The Other Guy's Bride

by Connie Brockway

  And then she was kissing him. Not a gentle, questing kiss, but a hot, searing, opened-mouthed kiss. Her hands were bracketing his face as she lifted her body up along his, her legs rising to wrap around his hips.

  And his body reacted before his mind had time to engage.

  He reached down and rucked up the robes that kept her from him, his tongue deep in her mouth, reveling in the taste of her, the heat, and the urgency of their kiss. His hands found her round, firm buttocks and lifted her higher, a rumble rising in his chest at the delicious torment of her rubbing against his cock. Abruptly, she tore her lips from his and unwrapped her arms, and before he could even curse himself for being too bold and too rough, her hands dove down between their bodies. Heedlessly, she ripped his shirt apart, scattering buttons across the red and gold Persian carpet, and yanked it from his shoulders.

  She was intent on her work, her gaze fixed on his chest, her breath coming in little pants, her skin flushed. Her hands flowed down his chest, her palms riding the shift of muscle to his waistband. He felt the buckle coming undone. She jerked at his trousers’ strained buttons, releasing him. Her fingertips brushed against the swollen head of his erection.

  He closed his eyes, teeth clenched in an effort to force control over his overwhelming impetus. She was having none of it. He felt her knees hitch higher around his waist as she lifted herself on his chest, felt her rise up against him, rubbing into him, a sob of frustration deep in her throat.

  Nothing he had ever experienced before compared. He felt his honor shredded on raw desire, felt his principles blasted away in the furnace of passion. He tried. He chanted an inner mantra: She’s not mine his. She’s not—

  But she was. Damn his honor, damn Pomfrey, damn the world. She was his.

  “Please,” she whispered hoarsely. “I don’t know…I can’t…”

  He did. He could.

  He shifted his hands beneath her thighs, gripping her tightly, and lifted, seating himself at her slick opening. Slowly, he lowered her onto him, watching her face all the while, shuddering with the restraint he tried to exercise. She gasped with pleasure, and then the gasp turned to one of hurt surprise. Her gaze flew to meet his, a little betrayed, a little afraid. He moved once, breaking through the thin membrane, and held there. Her inner muscles clenched hard around him, instinctively trying to halt a deeper possession. Too late. He didn’t say a word, God help him. It was all he could do to stay there, rock-hard and immobile, and let her accustom herself to the feel of him.

  Her hands clamped down on his shoulders, her forehead pitched in a scowl, and beneath her robes her breasts moved in startled agitation. She started to rise up, to withdraw from this too intimate connection, and then he felt it, the slow release of her inner muscles, the gradual acceptance. Her eyes flickered wider by another degree, again surprised, but no longer betrayed.

  He clasped her soft hips in his hands and rocked against her, into her. A small cry escaped her throat and wonder filled her face. Bracing herself with her hands on his shoulders, she pushed down, bringing him deeper inside of her, then lifted, slowly gaining rhythm as she worked his body to her own untried purposes.

  He took it as long as he could, jaw clenched, eyes shut tight against the sight of her awakening desire lest it take him to crisis before she was ready. But in the end her unpracticed moves, her soft mews of frustration proved too much.

  He lifted first one of her hands then the other to the cross-beam supporting the tent’s roof and curled her fingers tightly over them.

  “Hold on to this,” he whispered against her damp neck. He thrust deep into her. She gasped and held tight to the tent beam, his thrusts into her sending the lanterns swinging gently, so that the golden glow touched and released her ardent face, painting her in instances of passion transfixed. Again he thrust and again, hard, deep, but it was all gone, all control, all thought, only the knowledge that she was his.

  Dimly, he grew aware that she’d released the tent beam and her fingers were dug deeply into his shoulder muscles, that her legs were high and tight around his waist, and that she countered each of his thrusts with one of her own, awkward, exquisite little jerks, writhing against him, driving him mad in her quest for her own release. More than his own climax, he wanted to see her face when she found hers.

