“Blessed hell, I hope not.”
“You know what I mean.” She kissed him on his mouth this time, but hers was seamed tight.
James raised his hand, only one hand, and lightly touched his fingertips to her mouth. “Open up, a little bit,” and his breath feathered her skin. She opened her mouth without hesitation and felt his warm breath on her flesh, tasted him, and it was wonderful.
“Ah, that’s good,” he whispered into her mouth, and Corrie wondered how kissing the back of her right knee could be better than this. The feel of his mouth, his tongue, the heat of him, it made her want to fling herself against him and send them both to the floor.
Or to the bed. She walked into him, backing him up, until she shoved, and he went down on his back in the middle of that marvelous goose-down mattress.
She came down over him, laughing, wanting to sing and moan at the same time, so happy she was kissing him all over his face.
He kissed her back; his hand slid down her back over her bottom and stayed there. This was no spanking. This was something else entirely different. Corrie reared up and stared down at him. “Oh dear, James, your hand—”
“Clothes,” he said, “too many clothes.” He reared up, setting her on her feet in front of him. “I’m in a bad way here, Corrie. Now, I’m going to strip you down to your beautiful hide,” and he wasn’t civilized about it at all. He ripped and pulled and tore, and his breathing was harsh and fast.
Well, it wasn’t the lovely lace wedding gown, she thought, and grinned. If he could do it, then so could she. She began ripping open his clothes, kissing his chest when she pulled off his shirt. Soon, both of them were naked, she, still standing in front of him, James, sitting on the bed, his hands about her waist, and her breasts weren’t more than three measly inches from his mouth. He stared, swallowed, thought he’d burst. “Your breasts—I knew they would be nice, but I hadn’t expected this.” He sounded like he was choking. She didn’t move, couldn’t move. Corrie stood there, her hands on his shoulders as he raised his hands and cupped her breasts. He closed his eyes, breathed in very deeply, pulling her scent into the depths of him. Because his eyes were closed, she took the splendid opportunity to look down at him.
He wasn’t at all like he’d been when he’d been ill. He was big and growing bigger. All because he was holding her breasts? She liked his hands on her, but staring down at him, watching him swell—“James, you’re not the way you were.”
He wanted to fling her on her back, this very instant. Her breasts—he wanted his mouth on her, he—“What? What way was I?”
“Oh goodness, not like this. This can’t be right.”
He realized through his cloud of lust that she was looking down. He in turn stared at himself. He was hard and big, ready to explode. What did she expect? Oh hell, she didn’t expect anything. “You saw me naked, Corrie, when I was ill.”
She swallowed. “Not like this, James. Never like this. This isn’t like any of the animals I’ve seen.”
“I’m not a horse, Corrie, I’m a man and you’ve got to know we’ll fit together.” Oh God, he wanted to weep, perhaps even howl, but most of all, he didn’t want to have to say another word, he wanted to come inside her, deep, deeper still until he touched her womb. He groaned; she jumped.
“Oh dear, James, what’s wrong with you?”
It was enough; it was too much.
“It’s lust, isn’t it?” she whispered, eyes alight with appalled excitement.
“Yes.” He grabbed her around her waist, lifted her and tossed her onto her back. He came down over her, fitting himself between her legs. The touch of her, the scent of her flesh, the sound of her breathing, harsh and loud, it pushed him right to the edge and shoved him over.
He knew in some small corner of his brain that he was a clod; his father would disown him if he ever found out.
But it didn’t matter, couldn’t matter. There was only the here, the now, and the two of them, and he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. He raised her legs, looked at her soft flesh, lightly touched her, and that was all it took. He was shuddering so violently he knew he was going to spill his seed, right here, and he knew that couldn’t happen, just couldn’t, or he’d have to throw himself off the cliff into Poe Valley.
