The Carhart Series

by Courtney Milan

  But she said it again. “Don’t let go. Hold me.” And she looked up at him with those luminous eyes, eyes that betrayed all the fear she had not let Harcroft see. It was, Ned realized, her strength that made her vulnerable. She’d claimed she was weak, but in almost every way she was the strongest person he had ever met. And she needed him now.

  And so he didn’t let go. He wanted to clasp her to him, wanted to squeeze her hand until the anger ran out of him. Instead, he pressed her fingers lightly between his palms, willing the hot rage in him to flow out of his hands, to warm the fears that echoed in her eyes. He moved his hand in circles until her hand curled in his, until her shoulders relaxed. As if that spare motion could lift away the pain she’d felt.

  And when that scant comfort couldn’t take the past five minutes away—when she looked up at him, her eyes still wide with the unspoken horror of what she’d just experienced—Ned turned her hand in his, exposing her wrist and those damned angry red marks. He leaned in and placed a kiss over them.

  She smelled like a summer bower in full bloom. He lingered over that inch of fragile skin and let his breath heat her.

  No, he wasn’t going to leave her to assuage his own desire to beat Harcroft’s face in, however pleasant the prospect might seem. He was going to stay here, where he belonged. And not just because she needed him, but because he was too damned weak to do anything but take in the scent of her, taste the sweetness of her wrist against his lips.

  He could not take her memories away; he could not eradicate her bruises. He’d failed her enough for one day. But now, when she’d used up her strength, he would stand here while she needed him.

  “I’m here,” he murmured against her skin. “If you need me, I am here.”

  She stepped toward him, and he put his arm around her. She was cold all over; her shoulders were trembling in the aftermath of her fear. He wrapped his other arm around her and felt her press against him.

  “Not as if you needed me,” he breathed into her neck. “You were—you are—marvelous. When I left for China, it was a mistake. I’m not doing it again. Not if the Queen herself asks me.” He rubbed his hands up her shoulders, and then down them again.

  “I know.” Her breath warmed the fabric of his shirt. She turned and laid her head on his shoulder; her hair tickled his nose. But still, he held the warm miracle of her against him.

  “I know,” she repeated. And then, slowly, she tilted her head up to look at him. Her eyes were a solemn gray, and they tugged at some tender spot just inside his breastbone. She laid her hands against his chest.

  “You hurt me,” she whispered. “When you left.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “There was a time I wanted to hurt you back. I wanted you to suffer. I wanted you to feel as awful as I felt. I wanted you to ache the way I did.”

  He shook his head, wordless, not knowing what to say, not knowing how to apologize to her for all the mistakes he’d made. He didn’t know how to prove to her that he would make it up to her. “You said once—that our marriage would dry up and blow away, with one good gust of wind. I’ll do what it takes to make it take root again, Kate.”

  But she surprised him again. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Now I just want you.” And then, impossibly, she went on her tiptoes and placed her mouth against his.

  It wasn’t an angry kiss or a frightened kiss or a kiss intended to seduce him. It was just Kate’s kiss, pure and simple. It was the taste of her, given freely; the feel of her lips, warm and soft. It was her body in his arms, light and fragile and vulnerable, and yet strong and unbending all at the same time.

  He wanted to be strong for her, and yet unbidden, it became Ned’s kiss, too, an outpouring of all those words he could not find, all that emotion he could not express. When his hands touched her shoulders, she understood that it meant she could rely upon him. When she opened her mouth to him, when their tongues touched, it was because she wanted him. And when she melted against him, it was the trust he’d hoped for.

  She tilted her head back, and he kissed his way down the delicate swell of her throat. She leaned against his hand, trusting he would not let her fall. This time, he wouldn’t. He wanted her—needed her with a palpable desire.

  She must have felt the restraint in the tightness of his shoulders because she raised her head to his. “How many times do I have to tell you, Ned? Let me inside your control.”

  She ran her fingers down his form, slipped her hands inside his coat. It was so unspeakably intimate, that gesture, a sign of sweet possession.

