Auctioned Virgin to Seduced Bride (3 page)

He followed her, his weight pressing into her thighs, his legs straddling hers. She felt him seize the hem of the tattered shift, tear it away, and cooler air swept over the hot skin of her back. Something brushed her buttocks and she realised it was his erection.

She arched upward, brushing against him and he groaned and fell forward so that her buttocks ground into his groin. His weight was thrilling, arousing. She had thought it would be frightening to be trapped beneath the weight of a man when he made love, but it was not. At least, it was not when the man was Patrick.

He bit her shoulder, a nip that sent sensation coursing through her, and she gasped, struggling under him, trying to part her legs, wanting to be able to turn and hold him, kiss his mouth, have him soothe the ache that was building inside her, transforming her body into something that was urgent, slick with moisture, tight with impossible demands.

At last, oh, please…
His knee was pressing between her legs, forcing them apart, and she yielded instantly, trembling beneath him. But then he went still, his body over hers, for what seemed an age. ‘Patrick?' she whispered.

What was he waiting for? Had she done something wrong? The apprehension that had been drowned in passion and sensation began to creep back. He was large and heavy and male and now she was remembering all the whispered gossip about lovemaking, all the tales the wide-eyed village girls told. Did she really want to do this? Only it was Patrick…

‘Patrick?'

His muscles locked, cramped with the effort of holding himself off her soft body, keeping himself from thrusting into her. The whisper sounded frightened, as well it might. What had he done?

‘Shh.' He rolled to the side, away from her. He'd get up, pull the covers over her, let her sleep until the early hours when they could creep out. His groin ached with unsatisfied desire, his head ached with the aftermath of his fear for her and that blistering row. She must be exhausted and frightened and confused by the sensual shock of his furious lovemaking.

As he landed on the mattress Laurel moved, coming onto her side, her eyes wide. ‘What did I do wrong?'

‘Nothing!' Her head jerked back at the sharpness of his response. ‘You did nothing wrong,' Patrick said, more gently. ‘I came to my senses, that is all.'

‘I thought you wanted me.' Laurel sat up, curling her legs under her, her body milky-pale against the rumpled dark blue silk coverlet.

‘I did.'
Where are my breeches? I must find her a robe…

‘You still do.' She was looking at him in frank appraisal and his erection tightened as though the glance had caressed him intimately. ‘In Martinsdene, I dreamt of you.' She dropped her eyes from his, blushing. ‘I tried to imagine what it would be like with you.'

‘And now you know. It must have been an unpleasant shock, not the sweet romantic idyll virgins dream of.'

‘What do you know of virgins?' she asked, the faintest hint of a smile on the soft mouth his kisses had bruised. Still she did not meet his eyes as she sat there, curled like a sea nymph in her pool of blue.

‘Very little,' Patrick admitted. ‘I steer clear of innocent women.'

‘Then perhaps you are not as observant as you think you are,' she added, looking up. ‘That was not an unpleasant shock. It was overwhelming and surprising and wonderful and frightening—but not unpleasant. But you stopped.'

‘I remembered that you are a virgin, which, given the way you came here, I was very remiss to have lost sight of.' He shifted, trying to ease the torment of his arousal and she looked down.

‘Does that hurt?'

‘It is not comfortable,' he admitted. ‘It will subside in time if I pay it no attention.'

‘But that is not fair,' she murmured, shifting so fast he was taken unawares. One moment he was leaning back, changing his position to climb off the high bed, the next his arms were full of warm woman, her arms curling around his neck as she pressed herself to him, bringing them both down amidst the pillows.

‘Laurel—stop it.' The soft swell of her belly was pressed against his erection. Her breasts were crushed to his chest. He could hear her panting breaths, feel them stir his hair. She was clumsy in her innocence, rocking against him instinctively, sending shocks of sensation through him. With a groan he surrendered to the need for release: if he could just keep her safe from his own desires.