He parted her with his fingers, didn’t think about any consequences at all, and came into her. Oh God, she was tight; nowhere near ready for him, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t have stopped himself if someone had dumped buckets of cold water on him. He went into her, hard, felt her maidenhead. He closed his eyes at the knowledge that he was the first and that he would be the last. He looked down at her white face, her eyes filled with tears, and he said, “Corrie, you’re mine. Never forget that, never—oh damn, forgive me—” and he pushed through her maidenhead, kept pushing until he touched her womb, and then it was all over for him. He reared back, yelled to the ceiling of the bedchamber, then stared, frozen, down at her, and collapsed heavily on top of her. He managed to kiss her ear.
He was dead, or very nearly, and who cared? He felt wonderful. He felt whole. He no longer felt the surge of lust that had driven him mad; he felt complete, his world was perfect, and he was very sleepy. Hit to his soul, he was. He kissed her cheek, tasted the salt of her tears, and he wondered only an instant about that, and fell asleep, his head beside hers, dead weight on top of her.
Corrie didn’t move, wasn’t about to move. He was still inside her, and she was content to lie there absorbing the feelings, letting the pain ease away from her, feeling his sweat drying on her body, feeling the smooth pumping of his heart against hers, feeling the hair on his chest against her breasts. He’d touched her breasts, touched between her legs—looked at her—and come into her like he was going to ram through a door.
He gave a light trilling snore. He was asleep? How could he be asleep? She didn’t want to sleep. She wanted to pace the bedchamber, perhaps stagger a bit because she hurt, deep inside, but it was fading quickly now. Her tears were drying and itching her flesh, and he was heavy on top of her, and he felt wonderful, big and solid, perfect, truth be told, and he was hers.
He was also still inside her, but not so much now. She was naked, James was naked, and he was snoring lightly in her left ear, and what was one to think about that?
The room was cooling down. She tried to move, but couldn’t. Should she wake him up and ask him to pull himself out of her, perhaps cover himself before he went back to snoring?
No. She managed to pull the counterpane over both of them. That was better. It was nearly dark, the light dull and gray as it filtered through the window curtains.
She clasped her fingers together at the middle of his back, lightly squeezed. Her husband, this man who was once the boy who’d tossed her into the air when she was a little mite of a thing, and he’d tossed her one too many times and she’d vomited on him. She didn’t remember doing that, but her Aunt Maybella would laugh even today when she remembered it. “James,” Aunt Maybella said, “didn’t pick you up again for at least a year.”
And she remembered very clearly when he’d explained her woman’s monthly flow to her when she was thirteen and he barely twenty, a young man, but he’d done it, and he’d done it well. She realized now that he’d been embarrassed, had probably wanted to run, but he hadn’t. He’d taken her hand, and he’d been kind, matter-of-fact, then told her the cramping in her belly would go away soon. And it had. She’d trusted James more than anyone in her life. Of course, he and Jason were gone much of the time, to Oxford, then young men turned loose on London. He’d been so very grown-up when he’d been home, and that’s when she’d learned how to sneer.
Corrie sighed deeply, tightened her hold around his back, realized that he wasn’t inside her any longer, and fell asleep herself, his breath warm and sweet in her ear.
JAMES WANTED TO shoot himself. He couldn’t believe what he’d done.
And now Corrie was gone. She’d left him, probably returned t
o London to tell his father and mother that their precious son had first ravished her and then fallen asleep on top of her, not a sweet or comforting word out of his mouth before his head had hit the pillow.
He rose, shivered because no one had come to light the fire in the grate, thank God, and saw that her valise was in the corner. He felt immense relief. She hadn’t left him.
There was a knock on the door. “Milord?”
“Yes?” He looked around for his own valise.
“It’s Elsie, milord, here with hot water for yer bath. Her ladyship said ye’d be wanting it.”
Five minutes later, James sat in the large copper tub, hot water lapping at his chest, his eyes closed, wondering what the devil he was going to say to his wife of, what was it? Oh yes, his wife of approximately six hours. She’d sent up hot water for him. What did that mean?
