Sweet Seduction hmtl

by Patricia Pellicane

  "But it is easy. We don't love each other. Am I right"

  Meg waited in breathless hope. No, not hope, dread. That was it, dread. He couldn't tell her he loved her. He didn't love her. She knew he didn't. Then why was she holding her breath? Why was her pounding as she waited for his reply?

  Tristan smiled, and he felt her holding her breath. What did she want? Did she want him to profess his feelings? If he did, would she accept the tenderness he felt for her, or would she throw it, with a laughing snarl, back in his face. He couldn't chance it. Not yet. "No. We don't love each other." He felt breathe at last. Was that disappointment he heard in her sigh, or relief?

  Tristan nuzzled his mouth against her damp neck. "You smell delicious."

  "Why do you want to marry me?"

  "Don't you know?" He ground his hips into her soft derriere. "Doesn't this give you a hint?"

  "There are others upon whom you can slake carnal impulses."

  "Ah, Gypsy, but none other half so sweet."

  "Sweet? Me?"

  Tristan laughed. "I'm not talking about your sharp tongue when I call you sweet. I'm talking about your body."

  "You're disgusting."

  He shook his head. She felt his movement. "Honest."

  "Sick, you mean. You can't base an entire relationship on . . . on . . ."

  "Sex?" He knew he'd hit the mark at her low groan and smiled. "But I'm not. It's not only sex I want from you. Everything you do excites me."

  "Excites you into wanting me in your bed. Exactly my point. You want me sexually." Meg almost choked over the indelicate word. She took a deep breath and continued on just as if her voice hadn't broken. "There are others that will do."

  "No. There are none."

  "What about the woman at the docks?"

  "What woman?" he asked, his brow creasing into a frown. What was she talking about now?

  "The one you were talking to. The one who showed you—"

  "None" he said more forcefully. "There are none that can compare to you."

  He turned her around and pushed wet hair from her face. His hands cupped her cheeks. Her eyes wide, her skin creamy and wet, her lips parted temptingly soft. Tristan knew a tightening in his chest as he gazed upon this exquisite face. "The moment you're ready, I'm going to love you. I won't chance again another child. You won't be having any of my bastards."

  "What do you mean, again?"

  Tristan cursed. He hadn't meant to say that. He hadn't wanted her to ever know. "I mean," he said at last "when you got hurt you lost our baby."

  'No." Her eyes widened, and she shook her head in denial, but suddenly she knew it was true. There was no other explanation for the pain she suffered. "That's impossible." "It was only three weeks, I know, but you were carrying my child."

  "I wasn't," she returned weakly. Her eyes were filling with tears. "I should have known. You're mistaken."

  "Sweetheart, don't be upset." He pulled her against and allowed her to bury her face in his chest. "Morgan said you'd be fine. There'll be other babies."

  A soft sob was torn from her throat.

  "Damn. Don't cry."

  "I'm not crying," she said amid yet another sob.

  "I wasn't going to tell you. I shouldn't have."

  "Why?"

  "Because I didn't want to see you like this."

  Meg pushed herself from his arms and wiped the tears that streamed down her face with the backs of hands. She swallowed and faced him. "I don't need your pity, Mr. Hall."

  Tristan had never known a woman to compare. She was all strength and determination. She had the pride and quiet dignity of a duchess and yet was as earthy as any tavern wench. In her arms a man's most secret fantasies came to life. She was everything he could want and more. She refused his pity, but it wasn't pity he felt. It was compassion and love. The hurt in her eyes couldn't be disguised, and his heart squeezed tight in his chest, knowing of her pain. God, how he loved her.

  He would have kissed her then, but decided against the luxury of rediscovering her mouth. If he kissed her, the preacher might give up and leave long before he was finished enjoying her. He couldn't chance it. He had to make this woman his forever. "You'd better hurry and dress."

  "It didn't mean a thing."

  "Didn't it?"

  "What I said I said against my will. My father will have it annulled."

