Sattler, Veronica (42 page)

Warming
as much to his tone as to the words, Ashleigh giggled and gave him a sudden
quick smile that sent Brett's senses spinning, almost making him regret he'd
not followed his inclinations of moments before. But instead, he seated her at
the intimate little table, reached for the champagne, and they began to dine.

During
their dinner they began to relax together as they talked of many things.
Ashleigh told him of her early years with Patrick and her parents, falling
readily into accounts of tomboy exploits that were aimed at emulating the big
brother she adored, anecdotes of winters spent skating on ponds and riding in a
horse-drawn sleigh, of summers filled with swims in cooling streams and
horseback rides to country fairs.

Through
the telling she became again the child she'd been, excited with her
recollections, animated in recreating her memories, and through it all, Brett
never took his eyes off her, watching with growing fascination, enthralled by
her winsome charm.

Then
it was his turn, Ashleigh told him, and he began, carefully at first, then with
increasing openness, to talk of his past. He told her what it was like to be a
boy in his grandfather's domain, utterly committed to following a carefully
prescribed regime in an effort to please the one person he truly cared about in
the world... and who, he felt, cared for him. He included tales from his time
at sea, with bits and pieces about the friendship that developed between him
and her brother; he spoke of his years at the university, of his fascination
with history and the law; and he told her of the time when he returned home
once more, of coming before his grandfather with his training and education
behind him, ready at last to receive the old man's approval.

Ashleigh
listened, wide-eyed, to these accounts of his boyhood, feeling she was
beginning at last to get glimpses of what went into the building of Brett the
man. She had never heard of anyone who'd grown up according to such a carefully
laid-out plan, and she wondered at the effect it must have had on him. Had he
ever had the chance merely to be a boy at play? Had he ever known a child's
wonder at Christmastime, or what it was like to toss a snowball, or catch a
firefly and then let it go? When had there ever been room in his young life for
aught but duty... and measuring up? And what had he felt when it happened, as
occasionally it must have, that he didn't? Whom had he turned to then?

It
was then she sensed something else that was missing from these stories,
something she faintly recalled Megan having touched on once, but which, perhaps
because of her eagerness to learn about him—and perhaps because she was on her
second glass of champagne—she now could not recall.

"Tell
me about your parents," she asked as she took a sip from her glass.
"Do you remember them at all?"

All
at once she saw Brett's face go rigid and his eyes shutter. "They're
gone," he said.

"Oh,"
murmured Ashleigh, "I'm sorry. I—"

"It's
grown somewhat close in here, Ashleigh." Brett rose abruptly from the
table. "Why don't we finish our champagne out on that balcony? It's
cleared up quite nicely and promises to be a lovely night. We might even see
some stars."

Perhaps
it was the champagne, and perhaps it was because her guard was down from the
warmth they'd shared, but as Ashleigh walked back into the drawing room and
toward its balcony, she ignored the warnings she might otherwise have sensed
from his abruptness of tone and curt manner and persisted in asking, "But
surely you have some recollection of them? I mean, you said you were ten when
your father—"

"I've
no wish to discuss it!" Brett said sharply.

Ashleigh
had gone through the open French doors and now whirled around to face him.
"But why?"

"I
said to
leave it alone, Ashleigh!"
This time his tone was
unmistakably harsh, the look in his eyes cold and forbidding.

Ashleigh
fell backward as if from a physical blow. Needing to focus her eyes
elsewhere—anywhere to avoid the ice in his— she glanced down at the now wilting
bouquet of tea roses she'd dropped earlier, biting her bottom lip to keep it
from trembling.

Brett
saw the gesture and felt instant remorse. He'd meant to charm and calm her into
their bed tonight, not to send her into bewildered tears. "Ashleigh,
I—"

"No!
Don't come near me," she warned, taking another step backward.

It
was then she felt the balcony's railing at her back, but as she continued to
gaze at the forlorn little bouquet of roses, she decided she must pick them up,
for somehow they reminded her of herself just now.

It
was this that saved her. Just as she began to bend forward to reach for them,
she heard a splintering sound and felt the railing give way at her back. All at
once she felt herself falling, her arms flailing out in front of her as her
champagne glass crashed to the ground.

She
screamed, just as Brett charged forward, shouting her name. There was a flash
of movement before her as she felt herself going over the edge where, seconds
before, a stout new railing had rested.

The
moment was a blur of terror, filled simultaneously by the sound of her own
scream in her ears, the realization that she was about to die, and the
syllables of her name splitting the air.

Then,
a second later, she felt a strong hand grasping her arm, sensed her horrible
loss of balance being restored, and then warm, masculine arms were holding her,
pulling her back from the edge.

"Ashleigh!
My
God, Ashleigh,
you
almost—" Brett crushed her fiercely to him, his
mind at a momentary loss for words from the horror of what had nearly happened.

Ashleigh
was silent in his arms for several long seconds as her initial shock passed.
Then she gasped and fell into hysterical weeping, her small body heaving and
shuddering against his chest as she released the pent-up terror of seconds
before.

Brett
let her cry it out, giving what comfort he could as he held her close, all the
while murmuring soft, calming words into her hair, her ear. "That's it,
sweetheart, cry... It's all right... you're safe now. Shh, you're fine, little
one, it's over...."

After
some time her sobs gave way to soft little watery sounds murmured between
hesitant, uneven breaths, and finally she was quiet.

Slowly,
Brett released his hold and brought the curled fingers of his hand gently under
her chin to tilt her face up toward his. "Better now?" he questioned
softly.

