by Gayle Callen
At last, the guests began to dwindle away as, one by one, Talbot announced the arrival of their carriages. When the last guest had departed, and Oliver had gone off to meet up with friends, Michael watched Cecilia’s shoulders slump, as if it had only been sheer will keeping her upright. Several maids moved silently through the drawing room, beginning to collect glasses.
He put his arm around Cecilia’s waist. “Do you need help to your room?”
The fact that she didn’t even shake him off attested to her exhaustion.
“I could sweep you right off your feet,” he added.
That succeeded in coaxing a smile from her. “No, my limbs are working.” But she didn’t protest when he took her arm and led her toward the double doors.
At the stairs, they took a candle from Will the footman and ascended to the family wing. In Cecilia’s bedroom, Nell was dozing by the fire but came to her feet with a smile. Michael left them and found Tom the footman waiting in his room. He’d begun to take turns with his brother acting as Michael’s valet. But Michael only removed his coat, waistcoat, and white cravat before dismissing Tom. He paced his room impatiently, then opened the door at a knock.
“I’m done for the night,” Nell told him.
He wished her a good night, then went through the dressing room and knocked on Cecilia’s door.
There was a long pause, long enough that he wondered if she would ignore him. His hand was already on the knob when he heard her call, “Come in, Michael.”
He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, feeling compelled to take hold of his restraint. Cecilia wore a dressing gown, which only emphasized how small and defenseless she really was. Then he remembered the marks on the side of the dirt hole, where she’d tried to claw her way out. She was stronger than she appeared.
But now that she’d washed away the concealing powder, the bruise on her cheek looked stark and ugly, a reminder of someone’s cruelty.
She stood in the center of the room and gracefully tilted her head. “Did you forget something, Michael?”
“Perhaps you did, if you think I’m going to allow you to be alone tonight.”
Cecilia felt a frisson of excitement that didn’t bode well for her vaunted mastery of any situation. Michael walked toward her out of the shadows, his shirt gleaming white, the collar open to display his tanned throat. His dark eyes beheld her as if they had the power to coerce her into . . . anything.
“Michael, you sleep right next door. I think—”
“The past two nights I slept on the cot in the dressing room.”
Her eyes widened. “I had no idea.”
“But that didn’t help protect you, did it? From now on, either the most trusted servants or I will be with you at all times.”
She wanted to object, feeling as if her life was no longer her own. But it would be foolish to risk death because things were spiraling out of her control.
“I can call Nell back,” she began.
“That won’t be necessary.”
She could not help but glance at the bed.
“You have a chaise longue.” He gestured to the long reclining chair she kept near the window for better reading light. “I would never force you to do something you’re not ready for.”
They stared at each other, a silent battle of wills, one she should not even try to win.
“Very well,” she murmured. She went to the bed and removed the counterpane, taking it to the chaise, along with a pillow.
When he tried to lay the bedding out, she wouldn’t allow it, doing it herself while he clenched his cane.
“This isn’t about your being unable to help yourself, you know,” she said, feeling the presence of him behind her even though she wasn’t looking. “This is about my obligation.”
“ ‘Obligation,’ ” he said, drawing it out. “What an interesting choice of word.”
She winced. “I didn’t mean—”
“Cecilia,” he said softly, putting a hand on her arm. “You take everything so seriously.”
“And you don’t?” She regarded him over her shoulder as she straightened the pillow for a second time.
“I can be too serious, which is perhaps why I recognize a fellow sufferer.”
“You know,” she said, walking away from the chaise with an attempt to appear casual, “two of my father’s old friends were talking about you at dinner tonight, and I think they could be counted on to believe you far too serious.”
He said nothing.
“You’re not curious?”
“You wouldn’t have brought it up if you didn’t mean to tell me.”
She rolled her eyes. “They were actually complimentary about your ruthlessness in battle, mentioning several examples of your determination not to quit.”
He nodded but remained silent.
“You expect me to trust you when you don’t talk about these things?” she asked with exasperation.
“There is little I can say since I do not intend to discuss my war experiences with you. I won’t discuss the things I saw, or what I had to do to keep my men safe.”
She studied him in surprise. Her father used to have many anecdotes to tell, even if he’d tamed them for civilian ears. She couldn’t be surprised at Michael’s modesty, of which he’d shown plenty, but there seemed to be something else going on inside him.
“Do you think I couldn’t understand what you’ve had to do?” she asked softly. “I lived in India, remember, and my father told us things that perhaps he shouldn’t have.”
He stared at her impassively for a moment, before saying, “It was difficult enough to live through some events, Cecilia. Why would I want to relive them?”
She felt a pang of sympathy for him and knew the sacrifice it took to defend the Crown. If he didn’t want to discuss it, who was she to press him for answers or explanations? Unless . . . she wanted him to trust her with the worst of it, to perhaps unburden himself.
Oh God, did that mean she wanted his trust because she wanted to offer hers?
As if reading her mind, he said, “Does this mean you’re ready to discuss your relationship with your brother?”
