Megan Frampton (16 page)

She curled her fingers around it and squeezed, gently. His eyes closed as he emitted a groan. She smiled and moved her hand up to find the head of it, cupping her hand around it. It throbbed under her hand and she felt a drop of liquid at the top. Its slick wetness made moving her hand on him easier.

She grasped him firmly and ran her hand from the top down to the base of his shaft, where his hair tickled her wrist. And back up again, his strained groans letting her know just how much he liked what she was doing. His own movements had stilled, his finger still inside her.

“What next?” she said in a low, breathy sigh. His eyes flew open as though she had woken him from a dream.

“Whatever you want,” he said in a throaty growl. “This?” He resumed stroking her with his finger, adding another finger to the first, which stretched and teased her. “Or this?” He ducked his head down to her chest and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking and playing until the pleasure it brought her had an almost painful intensity.

“I want … this,” she said, squeezing his cock and guiding him toward her opening. “Now, please,” she commanded.

“You are sure?” She knew what it must be costing him to ask her now, when he was huge and hard and so, so demanding in her hand.

“Yes. Now,” she said again, spreading her legs so that they were cradling his thighs.

He gently pulled his fingers out of her, and then nudged her hand aside. He pulled himself back away from her and, in the next moment, he entered her.

It was painful, as she’d heard it was going to be, but at the same time it felt right, having him inside her, feeling each inch as he pushed into her. A drop of his sweat fell onto her chest and she reached onto her skin and swept it up with her finger, sucking the liquid into her mouth.

He was leaning on his elbows over her, his eyes looking down at where their bodies joined.

Mary was embarrassed for him to see her, for him to look at a place she’d hardly ever glanced at herself, but she couldn’t stop staring at him, either.

He drew out and she saw his cock, slick with moisture,
her
moisture, before he slid back inside. The pain was gone, leaving only a desperate want.

She reached up and grasped his face, urging him down to her mouth. “Kiss me,” she begged, lifting her hips to take him fully into herself again.

His eyes closed as he lowered his mouth. She sucked his tongue and felt
something blossom inside as he thrust into her, his rhythm mirroring what they were doing with their mouths.

And then she felt it—a shivering blast of warmth rolled over her, a huge wave of something, centered at her core, right where he was.

“That’s right, love,” he crooned, moving his mouth to her ear. “Come for me.”

“I … I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do,” he replied, a soft chuckle in his voice. “You know. Come for me.”

The wave of pleasure crested, and she convulsed in sensual spasms underneath him.

An eternity later, or maybe it was only a minute, he spoke. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For your gift.”

“I didn’t
give
my virginity to you, you arrogant fool.” Her words didn’t sound nearly as scathing as she wished they did; leave it to him to believe she was his humble servant, offering him her honor like some grateful supplicant.

“Not that; thank you for your gift of pleasure.”

“Oh,” she replied, abashed. She shifted her hips. She could feel him inside her, still hard, still pulsing. “And you?” she asked shyly. She trailed her fingers down his back. “What about your pleasure?”

“Mm,” he replied. He captured her mouth again but didn’t move. Only when she was feeling that spark, that want, that anguish of need, did he begin to thrust, as if he were considerate enough to wait for her pleasure to return.

He pulled back from her and met her eyes, a fierce look of longing in those green depths. His thrusts were urgent, forceful, and almost violent, his body slamming into hers.

She welcomed the sensations as his movements became faster and faster, the muscles on his arms and chest flexing as he tensed.

He threw his head back, the cords of his neck standing out. And he yelled, an inarticulate string of noises that seemed, to Mary, to shake the glass of the windows.

He collapsed on top of her, his head buried in the mattress beside her head. Their sweat merged between their bodies where their skin touched, and she felt moisture
leaking from her thighs.

It was messy, inelegant, and definitely dangerous.

It was heaven.

“Thank you,” she whispered as his breathing slowed. He fell asleep on top of her, one hand touching her face in a delicate gesture.

