Fearless

by Lynne Connolly

  When he pressed his lips to her hair, she stirred and grunted in a way that endeared her to him even more. She delighted him when she curled into him and planted her open hand on his chest as if claiming him. She had already done that, but perhaps she hadn’t fully realized it yet.

  He had made love to her carefully, twice, but already he longed for more. After their first night, he’d insisted she took a bath with salts in the water. Again, modesty had reared its head until he pointed out to her that she was only doing her wifely duty. “I’m not used to such intimacies,” she’d said. He’d told her to get used to them because he didn’t intend to stay away.

  “Are you awake?” she asked him now.

  “Yes. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He answered her question with another one. “How do you feel?”

  “Much better than I ever imagined I would.” Leaning up on one elbow, she bent to kiss him. He curved his hand around the back of her neck and made the most of it, licking in deep, tasting the elusive flavor of strawberries and apples that was such a part of her.

  As far as he was concerned, the claiming had only just begun. He had so much to show her that his mind reeled.

  “Are you ready for adventure?” he asked, when he’d pulled her over him. His cock was at attention again, and he intended to make good use of it.

  “Yes.”

  He loved her readiness to follow him. In time, he’d lie back when it was her turn to lead and watch her discovering the joys of controlling their lovemaking. Already she was freer with his body, initiating caresses that he delighted in.

  She laughed when he rolled her on to her back and eagerly reached up to respond to his kiss. He pushed his hand into her hair, loving the soft silky mass. He set to exploring her body again, kissing his way down to her breasts, pushing his hair roughly behind his shoulders so it would not impede his progress. He loved her nipples, soft and round as pennies when he started lavishing them with his affection, tighter and smaller, crinkling into hard points when he’d done kissing and caressing them. She had lush breasts, a good handful, something else she’d kept carefully hidden behind the formal gowns and the rigid stays.

  Her soft stomach with that tempting little indentation awaited him, and then her hips and the shallow dips inside, where she squirmed when he kissed her. After that, he kissed down to her feet, making her laugh. He would make her wriggle deliciously. Her feminine scent awaited him. It had driven him mad since he had first sensed it, but she had not been ready for such intimacies then. She was now. She had better be.

  He took his first lick. Her mingled aromas and tastes flowed into his senses and became one with them, as if they had always been there, waiting for him to awaken them. He absorbed them, taking them into him at this place where her flavor was at its most intense. Where her honey gathered.

  When he kissed her mouth, a trace of her remained on his tongue, and now here it was again. The honey of his childhood home, made from bees that had glutted themselves on his mother’s roses. His hair tightened when she gripped it, but she could pull it out by the handful if she wanted. He was going nowhere.

  Her strangled cry of “Val!” drove him on. Another lick and then another, from front to entrance, and then he concentrated on the most sensitive part, the pearl of her clitoris.

  “Val, what are you doing? I can’t…oh, Val!”

  Her voice transitioned from alarm and shock to bliss, as his actions had their desired effect. He feasted on her, putting every ounce of his hard-earned experience into giving Charlotte everything he had. He would take her, make her completely his without stint, show her how glorious lovemaking could be.

  Placing his hand on her stomach, he felt her tension, the way her muscles fought him. He lifted his head. “Give it up. Let me take you there.”

  Her muscles tightened in unison, and then her breasts lifted with a deep breath. Satisfied with her reaction, he went back to work. He pulled and tugged at that little nub and then brought his fingers into play, sliding one into her and then two, caressing and learning her as deeply as a man could.

  Her channel tightened, a precursor of her orgasm. Then she came, hard and fast, her body clenching in reaction. She wailed her cry to the heavens, and precious liquid poured over him.

  Val rose up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He barely had to guide his cock to her. It found its own way as he slid his arms to either side of her and bent to kiss her. He didn’t want his wife unaware anymore. Her father keeping her so innocent had given him the burden of educating her, but it had become a joy, not a chore.

  They would have no limits. Anything she wanted to do or learn, he would show her. Perhaps learn with her, who knew?

  Instead of marriage becoming a burden, it had become the best event of his life.

  When he plunged deep and her wet heat surrounded him, Val’s thoughts scattered, and he sank himself into their lovemaking. Each thrust became a new world, a different sensation. He adjusted his angle of entry, and her reaction was instant. Arching her back, she cried out wordlessly, a sharp “Ah!” of instant response.

  With a growl of triumph, Val quickened his strokes until he was pounding into her, the sounds of wet flesh slapping together and their gasps and cries echoing around the room. Harder and faster until—

  Val gave her everything he had, flooding her with the essence of life. As it drained out of him exhaustion engulfed him in a great wave, drowning him, but he was happy to stay under the water for a while yet.

  Pressing his right knee against the mattress, he rolled on to his back, taking her with him so her head was pillowed on his shoulder and she tucked her leg between his.

  She curved her arm around his waist as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’m glad it was you I married.”

