Harry gave Nell a shocked look. “Was that what upset you before?” he asked as they drove off. “The fear that you wouldn’t recognize Torie?”
She nodded miserably. He put his arm around her, saying nothing.
They returned late again that night after another long and fruitless day. Harry tried to boost Nell’s spirits all through supper, but a small stone of doubt had settled in her heart.
If her daughter was lost forever, Nell didn’t know how she could ever live with the knowledge. If she’d only slept that night with Torie in her arms, instead of leaving her in the basket . . . It would haunt her forever. She could never forgive herself.
Harry sat beside her, talking with quiet resolution of what tomorrow might bring and passing her dishes he hoped would tempt her appetite. Though her fears had driven away all appetite, Nell ate to please him and because she knew she should.
She might be plagued with doubts and fears and riddled with guilt, but she would never give up on her daughter. While there was breath in her body, she would search.
Thirteen
The following morning, Nell awoke to the soft sound of rain pattering against her bedroom windows.
It was too wet to go riding in the park. She would copulate with him this morning, she decided. She owed him that, at the very least.
Harry lay on his side, one arm sprawled protectively across the pillow above her head, the other curved around her waist, his hand loosely splayed across her midriff, just beneath her breasts. Nell lay curled against him, his relaxed, brawny body a source of warmth and comfort. Her feet were tucked between his calves. She felt safe, protected.
She turned her head so that her cheek lay against his arm and breathed in his clean, masculine scent, now so familiar to her, and so dear.
With Harry sleeping beside her she didn’t feel so alone, so lonely. Amazing how in such a short time she’d grown accustomed to sleeping with a man in her bed.
Or rather awakening to one. Every night she went to bed alone and each morning woke up, well rested in his arms. Presumably she was still walking in her sleep.
His breathing was steady and regular. His arousal pressed into her bottom, as always. It intrigued her. She knew about how horses reproduced, and dogs, and it seemed people were much the same. Except, she wasn’t in season, so why would he be aroused?
The why didn’t matter, she told herself. He was ready for her and this morning they would . . . what was the correct word? Mate? Copulate?
He stirred, moving sleepily. His legs brushed against the skin of her thighs, and the sensation shivered through her, not unpleasantly. His arousal pressed insistently against her.
It was time.
She took a deep breath and turned over to face him. He was awake and watching her.
“Morning,” he said in a deep, slightly hoarse voice. He smoothed a curl of hair out of her eyes and tucked it gently behind her ear. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes. Thank you.” His hot flesh brushed against her stomach and she blinked.
“I’m disturbing you,” he said instantly. “I’ll leave.” He made to move away.
“No, s-stay.” Her voice came out as a thread.
Harry frowned. She looked and sounded scared stiff. He glanced around the room, but all was still and silent. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” She swallowed. “I want to c-copulate with you.”
Harry scrutinized her face. “No, you don’t,” he said after a moment. She was strung tight as a bowstring. So was he, though in a different way.
“I do, I really do. You’ve been so kind to me, so good.” Her eyes were wide and clear and anxious. “I want to thank you, and I know you want me, so . . .” She swallowed again.
She was grateful. Harry tried not to let his feelings show. He was angry, not with her, but with himself, for not seeing this coming.
She wanted to thank him—dammit!—by making the ultimate sacrifice.
He wanted her body, yes, but not like this, as some kind of payment. And he sure as hell didn’t want her gratitude.
“You don’t want me, and you don’t need to thank me. I’m away to my morning ride. I’ll see you at breakfast.” He leaned forward and kissed her briefly on the mouth. Her lips were cold and trembling. He flung back the covers to get out.
“No,” she said and made a grab for him. He was pretty sure she’d been aiming to catch him by the waist. Or the thigh. The hem of his drawers, perhaps . . .
It wasn’t what she ended up holding. Through the cotton of his drawers she held him. His body responded instantly.
She gripped him more firmly. He tried not to arch against the pressure. He clamped his jaw tight. He must have made some sort of noise because her eyes widened in concern.
“Did I hurt you?” she asked. The hand gripping him loosened, but didn’t let go.
“No,” he managed. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I want to copulate with you. Today. Now.”
Yes, to pay off her debt, he thought bitterly. “And what if I don’t want to copulate?”
“You do,” she said with flat certainty. “I might be ignorant of many things but I’ve watched enough stallions covering mares to know you’re ready to mate. With me. Now.”
Shudders rippled through him. God, yes, he was ready to mate with her now. He had been since the moment he’d clapped eyes on her. But he wasn’t an animal and he could control his desires. He could.
Her hand tightened around him. He gritted his teeth and waited. There was a long silence.
He ought to pull away now. She was shaking like a leaf. But he couldn’t make himself move. He’d wanted her too long. He wasn’t in control at all he realized. Only part of him was, the part that refused to leave. He couldn’t help giving in to it. To her.
“I don’t know what to do next,” she said in frustration. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “Tell me what to do.”
