The Wedding Chase: In His Lordship's BedPrisoner of the TowerWord of a Gentleman

by Kasey Michaels

  Mostly, he teased, amused and even casually flirted. But now and again she would catch him wearing an expression that betrayed his inner thoughts. Sometimes those were very dark, no doubt to do with tragedies he had witnessed, such as the death of Will Oldham. But at other times they seemed more speculative and centered on her. Oh, he tried to conceal them, but Clarissa knew he was regarding her, not as a partner in a mutually beneficial arrangement, but as a woman. A woman he had kissed and held.

  Though she had never been the object of any man’s desire before, she instinctively knew that he wanted her. But then again, she was the only female handy and probably the only one ever who had not begged him to take her to his bed.

  “I spoke with the local constable,” he informed her as he returned to the dining room where he had left her. “He says they have not been troubled by highwaymen before in this area. Anyone asking for a surgeon hereabout will be suspect. I’m sure I hit the fellow.”

  “You did,” she agreed. “Have they vacant rooms here?”

  He dragged out a chair and sat down. “Yes. There are two chambers available so that you may sleep alone tonight.”

  “Alone?”

  He nodded. “I think that might be advisable.”

  “Well…all right,” she said. Then without thinking, added, “Why?”

  Disappointment must have clouded her features because he smiled knowingly, leaned closer and tugged playfully on the ribbon of her bonnet. “If not, we might anticipate our vows.”

  Though he grinned and wiggled his brows when he said it, Clarissa had the distinct feeling that he was not joking.

  “You think so, do you?” she asked. “Then you overestimate your charm, Richfield. You always have.”

  He laughed. “Ah, Clarissa, you are a delight. How can I possibly resist you much longer?”

  “Little danger that I can see.”

  “Sounds like a dare to me,” he said, still grinning. He lightly tapped her nose with his finger. But deep in those golden eyes of his, she clearly saw something other than the humor he pretended or the admiration he had declared. Need. The sheer starkness of it frightened her. Want was expected, but he was not supposed to need her, for heaven’s sake. Perhaps the need was only physical.

  Both hands planted firmly on his chest, she pushed him aside. “Order up our meal, Richfield. Hunger makes me cross.”

  He shook his head and shrugged. “Small bother, indeed, compared to what it does to me, I can tell you.”

  Clarissa was at least sophisticated enough to know they spoke of a different sort of hunger. She could not hide her smile. Another kiss might be in order, after all, but not in the public room of the inn. Perhaps later when she bade him good-night, she would allow it.

  “Aha. I knew it was a dare,” he whispered.

  Had he read her thoughts that clearly? Clarissa tossed her head and groaned. “You can be such a dolt!”

  He merely grinned, not in the least put off by her insult.

  Though the ale proved excellent, the joint of mutton was underdone and the peas quite crunchy. Despite that, they made short work of their supper and it was time to retire. Hugh escorted her up the two flights of narrow stairs and saw her to her room. He came in with her, looking around as if to make certain everything was in order.

  Then he closed the door and leaned back against it. “Do you mind teasing so very much? You didn’t used to,” he said, placing one hand on her arm, caressing it as if to soothe her. “You scarcely spoke all through the meal and now you look terrified I’ll pounce on you.”

  Clarissa shrugged, very aware of both his hands now cradling her upper arms, squeezing gently. “You mistake my mood if you see terror. I am only beleaguered by doubt.”

  “Doubt about what?” he asked, a small frown creasing his brow. “The marriage?”

  “No, of course not that. About whether I should invite you to kiss me good-night is all.” She ducked her head, embarrassed, then looked up at him again. “I have no experience with men whatsoever, much less a fiancé. If you would really like to, I suppose I shouldn’t deny you. But if you are content to wait until—”

  His mouth fastened over hers so quickly, she had no time to draw a breath. His warm, wonderfully mobile lips pressed against hers. Tenderly at first foray, then open at the next, his tongue coaxing her to invite him in. Caution deserted her completely as she threw herself into it with all the fervor she possessed.