  Tristan frowned. No one was ever going to annul their vows. He didn't care if she hadn't meant them. She'd said them, and that was all that counted. "Are we back .to your father again?" he sighed unhappily. Would the woman never give up her story?

  It doesn't matter if you don't believe me. It doesn't matter that you forced me to marry you. You can't force love."

  "I never asked for your love," he said bluntly, almost angrily, for he wanted her love more than his very life. But you, my dear, are going to give it nevertheless, he silently vowed.

  Meg swallowed her hurt, pushing aside the impossible sensation. She wasn't hurt. This man didn't have the ability to really hurt her. "You'd never get it, even if you did ask since I could never love a man like you."

  "What's the matter with me?"

  "The night's not long enough to name all your faults," she said with a flippant shrug of a slender shoulder.

  Tristan grinned. "Or yours. But I don't ask you to be perfect. Why ask it of me?"

  "Lord, who asked for perfection? A little human kindness is enough."

  "What would you like me to do? Name it and it's done."

  "Take me home."

  "I am. We'll leave in the morning."

  "I meant my home."

  "Your home is with me."

  Meg shook her head in disgust. "You are the most infuriating man."

  Tristan grinned. "And I love you, too."

  Meg's eyes widened at the casually spoken comment. For just a moment the room grew totally silent. Did he mean it? Meg wondered. Had the words dipped out, or was he just being sarcastic? He'd said it so easily but with such feeling that it gave Meg cause to wonder.

  There was a knock at the door, and both looked toward the sound as if thankful for the interruption.

  "Our wedding supper," Tristan said, remembering the order he'd given to the innkeeper.

  "There is no us, and I won't be drinking a toast."

  Tristan sighed, placed his glass upon the table, and shook his head. "You're one determined lady."

  "You don't like it? Let's get a divorce."

  "A determined lady with a sharp tongue."

  "You knew that before you made me marry—"

  "I can't remember," he interrupted. "Which was it? A gun or a knife I held to your back?"

  "Meaning I said the words of my own free will, I suppose?"

  "Meaning just for once I'd like to spend the evening with a pleasant woman."

  "Fine! I'm sure there's at least one downstairs that would enjoy your company."

  That was it! This was definitely not the way he'd imagined spending his wedding night. He'd been trying to cajole her into a good mood for the last two hours. Nothing he'd said so far had made the least bit of difference. Why the hell he was banging his head against a stone wall. He knew one thing though: being nice to this little witch was getting him exactly nowhere, and he'd had enough.

  "Thanks for your permission," he said as he pushed back his chair and stood. "I think I'll do just that."

  "What?" Meg came to her feet, her eyes wide with surprise.

  "Find a woman who can say two nice words in a row. I'm sick of your nasty comments."

  Meg laughed. "It didn't take you long. We've been married, what?" she glanced at his pocket, indicating his watch, "two hours?" She gave him a knowing look. "I'm not surprised."

  "And what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

  "It means I never expected a man like you to remain faithful."

  Tristan felt like she'd just slapped his face. He looked at her a long moment and found nothing but disgust in her eyes. "Jesus," he groaned as he ran
his fingers through his hair. "What the hell have I ever done to make you think that?"

  "Talking to harlots for one."

  "I told you why I did that."

  "And now? You're on your way downstairs to find a woman. Why?"

  "Maybe I just need to talk to someone. Someone who doesn't bite my head off every time I open my mouth. Someone who isn't snide, who doesn't sneer and snarl. A woman who treats me with a little—"

  "Go on," Meg prompted when he came to a sudden stop. Her eyes flashed; her arms were folded across her chest.

  She was about as soft as a rock. There was no way was going to tell her what he'd been about to say. She'd never know how desperately he wanted her tenderness. Thank God he had some pride left. If she knew how it bothered him, she'd no doubt double her efforts at being nasty.

  "I'll see you later," he said just before he slammed the door behind him.

  Meg stared at the closed door for a long time as she fought back the urge to cry. She didn't care. Let him have his women. As long as he didn't touch her, she'd be gloriously happy.

