“No, Meggie, we don’t want her to suffer, either. That would be very nice of you.” Tysen kissed his daughter. “Mary Rose and I will see you in the morning.”
Meggie frowned a bit over that and cocked her head to one side in question, identical to the way her father did it. “Mary Rose, aren’t you coming with me to your bedchamber? Why did we come to Papa’s bedchamber at all?”
Tysen said, very carefully, “Meggie, Mary Rose is now my wife. That means that she will stay close to me, both during the day and during the night. She will be staying with me now in this bedchamber.”
“But Papa, I—”
There was laughter, muted, from the doorway. Then Gweneth Fordyce came in and held out her hand to Meggie.
“Meggie, dearest, this headache of mine grows severe. Now, your new mama has to get used to your papa. That’s what marriage is all about. This means that they will spend a lot of time together, get to know each other much better, talk about so many things. You are not to worry about anything, all right?”
“I suppose so,” Meggie said. “Do you want to stay here with Papa, Mary Rose? Do you want to talk to him all night?”
“Yes, Meggie, I do.”
Meggie raised on her tiptoes, and Tysen held her against him, kissed her forehead. “Good night, sweetheart. Mary Rose and I will see you in the morning.”
And they were gone.
Tysen said, six feet away from his bride, “That wasn’t terribly romantic, was it?”
Mary Rose didn’t say anything at all. He saw that she was scared witless.
He was too, he thought, and quickly walked to the fireplace and built up the fire. It was chilly tonight, yet it was only the first of September and shouldn’t have been.
When he turned back to her, she still hadn’t moved a bit.
He walked to her, took her shoulders in his hands and said, “There is no reason for you to be afraid of all this. If you don’t wish to have me with you tonight, you have but to say so.”
The instant those words were out of his mouth, Tysen wanted to slit his own wrists. He waited, in agony, while she stood there, still scared to her toes, and he knew she was thinking that offer over. Then, finally, she said, “When you kissed me and held me, it was very nice, Tysen. We are married now. I suppose that we should get it done. It’s expected.”
“Well, yes, but that doesn’t matter. No one will know one way or the other. No, it’s up to you, Mary Rose. We don’t know each other all that well. If you would prefer to wait—” He finally managed to get his mouth to shut up. What was wrong with him? Had he lost all control of his brain?
Very slowly, Mary Rose nodded. But she still just stood there, her hands clasped in front of her, still wearing that very lovely gown her mother had made over for her. It was pale pink with a lot of lace at the neckline and just a straight fall of skirt to her ankles. He was surprised that the pale pink was so very nice with her bright hair.
Tysen cleared his throat, hoped he didn’t sound like a man about to be felled by lust, and said, “I am very fond of you, Mary Rose. And I know you are of me as well. I know that lovemaking must seem very strange to you and—”
His precious bride waved away his words. “Yes, perhaps,” she said, and took a step toward him. “Could you please kiss me?”
And so he did. Very soon, he realized that he wanted her more than he could even begin to imagine, and yet she was a virgin and he remembered Melinda Beatrice, her awful pain, her sobs that first night when he came into her, her sobs after he had come out of her, her sobs when he had wanted her again so very badly he’d nearly cried.
He shook his head. He’d been a boy, hadn’t known a single thing about how to give pleasure, how to take pleasure when it was offered. Not that he knew much more now. But he had, he admitted to himself, during those first months of his marriage, listened to his brothers whenever they spoke of matters of the flesh, which wasn’t a rare occurrence at all. So, he supposed, he had a good deal of theory down very well.
“Let me unfasten your gown for you. Then, if you like, I can go out into the corridor while you put on your nightgown.”
She pulled her thick hair out of the way, and Tysen found that his fingers were extraordinarily nimble on all the buttons of that wretched, beautiful gown. He forced himself to step back when her white back was bare.
“There, it’s done. I’m sorry I didn’t think to place a screen in here.” He left her then, quickly, and paced outside the bedchamber door, up and down the corridor. He found himself drawn to the sound of a woman’s quiet voice. It was Sinjun. She and Colin were speaking in their bedchamber, and the door wasn’t closed.