  His hands slid to her back, clutching her pelisse, grasping her to him in an embrace that melded their bodies from chest to knee. One palm smoothed down to the base of her spine, pressing her tightly against him.

  Fully aware of how his body changed, hardened against her, Clarissa arched closer and closer still, greedy for the brand new feelings encompassing her. She wanted more, wanted a keener spear of pleasure, something deeper to assuage the sweet insistent ache building inside.

  He broke the kiss, angled his head the other way, renewed and deepened his assault. They had been moving from the doorway, she realized, as she felt the backs of her knees touch the softness of the bed.

  “Let me stay, Clarissa. Let me stay with you,” he whispered.

  Unable to speak, she quickly kissed him again. Madly, deeply and without any reservation whatsoever. She wanted this man and she wanted him now. Devil take it, she cared nothing about society’s rules or possible scandals or unspoken vows. She’d had no idea such ecstasy as this existed. “I am lost,” she gasped. “Lost.”

  “Oh, no, sweetheart,” came the sibilant growl against her ear. “You are found.”

  Her heart thundered in her breast, his words echoing like a blessing all around her, around them. He had found her.

  When he lifted her onto the bed, she quickly made room for him beside her, hardly waiting until he cleared the floor before she reclaimed his mouth. His hands were everywhere, behaving as impatiently as she felt, tugging at her buttons, untying her ribbons. Adding her efforts to his, they soon discarded her pelisse and gown, his jacket, waistcoat and shirt.

  Her fingers threaded through the crisp curls on his massive chest, reveled in the feel of his hot skin. He kissed her deeply, grasped her wrists and moved them to either side, and brought his chest to hers. His heart thundered against her, the thin batiste of her chemise the only impediment.

  A furtive tug and it no longer was. Clarissa writhed with eagerness, wishing he would hurry and…

  He pulled away, almost gasping for air, and issued a mirthless little laugh. “Wait.”

  “No,” she argued, and ran her hands down his bare, flat stomach to the buttons on his flap.

  He had already reached them and had two undone. In as inelegant a move as she had witnessed by him thus far, he kicked off his boots and shed his breeches. This time she laughed, but he buried the sound with another scorching kiss that made her forget everything. Every single thing except his mouth and hands and that strong, fine body now covering hers.

  Oh, yes, she had seen him. Briefly, but in detail. He was better formed than any nude statues she had seen in books, putting those creations to shame. And his touch…. Nothing on earth equaled the sheer pleasure of his seeking hands on her breasts, her waist, her thighs and in between. She shuddered when he invaded her, providing in small measure what she sought in depth. “Please,” she cried.

  Suddenly his hand was gone and she felt him settle in the cradle of her, probing, seeking, finding. She rose to meet his thrust and took him into her. All of him. The pain she had expected was nothing, the joy she had not expected was everything.

  In tandem they moved, as if made one for the other. His mouth left hers and he looked down on her, his heavy-lidded gaze meeting hers, divining her every thought, but she couldn’t care. She wanted him to know how she felt, wanted him to feel this way, too. Somehow she knew that no other man would ever bring her such a feeling. Not ever. No matter how many lovers she might have or how skilled they might be.

  “You are mine,” he whispered, his voice shak
ing with passion. He stopped the pleasuring and lay heavily against her, holding her still. “Say it.”

  “Yours,” she agreed, willing him to continue before she died of need. “Always.”

  He kissed her thoroughly, but it was not enough. Beneath him, she moved, urging him to love her.

  He growled and increased the pace, driving her to some unknown height she had not imagined and could not credit. Her entire world centered on the place they were joined and the sudden explosion of ecstasy took her wholly by surprise. She cried out, grasping his shoulders until her nails bit into his flesh.

  His own sound of completion blended with hers. His body tensed, hard as marble, as his fire poured into her, a heat she welcomed like another breath when dying.

