by Anne Stuart
She clung to him, her face buried against his shoulder, refusing to let go. “You need to get out of those wet clothes, my lady,” he murmured, half expecting her to react with outraged affront, and then he could leave.
She lifted her head then, looking at him in the shadowed room. He could see her quite clearly, the calm brown eyes, the pale, damp skin. She didn’t look around her—she must have known where he’d taken her, known she was alone with him. Known and not cared.
“Why did you bring me here?”
He was still holding her, supporting her damp body in his arms. He released her suddenly, taking a step away from her, and she swayed slightly. “Why?” she asked again.
There was a bench by the fire, one of the few pieces of furniture the room boasted. He sat, stretching his long legs out in front of him, shielding his expression. “To seduce you,” he said mildly. “It seemed time. I imagine Lord Hugh will send me packing, and I had no intention of leaving without having you first.”
“Having me first,” she echoed.
He waited for her fury. He’d have to touch her then, and things would proceed normally, but he was oddly loath to initiate it. He’d been dreaming about her, lusting after her, for so long that he was almost afraid to consummate it. Maybe he’d be better off with just the memory of her, the possibility that he’d never tasted.
And someone else would have her. Show her what she’d missed. No, that wouldn’t do at all.
He waited, patient. Expectant. The night was almost over. The fire had nearly died, and soon the first tendrils of light would splinter through the shutters, their time would be over, and he would be gone. He should be impatient, tearing at her gown, overcoming her protests, but he was oddly calm.
To his surprise she sat down on the side of the bed, and he could see her bare feet beneath the long, loose gown. She’d been out in that icy rain with no shoes, and she was still cold and damp. He could warm her with his hands, his skin, his body. He could melt her from inside out, and he didn’t know what he was waiting for. But still he waited.
“I saw . . . ,” she began, but the words trailed off.
“What did you see?”
“Two people in the kitchen. On the table. They didn’t see me.”
He understood what she was saying immediately. “They must have provided you with quite an education,” he said mildly enough. “I’m surprised you’ve remained so innocent for so long.”
“My husband’s estate was secluded, and I never went anywhere. Never saw anyone but him and the servants.”
“And you had no idea that what went on between a man and a woman was any different from what he managed?” She jerked her head up, and he could see a blush stain her cheeks, banishing the pale color. Maybe he could make her blush all over, warming her that way. He still didn’t move.
“My husband had sired four children in wedlock and countless others besides,” she said sharply. “I assumed he knew what he was doing.”
“He was an old man. Old men can lose their vigor.”
“Old men father babies. My body won’t give me one. I’ve made my peace with that.”
He didn’t chide her for being a liar. “Then you’re free to take your pleasure without fear of consequences. You’ll bear no mad, nameless brat of mine. You’ll be . . .” His voice grew silent at the expression on her face.
She made no attempt to hide it, perhaps assuming it was too dark for him to see, or that he simply wouldn’t care. But he’d made his way in this world through his ability to read people, and the look in her eyes shocked and humbled him. She wanted his child, his mad, nameless brat. And she wanted him, devil and liar that he was.
She loved him.
It was a horrifying realization. Women had loved him before—how could they help themselves, when he charmed and flattered and pleasured them into mindlessness? It was the mindlessness that was his gift. No wise, careful woman would make the mistake of loving him. Julianna had no reason to love him, every reason to hate him. They’d shared no more than a few kisses, a clever caress or two. There was no future for them, and yet she looked at him as if he were . . .
“Don’t,” he said harshly, suddenly angry.
“Don’t what?”
“I’ll take you back to your room.”
She didn’t move, sitting on his bed as if she belonged there. And in his heart he knew that was exactly where she did indeed belong, lying on her back, looking up into his eyes.
“Why?” she looked confused, vulnerable. “I thought you brought me here to seduce me.”
“I’ve thought better of it.” He truly was mad, he thought despairingly. She wasn’t fighting him, when he was expecting a battle. She seemed almost happy. She would lie on her back and lift her skirts for him, and he would take his pleasure, and what would it matter if she loved him? He would leave, and she would forget.
But he wouldn’t leave, and he wouldn’t forget her. The touch of her, the scent of her, the taste of her. He was a fool indeed, to be so caught up in her spell.
He rose, coming over to the bed. She didn’t move, looking up at him with that expectant expression on her pale face. “You don’t belong here,” he said harshly. “It was a test—I wanted to see how long it would take you to start screaming.”
“Why?”
It was a simple enough question, one for which he had no answer. He shrugged. “Because I’m a fool. The king’s fool, and I need no reason, only rhyme, to make my way in the world.
“The lady’s wrath doth ill provide
A taste of honey sweet and pure
She’ll be my sport but not my bride
But pleasur’d well, she will endure.”
She still didn’t move. In frustration he reached down and caught her arms, pulling her up to him. It was a mistake. Her flesh was firm but yielding under his deliberately harsh hands, and she smelled of spices, and it had been so long since he’d had a woman.
