The Bengal Rubies

by Lisa Bingham

  Wrapping her arms around his shoulders, she drew him down, needing to feel his flesh against her. Needing his strength.

  He responded, the kiss deepening, becoming savage, deliberate.

  Her heart pounded with such fury, she felt sure he could hear each stroke. A whimpering noise came from her throat, her body arched.

  “Easy, easy. We should take things slow.”

  She grabbed his hair and forced him to look at her. “No. All my life I’ve been told what to do. This time, I want to do it my way.”

  He eyed her consideringly, then freed himself from her embrace. Standing by the side of the bed, he stripped free from his boots, his hose, then began on the buttons of his breeches.

  Aloise watched in avid fascination as each inch of flesh was bared to her view. She had never seen a naked man. Finally, her curiosity would be slaked.

  What she saw, however, soon caused her to pause. “Oh.” The word slipped unbidden from her lips. The man she had married was completely and utterly aroused. Swollen. Large.

  “Oh,” she sighed again as he settled beside her and began to unfasten the ties of her chemise. One by one by one.

  He worked slowly, savoring each morsel of flesh disclosed to his view. Aloise found herself unable to hold still on the bed. She wanted him to finish with such unimportant details and kiss her again. She wanted him stretched heavily above her. She wanted this night to be over. She wanted …

  Him.

  Impatient, she reached for the bottom of the garment and swept it over her head. Before she could lower her arms, he had drawn her close, his mouth closing over one taut nipple.

  She cried out as a burst of lightning exploded in her loins. When his teeth closed about her, she writhed against him. He’d given her a hint of this untold pleasure, but she’d never dreamed—never dreamed—that it could become even more powerful and enduring.

  Panting, she drew his head up, staring at him in confusion.

  “So you see, madam, there are things your husband can teach you that cannot be found in books.”

  And teach her, he did.

  Pressing her back against the pillows, he kissed and explored each inch of her body from the tiny shells of her ears, to the hollow of her collarbone, to her navel, her knees, and the sensitive indentations of her ankles. He soothed and tickled and caressed, bringing her to a frenzy of need, an aching, intolerable want.

  She gripped his shoulders, his back. Felt him straining toward her, his body heated and slick with sweat. Pulling free, he ran the tip of his tongue from her sternum, to her navel, then lower to her hips.

  “No.” Grasping his hair, she pulled him away. He merely grinned, murmuring, “Next time. Or the time after that. After you have grown accustomed to what you are feeling, cherie.”

  Still he continued, until Aloise feared she would not be able to endure a second longer. She bucked against him, writhed. She became a pagan thing. A tight aching ball of need. Then finally, he stretched his body above her own, fully. The weight of him felt pleasant. Right.

  Poised there, he stared deep into her eyes, searching for … who knew what?

  “I will always protect you,” he murmured. “Remember that. Just as you will always remember this night.”

  “I know.” She could barely force the words free. Her body throbbed, ached. She wanted, needed …

  More.

  “Slater…”

  He kissed her again, magically, completely. She felt him shift, his hand slide down her ribs, her hips, then between her legs.

  Reaching for that low, delicate, womanly place, he found her moist, ready. She whimpered at his touch, sure he meant to inflict some torment to continue to arouse her thus. But Slater deepened their kiss, positioned his body over hers, and thrust into her willing flesh.

  Aloise gasped, trying to push him away, but he lay still, so still, until she adjusted to the weight of him, the length of him, the heat. Slowly, he withdrew, and her brow knit in confusion.

  That was all? That was what such fuss had been made about in the whispered conversations at Sacre Coeur?

  Slater arched into her. Again, again, again. Back and forth. In and out. The rhythm caused her to gasp, her nails digging into his shoulders. Her eyes closed and the room about her disappeared. She could only center around the feelings. The exquisite, indescribable rush of feelings that tumbled through her. She had never dreamed. In all her wildest imaginings, she had never dreamed!

  The motions increased, grew more forceful, more demanding, more intoxicating. The tight knot of need in her belly grew achingly heavy, so much so she feared she would scream or expire on the spot. Then, just when she became certain such a thing would actually happen, something deep in her loins shattered and contracted, shuddering, spilling through her like the scattering of stars. Squeezing her eyes shut, she held on to the sensation, trying to memorize it, sure it would never come again.

  The man above her began to tremble. He thrust one last time, causing a renewed flurry of reaction in her exhausted body, then spilled his seed into her womb.

  The following minutes floated by, indistinguishable in their passing. Aloise didn’t know how long she lay there, absorbing each nuance of the lovemaking she had just experienced. His weight. His scent. The way his body relaxed on her bit by bit, not uncomfortably so, but soothing her, warming her.

  Aloise smiled against his shoulder. No wonder the art of love was such a closely guarded secret in society. If the young women at Sacre Coeur had guessed the half of what it entailed, none of them would have remained virgins for long, of that she was certain.

  She didn’t know how much time passed when Slater lifted away from her, rolled to her side, and wrapped his arms about her waist so that her back pressed against his chest.

  “Are you sore?” he asked some time later.

  “Not anymore.”

