Erin stared after her, bewildered. Who was Ermine? And what ring was she talking about?
Just then, Annie and Rosa came in, chatting happily and only mildly curious over the shouting they’d overheard as they came up the back stairs. They tried to ignore white folks’ business.
“Annie,” Erin said in a commanding tone, “who is Ermine?”
Annie exchanged a nervous glance with Rosa as her eyes grew wide with fear.
Rosa shrugged helplessly, indicating she had no choice but to tell her.
Annie swallowed hard, bowed her head as though apologizing for having to be the one to inform her. “Miz Ermine was Mastah Ryan’s fiancée befo’ you come along.”
Erin managed to ask, “What happened to her?”
“Nothin’ that I know of. She went over yonder to Europe with Miz Victoria to shop for weddin’ clothes and things, and they won’t be back till the end o’ summer.” She dared to offer a saucy smile and say, “She sho’ gonna be surprised when she comes back and finds out Mastah Ryan done took himself another bride.”
Erin was stunned.
To learn that Ryan had been officially engaged to another woman was astonishing, to say the least. And it certainly explained many things, like why some of the people she had met were so hostile.
But what puzzled her was the awareness of sudden—what? Resentment? Jealousy?
She wasn’t sure; she knew only that she was suddenly curious as to what other secrets were yet to be learned about her husband.
Chapter Fourteen
They had left amid a flurry of well-wishes, but by the time the carriage reached the main road, Ryan knew something was wrong. Erin had moved to the other end of the leather seat, as though attempting to get as far away from him as possible. He asked if anything was amiss, and she shook her head, turned to look out the window, and ignored him. Deciding once more that she was just a nervous bride, he settled back and closed his eyes. She would learn, sooner or later, that he was not going to cater to her moods.
Erin was trying to decipher what it all meant. If Ryan were officially engaged to someone else, how had her mother been able to cajole him so easily into marrying her? It was obvious he was a man of independence and free thinking, a nonconformist. She stole a look at him as he slept, marveling he could be so relaxed the way the carriage was jouncing on the road. Her husband. But who was he, really, this enigma of a man? What was it that motivated him, made him what he was? It was important that she find out, for he was to be her life from this day forward—an important part of it, anyway.
With each passing day, her own determination grew, her desire to help the oppressed. Yet it all had to be done in secret, and if she was to operate successfully, she would have to learn all there was to know about her husband. It would be necessary to anticipate his every mood, to foresee his reaction to any situation. Yet, as she stared at him, Erin knew somehow that Ryan was complex, and it would be only with the greatest acumen that she would ever be able even to remotely understand him.
She tried to sleep but was too tense, for there was so much to think about.
Just as darkness descended, Ryan was awakened by the driver calling down, wanting to know where he should turn. Ryan looked out the window, familiarizing himself with the landscape, then replied, “Not much farther. You’ll see a road to the right, winding down toward the river.” He sat back to smile at Erin. “Were you able to get any sleep?”
“No.” She returned to her vigil at the window, grateful he did not pursue conversation. But she heard his sigh, could feel his curious eyes on her.
In the purple glow of twilight, Erin could see that the world about her was quite beautiful. They were fast approaching a tiny, vine-covered cottage situated on a grassy knoll with a commanding view of the waterway. It was sheltered by graceful weeping willows and looked cool and inviting.
The carriage stopped at the end of a flower-lined path. Ryan got out and helped her alight.
Erin watched as the servant unloaded her trunk and Ryan’s leather valise and took them inside. Ryan told him to return by eight the next morning, because he wanted an early start while it was still cool. He then got back up in his coach seat and took the reins to set the team of horses back in the direction they had just come.
“Where is he going?” she wanted to know.
“There are servants’ quarters near the main house.”
Puzzled that no one was about, no sign of host, hostess, or servants, she asked why. Ryan explained as he led the way up the walk, “The man who owns this estate is a special friend of mine, as I told you, and he lets me use this cottage sometimes. When I sent word we wished to spend our wedding night here, he was most agreeable and said he’d take care of everything and see that we had complete privacy.