Still
feeling too choked up to trust her voice, Ashleigh merely nodded, her eyes,
sparkling with tears, bigger and brighter than ever in her small face.

A
dozen thoughts were assailing Brett's brain just then, not the least of which
was the question of how a brand-new railing could fail to support her
insignificant weight and give way as it had. But foremost in his mind was the
need to see Ashleigh restored to mental comfort, to allay any emotional damage
she might be suffering, for he had caught the look of barely subdued terror in
her eyes just now, even after the tears had subsided.

Without
another moment's hesitation, he caught her under the backs of her thighs and
swept her into his arms, then proceeded to carry her to the bedchamber. Once
there, he stood her beside the lovely old canopied Queen Anne bed and,
continuing to murmur soft words of comfort, began to remove her gown.

Ashleigh
stood quietly, submitting to the disrobing like someone in a dreamlike trance,
and Brett attributed this to a continuing state of shock from what had
transpired. Soon her gown and simple petticoat lay about her feet in a heap on
the floor, and she stood before him wearing only her daintily embroidered
shift.

Brett
took one look at her slender body with its ripe charms barely concealed by the
semitransparent material and forced himself to look away as he turned down the
coverlet on the bed. The sight of those sweet, lush curves could, he knew, prove
a sore temptation, but he also knew it would never do to set his mind in that
direction right now. Only a monster would take advantage of a woman under the
present circumstances, and Brett had a hundred reasons for proving, to himself,
if no one else, that he was in no way deserving of such an epithet, especially
where Ashleigh was concerned.

When
the bed was ready, he lifted her gently onto the mattress, swiftly removed his
boots and climbed in beside her. Then he again wrapped her in his arms, coaxing
her head onto his shoulder with soft, soothing words.

"Sleep,
little one. It's the best balm to heal the fear you've just suffered. You're
safe now, here with me. Nothing's going to harm you.... Sleep...."

She
seemed to acquiesce to his words, closing her eyes and nestling in closer to
his soothing warmth, but as she did so, Brett found he was not as immune to the
soft curves she pressed against him as he would have preferred to be. As the
silk of her hair touched the underside of his chin and the soft, sweet scent of
her perfume drifted about his senses, he found himself gritting his teeth in an
effort to steel himself against the heady onslaught.

Curse
him for a fool, but he hadn't imagined it would be this difficult! Desperately,
he tried to focus his brain on other things—anything to avoid thinking about
the ripe, feminine nearness that even now was causing beads of sweat to appear
on his forehead and a bulge in his breeches beneath the coverlet.

Damn,
he
thought, but what a coil this was! Here he lay beside his own bride on their
wedding night, and he dared not touch her! Here was this bewitching creature
who was now totally his, whose body he had craved for weeks, whose flesh he was
meant
to get an heir upon, and she was beyond touching. Ah, he thought
bitterly, how the capricious gods must be laughing at him with this!

Ashleigh
closed her eyes as she'd been bidden and tried to sleep, but sleep wouldn't
come. She had succeeded in calming her inner turmoil from the terrible scare
she'd suffered; Brett had helped with that, but now, as she lay in his arms,
something else was at work.

It
was their wedding night!
And, though he'd been wonderfully tender and
considerate in the aftermath of her scare, he now seemed content to merely lie
beside her and urge her to sleep.
And it was their wedding night!
True,
it might not be the romantic union she had dreamed of, but he was her wedded
husband now and...

Could
it be he didn't desire her? Had the injury to his pride from Patrick's
ultimatum been so great that he couldn't bring himself to follow through with
his husbandly rights? Was she, perhaps, not sufficiently attractive to him?

All
of these questions and more assailed Ashleigh's spinning brain as she lay there
in the darkness beside him, as the silent minutes ticked by.

Finally
after some length of time had passed and she still found herself wide-awake,
Ashleigh decided she could bear it no more. It didn't even matter to her that
she would risk encountering that wrath that she had seen so often and which she
knew lurked beneath the surface. She had to know.

Shifting
slightly to raise herself up on one elbow, she looked at him in the light given
off by the beams of the full moon that slanted in through a window opposite the
bed.

"Brett?"

Surprised
to see she was not close to sleep, as he'd suspected—and fervently hoped—Brett
withdrew the arm he'd thrown across his brow in an effort to shut out the
softly insinuating effects of her movements. "Yes, what is it?" he
questioned as he opened his eyes.

Then
he wished he hadn't. The picture she presented, above him in the moonlight with
her hair all silvered and curling about her arms and shoulders, her face
breathtakingly beautiful as she faced him, caused a tight knot of desire to
form in his loins, blotting out almost everything but his hunger for her.

Almost
put off by the look on his face—a look she didn't understand—Ashleigh forced
herself to continue. "I was wondering... That is, I—" Now that she
was into it, the right words just wouldn't come!

"Ashleigh,
for God's sake, what's the matter?" he asked, sitting up beside her now.

There
was no help for it, but to simply blurt it out. "Brett... I— Don't...?
Don't
you want me?"

Her
words hit him like a sledgehammer blow to his middle, and there was a passing
second of silence while he digested their import. Then he shut his eyes and
reached for her with a groan.

"Want
you?
Oh, sweet, merciful God,
I
cannot think for wanting you!"
And
with a strong, masterful movement, he drew her beneath him on the bed.

Ashleigh's
senses danced at his words. He
did
want her! He... But then the time for
thinking was torn from her as she felt him begin to show her what he meant. She
saw him looking down at her for a moment, his eyes a flaming message of desire.
Then he lowered his head as his hands caught hers gently on either side, and
she felt the hard warmth of his mouth covering her own.