Jane Bonander (11 page)

When he finished, he nodded toward the back of the smithy. “Come on. I think we both need a drink.”

Dinah kicked at the covers, sat up, and stared at the door. Not the door that went into the hall, but the one, now exposed, that had been hidden behind the wardrobe. The door that joined her room with Tristan’s.

As usual, she’d left the lamp lit to keep the goblins that devoured her mind at bay. The noises in the attic were silent, but even so, she jumped at every sound. Though she tried to convince herself that nothing in her life would change, hope and dread were twisted together inside her, one like a ribbon and one like a rope.

She could have run. Perhaps she should have, but that would have meant leaving Emily, and she didn’t feel right about that. She had also made a silent promise to Daisy, and she couldn’t go back on her word, not even to a dead person.

She would stay because of Emily, not because of any marriage contract, although she believed in honoring the vows, once taken. Tristan had said that it wouldn’t change anything. Maybe it didn’t change anything for him, but it did for her. She was married now, for better or for worse. Worse, probably.

As for him? She didn’t care whether he kept his vows or not. He’d already made it clear that he wouldn’t. Right now he was probably off in some other woman’s bed. Some painted harlot with breasts the size of circus balloons.

Even though Tristan had ordered Alice not to do anything special after the ceremony, they’d had a small celebration anyway, and she’d met the children. She’d been nervous and now couldn’t remember their names.

The stairs creaked, and she held her breath. It was he. He passed her room, stopping briefly. She waited, expelling pent-up air when he walked on by. His door opened, then closed, and Dinah sighed, pulling her covers over her and clutching her bear. She turned toward the window.

The door adjoining their rooms opened. She shoved the bear further beneath the bedding and squeezed her eyes shut, pretending to sleep, hoping her erratic breathing wouldn’t give her away. She knew he was near her bed when she caught a whiff of whiskey.

She tried valiantly to appear to be asleep, but it wasn’t possible to lie quietly. She knew he watched her because the sensation on her face was palpable. Opening her eyes, she was startled by the intensity of his glare.

“Out whoring, were you?” Lord, she hadn’t been married a full day and she sounded like a shrew.

One corner of his mouth lifted. “Miss me?” There was a slight slurring to his words.

She drew the covers to her chin. “How can I miss something I’ve never had?”

He continued to smile. It confused her.

“Dinah, Dinah. You already regret this, don’t you?”

She turned to her other side and studied the door, blinking back tears. “I regretted it before I did it.”

Why did she feel like bawling? She’d been through worse things in her life. Drat, she thought, sniffing, the entire past year had been a living hell, and even then she hadn’t felt what she was feeling now.

“I can smell the whiskey on your breath. What’s the matter? Is your whore so ugly you have to get liquored up before you crawl into her bed?”

“Is that what you’ve been doing? Lying here imagining me with my mistress?” He continued to sound amused.

She felt his weight on the bed, then his hand caressed her hip. Even through the bedding she felt his touch. It radiated through her like a pebble being dropped into a pond and she squeezed her eyes shut, hoping to block the sensation.

His hand snaked beneath the covers, and Dinah hurried to shove the bear toward her feet. She could imagine his reaction if he discovered how pathetic she was, having to sleep with a stuffed animal, like a child. He’d really think her life was pitiful.

“Will you be all right?”

His concern surprising her, she rolled over. He removed his hand from under the covers. “Do you care?”

“Of course I care. In spite of what you think, I’m not a brute.”

Again, she felt an inane squirt of tears, and she hiccoughed as she swallowed.

“My God,” he murmured, “what have I done to you?”

Attempting to control herself, she shook her head. “It’s not your fault.” She uttered a watery laugh. “You didn’t t-twist my arm, not really. And … and for the life of me, I can’t imagine why I’m carrying on so. This certainly isn’t the worst th-thing that’s happened in my life.”

“What have I done?” he repeated, caressing her hair.

That tiny bit of affection did it. That speck of hope cracked her heavy facade, and she cried, anxious to stop pretending she was tough. Eager to be close to anyone, even him, and even if he didn’t like her very much. She needed to be loved, and if not that, then at least she wanted someone who could learn to care.