  He gripped her hips and held her hard against him, rocking into that soft mound, dragging his flesh against the small, silky bead of pleasure buried there. Her head fell back, her hands clenched in fists against his chest, and an anguished sound rose to her lips, her face straining.

  With a gasp, she came, suddenly, ravishingly. Her eyes flew open and locked with his, her expression amazed and confounded. His lust was rising to a crescendo, and he let go of it with one powerful thrust, his eyes never leaving hers, letting her see what she did to him, how she took him from himself, how she destroyed him.

  With a muted roar, he spilled himself hot and urgent within her.

  A part of him, the outlaw part, disreputable and covetous, exulted in what he’d done, while the shadow of the honorable man he’d meant to be recoiled.

  Gently, he lifted her, tenderly unhooked her legs from around his waist, carefully set her down. With a sound like a sigh, the robes fell from around her waist to her feet, concealing her. She swayed a little, and he caught her by the elbows. Her gaze searched his face, but he could not interpret that questing expression.

  It was too late for apologies, too late to be the sort of man she deserved. “It can be something more than that,” he said. “Something…better. I promise.”

  She was gazing at him uncomprehendingly. “Better?”

  The pools of golden light shed from the lantern still swayed overhead, revealing then concealing her face.

  “I am not a good man, Mildred. I have done things you would despise, but I have never killed a man and I have never taken from a man anything he rightfully owned.” He took a deep breath. “Until you.”

  She backed away a few steps. “Pomfrey owns me?”

  He found a smile for her affronted tone. She would rail at being called any man’s possession. “Not you. But the right to call you his bride.”

  The right to call her his bride and build her a house and buy her gowns and jewelry; the right to show her the world and see her eyes glow as she made some new discovery or learned some fascinating bit of minutiae; the privilege to introduce her to statesmen and officers and witness their admiration and her bemusement. All the things he would never be able to do. Because he was no one. A shadow. A living ghost.

  He had nothing to bring to a marriage, nothing to offer her in Pomfrey’s stead. Nothing.

  He’d selfishly, forcefully, and thoroughly compromised her. There’d been no tenderness, no regard for her virginity, no softly murmured encouragement or slow building of anticipation. She’d been terrified for four days, uncertain of her future, and then, when she’d been waiting for her would-be rapist to appear, he’d arrived instead. It was so natural, so understandable. In her sudden liberation from fear, in gratitude and relief, she’d responded instinctively by celebrating life at the most primal level. He’d used her spontaneous reaction as an excuse to take what he’d wanted, what he’d wanted since the moment he’d first seen her.

  She would be a fool to accept him, and Mildred Whimpelhall was no fool. But she was a lady. And he would be a gentleman. He would offer for her, and she would accept. What choice did she have? What choice had he left her?

  He took a deep breath. “Miss Whimpelhall, I cannot undo the last minutes, but I can make them right. If you would do me the honor of marrying me, I promise you that I will do everything within my power to try to make you happy.”

  “Undo? Make them right?” The surprise in her voice took him aback. He supposed he deserved that.

  “Yes,” he said stiffly. “Did you think I was so lost to decency that I wouldn’t ask?”

  “I didn’t think about it at all,” she said, her eyes flashing. “I wasn’t thinking.”<
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  She needn’t remind him of his sins; he knew them all quite well. But again, he supposed he deserved that, too. “You should do so now.”

  “Should I?” She sounded uncertain and defensive. She crossed her arms in front of her chest, but rather than making her look imposing, the gesture only succeeded in making her look incredibly young and vulnerable. “Why should I marry you?”

  “Why?” he repeated numbly.

  “Yes. Tell me why you want to marry me.”

  Because I am a selfish bastard. Because the thought of you in another man’s arms hurts deeper than a shank in my side. Because even if I never see you again and die sixty years hence, your image will be the last thing to fade from my mind’s eye. Because I want you. I want you.

  “I compromised you. I couldn’t…I am not without honor, regardless of how my actions seem to disprove that claim. Please, you must believe that.”