***

He’d been dreaming again, of another place where he’d been deposited amongst overbright foliage, paralyzed by something he didn’t understand. A snarling creature stood on his chest, baring its bright yellow teeth. A long trail of saliva dribbled from its jaws onto his bare chest.

Alasdair tried to push it away, but he couldn’t move his arms. The creature—it appeared to be half dragon, half snake—lowered its head to him, brushing his skin with a hot, steamy exhalation of breath. And lower, until Alasdair could feel the prickling of the spikes that protruded from its chin.

Then, suddenly, the creature was gone, disappearing in a flash of light and beating wings. He heard an enormous noise, like a crack of thunder, and felt his limbs begin to shake. The whole world was shaking, in fact. Up above, clouds scudded by as quickly as bullets on a battlefield. He tried to move, but was only able to lift his head, his mouth opening in a soundless scream.

He woke to find her kissing him. It was a reprieve from the agony, an oasis of bliss in the confusion of his thoughts. He had enough honor to have made sure it was what she wanted, but wasn’t certain he could stop if she didn’t. Thank God she wanted it as badly as he did.

Her skin was soft, so soft and smooth, and he wanted to enfold her completely, keeping them both safe from harm. Then desire, lust, and passion gripped him and he forgot about danger, could think only about the wanting of her, the taking that needed to happen.

When she came, his heart nearly burst out of his chest. When he came, he knew he’d found heaven.

He fell asleep as content as he’d been in years.

“Good morning.” Mary opened her eyes to the delicious view of Alasdair’s chest. The scar, once you got used to it, was even exciting, in a rakish kind of way.

She trailed one finger over it. The flesh was puckered, and looked as if it had been poorly taken care of. That was one thing, of the many, she would have to address.

“Did you sleep well?” Mary forced herself to look into his eyes, not duck her head and reveal her insecurities about what had happened the previous night. After all, she knew he had found pleasure; the question coursing through her mind was “How much?” At least she knew that their … activities of the previous evening had to be better than suffering the agony of being without the drug.

His lips curled into an almost shy smile. “I did, thank you. And you, wife?” He propped his head on one hand and gazed down at her with an intensity that did funny things to her insides.

Good, funny things.

“Wonderfully.” Mary slid her hand down his side to his waist. His eyes tracked her movement.

“So I gather no regrets this morning?” Did she hear a note of apprehension in his voice? As though she might have been disappointed in him?

Mary raised her head and put her lips to his. “None,” she whispered against his mouth.

He drew her into his arms and she felt him exhale, hard, as though he’d been holding his breath.

If she hadn’t already been in danger of losing her heart to him, this new vulnerability might have done it. It touched her.

“What should we do today?” He kissed her, a soft touch of mouth to mouth.

And Mary’s heart melted even more.

“What would you like to do? We could be on our way, I suppose.”

“London will wait another day—won’t it?” He pushed her hair away from her
shoulder and kissed her neck. “I thought that since we managed to find a habitable place to stay we could remain here another day.”

“Just—stay here?” Not run from her brother, or his cousin, or their unspoken hopes for the future—just be. It sounded like heaven to Mary.

“Yes, we could go for a walk through town, like a normal married couple would do.” He raised a brow. “Perhaps find you something else to wear. And then we could come back here …” His words trailed off, and Mary’s imagination took flight.

She was as addicted to him, it seemed, as he was to opium.

***

“If we lived here, I’d want to live in that house over there,” Mary said, pointing to a small cottage on the outskirts of the town. A plume of smoke curled from the chimney. She saw a few well-fed cats lazing on the steps leading inside.

“Although,” she continued, blushing, “that would be very poor housing for a marquess.”

“It would be ideal,” he said, grazing her cheek with his finger. “My favorite holding is my hunting cottage. It’s only a few rooms, barely any furnishings, just books and chairs deemed too worn-out to remain in the big house.”

“You hunt, then?” Mary asked. She’d never known anyone who hunted for sport, as she assumed he did.

