The Marriage Bargain

by Michelle McMaster

  The cat meowed and squirmed in her arms. She let him down unceremoniously and gave his rump a tap with her toe. “Off with you, then!”

  Hurrying downstairs, she finally convinced Josephine to feed her, and afterwards Isobel hung about the kitchen, which was buzzing with activity.

  “Whatever is going on, Josephine?” Isobel plopped a cube of pineapple into her mouth. “It looks as if the house is being laid out for a feast.”

  “It’s Cropover, m’lady.” Josephine smiled at her, the episode with the cat seemingly all but forgotten. “We gonna harvest de sugar soon, and we be needin’ all dis food for de celebration.”

  “Oh, do tell me about that, Josephine. It sounds wonderful!”

  “Well, dere’s dancin’ and singin’, and a whole lot of eatin’! We be startin’ dis evenin’.”

  “Really? I’m sure I’ve never done anything so thrilling before. Will you tell me what to do?”

  Josephine smiled at her and reached for another passionfruit. “You’ll know what to do, m’lady.”

  * * *

  Later that night, the feast began. Torches burned in the gardens, and huge tables were laid out with a delicious array of roasted pig, beef, chicken, baked fish, rice, spiced vegetables, fruits, cheeses, puddings, sausages and a variety of hearty breads. To drink, there was a selection of ciders, ales, juices, port wines, and sherries.

  Traditionally, Josephine said, all the workers were invited, along with their families. Isobel watched them talking and laughing with each other, their lilting voices floating on the air like music. They were dressed in colorful native clothing with wild designs. Many wore beads in their hair and around their necks.

  It was all so strange and exotic, like something out of a novel. Isobel loved every moment of it.

  She bit into a slice of mango and smiled at the strange, sweet taste. As Isobel wiped a bit of juice from her mouth, she looked up and saw Beckett walking across the grass. He wore his usual white shirt and tan buckskins, but had added a multicolored sash around his waist that made him look rather piratical.

  Isobel didn’t even attempt to keep her gaze off him. He looked like Adonis himself.

  The tawny waves of Beckett’s hair shone in the torchlight, as if daring Isobel’s fingers to touch it. As he made his way around the garden, Beckett laughed and talked with the workers, who greeted him with genuine smiles. Every now and then, he caught Isobel looking at him. Somehow his smile always seemed to fade, then. He seemed to regard her with unnerving seriousness.

  Isobel had dressed in a decidedly native style as well, in a turquoise blue frock that shimmered like the sea. Her hair was wound into an exotic style and adorned with a string of tiny seashells. Josephine had arranged it for her beautifully.

  Suddenly, floating out of the hot Bajan night, the drums pounded their wild rhythm. It was time for the dancing to begin. Isobel stood back and watched, captivated, as the torchlit garden pulsed with writhing bodies.

  The Bajans danced feverishly to a chorus of drums that was unlike anything Isobel had ever heard. The men and women swayed to the music, and through some sixth sense seemed to move perfectly in time with each other. Truly, it was like watching music in a physical form.

  How she envied them.

  Her body longed to be as free, as vibrantly alive.

  Isobel saw Beckett being pulled into the crowd, led by a beautiful young Bajan woman with masses of curly black hair and a fetching smile.

  Isobel’s heart gave a surprising lurch. She could see primal sparks traveling between her husband’s eyes and his partner’s as they began to dance. Though she tried to fight it, she felt a stab of ugly jealousy.

  Isobel watched their bodies pulse and sway and felt an unbidden desire to dance like that with Beckett.

  She wanted to see his eyes glowing blue fire at her as he held her close and moved to the drums’ driving rhythm. She wanted to feel the heat of the music moving in her veins. To close her eyes and throw her head back, and let the drums take her like a lover.

  Suddenly Josephine grabbed Isobel’s arm and pulled her into the middle of the pulsing throng. Isobel tried to protest, but her voice couldn’t be heard over the drums and the screeching of the crowd. So she kept moving along, feeling out of place and vulnerable.

