Emma Jensen - Entwined (25 page)

Nathan snorted. "Unlikely. Gabriel—the bloody archangel. Stayed with me even after I—" He cursed, low and vehemently. "You see the third miniature?"

Isobel neither looked at nor touched the third. " 'Tis Lady Bronnar. We have met."

His head snapped up. "You did not tell me."

" 'Twas a brief meeting. I didn't think you would want to hear of it."

"Mmm.
So, what did you think of our Cecily? Beautiful, is she not?"

"Yes," Isobel agreed sadly. "Incomparably."

"That is precisely what I thought the first time I saw her at her debut.

She dazzled me. She dazzled everyone. Especially Rievaulx. He had met her in Bath during the winter and had every intention of offering for her."

"Oh."

"A telling syllable, my dear. Yes, I set out to steal the woman my best friend wished to marry. And she came willingly enough. I would be a duke someday, you see. Rievaulx was but an earl." The bitterness in his voice was nearly tangible. "It appears a dukedom was not enough in the end.

When she learned I might not return home whole, she decided she did not want me after all."

"Oh, Nathan."

"He forgave me, you know. Gabriel, the archangel. He forgave me freely and completely, and died for his generous heart. So now you see why I keep the miniatures."

"As a reminder of those you have loved?"

His breath hissed between his teeth. "As my penance."

It was no use. Isobel could no more have held back than she could have controlled the tide. Heedless of his response, she rushed to kneel before his chair. She took both his hands in hers, tightening her grip when he made to pull away. "I don't think I could change your feelings of guilt if I tried, but I can tell you one thing with full certainty. There is no coldness in your heart, Nathan. A wall around it, perhaps, but no coldness. I've seen you with your family, seen what you do for your tenants."

"Isobel..."

Impulsively, she lifted his hands to her lips, kissed each palm and, when he tried again to pull away, all but dug her nails into his wrists. He made a harsh sound deep in his throat. "I am sorry, Nathan. I didn't mean to hurt you."

This time, the sound was almost a laugh. "You meant to comfort me. I know that. But you are hurting me, Isobel, terribly, and not for the first time."

"What?" She gasped as he broke from her grasp and captured her shoulders, nearly pulling her across his thighs.

"As I said, those I desire wound me. God, Isobel, if you only knew how I ache."

Her mind was whirling far too fast for her to find a coherent thought.

"I—you—you desire me?"

"More than anyone before. Can't you tell?" He seemed to realize how tightly he was holding her and released her arms with a self-deprecating snarl. "I want nothing more than to bury myself within you, Isobel, and never withdraw. I want it enough that it's killing me. So, unless you fancy being carried across the room and tossed onto that bed, madam wife, I suggest you remove yourself from this chamber. Quickly."

Isobel sat back on her heels, stunned, shaking. And knew she had to move. She took a steadying breath and placed one trembling hand on his knee. "Very well," she said.

"Very well what? You are not moving as I told you to."

"Nay, I am not." She darted a quick glance behind her. "And I meant very well, you may take me to bed, Nathan, if you really wish to."

CHAPTER 15

Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine,
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine?

—Byron

"What did you say?" Nathan asked hoarsely.

Isobel's hand slipped from his thigh, and he nearly groaned with the loss. "I said," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, "that you may take me to bed. If you truly wish it."

"If..." Breathing had become difficult for him, speech almost impossible. "Isobel. I wish it so much I fear it will consume me whole."

"Well, then." She rose to her feet.

He threw his hands out and somehow captured one of hers. "It isn't enough, my wanting you. I... cannot bear the thought of your being unwilling."

"Nathan." Her free hand drifted, quick and trembling, over his cheek. "I want to be a wife to you, in every way possible. I want you to be a husband to me."

Husband to her.
God,
he thought, he wanted to be nothing more. And at times it seemed to him that he'd been made for that very purpose.

"Isobel, are you certain?"

He remembered the wedding, how her responses had come neither eagerly nor with hesitation. Her quiet affirmation now was the same. "Aye, I am certain." Then she added, more softly still, "I would have us as the roses, Nathan. Entwined." And he was lost.