He took her in his arms, unable to believe what a gigantic mistake he’d made. How had he convinced himself this was right? What damned lofty perch had he sat upon, deciding her fate? It had started out as a way to keep her safe from Martin Odell. Now he wondered who would keep her safe from him.

Lucas was right. Tristan’s greatest flaw was that he refused to believe he was ever wrong. He wouldn’t listen when accused of making bad decisions. He saw with clarity that this was one of the most stupid, insensitive decisions he’d ever made in his life.

She wept onto his shoulder, and he brushed her hair from her face with his fingers, disgusted that he could have done this to her. He kissed her temple, more to repair the damage he’d done than to arouse, but her mouth found his, and suddenly he was kissing her. She returned kiss for kiss, making sweet, artless sounds of pleasure in her throat.

She kicked at her covers.

He tried to pull them up.

“Please, Tristan. I hate to beg, but … but all I want is for you to hold me. Just hold me, please.” She kicked off her covers again and hugged him.

He swallowed a groan, for she smelled like fresh bed linens and she was soft, nubile, receptive. He stroked her shoulders, his mind twirling like a runaway top. She drew one leg over his, as if needing to be closer.

Despite his good intentions, his arousal began.

She raised her face to his, her breath on his mouth. He kissed her again, slanting his mouth over hers. She offered her tongue; he accepted it.

His hand roamed her hip, and she pressed closer still. When he lifted the hem of her nightgown, she stopped moving. His fingers grazed her upper thigh. It was soft, so damned soft.

He hardened behind his fly and his fingertips moved across her stomach, causing her to gasp, but she didn’t pull away.

Stop this, you damned fool.

When she shuddered against his mouth, he could no longer hear the scolding voice in his head. He took her bottom lip between his and caressed it with his tongue while he grazed the hair at the top of her thighs.

She made another sweet, ingenuous noise, and he dipped lower. She began to shake; she was frightened.

He removed his hand.

“No,” she murmured on a gasp, drawing it back.

He gazed down at her; her eyes were closed and her mouth was open slightly as she breathed. He continued to watch her as he stroked her, saw the surprise and heard the swift intake of breath when he found the place that was already firm, and the size of a cranberry.

She spread one leg, bending her knee, and he fondled her, driving back his own hunger as he watched her amazement at discovering her own.

She stiffened beneath his touch, her gasps becoming whimpering moans of pleasure as she rose to meet fulfillment. He cupped her mound and bent to kiss her, swallowing her cries. She clutched at him, tugging his hair, pushing his shoulder, drawing him near, until she collapsed on the bed.

She hadn’t opened her eyes. God, when was the last time he had seen innocent pleasure like this? He couldn’t remember. The last time he’d been with a woman had been mundane compared to this, and this time, he hadn’t even been satisfied. There was satisfaction in watching her. Damn.

He was stiff behind his fly. And he couldn’t have more.

Finally, she opened his eyes. They were dark, innocently inviting, and filled with hazy surprise. He had to get out
now.

His sigh was gruff as he pressed her toward her pillow.

“Go to sleep.” He flung himself off the bed and bolted toward the dressing room, slamming the door behind him, leaving her alone.

She raised herself up on her elbows and stared after him, her heart pounding, but shame oozing through her stomach. What had she done? She didn’t know what had gotten into her. One small gesture from him and she was all over him like moss on a log. She
was
pitiful, wasn’t she?

Sweet Mary, how would she face him? She’d spread her legs like a whore, allowing him—no, inviting him—to touch her. She wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye. Not ever.

She flopped onto her pillows. One way or the other, she would not yield to this feeling again. She refused to pant after him like a puppy. If this was supposed to be a business arrangement, then she’d make sure it was one.

She recovered her bear, and huddled beneath the covers, praying for sleep that wouldn’t come.

Tristan sat on the edge of his bed and held his head, keeping it down to avoid the intrusive morning light. He hadn’t been hungover in years; now he remembered why. A tiny gnome was inside his head, hammering against his skull.