  For a long while they lay motionless, his body covering hers, his arms cradling her while his rapid breathing slowed and tickled her neck.

  There should be love words now, she thought, worried because neither of them had any to offer. Not yet, anyway, and perhaps never. They had only just gotten to be friends. Devilishly awkward, this aftermath of the storm that was their passion. Did all married people suffer this silence at first? She felt compelled to say something, no matter how inane.

  Should she give way to the overwhelming emotion their lovemaking had evoked from her? Or should she resort to something more lighthearted to cover her feelings entirely? No question which a man like Hugh would prefer.

  She drew in as deep a breath as she could with his weight pinning her down, and said, “This cannot be good for you.”

  Laboriously it seemed, he pushed himself up, braced on his elbows and frowned down at her. He looked confused, deeply troubled and quite at a loss.

  “This,” she said, by way of explanation, glancing down between her breasts to where his lower body lay pressed against hers. “Anything so sinfully delicious cannot do one any good. Like mounds of sweets gorged by greedy children. I feel like…a greedy child.”

  He rolled away, disengaging himself, and sat up, raking a hand through his hair. But he said nothing. Clarissa reached for the edge of the counterpane and dragged it up and over her nakedness. “I’ll wager something dire will result from this. Nothing should feel this good without consequence.”

  He tugged her close, counterpane and all, and kissed her fiercely, hungrily, as if his very life depended on it. Then he released her. His eyes were still clouded. “Consequence?” he muttered.

  Clarissa nodded. “I could grow to love you because of it. We cannot have that,” she told him. “It is not what I had planned.”

  “Do not love me.” His voice sounded tight, too controlled. Was he upset? What had she done to anger him? she wondered.

  “Why not?” she asked, feeling foolish to have mentioned it.

  “I cannot…love you back.” The words were bitten off one by one as if it pained him to have to say them, as if she should already know.

  “Oh.” She swallowed with some difficulty, trying to digest his confession. “I see.”

  “No.” He shook his head violently, then rose from the bed and strode to the door that separated their two rooms.

  “Where are you going?” she asked. “Won’t you stay now that… There’s no reason for you to leave.”

  Again he shook his head, refusing to face her. He did not speak again. He lifted one hand as if to silence her, lowered it, and then he was gone.

  She knew she wouldn’t sleep a wink. The entire night she would be reliving every second he had spent with her and trying to figure out why he already knew so definitely that he could never love her.

  But she knew it would be best if he did not. It made no sense for her to want him to. Hadn’t she chosen him because he seemed such a freedom-loving sort and would be likely to leave her to her own devices and go his own way? It would certainly be best if she did not love him in the event he did just that. If he chose to care deeply about her, he would be underfoot all the time, telling her what she could and could not do.

  So where was her problem? They did very well together in bed. Very well, she thought, shivering with pleasure at the memory of it. He could make her dizzy with passion, wild, fulfilling her in a way she had never dreamed possible.

  And except for his strange behavior just now, he was proving to be a highly entertaining companion and a good friend. That should be enough for anyone. But she could not deny she yearned for more.

  Could it be that he did, too? She suddenly recalled the look of need in his eyes, the one that was clear and yet so fleeting. The one he tried to hide.

  This was not going at all as she had first envisioned.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  NOW HUGH KNEW he had made a huge mistake in wanting to feel things again. He’d been desperate to do so, hating the emptiness so much, doing anything to fill it. But how could he have known he wasn’t hollow at all?

  Somehow during that nightmarish time on the battlefield—death and dying all around him—he had shut down. His emotions had retreated to a secret place inside him and locked a stout door. It had only taken the right woman with the right key to unlock and throw it open. He was having the devil of a time getting it shut again before everything spilled out at once and left him a candidate for Bedlam.

