My Darling Caroline

by Adele Ashworth

  She raised herself, pulling off her gloves and brushing her skirt with her palms. As she walked over to sit beside him on the bench, he stared with undeniable appreciation at her small, shapely waist, the curve of her hips, her full, rounded breasts. At that moment he knew he would gladly give the horses he’d purchased for her back to her father in exchange for just one night. If she was anything undressed like he imagined her to be, with her hair flowing dark and shiny to her waist, eyes stormy with desire for him alone, she would look absolutely beautiful lying naked in his bed.

  Brent shifted uncomfortably and glanced back to the garden. “Tell me what you’re doing here, Caroline. What are you planting?”

  “Well,” she started, placing her gloves on the bench beside her, “these are morning glories. By next summer the vines will spread from here to the south wall.”

  “And the roses?”

  She gave him a devastating grin. “They’re my favorite. I’ve been breeding the whites with the yellows, and I expect to see buds in about twenty-seven to twenty-eight days. If they fail to produce or if the color isn’t right, I—” Abruptly, she stopped. “I’m sure you don’t want to hear this.”

  “Yes, I do,” he admitted honestly. “Tell me how it’s done.”

  “You mean breeding?”

  Brent nodded as his eyes grazed over her face. Her cheeks blushed with hot color and her dark eyes shone brightly, filled with surprise and a tinge of embarrassment. That made him smile. “You do know how breeding works, don’t you, little one?”

  “Of course,” she expelled in a defensive breath. Then she relaxed. “Well, nobody knows how it works, really. We plant seeds, or usually bushes in the case of roses, mixing certain colors with others, certain plants with others, in the hope of creating a desired color or breed.”

  “And what color do you expect to get from these?” he questioned mildly, pointing to those on which she’d been working.

  “I hope they will be a pale, almost translucent yellow, but that won’t be known until they bloom.”

  “But how do you know with any certainty you’ll get a pale yellow from a bright yellow and a white mix?”

  She sighed. “I don’t, and neither would any other scientist. It’s like mixing two colors on a canvas, although mixing paint is much more exact. If you mixed equal amounts of bright yellow with white, you’d get a very soft, pale yellow. Plants are different because the science can never be exact with things that are alive. It’s believed that plants mix like two parents do when creating a child, with the flowers having traits from both plants. For instance”—she cleared her throat and looked to her lap—“is Rosalyn’s mother dark or lighter in coloring? What does she look like?”

  That sure as hell came out of nowhere. He smiled and leaned back casually against the wall. “She’s blond and beautiful.”

  “Of course,” she acknowledged with a degree of irritation, looking once again to her garden.

  Her remark made his grin widen. “Does that bother you?”

  “No,” she retorted. “It’s quite obvious that someone as worldly and…attractive as you would couple with beautiful women. Naturally, like most men, you would choose blondes.”

  “Naturally.” He was suddenly having a wonderful time. “You find me attractive, Caroline?”

  “And I’m sure there were others,” she added firmly, ignoring his question.

  “Other what?”

  Her jaw tightened. “Other beautiful blondes in your life.”

  “You are?”

  “Weren’t there?” Her tone was rising.

  He chuckled softly. “I thought you didn’t want to concern yourself with my torrid affairs, Caroline. If you’re suddenly curious, I’d be happy to prepare a list—”

  “Absolutely not! Your past is none of my business.”

  He adored provoking her, and she was definitely irritated now. He could see it clearly in her ramrod-stiff posture, the grim line of her mouth. He truly didn’t think he’d ever found so much enjoyment in teasing a woman.

  After an awkward moment of silence, she put her hands over the hair hanging in her face and smoothed it back into place.

  “As far as breeding is concerned,” she continued casually, “I was only drawing a conclusion for your benefit. Usually two people create a child who is a mixture of both parents. Personally, I think Rosalyn looks very much like you except she has slightly darker hair. Because of this, I assumed her mother would be darker.”

