Samantha James (16 page)

Heaven above, she didn’t.

She looked down. She couldn’t
not
look. She felt it then, the heat rising from his body. She felt
him
rising.

Directly beneath her hand.

Simon’s head flung up. Mortified, Anne’s heart nearly choked her. His entire body clenched, his breath hissed in.

“Oh, dear,” she said faintly.

Simon was dragging at her fingers. “I’ve got it,” he said with an odd catch in his voice. “I’ve got it.”

It lasted but an instant.

Oh, Lord, it lasted forever.

Swinging around, Anne turned her back. She could hear the rustle of the sheets as he climbed into bed.

At length, she turned around. A jolt ran through her. He was naked, she thought shakily. The sheet lay draped across his lap; he had turned slightly to the left. She saw the shape of one round, spare buttock.

Her heart lurched. Even though he was adequately covered, his naked chest seemed to leap out at her. Disconcerting though it was, Anne
was utterly curious—and utterly fascinated.

Stretched out on the mattress, his powerful frame seemed bigger than ever. Some might have called him daunting, yet in all honesty, Anne couldn’t. And she didn’t. No, she discovered herself musing, it wasn’t that he was intimidating. It was more that he was…overwhelming.

Air seeped slowly from her lungs. Both the sheet and the sling were very white against the dark pelt on his chest. She swallowed as her gaze strayed lower. No power on earth could have stopped her from staring—and none did. Her eyes trailed the curling hairs on his chest down across the plane of his belly, curling and crisp, clear to where it disappeared beneath the hem of the sheet. An odd little shiver tore through her.

She thought of the sleek, silent grace with which he moved. The breadth of his chest, the width of his shoulders, the sinewy length of his arms. She didn’t need to see him naked to know how hard he was. She didn’t need to touch him. But she wanted to—oh, how she longed to! She ached with the need to reach out, to thread her fingers through the dense mat of hair on his chest and splay her hands wide. She yearned to know what it was like to
feel
a man. To feel
him
.

Was it curiosity that moved her so? That compelled the clamor of her heart? A little, perhaps.
Yet Anne was instinctively aware it was more. So much more.

Fascination. Desire. A fervent churning of the blood. A cresting of something that sent a tremor all through her.

The lamplight wavered, casting the blade of his nose into prominent relief, the proud arch of his brow, the captivating beauty of his mouth. He moved his head on the pillow, and she saw his eyes, pale and silver.

His legs moved restlessly. Anne’s heart leaped. Had he noticed her immodest regard?

Again he shifted. This time the sheet caught beneath his hip, drawing taut over iron-hard thighs. And for one sheer, mind-splitting instant, her gaze strayed yet again where it should not.

This time there was no refuting it. She saw the outline of his sex against his belly.

Anne couldn’t breathe. Her cheeks were scalding. She certainly couldn’t summon the nerve to look at him. Flustered, her pulse clamoring riotously, she finally stammered, “I-I’ll check on you shortly.”

Safely in her room, she flattened her palms against the door, gulping in a stinging lungful of air. Not until Audrey stepped in did Anne raise her head. The girl helped her out of her clothing. By the time she pulled a gauzy white nightgown into place, she was calmer.

Audrey had brought a light meal with her. A silver hairbrush in hand, Anne glanced toward Simon’s bedroom. No doubt he was hungry. He’d been gone most of the day, and she didn’t think he’d eaten since breakfast. And while it wasn’t dread that clogged her throat at the thought of facing him again, how could she look at him without—

In Simon’s room, something clattered to the floor.

Anne flung open the door. A wooden cigar box lay upended on the floor; cigars lay scattered like twigs across the rug.

Simon was trying to get out of bed.

Anne rushed forward. “What are you doing!?”

The look he turned on her was almost ferocious. His tone certainly was. “I am not helpless, Anne. I am not a child.”

“Then pray don’t act like one,” she said evenly. “You roar at Duffy. You snap at me. You’re angry at your clumsiness. You are unhappy, and so it appears everyone around you must be too.”

His jaw was bunched. “I want a drink,” he growled.

“You drink too much,” she challenged.

“I do,” he agreed stiffly. “But that won’t change my mind.”

Anne’s eyes narrowed. “Are we having a row?” she asked pleasantly.

