He rolled closer and reached for the end of his fraying shirt, lifting it over his head, revealing his broad, sculpted chest, the smattering of golden curls, and the dull glint of the medallion. She’d seen him shirtless, not five minutes ago, and yet the sight of him made her stare as if she’d never seen anything as magnificent before. Her heart tripped against her ribs.
Scars mapped across his forearms and hands, his upper arms and shoulders rolled with muscle gained from hard work and harder play. Henrietta wanted to trace the narrowing path of curls on his chest with her fingers all the way to the top of his breeches.
“We could make a game of this,” he suggested quietly, drawing her attention back.
The hearth behind Henrietta had nothing on the steam rising to the surface of her skin. “If it’s tag, you’ll lose.”
A twinkle lit Marcus’s eyes. He rubbed his stubbled jaw thoughtfully. “No doubt. Which is why our game should have equal chances. Something to embrace our competitive natures.”
“I’m not competitive.” Henrietta crossed her arms over her chest.
“Hetty Betty, you forget I knew you when. You’re no different now. Remove your jumps.”
She clasped her middle and held tight to the quilted fabric. “Why?”
“I took off an article of clothing. Now it’s your turn.”
He was maddening. “You can’t start a game without rules. That’s not fair.” She lifted the medallion from his chest. “What’s this?”
“You’re trying to distract me.” His hand covered hers, holding the pewter circle the size of a Spanish piece of eight. She tugged and raised her brow.
Marcus released her hand and let her look. Stamped at the center was a tall elm in full leaf surrounded by the words Sons of Liberty. She laid it against his chest, his strong heartbeat thumping beneath.
Good for Marcus.
“Your jumps, catch up.”
“You’re awfully bossy for someone who smells as you do.” She drew the string from the bow at the top of her jumps. The fabric fell away from her shift. Though her shift was soft from many washings, her nipples hardened to aching points as her breasts became full with the desire to be touched. The jumps slid to the floor. A couple of pins flew from her hair and tinkled on the hearthstones.
Marcus groaned, leaning forward. “Help me remove this godforsaken contraption.”
“Is this your point or mine?”
“Yours,” he said. “Liberating my leg is for your benefit.” She laughed, hastily working through the straps. “Don’t worry. I know how I can win another point.”
The last strap undone, Henrietta set the box on the floor. “I have no doubt you have wicked ideas for days on end.” Remembering her first lesson, she grazed a lazy trail of her fingers around the edge of his knee and slowly, meanderingly, up his thigh. Marcus caught her hand and bit her finger, slipping it into his mouth and sucking. An ache throbbed at the juncture of her legs.
“Nights, too.” He patted the thigh of his good leg. “Prop your foot here. It’s only fair I give it equal attention.”
Henrietta laid a balancing hand on his shoulder and lifted her foot to his thigh. Her shift fanned around her. Like a man set on his work, Marcus slid the hem of her shift up her leg, letting it drape at the crease of her leg. He hummed his approval at all her flesh laid bare. His breeches strained against his thickening length. With a tug, the blue ribbon serving as a garter released her stocking.
Henrietta grinned. “I’m winning.”
“I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I didn’t let you win.”
She laughed, her foot slipping. He caught it and tugged her forward, throwing her off balance. Bracing herself with her hands on his shoulders, a quiver of anticipation ran through her. The rough edge of his fingernails skated up her smooth inner thigh toward her private curls.
Henrietta’s breath faltered. “The water is cooling.”
“So it is.”
She climbed down, turning her back to him. She needed a minute to gather her thoughts. Her ideas about love and marriage and intimacy may have changed, but so had her feelings. What had seemed simple a month ago was now like sorting tumbleweeds in a storm. As soon as she got a handle on one, the other two wreaked havoc.
She dipped a cloth in the water and lathered it with soap.
Turning back to him, she held out her hand. “Your arm.” Working from the webbing between his fingers to his shoulder, she slathered him with soapy water, avoiding his tortured gaze. Then she took a wet cloth and squeezed, washing the soap away, making him gasp. Water flowed and dirty suds cascaded down his back and chest, pooling at the margin of his breeches.
Satisfied with her work, she took another cloth and dried him, enjoying the shape of his body beneath her hands.
“As a gentleman, you should know, I am not ready to surrender.” His voice was rough with desire. Another man might have forced her to cede, but he wasn’t another man, and for that she was grateful.
“I wouldn’t think less of you,” she teased, suddenly breathless.
“Take off your shift.”
Henrietta twisted her lips, considering. “No.”
He quailed. It was as if he hadn’t occurred to him she might refuse. “Very well. As you were.” He leaned back, feigning indifference. The rise in his breeches told another story.
“No,” she repeated. She couldn’t stop the grin forming on her lips. She’d never played this game before. It made her feel strong. “You take off my shift. I’ll give you the point.”
His jaw slipped. She stole a kiss, open-mouthed and salacious. He grabbed handfuls of fabric and dragged her shift over her head, scattering more hairpins.
Henrietta had never stood naked in front of a man, not even in marriage. She forced her arms to stay at her sides while he drank in the sight of her.
Marcus swallowed. “I surrender.”