“Do you think you can get by one night without a handmaid, my dear?” he couldn’t resist teasing.
She was quick to inform him, “I don’t have a handmaid. I take care of my personal needs myself. But what about you? Do you think you can get by without your valet?”
“Of course.” He grinned down at her as he reached to open the door. “I have you instead.”
“You’ve got a lot to learn,” she muttered, brushing by him.
“And so have you.”
Erin chose not to continue the verbal warfare and instead began to remove her gloves slowly as she looked around. They were in a small sitting room, with sofa and chairs positioned before a fireplace, not in use, of course, for the late August day was quite warm. She could see the bedroom through an open door but glanced away quickly, not about to dwell on that.
Before a window with a commanding view of the seascape, a table had been set. Covered with a cream-colored linen cloth, the place settings were of gold and pink china and elegant crystal and silver. Tapers were burning in an ornate silver candelabra. A bottle of champagne waited in a bucket of cooling water. There were platters of sliced meats—ham and roast beef—as well as cheeses, breads, and fruits.
Erin turned, startled to find Ryan standing right behind her.
“Get used to my being behind you, my darling,” he murmured warmly, placing possessive hands on her shoulders as his lips brushed her forehead, “as well as beside you, for always.”
She tried to move from his grasp, but he held steadfast. With blue eyes becoming stormy in the soft glow of the candles, he reminded her, “This was what you wanted, Erin. Marriage. It’s time for you to get used to being a wife, so you can stop cringing every time I touch you.” With that, he released her.
She glared up at him in silence, for there was nothing she could think of to say for the moment.
“Would you like to eat now?” he asked with exaggerated courtesy. “Our host certainly made sure we had everything we could possibly want.”
She gave her head a toss, felt her heart pounding in her chest. “No. Nothing for me. I’m not hungry.”
Tension descended like an invisible shroud as they faced each other. The only sound was that of a distant whip-poor-will calling to his mate, and the kiss of the willow fronds as they brushed the sides of the cottage.
“I’m sure you’ll find everything you need in the bedroom, along with your trunk. Why don’t you change into one of the gowns I sent you, and then we’ll have the champagne in here?”
For a moment, Erin could only stare at him in absolute shock and then was barely able to whisper, “The gowns you sent…”
“Yes.” He was watching her, puzzled. “You did receive the lingerie from Fine Things, didn’t you?”
“Fine Things,” she helplessly echoed once more. Surely, he was aware she had returned everything. Wasn’t that why he had gone out of his way to make things so lovely for the wedding, to apologize for insulting her? Yet he was behaving as though he knew nothing.
He took her reaction to mean she was registering disapproval of the shop. “Yes, from Fine Things, Erin, and don’t look so shocked. You saw the name on the box, I’m sure.”
“Bu
t—” she began, then fell silent, not sure of what to say.
“If more wives bought their lingerie at places like Estelle’s, there might be fewer places like hers operating. Next time, you can pick out your own.” He dismissed her as he went to open the champagne.
When she made no move to go, Ryan asked softly, “Are you sure you don’t need a handmaiden, Erin? I’ll be glad to help if you can’t manage to undress yourself.”
At that, she rushed into the bedroom and closed the door, leaning against it to hear him chuckling to himself. Damn! She cursed under her breath. Why hadn’t Madame Estelle told him? And why had he gone to so much trouble? And why had he so easily turned from his fiancée, and—oh! Never had she been so bewildered by so many things.
