by Candace Camp
She turned back and found Alec watching her. She scowled. “You promised to close your eyes.”
“I did. For quite some time. I cannot help it if you are slow.” He grinned, setting his bowl aside and leaning his head back against the pillows. His eyes drifted closed and he opened them again with effort.
Damaris picked up a small crocheted blanket that lay folded across the foot of the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. She came over to take the tray from Alec’s lap. His eyes were half-closed again, but he murmured, “You have a lovely back, by the way.”
“My back is hardly an appropriate topic for conversation,” Damaris replied tartly, and whisked away the tray.
She set it down on the dresser, then picked up the other bowl of stew and sat down on the stool in front of the fire. She took a spoonful into her mouth and let out an unconscious sigh of pleasure. The soup was thick and meaty and deliciously hot. For the first time in an hour, she was beginning to feel warm again. Damaris glanced over at the bed. Alec had reclined, his eyes closed, and his chest was rising and falling softly in the slow rhythm of sleep.
Damaris wondered just how much of her he had seen, and heat rose in her cheeks. He was a complete scoundrel, of course, to take advantage of the situation like that, but it stirred something inside her to think of him watching. She could not help but wonder what ran through him as he looked at her—and what might have happened if he had not been “weak as a kitten.”
She supposed that it must make her rather wanton that such thoughts set up a warm ache between her legs. It was always rumored that widows were likely to be promiscuous, that having known a man’s touch, they were more inclined afterward to seek it. But that had not been the case with her. Barrett Howard had not been a harsh lover, but the few times he had lain with her, he had not lingered along the way, but had raced to the conclusion of the act, and Damaris had found all the fuss over the experience rather overblown. After their brief marriage was over, she had had little urge to take any man into her bed. She had had some twinges of feelings now and then, she would admit that, but all in all, it had not been difficult to remain chaste.
But now, thinking of Alec, she could not deny that she felt… well, unusually loose and warm. Her mind went back to the sight of his bare chest and arms, his skin slick from the rain, stretched taut over the thick pads of muscles. She wondered what it would feel like to tease the tip of her tongue across that skin, how it would taste. Truth be known, if she could have looked past the blanket without his knowing while he took off the rest of his clothes, she would have done so.
Damaris shook her head, faintly shocked by her own thoughts, and turned her attention back to finishing the stew. When she had done so, she set the bowl aside and unwound the towel from her head. Using her fingers, she worked through her wet hair in front of the fire, separating the strands and doing her best to dry it. Her hair was thick and long and rather tangled, and it was not an easy task. She found a widetoothed comb on the dresser and used it to bring some order to her tresses, letting the heat of the fire dry it. She hoped Babs would let her borrow a few hairpins tomorrow to wind it into a simple coil, but for now, she simply braided it into a thick plait and tied it with a bit of ribbon she found in her reticule.
Once that was done, she found herself nodding off on the stool, too warm and full to stay awake. Blearily, she raised her eyes and looked over at the bed. Alec was curled up on his side, burrowed under the covers; she could see little of him except for the tumble of bright hair on the pillow. He would not notice if she crept under the covers, too. And where else was she supposed to sleep? There was not even a chair in this small room, only the stool upon which she sat. Her only option besides the bed was to wrap a blanket about herself and sleep on the floor, which seemed excessively hard and probably cold as well.
Standing up, she tiptoed to the side of the bed opposite Alec and stood indecisively. He was asleep, she reminded herself, and weakened from the loss of blood. He was bound to have a headache and a variety of other aches and pains from the fight. Even if he woke up and realized she was sleeping beside him, surely he would not feel well enough even to want to take advantage of the situation. Besides, he had promised, however jokingly, that she was safe from him, and Damaris was certain that whatever else Alec might be, he was a man of his word. Anyway, she was likely to awaken before him, given the state of his head, and she could slip out of bed again without him ever being the wiser.
Damaris hesitated for a moment more; then, taking a breath, she put aside her makeshift crocheted wrap and slid beneath the covers. She lay for a moment, breathing shallowly, but Alec did not stir. It was warm as an oven under the sheet and blankets, for Alec’s large body gave off a tremendous amount of heat, and as she lay there, Damaris could not help but relax. Turning onto her side, she snuggled into her pillow and gave herself up to sleep.
Eleven
She was blazing hot, and there was a heavy ache between her legs. Pleasure tingled through her nerves and across her skin. Alec murmured to her, and she shivered at the low timbre of his voice. She moved her legs restlessly, wanting him, eager for him. Hunger was like a sword stabbing through her.
Damaris’s eyes flew open. She was lying in bed, suffused with heat, her back up against a hard male body—Alec’s. She was in bed with Alec. He engulfed her, his body curled around hers, his head resting on her hair. His breath teased at her ear, sending little ripples of excitement through her. And his hands… good Lord, his hands! His arms were wrapped around her, one large hand covering one of her breasts, and his other hand—Damaris drew in a shaky breath. His other hand was between her legs, pressed firmly against her, and though the cloth of the nightgown lay between them, it presented little barrier.