He, a vicar, a man who would give a good lecture to any of his children were they to eavesdrop, walked closer to that cracked open doorway. He heard Sinjun say, “But Colin, Tysen was only a boy when he married Melinda Beatrice. He knew nothing. He was always so pious and proper that naturally he wouldn’t know anything. He isn’t at all like Douglas or Ryder or you, and never was, for that matter. I’m just concerned that—” She stalled, but Tysen already knew everything she would have said; it was crystal clear in the quiet air.
Then Colin said, “Listen to me, Sinjun. Tysen isn’t a clod, nor is he a fool. He’s still a Sherbrooke, and I swear to you that the Sherbrooke men are born knowing how to make love properly to a woman. Leave be. Come to bed and I will let you seduce me, if you promise to go very slowly so I will have enough time to respond to you.”
Sinjun giggled. Then, “You’re sure it will be all right? You don’t believe you should perhaps speak to Tysen, ask him if he has any questions or perhaps wishes to discuss things? Colin, wait! What are you doing? Oh, goodness, you are an evil man.”
Tysen heard his sister, his baby sister, giggle. Then he heard only silence. No, that was a very deep breath someone in that bedchamber just drew in.
Tysen quickly walked away. So he’d been born knowing how to please a woman, had he? Well, he’d never succeeded with Melinda Beatrice. But that had been so very long ago, and Sinjun was right. He’d been a boy, untried, bowled over with those rampaging feelings he couldn’t control, so eager he’d nearly spilled his seed on himself.
He would simply have to trust himself. As his brother Ryder always said, “If a man can make a woman laugh, she is his.”
Laughter. How the devil did a man make a woman laugh when the man couldn’t think beyond those raw, very urgent surges in his groin?
He came back into the bedchamber. Mary Rose was lying in the middle of the bed, propped up on pillows, the covers to her chin. He smiled at her. He went methodically about the room, pinching out the myriad candles. When there was only a single candle lit near the huge bed, he moved away into the shadows and undressed. He pulled his nightshirt over his head. He came to a halt beside the bed.
“I’m not wearing one of your nightshirts,” she said. “I think you look better in it than I do.”
He pulled back the blankets and came in beside her. He said, looking down at her beloved face, “Do you know we had never even seen each other before a very short time ago?”
Mary Rose pulled her hand out from beneath the mound of blankets and lightly touched her fingers to his face. “Yes, and it both frightens me and makes me believe devoutly that God had very good plans for me. You’re quite wonderful, Tysen.”
Her words stirred inside him, moved him, and he said, “I don’t want you to think that I married you simply because of my honor, because I want to protect you, save you from the machinations of your wretched uncle and Erickson MacPhail. I am very fond of you, Mary Rose. I am very glad that you are now my wife.” He looked away from her a moment, then said, “And we are man and wife now. Or vicar and wife, if you would prefer.” That was an attempt at humor, but it didn’t yield anything except perhaps a tiny smile.
“I can barely see you, Tysen.”
“Well, one doesn’t have intimate relations in full daylight,” he said, although he imagined that his brothers even ha
d intimate relations in the gardens, beneath the oak trees. But he never had. He’d always believed that a wife was precious and should be protected from a man’s lust, her modesty never to be violated. “I don’t wish to shock you or embarrass you,” he said, his voice austere.
“Thank you,” she said, but there was something odd in her voice that he didn’t understand, and he said quickly, “Please don’t be frightened of me. I might not be much good at any of this, but I wish to try. I’m going to kiss you now, Mary Rose, kiss you until I’ve gotten all the way to that crooked toe of yours, and I will kiss it as well.”
She grinned. Aha, nearly a laugh. “All right,” she said, and closed her arms around his neck.
“You taste like strawberries,” he said, “and your hair is as soft as my mare’s mane.”
She giggled when he at last touched her breast. Then she jumped. He closed his eyes a moment, wondering what to do. He knew he was in a bad way, and that surprised him, but it didn’t matter. He said, “I want you to hold still, and I will try not to hurt you.”