  “What control?” he growled.

  Because with her touch trailing down his ribs, there was none left, not even the bare semblance of civility he’d been struggling to maintain. Not with her hands undoing his waistcoat, her fingers dancing down his abdomen. Not with his mouth on her neck, nor the sweet swells of her breasts soft against his touch. The lacy edge of her bodice was in the way; he tugged it back, revealing the muslin of her shift. He could see the dark rose circle of her nipple through the fabric. Every last sinful fantasy flitted up in his mind and screamed to be made reality.

  “What control?” he whispered again, and he fastened his mouth around her breast. Fantasy and reality merged; she was responsive and willing in his arms. The hard nub of her nipple tasted sweet, even through the sheer material of her shift. She gasped, and his fevered imagination could never have manufactured the hard choking sound of her desire, the feel of her body. He should think. He should stop. But instead, he kissed his way up her neck. His thumb found her wet nipple. A thousand desires flooded him; he circled it back and forth, feeling her own want build up. She was gasping. And then he leaned down and gathered her skirts in his hands. Lace and starched petticoats foiled his approach for the barest seconds; then he found the muslin of her drawers. He reached inside to the place between her legs.

  She was wet and silky, as hot as he’d ever hoped. He tasted her mouth as his fingers found that spot. He’d learned her last night. Now he knew just where to touch her, knew just how to flick his fingers along her sensitive flesh.

  Dimly he recalled that he should…that he was supposed to… What was he supposed to do? Any consideration beyond this—this hot need for her—seemed immaterial. There was nothing but his want. His hands fell to her waist. His groin pressed into her pelvis. It felt wonderful against his erection. She felt so damned good.

  It wasn’t enough. It could never be enough, not with this distance between them. He wanted her in every way possible.

  But there were consequences. There were considerations. He knew there were, even if his mind could not recall what they were.

  When he pulled away, however, her hands fell to the placket of his breeches. He could feel himself twitch against the rough fabric. She undid his breeches, and then her fingers were warm against the length of him. He might have come right then, from her touch. He didn’t. Instead, he gritted his teeth and slid his fingers against her. It didn’t take much to imagine plunging into that warmth, to imagine those legs of hers around his waist. Her fingers brushed the head of his penis.

  “Damn,” he swore. “If you keep doing that, I’ll—”

  “Do it.” Her words were a taunt, a dare to shed the last vestiges of his discipline. And when she ran her finger down the length of his erection, he did. He growled, wordless, and lifted her against the wall. He didn’t think; instead, his hands held her steady.

  She wrapped her legs around him, and then, with one motion, he sank inside her. Gravity pulled her down his cock, settling her around him. The slick friction of her was glorious. He leaned down and found the tip of her nipple again. She was joined to him. He pulled out and stroked back in, and she shuddered.

  Yes. This was what he’d wanted, what he’d needed. This slick wetness. This unthinking bliss. This spiraling, thrusting want, their bodies coupled. He’d needed this damned burn, painfully pleasurable, a satisfaction that raged from his balls all the way to his hands, clasping her to the wall.


  Her body tensed around his. She was his fully; he was inside her, taking every last stroke he’d denied himself.

  When she came, he felt the heat of it like the opening of an oven. He pumped inside of her again, and again, and again, until he was shooting all of himself inside her. Until he was sated and weak and barely able to hold even her slight weight against the wall.

  Breath returned first.

  Then followed the scream of his muscles, aching after that physical exertion.

  Sanity was longer in coming. She was looking up at him, smoothing away the sweat on his forehead, a faint smile playing across her lips. Her legs were wrapped around him; he was still embedded in her, his cock too sensitive, aware of the pulse deep in her body. Perhaps that beat was in him. He couldn’t tell any longer.

  And they were in the thrice-be-damned hallway, for God’s sake, where anyone could see them. What the hell had he been thinking?

  He hadn’t. He hadn’t even waited to take her to bed like a civilized man.