“You can’t. You’re still wearing your breeches.”
“If they come off, Hen, there is only one way this ends.” His dimple flashed a warning.
“They’re coming off, Marcus.” Henrietta reached for the buttons, hastily unfastening them, tugging, laughing as Marcus shifted, trying to free himself and not tip his chair. He grabbed Henrietta for balance, or maybe she grabbed him. The wheels of the chair squeaked against the wet hearthstones. Henrietta lost her footing, and they both tumbled, the chair wheeling out from under them.
And then she was on top of him, and he was comforting her, and they were both laughing.
“Are you hurt?” He brushed her hair from her face and kicked his soggy breeches tangled on his good foot away. He had to do it twice to free himself successfully.
Her knees smarted. There would be bruises come morning, and a good chance she’d wonder about their provenance only to recall this moment with a flush of her skin and a slickness between her thighs. Like she felt right now. “No. Are you?”
“Not at all.” He traced his thumb across the edge of her lips, aping her smile when her lips curled and parted for him. She caught his thumb with her teeth, swiping her tongue across the pad before releasing him.
“I won,” she said giddily.
He narrowed his eyes, slowly shaking his head in disagreement. “Your accounting is off. That’s understandable, considering—”
“I’m on top.” She gave a wiggle of her hips, delighted to find him pasted to her from the dampness of his skin from the bath.
“That you are.” He conceded her point.
Henrietta rose up, driven by a startling powerfulness, and threw her shoulders back. “Winner takes all.”
It took Marcus no time to act the supplicant and venerate her with kisses to her breasts, first one then the other. Heat spread low to the juncture of her thighs, inciting her to rock against his hard len
gth.
“This is hardly losing.” He caught her up in his arms and held her still until she growled her frustration. “None of that,” he chided, rolling her over to kneel before her.
“What are you doing?”
The floor was hard beneath her but warmed from his body. She smelled the bite of lye from the suds that puddled inches from her head, and the spice of the smoke from the crackling log in the hearth behind her, and she smelled Marcus, mostly clean and damp.
“Offering you the spoils of war, darling.”
She laughed and reached for him, but he ducked, spreading her legs and diving to her wet heat to lave her with sensuousness. She felt her breath go as she spiraled deeper and deeper into his tantalizing touch.
Her heart skittered madly. Oh, how she never intended to fall in love with him, but there she was, at the precipice, knowing he might not catch her.
“Marcus,” she cried out.
He rose and answered her, entering her with one long, exquisite thrust. Their legs tangled. Their sweat-dampened bodies slid slickly together, feverishly. Their lips met, fingers lacing above her head, moving to a singular rhythm.
He buried his face in her neck, offering a kiss like a brand. She was lost to him. He let go of one hand to stroke down her body, caress her breast, glide his fingers over her skin, across her ribs, the soft rise of her belly, and to the slick place where they joined over and over and over.
She gave all of herself to him, to sensation and passion. It raced through her. It made her frantic. She whimpered, pausing when she heard a distant noise. He captured her mouth, making her forget about it with deep, possessing kisses. Fire consumed her. She was melting into him, trembling like boiling water.
Marcus held himself back, allowing her to take from him what she needed, until there was nothing left to take because he’d given her everything. Desire, intimacy, release. Everything, that was, but love.
She held his gaze as he pulled back, fist pumping and finishing against her stomach with a final, masculine groan.
Several seconds later, he bowed his head and let out a huff of a laugh. “Sorry.” Carefully, he moved from her and brought back a wet cloth, wiping her stomach clean. Shyness seized her. Meeting his gaze was like forcing the wrong side of a lodestone to metal. Her love to his lust.
He brought his hand to her jaw, forcing her to look at him. His eyes shone bright with satisfaction and triumph. “You’d think I’d be tired, paying homage to the victor.”
“You are not?” she asked drowsily. She wanted to curl into the heat and comfort of his body. On the floor of the kitchen was fine. She’d sleep for days.
Marcus drew her closer and kissed her. It was a tender kiss, sweet with knowing and acceptance. Almost like love. It seemed to say all the things she wanted to hear, and all the things he’d never say out loud. For now, it would have to do.
“She must be in the—”
Marcus froze. Henrietta’s heart stopped.
“Oh,” came a surprised female voice from the doorway.
In her distraction, it took Henrietta a second to recognize Sarah. At least her friend had the good sense to look away. Beside her, Dr. Nealy stared, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.
A dark heat swept through Henrietta like a raging summer storm. How dare they? This was her one opportunity with the man she loved. She couldn’t expect more—not once he figured out her feelings.
“Get out!” Marcus shouted over his shoulder, keeping Henrietta hidden by his body.
Sarah flinched. Dr. Nealy dragged her from the kitchen.
“Christ, Hen. I’m sorry.”
Henrietta was too busy blinking back tears and fumbling with her shift to respond.
Chapter 23
Marcus rolled his chair into the parlor where Dr. Nealy, Sarah, and Henrietta sat waiting for him in stony silence. Henrietta’s clothes were put back to rights, but her hair was a halo of frizzled curls. She sat motionless, hands folded in her lap, jaw clamped tight. Nothing about her resembled the sensual woman he’d made love to on the kitchen floor.