  The only reason she was crying was because she was tired. She wasn't sorry to see him go. She only wished he'd keep going and never come back.

  Slowly she undressed for bed, feeling more than a bit sorry for herself. Thank God, she didn't love him. If she did she'd be just about dying with pain. The only reason she felt this weight on her chest was because the stupid blanket was as heavy as lead. Meg kicked the covers off, but the weight didn't lessen any. As a matter of fact it grew in strength until it just about cut off her breathing. And then Meg gasped as she realized why. She loved him. Oh no! she groaned in horror. She didn't. Please God, she didn't! But she did and her nasty mouth had sent him into the arms of another.

  Meg groaned and rolled as Tristan's side of the bed sunk with his weight. She sighed comfortably as he took her in his arms and inhaled her clean scent lustily. "I'm sorry," he said.

  "Me too," she returned as she snuggled closer.

  And then she noticed the smell and stiffened, suddenly wide awake. "What time is it?"

  "About three."

  "You bastard. You come back to me at three in the morning, stinking of another's perfume and expect me to—"

  "Gypsy," he sighed. He didn't have the strength to ten to another of her tirades. He needed some sleep. "I wasn't with another woman. I was downstairs the whole night drinking and talking with the innkeeper. Now go to sleep."

  Meg scrambled from the bed. She wasn't about to sleep with him reeking of some cheap woman. "Where are you going now?"

  "I'm sleeping on the floor." Meg snatched the covers away, leaving him naked. She didn't care. Yes, she did. She hoped he got a chill and died. All night she'd cursed herself for sending him away, but she hadn't truly expected that he'd head straight for the arms of another. She lit a lamp to see her way and then gritted her teeth as her gaze fell upon his shirt lying on a chair. It was smeared with red lip rouge. Meg walked back to the bed, never realizing her intent, and slapped him hard across the face.

  The room exploded with vile curses. In an instant she was on her back, almost crushed flat as he lay heavily upon her. Her hands were held high over her head, secured in place with one of his. He spoke through clenched teeth. "If you ever, ever hit me again, I swear I'll beat you half to death."

  Meg had reason to shiver in fear. She doubted a man could be more angry, and yet she felt a rage so overpowering, she never thought to be afraid. "If you ever come to me again smelling of another's perfume and smeared with her lip rouge, I'll kill you first."

  Tristan stared at her for a long time before a smile began to tease his hard lips. A moment later a chuckle escaped him which grew into real laughter.

  Her voice was as uppity as she could manage. "I fail to see — "

  "Damn little witch!" He gave her a sharp shake. "For your information, except for you, I never touched a woman tonight"

  "I don't believe you. You stink of her perfume. Your shirt is covered with face paint."

  Tristan sighed calmly. It was his own damn fault. He never should have allowed her to send him from the room in the first place. Now he was going to have a time of it explaining away what looked like damning evidence. "I was standing at the bar, talking to the innkeeper. The girl who waits his tables leaned against me. She must have rubbed her face on me. I don't remember."

  "And I'm Mary, Queen of Sco —"

  "I'm telling you the truth." He shook her again.

  "You don't remember if she rubbed against you?"

  "I was drinking. She said something. I turned. If she did it, it was only once."

  "Why?"

  "Because she wanted me to—"

  "And you refused?" Meg laughed contemptuously. "Get off me." She bucked her hips, trying to dislodge his weight.

  "Why?"

  "Because I'm going to find something and kill you right now." She bucked her hips again.

  Tristan grinned. "You're jealous."

  "Don't be absurd."

  "Then why do you want to kill me?"

  "Because I hate you, why else?"

  "I never touched her. I swear it."

  "Fine. Let me up."

  "Not until you say you believe me."

  "I believe you, now let me up."

  "Not until you mean it when you say it."

  Meg sighed. She wouldn't have blamed him if he had sought solace in another's arms, but she would have hated him for it.

  Regardless, this couldn't go on. If they were going to be together, they had to find a way to communicate other than in bed. She had said the words willingly. No one could have forced her to marry if she hadn't been willing. God help her, she did love him. And she didn't know why she was so nasty.