“We are not,” he said brusquely. “And if you think to dissuade me, Anne, be advised you will not. I want my whisky. I will have my whisky. And I have no objection about fetching it myself, however it may offend your sensibilities.”

Oh, the irascible brute! When he thrust out one long, lean leg toward the floor, it was shockingly apparent he meant every word. Exactly what she would have done if she hadn’t glimpsed the creases of pain etched beside his mouth, she wasn’t quite sure.

“Oh, for pity’s sake! Stay where you are. I’ll get it for you.”

This time it was Anne who glared—and Simon savored his satisfaction.

She marched to his desk where the bottle sat. Her lovely mouth pinched into a straight line, she handed the tumbler to him without a word.

Simon took a long, satisfying draught. Their eyes caught; Anne’s flashed mutinously.

Yet the very next instant his smile was wiped clean.

She wore no dressing gown. Her nightgown was a simple gown. A plain gown. And most
un
provocative, the neckline wide and unadorned, the fine batiste loose and billowing.

But it was just as he suspected. The light was behind her. And he could see every inch of her—those long, slim legs, the rounded flare of her hips—every sweet line of her body. As if
she
were
naked.

His eyes tracked her every move as she bent to pick up the cigar box and its contents, granting him an unrestrained view of a very lovely little bottom. Simon paused, the tumbler suspended halfway to his lips.

It seemed she was in no hurry. All the while she swayed ever so slightly, to and fro as she gathered up the cigars. Through narrowed eyes, Simon tracked her form as she straightened, pushing back a gleaming skein of chestnut gold hair and revealing the graceful line of her neck and shoulder.

“I’m quite well, Anne. You needn’t hover.”

“I’m not hovering. I’m merely tidying up.”

Leaning over, she plumped the pillows behind him.

The neckline gaped wide. Her breasts were clearly visible, ivory and soft, full and trembling with her every move.

Simon choked—and very nearly dropped his tumbler.

Anne looked at him sharply. “What? What is it? Did I hurt you?”

Simon didn’t spare her. He could see all the way to the concave of her belly, the shadowy triangle beneath, but it was those delectable breasts that held him bound. If he wasn’t mistaken, he noted vaguely, her nipples were the same lush pink as her lips.

It was damned disconcerting, that’s what it
was! “Is it possible,” he said succinctly, “that you could cover yourself?”

She blinked. For one precious second, she didn’t move. Simon could feel himself growing hard once more. He wondered if Anne would have remained thus if she knew precisely what havoc she wreaked on his body. It crossed his mind to show her exactly what effect her display—and her proximity—had on him. But even if she saw, she wouldn’t know what it meant…or would she?

Confusion flitted across her face. She looked down at herself. “Oh,” she gasped, and then again: “Oh!”

She jerked upright, her cheeks flushed with color. And then she looked at him as if it were his fault!

Stepping back, she straightened her shoulders. “Is there anything else that you require?”

Her calm was admirable, her tone carefully neutral. Simon took a breath. “My journal. It’s in the top drawer of my desk.”

Her gaze flitted to the sling. She frowned. “But you can’t wr—”

Something about his expression must have brought her up short. She retrieved the leather-bound journal, placing it on the bedside table.

Simon took another breath. “Thank you.”

“I’ll say good night then,” she said softly. She seemed to hesitate. “Simon…”

He did roar then. “Good night, Anne!”

Her chin came up. “Call me if you need anything.”

“Thank you. I will.”

They both knew he wouldn’t.

At the doorway, she stopped and glanced back at him. Simon felt the touch of her eyes like a brand.

The door clicked shut. The rumble of a dozen fiery curses left his chest.

He tossed down the whisky, then sagged down on the pillows.

It was no use. His body betrayed him. Betrayed him most thoroughly and most traitorously.

Over and over Anne’s image flitted through his mind. The throbbing in his shoulder was nothing compared to that in his loins until at last there was no help for it.

He set the glass aside. Odd, how he’d felt not the slightest twinge of desire until Anne came into his life.

He was disgusted with himself, with his craving for her, but there was no help for it. He was hard as stone. He rolled to one side.