His control more an effect of his injuries than his will, he slowly rose to his feet. He shrugged out of his ruined coat, letting it drop to the chair along with all thoughts of anything but her. "I can do that for you, sweetheart," he vowed, releasing her hand to slide both of his gently into the heavy silk of her hair. "I can bring us so close that we will not know where you end and I begin."

Pins scattered as he loosened her fiery curls. Her hair spilled warmly over his wrists, her shoulders, and he smiled as he lowered his lips to hers.

Her mouth was warm and still. Gently, he tilted her face to meet his fully. His hands itched to drop lower, to move fast and hard over the pliant curves now just brushing his chest and thighs. But he would wait.

He tugged at her lower lip with his teeth until she opened to him. His first deep taste of her was incomparably sweet. He cursed himself twice; once for not having given himself this pleasure far sooner; and a second time for the fact that all this was new to Isobel. He could have,
should
have begun nights before, giving her the chance to experience each step and to blossom with it.

She sighed into his mouth. It was a soft, wondering sound, and it thrilled him. There was so much, too much he wanted to give her. And right away.

He could only hope he would not kill them both in the process.

She lifted a hand to his jaw. Slowly, hesitantly, her fingers unfurled to spread over his skin. He broke the kiss for a moment and pressed his cheek into the warmth of her palm. He drew a deep breath, allowed his eyes to drift shut, closing off the last vestiges of hazy sight, and surrendered to the soft acceptance of her touch.

"Oh, Isobel," he whispered then, overwhelmed, and all but crushed her mouth beneath his.

The velvet sweep of his tongue against hers was too glorious to be real.

It was odd, Isobel realized in a fleeting moment of clarity, how such a touch, only mouths meeting, could register so deeply elsewhere. She was aware of a faint swelling, almost like an ache between her thighs. It was so very strange, almost frightening, and she hoped it would never end.

She parted her lips more for him, inviting him deeper. He growled low in his throat, took what she offered. His hands slipped from her hair to her shoulders, down the outside of her bare arms, leaving a path of tiny embers in their wake.

Why?
she thought hazily. Why had she not asked him to do this before?

The answer came all too quickly. She had not asked because she had not really known. All she knew of this business between man and woman could be written in one shaky line.

"Nathan," she managed, drawing back. "Nathan, I—"

"Hmm?"
His head dropped, and the silken brush of his hair across her cheek shook her nearly as much as that of his lips over the hollow of her throat.

"Nathan, I do not know how to go on from here."

He straightened slowly, his eyes molten bronze. She could see the pulse beating at his temple, the rigid set of his jaw, hear the ragged edge of his voice when he replied, "I do. And I will teach you all I know."

"But I am so completely ignorant."

"Innocent, sweetheart, not ignorant. The teaching is my pleasure, and my task. Yours will be to trust me and to tell me as we go on if there is anything you do not like—and anything you do. Can you do that?"

Isobel knew she could stop him now, that he would let her go if she asked. "Aye," she whispered. "I can do that."

He nodded once. "Good." Then he offered her one hand. "Take me to bed, Isobel."

She guided him, stopping when their legs brushed the high mattress.

Uncertain what to do next, she bit her lip and studied the massive expanse.

The covers had been turned back to expose snowy sheets. She should lie down, she knew, but could not seem to manage the feat.

Nathan did it for her. In one smooth motion, he stretched out on his side and took her with him. They faced each other, his arm curved loosely under her head, cradling her. She could feel the strength of his thighs where they barely touched hers, knew if she took a deep breath her breasts would be brushing against his chest. She found herself staring into his shadowed face. He looked intent, dangerous, and utterly beautiful. She hesitantly reached up to trace a fingertip over his generous mouth. She liked it when he kissed her with those lips, liked it a great deal.

"Do you wish to extinguish the light?" he asked.

She peered at the single brace of candles on the desk. Aye, perhaps darkness would be easier, but it would involve getting up, and she was reluctant to break the warm contact of his lean body against hers.

"Nay. 'Tis fine as it is."

"As you wish."