  He expelled a deep breath. “Actually her mother’s coloring is similar to mine. Her hair is very dark blond, although her eyes are blue.”

  “I see.” She looked back to him, her voice and features controlled and unreadable. “Science is rarely exact with flowers or children, so one cannot predict coloring in offspring with much accuracy except in the cases of two very dark or two very blond people, or two red roses from the same type of bush. For a reason nobody understands, sometimes a violet and a white rose will combine to create not a lavender mix as it would with paint, but something akin to yellow or peach. It makes no sense and it’s rare, but it does happen.”

  She lowered her gaze to study the dirt at her feet. “As for Rosalyn, her hair is a mixture, but her eyes are yours. There’s no mixture there.” Her voice became deep and serious, silky to his ears. “She’s so like you, Brent, in her expressions, her mannerisms, her face. She’s your daughter through and through, a sweet and loving child. When she’s grown, I’m sure she’ll be stunning to look at, very beautiful. If her mother is indeed lovely, then she received that attribute from both of you. Her physical beauty is the mix you and her mother created together.”

  The breeze picked up to carry her softly spoken words. She was still looking at the ground, avoiding his gaze, but he was entranced nonetheless. Of all the women he’d ever known, not one of them had expressed such deep thoughts and feelings about him, for him, as Caroline did. In that instant he felt the most uncontrollable urge to grab her around the waist, mold her body against his and kiss her fully, passionately, putting a cease to the longing he knew they both felt for each other. She was probably unaware of her desires, but he could see them in her eyes, her body, her work. She was like the most unique of flowers, blooming in dazzling light before his eyes, and to his sheer disbelief, he found himself almost in awe of her, drawn to her honesty, her hunger for the beauty in life and all things good.

  He reached up to cup her chin with his hand. “Do you know what I think about, day and night, Caroline?” he softly asked.

  She looked up, eyes wide with uneasiness. “I’m sure I don’t.”

  He smiled, his lids narrowing as he stared at her intently. “I think about you.”

  She was noticeably shocked but didn’t pull away.

  Slowly, eyes locked with hers, he started caressing her jaw with his thumb. “I think about your pale, creamy skin, your lovely face so filled with expressions of shocking secrets and hidden desires for me yet to discover. I think about your eyes, like dark, polished jewels, shining with hurt and joy, beauty and intelligence. I think about your small, voluptuous body, desperately needing to be touched, aching to be one with mine, to be ignited into a flame of desire so intense—”

  She jerked her face away from his hand and abruptly stood. “I—I need to leave.”

  Brent wouldn’t allow it, not when he finally had the advantage. He grabbed her wrist and was standing in front of her before she could move.

  “Don’t, Caroline,” he pleaded in a whisper, encircling her waist, pulling her tightly against him. “Not yet…” He reached up and tugged at the ribbon in her hair, freeing the shiny locks to fall over her shoulders and down her back.

  He could feel her trembling against him as he buried his face in her hair, breathing the scent of violet water and sunshine. He lightly ran his lips along her ear, his fingers interlocked with the silkiness of her hair, feeling her breasts flattened against his chest.

  “Please…” she whispered. It was an urgent whisper,
but she didn’t push against him for release. She was breathing as hard as he, as fast as he, and he knew he held her powerless by more than just strength.

  “Every night I lie awake in my bed and think about you, Caroline. I wonder if you’re asleep or if you’re lying awake thinking about me, wanting me.” He started running kisses along her cheek and jaw, then her neck, his gentle touches making her shudder against him. He reached down and grasped her bottom with his palm, caressing it softly in slow circles. Then he pulled her into him, forcing her to feel his need for her.

  She molded against him, succumbing to the feel, wrapping her arms around his neck, fingers weaving through his hair. He continued to kiss a pattern along the sensitive line of her neck, her jaw, and back to her ear, his hand on her head holding her tightly to him.

