Kathryn Smith (16 page)

Not
the reaction he had been hoping for.

Brave smiled sheepishly at her from where he had landed on the carpet. He pressed his fingers against the stinging spot on his forehead where her flailing hand had hit it, and was surprised that it wasn’t bleeding. She had certainly hit him hard enough when she bolted from the chair.

She stood several feet away, one hand pressed to her heart, the other to her head. She did not look happy to see him.

“What were you trying to do, kill me?” she demanded. The hand on her head moved down to her hip.

Brave hauled himself to his feet with the aid of her abandoned chair.

“That’s it,” he replied in a dry tone. “I only married you for your fortune and good name, and now that I have those you must die.” He rubbed his forehead again. “I haven’t seen you for hours. I was concerned.”

“Hours?” Rachel’s brow puckered as she turned her head toward the window. Brave’s gaze followed, drinking in the cameo perfection of her profile against the pink-orange splendor of the setting sun.

“You’ve slept through your own wedding celebration,” he reminded her, trying to keep his tone light. He had wanted her by his side, had wished her to at least pretend she wanted to be his wife.

She turned to him with pink-stained cheeks and wide eyes. She looked absolutely mortified.

Good.

“I am so sorry,” she said haltingly, shaking her head. “I
came in here for some peace and quiet and then Mama came in…”

“And told you she was leaving with Sir Henry,” he finished for her. “I thought you would be displeased to hear that.”

Her lips tightened. “That’s an understatement. I thought I was going to suffer apoplexy. I couldn’t go back out there”—she gestured toward the door—“with a huge vein throbbing in my head, now could I?”

Smiling sympathetically, Brave strode toward her. “Certainly not. All our guests would have run screaming.” He stopped, leaving only inches between them. “How do you feel now?”

“Like I’ve been put through a clothespress,” she muttered, bringing a hand up to massage the back of her neck.

“Let me.” Grasping her by the shoulders, he turned her to face the nearest wall of books and began massaging the tight muscles beneath his fingers.

“Oh, Lord!” she groaned, clutching one of the shelves for support.

A warm tremor shot through Brave’s groin at her husky cry. The creamy flesh of her shoulders was soft and warm against his hands. What would she do if he pushed the flimsy silk of her gown down her arms, baring her breasts? Would she try to cover herself and slap him, or would she lean back against his chest so that he could caress their fullness?

Drawing a shaky breath, he tried not to think such hopeless thoughts. The aching flesh stirring in his trousers was an embarrassing reminder of how long it had been since he had made love to a woman.

“My father’s book.”

The mention of the word “father” was enough to dampen anyone’s sexual appetite. “What’s that?” Brave asked, tearing his gaze away from her pale flesh.

Smiling, Rachel plucked a leather-bound volume off the
shelf and turned to face him. Mere inches and several hundred sheets of paper and ink was all that separated them.

Brave glanced down at the book.
A Treatise on the Rights and Obligations of Man.
He remembered the book now. He’d been a boy when his father received it as a gift from Edward Ashton. How odd that their fathers had been such good friends and that Brave and Rachel had been little more than passing acquaintances. Brave’s father had respected Edward Ashton greatly. What would his father think of the fact that Brave had married his good friend’s daughter?

Rachel’s smiled was poignant in its sweet sadness. “My father fancied himself quite the philosopher.”

Brave nodded, his attention focused solely on her face. Her expression reminded him very much of how he felt when he thought of his own father, dead these five years.

She stroked the spine. “He died when I was fourteen.”

“A carriage accident, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” she whispered, her face clouding. She stared down at the book. “Mama couldn’t even honor a full year of mourning. We were so poor she had to marry Sir Henry within months of my father’s death.”

What could he say to that? Nothing he could do or say would change the past—he had tried it often enough himself to know better.

“May I?”

After a second’s hesitation, she placed the book in his hands. It was thick and heavy, the smooth leather cool against his palms.

Aware of her watchful gaze, Brave reverently thumbed the well-worn pages. Obviously his father had been a great fan of the book, for not only did it show signs of having been much read, but notes had been scribbled in almost every margin.