  “So am I.” If there was a better time to make his declaration, he didn’t know it. “I love you, Charlotte.”

  A stifled sob answered him, abruptly broken off.

  His heart sank as he tucked a finger under her chin and pushed her head up. “What is this? I’m not asking for a response, sweetheart. I wanted to tell you.”

  “I love you too.”

  Well, that was good. “So why are you crying?”

  “Because I love you so much.” She swallowed, making an effort to control her emotion. Maybe that session of lovemaking had produced the response. “Val, I know who I married.”

  He smiled. “That’s good.”

  “I married a man with a brilliant mind, but one that does not remain in one place for long.”

  His pleasure-numbed mind took a moment to process what she was saying. Not that brilliant, then. He lifted himself up on one elbow, easing her to her back. “Are you expecting me to stray?”

  She shook her head, her glorious chestnut hair clinging to the pillow, but then nodded. “I don’t think you will do it intentionally. At one time I did, but I don’t now. You will just…” Her voice faded.

  That was just as well. What kind of man did she think he was?

  The next moment his innate sense of justice came into play. He had spent the two years of their betrothal dashing from one mistress to the next, sampling as many as he could before matrimony. Now he wondered why he had waited so long. She had not seen him consistent or sober much of the time.

  “No, I will not.” He would start at the beginning. He wanted to kiss the tears from her eyes, but she had to understand what he was saying. “Did you ever know me unfaithful to any woman?”

  Her brows rose slightly. Of course she wouldn’t know that. “Unfaithful?”

  “I prefer to have one woman at a time. I find one woman has everything I need.”

  “So for now that is me?”

  He hated her tremulous smile. “Forever.” But she didn’t believe him; he saw doubt in her eyes and the slight shift of expression. He doubted anyone else would have noticed the way her eyes narrowed the tiniest bit or a frown came and went, but he did. H
e’d spent the last few weeks in concentrated study. Inspiration struck. “I keep my promises.” He watched her, waited for that piece of information to sink in before he went on to the next. “Two days ago, we made promises to one another. Do you remember?”

  She nodded.

  “I promised to forsake all others and keep you only unto me, so long as we both shall live. Do you remember that part?”

  He received another nod.

  “I meant it. That is why I don’t make many promises. It’s why I avoided marriage for so long, because I knew I would not know any other woman for the rest of my life.” He let his smile come. “The difference is, my heart’s darling, that I don’t want any other woman. I cannot imagine wanting one. I’ve fallen deeply in love with you, Charlotte. You are the most important person in my life.”

  Her tears flowed freely, but she seized him and pulled him close, so she nearly ended up with his full weight. He managed to get his elbows on the mattress and did his best to support at least his upper body. He crooned affection into her ears, touched featherlight kisses to her face and let her cry it out.

  His horror that she had carried this fear around with her affected him badly, so much that if she wept much longer he would join her. Until she wailed, “I’m so h-happy!” against his neck and drew a reluctant laugh.

  “Sweetheart, tears of relief I can bear, but tears of happiness? Let me fetch us something to drink and we can begin to behave as if we are truly happy.”

  Thrusting a large handkerchief into her hand, he quit the bed and walked to the boudoir next door to locate a decanter. He found burgundy, collected two glasses, and brought them back to prop them on the bedside table. Thankfully, Charlotte had mopped her eyes and mostly recovered. She gave him a beaming smile, her eyes shining.

  She was sitting up with the covers loosely draped over her lap, and the light from the setting sun streamed over her, gilding her ivory skin and turning her hair to pure fire.

  As she turned to put the handkerchief on her nightstand, a small mark on the side of her ribs gleamed palely, a contrast to the creamy skin around it. Climbing on the bed, he traced the line with the tip of his finger. “What happened here?”

  He had expected her to describe a childhood accident. He had a long scar on his leg from an altercation with a tree when he was nine. “The whip curled too far,” she said calmly.

  He tensed. “What whip?” Still kneeling, he turned her so he could see.

  The scar was faint, only noticeable in a raking light, but what he saw made him feel sick. “Who did this?”

  “My father.” She made the abuse sound normal. “He preferred to administer our punishment himself.”

  “He marked you until you bled.” He left his voice deliberately plain, leached it of expression. Otherwise, he might frighten her with the intensity of his reaction. Children were beaten, caned, even whipped, but not like this. Six strokes to the backside, not a whipping severe enough to leave scars. The only way she could have been marked like this was with a bare back or with the lightest covering.

  His recent experience at the House of Correction made him feel worse. Had he really considered giving her up to Kellett, who would doubtless have given her the same treatment? Worse, because Kellett would have left deep ridged scars. Or a dead woman.

  A tear slid from the corner of his eye, but this time he was not ashamed. This deserved tears. Tears of contrition from him. “How could you let him do this?”

  “How could I not?”

  Her too-bright tone made him pull his horrified gaze from her back and turn her around, so he could fold her in his arms. He could not feel the lines with his hands; indeed, they were so faint he might have missed them altogether had the sun not caught them.