Ryan was smoldering, and not from desire alone. That, he could deal with. The way Erin was acting was something else, and he was finding it increasingly difficult to contain his anger. Who the hell did she think she was, anyway? He had bent over backward to give her a nice wedding, because he knew she had to be under a lot of pressure. There were, no doubt, feelings of insecurity she had to deal with. He had seen how some of the guests, both at the wedding and the engagement party, had looked at her with contempt. He didn’t like that, didn’t want it, and was stupid enough to try and make it up to her. He’d given her the ring for show, so everyone would come nearer believing his explanations for the hasty marriage. The roses had been his own special gift, a nostalgic reminder of the night they had met. Yet, on their journey here, she had frostily ignored him. And now, when the moment was at hand for the consummation of their marriage, she dared act shocked that he was even expecting it. Damn it, didn’t the little vixen know she was driving him crazy?
The champagne cork popped loudly, its contents sloshing over the neck of the bottle to splash on the front of his suit. Irritably, he stripped to the waist, tossing coat and shirt aside. What difference did it make, anyway? Soon he was going to be naked, and so was she, whether she liked it or not.
He was starting to feel like a fool, and he wanted revenge for his pride.
He reached for a glass, cursing to himself. Filling it with champagne, he tossed it down unceremoniously. Staring at the closed door, he made up his mind that if she did not appear in five more minutes, he was going in.
Erin had heard his curses and moved from the door. Her trunk was on the floor beside the dressing screen. There was nothing to do but open it and put on the outfit she had brought as her final retribution for his insult—a dowdy, plain muslin gown that fit her like the feed sack it had been fashioned from.
Ryan was glad his friend had provided several bottles of champagne, because he was well into the second when he decided he’d overextended his self-imposed limit for Erin’s appearance. She had been in that room for over half an hour, and he’d not heard a sound. Enough was enough. “Are you going to join me in here, Mrs. Youngblood, or would you prefer that I come right into the bedroom and dispense with courtly preliminaries?”
Erin hesitated, then bit back an angry retort. One day, my arrogant husband, she silently, furiously vowed, you will know what it means to beg, rather than demand.
She took a deep breath and flung the door open.
Ryan at first could only stare in disbelief. She stood there, sable hair brushed to fall loosely about her shoulders, blatant defiance glimmering in her chestnut eyes, the play of a taunting smile on her lips. With hands on her hips, bare feet slightly apart, she gave her head a haughty toss and said, “I pick out my own lingerie, Mr. Youngblood. I thought you knew I returned your selections to Madam Estelle.
“Didn’t I make it clear I don’t intend to be your whore?” she testily added.
A shadow passed, wiping away surprise to leave fury in its wake. “I never wanted you for my whore, Erin. And no, she didn’t tell me. Maybe,” he said slowly, evenly, “she was afraid to, afraid of how I might react to such an insult.”
“You—you’re insulted?” Erin stammered, aghast that he could even hint at such a thing. “How do you think I felt, receiving lingerie from such a place, picked out by my husband-to-be?”
At that, he blazed, “When are you going to stop playing the role of shy, indignant virgin, Erin? It doesn’t become you. I sent you those things because I was stupid enough to think you might have some passion in your bones, that you might want to try and keep me away from another woman’s bed. But I see now I was wrong. You don’t care. You married me for material reasons, social position…”
“Why did you agree?” She could not hold back her resentment any longer. She stepped from the doorway. Yes, she acknowledged to herself, he was devastatingly desirable standing there broad-shouldered and bare-chested, the thick mat of chest hairs trailing down provocatively. “Why did you agree to marry me…when you were already engaged to someone else?”
He shrugged. It didn’t matter, but he knew he owed her an explanation. “I never wanted to marry her in the first place. That was my mother’s idea. She arranged it.”
“You even gave her an engagement ring.”
Another shrug. “I can afford lots of rings, Erin.” Damn, he inwardly cursed himself, he didn’t want it to be this way, but she left him little choice but to fight back.
“Bastard! Who the hell do you think you are?”
“I’m your husband, Erin.” He started toward her again. “You got what you wanted. Now it’s my turn.”
Instinctively, she stepped back, even though she really had no fear of his becoming violent. Only carnality, and a glimmer of amusement, were mirrored in his gaze.
