by Jenny Brown
Still, she longed to put to an end the uncertainty that still hung over their marriage. He’d acknowledged her to his people. It must be time to take the final step, if only so that she need no longer torment herself wondering if he would set her aside. Their marriage must be consummated.
She felt downright brazen, so strongly did she long for it to happen right now, despite the voice within that counseled caution. Even if he didn’t love her as some innocent young miss might wish to be loved, what of it? She’d never been innocent, and she couldn’t remember ever feeling young. He’d acknowledged her as his bride in front of all his people. That was worth something. And even if he never learned to love her, when the marriage was consummated she would have children who would—cherished children, on whom she could lavish her adoration, children who would have a father and a name.
But perhaps it was the thought of those children that explained why Adam hesitated as he approached her bed. Despite his newfound resolution to find a way to accept her parentage, he could have no wish to father Isabelle’s grandchild, especially not here, in the home he’d last shared with Charlotte. Zoe could only imagine the memories he must have had to contend with on his return here yesterday. They must have driven home, again, how high a price he paid for doing his teacher’s will.
But even so, he’d done it, and if she was willing to make the best of it, so must he. She couldn’t bear to spend much longer playing the role of his wife here in front of his retainers, while knowing he could still have their marriage annulled. If he wouldn’t take the next step, perhaps she must be the one to help him do it.
She cast her mind back to what she’d heard her mother say on the subject of encouraging the growth of a man’s passion, but all that came to mind was her insistence that a woman must never let a man see her first thing in the morning—not until she’d washed herself, arranged her hair, and reapplied her paint.
If that was the case, Zoe was already doomed. Adam had already seen her in her rumpled nightgown with her long tresses lying in knotted tangles around her shoulders. Suddenly self-conscious, she sat up and gathered up a few handfuls of hair to wind back into a bun, looking for her hairpins, which she remembered putting on the table beside the bed before sleep. But Adam reached out a hand to stop her.
“Leave it down” he said softly. “It’s so beautiful that way. I didn’t know it was so long and thick. You’ve always worn it up.”
“I must, otherwise it becomes a rat’s nest. It’s far too curly.”
“I think not.” He reached out and stroked one long tress, beginning at her ear and then following it down past her shoulder onto her bosom. As his hand brushed by her nipple, which was covered only by the thin lawn of her nightgown, Zoe felt a wave of longing surge through her body, but she steeled herself to give no sign of it. She was to be his wife, not a woman of pleasure, and she must be careful to start as she meant to go on.
As she controlled herself, she saw uncertainty flicker in his eyes. Then he drew his hand away. Had he been disappointed with what he found? Her bosom was so very small, though that couldn’t have come as much of a surprise, to him. He must have noticed it by now.
“Perhaps they’ll grow as I get older.”
“Your hair? Hair always grows.” He sounded confused.
She could feel herself blushing. “I thought perhaps you found my figure disappointing. There’s so little there.”
He laughed. “There’s more than enough. Why did you think me disappointed?”
The blush she’d felt before was nothing to the burning she felt spread across her face now. Did he really expect her to speak with him of such things? “You took your hand away.”
“And you thought that meant I didn’t like to touch you?”
She nodded.
He sat beside her on the bed. The mattress sagged as he put his weight onto it and she couldn’t help but lean in toward him.
“I like touching you, Zoe, very much. But the situation is daunting.”
“It is for me, too. I don’t know how a wife is supposed to behave with her husband. Everything I’ve learned about such matters was taught me by my mother and her friends, and they had no wish to act like wives. The things they did were meant to captivate and enslave their men. I shouldn’t think you’d want that from me.”
He grinned. “I can’t say. I’ve never been captivated or enslaved before. I might enjoy it. What does it entail?”
She pondered this. “Well, their art was mostly a matter of letting you see what you might have, while holding it back at the same time—to make you want it more.”
“I’m not sure I understand. Could you could give me an example?”
She cast her mind back for some example that would not be too embarrassing. Not the tale of how Paulette had restored the admiral’s ardor by dressing in a midshipman’s uniform. But what? At last she said, “Well, there’s that thing they would do with their bosoms—they all have such lovely ones. My mother would let her décolletage drop down like this.” She pulled down the neckline of her nightgown, opening up the top buttons so that the gentle curve of her own small bosom was revealed. “Then she’d move so.” She thrust out her chest and moved her shoulder in a seductive wiggle. “Then the man would reach for it and she’d laugh and slap at his hand saying, ‘Foolish man’ or something like that. The men always loved that, though I could never see why.”
“Did your mother enjoy it?” His tone made her think he really wanted to know.
“I can’t say for sure, but I think she did.”
“How come?”
“Because it made the men want her more.”
“But you wouldn’t like it, would you?”
“No. I don’t see the point of it.”
“Then you must have been relieved when I removed my hand just now.”
She felt herself blush again and her nipples hardened at the memory of how she’d felt when he’d touched her. “That was different.”
“Why?”
She dropped her head, too embarrassed to reply. What would he think of her if he knew the truth?