  Did she truly expect him to love her in return if she treated him so poorly? Meg silently pledged to curb her tongue in the future.

  "I'm sorry. I do believe you."

  Tristan pulled back enough to look into her eyes. What kind of trick was she playing now?

  "I mean it" she said as she saw distrust flicker in his eyes.

  "Are we calling a truce?"

  "No. Not a truce. I want to start over again."

  Tristan sat up, pulling her with him. "Meaning?"

  "Meaning we're married. I think we should make the best of it."

  "Why?" he asked suspiciously.

  "Because if we can get along, we should find a measure of happiness, don't you think?"

  "And you're not thinking of poisoning me later when my guard is down?"

  Meg giggled, the sound so girlish and sweet, Tristan suddenly knew she spoke the truth.

  She watched the suspicion leave his face. He smiled. "Do you want to start again?" she asked softly.

  Tristan swallowed, his heart beating furiously. He couldn't believe his eyes or ears. Was this the little Gypsy witch that had held his life in torment for the last month and more? Was she really coming to him, offering a new start? Telling him in so many words that she wasn't sorry they'd married? Could he be that fortunate?

  "If you want to, we'll start again," Tristan agreed with a nod.

  "You should kiss me."

  At Tristan's wicked grin Meg felt a shiver of excitement race up her spine. "Should I? Why?" he said.

  "Well," Meg's smile was tantalizingly mysterious and Tristan felt his heart quicken, "I think we're beyond the point of a handshake to seal this bargain."

  "You might be right," Tristan said, "but it's your idea. Why don't you kiss me?"

  Meg moved a fraction of an inch closer and then stopped. She shook her head as a cloud of pain fell across her eyes. She couldn't forget what happened the last time she'd touched him, the things he'd said. Her smile wavered a bit as she fought back the memory. "Perhaps a handshake is the right thing to do, after all."

  Tristan cursed. He knew she was remembering the awful things he'd said, and knew she wouldn't kiss him. Unless something drastic changed, she wouldn't ever be the way she had been in that coa
ch again. He made a silent vow that she would. One day she'd come to him and plead to touch him, to love him as he ached to be loved.

  Chapter Fifteen

  "You look very handsome today."

  They were sitting opposite one another in the coach, having just left the inn. Tristan looked at her through narrow, leery eyes.

  Meg laughed at his obvious suspicion and continued once she realized he was stunned into silence. "Now, I realize my costume is in a sorry state," she nodded at her rumpled and torn dress, knowing her trek through the woods hadn't improved its appearance any, "but after that compliment, you're supposed to tell me I'm beautiful."

  "You are." He said it as if it were a commonly known fact, which surely it was. "Why did you say I was handsome?"

  "Because I'm practicing being nice." Her eyes sparkled with humor. "Do you mind?"

  Tristan grinned. Lord, but this was a delightful woman. He was never in her company that she didn't make his heart soar with delight. "Not at all. Did you mean it?"

  "What? That you're handsome?" She shrugged. "Of course. You're very handsome. That was the first thing I noticed about you"

  "Was it? And what was the second?"

  "That you were far too bold."

  Tristan laughed at the sudden prim set of her lips and the censure in her dark eyes. "I imagine you were right on that score. I've never treated a woman the way I treated you."

  "I assume that means you were polite to the others."

  Tristan's eyes danced with laughter. "Disgustingly so."

  "What do people call you?" she asked, suddenly changing the subject.

  Tristan's eyes widened, at the question. But when he realized she was serious, he said, "Tristan. Captain Hall, sir, whatever is appropriate at the time, I suppose."

  "No nicknames?"

  Tristan grinned. "One lady calls me a beast from time to time."

  "I've no doubt you were quite deserving."

  "I thought you were going to try to be nice."

  "Oh, sorry." She bit her lip in contrition. "This is going to take some concentrated effort, I think."

  Tristan grinned again. "As I was saying, she called me beast when she didn't call me something far worse."