Reckless (29 page)

"No, I did not. I said you must tell me what you like along the way."

"Well, I certainly cannot like this sort of thing. It is far too … " Phoebe broke off as she felt his tongue on the bud of delicate female flesh. Another soft cry tore through her. Unable to resist, she arched against him, seeking more of the incredible sensations. "Oh, my God, Gabriel."

"Tell me you like it, sweet." He continued the relentless assault on her most intimate secrets. He began to stroke his finger in and out of her passage as his tongue rasped her swollen flesh.

"Gabriel, stop, I cannot—"

"Tell me you like it." He sucked her gently between his teeth.

Phoebe could hardly breathe. "I cannot bear it."

"Yes, you can. You are a very adventurous woman." He inserted another ringer into her, stretching her tenderly.

Phoebe twisted beneath him as the unbearable kisses continued to devastate her. She was beyond protest now. All she could do was surrender to the flood tide of passion.

"Tell me you like this, Phoebe."

"Gabriel, I cannot … I cannot … Yes. Yes, I like it. Very much. Dear heaven, you are driving me mad." She clutched at him, this time holding him to her as she lifted herself for the hot kisses. She felt his fingers slide into her once more and then she felt the sensual tension in her lower body reach a critical point.

"Gabriel."

"Yes," he whispered. "Now. Just like that. Give yourself up to it. I'll keep you safe."

He kissed her again and Phoebe came apart into a thousand little pieces. She was hardly aware of Gabriel's triumphant groan. She felt him slide up along the length of her. She was startled at the taste of herself on his mouth as he covered her lips with his own. And then she felt his engorged shaft forge deeply into her tight, convulsing body.

Even as she adjusted to the invasion, the tiny ripples of excitement seemed to intensify. Phoebe clung to Gabriel as tightly as she had clung to the surf-lashed rock that afternoon.

She was safe.

The gray light of dawn was reflecting off the sea and pouring in through the window when Gabriel woke. He instinctively tightened his arm around Phoebe, assuring himself that she was still safely tucked against him.

She was exactly where she was supposed to be. The sweet, ripe curve of her bottom was cuddled against his hip and her small, shapely foot was lying alongside his leg. His fingers cupped her gently rounded breast.

Gabriel savored the simple, newfound pleasure of awakening in the early morning light with his wife in his arms. The unfamiliar sense of intimacy was deeply satisfying.

She was truly his at last, he thought. In the middle of the night she had given him the surrender he had been seeking. Her response had been complete and uninhibited. Except for one niggling little detail, Gabriel realized, he finally had everything he wanted.

The tiny, unimportant detail was that she had not told him she loved him. Even in the heat of her passion when she had shivered mindlessly in his arms and cried out his name, she had not said the words.

Not that it mattered, Gabriel assured himself. After all, she had confessed her love in a thousand different ways last night. He remembered how she had touched him, tentatively at first, and then with growing confidence. She had stroked him gently as she learned the shape and feel of him. He felt himself growing hard again at the memory.

"Gabriel?"

"Mmm?" He turned on his side and tugged the quilt down until her rose-tipped breasts peaked up at him.

Phoebe wriggled impatiently and yanked at the quilt. "I'm cold."

"I'll keep you warm." He kissed one soft breast and then the other.

She looked up at him, wide-eyed now. "This is very strange, is it not?"

"What?" He was preoccupied with the taste of her nipple.

"Waking up in the morning with someone else in one's bed."

Gabriel raised his head. "'Tis your husband in your bed, madam, not just someone."

"Yes, I know, but all the same, it seems odd. Not unpleasant, mind you, just rather odd."

"You'll soon grow accustomed to the sensation," Gabriel vowed.

"Perhaps," she agreed, sounding unconvinced.

"Trust me. You most definitely will get used to it." He rolled onto his back and pulled her across his chest. His fully erect shaft pressed against her thigh.

"Good heavens, Gabriel." Phoebe's brows drew together in a disapproving frown as she glanced down at his heavy arousal. "Do you always wake up in this condition?"

"Are you always this chatty in the mornings?" He grasped her leg and drew it across his hips so that she was astride him.

"I don't know. As I said, I am not accustomed to waking up with someone else … Gabriel, what are you doing?" Phoebe gasped as he found her softness with his fingers and began to stroke gently.

He felt the warm honey start to flow almost at once. He grinned. "I am learning to manage my managing little wife. You must admit I am an excellent student."

He guided himself to the humid entrance of her feminine passage, clamped his hands around her hips, and eased her firmly downward.

"Gabriel"

"I am right here, my sweet."

Some time later Gabriel reluctantly tossed aside the covers and got to his feet.

"It is still very early," Phoebe observed in a drowsy voice. "Where are you going, my lord?"

"I am going to get dressed." He leaned over the bed and gave her a gentle, thoroughly proprietary pat on her bare buttock. "And so are you. We shall be leaving for London directly after breakfast."

"London?" Phoebe sat up abruptly. "Why on earth are we going back to London? We have only been here a few days."

"I have business to attend to in Town, Phoebe. You may recall that our wedding took place in a rather unplanned fashion."

"Yes, I know, but surely there is no need to rush back."

"I was obliged to drop several important matters in order to chase off after you, madam wife." He picked up his dressing gown. "I can no longer ignore those matters."

"What can be so important that we must rush off like this? I like it here at Devil's Mist."

He smiled ruefully. "I'm glad you like your new home. But I must insist we leave today."

Phoebe lifted her chin. "My lord, I believe we should discuss this further over breakfast before making a decision."

Gabriel cocked a brow. "Phoebe, you are a wife now. My wife. That means you will be guided by my decisions in matters such as this. We leave for London in two hours."

