by Eva Devon
Adam met the retainer’s eye squarely. “It is a pleasure to make the acquaintance of one who has served my wife’s family for so long. I hope you shall eventually tell me tales of them and her childhood.”
Braxton’s eyes flared at this strange request and, yet, his eyes, for brief moment, softened. “It will be my honor, Captain. Now, please. The staff is waiting to congratulate you.”
The staff.
Adam felt a moment’s hesitation before he swept it aside. While he had not had a staff, he had been in the command of hundreds of men. Much like his own ship, this house, as large as it was, would need a veritable army to care for it. Even so, he wasn’t sure what he was going to make of the situation. He’d never been a man bent on ceremony.
He dressed himself, cared for most of his own things, and well. . . He’d always dined at other people’s houses, ordered dinner from the local pie shop, or been given a passing fare on his ship.
Adjustment would be necessary, he reminded himself. He was nothing if not flexible.
All that mattered was the joy and poignant expression on Beatrix’s face.
At long last, it was she who had come home and he couldn’t be happier for her. He would prevail in this new life. After all, it’s what he always did.
Chapter 17
Much to Braxton’s credit, she had not been given her mother’s room. She didn’t think she could have handled taking over those chambers although she was now the lady of the establishment. Instead, one of the best guest rooms had been aired, polished, and made simple and elegant. No doubt, the servants hoped she would make the room her own and had left it free of much embellishment.
This week, she would choose paintings for the walls, new furniture. . .
She turned slowly, taking in the cream silk walls, the corniced ceiling, elegant French furniture, the tall windows, then stopped when she came face to face with the four-poster bed. Her fingers trembled at the ties of her beautiful dressing gown. The stunning sapphire silk gown embroidered with peacocks had been a gift form Hyacinth as had been the night rail beneath it.
The thing was scandalous.
Indeed, it was so sheer, she might as well be wearing nothing at all.
Hyacinth had insisted it was just the thing.
As she’d slipped on the sheer silk piece, she’d hardly believed she’d dare to wear such a garment, but Hyacinth had been adamant. And the dowager duchess had been more than open in their conversation the previous evening on what transpired in the marriage bed.
Long ago, her mother had briefly explained the barest details of what happened between a man and a woman. It had been a brief and odd conversation. Much had been made of the love between a husband and wife. The joy of union. The fact that it might, at times, be difficult.
Hyacinth had gone a great deal further.
The conversation had been awakening. Her ears had fairly burned, and she had never considered herself prudish. After all, she read a great deal. Anatomy books and Greek histories had not been kept from her. She had a good idea of what was to happen. Or so she had thought until Hyacinth had sat her down with a hot brandy.
Pleasure, Hyacinth had proclaimed. The dowager duchess explained that pleasure and affection were the most important things in the conjugal bed. She further instructed that Beatrix must be bold and tell Adam exactly what she liked and did not like.
When she’d looked at Hyacinth as if she’d lost her mind, the dowager duchess had laughed delightfully but remained determined.
The dowager had proceeded to give her the most knowing smile and informed her that Adam was the sort of man who liked to please a woman. She was sure that he would be more than happy to hear Beatrix voice her desires.
Given their previous kiss, she did not doubt it in the slightest. Still, while she’d had little problems with speaking her mind in the past, she was nervous to do so in such an intimate setting.
Despite the lateness of summer, a cool chill was beginning to touch the evening. Even though the house was well built, the cool air swept over her already sensitive skin. Her attire gave her little warmth and so she headed to the low-banked fire.
She held her hands out, hoping the warmth would ease her nerves.
Waiting for him wasn’t the hardest thing she’d ever done by any means, but it was foreign and she had no idea what to do with herself. What was she supposed to do? Read? Write letters?
Ha! As if she could steady her mind for such concentration.
All she could do was think of him and what he might do.
A soft knock thudded on the door between their rooms.
A thrill raced through her, resting in her stomach. Swallowing her anxiety, she turned and bid, “Come in.”
The door pushed open silently on well-oiled hinges.
The sight that met her eyes caused her mouth to open.
Adam entered slowly, languidly. He’d eschewed a dressing gown. In fact, he was still half-dressed.
His white linen shirt was untied, baring his golden neck and a hint of his hard shoulders. It was delicious, the sight of the indent just at the base of his neck. She wanted to kiss that spot.
The unbidden thought amazed her. Where had it come from?
The loose shirt had been pulled mostly free of his tight, black breeches. As she looked down, she noticed that he had dispersed with his boots and stockings.
His muscular calves and bare feet spoke of a life racing up and down the rigging of great ships. In fact, his entire body, lithe yet toned, bespoke a life of energy and toil.
His body had not gained its strength through artificial exercise.
“Good evening, Wife,” he purred softly.
Wife.
Goodness, that’s what she was. Wife of this godlike giant. And she was surprisingly pleased to be called so.
“G-good evening,” she said then cursed the tremor in her words.
