by Nicole Byrd
For just an instant she hesitated, never having shown herself naked to any man, but this was Matthew, whom she loved and trusted and would soon claim as husband. So she rolled over, and when she saw his face gazing down at her, his expression almost awed, she managed a smile.
“You are so beautiful,” he told her. “Gemma, my love.”
He touched her neck, ran his hand down her chest, and she quivered. His hand was so warm and so strong as it cupped her breast, and the sensations he invoked were so intense. . . . He stroked her skin, and Gemma felt the delight of it seep through her, as if the joy pierced flesh and bone. Her breast seemed to strain against his hand, wanting more, and when he bent to place his lips on the nipple, she gasped from surprise and joy.
“You taste like bitter almonds,” he said when he lifted his head for a moment.
She laughed, but when he dropped his head again, she forgot everything in the swirling sensation of joy that seemed to pull her deeper and deeper into this intoxicating new passion. Now the other breast needed his touch, too, and he stroked it gently, then kissed it, touched his tongue to the nipple and took it inside his mouth, suckling, kissing, gentling it, and she moved beneath him, filled with a restless need that she could not have explained.
“Oh, my love,” she whispered.
His hand dropped lower, caressing her belly, his touch still leaving fire in its wake. Now he stroked the sharp angles of her hip bones and then slid past, lower again. And still his hand lingered, sliding into the crevice between her legs and touching the parts of her that had developed a deep ache of their own, one that had nothing to do with the long ride.
Gemma stiffened for a moment, from surprise, from the unexpectedness of the sensations his touch evoked. He waited for her to draw a deep breath, then he touched her again, his fingers slipping inside her, where she was liquid with need. Gemma shivered as he touched and stroked and probed gently. His fingers sent shivers of joy running deep inside her, through her, and as she moved beneath his hand, she wanted still more.
He paused now long enough to pull off his own clothes and borrowed boots and then lay beside her, putting his hand once more on her belly. He stroked her again and lowered himself over her, but when his weight touched her, Gemma stiffened, biting her lip at the pain her abused back and buttocks exacted.
Matthew shook his head and moved away.
“Don’t go,” she protested, hoping that her present indisposition would not end his lovemaking too soon.
He leaned over to kiss her, the touch of his lips warm and salty, tasting—as he had said—slightly of almonds. “By no means,” he agreed. “But I think we shall have to be creative.” He lay beside her, circled her with his arms, and before she realized it, turned her deftly atop him.
She blinked in shock as she felt him beneath her, felt the warm firmness of his naked body. She shivered with the newness of it and the wonder, but before she could voice her surprise, he pulled her closer, kissed her neck, his touch whisper-soft, then her breasts, making her quiver once more with delight and impatience.
“If you sit up a little, slide just a little,” he murmured, showing her, his hands lightly guiding her hips, how to position herself over him, and then, what an amazing thing, Gemma thought, that they could fit together so neatly. She moved just enough, and he slid slowly, carefully inside her.
Gemma’s eyes widened in surprise. He felt firm and hard, and he filled her completely. But it felt good, more than good, and then he moved inside her, arched his body against hers, and Gemma’s thoughts burst like bubbles above a soapy bath, and all conscious thought faded.
He pushed himself deeper inside her, and the pleasure grew. The ripples of feeling spread through her body, running over her skin like fire and ice until she thought that she must cry out from the sheer joy of it. She pressed her lips together to hold back the sounds, but small cries slipped out, and still he moved, thrusting again and again, rising and falling in a rhythm as natural as that of the waves that hit the outside of the ship, up and down, in and out, and she thought that she might explode from pure sensation. She discovered that she could move with him, meet him, aid him, and intensify their exquisite joining. She felt as if she were rising, like a bit of flotsam on a wave, then falling into the slough, then rising again on its crest, tossed up once more by this elemental cycle, moving and swirling and sliding deep into the whirlpool of the passion they created together.
Then just as she seemed to be falling deeper and deeper into the bluest depths of the sea, he thrust again, and she was rising to the height of passion itself, calling out his name . . . and joy exploded inside her, and she was replete, filled with the ecstasy of complete release.
He turned so that she could lie on her side, weak with the aftermath of passion, and lay her head against his chest while Matthew held her in the circle of his arms. For a time, they lay quietly until Gemma’s breathing at last slowed to normal, and she could feel his heart falling back into its usual rhythm. He pressed a kiss against her shoulder.
“I love you, Matthew,” she whispered. Just now, her sore muscles seemed a distant thing, and everything inside her glowed with a quiet joy.