He slipped his free arm around her shoulders as his tongue slipped again between her lips. She knew to kiss him back now, heard his whispered approval of her ready response. She curved herself into the embrace so they were chest to chest. He was hard against her, all muscle and sinew. She ran her hands over the textured brocade of his waistcoat, feeling the pattern of the fabric, flattening her palm above the strong beat of his heart. She might have stayed like that forever, absorbing the reassuring, steady rhythm, but he was soon urging her softly to release the buttons.

Nathan felt his muscles leap at her halting exploration. She burned him, even through the fabric of his shirt. His own fingers ran along the fastenings at the back of her dress. He should have been clumsy, perhaps, inflamed as he was. But he could feel each button, imagine it slipping free of the placket to expose one more inch of her pale skin.

The last one gave way. He spread his hand flat over Isobel's back, feeling fine linen and satin skin against his palm.
Slow!
he cautioned himself, but could not resist the need to feel more of her. He broke the kiss and, whispering nonsensical, soothing words, drew the dress over her head.

The chemise and petticoats followed. His fingers were sure and deft, guided by his imagination. Her shoulders were bare now—the curve of her waist, the soft expanse of her thigh. It nearly killed him not to pause and touch every exposed inch.

Nathan drew back to tug at his own shirt, wanting that first full meeting to be his skin against Isobel's. He felt her shifting, lifting her arms from her sides to cover what he had bared. He imagined her: all milk-pale skin and blazing hair, a combination as alluring and elemental as fire and water. And more beautiful than anything he had ever seen with his undamaged eyes.

"Oh, Isobel," he whispered, keeping his hands away but brushing his lips over the soft hair at her temple, "you are exquisite."

There was a moment of complete silence. Then she gave a soft, whispery sigh and relaxed against him.

He sat up to shed his boots and shirt, clumsy now in his haste. His erection strained against the placket of his breeches, near painful in its pressure to be free. But Isobel was not blind and she was a virgin. His hands itched to tear at his breeches, to send them flying after his shirt.

Instead, he stifled a groan and lowered himself as gently as he could back onto the mattress.

That first contact of skin to skin nearly undid him. Her breasts were even fuller than he had thought, her belly and thighs soft and gloriously welcoming. Isobel had a body meant for loving, all lush curves and gentle hollows. One long leg slipped between his, instinctively twining to pull him closer. Nathan, overwhelmed by the warm generosity of the act, offered up silent and humble thanks.

Awed, aching, he reached up to cup her breast. It more than filled his palm, the nipple hardening quickly. "Perfect." He sighed and took the peak into his mouth.

Isobel felt her body quiver with the feeling—little licks of fire teasing at her senses.
Wicked.
It had to be wicked to feel this way. But she could only think of the delight. All last doubts were sliding away in the wake of Nathan's touch. She whimpered as his mouth lifted from her breast, only to gasp anew as his tongue laved the other. Pleasure like an arrow lanced through her, and she wound her fingers into his hair, holding him as close as she could.

All the while, his hands roamed hot over her skin, missing not an inch as he explored: along her side, over the curve of her hip, to her knee. There was awe in his touch, his appreciation of her as clear by his touch as if he had spoken. It was as much a gift as the very physical sensations assailing her.

His palm drifted to the inside of her leg, paused, curved warmly around her thigh. When his fingertips skimmed upward, trailing more embers, Isobel moved against him. There was no thought of embarrassment at all now, no question. When he reached the juncture of her thighs, she hesitated only for a moment, then opened to his touch.

This was Nathan, her husband. It seemed only natural that she would give him her body. She had known forever, it seemed, that she would give him her loyalty and care. And known for hours that she had given him, without being aware it was happening, a piece of her heart.

He had told her to inform him of what she liked. Oh, she liked this, this incredibly intimate touch, but could not find the breath to tell him. She tried. Gasping, searching for speech, she tried. It was no use. So she simply accepted the caress, her own hands fluttering over the broad expanse of his shoulders.

He stroked her, gently, rhythmically. She could hear the faint ricking of the mantel clock, the pendulum swinging in time with the steady slide of Nathan's fingers.