  Comfort came slowly, bewitchingly, but Isobel began to sway. Her mind seemed to be in another place as her body had its own exquisite way, moving to the beat of the drums as easily as the people around her.

  Then, she saw Beckett.

  He still danced with the other young woman, but now his eyes were locked on Isobel—with a heavy gaze that seemed to pull her toward him.

  Isobel feared she might really swoon. If she were back in England it would have been a certainty, but she refused to do so here. She was going to let her pulse race, let her breathing become heavy, feel the muscles in her legs and arms, and let the drumbeat sing in her veins.

  She was going to experience her body in a way a proper Englishwoman would never dream.

  Beckett moved toward her through the crowd. Isobel stood transfixed. She was in his spell as surely as if he’d used obeah.

  He danced around her slowly, holding her gaze with his. She let him move around her, realizing for the first time the power she also held. It was new. It was reckless. And it was thrilling beyond words.

  Beckett danced in front of her, his body surprisingly fluid, his strong arms reaching out to touch her. But Isobel side-stepped him and twirled around, just out of his reach. His eyes burned brighter as he watched her, and a dangerous smile played upon his lips.

  Again he tried to touch her. Again she moved out of range. Isobel relished the power that flowed through her. She twirled around again, then abruptly found herself pressed up against his hard body like a wet sheet.

  It took her breath completely away.

  He gripped her arms and held her to him, his eyes travelling over her body. His hips pressed against hers and for an awful moment she worried about such a sensual exchange in public. But when she glanced about them, no one had taken any notice. They were all too involved with their own dancing.

  Beckett extended one arm and cradled the back of her neck in his hand, while the other held her hips glued to his. All the while his eyes bored into hers. She looked back at her husband, too spellbound to do anything else.

  The drums grew wilder, more insistent, and their movements followed the frantic beat. Beckett pressed her forcefully against his thigh, and pushed his leg between hers as they danced.

  She couldn’t stop herself from grinding against him. Her eyes were closed. Beckett pressed harder against her, and she felt her skirts being raised, his hands on the bare skin of her thighs, running up towards—

  Her eyes flew open, and she saw Beckett’s face inches away from hers. Desire glowed hot in his eyes.

  “Shall I make you burn for me, Isobel?” he asked, his voice dangerously quiet. “Shall I worship you with my body, the way I vowed to do at our wedding?” He pulled her closer. “Shall I finally make you my wife?”

  Isobel stared at him, speechless, held prisoner by Beckett’s body, his words, his gaze.

  Her husband seized her hand, pulling her back toward the house. She could barely recall how they arrived in her chamber. Through the gauze draperies, the torches lit the room from outside with a warm glow. The sound of the drums continued their relentless rhythm.

  Isobel heard the door latch click into place. The finality of the sound made her pulse race faster. Beckett turned around and gazed at her as he began to unbutton his shirt, and the sight sent a thrill up her spine.

  He reached for her hand and brought it slowly to his bared chest, placing her delicate palm on his warm, masculine skin.

  In one quick motion, Beckett slammed her body against his, his mouth possessing hers feverishly, his hands roaming over her with intensity. He pressed his thumb against the hard tip of her breast.

  Isobel tried to catch her breath. His dizzying touch intoxic
ated her; his hands were everywhere, circling her waist, in her hair, pulling her dress up to touch the bare skin of her thighs.

  Beckett’s hands moved upward and he pulled her dress down over her shoulders, uncovering her breasts. Isobel shuddered as he lowered his head, kissing her neck lightly, teasingly. She could hear herself breathing as if she’d just run a great distance. Good Lord, what was he doing to her?

  His lips closed around a hard nipple, then he flicked his tongue mercilessly back and forth across it, and her knees went weak at the exquisite agony.

  As she clutched at him, he lifted his head. “You like that, don’t you, my sweet?”

  Isobel whimpered as an almost painful desire teased the tips of her breasts and snaked down to curl between her legs.

  “Should I continue?” He kissed her mouth hard, then turned his attention to her neck.