“We’ve already done that,” she said crisply, beginning to blow out candles around the room.
He stood unmoving, watching her. “Cecilia, you’ve allowed me to be here tonight. It’s obvious you no longer believe I might harm you. It warms me to have your trust.”
“Just because I might not think you’re a murderer doesn’t mean I trust you,” she shot back, her hands gripped behind her back.
For the first time, he gave her a real smile, one of indulgence and surprising tenderness. It took her breath away, made her realize that he did not easily show the world this side of himself. But he showed it to her.
“You trusted me enough to keep away all your old suitors tonight.”
She couldn’t deny that.
He began to walk toward her. “I feel so used,” he said softly.
She bit her lip, trying not to smile. But that urge faded into uncertainty and excitement when he didn’t stop walking, and she was forced to back up until her knees hit the edge of the chaise longue, and she sat down with a thump. He loomed over her, bracing himself with his hand on the curved backrest.
“I think you owe me something,” he continued.
Very gently, he cupped the side of her face, then slid his hand back into her braided hair. To her surprise, it soon fell down around her shoulders.
“You have the most beautiful hair,” he said hoarsely.
His gaze seemed to devour her, and instead of uneasy, she felt a rise of excitement that seemed all out of proportion to his touch. No man had ever made her feel this way—which was perhaps why none of them lured her into marriage at a younger age.
This thrilling sensation must be desire, a need that was taking hold of her, making her want to explore. She’d always been curious about the world, but never had she felt this kind of yearning.
“And what d
o you think I owe you?” she whispered, tilting her head up to meet his intent gaze as his hand continued to move through her hair.
“At least a kiss.”
He leaned lower until their breaths mingled. He didn’t wait for her acceptance, and she couldn’t even have spoken, with her breath coming so fast. When his mouth touched hers, she expected the gentle kiss he’d given her before, but this one was totally different, urging her lips apart once, twice, then his tongue sought entrance, and she granted it in shock, even as a moan escaped her. He swept her mouth like a conqueror, played with her tongue until, at last, she responded with her own tentative exploration. He nibbled her and tasted her, suckled her or plundered like a pirate taking what he wanted.
And she gave it to him willingly, so caught up in his need of her—and her need for him, she realized in astonishment. She felt desperate enough to reach for him, to run her hands up his arms, to hold him tight.
Still kissing her, he sat down on the edge of the chaise, leaning her onto the long, curving backrest. He began to press kisses along her jaw and down her throat, nuzzling her, licking her. She made little noises, whimpers of need that should have embarrassed her, but didn’t. She held his head to her, felt the full softness of his hair between her fingers. And then his mouth moved lower, and lower still, as he parted her dressing gown. She was holding her breath in anticipation, knowing she should stop him, even as a sly voice whispered, He is your husband.
He pressed kisses along the neckline of her nightgown, until she squirmed beneath him, desperate for more, though she didn’t know what. He skimmed his lips along her breasts, and then through the silk of her gown, he took her nipple into his mouth. She cried out and arched her back, shocked and aroused and joyful all at the same time. She’d never imagined such intense feelings, and it only doubled when he cupped her other breast with his palm and gently kneaded it. With his fingers, he rolled one nipple, with his tongue he licked the other, until she was quivering and desperate. She gripped handfuls of his shirt, sliding it up his back so she could touch his hot skin beneath. To her surprise, he sat up long enough to pull the shirt off over his head, and she stared in surprise at the muscular expanse of his chest, the scars, one near his shoulder, another on his arm, a third along his ribs, like something sharp had deflected across the bones.
“Oh, Michael,” she whispered, touching the one on his side. “You’ve been so hurt.”
She sat up, and he stiffened, his hungry expression fading away into impassivity as if he thought he’d lost her. She slid her dressing gown off her shoulders. It pooled on the chaise, and his eyes seemed to smolder.
“Cecilia.”
He whispered her name with relief and urgency and the hunger that made her feel like she was the only woman in the world, the center of his universe.
And then he pulled the ribbon of her nightgown, and the neckline parted at her shoulders. His fingers spread it wider, brushing across her sensitive skin, freeing her breasts. Her nudity almost shocked her, but he cupped them and once again worshipped them with his mouth, until she was moaning and moving fitfully in her tangled nightgown. Then he lifted her free of it, and she was naked in his bare arms, feeling every inch of his hot skin against hers. He limped across the room to the bed and spread her out across it, his hands sliding down her torso and thighs as he stood up.
She lay there naked, her hair all around her, and watched him finish disrobing. He bent to remove his trousers and undergarments, and when he straightened, she stared at her first sight of a naked man, his erection prominent in his dark hair. She was distracted by the web of raw-looking scars twisting down his thigh.
“Oh, Michael,” she breathed, wincing in pain for him.
She reached to touch his scars, but he caught her hands.
“Not now. They mean nothing to me.”
And then she forgot them, too, because he stretched out on top of her, every inch of their bodies touching. He felt so different from her, hard where she was soft. She could feel his penis cradled against her belly, strange and threatening and intriguing all at the same time.