"The devil I will." Phoebe scrambled out of bed and grabbed her chintz wrapper. "Gabriel, I must warn you that if we are to enjoy a peaceful marriage, you will have to learn to discuss things with me before you make sweeping decisions. I am twenty-four years old, not a green girl who can be ordered about at your whim."

He turned in the doorway that connected her bedchamber to his, propped one shoulder against the frame, and folded his arms. "We leave for London in two hours. If you are not dressed and packed, you will be put into the carriage just as you are. Is that quite clear?"

Phoebe's soft mouth tightened mutinously and her eyes narrowed. "I will not be dragged across the landscape just because you are in the mood to do so."

"Would you care to make a wager on that?"

She started to fire back a response and then she hesitated. Gabriel groaned inwardly as he saw realization dawn in her eyes. He had known all along there were drawbacks to having an intelligent, strong-minded female as a wife.

"Wait a minute," Phoebe said slowly. "You are doing this because of what happened yesterday, are you not?"

Gabriel exhaled wearily. There was no longer any point in trying to convince her he was merely being arbitrary. "I think it's for the best, Phoebe. I want you away from Devil's Mist for a while."

Phoebe hurried forward, her expression anxious. "But Gabriel, it was an accident."

"Was it?"

She shook her head, bemused. "What else could it have been?"

"I'm not certain. All I know is that this mysterious Alice deliberately committed a grave act of mischief. One that could have gotten you killed. I will talk to the local magistrate before we leave and tell him what has happened. He may very well know who Alice is. But until she is found, I want you safely away from here."

Phoebe frowned thoughtfully. "Perhaps the poor woman is mad."

"Then she must be locked up in a hospital for lunatics. I certainly do not want her running about the countryside around here," Gabriel said. "Two hours, Phoebe."

He straightened and walked into his own bedchamber. It struck him that he was not accustomed to explaining himself. Out in the South Seas, the only thing that had been required was the ability to enforce his own orders. He had been quite capable of doing that.

Having a wife who questioned every reasonable command was going to be trying.

Meredith winced at the sight of the bolt of scarlet silk. "Phoebe, that is positively the most unfashionable color I have ever seen. Please, I beg you, don't have it made up into a gown."

"Are you certain you don't care for it? I thought it rather attractive." Phoebe touched the brilliant silk, captivated by its fiery color.

"It is totally unsuitable."

"Well, if you are absolutely certain."

"I am absolutely positive it will look perfectly outrageous on you."

Phoebe sighed reluctantly and looked at the shopkeeper. "I suppose I shall have to select another color. Perhaps something in purple or yellow?"

"Certainly, madam." The mercer reached for another bolt. "I have some wonderful purple satin and there is this rather striking yellow Italian silk."

Meredith shuddered. "Phoebe, I do wish you would consider the pale blue muslin or the pink satin."

"I prefer bright colors. You know that."

"I know, but you are a countess now."

"What difference does that make?" Phoebe asked in surprise.

"For your husband's sake, you must begin to pay more attention to fashion. Try that pink and white sprigged muslin," Meredith suggested. "Pastels are all the rage."

"I do not care for pastels. I have never cared for pastels."

Meredith sighed. "I am only trying to guide you, Phoebe. Why must you always be so stubborn?"

"Perhaps I am stubborn because people have been trying to guide me all of my life." Phoebe fingered a brilliant purple velvet. "This is rather interesting."

"For a ball gown? You cannot be serious," Meredith exclaimed.

"I was thinking of it for a medieval costume." Phoebe draped a piece of yellow silk over the purple to study the effect. "I have decided to give a house party at Devil's Mist during the summer."

"Wonderful. Now that you are the Countess of Wylde, you must start entertaining. But what is this about a costume?"

Phoebe smiled. "I want the theme to be that of a medieval tournament."

"A tournament? You mean with men dressed in armor and dashing about on horseback?" Meredith looked seriously alarmed.

"Devil's Mist is the perfect place for such an affair. We shall see that no one will get hurt. We will have archery contests and a grand ball. I shall hire actors who will play the parts of jesters and troubadours. Everyone will wear appropriate costumes, of course."

"Phoebe, that will be a massive undertaking," Meredith said carefully. "You have never given so much as a small soiree. Are you certain you want to take on this sort of project?"

"It will be great fun. I think Wylde will enjoy it."

Meredith eyed her closely. "Forgive me for asking, but have you actually discussed this with Wylde?"

"Not yet." Phoebe chuckled. "But I am certain he will approve. It is just the sort of thing that will appeal to him."

"You are certain of that?"

"Quite certain."

Twenty minutes later Phoebe and Meredith left the shop. The footman they had brought with them carried two lengths of fine cloth, one purple, the other bright yellow. Phoebe was quite satisfied with her purchases. Meredith appeared resigned to the inevitable.

"We must stop in at Lacey's Bookshop while we are in the vicinity," Phoebe said to Meredith. "It is only a short distance from here."

"Very well." Meredith was quiet for a moment as they walked toward the bookshop. Then she moved a bit closer to Phoebe. "There is something I must ask you."

"Yes?" Phoebe could not wait to get to Lacey's. Gabriel had casually mentioned at breakfast that he had sent his newest manuscript off to his publisher that morning.

Phoebe had almost confessed to Gabriel that she was his publisher. She had tested the waters cautiously by suggesting that she should read his manuscript first.

"Absolutely not," Gabriel had said. "I have a very firm policy on that subject. No one reads my manuscripts except myself and my publisher." Then he had smiled with infuriating condescension. "Besides, what would you know of judging modern novels? Your expertise is in much older works, madam."