Caught in such a manner was embarrassing for the both of them. But it hurt Henrietta more. As she explained when Shrupp threatened her, social acceptance was all the currency she had. Not money or connections. She was a widow, for chrissakes. She could weather this, smooth it over, tell Nealy and Sarah to shove off. It didn’t have to ruin her future prospects.
But it would because she wanted to marry for protection, not love. A lover might overlook a past dalliance, but a man marrying her for her virtuous wifely ways would balk at loosened morals.
By nightfall, all of Turtle Bay might know. Mouse would clobber him on the head for this, but he suspected she’d treat Henrietta in her usual nurturing/pestering way. It was only a matter of time before Colonel Caldwell heard. When that happened, he’d evict her for certain.
Christ, he wanted to punch the physician in the throat, and the man hadn’t yet uttered a single word.
“We’re to be married,” Marcus announced, surprising both himself and Henrietta. “What you witnessed was the tail end of our celebration. Next time, we’ll make it to the bedroom. My apologies for having to see my bare arse.”
There. That ought to quell Nealy’s moralistic view. And now that he’d said it, it made sense. If he had to marry, Henrietta would make a good wife. They made each other laugh, physically enjoyed each other, and they cared about each other. She didn’t want to marry for love, anyway. This could work. She’d live with him and not be a kept woman. If anyone was winning, she was.
Dr. Nealy’s mouth moved several times before words came out. “I’m speechless.”
“Why are you here?” Marcus scolded. He’d made up his mind about Henrietta. They could leave now.
“I came to check on my two patients. At least Asher is lying abed, as he should.”
Marcus struggled to turn his chair and gave up. He stood, dragging the fracture box with him, enduring the faint pulse of pain. It was worth it to stand over Nealy. “Take care of Asher and leave.”
“Wait.” Henrietta jumped to her feet. Her fingers moved in a pantomime of ring-twisting. Remembering her ring was gone, she fisted her hands at her sides.
Silence descended, pressing at the walls of the room. Waiting for Henrietta to speak her piece was akin to the seconds after an explosion and waiting for the windows to shatter.
Time stretched on, and the windows still hadn’t blown.
Sarah tilted her head curiously. “Art thou, or art thou not to be married? Thee were—”
“I know what we were! I was there.” Her eyes squeezed shut, as if listening for the windows. “We’re not getting married.” She turned in her seat. “Marcus, I do not wish to marry you.”
He blinked, confused. This was the perfect solution. “Why?”
“I’ve changed my mind.” She frowned, surprised by her own words, but continued on. “I wish to marry for love, and I know you don’t love me.”
“Well, I like you plenty. That’s more than most marriages.” He gestured at Sarah and Nealy, then thought better of it. It was unkind of him to make an assumption, though the two displayed as much affection as a handful of rocks.
“I want more. You taught me I deserve more. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to open my heart again, but I have, and to only have a taste shall never satisfy.”
“Must we do this in front of them?” he said through his teeth, flailing a hand at their audience.
Dr. Nealy stiffened. “Mrs. Caldwell, your blackened character shall be a pall upon your uncle. I must say—”
Henrietta whirled on him. “You mustn’t say a word!”
Marcus scrubbed his hands through his hair. How could he save Henrietta if she didn’t wish to be saved? If she didn’t marry him, she’d be left with nothing, cast
out, and ruined by a society who would judge her for what he caused.
“And you.” She turned her anger on him. After catching her breath, she softened her tone. “You’re healed enough. Go home.” Her eyes moved up and down his standing form.
Marcus’s mouth opened to argue, but the words forming were all wrong. She wanted him to leave. She didn’t want to be saved by him, or anyone. Nealy would see to her ruin for whatever self-righteous reasons he harbored.
Heat raced down Marcus’s spine as he watched Henrietta leave the room.
Nealy was talking, but the words made little sense. Marcus recognized the melody and cadence. The argument was familiar, though the cause was different. Christ, this couldn’t be happening. Gripping his head, the room faded.
The smell of horses and sweet manure, the earthy tannins of leather saddles, dust, and hay, overwhelmed him. Sweat prickled his skin, and his chest tightened, making breathing difficult. He was tied to a beam in the old barn, bracing himself for the crack of the whip, echoing deep in his flesh, and the fire of pain to follow.
Marcus reared up to fight back and grabbed Nealy by the throat.
Sarah screamed, piercing his illusion.
He recovered, patting the doctor, trying to pretend it was all a mistake. It wasn’t. For a second, Nealy was his disappointed father. “Speak of this to anyone, and I’ll ruin you in ways far more painful than a lady’s reputation ruined by gossip.” He shook the doctor once and released him. Marcus had better things to do with his time than spend it on Nealy. Like figuring out where he’d gone wrong with Henrietta. “Leave. Both of you.”
He stood, at last, alone in Henrietta’s parlor. It was bloody silent. He never thought he’d miss her godforsaken clock, but there he was, trying to hear the ponderous ticking to count himself out of this mood.
A Widow's Guide to Scandal (The Sons of Neptune Book 1) Page 20