He stood and paced, hoping to work out some of the kinks in his body, cursing Dinah, and himself. But his curses were far less abusive than he would have thought.

How in the hell he was going to get through this foolish farce without touching her again? If he wasn’t careful, she would become an obsession. Hell, she’d merely wanted comfort from him and he hadn’t been able to keep his hands off her.

It had been less than a full day since his wedding, and already he knew he was insane to think a benign marriage to Dinah Odell would work.

Swearing again, he crossed to the dressing room, anxious to dunk his head into a basin of cold water. He flung the door open and stopped short. Dinah stood there, naked to the waist, her perfect breasts quivering with surprise.

He tried to speak, but nothing could get past the lump in his throat.

He wanted to caress her, take each breast into his mouth and feel the nipples harden against his tongue. He wanted to bury his face between them, lavish himself in her bounty.

He longed for the freedom to touch her whenever he chose, to come up behind her and feel her melt with desire when he cuddled her breasts in his palms or drew his hand under her gown to feel the moistness between her legs. He itched to have her naked against his chest and feel her pink nipples drag across his flesh.

Instead, he cursed and spun away. “Perhaps we should work out an arrangement for this room.”

“I was here first.”

She appeared to possess none of the fantasies he did, for she picked up a long strip of linen and, starting at her waist, began wrapping it around her stomach. She moved slowly, an inch at a time, toward her breasts.

He felt a physical pain when she bound them. She finished by sticking the flap like the end of a towel into the top, beneath the swell of her straining bosom. She had not glanced away.

The mutiny in her eyes was the catalyst that made him reach for her camisole before she had a chance to don it.

She searched for another, but he quickly moved and pulled out the flap of her binder.

Her eyes filled with rebellion. No remnants of her arousal from the night before remained. “Are we always going to go through this charade?”

Unable to help himself, he bent and pressed a kiss to the pulse that fluttered at the base of her throat. She tasted so damned sweet. He wanted more. Much, much more.

“It’s up to you. If you continue to defy me, I’ll take it as an invitation.”

“Why can’t you leave me alone?” Her voice was a mere whisper, but the words were said with strength.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he unwrapped her binder, experiencing a sense of relief when her breasts were free once again.

“I told you.” He traced the delectable globes with his hands, noting that they shook. “I’ll leave you alone when you stop challenging me.”

His touch made her tremble; he felt it through the tips of his fingers. Again, he questioned his sanity.

“This may not be a marriage, but it is not a case of master and slave. I will do as I please.”

He forced himself to drop his hand to his side. “Defiance becomes you.”

“Lechery doesn’t become you.”

Her perfect mouth drew him, and he dragged her to him and kissed her, knowing he would burn in eternal damnation. She stood lifeless in his arms.

“Tristan? Yoo hoo! You in there?”

He threw Dinah one of his shirts in case Alice poked her nosy head inside. Dinah scrambled into it, her eyes shimmering with anger as she drew it tightly around her.

“I’ll be right there, Alice.” He pinned Dinah with a hard glare, then said under his breath, “I don’t want to find that binder crushing your breasts ever again.”

Without waiting for her response, he went to face the housekeeper.

Dinah sagged to the floor, biting back the urge to bawl. He was right. She’d been defying him. At least she’d been trying to. Had Alice not interrupted, she would have buckled, she was sure.

In her need to have love, she’d turned to him, and now and forever, he would remember it. Not until the day she’d escaped from Trenway had she thought she would ever have a normal life again, for she didn’t think she’d ever have the chance. Now, all she wanted was someone who would take the time to learn to know her, the person she was inside, the one that was fragile and sad.

Her deep loneliness erupted, and she bent her head, pressing her face into her knees. Something was definitely wrong with her. She’d let him touch her in the most intimate way, and drat it all, she’d enjoyed it. She should burn in hell for that.

The binder lay beside her and she automatically reached for it. Her hand stopped mid air. Expelling a sigh, she picked the linen wrap off the floor and dropped it into her lap. Since she’d been in the spa with Emily she had worn the binder every day. Part of her refusal to go without it was Tristan’s insistence that she do so, but part of her felt safer wearing it. It had become as essential as her unmentionables.