by Anne Gracie
He sighed. “Not if you don’t want to. If we sleep together then you can tell any judge or government official who is impertinent enough to inquire that, yes, we did sleep together. They will make the assumption.”
Callie thought it over. She could do that. But they would have to share a bed. She swallowed.
The only person who’d ever shared her bed was her son and that was only since they’d fled Zindaria. Rupert had never stayed with her after his monthly marital visits. He preferred to sleep in his own apartments.
She surveyed the bed. It was big, more than big enough for two people.
“All right,” she said grudgingly. “But only to ensure the legality of this marriage. And only if you promise me you will not pounce on me.”
He gave her a shocked look. “Pounce? I never pounce. I have far more sophistication than that.” He pulled his shirt off, then started to undo the buttons at his waist.
“What are you doing?” She felt as tense as a violin string.
“Getting undressed. I’m not sleeping in my trousers.”
“Are you wearing drawers?” she demanded.
“Yes.”
“Then leave them on,” she ordered. She lay down and squeezed her eyes tight shut. She could get through this. It was a few hours, no more. It was just sleeping, nothing else. And it would make Nicky safe. All she had to do was keep herself safe from her husband. And the only way to do that was to keep him at a distance.
She could hear him removing his trousers. She sneaked a peek and saw him padding around the room in nothing but a pair of light cotton drawers, blowing out candles and turning out lamps.
He bent and put some more coal on the fire. Firelight turned his hard-muscled body to bronze and gold and ebony. He was lean and hard and beautiful.
All she had to do was keep him at a distance.
The bed creaked as he slipped into bed beside her.
The fire hissed softly. Flames caused shadows to dance on the ceiling. Callie lay on her back, stiff as a board, her arms crossed over her chest, wishing she was wearing the thick pink flannel nightgown Mrs. Barrow had lent her that first night.
“It was a very nice wedding, wasn’t it?” he said conversationally.
“Yes. Good night,” she said tightly. She didn’t want to talk to him, not like this, sharing a bed with the fire dancing. It was too intimate.
“You looked a bit upset at the number of people in attendance at the service.”
“Yes, I was. But Nash explained afterward. I don’t know why nobody told me before. But now is not the time to discuss things. I would like to sleep, please. Good night.”
“Yes, good night. And sweet dreams, Mrs. Renfrew.”
Callie’s eyes flew open. Mrs. Renfrew. Nobody had called her that before. At the wedding breakfast everyone had addressed her as Princess. Mrs. Renfrew. She liked the sound of it. It was ordinary. Normal. Nice.
She closed her eyes and tried to sleep. Sleep. She almost snorted aloud. It was like lying down in a tiger’s cage for a nap.
After a moment he said, “I thought Miss Tibthorpe looked unexpectedly pretty in that blue dress, don’t you?”
“Yes. Yes, she did.” Callie was pleased with the comment. She’d talked Tibby into accepting that color and it really suited her. She lay there thinking about Tibby. “You know, before I saw her again—before I returned to England I mean—I thought she was quite old. But when we met after nine years, I realize she must have been the same age then, when she was teaching me, that I am now. I thought she was old, or at least middle-aged, and yet, she must only be about five-and-thirty now.” She broke off, realizing she was chatting when she was supposed to be keeping him at a distance, physically and metaphorically. “I am going to sleep now,” she announced in a definite voice.
She lay there listening to him breathe, listening to the low sounds of the fire, to the distant rumble of some vehicle rattling over cobblestones, to a dog barking.
He wriggled to get more comfortable and she felt something brush against her.
“Mind your hands!” she snapped.
“Why?” His voice was pure, mellow, wine-dark provocation.
“I don’t want them wandering.” She could see his head on the pillow, turned toward her, watching her. His eyes gleamed in the firelight.
“Don’t worry,” he said with a smile that would have melted her bones had she not been so determined to resist. “My hands may wander…but they never get lost.”
She swallowed.
“I always know exactly where they are…”
She squeezed her eyes shut and wished that ears could shut at will, too.
“And they always find their way home in the end,” he finished in a velvet tone.
She shivered.
“You’re cold,” he said.
“No, I’m n—what are you doing?” It came out more as a squeak than an indignant protest.
“Warming you.” He’d turned on his side and flipped her on hers facing away from him. She tried to struggle but his arms simply wrapped around her and she found herself clamped to him, all down the length of her body, her back against his chest, her limbs tucked between his and her bottom pressed against she wasn’t even going to think what.
“I’m not cold.”
“You were shivering, and no wonder, in that altogether delightful garment you’re not quite wearing. Did you wear it for me?”
“No. I only wore it because there was nothing else.” And she was shivering because he was in her bed and making her feel things. Things she didn’t want to feel.
“Mm-hmm,” he said as if didn’t believe a word. “That’s a good description for a garment like that, ‘nothing else.’ Not quite nude, not quite clothed. Not that I have any objection to it, far from it. What I saw of it was stunning. You’ll have to show it to me properly one day.”
“I won’t.”
“It feels like silk. Is it silk? They say silk should be so fine it could pass through a wedding ring. Do you think it would pass through your wedding ring? You could slip it off and see. It wouldn’t make any difference to me.”