And she was utterly, scorchingly on fire, inside and out. She needed to get out, she thought, and tried to edge away, but in his sleep, Alec’s arms tightened on her, holding her in place. He mumbled incoherently, snuggling into her hair.
She was trapped.
If she pulled too hard, he would come awake, and there she would be in this embarrassing position. Her nightrail had gotten hiked up in her sleep, exposing much of her legs, and one of his legs was curled around hers. She could feel the brush of the hair on his leg against her skin. She could feel, moreover, the thick ridge of flesh prodding into her backside. Worst of all, though, was the fact that his hands were on her so intimately, as if she were his.
No, worse than that was the desire flooding her, the hunger that sizzled through her veins and swelled, pulsing, between her legs. Her breasts were full and heavy, the nipple prickling against his palm. His hand moved fractionally on her breasts, sending the material of her gown sliding over the sensitive nub, and pleasure radiated out from it. His lower hand wriggled deeper, pressing into her, and to Damaris’s abashed amazement, her legs reflexively moved farther apart, giving him access to her.
What was the matter with her? She knew she must move, must break the embrace and jump out of bed. If she moved quickly enough, even if the movement awakened him, he might not realize how intimately they had been twined together.
And yet she continued to lie in his arms. He made a soft noise in his sleep, nuzzling into her hair, and his fingers moved insistently between her legs, rubbing the gown against her. Damaris’s breath turned ragged. His skin flamed against hers, and he pushed her hips deeper into his pelvis, his fingers sliding rhythmically up and down.
Damaris closed her eyes and concentrated on lying very still so that she would not awaken him. He mumbled something—was that her name? Or perhaps it was only a curse.
Desire knotted in her, each stroke of his fingers ratcheting up the tension. Moisture flooded between her legs, but she could not even find enough strength to be embarrassed. He was having his way with her—and he wasn’t even awake! But she could not bring herself to care. All she cared about was that coiling ache within her, the flesh that swelled and hungered for his touch until she had to clench her teeth to ke
ep from moaning aloud. She wanted to move against his hand, to hurry the pleasure that danced just beyond her, to sob with the need that burgeoned inside her. The hard, twisting something built and built…
It exploded within her, a burst of pleasure so intense she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. Waves of it washed through her, inundating every part of her, and her whole body trembled under the force of the explosion.
She felt Alec jerk, and she knew he had awakened. She kept her eyes closed, unable to face him. If he believed her to be asleep, he would not know how she had stayed beneath his hand, unable to forgo the pleasure. She waited, forcing her breathing into a slow, calm rhythm.
He let out a little groan close to her ear, and she felt his lips press into her hair. Slowly, he pulled his hands from her, sliding over her in a final caress before he released her. He bent to kiss the point of her shoulder, his breath searing her skin, then sat up. It was hard to keep herself from reaching out and pulling his hands back onto her.
She heard him release a long breath and felt the bed give as he slid out. He roamed about the small room, pausing at the fireplace to poke at the embers and going to the window to pull aside the curtain and look out. It was incredibly difficult to keep up her pretense of sleep. She kept thinking of his long, leanly muscled body naked in the morning light, and she had to fight the urge to open her eyes and look at him.
At last he wrapped the blanket around him and cracked open the door. He let out a little grunt, then closed the door again. He had not left, and Damaris wondered what he was doing, but then she realized that the soft noises she heard were the sounds of him getting dressed. He must have found his dried clothes waiting outside the door. Finally, when Damaris thought she could not keep her eyes shut a moment longer, he left the room.
Damaris blew out her breath in a burst and rolled over onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. What had just happened? Her body tingled all over, her blood was thrumming in her veins, but at the same time she felt warm and languid and loose, as if her very bones had turned to jelly. Though her marriage had been brief, she had thought she knew what took place in the marital bed. Clearly, her knowledge was severely lacking. Everything that had happened between her and Alec, from that first heated kiss to this morning’s caresses, had been a revelation. If this was what most women found in marriage, she could understand the reputation widows held for wantonness.
She closed her eyes, luxuriating for a moment longer in the sensations still resonating in her body before it occurred to her that she ought to get up and dress before Alec returned to their room. She slid out of bed before she recalled that she, no more than Alec, had any clothes to don. Last night after she had undressed, she had set her wet things outside the door just as Mrs. Putnam had told her. A quick glance around confirmed that her frock had not magically appeared.
Remembering what Alec had done earlier, she opened the door a crack, but there were no clothes lying conveniently there, either. There was, however, Alec, striding out of the large central room down the short hall toward her. He carried a mug in one hand, and in the other, a pile of cloth, which Damaris recognized with a blush as her underthings. He smiled when he saw her.
“Ah, wife of mine.”
Damaris frowned at him, though she doubted her expression would make much impression on him. He seemed in remarkably good spirits for a man who had suffered a blow to the head and been chased through the rain by brigands. Handing her the garments, he stepped into the room, so that she had to fall back and let him enter.
“Where is my dress?” she asked, taking the chemise and petticoats. Her delicate stockings lay in a dainty pile atop the folded frilly underpants. Just the sight of Alec’s long fingers on the garments did strange things to her insides.
“Now, don’t fuss, sweetling,” he said in that same droll and insinuating way that told her he was thoroughly enjoying playing the role of husband.