  He almost hated Clarissa for doing this. For trusting him so, for putting herself in his hands, for making him love her and in so doing, unleashing all these other things. Things he could no longer contain. He felt suddenly buried beneath the weight of them as surely as he had been on the field of mire and blood, trapped and writhing in vain beneath the tonnage of that dead horse.

  Since that day when they had found him half buried beneath the corpse of his mount, since he had regained his senses and looked around him on that battlefield, Hugh had felt nothing. Not grief, not guilt, not horror, not happiness at being alive. Nothing.

  After returning, it seemed his life’s quest had become a dedicated search for pain, excitement, pleasure, fear, damn near anything that might make him feel alive again. To escape the dreadful emptiness. He laughed, caroused, drank, raced and behaved exactly as did his friends, taking his cue from them as to what might be normal for a survivor of hell. He had wanted to die, but could not stomach the cowardliness of that course.

  Grief racked him, stretching him to the breaking point. So did guilt. He should have saved his men. Somehow, he should, though logically he knew he had not possessed the power to do that. The decision to attack had not been his. But he had been the one to order them to advance, to shout and encourage and lead them straight to their slaughter.

  And then he had not died, had awakened with only a knock to his head, a couple of cracked ribs and a dead mount pinning him to the rain-soaked ground. Even the looters had missed killing him or taking anything from him but his shako, since nothing more of him than his head was visible beneath his mount. By rights, he should be dead along with his men.

  Pain, harsher than any a sword’s thrust could inflict, encompassed him completely. Oh, God, he felt now. He felt too much and too keenly to be borne, too deep even for tears. His muscles contracted, his lungs squeezed out all breath and he clenched his eyes against the horrible visions that swept through his mind. No use.

  He wished he could weep for his brave men who had given their all and the families who would miss them, for the French soldiers he had killed, men like himself only doing as their generals had ordered them. Weeping seemed the least he could do, but there it was, an inability to perform even that mean feat. He lived. He loved. And they could not.

  Soul sick, he sat on the bed, facing the window, staring out at the darkness while he drank heavily from the flask of brandy he’d pulled from his pack.

  Hugh jumped as a soft hand touched his shoulder. “What’s wrong, Hugh?” Clarissa asked. “Are you ill?”

  Unable to help himself, he turned and grasped her around her lawn-clad hips, burying his face in the softness of her abdomen. He hated her and yet he loved her more. Probably always had, even when she was a sad-eye
d child watching him from afar.

  He couldn’t speak. What could he say? She would no more welcome his love than she would his hate. He knew why she had selected him to marry. She thought him a fool, an irresponsible rakehell who would take her bribe and not interfere with her life. He had deceived himself when he thought he was saving her. Now he had taken her innocence and there was no one to save her from him.

  Her fingers combed through his hair, caressed his neck and came to rest on his shoulders. “Hugh?”

  Slowly he raised his head. Moonlight bathed her in soft blue so that she appeared an ethereal vision, an angel come to comfort.

  “May I stay with you?”

  Without a word, he drew her down to the bed beside him and wrapped her in his desperate embrace. If he could not save her, then perhaps she could save him, pull him out of this pit of despair she had shoved him into with her ready acceptance and confounded trust.

  At the moment he was just too overwhelmed to mind the unfairness of it. What was one more regret in the scheme of things?

  CLARISSA SCARCELY recognized Hugh that next morning. The day before and into the evening—precisely, until they had become intimate—he had gone out of his way to be charming, funny and set her at ease with him. Today, this last day of their journey to Gretna Green, he was nothing if not morose and uncommunicative, obviously overcome by dark thoughts.

  When his mood had not lifted by midafternoon, she felt obliged to make an issue of it. “You are a different person today, Hugh.”

  He quirked one eyebrow, but still refused to look at her. “Two men for the price of one. What a bargain.”

  She sniffed. “Hardly that. Credit me five thousand back and keep the present fellow away from me then. You’re in a foul temper and you must realize to which event I attribute that change in your spirits.”