“Stop it. I have no intention of taking it off. You said this marriage was to be—” She couldn’t think of the word. “—like chess!” she hissed.
“Fine game, chess,” he murmured in her ear. His breath was warm on her skin.
“Let me go.” She tried to push him away.
“Relax, sweetheart,” he told her. “I’m not going to do anything. But you were lying there like a corpse all laid out with your arms crossed over your chest, and shivering, and you won’t get a wink of sleep like that.”
“Do you think I’ll sleep like this?” she demanded.
“Perhaps not, but it will be much more comfortable than lying like a corpse.” He squeezed her. “Isn’t that nice?”
“No,” she lied. “I am very uncomfortable.”
It was a mistake, for he used it as an excuse to wriggle closer and pull her more firmly into the curve of his body. “Now go to sleep.”
She lay there stiffly, crossly, knowing she’d never sleep, not with him in the bed making her all hot and tingly and aching and unsettled.
If this was how he started a marriage, she would have no chance at all of protecting her heart from him. He was that sort of man. She doubted any woman could resist him.
But it wasn’t serious for him. He lived in the moment—he’d said that once, told her it was a soldier’s habit, to seize the moment and live it to the full while there was life in you.
She couldn’t live like that. Not anymore. She didn’t take things lightly, like he did.
He’d found her on a cliff top and with no more thought than you’d give to rescuing a stray cat, picked her and Nicky up, took them home, protected them, and even married her, all without hesitation, and apparently without the endless worry that came with every decision she’d ever made.
So here he was, and here she was in bed with him, his powerful arms wrapped around her
, his heat soaking into her. And as usual, he was seizing the moment—and her—and she was fretting about imaginary consequences.
He desired her—the hard, blunt evidence of that was pressing insistently against her body—and she knew he could simply take her if he wanted. He was very strong and they were alone, and legally he had the right. And of course he would want a reward for all his trouble. He deserved it.
Yet he’d made no attempt to take her, or even press her to change her mind. He was a man of his word. She respected that, even if right now, she was finding his rectitude irritating and inconvenient.
He’d made no secret of what he wanted from her all along. He’d been quite open and blatant, from the very first day when he’d suggested she become his mistress.
Probably once he bedded her, he’d lose interest. That was what she wanted. It was.
She moistened her lips, thinking about it. Ever since she’d met him she hadn’t been able to stop wondering what it might be like with him. It meant nothing, she reminded herself. It was simply a matter of normal feminine curiosity.
The hard relaxed power of his big body lying against her was so tempting. She would love to explore it. She was aware of every single place they touched, and where skin touched skin and where skin and skin were separated by the merest whisper of silk.
His breathing was deep and even, but he wasn’t asleep, she was sure. He was too aroused to sleep. So was she.
They’d made a paper marriage, a chess maneuver: he’d walk away one day. As soon as she and Nicky were safe from Count Anton, his commitment would be over. Then she’d be alone.
For the rest of her life.
If she didn’t do this now, she would always wonder what she had missed.
Rupert had always been very predictable. In the early days she’d enjoyed it, but once she’d realized what a fool she’d made of herself it had become more of a ritual, not unpleasant, but without the warmth she’d imagined had accompanied the act in the first part of her marriage.
With Gabriel it wouldn’t be a ritual. He wasn’t at all predictable, not to her. Even when he’d just been flirting he’d aroused her with the wicked, exciting images he’d planted in her mind. Even his kisses brought her to the brink. He was warm, exciting…terrifying.
If she let him take her, the only consequences would be to her heart. She was barren. Something must have happened to her when Nicky was born, because despite Rupert’s regular monthly visits, she’d never quickened since. Not that she’d mind if Gabriel gave her a child. She would love it and love having a small part of him.
Oh God, even considering this was playing with fire. But if she didn’t, she would spend the rest of her life regretting it. So, yes, she was going to let him take her.
But how? She couldn’t just ask.
She gave a small experimental wiggle, moving her backside against his aroused male member. He tensed. That was promising. She wiggled again.
“Keep still, won’t you?” he muttered, tightening his grip on her.
For answer she wriggled some more, rubbing her bottom provocatively back and forth against his arousal. She kept her eyes closed, pretending to be half asleep and unaware of her actions.
“If you don’t keep still, I won’t be responsible for the consequences,” he growled.
She wiggled again and waited.
“You’re doing this deliberately, aren’t you?” he murmured.
She didn’t answer.
Without warning he flipped her over in the bed and looked her full in the face. “I gave you my word. If you’ve changed your mind, you need to say so.”
She couldn’t bring herself to say it. Not directly. Not out loud. After a moment she said, “You say I’m a really bad liar.”
He frowned at the apparent irrelevance of the remark. “Yes, you are.”
“So what if I messed it up—with the judge or the government man or whoever it is who might ask?”
“Messed up what?”
“The—the chess maneuver. Saying we’d consummated the marriage when we hadn’t.”
His eyes bored into her. “What are you saying?”
She stared at a point over his shoulder, took a deep breath and said, “I think perhaps we should consummate it.”