He eased her nightgown up, felt her soft flesh, and prayed fervently that she was ready for him, that he wouldn’t hurt her too much. She didn’t pull away, did nothing to escape him. And her kisses had been so very enthusiastic. He had to control himself. So very long, he thought, so very long since he had been with a woman, and that woman had been his first wife. He regretted that in his inexperience he might hurt Mary Rose, that he might deny her pleasure. Then he realized he could only do his best. He could, as a matter of fact, do exactly what he wanted to do, and surely that wouldn’t be bad. He was a Sherbrooke male, after all.
He gritted his teeth, knowing the moment was upon him, and came inside her, pushing slowly, his blood pounding through his body, nearly splitting him apart with lust, but his determination not to hurt her was profound. He was a man, not the boy who had mauled Melinda Beatrice. He moved very slowly indeed. He stopped. “Mary Rose?”
She was looking at him, but she wasn’t smiling now, ready to kiss every bit of his face, ready to let him even put his tongue in her mouth. She was scared stiff, rigid as a log beneath him.
“Yes?”
“I’m inside you. Just a bit more. You’re doing very well. I can feel your maidenhead. Can you feel me feeling it?”
“Yes.”
Then it was simply too much. The man and the vicar broke; he lost himself and all his good intentions. He couldn’t stop himself, he pushed hard until he broke through her maidenhead and went deep. Dear God, he was touching her womb. His heart pounded, his body was more alive than he’d ever felt in his entire life. He was on the edge of a cliff, and he wanted to leap off that cliff right this very instant, but he heard her crying. “Mary Rose? Are you all right?”
“Yes, Tysen, I swear it to you. That maidenhead part was a bit difficult, but you’re not moving now and it isn’t too bad.” She added, wonder in her voice, “I knew that a man came into a woman’s body, but I just never imagined it like this.”
Oh, dear God, he thought, he was so crazed with lust, so over the edge with a need that was eating him alive, that he thought he would die. It was soon over, and he’d never imagined anything like it in his life. He had died, he thought, a wonderful death. He was hanging over her, balanced on his elbows, breathing so hard, feeling his heart pounding against his chest, still beyond words, beyond any rational thought. It was wonderful, what had just happened. He’d forgotten—that, or he’d never experienced it. It was beyond wonderful.
Mary Rose wasn’t moving.
He said, once he could speak coherently, his voice all stiff with guilt, “I am sorry that I hurt you. That won’t happen again. Can you forgive me?”
“Yes, of course. You’re my husband, and I suppose things have to happen that aren’t always pleasant. I don’t know, Tysen.”
“I didn’t make you laugh,” he said, and he slowly came out of her. He lay beside her and pulled her into his arms. He realized that he’d jerked off his nightshirt and that he was naked and she could feel that he was naked. He could imagine that it would send her running from the bedchamber. “Let me put on my nightshirt,” he said, but Mary Rose just shook her head against his shoulder. “No, please don’t. You are so very warm, Tysen, and hard. I love the feel of you.”
He nearly swallowed his tongue. A woman—his wife—had said that to him. He didn’t say a thing because he simply couldn’t think of anything to say. Did a man thank a woman—his wife—when she said something like that to him? He didn’t know. He was, however, immensely grateful that she was still in her nightgown. That was for the best, given how her words had made him feel. It was sinful, what he was thinking, it was excessive, what he wanted to do again, and boorish and probably so pleasurable that he nearly groaned. No, it was time to sleep, time for her to ease with him, perhaps forgive him for hurting her, though she hadn’t seemed upset with him.
He snuffed out the single candle, then he was lying on his back, in the dark, and he could feel her pressing against him. She was soft and warm and her breasts were against his side. Yes, God be blessed that she was wearing a nightgown. He knew he should say something. It was difficult to tell her to trust him when it came to matters of the flesh, since he was such an ignoramus and a clod, but he tried. “Trust me,” he said, kissing her cheek when he missed her mouth. “Trust me.”
“I would trust you with my life, Tysen,” she said, her breath warm against his flesh, and he shuddered. He didn’t trust himself to say anything more. He just might start begging her to let him have her again.