  “Damn me.”

  That shy smile spread across her face, lighting it up. “If I had known that it would be like this, I would have goaded Harcroft to manhandle me years ago.” God truly had damned Ned. He’d ignored everything—his concerns for her well-being, his control. Rage had transformed into desire. He’d not had one thought in his head but taking his pleasure of her.

  Then again, she hadn’t seemed to mind. Quite the contrary. He shook his head, trying to make sense of it all. Slowly, he disengaged from her. He lowered her to the floor with all the gentleness that he could muster.

  She did up his breeches, her hands steady. She bit her lip in concentration as she worked, and an unbidden flush of affection hit him. He’d always thought his wife a striking woman. How had he not noticed before now how adorable she was?

  She looked up at him, smiling. “Well, Mr. Carhart. You’ve embarked on a love affair with your wife. Now what do you intend to do?”

  Run away. His first thought, unworthy as all his baser impulses usually were.

  No. Kate was right. There was no taking back what he’d done to her these past minutes. There was no withholding from her this dark, ravenous side of himself.

  And there were many, many worse things than having a wife who enjoyed his body as much as he enjoyed hers.

  So she’d breached all his defenses, all but the last one. She thought he was strong. She thought he was warm as summer, and didn’t understand that he’d merely reached apogee. He had the distinct sensation of hanging weightless in air.

  It didn’t matter. He’d suffered winter before. He’d make his way through that as well when it came again. If she needed to believe him strong, he’d be strong for her, no matter what the seasons brought. She didn’t need to know what plagued him.

  And so he mirrored the slow laziness of her smile. “Well, my lady. The first thing I suggest is that we call for a bath.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “A BATH?” KATE ECHOED INCREDULOUSLY. Her body still throbbed, satiated. And yet she hadn’t had enough.

  “Trust me.” He smiled at her. “You want a bath.”

  “Oh.” She suddenly realized how sweaty, how sticky she was. Not romantic in the least. Was he trying to say—

  “Oh, don’t stiffen up.” He took her hand. “I want to give you a bath. Trust me.”

  “I do trust you.” Kate hadn’t realized it was the truth until the words came out of her mouth. But she did—she could taste it in her mouth, a warm taste as volatile as brandy and twice as heady.

  His eyes widened slightly. He lifted his hand to her cheek, oh so slowly. “Of course you do.” His voice sounded deeper than usual. It seemed to resonate through her bones. “I told you that you would.”

  “You can make all the jokes you like, Ned, but I see through you.”

  It was nothing—a trick of the light, perhaps, or a waft of the air. For a second, she thought the pupils of his eyes contracted to dark pinpoints, and all that heat turned to ice. The sensation passed so quickly, though, that she must have been mistaken.

  “Of course.” His voice was a warm caress. “It’s all a part of my diabolical plan. I confess it now. Do you realize I’ve never really seen you unclothed?”

  “What? But—” She stopped, remembering the darkness of their wedding night.

  He shrugged. “Poor lighting. Unfortunate night rails, fortunately brought up to your knees, true, but never removed all the way. But no. You’ve seen more of me than I’ve seen of you. I intend to remedy that.”

  She hadn’t seen enough of him. And with the fire of lust banked for the present, she could see that his humor had returned, that quirk to his mouth. He was easy again.

  “If we call for a bath midday, won’t the servants guess that we’ve been…”

  She paused, delicately searching for words again.

  “Rutting,” he pronounced helpfully. “Swiving. Engaging in intercourse, naturally, although that has a rather proper feel about it. I don’t suppose you can call it ‘engaging in intercourse’ when it’s done up against a wall. Tupping, perhaps.”

  So many words. So many ways to try it. “What word would you use?”

  “I’d say I’ve been having my way with you. And since I know you’ll ask, I’m not done—you’re heading upstairs and removing every stitch of clothing. Now.”

  “But everyone will know—”

  “Kate.” He set his hand on her wrist. “Ring for a bath.”