His hand stole beneath the sheet. His hand clamped tight…Gritting his teeth, he squeezed his eyes shut, as if to close out the image of her face. Oh, God help him, it was no use. He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t fight it. Anne, no
doubt, would say it was rude. Crude. But by God, he was still a man. With a man’s urges. His body reminded him of that most assuredly.

Anne,
he thought.
My lovely Anne. What are you doing to me? It’s you who makes me come undone. It’s you who runs me to ground. It’s you who sends me fleeing to the shadows, like a fox flushed into the bushes.

The motion of his hand quickened. His body went taut. He felt himself straining. Then he was shuddering. Gasping, craving, desperate for release.

And when at last it came, sprawling facedown, Simon laughed blackly. There would be no true release, he thought. Not tonight, or any other night.

Not without Anne.

Early the next morning, Anne peered cautiously into Simon’s room. Usually he was awake long before she was; sometimes she heard him stirring, the creak of floorboards, the click of the door.

He was still asleep, lying on his uninjured side, the sling tucked carefully against his stomach. Quietly she entered, her steps carrying her to his bedside.

What would he say if he knew she watched him so? Her throat tightened oddly. Seeing him thus, his guard laid low, brought a stark wave
of emotion, so intense she went weak inside. She’d been granted the opportunity to study him at leisure, a rare opportunity, at that! she thought with a faint catch in her heart. There was no need to hold back. No need to wonder or worry about what was—or was not!—in his mind. There was no tension, no awkwardness, no strain or doubt or resistance.

With the tip of a finger, she traced the square of his sideburns, lightly scratching a nail up and down, loving the slightly bristled texture.

Loving
him
.

Her breath caught. Unbeknownst to her, a fist crept up, coming to rest directly above her heart.

She loved him. She
loved
Simon.

She shook her head in mingled wonder and confusion. She could never say precisely when it happened. In truth she didn’t know!

For it was just as Caro had told her the night before the wedding.

Sometimes it’s just there and one can’t explain where or how or why or even
when
it happened. It’s just there.

Her smile slipped away. Their marriage could be so much more, she thought with a pang, if only Simon was not so set against it. His
life
could be so much more. He could be happy again, she was certain of it, at least in some measure! But he held his guilt drawn tight about his shoulders, a weight no man
should bear! And Anne had no idea how to ease his burden.

Or even if she could.

If Simon had his way, when the year had waxed and waned, forever would they part. Never would she forget him.

Forever would she love him.

Yet how could she ever tell him? When it might only hurt him more?

He’d suffered so much already.

But perhaps it needn’t be like this.

Perhaps there was another way…

By mid-morning Simon was up and about. Anne was on her way inside with a basket full of flowers when she caught sight of him with Duffy. One large hand lay clasped on Duffy’s shoulder as they made their way down the hall. Anne stopped. She had no wish to eavesdrop on their conversation, but saw that Duffy was nodding. Simon’s features were earnest, but not grave. And when the old man lifted his head toward Simon, he was smiling broadly—

When Anne entered the house, her step was as light as her heart.

Her heart would be her guide. She loved this man, and she wasn’t going to let him go without a struggle; if Simon didn’t quite see things her way just yet, well…he would. A sudden bubble of laughter resounded in the hall. One of the maids glanced at her, startled. Anne
slanted her a grin, then continued on her way, her basket swinging high.

Her stubbornness would serve her in good stead, she decided. For Anne was determined. She would do whatever she must, whatever it took. She would cosset and cajole. Persuade and persist. She had nearly a year, she reminded herself, a year in which to convince him they belonged together.

She had only to be patient.

Her heart would not be swayed. She knew what she wanted.

And what she wanted was her husband.

But first—ah, first!—she had to make him want her as well.

From the beginning, she could not look at him without feeling a sizzle of awareness…a tremor-in-the-heart sort of feeling. Even when she hadn’t known what it was, it was there. In every look, in every heartbeat. Did Simon feel the same? Even harder, how could she
make
him feel the same?

Anne pondered her approach long and hard over the next few days.

Something inside warned that where Simon was concerned, brazenness would gain her little. Besides, it had never been her way to tease and flirt. Oh, how she wished that Caro were here to advise her! She must be subtle, she decided, but also bold. Yet how did one be bold and provocative without appearing to be so?