  “Yes,” she gasped, breathless and weak, though she would surely die if this torment did not soon stop!

  But did she want it to stop? Curiously, the more unbearable the sensations were, the more of them she wanted. And she didn’t even know what it was that she so desperately needed.

  Suddenly, she was as wild and feverish as he was, her hands running over his bare back, down over his hips and over the buckskins that covered the round muscles of his buttocks.

  Beckett groaned at her challenging touch, and responded in kind, gripping her bottom and pulling her to him. She felt his hard arousal through his buckskins.

  Her arms tightened around his back as his hands went up and under her dress. Isobel’s eyes flew open as his fingers stroked her in a place for which she didn’t even have a name.

  Her heart beat so fast she thought it would burst. All her muddled brain could think of was how terribly good it all felt, and how much she wanted to continue this mad, incredible game.

  “I think it’s time I took you to bed, wife.”

  Beckett swung her up into his arms and carried her to the bed. She wanted him to hurry, though she feared what that would mean. Had this island’s powerful spell turned her into a wanton? However it had come to be, when Beckett put her down on the bed, she pulled him on top of her, wanting, needing to feel the weight of him.

  “Soon, sweet,” he whispered, and she heard a hint of laughter in his voice.

  Oh, how could he be laughing at a time like this—when she was dying!

  “Let us dispense with this bothersome garment,” Beckett said, quickly undoing her laces and sliding the dress over her head. “Ah… and this one, too.”

  She twined her fingers in his hair as he peeled away her underthings, her body wriggling shamelessly beneath him. His own clothes joined hers on the floor. Isobel felt the length and hardness of him, and her hands slid down to explore this body that was so different from her own.

  Beckett hissed a breath inward, and she felt him shudder as she stroked the softest skin she had ever felt.

  She marvelled at how something could be so very hard, and yet silky-soft.

  Beckett moaned and pulled her hands away, holding them above her head as he whispered, “Eager little vixen, aren’t you? But I’m not done with you, yet.”

  Now it was Isobel’s turn to moan, and she struggled to touch him again but he held her hands fast. She opened her eyes, imploring him.

  Beckett took one hand away, but kept both of her wrists imprisoned in the other. With his free hand he teased her sensitive nipples and she arched her back. She heard her own short, desperate panting. Dear God, she was losing her mind!

  He ran his hand down her hip and along the inside of her thigh, and then stopped just before… before….

  Her eyes flew open and she tried to kiss him. He moved his head back just out of reach… and then he smiled at her.

  “What do you want, Isobel?”

  She whispered feverishly, “Don’t you know?”

  “No, I don’t know. You’ll have to tell me.”

  Oh, she would throttle him for this! But as she stared up into his heated blue eyes, she knew he was the master of this game. For now, anyway.

  “Tell, me,” he insisted.

  She bit her lip. “I—I want this aching to stop.”

  “Aching. And where are you aching, my beauty?”

  “Inside….”

  “Oh, inside. I can make that sweet ache go away, Isobel. I can make you feel better. If I do this.” His fingers delved between her legs.

  She gasped and closed her eyes as he stroked her.

  “And this.” He rolled on top of her and spread her legs with his knees. He released her hands and positioned himself above her, piercing her with the intensity of his gaze.

  “And this.”

  Isobel whimpered as the hard silk of him slid inside her. She closed her eyes in disbelief but gave herself over to the invasion of her body. Because she wanted it. More than anything else in the world, she wanted him.

  Her back arched against the pain and she gasped and clutched at him, but as soon as it had come, it was gone. The only thing left was his delicious thickness inside her and the pulsing rhythm of the drums driving them on.

  Her hands roamed over the straining muscles of his back and buttocks, his skin slick with sweat. She pulled him hard against her, trying to take in more of him. His tongue penetrated her mouth, mimicking his sex, and she thrilled at how completely he possessed her.

  The burning that had tormented her for so long became hotter, but it also held a sweetness, like warm honey. The sensation traveled through her veins and warmed her whole body, all the while getting hotter and sharper at its core.