At least she hadn’t left him.
The hot water sank all the way through him, and he let himself sink deeper until he was nearly asleep again.
“I had no idea that this marriage business would require you to sleep for a week to recuperate. How do men accomplish anything at all, if—” She stalled.
He didn’t open his eyes. “Thank you for sending up the water. It’s nice and hot, as I like it.”
“You’re welcome. You’re looking quite lovely in that tub, James, all sprawled out, just hints of what’s under that water.”
He cocked open an eye at that. Corrie was gowned in a lovely green wool, her hair was up in a knot on her head, but her face was pale, too pale. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Corrie. I’m sorry that I rushed you. How do you feel?”
She flushed. She’d thought she was beyond that, believed nothing could make her tongue-tied or embarrassed, not after what he’d done to her, but here she was flushing like a—a what? She didn’t know; she felt like a fool, and somehow a failure. “I’m quite all right, James.”
“Would you wash my back, Corrie?”
Wash a man’s back? “All right. Where’s the sponge?”
“Here’s a cloth.” He brought it up from the depths of the water. Where had that cloth been? She swallowed, took the cloth, and was relieved to move behind him.
That long stretch of back, the muscles well-defined, smooth, and she wanted to throw that wretched cloth across the room and smooth soap over his back with her hands, feel him, let her fingers learn him.
She rubbed soap on the cloth and went at it.
He sighed, leaning more forward.
“Do you want me to wash your hair?”
“No, that’s all right. I’ll do it. Thank you. That was wonderful.”
He held out his hand and she dropped the wet cloth into it. Then he started washing himself.
“Men have no modesty.”
“Well, if you wish to watch, there’s little I can do to stop you.”
“You’re right,” she said, sighed, and went to sit in a chair across the room. She sighed again, stood up, and pushed the chair much closer, not more than three feet away from him in his tub. James grinned, went underwater, and then washed his hair.
He knew she was watching him and that felt good, actually. Surely she must like him, surely she’d forgive him if he asked her just right.
“It won’t be like that again, Corrie.”
“Rinse the soap out of your hair.”
He went underwater again, then came up, and shook his head. Dear God, he was so unutterably beautiful, it hurt.
“I promise you it won’t. I am very sorry about your first time. It was ill-done of me.”
“It was rather fast, James, rather rough, truth be told. You didn’t kiss my knees.”
He gave her a lopsided grin. “I swear I’ll take excellent care of your knees next time. Do you still hurt? Did you bleed?”
Frank speaking indeed, she thought, and shook her head, staring down at the toes of her slippers.
“I thought you’d left me.”
That brought her head up. “Leave you? That never occurred to me. You and I have been through many adventures together, James. I consider this one more, not a pleasant one, but—”
James rose. What could he say to that? “Could you hand me that towel?”
She simply couldn’t move, couldn’t look away from him, standing there naked and wet, and she wanted to lick every drop of water off him. She gulped, tried to get hold of herself, and threw him the towel. Then she watched him dry himself. How could one gain such pleasure from so mundane a thing?
He knotted the towel at his waist. “When you take your bath later, do allow me to wash your back.”
The thought of that nearly sent Corrie whimpering to the floor. “All right,” she said, and then slapped her hand over her mouth.
James laughed. “Allow me to dress and we can eat our dinner.”
It was over dinner that James, seeing that Corrie was staring into her soup, said, “Please don’t fret, Corrie. We’ll get everything right, trust me.”
“Oh, no, it’s not that, James. I was thinking about my new father-in-law. I can’t help but be worried.”
“I know,” James said, and took a bite of cold mutton. “Jason is going to do everything but sleep in Father’s bed to keep him safe. Also, there are more men than you can imagine trying to trace the Cadoudal children. All we know so far is that they’re no longer in France, haven’t been in quite some time.”
“And there was their aunt, you know, their mother’s sister. I wonder what happened to her.” She was stirring her fork through the applesauce beside her pork kniver.