  “Oh, I do,” she said in an odd voice. The lantern had ceased its slow pendulum swing now, and her expression was lost in the dusky shadows. “I believe you are a most honorable man.”

  “Thank you.” If she believed in him, anything was possible. Somehow they would make this work. Somehow he would make her happy.

  “And while I am most cognizant of the honor you do me,” she said in a flavorless, oh-so-careful voice, “I am afraid I must decline your offer.”

  “What?”

  “I am not going to marry you,” she said.

  Her words made no sense. She wouldn’t marry Pomfrey without telling him what had happened or at least informing him that she was not the virgin he would insist on his bride being. She was simply too honorable. And she could not be so naïve as to believe that if she told Pomfrey the truth he would still marry her.

  Unless she did not know him at all.

  That had to be it. She felt obliged to honor her commitment to Pomfrey, without realizing that he would not have her. Of course she didn’t know him, how could she? She’d been a child when they’d been betrothed, and they’d been separated most of their engagement.

  Jim raked a hand through his hair. “Miss Whimpelhall,”—what idiocy to speak so formally now—“Mildred. You must marry me. You must realize that what I did has changed everything for all of us. Pomfrey included.”

  She frowned as though she was having difficulty comprehending what he was saying. “Because I am a…fallen woman?”

  He didn’t know how to answer. She had never flinched from frank talk before, and there had never been a time that required frank, clear-headed talk like now. She must be made to realize that Pomfrey would not have her. “Yes. I would never have said it in so many words,”—in fact, he’d throttle anyone who did—“but, yes.”

  “I see.”

  “Listen to me. I would do anything if only circumstances could be otherwise, but they are not. I am not the husband you would choose. I wish to God I was some other man. Still, I am hopeful that we can make a marriage work. You cannot deny there is passion between us. That must count for something.”

  His words seemed to drive home the immutability of what they’d done, for as he finished speaking she swayed. Even in the sparse light he saw her face drain of color.

  “Yes. Something. But no. I won’t marry you.” Her voice was shaky.

  He frowned, a growing sense of desperation seizing him. He realized he’d assumed she would agree without hesitation and that deep within him he’d been glad it had come this, pleased the issue had been forced, certain of his victory—yes, victory—and with that realization came guilt and self-loathing. He’d compromised her if not consciously, purposefully.

  And yet, she still refused him.

  “Mildred. Marry me. I will do whatever I can to make you happy.”

  “I have no doubt.” He could barely hear her.

  “Then marry me.” He reached across the distance dividing them and seized her upper arms and dragged her to him. She did not come voluntarily. That hurt him more than any words she could have said. He let her go and looked down into her face, willing her by the sheer dint of his resolve to consent to his proposal. “Please.”

  “No.”

  “Why? What if you are pregnant? What if you are with child?” he demanded, helpless and furious. “Have you thought of that? What will you do then?”

  “Pomfrey will provide for him.”

  “You poor, misguided fool,” he whispered. “Don’t you see? Pomfrey will not have you. He most certainly will not have another man’s bastard.”

  She met his gaze unblinking. “Pomfrey will not know,” she said in a clear, empty voice. “There are many ways to lose one’s virginity. I will claim one of them. And if I am pregnant, many children are born early.”

  He felt as if his heart stopped beating. He did not believe her. Her words ran contrary to everything he knew about her, everything he thought he knew about her. He shook his head slowly, negating her words, looking for some other explanation, some other reason for her refusal.

  “What did you think?” she asked, her emotions raw in her voice. “Pomfrey is a colonel with a brilliant career ahead of him. He has power and prestige, the respect of his superiors and the admiration of his men.”

  Each word cut him like a razor blade. He flinched as if he felt the lash on his back.

  “He is noble and honorable, though perhaps not so honorable as you, for as you have pointed out, he would refuse to marry me if he knew of this. Of us. But he has a venerable name, wealth, and status. You have…a horse.” Her voice broke on a sob. “I’m not going to give up my future because of a lapse in judgment.”