  The violence of his thrusting shocked her, but it seemed even more unbelievable that she was a partner in this raw exchange.

  Then a thundering pleasure so elemental, so complete, burst outwards from her very soul and left her trembling in its wake.

  Beckett groaned as he gave a final thrust. He buried his face in her neck, and his body relaxed on top of hers. He stayed there for a moment, panting.

  With a soft kiss he rolled off her, pulling her close in front of him. And though it had been the last thing she’d meant to do, Isobel fell asleep exhausted in her husband’s arms.

  * * *

  Beckett lifted one of Isobel’s golden curls in his fingers and watched the light from the window play upon it. It shone as bright as a moonbeam. Pale moonbeams… that was the color of her hair.

  It must be the middle of the night, he thought. They had both fallen asleep after—

  He felt a smile come to his lips.

  Her response to his lovemaking had been hotter and wilder than any husband had a right to dream. His little wife had been as uninhibited as one of the undulating Bajan dancers last night at Cropover. And her passion had excited him unbearably.

  Now, she slept in his arms, her warm, naked body curved into his, her round little buttocks deliciously pressed against his hips. He felt himself getting hard just thinking about her, about what they’d done together in this bed.

  Perhaps he would wake her.

  No. A good husband would let her sleep.

  As he played with her hair, he doubted he was anything resembling a good husband—though perhaps he was making too much of this. It would have only been a matter of time until he had given in to his desire for her. What difference did it make if it was sooner rather than later? He had warned her not to expect more from him.

  Suddenly, his thoughts skipped to Cordelia.

  During their engagement they had never made love, though it hadn’t been for his lack of trying. But she had always turned prudish in his arms, and he’d thought her to be just playing coy, protesting her virginity for form’s sake. Now, he had the feeling that Cordelia would never have warmed to him as Isobel had done. It simply wasn’t in her nature.

  Oh, but these were preposterous thoughts.

  He did not want to let any lustful feelings for Isobel trick him into thinking he was the slightest bit in love with her. Nothing would make the ton wag their tongues faster,
than if he came back besotted with his new bride.

  Though Isobel had proven a superb bedmate, it didn’t mean she was any different from Cordelia, deep down. Certainly, Isobel was beautiful, but Cordelia also had been beautiful. He had fancied himself in love with Cordelia. Hell, he had been in love with her, with a woman who had never truly loved him. And he had been pitifully blind to the truth. He would not let that happen again.

  Cordelia had lied to him, and so had Isobel. He mustn’t let himself forget that. Naturally, they would have to be bedmates. They would have to produce an heir. They might even become friends. But he would never let himself love her.

  In her sleep, Isobel squirmed her bottom against his hips, fully hardening his arousal. Oh, damn. How would he be able to get back to sleep now?

  She did it again, and he decided to take it as an invitation. Perhaps she was dreaming about their lovemaking, and wanted nothing more than what he was about to do.

  Beckett slid his hand down and tenderly touched her nipple.

  She moaned.

  Gently, he pressed his hardened sex against the softness of her buttocks.

  She sighed.

  Then he reached down and softly stroked the velvet flower between her legs.

  She whimpered adorably.

  He flicked his tongue out to tease the edge of her ear, and heard her intake of breath as she awoke.

  “Hmmm… Beckett?”

  He chuckled lightly. “Were you expecting someone else?”

  She looked back at him, and he smiled at her sleepy face in the moonlight. “What are you doing?” she mumbled.

  He resumed his caresses and she closed her eyes.

  “That is what I am doing. But only if you want me to, sweet. I’m afraid you’ve been wiggling your bottom against me in your sleep, and damned if it didn’t harden me up like stone.” He kissed the back of her neck. “Are you ready for more of your husband’s loving?”

  “I think so.” She started to turn to face him.

  “No, you can stay like this.” He pressed his chest against her back. “I’ve had dreams about loving you this way, and I would dearly like to see them become reality. If you agree.”