He pressed on. “Would you have slapped my hand away, if I’d let it linger?”
Her nipples were on fire with need of him by now, but all she said was “No.”
His lip turned up with mischief. “Because you’d have enjoyed it?”
Again she nodded dumbly, awash in embarrassment, wishing she had her mother’s ability to lie, just this once, so he wouldn’t know how unsuited she was to responding as befit a wife. “I suppose I’m very shameless.”
“No.” The golden sparkles in his gray eyes danced with amusement. “Just very honest. Your mother was right. You would have been a complete failure as a courtesan.”
Her heart sank. “I can’t help being the way I am,” she said stiffly. “It was you who wanted to marry me.”
“Yes. And it has long been a principle with me to only marry women who fail utterly at being courtesans.”
Without another word, he reached out and pressed his long, tapered fingers where her nipple lay hidden below the thin fabric of her gown. Then he drew a languid circle around it, dragging the tip of his fingernail along the rim. When she thought she couldn’t bear the sensation a moment longer, his hand dropped lower and cupped her breast. His fingers closed tightly around it for a moment, kneading the firm flesh, and then relaxed, before returning to her nipple and stroking it gently, making small circles spread out through her body like the ripples a pebble made when dropped into a pond.
She drew in a sharp breath.
“Does that please you?” he asked quietly.
“Oh yes. But why would anyone want to slap a hand away when it could give them such pleasure?”
“Because it would strengthen the man’s desire if you treated him that way. You mother is right. A woman can get power over a man by denying him what he wants.”
“Then I must learn to do so.”
“Why?” His eyes darkened.
S
he wanted to stay silent, but his steady gaze forced her to speak, though her voice was barely a whisper. “So you will finally want me.”
“I want you now,” he said, so softly that she could barely hear him. “I’m wild with longing for you. But I mustn’t give in to that longing, not yet.”
“Why not?”
“We have a lifetime to spend together. There’s no rush—and I don’t want to frighten you.”
He had let his hand drop again, leaving her taut with longing. But he wouldn’t meet her eye. He was telling the truth. But not all of it. Carefully she said, “You could frighten me, still, with your anger, but not with your touch.” She reached for his hand and brought it back to where it had been, on her breast.
As if her words had freed something in him, he stretched out beside her on the bed. Releasing her breast, he took her hand in his and pulled it toward him. She let him guide it toward his shirt as he pulled it up with his other hand before placing her fingers on his chest. She felt the wiry hair that guarded his nipples and let his hand guide her toward the tiny nubs that crowned them. She stroked one experimentally, wondering if it felt to him the way her nipple had when he’d touched her there.
As her fingers stroked him, he sighed with pleasure. The flesh of his nipple hardened. Hers did, too.
He reached his other arm around her and nuzzled her gently as he pressed her against his muscular chest. “It feels so good to hold you. I can barely control myself. You don’t have to slap my hand away to drive me wild.”
She let her hand trail downward from his nipple, over the muscular ridges of his chest. His skin there was so smooth. The corresponding parts of her own body awakened as she stroked him, as if one network of nerves connected them. Her exploring fingers drifted lower, past his chest, until she met something with no counterpart in her body—the long, silken hairs that grew in a sleek line down the center to his belly.
She teased them with her fingers, wondering at the texture of the hair, and the springy resistance it made to her touch. His stomach was so flat and hard. As her fingers encountered the curling wisps of hair, she wondered if they were the same reddish gold as the tuft that curled so bewitchingly at his throat.
It was only when she came to the barrier of his breeches and fumbled uncertainly with the edge that she felt him tense, but still he didn’t stop her. He let out a long, drawn-out breath, and then reached over and quietly unbuttoned the buttons, allowing the front flap to fall open. Drawn inexorably downward, her fingers followed the soft fur farther, more hesitantly now, knowing what it would lead to.
As her fingers tangled in the thickening tuft, she made her hand veer away from the central line of his body, fearing what might happen were she to tease his rod, which already jutted against his drawers. She remembered how quickly he’d responded that night in the inn—and how quickly she’d felt overwhelmed. She wasn’t ready for that, not yet, much as she wanted to be. So she contented herself with running her fingertips over the hard bones of his hip and his squared-off flank, delaying.
Then, as if reading her mind, he took her exploring hand in his and stopped its advance. “There’s no need to rush,” he said. “We have a lifetime together.”
He brought his lips down on hers and kissed her as if he wanted to pour himself into her. At his touch, her lips melted into his. A golden light poured through her center, reaching her very heart, as she tingled with the need his lips ignited in her. Joy pulsed through her body as his lips danced with hers. His tongue, so giving and yet so firm, taught her a new kind of pleasure as she hovered on the brink of bliss.
She knew only him—the smell of his hair, like flowers, and the scent of his skin, sharp and tangy, which called her to nestle more closely against him. Their kiss dissolved into a sobbing breath as he finally released her, and she heard herself gasp.
“It’s you who have enslaved me,” she said softly. “I shall die if you don’t kiss me that way again.”