As usual, Anne retired before Simon. But it wasn’t long before she heard him in his room. Grasping for courage, she paused in front of the connecting door. A wife had every right to enter her husband’s room, she told herself. It wasn’t wrong. It certainly wasn’t odd.

Nonetheless, it took almost more daring than she possessed to raise her hand and knock—still more to open it wide and sally forth as if she’d done so countless times before!

Simon sat before his desk, writing in his journal. At her entrance, he half turned, the quill in his hand.

Anne’s heart seemed to stumble—thank goodness she didn’t. His shirt was partially undone, revealing a darkly masculine wedge of chest that nearly sent her fleeing back across the threshold.

“I fear I must trouble you for your assistance. I’m having a dreadful time with the clasp of this necklace. If you don’t mind…” Thank heavens her voice wasn’t nearly as shaky as she feared. She even managed a laugh as she swung around and presented her back.

Behind her, she heard the scraping of the chair. She knew the precise instant he drew near. Her every sense clamored in awareness.

“Of course it’s no trouble, Anne.”

She’d halted in front of his shaving table. Twisting her head ever so slightly, she managed
a peek in the mirror. He was staring down at her, faint consternation on his features.

“I’m so glad you weren’t in bed…” The words dangled, along with her breath. It seemed an eternity passed while she waited, before his hands finally lifted.

“How is your shoulder?”

“Right as rain. Hold still, will you? The chain is all tangled up in your hair.”

His tone was rather gruff. Ah, but laden beneath it was something that made her tremble in reaction. Anne couldn’t have moved if she wanted to. Shivers were dancing up and down her spine—the most delicious shivers she’d ever felt.

With Simon so intent on his task, Anne dared another peek. His eyes were hidden, but there was something in his expression that made her stomach go suddenly weightless.

And no wonder.

Simon grappled for composure. He battled for strength. Everything inside him was running wild, yet he felt trapped. Imprisoned by her nearness, held captive to her heat.

Her head was bowed low, baring her nape. His gaze fixed long and hard and avid on the tender sweep of her neck. He wanted to plant his open mouth against that fragile, vulnerable spot, run his tongue across curling wisps of sun-drizzled hair. Her scent made his nostrils
flare, that uniquely delicate scent of roses that always managed to drive him half wild.

He tried to confine his attention to the soft, downy fuzz on her nape. He sawed in a breath, then set his teeth. Blast it, it was no use.

“There it is.”

Lifting a hand, she opened her palm. He dropped the necklace into it.

Anne didn’t move. “As long as I’m here, you may as well undo my gown.”

Her tone was quite prim, her profile etched in marble.

Simon took a searing breath. “Where is Aggie?”

“Audrey,” she corrected. “She’s gone home for the night.”

His jaw set hard, Simon obliged, tugging the row of tiny buttons free, one by one. And all the while, unable to tear his eyes away. Little by little the gown gaped, from her nape to the small of her back, revealing smooth, creamy flesh. Simon tried not to touch—he tried not to look—but there was no help for it. His knuckles skimmed the valley of her spine. He must see what he was doing.

Oh, Lord, he fooled no one, least of all himself. It had been so long…Too long. And Anne was so warm, her skin like alabaster, milky white and finely textured, almost translucent. He was nearly shaking with the urge to plunge his hands inside the fabric and tear it wide.

Drag it down, all the way down. And drag
her
down too, atop him. Between him, against him, her buttocks caught hard against the swelling of his sex.

“My stays too, if you please.”

Oh, God, how could she be so matter-of-fact?

Yet when it was done, she held herself immobile, as if to allow him the chance to look his fill. In some distant realm of his mind, he noticed her hair had loosened from its topknot. Silky strands curled on her nape. A tug, and it would slip from its berth, down over his hands.

Bloody hell, he thought suddenly. If Anne didn’t care, then why should he?

His gaze roamed hotly down her flesh, down between her loosened stays, the slender valley of her back, clear to the dimples above her buttocks.

It was all he could do not to turn her around and snatch her up against him. Conflict warred in his breast, a conflict such as he’d never known.

Just when he thought he could stand it no longer, she turned.

It was as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. Every nerve in his body went taut.

Oh, but he could almost believe his sweet, lovely bride knew precisely what effect she was having on him. He knew she was innocent. He knew she was a virgin. There was never a doubt in his mind—indeed, he’d dared not dwell on
it at all! Yet it spun through his mind that this was a ploy, a plot. A game, perhaps?