  “Disobedient children are whipped, are they not?”

  “Not like that.” Not to leave marks. “My father beat me when I ran away from my tutor or taught my sisters to say rude words in French. Six of the best, on the backside.” Over his breeches. The marks had stung for a few days, but no more than that. And they had left no marks. He kept coming back to that. How hard must her father have struck her to leave those marks? “When did he stop?”

  “When I left the schoolroom.”

  She would have been seventeen or eighteen. That didn’t bear thinking about, but he would. “I’ll ruin him. Destroy every connection he has.”

  “No!” She pulled away, staring up at his face. “Please, no, Val.”

  “His cruelty to you sickens me. Even to keeping you innocent, so you can’t long for what you don’t understand. He would have given you up to Kellett.”

  “I asked him to.”

  “Any father would make detailed enquiries about a future husband. Surely he knew—” He bit his lip, cutting off his words abruptly. In his anger he had let out more than he meant to.

  “What is it? Knew what?”

  “Never mind. I am merely shocked by his severity. Not for the first time, I might add.” He would not say what he thought, would do nothing to distress her.

  After laying her gently down, Val reached over to the nightstand to pour the glasses of wine. He needed a drink, even if she did not. He handed her a glass and touched his to it. “To us, sweetheart. May we have a long, successful, happy marriage.”

  The shy smile she gave him as they touched their glasses together made him vow not to allow cruelty to touch her again. And he would discover more, because his instincts screamed at him that there was more to be told.

  Chapter 18

  Overwhelmed by the half dozen gowns she found in her room the next day, Charlotte made her selection with pleasure, instead of the sense of dull duty she usually experienced. She could wear what she liked now. Not that she would count that as the major benefit of marriage.

  She had been lucky. Once dressed, in a light green gown that took account of the hot weather, she tripped downstairs to explore her new domain. After she had spent an hour with the housekeeper, she turned in her chair to find her husband standing behind her. The big scrubbed deal table held a collection of books—recipes, inventories, and the household account books, which she’d been absorbed in. The familiar scents of spice and cooking beef surrounded her, but she started when he touched her shoulder.

  Already she knew his touch. His presence wreathed around her before she turned her head to smile at him. His smile was equally warm. “I thought you might like me to show you the garden,” he said.

  She turned in time to see the housekeeper’s warm gaze. Although she should perhaps have scolded her for her effrontery, at least her father would have punished any servant for looking at him so, she smiled back at the woman. “Perhaps we can resume tomorrow.”

  Because she would have a tomorrow here. As many tomorrows as she wanted.

  Val took her hand and led her upstairs and outside. The day was fine, the sun beating down on them but she refused everything but a hat. “I’ve had enough of gloves and kerchiefs and warm woolen stockings that itch,” she told him. “I will wear them only when I have to.”

  Lifting her hand to his lips, he kissed it. “Then I will ensure that only the finest silk and linen touches your body. And me, of course.”

  Oh, yes, and him. Already he could send her into ecstasy with a few careful touches in the right places. She had woken up in his arms for the last two days, and already it felt so natural she didn’t know how she’d managed without it for so long.

  They walked along winding garden paths, pausing to examine the spring blooms the gardener had brought into perfection. “You’re blessed with your servants.”

  “I treat them well,” he said.

  “You treat me well, too.”

  He jerked her roughly back to him, so she landed against his chest with a soft “Oof!”

  “I do more than that with you. You are my wife, not my possession, not someone I pay to do my will.” His gaze softened. “One advantage is that you can never leave me.” He bent his head and kissed her. She responded, marveli
ng how easy this was, passing a fleeting thought to her father, who would have locked her in her room if he’d caught her doing this.

  The Duke of Rochfort had no more jurisdiction over her. If she wished, she could ignore him completely from now on.

  “Come.” He led her toward a small pavilion at the rear of the garden, overlooking the river. Did he remember that night when he kissed her at the ball?

  “Of course I do,” he said as if she’d voiced her thoughts aloud. “I will never forget. Oh, but now I think of it, perhaps I need a reminder after all.”

  When he kissed her this time, it was with playful teasing. She opened her lips, as she always did now, and he touched his tongue to hers, and then outlined her lips, drawing away a little to add the sensation of cool air to their embrace. Perhaps she should thank his past mistresses for making him such a wonderful lover.

  No, she wouldn’t go that far.

  He drew back, smiling, but tension put fine lines at the corners of his mouth.

  “What is it?”

  “I have to tell you something. I don’t know how to begin, but the woman I know you to be would want to know.”

  “Oh.” That did not sound good. She settled on the bench inside the pavilion within sight of the river, folding her hands in her lap. He sat next to her, his attention wholly on her, but not in the way she preferred.

  “I believe I might have been remiss in sheltering you. You are so much stronger than I imagined.”

  That meant as much to her as any declarations of love. He knew her now, and he was proving it by telling her something that was obviously uncomfortable for him to say.