  A lapse in judgment. She could not have found better words to destroy him. Her words threw up a mirror, showing him in excruciating detail how far he fell short of any hope he could ever aspire to her hand.

  Of course. Of course she would choose to lie to Pomfrey rather than marry you. He would have done the same. He stood very still, very straight, like he had another time years before accepting a similar judgment: Worthless. Inferior. Only good dead.

  “You’ve obviously a much clearer view of things than I,” he said. “I commend you on your perception and, of course, your decision.”

  If possible, her face grew even paler, and he hated that, hated that he’d hurt her even now. He couldn’t stand to look at her, and so he grabbed hold of her wrist and pulled her toward him, spinning around and pulling her after him as he stalked from the tent.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, her voice rising in trepidation. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Where you’ve been wanting to go since the day we met, Miss Whimpelhall,” he ground out between his teeth. “To bloody Colonel Lord Pomfrey.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Though the newly discovered muscles deep within her ached and a sharp stab of pain occasionally lanced between her legs in protest, Ginesse mounted the one-eyed camel without any help. Silently, she waited as Jim set loose the remaining camels and sent them off with a smack on the rump into the desert. When he caught her eye, he explained shortly that he was no murderer and that the Tuaregs would eventually catch their camels.

  “How honorable,” she drawled furiously.

  “Not really. Or I’d leave them the horse, too,” he said, pitching additional water bags over the camel’s back and jerking Ginesse’s knee out of the way in order to cinch the saddle tighter. “But I figure everyone should pay for their stupidity, and he’s the cost of theirs.”

  That had been the last time he’d spoken to her. Which was wise because ever since he had told her he wished to God he was some other man, that though he could not undo the preceding minutes, he would nonetheless still act honorably and make it right, she been toying with the idea of unloading the rifle packed in a scabbard behind her and shooting him.

  What made it all so unendurable was that ten minutes before he’d made these comments he had been buried deep inside her and she had never felt anything more right in her life. Even now, she would not undo those moments
. He’d taught her the most intimate pleasure imaginable, a pleasure so deep, so intense, so shared that she hadn’t known where his body had ended and hers began. All that had existed had been a mounting anticipation, the narrowing spiral toward an exquisite crisis that had crashed over her, leaving her weak and vulnerable and clinging to him. Vulnerable because she loved him. The bastard.

  In the last few weeks, she’d learned that what she wanted, what she had always wanted, more than respect or admiration or approval or a place alongside her brothers in archaeological history, was to be seen for who she was, unencumbered by her accident-ridden past or by scholastic expectations or by the glow of her family’s illustrious careers. Jim Owens had only known her as a girl with a fertile imagination, an insatiable curiosity, and a romantic disposition—and some issues regarding impulse control. The girl who she was, not the girl she was trying to be.

  Just as she saw him.

  Cowboy, duke, store clerk, or Bedouin prince. Labels didn’t matter anymore. She didn’t see any of them. She saw a strong, stern-faced man; a man of rare laughter but great humor; a man thoughtful and deliberate, but capable of swift and bold action; a man well-read and well-seasoned; a gentleman and a scoundrel; capable, devious, and, damn him, honorable. The man she loved. The man she wanted.

  And now that she knew what she wanted, she would not be satisfied with anything less. If she couldn’t have Jim Owens’s heart, she wouldn’t accept any piece of him. She would not be part of some sad story of unrequited love. She would not spend her days hoping he did not come to regret his “honorable” offer. She had already spent too many years trying to be what she thought others wanted her to be. She wouldn’t spend her life trying to be Jim Owens’s beloved. She either was or she wasn’t.

  In spite of it all, she’d wanted to say yes. She’d wanted to believe passion, as he’d said, ‘must count for something.’ She wanted to believe that regardless of what he said, or did not say, he cared for her in a way that could become love. And if she spent enough time willing it to be so, she knew herself well enough to recognize that she would make herself believe it. Just like she’d made herself believe that she had a passion for archaeology and Egyptology that equaled her father’s or her brothers’.