He started kissing her again, deep, drugging kisses over and over, taking her mouth, seducing her thoughts and will until she was nothing but aching need. She held him to her, desperate to be closer. She wanted to wrap herself around him, and parted her legs to do so. But then he settled between her hips, rocking against her.
She cried out at this new, deeper, stronger jolt of desire. Pressing herself against him, she murmured, “Please, oh, please, tell me what I should do.”
He chuckled against her neck, and she lifted his head to stare at him, shocked. His mouth was still wide with amusement, his brown eyes soft with warmth.
“I’ll show you everything,” he whispered, “but not so quickly. I feel I’ve waited a lifetime for you.” He slid off her, resting on his side.
She groaned and reached for him.
“Not yet, my inquisitive one. You aren’t in command here.”
Then he kissed her again, and his hands took a journey down her body, caressing and teasing her breasts and belly, moving ever closer to the part of her that burned to be touched, even as somewhere inside her she felt hesitant. She ignored the cautious voice that ruled so much of her life. When his hand slid along her thighs, she only briefly considered holding them shut. But they opened as if of their own accord. His fingers brushed her curls and slid deeper, stroking her. Gasping at the shocking pleasure, she buried her face in his shoulder, unable to look at him when he was doing such brazen things to her.
The pleasure suffused her, built inside her until she was panting. He was gentle at first, then bolder, and she couldn’t help noticing how wet she was, how easily his fingers slid along the crease of her body. She was straining for something elusive and so powerful, then gaped up at him when he suddenly pressed her onto her back.
“Michael!”
He covered her body with his, and she felt his erection slide along her. She shuddered, her need cresting again, when he suddenly drove home. More shocked than hurt, she was amazed that the two of them fit together at all.
He bent to kiss her mouth. “Are you . . . all right?” he asked, his voice tense, his expression almost angry, although she knew he wasn’t, not if he felt anything like she did.
“I’m fine. But please—”
She broke off as he pulled back, then surged in again, shocking her very nerves into a rising explosion that, with just one more thrust, sent her helplessly over an edge into a shuddering oblivion of blinding pleasure. He kept moving, harder and faster, and she didn’t know where the first wave of pleasure ended and more began.
She knew when his own climax took him by the way he groaned into her shoulder, then collapsed onto his forearms, bearing much of his weight. They were both breathing hard, gasping, and she could only stare up at him in wonder.
Chapter 16
As Michael gazed into Cecilia’s damp, flushed face, he couldn’t remember a time when he had felt more at peace. His body was still afire with lust, and he could have kept pumping away until he was ready to do it all over again, but his wife had been a virgin.
At last, she was his wife in truth.
She searched his face with wide eyes, her lips parted. She almost seemed bewildered, as if emerging from a dream. Very carefully, he slid out of her body, already missing her as if he’d found what he’d been searching for his whole life. He rolled onto his back, then gathered her against him so that her cheek rested on his shoulder. But she seemed tense, as though she might flee if he made one wrong move. So he said nothing, just stroked her hair where it tumbled in a tangle across his chest.
Then, to his surprise, her eyes drifted closed, and she fell asleep without a word.
Michael was usually the silent one in any relationship, and her behavior briefly puzzled him. But she’d been fearing for her life for days now, perhaps lying awake, listening for footsteps. He winced, remembering how many times he himself had walked past her door a
s he patrolled the corridors.
He came up on his elbow to blow out the last candle, then drew the blankets over them both. He kissed her tousled hair, silently promising she would never have to be alone with her worry again.
Cecilia slowly came awake, warm to her core, vaguely surprised that sunlight streamed in the windows. She’d never drawn the curtains, she drowsily thought. And she never slept this long.
And then all the rest of her senses returned in a rush as she realized she was lying on her side, that Michael was snug against her back, their naked bodies spooned together, his very obvious arousal nestled against her backside. His large arm encompassed her waist, his hand loosely cupping her breast.
She went tense with surprise and burgeoning regret, even as she heard him snore softly into her ear. Letting out her breath, she closed her eyes, barely stopping herself from groaning loud enough to wake him.
What had she done?
She’d become his wife in truth, and any chance of invalidating the marriage was gone. Her emotions seemed all jumbled inside her as the memories of their night together overwhelmed her. She’d been like an animal, so desperately in need of him, she’d allowed him to do . . . anything he wanted. It had felt good, no doubt about it, but that didn’t make such absolute baseness forgivable.
She moved the tiniest bit and could already feel a tenderness at the juncture of her thighs from his lovemaking. He’d been forceful and overpowering, and she’d wanted all of it. Even now, as she stared down at his hand against her breast, she could have pressed herself into him to feel it all over again.
She couldn’t be so close to him; she couldn’t want him this much, depend on him. He was leaving her, and she wasn’t going with him. She might be married, but it didn’t mean she would lose herself in him, or lose herself in sorrow when he left. She would go on as she had before, in control of her life and her emotions. She wouldn’t let herself love him or need him—he had to understand that.