Thankfully, the man before her was aware of none of this. She would not have him know how deeply his rejection had hurt her. Pride was all she had.
To her chagrin, Benedict seemed slightly encouraged by her soft tone, for he came inside and closed the door. “I wished to speak with you. If you will allow it?”
His self-effacing manner beat at the wall she had erected around her feelings. Raine shrugged, not wanting him to know how very much she wished to speak with him, have more than this cold distance that had grown up between them. She wanted even more to tell him of their child, of the sadness she felt at having the joy of this knowledge taken from her by her despondency over their marriage.
Yet she did none of these things.
She watched as Benedict moved into the room and sat in the chair before the hearth. Raine had to restrain a wave of sympathy, and another more troubling emotion, as he ran a tired hand over his face. She was aware of the fact that it must have been a difficult day for him.
She said nothing. Benedict would not welcome her pity, feeling as he did that it was his duty to deal with every issue with forbearance. Raine held her head high. “Would you care to come to the point, my lord?” She put aside her sewing and rose. “I was about to prepare for bed.”
He looked at her, his gaze unreadable. “I will be brief.” He folded his hands in his lap, staring down in contemplation, then said, “I have come to tell you that you were right this morning and I should not have treated you so rudely. I should have taken your own experience in running a keep into consideration.”
Of all the things he could have said, this was not among any she would have named. For a long moment she stood there silent with amazement. At last she found her tongue. “What has brought about this change of heart, Benedict?”
His jaw clenched and his gaze registered an emotion she could only read as chagrin. “I…suffice it to say that I have had a change of heart.”
She shrugged, putting her hands on her hips. “How very good of you.”
He frowned as he looked at her, surprising her even further by saying, “Must you be forever at odds with everything I say, even an apology?”
“I am not…” she began, and closed her lips on the words. For was he not right in what he said? Her resentment of him and the wrongs he had done her colored all her thinking as far as he was concerned.
He went on as if she had not spoken, and he knew she was hard-pressed not to give in to the new rise of resentment that brought. “I have been thinking about what you said and I realized that you may be right about something. Perhaps I am too accustomed to everyone doing as I tell them. Perhaps I do not have the right to expect the same from my wife. But I do not know how to be different. So many depend on my certainty of thought and deed. When you are responsible for so much you cannot rely on others to make your decisions for you.”
She shook her head in exasperation. “Benedict, no one, including you, has a right to expect you to always be right. The fact that you nearly always are is irrelevant.” Her amazement that he was even here and willing to discuss this with her made her speak bluntly. “It prevents you from ever really unbending.”
He frowned. “I am not unbending. You cannot understand my position.”
Sighing, she replied, “Can I not? Circumstances beyond my control have forced me to see that it is wrong to hold too closely to what I thought I must never forget—the past. I have had to accept the fact that I could not do all that I expected from myself. In some ways realizing that is almost liberating.” She looked at him with brows raised in irony. “I suppose it is yet another thing I have to thank you for—for the understanding that I am a mere mortal. What binds you, Benedict? Your own comprehension of this fact would greatly change your life.”
He stared at her with what she could only interpret as disbelief, and she knew that he could not accept her assessment. Benedict would never allow himself to see that he, too, could let go of his image of himself.
He averted his head, sighing with resignation as if he simply could not bring himself to argue the point, as if she were not worth convincing. For some reason this was more painful than she cared to admit.
Raine felt the regret and, unexpectedly, the yearning as she looked at Benedict’s averted head. Yet she could not hide it.
Oh, how she wished things were different between them. That the two of them could have actually begun a life together that day in the woods as she had hoped.
But they had not. Benedict would ever be bound in the prison of his own self-control. To give that up would mean that he was vulnerable to hurt like those around him.
The reality of her own vulnerability was something Raine knew well. For had she not experienced the pain of realizing that she could not make life turn out the way she wished it to be? Had she not been forced to see that her father was gone and her life would never be the same again?
On that Benedict had been correct in his advice to her. She could not bring him or the life they had known back by denying her own future.
Yet she could see no point in further trying to convince Benedict that, in his own way, he was as frightened of letting go as she had been. He would not heed her, and though that was painful to her, knowing as she did that there could be no real marriage for them because of it, she said nothing. His methods had served him well in his position as overlord here at Brackenmoore. Unfortunately, they also made it impossible for him to let go and really love anyone—or to feel another’s love.
Raine felt an unexpected and overwhelming rise of sympathy for this man. Without being aware of it she moved to stand behind him, her gaze fixing on his nape, which seemed so vulnerable as he stared down at his hands. How lonely and isolated was Benedict Ainsworth, baron and lord of Brackenmoore, overseer and protector of all who dwelled within. Slowly she reached out and ran a hand over the thick hair at the back of his head.
He turned to look at her, his eyes registering surprise and a trace of another emotion that made her own heart begin to pound. For she knew that emotion was desire. But what he said was, “I came not to quarrel with you, Raine, but to apologize, not only for what I said today but for anything I may have done to hurt you in the past weeks.”