He turned the champagne bottle up to his lips once more, then looked at her thoughtfully and said, “I thought we’d be sharing this.”
“Drink it yourself.”
He smiled crookedly as he shook his head slowly from side to side and whispered, “No, my sweet. I’ve got something else in mind.”
She began to back into the bedroom, feeling uneasy.
He followed her, like a cat stalking prey. He continued to sip from the bottle. “Didn’t you learn anything from your previous lesson, my sweet? Didn’t you learn who’s the master and who’s the slave here?
“As for your gown,” he sneered, “you don’t even need one.” His hand snaked out to clasp the neckline and easily ripped the garment from her.
“Damn you,” she cried, attempting to cover herself with her arms, whirling about, looking for cover.
For an instant, he could only stare, for the sight of her naked body was intoxicating, paralyzing. He felt himself grow hard, and set the bottle aside to unfasten his trousers.
She watched, angry and terrified all at once.
When he, too, was naked, she could not help but look at him and see the raw proof of his desire…and intent.
He gave her a gentle shove that sent her sprawling backward on the bed. He retrieved the champagne bottle and slowly positioned himself beside her.
She looked up at him mockingly and said coldly, “So take what you want and be done with it.”
“Be done with it?” he echoed, laughing at the incredulity of such a notion. “You can’t be serious, Erin. This is something to enjoy and savor, like fine wine and champagne…” His words trailed away as he took another swallow before continuing, “I was trying to figure out a way we could both enjoy this, and I think I just found one.”
She screamed as the cold liquid dripped slowly onto her breasts, writhing at his touch as he smeared it across her bare skin with his fingertips. “What—what are you doing?” she cried, feeling a warm tingling despite her fury.
“Relax, my lovely. I’m not going to waste good champagne. I’m going to savor every drop.” He leaned then to lick one nipple, delighting in the taste of the wine on his tongue along with the feel of her hardening at his touch. He began to suckle gently, rolling his tongue all the while, his hand kneading and cupping the firm flesh. He moved to the other, licking the champagne, then sucking and rolling his lips against her. He was aware of how her heart had
begun to pound, and her chest started heaving with her own unbridled longing. Her head had rolled to one side on the pillow, and she was clutching with her hands, arching her back in unchained pleasure.
He knew she was fighting for control, no doubt intending to submit passively and make him the total aggressor. He knew well how to play that game, for he had invented the rules, prided himself on bringing ultimate satisfaction to any woman he bedded.
He maneuvered to allow the champagne to drip onto her belly, then trickle slowly, sensually, downward and between her legs. He felt as though he were going to burst for want of fulfillment, agonized by the throbbing of yearning to enter the sweet-hot flesh and have the velvet softness wrap around him. But he had also learned self-control in his enjoyment of women and could hold back for hours, if that was what it took to make his partner writhe and moan with ecstatic delight.
Positioning himself, he spread her thighs, pausing to trail a forefinger between. She stifled a moan as he found the pinnacle of sensation. For long, torturous moments, he massaged it with his thumb, watched her half-closed eyes, the soft gasps that escaped her lips, the way her tongue so often licked from side to side.
“Tell me you want me, Erin,” he commanded gently, smugness thick in his tone, for he knew she was helpless. “Tell me you want me, and you’ll have me inside you, to take you for my wife, my woman…”
Almost violently, she shook her head from side to side. Clamping her teeth tightly as she fiercely clutched the edge of the pillow, Erin thought how much kinder rape would be at that moment. To render her helpless with ecstatic torture was humiliating and demeaning, and she hated him for it, while at the same time wanting him so fiercely it was like a burning knife in her loins.
Then she felt him withdraw, dared hope he was about to take her then and there, yielding to his own hunger. Abruptly she felt the tormenting trickle of the champagne once more. She cried out loud as his mouth closed over that almost painfully sensitive nucleus of pleasure.
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