“I think I would like to read it.”

“You don’t have to just because my father wrote it.” She tried to take it out of his hands.

“I’m not,” he replied. He could have left it at that, but he could not let this moment pass between them without baring his own grief as she had bared hers.

“I want to read it because it obviously meant a lot to my father.”

Understanding flashed in her gaze. “Of course. They were very good friends. Did you ever meet my father?”

Nodding, Brave set the heavy book on a nearby table. “I believe so. Papa often spoke of him. His opinion was one of the few my father actually respected.” He smiled in an effort to lighten the mood. A sudden melancholy had settled over her, and he had no idea how to lift it.

Rachel chuckled. “My father was not one who kept his opinions to himself. I’m afraid he was something of a radical.”

“Ah, so that’s where you came by it.”

Her eyes regained some of their normal sparkle, and a sigh of relief filled Brave’s lungs.

“I suppose I inherited some of his traits, yes.” She glanced away. “I’m sorry I left you to contend with the mob by yourself.”

He shrugged as he walked along the book-lined wall. She didn’t want to talk about her father anymore. He could understand that. It hurt to talk about his as well.

“They were very sympathetic to your bridal delicacy.” Was it his imagination or did she just turn pink at his words? “Not one left without wishing you a speedy recovery.” And at least several of the gentlemen wished him good luck in the wedding bed, but he wouldn’t mention that.

“That was very kind.” She clasped her hands behind her back as she stared down at her slippers. He followed her gaze, smiling as he noticed the clenching and uncurling of her toes through the thin satin.

“It isn’t anything to worry yourself over.”

Her head snapped up so quickly they both winced at the sharp
crack
.

“I…I beg your pardon?” She rubbed her neck.

“You’re as tight as a miser’s purse strings,” he said with a chuckle and a shake of his head.

Three long strides brought him before her. He pushed her hands out of the way and resumed his earlier massage. He regretted it as soon as the first flicker of pleasure slackened her features. He’d never seen such pleasure in a woman’s face without the benefit of being deep inside her at the same time.

“Honestly, no one thought anything of your absence.” Except for himself and her stepfather. Sir Henry had raged about her poor manners while Brave had wondered if she was truly ill or just regretting marrying him. “It’s hardly worth all this tension.”

Her eyes flew open, wild swirls of hope and trust that robbed him of all reason.

“Tension? Who said I’m tense?”

He smiled mockingly and gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze.

“Aughhh,” she moaned.

Brave loosened his grip and raised a brow. She scowled at him. “All right, you’ve made your point, but it’s not because I missed most of the reception.”

He frowned, kneading her knotted muscles just to see the joy on her face. “Then whatever is the matter?”

“My mother left with the man I’ve been trying to get her away from, remember?”

How could he forget?

“Do you think he’ll harm her?”

Her head dropping forward so he could better massage the back of her shoulders, Rachel shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. He could beat her senseless or shower her with rose petals. She certainly seems to think she’s safe with him.”

Brave pressed his thumbs into the soft flesh where her neck met her shoulders and resisted the urge to bend and
smell the shiny golden hair just inches away from his face. “You’re not so readily convinced.”

“Of course I’m not,” she replied with a moan. “I don’t trust Sir Henry. He may
want
to be different, but people like him cannot change overnight. His kind of cruelty is like a madness. I’m not sure that it can be cured.”

What would she think of his madness? He’d certainly felt mad for a while after Miranda’s death. Would she believe him capable of being cured? What would she think of his belief that she was that cure? Perhaps she would laugh at his foolishness. Or perhaps she would pity him or find him weak. Regardless, it was not something he was prepared to admit to her, not now, not ever.

The thought of disappointing her sent a wave of unease rippling through his chest. He hadn’t realized how lonely he’d been before meeting her. Wallowing in self-pity had rendered him incapable of thinking about anything else. The night he pulled her from the river, it was as though a veil had been lifted from his eyes.

