asking her if it were true. As if begging her to deny it.
“Your sister,” he repeated dully.
Margaret bowed her head. “I was once Lady Anna Margaret Dalrymple.” Her voice choked. “I was trying to tell you, but…”
“Ah.” He rubbed his eye where Richard had struck him. The skin had already begun to pinken; in a few hours, he’d sport purple. He blew out his breath, deflating.
Here it came. Here was where he denounced her. But instead, he cut his eyes toward Richard. “I suppose, then, that I deserved that.”
Richard drew himself up taller and took a step forward. “That,” he said crisply, “and more. Why, I ought to—”
In one smooth motion, Ash pulled back and punched Richard, harder.
Margaret let out a muffled scream. Her brother shrieked louder, and crumpled to the floor. And Ash said nothing; he just advanced on Richard, huddled in a ball on the carpet.
“Ash! Stop it. What are you doing?”
Ash didn’t turn toward her. Instead, he towered over her brother. The contrast between them could not have been more striking. Ash was wide and dark and tall; her brother seemed a pallid, frail thing, scuttling backward until he cowered against the wall.
“I deserved your blow,” Ash said harshly, “but you deserve more. You left your sister here alone, with nobody to stand for her. What kind of man sends his sister into danger, while he himself cowers in safety?” He would think of that first.
“What danger?” Richard said. “She was safe. Mrs. Benedict promised to watch over her.”
Ash’s hands clenched at his side, and an almost murderous silence settled in. “If I still had a sister…” he said slowly. But he did not complete that thought. He didn’t need to; Margaret could fill in the unspoken words for him. Of course Ash wouldn’t put his family in danger. Finally, he looked at Margaret. “Why did you stay behind?”
Margaret squared her shoulders. “We didn’t know what to expect of you. Someone had to watch Father. Someone had to make sure you didn’t despoil the estate. And…and when I agreed to do it, I didn’t know you. Not then.”
Ash took a step toward her. “That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it. You’ve been staying under a roof with two bachelors, and Mrs. Benedict or no, there’s not been an appropriate chaperone in sight. You’re a duke’s daughter. When the news gets out, your reputation—”
“I have no reputation worth speaking of, Ash.”
“Balderdash. Perhaps your brothers might have rammed the issue of your legitimacy through Parliament after all. Even as a bastard daughter, you might have made a perfectly respectable match one day, so long as your reputation had been safeguarded. Why would you sacrifice the chance to have your own life, your own home? You must have agreed to this, knowing that the end result was that you would spend the rest of your life living in some tiny room on your brother’s estate, accepting whatever scraps this cad decided to toss your way.”
Richard had been watching this interchange with an increasingly horrified look on his face. Clearly, he hadn’t understood what she’d agreed to do. She had risked her reputation. And her brother hadn’t even noticed.
“Here now,” Richard said on a sputter. “I sure as hell wouldn’t toss my own sister scraps. And as for the rest, I only came back because her letters suggested she was in some danger.” He cast Ash a dangerous look. “And I see I was right.”
“Shut up, you. Margaret, you’re worth ten of him. Why would you sacrifice so much for this rat?”
Margaret pulled the silk robe Ash had given her about her like a shield and faced him. “First, he’s my brother, not a rat, and I’ll thank you not to speak of him that way.”
“Christ.”
“Second, you cannot be thinking. I have no reputation—or at least, nothing that a reputation can buy me.”
“Why? Because you’re a bastard? I’m telling you, that won’t matter—”
She could feel Richard’s eyes on her. Still, she met Ash’s glower. “No, you idiot. Because I wasn’t a virgin.”
Richard gasped.
“There has never been anything for me in the future excep
t that attic room on my brother’s estate. Not since you had me declared a bastard. No man would have had me, had he known the truth, no matter what Parliament declared. And when Frederick walked away from me when I needed him most… You must understand—I would rather have scraps in the attic than accept him. No matter what might happen.”
“I still say it was a stupid risk.” Ash shook his head. “It’s a damned good thing I’m marrying you.”
The bottom dropped out of Margaret’s stomach. This was another impossible thing, on a morning already riddled with impossibilities. She stared at Ash, blankly. “What?”
Richard pushed himself up off the floor. “I beg your pardon!”
“I’m marrying you.” He was still facing her, but he brought his hand up to shove Richard back a pace. “In case you hadn’t noticed, after what happened last night. What do you suppose I’ve been about in any event, Margaret? Don’t give me that look, Dalrymple. Your sister is the only reason I haven’t broken your nose into pieces, and she can’t intercede on your behalf forever.”
“I hadn’t noticed.” Margaret’s voice sounded flat in her own ears. Not because of a lack of emotion—her hands shook with it—but because there was too much feeling, no room for everything she felt to fit in her voice. “And no, I hadn’t supposed you were thinking about marriage. Somehow, you failed to ask.”
But she was deluding herself. If he’d just wanted her body, he could have had it long before last night.
“Don’t be so naive, Margaret.” Her brother slammed his fist into the wall beside him. The plaster shook. “Of course he didn’t ask before he knew who you were. The only reason he wants to marry you is that he knows it will help his chances in Parliament. Those who’ve made up their minds on the matter are split almost precisely down the middle. There are only a select handful of lords who have yet to decide. If he marries you, the eighth duke of Parford’s bloodline will continue. Unconventional, yes—but it might be enough to shift the handful of votes he needs his way. He knows it, that calculating bastard.”
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