 

‘Yes,' Laurel murmured, nuzzling her face into his neck, smelling the musk of arousal, feeling the gloss of sweat on his taut muscles. When it was him, those things were powerfully exciting. His body rocked against hers, the hard flesh pressing into her stomach, the thrust of his hips bringing pressure down on the mound between her thighs. The strange ache, a thousand times stronger than the feeling that had haunted her yearning dreams, built and built.

She should open her legs, she thought, then understood that he was not going to take her, only his own release. The sensation of Patrick's body moving over hers was almost overwhelming. He was hard and urgent as he thrust, his breathing was tortured. Laurel tried to keep still, not to rock with him: the hard swollen erection must hurt, she thought, listening to his stifled groans.

I'm so ignorant, can't I help him?
Something snapped inside her and she abandoned the last shreds of shyness: she let her body go with his, wriggled one hand free, slid it between her own stomach and the flat, taut plane of his and curled her hand around him, tight. It felt wonderful, silken soft, hard as iron. Her shyness vanished in a wave of triumph that was purely feminine: for this moment Patrick was hers.

He shuddered, thrusting into her grip. ‘
Laurel
, no! Oh, yes. Oh, yes…
Now.'

He moved again, violently, once, twice, then gave a shout of triumph and collapsed onto her.

Against her breast his heart thudded, against her belly she could feel sticky heat and the tremors that ran through his body as he lay crushing her. Her own body cried out in protest.
I need you. I need something… Patrick, don't stop…
Her body calmed a little as she lay there holding him. Who would have guessed there was so much emotion, so much feeling in this act? She had understood that she desired Patrick Jago, almost as soon as she had seen him, but she had no idea that to lie with him would unleash this storm of sensation and complicated emotion.

She felt a little weepy, very happy, very confused. She felt tender toward him and yet awed by his strength and his mastery. She ached for him and she felt brazen and passionate and yet strangely shy, all at once.

‘Laurel.' He stirred and then rolled away to sit on the edge of the bed as far from her as possible, his back turned. ‘I'm sorry.'

She sat up, too, blinking back the tears that had not fallen. Instinct told her to cover herself a little and she dragged the cool satin around her shoulders, clasping it to her breasts.

‘Patrick. Don't be sorry. You saved me.'

He shook his head, and she kept her hands tight in the satin so as not to reach out and touch the paler nape of his neck. ‘I have ruined you.'

‘No, you haven't,' she contradicted. ‘No one knows.'

‘There is that mercy.' He sounded hoarse. ‘There's water behind that screen, I expect. You'll want to wash. I'll find a robe.' Still not looking at her, he plucked a heavy silk robe from the chair and shrugged it on, then padded over to an armoire and opened the door.

How quiet the room is
, Laurel thought.
Heavy hangings, thick carpet. We might be in the depths of the country.

He brought her back a flimsy piece of nonsense in deep amethyst silk, and she realised he had found one that matched her eyes. Was that intentional? He did not look at her as she slipped it on and went to the screen.

She washed, willing her hands to steadiness, and listened to the muffled footsteps as Patrick paced. ‘I'm sorry, but we can't get out yet,' he said. ‘This place won't quieten down until almost dawn, I imagine. I might have purchased your virginity, but they aren't going to take kindly to me walking out of here with their beautiful new addition to the staff on my arm. I might enjoy the fight and breaking a few noses, but I can't risk you.'

Beautiful.
She put the word away to think about later. The clock struck one: there were at least three hours to wait before they could venture out, she supposed.

‘I'll get dressed.'

‘Patrick.' She came out from behind the screen, belting the robe loosely.

‘Hmm?' He found his shirt and shook it out. It felt curiously domestic and comfortable, standing here with him dressing, despite the tingle of tension that ran between them.

 

‘Come back to bed. Hold me.'

Patrick's head snapped round to stare at the slender, pale figure in the whore's robe. In her innocence she made the robe seem chaste.

‘I… Laurel, I do not think I can control myself if I am back skin to skin with you.' He made himself smile. Of course she needed comfort, reassurance after that performance just now. She had been in his head for days, hours when he had fought the aching desire for her and tried to fathom the mysterious happiness when he was with her. But this was not how he'd imagined their first night together.