Her eyes were closed as he massaged her neck and shoulders. The flesh beneath his hands grew warm and pink from his manipulations. Lord, but she had lovely skin. So soft and white, with just a hint of rose. Not a blemish could be seen marring the perfection of her breast save for the faint blue trace of a vein beneath the surface.

Standing this close, Brave could feel just the barest pressure of her breasts against his chest, could smell the perfume she’d dabbed in the deep valley of her cleavage. Her scent, heightened by the warmth of her flesh, tantalized his nostrils; sweet cinnamon and a hint of something floral swam together like an opiate in his head. A man could drown in a woman who smelled like that.

He drew closer, so that her breasts were flush against his chest. Her hips brushed against his upper thighs. Bending his neck, he placed his cheek against her temple and breathed
the fragrance of her deep into his starving lungs. She shivered under his fingers.

Velvet. Her skin was like velvet beneath his cheek. He rubbed his face against hers, feeling the stubble of his beard abrade her flesh. He wanted to rub his face all over and watch that exquisite paleness flush pink and hot, knowing he had done it to her.

Her eyes opened. Petal-soft lashes fluttered against his temple. Brave did not lift his head, but instead, slid his hands down from her shoulders to the gentle mounds of her bosom, rising above the neck of her gown. Beneath his palms her breathing became more rapid, pushing her flesh into the cup of his hands. Warm, damp breath hitched softly against his ear.

He lifted his head—just enough to see her clearly. Wide blue eyes stared at him, dazed with desire. How was it they could believe they could survive this impulsive marriage unscathed when they both obviously wanted each other? The first kiss he could rationalize, even the second, but this…
This
would not be denied by either of them.

A flush crept up her chest, toward her neck. Brave followed the trail with his thumbs, bring them together beneath the jut of her chin. His fingers splayed across her jaw and throat as he silently drank in every feature of her beautiful, beautiful face.

She didn’t move, didn’t fight him as his mouth claimed hers. A low growl soared up from the depths of his soul. God, her lips were so soft, so sweet! They opened without resistance as he probed with his impatient tongue. A hint of champagne, sharp and tangy. The growl became a groan, and he lost himself in the taste of her.

Her fingers gripped the lapels of his jacket, her knuckles pressing against the wool. Could she feel the pounding of his heart through the layers of fabric? She must, for it pounded against the wall of his chest like a prisoner intent on freedom from his cell.

God help him this wasn’t supposed to happen, he thought as his hands slid down her shoulders and spine to cup her buttocks. He pulled her tight against him so she could feel just what she did to him. Tight and hot, his body burned for her, yearned for her. Threatened to tear him apart to get to her.

The sound of their tortured breathing echoed throughout the library until there was nothing but breath and the feel of their bodies pressed together. Nothing else existed, and Brave clung to her so that they might tumble into the sensual void together.

He pushed her back, moving her across the room until her back was pressed against a wall of books and they were as close as they could be with their clothes still on. Breathing hard, he tore his mouth from hers.

Their gazes locked. Did his eyes seem to glow with the same fire as hers? Was his breath as hot as it caressed her face? Her lips were red and moist, and her chest rose and fell as rapidly as his own. Her breasts, pushed up by her gown and flattened against his chest were dangerously close to popping out of her bodice. A tiny crescent of pale pink peeked at him from the top of her neckline.

Driven by desire, he lifted his hands to her shoulders, yanking the delicate sleeves so forcefully that one snapped in his hand. Heedless, he shoved the other down her arm, tugging at the snug bodice until both breasts were bare.

Rachel did not try to stop him, even though his roughness must have caused her some discomfort. She shivered and pushed herself against him. Age-old body signals for
yes
.

His mouth captured hers again, his tongue thrusting into the hot wetness as his fingers found her nipples. They were hard, the aureolas puckering tightly at his touch. He squeezed them, feeling her gasp against his mouth. He jerked his hips against her, certain that the force of his desire would soon send them crashing through the book case.

He had never wanted a woman as he wanted her. The need
to bury himself within her was more powerful, more intense than any other lust he had felt before. It terrified him, and yet it drove him to continue.