No. Anne didn’t play such games. Anne
wouldn’t
play such games.

But suddenly he knew, with heart-stopping awareness, that Anne was ripe for the taking—
his
for the taking. He could do whatever he wanted…

She wouldn’t reject him.

She wouldn’t stop him.

It was unnerving, that certainty. It tempted him to the pit of his soul. Other men might surely envy him, for Anne was a beauty. To some, the fact that he had yet to consummate their marriage might have been unfathomable. The fact that she shared his home and his name—but not his bed—must have been absurd. To some, the fact that he had denied himself—deliberately checked his desire beneath tightly leashed restraint—was no doubt laughable.

Oh, but she tempted him. She tested him. By God, she
tortured
him.

His jaw clenched hard. His fingers curled—and uncurled. He tried to pull back, to swallow his desire and turn it inward. He couldn’t withhold the twist of longing clawing through his gut. It was lust, he told himself flatly. It had to be, for anything else…it simply could not be. He simply would not allow it.

He broke out into a cold sweat. How foolish
he was! How arrogant to think that he could deny it or hide it.

He burned for her.

She laid her fingertips in the center of his chest. “You looked very handsome tonight at dinner.”

His gaze roved her face. “So did you,” he said solemnly.

Anne laughed softly. “Why, thank you. I don’t believe anyone has ever called me handsome before.”

A faint smile grazed his mouth.

All at once the air was close and thick. The breath that seared his lungs was scalding. And now his blood was pounding almost violently, on fire with longing.

His smile was no more. One lean hand came up behind her head. Then the other. Plying his way across her scalp, threading into her hair, slowly he pulled her head back.

The look on her face shattered his insides. She didn’t hide. She didn’t retreat. She didn’t waver. Her expression was soft, her eyes luminous.

His grip tightened, ever so little. A bone-jarring rhythm thudded in his chest. His head began to buzz. A sample, he told himself raggedly. Just one taste. Just one touch. Just one kiss.

His mouth closed over hers.

He tasted wine. He tasted pleasure. He tasted
her
.

And he kissed her as he’d never kissed her
before. He kissed her the way she’d never been kissed. He kissed her the way
he
had never kissed her before.

Her mouth was warm. Wet. Clinging. Her hair tumbled down, down over his hands, thick and rich. He crushed it in one fist; the fingers of his other hand spread wide across her hip. Pitched into a shattering realm of sheer, sensual awareness, he bent her frame to his.

And Anne reveled in it. Relished it as nothing before. It was no chaste kiss that she wanted. No chaste kiss that he gave.

It blazed through every part of her. His palm closed around one breast, stroking her nipple through the cloth. She felt it like a white-hot jolt of fire. She wondered what it would be like to feel it again, with nothing between them. Not her clothing, not his.

She wanted more. So much more. They were wedded together from breast to belly. Anne was starkly—shatteringly—aware of his thighs against hers. With one hand, he trapped her against him, her hips clamped tight against his.

Her heart ceased to beat. She knew what that swelling ridge of taut male flesh signified. Even through the layers of her gown, she could feel him, thick and rigid.

Simon wanted her. He might hide it. Deny it.

His body could not.

It didn’t shock her, or frighten her. She knew
what it meant. She was new to this thing called passion, to the feelings that clamored all through her. She was new to this, the reaction of man to woman. But she knew what it meant, this stirring heat of arousal.

A wild exhilaration poured through her. She felt reckless. Triumphant. Elated. Twining her arms around his neck, she clung, shamelessly and without reservation.

Then all at once, Simon froze. He broke away, lifting his head.

Anne’s eyes snapped open. Their gazes collided, each heart-shatteringly aware of their nearness. They were both breathing fast and hard.

Abruptly he released her.

“Christ,” he said raggedly. Something fierce leaped in his eyes, speeding across his features, something she didn’t fully comprehend. Confusion? Regret? Perhaps a little of both…

He ran his fingers through his hair, then turned his back. Placing his hands flat on the top of his desk, he lowered his head. When he finally turned back, his features were shuttered.

“I’m sorry, Anne.” His voice was low and taut. “Please forgive me.”