“Fight me,” he said in a harsh voice, barely more than a whisper. “Stop me. Send me on my way. Hit me and tell me what a mad liar I am.”
“I don’t want you . . . ,” she said.
“Of course you do, my love. You want me so badly, your body trembles with it.”
“I’m cold,” she protested.
“And you know I can warm you. Tell me to go away.”
“Go away.”
“Tell me you hate me.”
“I hate you.”
“Tell me . . .”
“Anything you want,” she said, breaking the hold he had on her arms, breaking free, not to run, but to twine her arms around his neck and pull his mouth down to hers.
To hell with Bogo. To hell with freedom and that blasted chalice, to hell with any chance of a future. The taste of her was worth far more. The touch of her skin, the scent of her hair, were worth more than years of comfort. Some treasures were worth any kind of risk, and Julianna of Moncrieff was the greatest treasure of all.
She was still afraid of him, he knew that. Afraid of her own body. He’d tried to show her the pleasure she could have, and it might have frightened her more than the pain.
She tasted of the rain. She tasted of love, which terrified him most of all. And there was no way he could stop himself. No way he could make her stop him from this mad course, no matter how much he knew he should.
Perhaps he’d been playing the fool for too long. Perhaps he’d truly gone mad, throwing safety and riches away for a brief moment of pleasure.
Ah, but it would be a glorious one, to last him the rest of his life. And he didn’t accept defeat so easily.
He kissed her mouth, savoring the sweet clinging of her lips. He kissed her rain-soaked eyelashes, tasting the saltiness of tears. He cupped her face and tilted it back so that he could reach her neck, the dark throbb
ing pulse that beat against his tongue.
He wanted her skin, her flesh, the glorious creamy secrets of her body. For some strange twist of fate she was his, by her choice, and even if that moment would be far too brief, he couldn’t waste a minute of it. He stripped off the heavy overdress, his long fingers abrupt and almost clumsy with the lacings, and the fine chemise beneath it began to tear under his fingers. The sound of ripping fabric seemed to signal some strange sort of permission, and he caught the delicate fabric in his hands and yanked, tearing it down the middle from neckline to hem.
He didn’t want to meet her gaze, to see the fear and doubt there. He didn’t want to know if she changed her mind.
The bed lay behind her, and he pushed her down on it, still clad in her torn chemise. He followed her down, and it was too shadowed to see her face, to see more than glimpses of her pale flesh.
He didn’t hesitate, straddling her body, still fully dressed, pushing her to the limit.
She tried to pull the remnants of her shift over her, but he caught her wrists and pushed them back down against the bed.
“Tell me to go away,” he said, giving her one last chance. “Tell me to leave you. There’s a man who will show you how to love, a man who will treasure you. I’m not that man. Send me away.”
She looked up at him, meeting his gaze with astonishing calm. “If you don’t want me, Nicholas, all you have to do is say so.”
“Don’t want you?” he echoed. He wanted to throw back his head and laugh. Even more, he wanted to howl in pain like a wounded animal. She threatened what miserable part of his soul still remained. He didn’t want to lose his soul.
The darkness was growing in the room as the fire burned down. Alone in the dark with her, perhaps he could pretend she was someone else, someone who didn’t matter. He could think she was one of the randy ladies of the court, or a shy milkmaid, or anyone but the impossible lady he’d made the dire mistake of loving.
But he had little faith in such a vain hope. “Don’t want you?” he echoed again. “Lady, your innocence still astounds me. I want you so much, I’m like to die from it.” He pulled her hand down to touch him through his breeches, that foreign, aching part of him that had shocked her before, pressing her hand against his cock.
This time she didn’t pull away. This time her hand curled around him, touching him, stroking him, until he was afraid he might spill his seed then and there against the questing softness of her hand.
“Then take me,” she said.
Chapter Twenty-Two
JULIANNA COULDN’T believe she’d said those words to him. Couldn’t believe she lay beneath him in his bed, in the darkness, her clothes ripped off her body by his hands, and waited, unafraid.
That wasn’t strictly true. She was afraid, afraid of pain, afraid of him, afraid of things too countless to remember. But she was even more afraid of his leaving without ever knowing what it was like.
Because he was wrong. There would be no other man to teach her how to love. His madness had infected her as well. He would be the only man she ever loved, whether she liked it or not. And she would not let him leave, would not spend the rest of her life without knowing what it was like to lie with a man she loved.
She was glad of the dark. Glad his eyes couldn’t penetrate the shadows and see the uncertainty on her face.
That strange, hard part of him pulsed beneath her hand, and she knew now that no matter what he said, he needed her.
Still, she was unprepared for the shock of his hard, hot hands touching her breasts, and she pulled her own hand away in surprise. Only to have his mouth against her skin, her breast, taking it in his mouth and sucking like a babe while his hand closed over her other breast, his fingers teasing the nipple.