  “Sometimes, my darling Caroline, when I can’t take the want any longer, I go and look at you. Did you know that? I stand by your bedside and watch you sleeping by moonlight, your angelic face draped in shadows, so lovely, so peaceful, and I wonder if you’re dreaming about me.”

  He heard her gasp faintly—in surprise or desire, he didn’t know. But he held to her firmly.

  “I need so badly to hold you, to feel you,” he whispered huskily. “But more than anything, I need to be inside of you. I need to feel you surround me, wet and hot and excited. I swear to you, that will be the greatest pleasure yet to come, for both of us. I can’t wait to make you moan for me, little one.” He took a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut. “I need to hear you cry out for me, Caroline. Only me.”

  “No…” She tried to pull away. He wouldn’t let her go.

  In a fast, sweeping movement, his lips were upon hers, kissing her with a passion both rough and tender, hot, vibrant, and filled with desire.

  She pushed against him for several seconds, then fell to the need, succumbing to his urgency. He opened her mouth with his tongue, searching, and when he found hers, he grasped it and began to gently suck.

  Her knees buckled, but he held her against him firmly, possessively, listening to each moan of raw pleasure escape her throat. She was suddenly on fire for him, as he was for her. They melded to each other in a blinding, frenzied rage of blissful torment. He sucked her tongue, caressed her head with his palm, and pushed her soft, luscious body against the hardness of his. She fell into step with him, kissing him back in a fever of need, rubbing her hips and breasts against him in an instinctive wild abandon as old as time.

  The yearning was there. The craving, the longing, the delicious forbidden fruits, all there for the picking. The urge he felt at that moment, to make her his forevermore, was nothing less than torturous. She needed him just as badly, felt as deeply as he that becoming one with each other was unavoidable. He could feel it in her response to his touch.

  But this wasn’t what he’d planned. Now was not the time. Patience would be his watchword until she came to him.

  Gently, with a control he didn’t know he possessed, he gradually relaxed his body and released her mouth, running his tongue across her lips, then along her jaw to her ear. He heard her whimper again softly, felt her cling to him in desperation.

  “We need each other more than you can imagine, my sweet wife,” he said thickly. “When the time is right, you will come to me, and together we will create the most beautiful child of all.”

  Slowly he released her, watching her until she opened her eyes, providing him a view of dark, smoky orbs glazed with passion. She was breathing rapidly, her body shaking, expression stunned, confused, her face flushed beautifully with color.

  He smiled knowingly and brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. “When you are ready, Caroline.”

  With that, he turned and walked out of the garden.

  Chapter 10

  Sleep was impossible. Cold wind and rain had been building in strength throughout the day, now blustering against her bedroom windows in torrential waves. It was going to be a long and dreary night.

  Caroline sighed restlessly and turned onto her back. Her room was in almost total darkness, the fire banked hours ago. From time to time she glanced at the door—the only barrier, useless as it apparently was, between her and the man she’d married—watching carefully for signs of his intrusion.

  Since he’d left her standing in the garden early that morning, flustered and shocked at her own behavior, she hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything but him—his words, his caressing voice, hands, mouth.

  Oh, God, he had sucked her tongue. He had actually sucked her tongue, and she’d brazenly allowed him to do it. She would never, in a hundred years, consider sucking a man’s tongue for the pleasure it would give him. Yet each time she thought of what they’d shared that morning, swirls of charged heat started from her belly and radiated through her body, converging in a fire between her legs.

  She covered her eyes with her hands, snuggling down deep beneath her blankets, mortified and wanting to remain there for the rest of her life.

  Yes, of course she wanted him in a base, physical sense. She was a woman, and he was a man. Perfectly natural. It was also a given that nothing in her life had ever felt so perfectly marvelous. But to know he crept into her room to watch her at night made her so ill at ease she could hardly think straight. All day she’d tried to digest the meaning of why he would do such a thing, and in the end she couldn’t fathom a reason beyond his physical needs. That left her panic-stricken.