“I love you, Gemma, my dearest heart,” he answered, kissing her again as if he could hardly believe she lay inside his arms. “I found you when life seemed darkest, and you helped bring the sunshine back. I will never let you go.”
She smiled, pulling his hand close enough to kiss his fingers. “That promise, I will hold you to,” she assured him. “Just be sure to bring along the oil of almond.”
Laughing, he hugged her even closer.
Epilogue
The wedding was small but very elegant. Both Louisa and her new sister-in-law did a great deal of conferring with Gemma about the church and the wedding dress that the couturier whipped up in record time. As for Gemma, the days passed in a haze of joy. Matthew had found a house he thought she might like, and when she was not enduring yet another fitting for the wedding gown or for the extensive trousseau that her brother insisted on paying for, she was picking out dining room chairs or choosing colors for the drawing room or the bed chambers, and she made sure that Clarissa was included in all the new plans, as well.
And when the time came for Gabriel to walk her down the aisle, Gemma wondered yet again if she must be dreaming. She glanced up at him. He had given her a terrible scolding—“such a mad venture!”—after they had returned to London, a brother’s prerogative, he said, and then had hugged her fiercely. Just now, Gabriel looked very serious, but he caught her eye and gave her a quick smile.
Gemma smiled back. Only a few months ago she had felt so alone. And now—she glanced about them—in the pews were people she cared about, even though many of them had only recently come into her life. But Lady Sealey, Sally Forsythe with her husband beside her, even Miss Pomshack, teary-eyed with pleasure, all beamed at her with genuine delight. And closer to the front stood her family—such a lovely word!
Psyche waited in the front pew for her husband to join her, and Louisa and Clarissa stood in their places as matron and maid of honor. Colin and a mariner friend of Matthew’s stood on the other side, and in front of the altar and the waiting vicar, Matthew himself smiled at her, his gray eyes alight with happiness. Gemma felt her heart soar.
Now Gabriel pressed her hand one last time, then gave way to her future husband and took his seat. Gemma stood beside Matthew, and the lump in her throat was almost too large to permit her to speak her vows.
But Matthew’s luminous gray eyes met hers, and her throat cleared. “I take this man . . .” she said.
Afterward, the Sinclairs hosted a wedding breakfast, and everyone was very merry. Gemma felt the magic again, just as she had on the night of the ball when she’d found her place in the world, found herself, and claimed her future husband. . . .
Watching the newlyweds eating cake and sipping champagne, laughing and talking, Psyche sighed in pleasure and clasped her husband’s arm.
&nb
sp; “So you see, after all your blustering, it’s quite all right. And the wedding was beautiful.”
He shook his head. “A good thing, too, that they had already decided to wed, after going off with my sister like that—”
Psyche made a face at her husband. “Hush. Gemma has her own mind, and you know perfectly well whose idea it was.”
Gabriel tried to frown at her for a moment longer, then gave it up and stole a quick kiss. When she scolded him, he grinned. “It is a wedding celebration—we are allowed a little levity, ourselves. And I’m sure you’re right. When did we poor menfolk ever stand a chance of defying the ladies we love?”
“Never,” she told him, her tone complacent as she turned back to watch their guests. “I’m glad we chose that shade of pale green for Clarissa. It’s most becoming. Now if she will just learn to mind her language—what—what is it?”
Gabriel hesitated, but he knew well enough it was impossible to mask his thoughts from Psyche’s blue-eyed gaze. “Only that after the wedding, I have a mission to undertake.”
She waited.
“It doesn’t seem to have occurred to Gemma yet, she was so set upon determining the identity of her mother, but—”
“But?”
“But somewhere out there—if the late marquess was not our father, Gemma’s and mine—is the man who sired us, the man who wrote the letters that John burned, the man whose eye may be painted on the broach my mother kept hidden away but close to her heart.”
Psyche looked grave. “It was many years ago. He may be dead, my darling.”
“True, he may be. But he may not. And either way, someone must know who he is. And I mean to find out.”
She did not argue, only reached to touch his face with her hand. Gabriel put his fingers over hers and held her close, his talisman, his deepest love.
At the other side of the room, her cheeks flushed, Gemma was laughing at Colin McGregor’s jest. Beside them, Matthew grinned, too. She looked totally happy. Gabriel would not dream of offering her a new concern to fret about. But she would think of it, too, sooner rather than later, and he suspected her resolve would equal his own.
Did they not have the right to know their father’s name?
Psyche took his arm. “Come and mingle with our guests, my love. Later, we will discuss this.”
He nodded and reached to take up a glass of champagne from one of the silver trays. “Yes, we must toast the bride.”
Gemma looked up and flashed them a smile as, arm in arm, they crossed the room to stand beside her.
Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Epilogue