He was tempted to just take over and do what he’d been dying to do ever since he first saw her: take over, make love to every inch of her.
But then he remembered what had been done to her. If he gave free rein to his lustful instincts, she’d be even more terrified than she was already.
It was probably going to kill him, but if he didn’t want to bed a sacrificial lamb—and he sure as hell didn’t—he had to let her feel her own way into this.
Feel being the operative word.
“Do whatever you want,” he grated. Bad enough that his body was racked with the effort of restraining every instinct, now she wanted instructions?
She gave him a frustrated look and he recalled that she might be a mother but she was virtually inexperienced. He swore silently.
“Look, touch, taste,” he explained. “Do whatever you want to me, I won’t mind.” He gave a rueful smile. “I’ll love it whatever you do. You’re right, I want you, badly. But I’ll never do anything you don’t want me to. I’m putty in your hands.”
“Putty?” she said with a glint of humor. “This doesn’t feel like putty to me.” She squeezed.
He gave a small choke of laughter. It lightened the moment, eased the tension. He felt her relax a little.
He watched her thinking it over, still holding firmly to his cock through his drawers.
“I’m usually naked,” he said.
Her eyes went to the buttons on the waistband, then she slowly let him go. He wanted to tell her to take it back, but he gritted his teeth and waited. It was going to be hell, but if he could only be patient and keep himself under control, heaven could be just around the corner.
Heaven was here in a thin white cotton nightgown, frowning and blushing as she undid the buttons of his drawers. There were only three. She had them undone in a trice.
She glanced at him. “You really did mean naked?”
“Yes,” he ground out. She seemed surprised. So the bastard had been dressed, Harry surmised. Good. The more differences between them the better.
He kicked his drawers off the rest of the way and tried to look relaxed as she examined him. She was blushing furiously, but her jaw was set at a determined angle. She was going to go through with it.
So was he. The thought gave him a spurt of wry amusement. Which of them was the sacrificial lamb? He was starting to wonder.
Her lips were parted; her breaths came in soft puffs. She was aroused, Harry saw. Not as much as he was, but it was a hopeful sign.
Her hand hovered indecisively over his cock. Harry held his breath, but she moved to his chest. She smoothed soft, cool palms over him, exploring the difference between them. The friction of skin on skin.
She leaned over him, her breasts swaying behind their white cotton shroud. He followed the sharp peaks of her nipples with hungry eyes. She explored his body, running her hands across his shoulders, down his arms, her brow furrowed in concentration. Learning him. Her lips were parted and he caught the scent of her. He craved the taste of her in his mouth.
But if he moved, if he touched her, started kissing her, he might not be able to stop. She lightly brushed against his nipples and he arched involuntarily. Make that would not be able to stop.
He closed his eyes, thinking that might make it easier. It didn’t. With each caress, each stroke, his body thrummed to the call of male to female. And the scent of warm female intensified. Every particle of his body strained and ached and throbbed to join with her.
Harry clenched the bedsheets in determined fists. If it killed him, he would endure this. For her. It didn’t matter that every shred of control he had would be stretched to the limit.
Because that’s what she needed from him.
She was a coward, Nell thought, avoiding his . . . thing. She didn’t have a word for it. A horse’s was called a pizzle, but it didn’t seem right somehow, to use the same word for a man.
It had felt hot through the cotton before. But it had grown bigger since she’d stripped him naked, and she was a bit hesitant to touch it again, yet. She would, of course, in the end.
She tried not to think about the end. This was different. This was fascinating. To have this big, magnificent male animal naked under her touch, lying there like a big lion, tense, but so willing to be petted . . .
His desire for her was palpable. She felt warmed by it. More than warmed. Scorched. And yet she didn’t fear it.
His skin was so smooth and resilient, nicked and scarred in a number of places. Years at war, he’d said once.
“Where did you get this?” She traced a jagged white scar with her finger.
“A French bayonet,” he told her. He didn’t take his eyes off her.
She placed a finger in a puckered hollow of skin. “And this?”
He frowned. “A ball, I think. Or maybe some shrapnel.”
“You don’t know?”
He gave a faint smile. “I believe I was insensible at the time the surgeon dug it out. I got this at the same time.” He turned his head and she saw a scar running behind his ear and up into his scalp.
She arrowed her fingers through his hair, cupping the scar, massaging his head lightly. “You might have died,” she said softly.
He gave an indifferent shrug, as if he didn’t care. Nell was shocked. But she supposed it was how men at war had to think, otherwise they’d be paralyzed with fear.
As she almost was. She had to get on, on to the part she both dreaded and longed for, the part where they joined. She’d distracted herself with his scars, but he must be getting impatient. Not to mention cold.
“Are you cold?”
He gave her a slow smile. “Do I feel cold?”
She ran her palms across his shoulders and down his arms, then smoothed them across his chest and slowly down his stomach. No, he didn’t feel cold. Nor did she for that matter.
There was not an ounce of fat on the man; he was all hard muscle, sinew, and bone.