“Are you nervous?” he asked kindly.
She bit her lip and gave a single nod.
“So am I,” he replied as he crossed to the small, mahogany table beside the turned down bed which bore a silver urn. An opened crystal carafe of white wine was nestled inside. “Braxton is a man of forethought. I shall have to thank him.”
Wordlessly, he poured two glasses into twin cut glass goblets.
She noted the slow rise and fall of his chest as he neared, the hunger in his eyes, and the way he moved as if he loved his body and felt no shame in it.
How she wished she felt the same.
She did not. In fact, she was rather at war with her physical appearance though she did not reveal that to people.
“Drink,” he suggested, as he handed her the glass.
She took it gratefully and quickly drank several sips.
“We don’t have to do this tonight if you don’t wish it,” he said, observing her quick imbibing.
“Do you not wish to?” she asked, astonished. It had never occurred to her that he might say such a thing.
“I have wanted to bed you almost from the first moment I saw you. So, do I prefer to delay? No.” His voice was positively hypnotic as he spoke calmly but honestly. “I wish to make love to you until the cock crows. But I also wish you to enjoy this and feel comfortable. Our marriage transpired rather quickly. I will not push you into something you are not ready for.”
Carefully, she placed her wine down on the delicate mantel then reached for the ties of her gown. If she had felt any fear or reticence a moment before, his words had driven it away.
How had she found this good man? A man who cared so deeply for her wants and needs.
She tugged at the silken chords and let the peacock-embroidered fabric fall to the floor. “I am ready.”
It was then that she realized how he had been controlling himself. For with those words, his face changed. Hunger softened his features but somehow intensified them.
His entire body seemed to grow in presence, taking up all the air in the room as he crossed the short distance between the
m.
Without even bothering with his wine, he put it aside, then slid his hands over her nightgown to rest around her waist. “I want you as I’ve never wanted anyone.”
Those words were as erotic as any caress. “Kiss me,” she urged.
She expected him to bend down but, instead, he picked her up, sliding her nightgown upward, and wrapped her legs about his waist.
“W-what are you doing?” she yelped.
“Putting you at a better height, unless you’d like to find a stool.”
“You are rather tall,” she laughed, even as she felt completely exposed. For her core now rested against his breech-covered hips.
And her leg. . .
Her laughter died.
Sensing her sudden tension, he breathed, “I promise not to let you fall.”
“I know you won’t. That is not what I am afraid of.”
He tilted his head to the side, attentive. “Then what, sweetheart?”
“My leg. . . Is not pretty.”
He rested one hand on her hip. With his other, he cupped the nape of her neck.
To her astonishment, he easily walked her to the secretaire near the windows. Sitting her then on the higher table, he cupped her face in his hands. “Every damned part of you is pretty.”
Her throat tightened.
“It’s beautiful, Beatrix,” he growled hotly. “You’re a damned warrior and I don’t want you to ever forget it. You’ve seen the battlefield of pain and you did not submit.”
Slowly, pointedly, he knelt before her as if he were preparing to make worship.
Despite his words, a wave of panic crashed down on her and she tried to cover her thighs with the nightgown.
“Please let me look,” he whispered. “I won’t insist, but let us not hide our scars from each other. I promise you, I have them, too.”
“You do?”
He nodded.
Tentatively, she tugged up the silk, pushing it between her thighs at their apex, not willing to bear herself entirely to his voracious gaze.
She closed her eyes for a moment, unable to look as he saw the reminder of her tragedy.
After several moments of silence, she opened her eyes. He was studying her leg, slowly, carefully.
“What are you doing?”
“I am memorizing it,” he explained. “I am seeing the scar which you survived, then made you stronger. For as awful as it may sound, it brought you to me.”
With those last words, he lowered his head and kissed the gnarled, uneven tissue.
Despite the hardened flesh, the sensation which raced through her was both thrilling and terrifying at once.
How could he love her scar? But he seemed to. He was not repulsed. If anything, he was reverent.
After he had kissed its twisted line, he lifted his gaze to meet hers. “I’m going to continue kissing you.”
“I don’t really understand, but I trust you.”
A pure male smile pulled at his lips then as he lowered his face and began to kiss the highest part of her thigh. He took her silk gown in his hands and he slid it up to her waist.
A groan of admiration tore from his throat, and he gripped her hips with his hands.
“Beautiful,” he whispered before he began placing small open-mouthed kisses along the seam of her hip and thigh.
She gasped, bracing herself on the desk.
It had been mentioned last night that he might try to kiss her here. It had seemed absurd.
Now, nothing had prepared her for the reality of his mouth suddenly covering her most intimate place.
She jolted against him, but he held her steady as his lips moved over her and then he was teasing her with his tongue.
A wild need, unlike any she’d ever experienced began to wind itself within her.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he said, his voice rich and deep.
He did not let up, circling and teasing her until she grabbed on to him. If she did not, she might shatter apart. Of that, she was certain.