He held her against the length of him. He wanted to come inside her again, right now.
He remembered overhearing Douglas and Ryder talking about how a man should never be a pig, it wasn’t worthy. He held himself very still, and eventually, he slept.
Mary Rose didn’t sleep for a very long time. How very odd, she thought, looking off into the darkness and feeling him so very warm and alive pressed next to her. He was a man, and he had actually been inside her, and he’d touched her, he’d kissed her. It hadn’t been awful. Well, not too awful. She knew he had enjoyed the business. No, for her it hadn’t been too bad. She sighed. She realized then how very wet and sticky she was. She heard Tysen’s breathing even out into sleep. Slowly, carefully, she eased away from him. She stripped off her nightgown and bathed herself. She was sore, muscles pulled. It was all quite strange. She grabbed up her nightgown and pulled it back over her head. It was chilly in the large bedchamber. The embers had burned themselves out.
She slipped back into bed beside him, nestling close. This part was nice, she thought, and laid her palm over his chest. Her palm wanted to go down his body, but she knew that wasn’t done, that wasn’t what she should want to do.
When at last she fell asleep, she felt optimistic. Tysen cared about her. He’d been sorry to hurt her, but she wondered if he truly had been all that sorry. She’d seen something in those beautiful eyes of his, something hot and pleased even as he’d been apologizing so sincerely. But how could she begin to understand him? He was, after all, a man, and she simply couldn’t grasp what they were all about. She wondered if any woman grasped anything about the thoughts of a man.
21
DAWN WAS TURNING the bedchamber a soft, vague gray. Tysen awoke, instantly alert, instantly aware of the wonderful soft and giving body beside him. He then realized it was freezing. He didn’t want Mary Rose to be cold when she awoke. He eased away from that wonderfully warm body and rose to light the fire. He was shivering when he returned to bed. He warmed himself, then came onto his side over her. “Mary Rose,” he said, and just saying her name made him as hard as the black basalt rocks below the castle. He was more than warm now, he was burning up, and it was from the inside out. He was roaring with heat, like a furnace that was being stoked so fast it was in danger of exploding.
He didn’t wait for her to stir. He began kissing her. Her flesh was flushed and warm, and he could see her lovely face now, pale and cal
m in sleep, her glorious red hair wild about her head. He realized that she was wearing his nightshirt and wondered how that had happened, but it didn’t matter, of course. He had that nightshirt off her in under two seconds. She wasn’t fighting him. She wasn’t stuttering with fear, wasn’t trying to stop him at all. She even lifted her hips for him to get the nightshirt off her. When she was naked and he’d hauled her up tightly against him, he felt all of her, every small bit of her. He moaned into her mouth when he realized that she was kissing him back. He felt so very urgent, nearly frantic in his need, that he simply didn’t think about it being daylight in the room, that he would shock her, that she knew he could see her body and she would be mortified.
Mary Rose was kissing him back, wildly now, and when he said against her mouth, “Open, I want to taste you,” she did, and he was shuddering with the power of it. When he kissed her breasts, his hands all over her, she made little mewling sounds, and they nearly drove him over the edge, those sounds and her mouth and her hands, now stroking his belly. He tried to arch up so she could touch him. When she did, he nearly became a pig. It was a very close thing. He pulled away from her, heaving from the effort, and then everything suddenly was very clear to him. He wanted to kiss her everywhere, something he’d never done before, something that hadn’t really occurred to him before, but now he wanted it more than anything in the entire world. It seemed utterly natural, something he had to do if he wished to keep breathing. He came down her body, kissing and kneading her belly, then his hot breath was lower, and his mouth was on her and his tongue as well, hot and wild.
Mary Rose froze for a moment at what he was doing to her, but not longer than a moment. “Oh, my,” she said and pressed herself against his mouth and felt his fingers, stroking over her, easing inside her. “Tysen,” she said, nearly on a yell, then realized something incredible was happening to her. She lurched up, grabbed fistfuls of his hair, and screamed.
Catherine Coulter the Sherbrooke Series Novels 6-10 (9781101562123) Page 22