Damaris found his act as annoying as he found it amusing, and it was made all the more so by the horrifying knowledge that deep inside she wanted to spring on him and kiss the smile from his face. It was even worse because his eyes roamed appreciatively over her form, and though the loose nightgown was too thick to see through, it was soft enough that he could certainly see her nipples tighten and thrust against the material just from the touch of his gaze.
“The good lady of the house is even now mending a rent in the skirt, but she fears you will find the gown sadly insufficient. The silk did not, she said, hold up well to a soak in the rain.”
Damaris let out a groan, clutching her underclothes to her. She could easily believe that her French silk gown had not fared well. “What am I to do?”
“Take a sip of tea,” he replied, holding out the cup. “I offered to bring it to you, which I must say earned me a great deal of admiration from our Mrs. Putnam and Maud, though I could tell that young Henry found me a poor figure of manhood for doing so.”
Damaris took a drink of the warm liquid and found that, surprisingly, it did help to restore her spirits. “Thank you.”
“You are most welcome.” He sat down on the bed, lounging back and watching her. “Mrs. Putnam says she will lend you one of her frocks, which will fit in perfectly with my plans. I suggest that we go forward as an ordinary sort of couple—a farmer and his wife, say. I discovered, by the way, that I am now Mr. Howard.”
“Oh. Yes, I told her my name, and then she assumed we were married, so…” She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks again, and she turned away, taking another drink. “I didn’t know what to say. I feared she would not be so welcoming if she knew we were not, I mean…”
“Quite right. And I was able to cover my surprise at my new name well enough that I think they suspect only that I am being discreetly quiet about my title.”
“I see.” Damaris smiled a little. Looking at Alec, she could see why they would assume he bore a title. Even lounging there in breeches and a shirt that looked somewhat worse for wear, his pale hair a tousled mess, he still looked every inch a lord.
He came off the bed in one sudden, lithe move and, laying his hands on her hips, pulled her into him. He bent to take her mouth in a kiss that left her breathless. He lifted his head, his eyes gleaming down at her. “God, but you are beautiful!”
She gave a little laugh. “I fear for your eyesight, Lord Rawdon. I must look a slattern; my hair—”
“Your hair is magnificent.” He emphasized his words by sinking his fingers into the heavy mass. “Black as night and so thick a man could get lost in it. Ever since I met you I have dreamt of seeing your hair spread across my pillow. Of burying my face in it.”
His mouth was on hers again, urgent and hot. His hands cradled her head, holding her in place as his mouth ravished hers. All the hunger and heat that he had stoked into life in her earlier now burst into flame again. Damaris clutched his shoulders, her fingers curling into the cloth of his shirt. She ached with the need to touch him, hold him, feel him all around her, consuming her in his fire.
He tore his mouth from hers, his lips moving down the line of her throat, teeth nipping lightly at the tender skin, teasing her into shivers of delight. He groaned, soft and low in his throat, and the sound inflamed Damaris. She ran her fingers up into his hair, tangling in the silken strands. His mouth came back to kiss her deeply, and his hands roamed slowly down her body, caressing her through the soft cloth of the gown. Her breasts swelled as if to find his touch, and she moved her hips instinctively against him. He made a noise, part laugh, part moan, and he swept his hands down to grasp her buttocks, digging into the soft flesh and lifting her up and into him. His maleness pulsed against her.
Yearning blossomed between her legs, empty and aching to be filled by him. Only some last vestige of modesty kept her from lifting herself up and wrapping her legs around him. He kissed her face, her ears, her throat, as he bunched her nightgown up in his hands, lifting it higher until he was touching her bare flesh, caressing her buttocks, squeez
ing and lifting, pressing her into him. His breath rasped in and out. He stumbled backward, pulling her toward the bed.
A knock sounded on the door. “Sir? Ma’am? I’ve brought your dress.”
Alec buried his face in her neck, muffling a curse.
“Just a moment!” Damaris managed to squeak out.
He squeezed her for an instant, then released her, turning away and going to stand before the fireplace and stare into its depths. Damaris brushed back her hair and straightened her gown and started to the door, her steps a little unsteady. There was nothing she could do to hide the evidence of her kiss-bruised lips, she knew, or the luminous glow in her eyes. She hated to imagine what Mrs. Putnam would think of her, standing in a stranger’s house and letting a man kiss her into insensibility.
She wiped her hand over her face, drew in a breath, and opened the door. Mrs. Putnam stood outside, holding Damaris’s dress before her. She took in Damaris’s face in a quick glance and looked down to hide a smile.
“I fear it’s the worse for wear,” Babs said with a sigh for the state of the luxurious material.
Though the tumultuous state of Damaris’s emotions left little room for thought of anything else, she could plainly see that the rain had ruined the delicate silk, leaving it streaked and warped. Mrs. Putnam had done her best with sewing up the tear, but nothing could make the dress anything but crumpled, shrunken, and stained.
“You are welcome to wear one of my gowns, if you’d like,” the woman went on tentatively. “They’re not what you’re used to, I know, but your mister said you wouldn’t mind.”