“I still have trouble believing it’s Georges Cadoudal’s son, since he and my father parted friends.”
“You said that your father rescued Janine Cadoudal. Surely she couldn’t have hated him, couldn’t have taught her children to hate him. He saved her.”
“Yes, and evidently she offered herself to him. But father was coming back to a new bride, namely my mother, and so he refused. When she discovered she was pregnant, she told Cadoudal that my father had forced her, and the child was his.”
“Oh dear, I can see that such a story would make Cadoudal furious.”
“Yes. Cadoudal kidnapped my mother, as revenge, took her to France, and when my father and Uncle Tony found her, she was miscarrying a babe. In any case, Janine confessed the truth to Georges, Father and Mother returned to England, and that was the last time he ever saw Cadoudal.”
“So she had a child.”
“My father said he heard something about the child dying, then there was nothing more.”
“I’ve always loved mysteries,” she said, her fork set on her plate now, as she leaned forward toward him, her chin resting on her clasped hands, “but I don’t like one that could hurt my new family. We’ll figure it out, James. We must find the son.”
“Yes.”
“James, you’re looking at me again.”
“Well, yes, you’re my dinner companion.”
“No, you’re looking dangerous and determined. You were wearing the same look before you ripped my clothes off.” She lowered her voice, leaned over the remains of her pork kniver. “It’s lust, isn’t it?”
Slowly, James rose, tossed his napkin on the table, and held out his hand. “How do you feel?”
“Full and—”
“Corrie, between your legs, are you still sore?”
She picked up an apple, polished it on her sleeve, took a tiny bite, then smiled at him. “I think,” she said, “that I’m ready for my bath. You said you would wash my back for me.”
He nearly shook and shuddered himself out of the small private parlor.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
JASON LOOKED INTO Judith McCrae’s dark eyes, felt himself fill with an odd mix of contentment and an excitement so powerful he wondered how a man could bear it. “Your eyes are darker than mine, at least at this moment.”
“Perhaps,” she whispered.
“My brother was just wed.”
“Yes.”
“I remem
ber looking up—was it the Ranleagh ball?—and there you were, staring at me all the while waving that fan, and my heart fell into my shoes.”
She drew back, but her hands still clutched at his arms. “Really? Is your heart still there? In your shoes?”
He grinned down at her. “My heart even collapses into my boots when I wear them.”
“I am nearly twenty. Did you know that, Jason?”
“You do not look your age.”
A giggle escaped.
“Does this mean you’re near to the back of the shelf?”
“Your wit—well, I never thought of it like that, you know, being unacceptable to a gentleman because I was no longer as young as say, Corrie. I never considered that I would move in London society. The thought of going to London with the express reason of finding a husband, it simply never occurred to me. But then Aunt Arbuckle swooped into my life, brought me here, and introduced me to everyone.”
“Why didn’t you assume your aunt would introduce you into society?”
“There were fallings out, I guess you could call them, amongst everyone in my family. But no longer, thank God. I will tell you something, Jason. I was rather bored, I admit it, until I saw you—yes, it was the Ranleagh ball. I’m not an heiress like Corrie.”
“Why would that matter to me?”
“Well, you are a second son, Jason, no matter that you were born minutes after James.”
“I’m rich,” he said abruptly. “My legacy from my grandfather will keep me from penury. I can support a wife. I am thinking of breeding horses, Judith. It is something that suits me; unlike estate management, which suits James quite well. When the gods were casting the die, everything seems to have sorted out properly.”
“You mean you don’t mind being the second son? You don’t mind not being the future earl of Northcliffe?”
“Blessed hell, of course not. You said you never considered coming to London to find a husband. Well, I never considered being the earl of Northcliffe. My brother will make a fine earl when his time comes. And I, well, I will be myself and surely that is not too bad. Had you expected some burning sort of resentment on my part?”
Catherine Coulter the Sherbrooke Series Novels 6-10 (9781101562123) Page 88