One dark brow rose. “For the sake of the chess maneuver?”
“Yes.” She was on firmer ground here. It was just a matter of legalities, not anything that she needed, or that made her ache and yearn. She was simply offering to do her duty. Dispassionately.
“Because you wouldn’t want to lie.”
“That’s right.”
“So, Princess, are you saying you wish to consummate this marriage?” he asked softly.
She swallowed and nodded. “Yes, please. If you don’t mind.”
“Oh, I don’t mind.”
She closed her eyes and waited. Nothing happened. He didn’t move a single muscle. She knew; she was achingly aware of every one of them.
She opened her eyes and found him watching her with an enigmatic expression. “Well?” she demanded.
He smiled that slow, crooked smile of his that turned her bones to honey. “You start.”
Sixteen
“Me?” she croaked. “Start?”
Gabe smiled. “Yes, you start.” He rolled over and lay back, put his hands behind his head, and prepared to think of England. A man could die happy.
She raised herself on one elbow and stared at him, disconcerted. “But what do I do?”
“Whatever you like.” She looked so lovely, so disconcerted. She’d said she wanted more control, he was going to make sure she got it.
She sat up and looked down at him. It took every shred of self-control he had to remain still. That nightgown was no nightgown, it was an instrument of masculine torture, revealing…almost, and concealing…not quite. A tissue-thin draping over full, creamy breasts, a silken veil revealing berry-dark nipples tight and uplifted, pouting for his caress.
It was more erotic than total nudity. Or perhaps it was simply that the woman in the nightgown excited him more than any woman ever had. He’d even had wild erotic fantasies about her in that enormous pink flannel tent Mrs. Barrow had lent her. Thank God someone, some angel, had given her this silken invitation to madness, this covering that caressed her curves even as it both concealed and flaunted.
God, but she was beautiful, even with her sweet, earnest face scrunched with frustration as she stared down at him.
“But the man always starts,” she insisted.
“Not always,” he told her. “Besides, I’m tired.” He stretched, keeping his hands behind his head, his fingers locked. He didn’t trust himself not to reach out to her otherwise, and it was important she take the initiative.
She’d obviously never taken it before. And he was damned if he’d let their first time be for legal reasons. Or some sort of ridiculous sacrifice on her part.
She was deceiving herself, pretending she wasn’t as aroused as he was. She didn’t have to admit it in so many words—he understood that kind of reticence—but he wanted her to know it.
She’d started this thing, teasing him that way, long after he’d warned her. Now he was going to drive her mad with desire, the way she’d driven him mad since the night they’d first met.
Then he was going to give her—and himself—the night of their lives. Hopefully the first one of many. This was his woman. He intended to grow old with her, or die trying.
“Too tired?” She lifted the covers back and peered at his drawers where his cock was doing its damnedest to get to her. “Liar!” she exclaimed. “Stop teasing!”
“Why? You’re teasing me.”
“I am not,” she denied indignantly.
His eyes dropped to her breasts in their silken wrapping. Her hands instantly came up to hide her nakedness, and he wanted to groan, but almost at once her eyes grew thoughtful and wandered to his own naked chest.
She put out one hand and ran it across his chest, stroking light
ly with her fingertips, exploring and watching his face to see his reaction. She touched his nipple. It tightened under her touch. She rubbed it gently, then started on both of them. He groaned and arched under her hand, fighting for control.
She stroked his chest thoughtfully with one hand, the other scratching lightly around and around his nipple. Her gaze dropped to where a faint line of dark hair led down his stomach and into his drawers and he braced himself, but she made no move in that direction. Dammit.
“You’re like a living statue,” she murmured, running her hands appreciatively over him, caressing each swell and ripple of muscle. “I thought so when I was putting that ointment on you. Perfectly proportioned and so hard and firm, yet warm.” Her breasts brushed against him lightly as she moved.
“Very hard,” he gasped. “Very warm.” He wasn’t going to be able to take much more of this. Who was supposed to be driving whom mad? he wondered.
She glanced again at the bulge in his drawers and chewed thoughtfully on her lip. He groaned aloud. “That mouth of yours is going to kill me one day.”
“Is it?” She looked pleased and bent to kiss his mouth lightly. He seized the opportunity hungrily, his mouth claiming hers, tasting, enticing, possessing.
She drew back, her eyes, in the firelight, looking dark and smoky with desire. Her gaze wandered again to his drawers. “Would you mind if I—”
“No! Go ahead,” he ground out and braced himself as she reached for the buttons that fastened them.
She undid them one by one, then slowly, almost cautiously pulled them down, the cotton fabric dragging across the sensitive tip of his erection. He arched his back, then waited, eyes closed, fists clenched, waiting for her to touch him.
Nothing.
He opened his eyes and looked. She was looking at him, examining his manhood curiously, more like a virgin than a married woman and a mother.
“Well, go on, you’ve seen one of these before,” he grated.
“I haven’t actually,” she said. “Not on an adult, anyway. Rupert never removed his nightshirt. Not for me.” Her face dimmed fractionally as she said that, but he was too far gone to hold a conversation.