“Not anymore.” His tone was clipped, and she knew enough not to pry. On this subject, at least.

“So what do you do there, if you’re not hunting?”

He guided her closer to the house she’d admired, then stopped and gazed up at—the roof?

By now, she recognized that he was trying to avoid her question. But she also trusted he would give her the answer she’d requested.

“I read. Read, and spend time alone.” He met her gaze. “It might seem as if someone in my position gets to do what they want all the time, but the truth of the matter is that we have terrible responsibilities.”

“Like marrying your wife?” she murmured.

He swallowed, dipping his head in a quick nod of assent. “Yes. She was chosen for me. Neither of us wanted the other. In fact,” he said, staring at that roof again, “she wanted my brother.”

Another pause. Mary waited, biting her tongue as the questions poured through her mind—what was Anthony like? What was Judith like? How did she die?

“I know that, you see, because Judith was with child when we wed.”

“What happened?”

Another pause.

“She died in childbirth. It was—she was a girl. The infant, I mean.”

“I am so sorry, Alasdair.” Almost without thinking, she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him in to her. His body shuddered, and she clutched him even tighter.

He bent his head down to her shoulder, and she felt—tears? Yes, definitely tears. He was sobbing against her, silent, wracking sobs that engulfed his entire being.

“Should we go back to the room?” she murmured, glancing around. There was no one in the vicinity, but she doubted his pride could stand even one random villager, even in this tiny Scottish town, seeing his pain.

That he was allowing her to see it felt as though he was entrusting her with something much more important, more meaningful, than his body:
with my Body I thee worship
. Perhaps the traditional vows should be altered to say “with my secrets I thee entrust.”

Because, even though she had experienced delicious bliss in his arms the night before, this moment, here, now, was where trust—dare she think love?—was built.

Dear lord, she was falling in love with him.

Dear lord, she should not be falling in love with him.

“Thank you,” he said, as he finally stopped shaking. He lifted his head and looked at her, tears spiking his dark lashes.

It was humbling to see someone so arrogant, so proud, so confident, in the throes of such emotion.

He used the back of his hand to wipe his eyes, then held his arm out to her. “Shall we?”

Mary took his arm.
I gather our intimate moment of sharing is over
, she thought. That it happened at all was a miracle.

***

Like the previous evening, dinner was a simple but tasty meal served in their room. She dressed for dinner, even though it was just them, because she could not stand to wear her old gown one moment longer.

He’d asked if she wanted to eat down in the common area, but she had refused. For one thing, she’d said, they were definitely not from here, and would be conspicuous if any of their followers stumbled into the town. For another, he was still prone to sudden attacks of agonizing pain, and it would be more prudent to stay away from prying eyes.

What she didn’t share with him was that she wanted to be alone with him. His confession about his first marriage had shaken her.

She did not want to leave him. Nor would she force him to remain married to someone he didn’t love—as he’d done before.

And, of course, that didn’t even begin to address the fact that she was entirely unsuited to be the wife of a marquess, even if she had not been illegitimate. She knew nothing of estate management, or etiquette, or anything to do with being a lady. A proper lady.

One who, for example, would not waken her husband to ravish him on their wedding night when he’d vowed not to touch her.

At that, she smiled. She still couldn’t believe she’d done it. And that it had felt so right.

“Thinking about something, wife?” he asked, placing his fork onto the plate. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and leaned forward to touch her hand lying on the table. “Thank you for last night.”

“I thought we had covered that,” Mary said in a prim voice. But her smile belied her tone.

His fingers encircled her wrist, and she felt her entire body begin to respond.

“I presume you are finished with dinner, my lord?” she asked.

He slid his hand further up her arm. “Yes,” he replied. “And now I would like dessert.”

“We don’t—oh!” Mary said as she realized what he’d meant. Her hand covered her mouth and her eyes widened.

He nodded, a humorous expression lighting his green gaze. “Precisely. If it pleases you, wife, I would like us to retire to our bed.”