The words were shocking, the undisguised passion in his eyes even more so. If he still felt desire for her, why had he turned away from her? She moved to stand directly before him, and her response issued from her mouth before she could stop it. “You want me still. If that is so why did you behave as if making love to me in the forest that night had sickened you?”
He shook his head, the sudden astonishment on his face more than evident. “Sickened me? I assure you, Raine, that is as far from the truth as anything could be.”
His words sent a ripple of amazement and—she could not deny it—pleasure through her. It was not only an emotional gratification. There was a strong trace of the sensual in that reaction.
He continued to look at her, and as he did so his gaze darkened to indigo. Suddenly Raine knew that the passion had always been there between them, even when she had mistaken it for anger, irritation or indifference. For some reason, it had been carefully banked, but never wholly suppressed.
He said, “Raine?”
She shook her head, putting her fingers to his lips. “Let us not speak anymore now.” He had come here to beg her pardon with unquestionable sincerity. For the moment that was enough.
“Are you certain?”
She nodded. “Yes.” Raine did not want to think on all the things that were wrong between them, wanted only to find surcease from her own loneliness and need. That release could only be found in Benedict’s embrace.
For now she was willing to accept that no more would be had there. A momentary regret tugged at her heart. Then it was forgotten as he reached out and touched her shoulder. Raine was surprised and awed to feel that his hand was trembling. The knowledge that Benedict was indeed moved by what was happening made her breath come even more quickly.
Sh
e placed her own hand over his, then raised it to press her lips against his palm.
Again Benedict whispered, “Raine.” The sound of her name was a caress that slid along her skin, made the fine hairs reach for him.
She met his gaze, knowing that she hid nothing, that she could not in this moment, for the knowledge that he had always desired her made her too vulnerable. “Benedict.”
Benedict could find no other words to say, did not know what had brought about this change in her. All he knew was that his previous need to keep himself from her seemed mad. Surely he had been exaggerating what had happened that day in the forest. If he were not, it was due more to the fact that they had made love so wildly, so passionately in that undeniably magical place with the rain falling upon their exposed flesh, heightening every sensation.
Here in his own keep, he had no reason to think that such a thing would occur again. Raine was a woman, like any other, and his duty to produce a child had not gone away because of his foolish and fanciful notions of what he had experienced that day.
The very ridiculousness of his reactions now made him all the more determined to overcome them, to give in to his overwhelming desire to make love to his wife. So beautiful she was, so lush and decidedly woman. Looking into those passion-darkened golden eyes, he realized he had indeed been a fool.
Slowly he leaned toward her, his lips brushing hers, their breath mingling as he prolonged, experienced this moment, his head reeling with the knowledge that she would have him. He flicked his tongue over her upper lip, tasting her, Raine, his woman.
He heard the vulnerability in her voice as she sighed. “I thought you did not want me.”
Guilt made his chest ache as she said this again. Benedict ran a gentle hand over her delicate cheek and whispered against her lips, “Aye, Raine, I do want you. Have always wanted you. I will show you through the pleasure I give you now.”
The words made her shiver. His mouth left hers to trail a path of hot longing down her neck. Her head fell backward, allowing him better access even as her limbs quivered at a weakening surge of pleasure.
He smoothed his hands down her back, reveling in the beautiful curves of her—his Raine, his wife. From the very beginning he had felt this attraction to her, this overwhelming craving and longing, one he had known with no other woman. Before he had known only the quenching of a physical need.
The fact that Raine seemed unable to fight her own desire for him, in spite of the fact that he had hurt her, battered the precarious boundaries he had erected around himself in the past weeks.
Awe raced through him. He could touch and caress her as he willed and she would welcome him. And that was exactly what he meant to do.
Benedict slipped his hands down her sides, molding the sweet and beguiling curves of her body with his fingers. To his utter gratification she pressed herself more closely to him, moving her lips over his slowly, sensuously.
Her own fingers tangled in his hair, and he slanted his head, deepening his kisses in answer to her gentle pressure. She sighed, throwing her head back, and he nipped at the hollow of her neck. Her fingers clenched convulsively in his hair.
Raine felt the strength of him, the hardness and masculinity of his body. She felt herself quicken, her lower belly becoming heavy as it always did when he touched her.
Benedict reached down and lifted her gown. He was impatient with the barrier between himself and Raine. She brought her own hands up to aid him, and both her dark green samite garment and creamy underdress soon lay in a pool on the floor. In the warmth of the candles he saw that the sheer fabric of her shift was no barrier to his heated gaze. Holding his breath at her beauty, he tenderly traced the lovely mounds of her breasts, feeling the perfect weight of them in his palms. Their deep pink tips hardened beneath the gossamer covering, seeming to beckon him as he watched.
Benedict took a deep breath, trying to calm his now racing pulse even as he took in the erotic shadows of her trim waist and gently flaring hips. They offered a promise of indescribable rapture.
His thumbs found her nipples, circling. At the quick intake of her breath his eyes met hers and he saw that her lids were heavy, those golden orbs molten with heat. She swayed, leaning toward him.