Power. She remembered how small and light and helpless she’d felt as he’d tossed her over his shoulder that time. She recalled how he’d throbbed against her palm in that darkened stable.
He could have taken her at any time.
She brushed her fingers across his small, hard nipples, and he arched a little and made a soft sound deep in his throat. He liked it. Did it feel like when she touched her own nipples? When she’d been pregnant, they were so sensitive . . . She could feel them now, brushing against the cotton of her nightgown.
She circled the small male nipples, around and around, feeling his involuntary response. She scratched her nails lightly across them. He inhaled sharply and the gray gaze darkened.
He didn’t try to control her. He just lay there, watching her with smoky gray eyes, letting her touch him as she willed.
She could feel her own heartbeat. It was racing and she panted, as though she’d been running a race.
Nerves, she told herself. The more she dallied in this pleasurable exploration of his body, the more the thing she had to do was delayed. Get it over with. Get it done.
She took a deep breath and let her hand continue its exploratory path down the hard ridges of his stomach, following the line of dark hair that led toward his . . . shaft. The word came to her at last. His shaft.
With one finger she stroked it from the base to the tip, then ran the tip of her finger around the head. His breath hitched in, and she took a quick glance at his face. His eyes were heavy-lidded and dark. Keeping her eyes on his face she ran her finger around the head of his shaft again, and again he gave a ragged gasp and clenched his jaw. The muscles of his arms and legs were corded. His heels dug into the mattress and he clenched the sheets in his fists, as if anchoring himself to the bed.
“It’s not pain you’re feeling, is it?” she asked, stroking him as she spoke. The skin of his shaft was velvety soft. Beneath it he was hard and hot.
He shook his head and gritted his teeth.
“You like this, don’t you?”
His eyes burned into her in silent, potent confirmation, and she felt a small feminine thrill. She was doing this to him. She gripped his shaft at the base with her whole hand and ran it very slowly to the knob at the end. He groaned and flung his head back. She ran her hand up and down again, squeezing firmly and again he moaned and clenched his body as if in pain. There was a bead of moisture at the tip and she ran the hollow of her palm over it, around and around, and he shuddered violently.
“No more,” he grated, his jaw clenched and his head flung back.
She let go of him instantly. “What is is?”
He opened his eyes and gave her a flat look. “I’m ready to mate with you and one more touch like that and I’ll ejaculate.”
She understood at once. Stallions did it, too.
She went cold. He was giving her a way out. Letting her know she didn’t have to go through with it.
But she did, she did. She had to get it over with. She would not live her life in fear of this, she would not.
The time had come. She pulled up her nightgown to halfway up her thighs and said, “Then come on, mate with me. Now.”
He didn’t move for a moment, so she reached out and grasped him again. He needed no second urging. He surged on top of her, spread her legs, and touched her there. She stiffened as she felt his fingers parting her flesh. He stroked her lightly and she started to relax, but then he touched something and a sudden convulsion arced through her. Before she had time to think, his hand moved again, and again a hot spear of sensation roiled through her.
He made a deep masculine sound in his throat and she felt him enter her. He thrust once, twice.
And she went blank.
Harry felt it at once, felt her stiff
en, her body freeze. He was sure it wasn’t hurting her. She was ready for him, she was warm and wet and slippery, and she’d been so sweetly responsive.
He stopped moving at once. “Nell, what is it? What’s the matter?”
She didn’t respond. She was stiff, but her whole body shook. And not in a good way.
“Nell? Sweetheart?”
Her eyes were closed, her face set in a grimace.
Harry knew immediately what he’d done. He’d effectively pinned her down so she couldn’t move. He cursed himself silently. There was only one thing he could think of to do.
Still deep inside her, he rolled over, taking her with him. Then, though it was just about killing him, he watched her face and waited.
It felt like forever before her stiffness drained away and her eyes cautiously opened. Confused, she stared down at him. “What are you doing? Finish it.”
He shook his head. “You finish it. Or not. Your choice.”
She stared down at him. “But you’re the man.”
“And you’re the woman,” he answered softly. “It takes two.”
Her brow furrowed. “How?”
“You can ride, can’t you?” He placed his hands on her hips and moved her a little, to give her the idea. “This way you control everything.”
Not quite believing him, she moved experimentally and he saw as well as felt her response. Scowling in concentration, she moved again. He groaned and slipped his hand between them. She started as she felt him stroke the tiny nub, then gasped. He felt her body clench around him in response.
It was going to be all right, he thought dazedly as the last of his ragged control dissolved and he surged upward, into her. She gasped and gripped him inside and out, with thighs and inner muscles. He bucked and thrust and she rode him as masterfully as any horse, faster and faster, gasping with each movement even as she urged him on.
At the last moment, when he knew he was about to come, he called her name. “Nell, Nell!” Assertively, needing her to respond.
Her eyes flew open and she stared at him, dazed, preoccupied, riding him furiously.
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