  Her answer must have startled him, because she felt him grow still, then chuckle against the back of her neck.

  “You enjoyed your first taste of true passion?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” she purred, snuggling sleepily against him.

  She had nearly drifted into slumber when she smiled to herself, roused, and asked. “Slater? Must we wait many days before we can do it again?”

  Chapter 17

  “Mr. Crawford?”

  “What is it, Humphreys?”

  “Your daughter, sir. She’s been seen.”

  Those two statements brought Crawford’s gaze away from the papers he’d been studying to spear the slight form of his secretary with an iron gaze.

  “Where?”

  “She briefly left Ashenleigh, then returned again. Early this morning.”

  The mention of the neighboring estate caused Crawford’s heart to beat a little harder. “No doubt, it was that Frenchwoman.”

  “No, sir. It was Aloise. I saw her myself when she returned.”

  Crawford’s jaw tightened and his hand clenched about his quill. “Where did she go?”

  Mr. Humphreys shifted nervously. “I-I don’t know, sir. The guard you assigned followed them as far as the village then came to retrieve me so that the woman could be properly identified.”

  “You’re sure it was my daughter?”

  “Positive.”

  “She was with that man?”

  “Yes, sir.” He tugged at the band of his cravat, admitting, “They were holding hands.”

  A wave of fury settled in his breast and Crawford slammed his fist against the desk. “Just as I suspected, that girl is trying to form a scandal, trying to create enough gossip so that I won’t be able to bribe any titled gentleman enough to take her.”

  Jumping to his feet, he strode to the window, staring into the gloomy afternoon as if he could see beyond the next ridge. “Where is she now?”

  “Ashenleigh.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “Yes, sir. Nearly everyone else left.”

  That co
mment caused Crawford to turn. “Left?”

  “Yes, sir. I saw them go myself: the housekeeper, the Frenchwoman, her friends, McKendrick’s men. All but one. A rather swarthy looking fellow was left as a guard by the boarded-up window.”

  Crawford’s jaw clenched, then he strode across the room to retrieve his jacket and his walking stick. “Come with me.”

  “Are we going to retrieve your daughter?”

  Crawford whipped the door to his office open, his buried fury barely contained. “All in good time, Humphreys. All in good time.”

  “So what did you give me?”

  Aloise rolled on her stomach and reached for the wedding gift that still lay unopened on the night table. Confronted with the lithe line of her back, Slater took the opportunity to kiss her at the base of her spine. He felt her shivering reaction and was surprised at the way it pleased him immeasurably. She was beautiful. So passionate.

  And she was his.

  She pressed her face into the pillows, then peered at him over her shoulder, her eyes dark, slumberous, and sultry. “Slater, if you continue thus, I won’t have a chance to see my present.”

  “I haven’t finished with mine yet,” he growled, clasping her thighs, and pulling her irretrievably toward him. He couldn’t get enough of her.

  Aloise giggled at his words. The first genuine laughter he’d heard without the benefit of rum. Shifting to her back, she lapped her arms around his shoulders. “You are an evil man,” she teased. “An evil, awful man.”

  “I consider that a compliment.”

  “You would.”

  He kissed her stomach, then trailed a string of similar caresses over her ribs. When he reached the fullness of her breasts, he murmured, “Come, let me love you.”

  Her fingers wound in his hair, drawing him closer to her lips. “You’ve done quite enough of that already.”

  He could not prevent his grin of pleasure. “You enjoyed it?”

  “The first time. As well as the second. And the third.”

  “We could make the experience an even dozen.”

  Her eyes smoldered. “I suppose. But I believe I am entitled to a gift of my own.”

  Offering her a heated look, he pressed her firmly on her back, stretching her arms above her head. Straddling her hips, he remained thus for some time then finally reached beyond her to snare the package. Returning to her side, he placed the box in her hand, purposely rubbing his chest against her sensitive nipples.

  Her lashes flickered closed. “You are cruel.”

  “Only to be kind.”

  “Hardly.”

  Chuckling, he relented, leaning against the headboard. He gestured to the box held in her lax fingers. “I’ll have you know I obtained this through great labor and expense.”

  Her brows lifted.

  “I sent Clayton all the way to London to retrieve it.”

  “London …”

  She sat up, barely managing to juggle the drape of the sheets and the box at the same time. To his infinite delight, she lost the battle with the linens and they dipped to allow him a peek of her nipple. One pink, luscious nipple.

  “None of that, Slater.”

  But she was not looking at him, she had given her attention to the package, shaking it to analyze the thumping rattle, testing its size, its weight.

  “Open it.”

  She shot him a coy look, delaying one minute longer to prolong the suspense. Licking her lips, she tugged at the bow with an inestimably slow pace that nearly drove Slater to distraction. He wanted to see her reaction.

  “I do hope it’s not jewelry.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Oh.”

  Slater couldn’t tell if she were relieved by the news or somewhat disappointed.

  “Then what?”

  “Open it and see.”

  Still, she hesitated. One last instant.