  She managed it without breaking into a blush. She even managed to ascend the stairs without running, even though she could feel his eyes on her. I’ve never seen you unclothed. True, perhaps, in the strictest sense. But he’d seen down to the core of her barest vulnerabilities. He knew everything—her hidden fears, her secret needs. She knew only the substance of his desire. She could still feel his body pressed against hers, could feel him with the unflinching memory that skin possessed.

  She’d seen him without clothing, but she wasn’t sure she had ever seen him naked.

  The servants filled the bath with ewer after ewer of steaming water. Her maid fussed around, setting out soap and towels, crushing petals and pouring oils into the water, preparing a rinse of elderflower tea and willowbark for her hair. The woman glanced once at Ned, who watched the proceedings from a chair, but she made no mention of his presence.

  When the woman came up behind Kate and set her hands on the laces of her gown, though, Ned spoke. “I’ll take it from here,” he said, his tone calm, as if it were an everyday occurrence that he undressed his wife for her bath. “You may leave.”

  The servants were too well-trained to smile knowingly. But Kate’s maid sent a glance to Ned and, without a flicker of emotion crossing her face, walked to the chest of drawers and removed another stack of towels. As if they might spill water all over the place. And how that would happen… Kate’s cheeks heated. The maid set these next to the original set and then left the room, closing the door behind her.

  “Does that blush go all the way down?” Ned walked up to her. His finger traced the meaning of his words—the pink, flushed skin of her neckline, vanishing into the lace at her bodice.

  She heated further. “I—oh—”

  “Nothing to be done now,” he said. “They all believe we’re indulging our carnal desires. If we don’t do anything, they’ll talk of that, too. We might as well make the best of this.”

  He set his hands on her shoulders and turned her gently around. She felt his hands on her laces. She’d been dressed and undressed thousands of times in her life. She’d felt her maids’ hands tug on those crisscrossed ties too many times to count. But they’d never been his hands—big, strong, warm, caressing…yanking?

  “Ned, what are you doing back there?”

  “They’re stuck.” He sounded confused. “I just pulled this one bit here, and then it knotted, and now this part over here is all tangled. Is this some sort of cruel joke?”

  She frowned and peered over her sho
ulder to see what he was talking about. Then she bit back a smile. “I suppose, in a manner of speaking. Women call that cruel joke a bow.”

  “I disapprove. What on earth is wrong with buttons?”

  “Laces allow a gown to fit the form more closely. Don’t pull so hard. You’re just going to tangle them more.”

  There was a longer pause, followed by another tug.

  “Ned, do I need to call my maid back in?”

  “I can take off my wife’s gown without help, thank you. Ah, there! These bits are looped together. Cleverly designed to foil a husband’s hands. I see how it is. I’ll have to have a discussion with your dressmaker.”

  Kate felt her gown loosen around her. His hands were gentle, going up to her shoulders and settling there. “Next time,” she said through a grin, “I shall ask my maid to leave the instruction booklet next to the towels. I see why you preferred the wall. No removal of clothing necessary.”

  It was probably the least efficient undressing Kate had ever undergone. But there was something sweet in all his fumbling. The hesitance with which he eased the muslin off her shoulders warmed her heart. The touch of his hands tingled against her skin as he gently disengaged her arms from her sleeves. The cool air that flowed over her as he gently slid the gown to her waist brought her arms out in gooseflesh.

  Then there was the coarse mutter when he’d got the gown off her.

  “Christ. There’s another damned set of laces on your corset.”

  “Actually, there are two of them, interlacing. You wanted to see me naked, Ned.”

  “You’re the one who donned all this clothing in the first place. I never realized it, but fashion was clearly invented to encourage celibacy. Admit it: these were invented to bedevil a man in the throes of lust.”

  “I think it’s more about creating a silhouette that is pleasing to the male eye.”

  “What’s wrong with your silhouette?” He attacked her corset laces with perhaps more enthusiasm than finesse, but eventually the strings loosened and the garment came off.