The tension that was building in her suddenly hurtled forward and she was lost. She cried out and saw nothing but the exquisiteness of a thousand stars.
As her sensitive body experienced wave after wave of pleasure, he raised himself to stand between her thighs.
He said nothing, but brushed a lock of errant hair behind her ear.
It was the most loving gesture and then he swept her up against his arms. He carried her to the bed, sat her upon it, then stripped her night rail from her body.
Trailing his fingertips over her collarbones, then gently down her sternum, he rested them between her breasts. “This was what I meant. I want to possess you, Beatrix.”
She tilted her head back then. Amazed by her own boldness, she laid back on the bed and held up her hand to him. “Come possess me then.”
His eyes flared at her command and he yanked his shirt over his head.
The smooth grace of his earlier movements became more staccato as if his own need were taking ownership of him.
She loved that she did that to him. That she made him feel so much.
Crawling up on the bed, he gently nudged her legs apart. “This may hurt.”
“So, I’ve been told.”
He slid his breeches down and threw them on the floor.
Placing an arm on either side of her head, he rested his sex at her entry, then he reached back and stroked the soft head up and down.
She arched upward, her body demanding they be one.
Clearly ready to oblige, he thrust forward.
The urge she’d just felt suddenly felt wrong. Pain. There was pain.
She squirmed beneath him, panting for breath.
He stilled. His entire body was as hard as a rock beneath her hands.
He tried again.
She winced.
“I- I’ve never been with a virgin,” he suddenly said.
“Then this is a first for both of us.”
He gave a pained but rueful smile. “Yes.”
“I’m strong,” she said suddenly. “Come on then, Husband. Make me yours.”
As if that were all he needed to hear, he slipped his fingers to the apex of her thighs, teasing her. As she relaxed, he thrust home.
The pain stabbed through her but, as soon as he’d driven to the hilt, she blinked up at him.
His own face was creased with concern. “Are you in pain?”
She wiggled.
He groaned.
“Not any longer,” she said, completely stunned that he was deep within her. “Proceed.”
He bellowed with excruciated laughter. “Thank you.”
She could not fight her own smile as she wrapped her arms around his back.
With each movement, with each thrust, she began to feel that wild need building inside her. It pitched her higher and higher. His thrusts became more intense. And then he arched her hips and it was as if he touched some magic spot inside her body and the world spun completely out of control into untold bliss.
He drove deep into her body, calling out her name.
And as he shook with his release, he collapsed. Carefully, he rolled beside her, gently pulling her against him. As he held her, their breathing ragged together, she knew everything was going to be all right. For they had each other.
Chapter 18
Adam held her carefully in his arms. The first rays of dawn stretched through the window, bathing the room in its daffodil glow. He could hardly fathom that he felt more at peace than he could ever recall being. Usually, his nights were precarious windows in which he was never certain when old ghosts and horrific visions might visit him. Sleep was a difficult business. Contentment? Fairly impossible. Years ago, he’d found a tentative peace. But contentment? Never. Now, with Beatrix beside him, he felt oddly certain that no matter what happened in the dark hours, all would be well.
It was. . . Well, it was damned alarming. Who was this person who was happily in bed with his new wife?
It was him, appare
ntly. He kissed the top of her head, lingering.
She’d fallen asleep not long after they’d made love and he, instead, had simply savored this new experience.
All his life, he’d been driven. Driven to change the world. To right injustice. He had never been in one place long enough to wish to stay there. At least, not since boyhood.
With Beatrix, could he?
She stirred against him. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” he whispered, caressing his hand down her back in a soothing stroke.
“I can almost hear your thinking,” she said against his chest.
He chortled. “Is that what woke you?”
“Quite possibly,” she teased, raking her fingertips along his stomach.
It was delicious torture.
“What is taking up so much of your thoughts?”
It was tempting to give a light remark, to pass her question off. But now, they were more than just friends. They were meant to be each other’s dearest ally. Could he embrace that? Well, there was only one way to find out.
“I have never been as content as I am in this moment,” he confessed. Then he waited to hear her reply.
“And that is a bad thing?” she queried softly.
“Not at all,” he replied, relieved that she had taken his declaration so easily. “I’m savoring it. But it’s also an unfamiliar feeling, you understand.”
She nodded against his chest. “I think I can.”
“It will take time to get used to this, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like it.”
“Adam?”
“Yes?”
“You told me that you have scars of your own.” She grew silent then rushed, “I didn’t see any on your person. Not any of note.”
“Do you disparage all those cuts?” he teased. He had few scars in fact, and none of significance, largely because his arm was long and his skill with both a pistol and a cutlass was exemplary.
She punched him lightly on the arm. “Of course not. . . But they are not really comparable to mine.”
“Mine are not on the outside,” he said softly, the yawning chasm of his past opening up despite the contentedness he’d just proclaimed to be experiencing. And as that door began to creak, he mentally reached out and slammed it shut.