‘I do not want you to control yourself, Patrick.' Laurel was looking at him steadily, her violet eyes wide and still sparkling with what he feared were tears. But there was something else. Desire.

‘Here? You want to make love
here
?'

‘I do not care where it is as long as it is with you, Patrick.' She smiled, a little daring, a little nervous, all female. ‘That was so strange and new. So wonderful. I want to experience it all.'

‘You'll be ruined,' he protested. ‘I told you.'

‘I
am
ruined. I was ruined the moment they took me. And how much more ruined can a girl be than spending a night in a room in a brothel with a man?'

He could explain how much more, but then he realised that he did not want to. Here, now, this all seemed very simple: they wanted each other and he would deal with the consequences in the morning.

‘Certain?' He stood up knowing his body was reviving, realising he was not ashamed when her eyes lowered to look at the evidence.

‘Yes,' Laurel said. ‘Positive.'

 

Have I've fallen in love with him?
she wondered as Patrick took her hand and helped her back onto the bed.
Is this just lust and desire, gratitude that he has saved me? How do I tell? This is all so new and I was so frightened, and then he came and saved me. I don't understand it, I just know I want him.

‘You are lovely,' he said as he touched her cheek, then came to lie beside her. She hugged the realisation of her feelings in her heart. ‘I wanted you so much. Too much. I must have shocked you.'

‘It was exciting,' she murmured. He did not appear to want to kiss her, or hold her yet. Perhaps they could talk a little. She snuggled against the pillows and he leaned back beside her, still in his shirt, his arm just touching hers. ‘It was like dancing.' Patrick nodded, his hand curling into hers, sending shivers along her nerves. ‘Choreography that we had to make up by instinct as we went along.'

‘Making love is all about two instincts working together,' he said. ‘I felt instinctively that we were attuned, that first meeting in Martinsdene. I opened my chamber door in the inn and there you were and I don't think I've been breathing right since.'

‘You didn't say anything,' she said. ‘Or do anything.'

‘I was working. And you were a respectable young woman risking your reputation to help your friends. To have done anything would have been wrong.' There was just the hint in his voice that told her that if she had not been a respectable unmarried girl, things might have been very different. He must lead an
interesting
life, she thought, sending him a flickering, speculative glance from beneath her lashes.

‘I wish I had been closer to them—Bella and Meg and Lina.' Laurel curled round so she was close against Patrick's side and could rest her head on his shoulder. They fitted well, she thought. It felt so comforting to have the warmth and solidity of a man to lean on. How long was it since someone had held her? ‘But their father, the Reverend Shelley, is such a tyrant. He did not encourage friendships of any kind. Meg was the most rebellious though, that is how I know her best. She was the one who would escape for walks and befriend the local girls like me. I was so happy for her when I heard she had run off with Lieutenant Halgate. You are sure he was killed?'

Against her cheek she felt him nod and sighed. ‘At least she is safe now, back in England. But Lina—I cannot bear to think she met this fate with no one to save her.' Lina had always been the timid sister: how could she have survived this terror, this brutality?

‘And Arabella, the elder,' he said, and Laurel suspected it was an attempt to distract her from Lina's fate. ‘At least you found some gossip about her that I had not been able to glean.'

‘Only that she had been seen weeping in the woods, the day before she vanished. Only a week or so before when I met her she had seemed transformed—glowing with happiness, although she tried to hide it. I wondered if there was a man—but there couldn't have been: no one saw or heard of one.

‘And it was so unlike Bella—she was always the calm one, the dutiful daughter, the one who endured their father's bullying.' She sighed, thinking of Meg and her two lost sisters and her own, startling, precarious, happiness. ‘Will you ever find them, do you think?'

‘I don't know,' he said. ‘But I don't give up.'

‘You can't work miracles,' she said, reaching up to touch his cheek.

‘Perhaps not.' He looked down at her. ‘But I can recognise one when I see it.' And he bent to kiss her.