  “Very well.” She removed the lid, slowly, carefully. A delicate piece of parchment had been placed on top of the contents, obscuring what rested inside. Slater noted the way her fingers trembled slightly as she lifted the covering away.

  “Oh, Slater …” she sighed. “Chocolate.”

  He waited until her gaze clashed with his own. “Truffles. Just as you once requested, my dear. Sweet and rich and thick.”

  She took one of the candies from the box with the reverence of a fanatic. As if it were the most precious of diamonds, she studied its shape, its weight, its color. She waved it beneath her nose to savor the bouquet, then closed her eyes in delight. “I have surely died and been sent to heaven.”

  “Indeed, madam, I should hope not. I still have a few designs to enact on your body.”

  She opened her lashes just a slit and peered at him in a way that made him suddenly wary of her intentions. Yet, infinitely aroused.

  “Tell me, Slater … would you like a taste?”

  He could not force himself to speak. Her expression brimmed with mischief. And more. So much more.

  The rich truffle had begun to melt against the heat of her skin. Transferring the chocolate to her opposite hand, she held the finger to his lips in an offering. Taking the digit into his mouth, he sucked, licked, tasting not only the sweet candy, but Aloise’s distinctive flavor.

  “Now, it is my turn.”

  She rubbed the treat over his nipple, then bent, taking the sensitive tip into her mouth.

  Slater’s hands gripped her skull in reflex and his head arched back at the pleasure. His body surged to life. His heart pounded. The heavy ache in his groin could only be assuaged in one manner.

  Aloise had no time to think or to resist. The truffle dropped to the floor as he dragged her over his body. Her lithe limbs settled easily over his hips, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. He had to have her. Now. Reaching low, he found her wet. Warm. Without a word of warning, he grasped her hips, then impaled her.

  Aloise gasped, her knees tightening, her eyes opening. Obviously she had never dreamed that a woman could take the upper position.

  “But how …”

  Slater could barely speak, let alone think. “You’ve sat upon a horse, Aloise.” His voice became husky as he enjoyed the sheathing of her body. “Ride me.”

  So she did, willingly, eagerly, her face flushed with the unexpected intensification of the sensations gripping her body. She became utterly wanton, adorably absorbed. When she climaxed, he quickly followed, holding her tightly, vowing he would die before he let her go. She was his now.

  His …

  Later, much, much later, Slater McKendrick yawned, watching as his bride grappled with the too-long sleeves of his shirt and struggled to return to the rumpled bed without spilling a drop of the tea she carried. Finally, she handed both cups to Slater and slid beneath the linens. The folds of the garment she’d borrowed drowned her, making her appear even more petite and even more desirable.

  She retrieved her china, sipped, sighed, and closed her eyes in pleasure. “This is good. Quite good. But chocolate is my favorite. Chocolate and a particular mixture of blackberry tea.”

  He took a tentative taste, wondering how he was going to manage to swallow the brew. Slater had tumbled many a woman. He had initiated more than his fair share of virgins, but he had never felt for one of them what he felt for this imp, this temptress.

  His bride.

  Aloise eyed him over the rim of her teacup.

  “Have I a smudge on my cheek?”

  “No.”

  “Then why do you persist in staring at me?” she asked in obvious embarrassment.

  “I stare, because you are beautiful.”

  His compliment took her unaware just as similar remarks had in the past. Such simple kindnesses must have been few and far between for her.

  “Slater?” she asked tentatively. “Why did you decide to marry me? The truth. We simply could have done … this.” She waved at the rumpled bed.

  So, she found herself r
eturning to that subject again. Slater did not immediately answer. What could he possibly say? That he had done so out of necessity? After the night they’d shared, he realized that answer was not totally true. Slater had managed his own life for so long, he brooked no interference. Just as she’d said, if he hadn’t wanted to commit himself to this woman, there would have been other ways to enact his revenge.

  But he had married her. He had taken her virginity. With each second that passed, he found himself anticipating all their tomorrows.

  Such a proposition held its own set of dangers. They might have exchanged vows, they might have bonded in the most intimate of marital rituals, but there were so many unresolved issues that could tear them apart. Oliver Crawford waited to be dealt with; Jeanne’s death to be avenged. All of which could prove to be powerful tools to drive this woman away unless his plans were handled skillfully. Carefully.

  In order to do that, Slater would have to tell her the truth. All of it. Things he had told no one but his closest friends. There could be no secrets between his wife and him. Slater had discovered long ago that such knowledge could be used to injure. He would have to broach the subjects that needed to be expressed. Using all of the tact and diplomacy he possessed, he would have to admit that he was Matthew Waterton and thereby expose her father’s treachery.

  For that, she may choose to leave. He’d seen enough of her moods to know her childhood had not been a happy one. Nor had the last few years been particularly pleasant. But that would be her right, her decision.

  Setting his cup aside, Slater stood and crossed to a Chinese chest in the corner of the room, unlocking the door with a key he’d hidden under the leg. Knowing the risk he took, he withdrew the bundle that Aloise had so carefully packed for her original escape.

  As he carried it back to the bed, the weight of the bulky shawl seemed as heavy as his own heart. “I believe these are yours.”