  She turned her face to the window, watching as thick rain pelted against the glass, listening to the ferocious gusts of wind. And it was because of the clamor of the outside storm that she almost missed the noise.

  Caroline sat up quickly. She waited for a moment, then heard it again—the same sound coming from her husband’s bedchamber that she’d heard her fifth night at Miramont.

  Throwing back the covers, she stepped onto the cold floor, the contact drawing a shiver from her body. She rapidly donned her robe and slippers, then walked to the adjoining door.

  For a long moment she heard nothing but silence. Then the thrashing began again, disturbed and unnatural. Her first thought was fever, although that seemed unlikely. Brent had been in perfect health just that morning. No, more than that, he’d been a prime example of pure, hard, aroused masculinity, and with such a vivid image flashing through her mind, it took everything in her to bravely place her hand on the knob, turn it gently, and slowly open the door.

  His room appeared lighter than hers, his fire not yet completely extinguished, and when she looked to the bed she saw his large form outlined in shadow. For a minute she only stared, shocked as she watched him thrash so violently under his blankets, his head jerking from side to side.

  It was a nightmare. He was having a savage nightmare, so controlling, so deep, he thrashed around in his bed without waking.

  He’s afraid of something.

  Concerned, fascinated, she tiptoed to the side of his bed. His blankets were pushed down to his waist, exposing bare chest and arms, fists clutching the sheets to his sides, muscles in his neck and stomach fiercely knotted, skin damp and gleaming with perspiration…

  Suddenly he was speaking in French.

  Caroline jumped back and stifled a gasp. He moved wildly, his voice gravelly as he spoke in a language of which she had limited knowledge and little understanding. He arched his body, straining against the sheets, and at that point she knew she needed to do something.

  She took a deep breath and reached out to touch his arm.

  His skin felt tight and clammy to the touch. With an attempt to stop his head from shaking, she stretched across his chest and placed her palm on his cheek.

  That’s when he grabbed her wrist.

  She nearly screamed. He did it for her.

  “Caroline!”

  He sat up, his eyes opened wide with horror and fear, his breathing erratic and fast.

  Her mouth went dry, and suddenly she was shaking uncontrollably from the cold building inside of her.

  “Caroline,�
� he mumbled again, pulling her toward him.

  She allowed herself to be led, her mind confused, her body now freezing. She swallowed in an attempt to regain her voice, her composure.

  “I think you were dreaming,” she whispered roughly.

  He clutched at her in desperation, drawing himself against her as she stood next to him, shaking as he buried his head in her breasts. “Oh, God, Caroline, don’t leave. Don’t leave.”

  The pleading, the raw and unmistakable fear in his voice, persuaded her to do the irrational.

  “It’s all right,” she soothed, sitting beside him, cupping his head with her palm. “I’ll stay.”

  She felt him begin to breathe easier, his arms relax behind her. She kicked off her slippers and crawled in beside him, holding him as she snuggled down under his blankets.

  She cradled his head against her chest, gently combing her fingers through his hair, giving comfort through her touch, enjoying the warmth of his large body against her smaller one. He hadn’t said another word but he wouldn’t release her, wouldn’t let go, and finally, as his breathing slowed and deepened, and the wind and rain quieted to nothing more than sprinkling against glass on a cold autumn night, she closed her eyes to the serenity of sleep.

  Caroline stirred and slowly opened heavy, sluggish lids to the dimness of the room and the sight of deep hazel eyes watching her from only a foot away.

  She was in his bed.

  He smiled, resting his elbow on his pillow, his head in his palm as he took a lock of her hair to lace through his fingers.

  “Do you know what my greatest desire is, Caroline?” he asked in a low voice.

  She couldn’t speak.

  His gaze brushed over her face slowly, caressingly, before it once again locked with hers.

  Deepening his smile, he whispered, “My greatest desire is to wake up every morning for the rest of my life with you beside me as you are now, to see your hair flowing over my pillows in dark waves and your face looking soft and beautifully sensual.”