She felt it between her legs, a strange, tight feeling, and she squirmed against him, making an odd little sound that was either entreaty or protest, she couldn’t be sure which.
He slid down against her, between her legs, as his tongue played wicked games, and his silken hair fell around her breasts. He seemed almost lazy in his pleasured suckling, and she closed her eyes, trying to relax, but the restless ache only grew.
Finally he released her nipple, and the cool air touched her damp skin. She wanted him to kiss her other breast, to suckle it as well, but she didn’t know how to tell him so, suddenly shy in the heated darkness.
But there was no need to tell him. When his mouth fastened on her nipple she let out a little cry, reaching up to pull him closer.
She was so intent on the glorious sensations of his mouth that she was barely aware of his hands, stroking her skin, her hip, her stomach, moving between her legs.
She jerked, startled, and tried to close herself to him, but he simply moved up, levering his body between hers, and his hot mouth was at her ears.
“I won’t hurt you, Julianna,” he whispered. “Only pleasure. Open your legs for me. Open your mouth for me.”
She could deny him neither, not when he spoke in that hot, silky voice. She tried to concentrate on his kiss as he touched her, tried not to steel herself against the shock and pain.
But there was no pain. His touch was teasing, feather light, as if he were discovering her like a secret treasure.
“You’re still afraid, my lady,” he whispered against the side of her neck.
She was afraid he’d leave her, afraid he wouldn’t finish what he’d started, calm this aching restlessness that made her shake and tremble. “No, I’m not . . .”
He put his hand over her mouth, stilling her. “Your body can’t lie, my lady. You’re too dry.”
She only half understood what he was saying, terrified that she’d somehow failed him as she’d failed her husband.
He sat up, and she reached for him in a panic, alone in the darkness. “Don’t leave me!” she begged.
His laugh was low, arousing. “Nothing could tear me away.” She heard the rustle of material and she realized with both relief and dismay that he was shedding his clothing. It was too dark to see him, a dubious mercy. What she had seen of him was astonishingly beautiful.
He’d moved away from her, and she lay, still and small and miserable, waiting for him.
“There,” he said, moving back to her, his hands on her hips. “This is going to be a little more work than I anticipated.”
“I’m sorry,” she said unhappily, and then a thought struck her. “What is?”
“Making you come. However, I’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge.”
“What are you doing?”
“Making you wet.” Before she realized it, he’d put his mouth between her legs, the mouth he’d teased and promised with, his hands holding her still as she tried to squirm away.
“Don’t!” she cried, but he paid no attention, using his tongue against her in ways that were both godless and divine. She wanted to tell him once more to stop, but the only sound she made was a low, plaintive moan as she clutched his bare, strong shoulders in her hands and held on.
He must have known when he no longer needed to capture her hips to hold her still. His mouth still tormented and teased, and he slid one long finger inside her, slick and smooth, and she felt her entire body shudder in tight reaction.
He would stop now, she knew it, but he seemed tireless, and when the next wave hit her it was stronger, harder, and she whimpered, afraid, wanting more.
The third time hit her with the force of a thunderclap, driving her up off the bed, and she cried out, her entire body convulsing in reaction. Before it had even begun to die away, he’d moved up, over her, his body pressed tightly between her thighs.
“I lied, my Julianna,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and raw. His body was iron hard, a mass of tension against her softening one.
“Lied?” she echoed dazedly.
“It
will hurt. But only for a moment.”
“I don’t want . . .” But her words were swallowed by his kiss, as he pulled her legs wide and pushed against her, sliding in a little ways.
It was like nothing she’d ever felt before, full and hard and wonderful, and not enough. He began to pull away, and she clutched at him, suddenly frightened, certain this time he’d abandon her.
“Don’t stop,” she gasped. “Don’t leave me.”
“Never,” he said, pushing back in, and she felt a pinch of pain.
He withdrew again, and she let out a cry. “More.”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes.” He thrust all the way inside her, the pain sharp and deep and swift, and she wanted that pain, wanted him deep inside her where no man had ever been, taking her.
She could feel his body trembling in her arms, unmoving, sleek and smooth and strong, shivering as he fought to regain control. But she didn’t want control. She wanted him.
“Yes,” she whispered. “More.”
Her words unleashed the tight restraints, tearing them away, and he began to move, cupping her hips and pulling her up tight against him as he pushed deep inside, filling her so that she couldn’t tell where he began and she ended. They were one, sweating, damp, fevered, and she wanted to close her eyes and smile at the pleasure she was giving him.
“No,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “You aren’t done yet.” She had no idea what he meant, dazed with pleasure as he surged deep inside her, a slow, rocking ride that made her heart race and her skin tingle and burn.
He pushed faster, deeper still, and she felt that unfamiliar ache begin to coil again, set on devouring her, and she knew a moment’s panic, afraid he’d leave her.
“Not without you,” he whispered, and slid his hand between their bodies, touching her as he pushed deep inside her.