His own body quickened and he reached for her, pulling her supple form against him. Immediately he became aware of a deep frustration when his own clothing hindered his enjoyment of the well-remembered velvet of her skin.
He leaned back to relieve himself of them. His passion was brought to an even greater pitch by the eagerness of her slender fingers as she reached to aid him.
His garments followed hers, and again he reached to pull her close.
Raine held back for one long breathless moment, before sighing again. “You are beautiful, Benedict, as no man has a right to be.” And she knew it was true: his legs were long, the muscles strong and well defined, his stomach flat and washboard hard. His golden chest drew her eyes, which examined its powerful breadth with open yearning. But it was the rise of his manhood that held her attention for the longest time, proud and strong as it rested amid a nest of dark curls. Her gaze met his. “So beautiful.”
A rush of some emotion that he could not name raced through him, warmed him, humbled him. Never had he thought of his own hard warrior’s body as beautiful. That Raine did moved him in a way that he had not thought possible.
It moved him so greatly that he was nearly frightened by his own welling feelings of tenderness and protectiveness. Unwilling and unable to examine them, he drew her back to him, burying his face in the softness of her hair. The memory of how it had felt against his flesh gave a certain urgency to his action as he reached out and pulled it free of its coiled braid.
Raine realized that Benedict was loosening her hair only a moment before it tumbled about her. Her heart thudded in response, for that small act seemed somehow more intimate and familiar than all the things they had done before. It was as if in freeing her hair he was saying that what they were doing, what they were about to do, was more than an act they performed with their bodies. More personal even than the deep intensity of pleasure they had shared.
She felt something soften inside her, someplace where she had not even known she was holding back. Raine knew in that moment that she belonged to Benedict. Would always belong to him. Had always been meant to do so.
Pulling back from him, she reached down and drew off her shift, her gaze never leaving his handsome face. His eyes darkened as they moved over her with hunger, and she shivered.
“Benedict.” She spoke softly, holding out her hand. He put his own hand into it.
Slowly she drew him toward the bed, that great lonely bed where she had lain awake thinking of him, only to dream of him—of them together—when she did fall asleep. He followed her.
When they reached the edge of the bed, he bent to kiss her again, his lips hot on hers, before they trailed down her throat to close over the tip of one swollen breast. She gasped, holding his head to her, as her knees buckled and a sweet moistness pooled at the joining of her thighs.
Benedict felt her sag against him, and lifted her in his arms, gently laying her on the bed. His gaze lit upon her slender bare feet and he recalled how moved he had been by the sight of her toes that first night at Brackenmoore. Feeling a strange sense of reverence, he slid his hands down her legs, feeling her shudder as he leaned over and kissed those toes, each one perfect and lovely because it was Raine’s. She sighed his name, “Benedict,” squirming when he began to slide his tongue over each one in turn. He felt something inside him expanding, growing, and he was moved in a way that was more than just the rush of physical desire, heating his blood to liquid flame.
Raine reached out to him, crying, “Come to me.” And he could not resist her or his own need. When she pulled him down to her, her legs opened. Benedict found himself slipping into the velvety-sleek warmth of her body.
Raine threw back her head, a gasp of pleasure escaping her as he entered her, fill
ed her. She followed his rhythm, slipping into a void of unthinking pleasure, knowing that he would take them both to ecstasy.
And inevitably the sensations built, climbing higher and ever higher as she wrapped herself around him, all thought of herself as a separate being forgotten. Where Benedict ended and she began Raine could no longer fathom. She was awash in, drowning in Benedict.
Wave after wave of sensation rose up, then ebbed, then rose again more intensely. Then, finally, the swell of pleasure built until it broke inside her. She dissolved in a shower of ecstasy and light, crying out his name with a gasp of delight.
As he stiffened above her, she sobbed with joy, knowing that Benedict, too, had reached that place of perfection. And when the spasms in his body stilled she held him close, her heart filled with rapture, with love.
And as that last realization entered her mind, she froze. Dear heaven, it was true. She loved this man more than her own life, loved him as she had never thought possible.
But he did not love her, had never made any secret of that fact. He had admitted that he was willing to share this with her—the passion and delight. But he was not willing or even able to see that there was more that he could give—and take—from their joining.
Yet with the understanding that she loved came an unshakable certainty that now anything less would only bring unbearable pain.
She lay completely still, her body stiffening more with each painful thought. Tears stung her eyes, for now his body, however beautiful and pleasurable, would never be enough for her. When he touched her, made her feel all the things he made her feel, she would only long all the more intensely for what she could not have—his love.
Without saying a word she rolled away from him. She felt his gaze upon her, felt the pressing weight of it, but did not meet it, could not do so for fear of his seeing the truth of her love in her eyes.
Rising, she picked up her robe and wrapped it around herself. The act of covering her body did not make her feel any less vulnerable to him.
He sat up in the bed, his expression filled with so many mixed emotions she could not hope to read it. “Raine, what is it now? I…” His face showed the effort he was making to remain calm. His voice emerged full of reasoning entreaty. “How are we ever to be a family if we…”
The Bride Of Spring Page 21