“Then I must kiss you.” His russet lashes dropped over his steel gray eyes. “I am vowed to save life, not to end it.” He brought his lips down on hers, filling her with bliss and intolerable longing. His hand stroked her ruined cheek, but even that didn’t mar her joy.
She was all he’d ever wanted, more beautiful than dawn. The sweet taste of her was so perfect, he felt himself spiraling into complete abandon, wanting nothing more than to learn at last what it felt like to lose himself in the fullness of the comfort she offered.
But deep within, a voice broke through the madness that gripped him. Would you trick her once again? And this time beyond any remedy?
His hand froze. What had he let himself drift into, disarmed by her light tone and the unexpected flirtatiousness that had engulfed them both?
His animal nature, now fully roused, battled against the voice of conscience. His prick throbbed with wanting of her. She was his wife. It was permitted. Why shouldn’t he thrust himself into her welcoming softness and be done with it? Not only was it permitted, it was required. The Dark Lord himself had commanded it.
But he’d already let the Dark Lord’s command lead him to do things he’d known were wrong. He’d already violated Zoe’s spirit with the spell. He mustn’t take her body until she understood, as she could not now, what it would really mean.
He stroked her face, gently, one last time. Then drawing on the last of his strength that had not been consumed by desire, he pulled away from her, breathing hard.
When he opened his eyes he was amazed to realize that they were both still partly clothed. She must have had the same realization for as he released her she reached for the hem of her shift, as if preparing to pull it up over her head and discard it.
He clamped one hand on her wrist to stop her. “No. Not now.”
She shrank away as if slapped. “It was my face, wasn’t it? Why did you have to touch it? That ruined everything!” There was anguish in her voice.
He felt her pain as if it had been his own, and understood, too late, what caused it. “That wasn’t why I stopped,” he protested. “I love your face, because you live inside it. Didn’t my kiss teach you how beautiful I find you?” He stroked her cheek again as gently as he could. “I find you too beautiful. It’s taking all I have to rein in my longing to possess you.”
She lifted his hand away. “If that’s true, why must you deny it? Must the Dark Lord’s heir still be chaste?”
He shook his head, no. “It isn’t that.”
“It’s Charlotte then. Because my mother killed her.”
His insides clenched at the old familiar pain, but that hadn’t been the reason, so he must not hide behind it. He must tell her the truth. “It’s not that, either.”
Though, in a way, it was Charlotte who kept them apart—and would until he found the courage to tell Zoe about the curse. Yet the very comfort and content he’d felt in her arms just now made it impossible for him to do it. How could he? When she knew the truth, she would leave him. He’d be alone once more—far more alone even than he’d ever been during all the long years of exile. For in her arms, he’d tasted a hint of what it would be like to not be solitary and accursed, and that taste would make it so much more painful to go back to being that way again. He couldn’t face a lifetime without her. He couldn’t bring himself to ruin everything by telling her the truth.
So he only said, “MacAlpin awaits me. I promised I’d tour the estate with him this morning, so I have to go and meet with him now, no matter how much I might wish I could stay here with you.”
And with that he jumped up and left her aching and alone in her virginal bridal bed.
Chapter 13
It tormented Adam to know how much he’d hurt his bride. But it terrified him, too, that he’d almost taken her just now, carried away by passion, forgetting what it would mean to consummate their union. He couldn’t trust that he would be strong enough to pull away should the same situation arise again.
If only his Pisces nature didn’t make him take everythin
g so seriously. A man born under a happier sign might have taken the easy way—and let the flirtatious mood they’d established lead them to their tryst’s logical conclusion, hoping for the best. But his father had hoped for the best, and look how that ended. Though it had torn his heart to have had to injure Zoe by leaving her so abruptly, he was glad he’d had the strength to do what was right. But he’d only done part of it. He must finish the job.
Though that hadn’t been why he’d left her, he had been telling the truth when he’d said he was supposed to meet with the bailiff, so he dressed and headed out to see MacAlpin. Of course, as he’d known it would, the route to the bailiff’s offices led him past the one room he hadn’t revisited since his return home. His sister’s room.
Last night, he hadn’t found the courage to enter it. He dreaded entering it now. But as he paused before her door, he knew he must confront what awaited him within if he were ever to fight his way out of the impasse to which he’d brought his marriage. The latch gave way easily at his touch. Only the creak of the rusty hinges gave testimony to how long it had been since anyone had entered the chamber. Once inside, he saw that nothing had changed since his sister had left it for the last time, when she’d gone to join him in Morlaix. His eyes took in her bed with its high sides, the shelf that held her books, and her crutch. He made himself look at them all, refusing to look away.
But whatever he’d expected to meet when he’d steeled himself to enter her chamber, it wasn’t here. He felt a strange mixture of relief and disappointment. Though she’d left her things behind, his sister was gone. It was only his need to reach her once more that had made him think he might find her here.
He wouldn’t. If he were ever to meet her again it would only be in his dreams, not here, where the poor husk that had constrained her soul had been confined. He stood quietly at the center of her room, surrounded by her things, taking deep breaths to slow his rapid pulse.