His Black Sheep Bride (10 page)

He laved one nipple and then the other, heard her moan, and then fastened his mouth over one breast.

Her hands tangled in his hair, and her moan fueled his ardor.

He lifted his mouth to move to the other breast. “You're so responsive.”

“We unconventional types usually are.”

Her reply made him smile.

“Show me,” he urged, planting a quick nip on the rose tattoo that always drew him.

She was obviously set on reminding him how different she was from his usual type, because she thought he was after a quick coupling with novelty value.

Instead he… Well, he would love to demonstrate to her just how
novel
an experience theirs could be. There was so much passion between them that he couldn't wait to explore.

But then he thought unexpectedly of that hint of vulnerability he'd seen earlier.

Damnation.

He wanted her. But if he took her, she'd think it was because she was the flavor of the day.

The movement of her hand cut into his thoughts. He felt the flutter of a caress along his arousal, and then another, and bit back a groan.

Her hand slid up and down along the length of him through his pajama bottoms, again and again.

Hot and heady sensation coursed through him. His breath became more labored and he felt his muscles bunch, readying his body for release. He needed to be inside her. Except he couldn't.

Hell and damn.

He turned his head and growled next to her ear, “You, too.”

Then he cupped her intimately, his hand delving into the damp curls at the juncture of her thighs, interrupting her hand in its steady motion on him.

After a moment, he slipped a finger inside her and felt her body clasp around him, pulling tight as a bow.

They both groaned with satisfaction.

He moved his thumb, finding the nub hidden in her curls with unerring accuracy, and pressed.

She gasped, and then her hand reached up to grasp his arm. “Sawyer…”

“Yes, say my name,” he replied thickly.

He pressed forward, feeling her tremble with anticipation.

And in the next instant, she shattered, shaking and crying out, her body racked with waves of pleasure that seeped from her skin to his.

He held her, and moments later, feeling her heart still pounding, he moved damp hair back from her face and brushed his lips across hers.

A promise.

“Sawyer,” she said scratchily.

But he wasn't done.

He knelt and cupped her bottom, bringing her against his mouth. He gave her an intimate kiss, one that had her body rising up to meet him while the breath seemed to leave her lungs in a whoosh.

Soon, she came apart again, this time against his mouth, and his palms smoothed down her legs, easing the tremor that signaled her release.

When he finally rose, his eyes locked on hers. Her face was flushed, her lips full and red, and her eyes wide and glazed.

He stifled an oath. His body still hurt with his unspent release. But in her eyes, there was still that vulnerability, reminding him how easily she could be hurt by what he did.

He bent and handed her the fallen towel, though many of the droplets that had clung to her skin had evaporated—no doubt due to their steamy encounter.

Then silently, he turned and walked from the room before he gave in to temptation.

W
ith experienced precision, Tamara used the tweezers to set the opal in place, and then sat back and sighed.

She removed her visor, whose attached magnifying glass she had previously turned up, and rubbed the back of her neck.

She stared out at the majestic English countryside beckoning to her from between the damask drapes of her sitting room. It was early, before eight, but soon she'd have no choice but to face Sawyer again.

After having slept badly, she'd resorted to one of her better relaxation techniques. There was something soothing, almost tranquilizing, about jewelry-making. Like knitting, it kept the hands busy while allowing the mind to wander.

She always traveled with a jewelry project or two, just so she'd have something to turn to if necessary—and with Sawyer around, it was proving
very
necessary.

Methodically, she put away her implements, placing pliers and tweezers back in their carrying cases. She closed the box
holding semiprecious gemstones, and put away her portable metal-working kit.

She hadn't heard any movement in the earl's suite next door, so Sawyer was either sleeping soundly or had woken up before she'd gotten out of bed.

For her part, she had tossed and turned last night, willing herself to sleep.

Despite having had not one, but two, orgasms in Sawyer's arms, she'd gone to bed alone and feeling frustrated and out of sorts.

How dare Sawyer surprise her while she was in the shower? How dare he bring her sexual fulfillment—not once but twice? How dare he leave without explanation?

She was so confounded by his behavior she didn't know what she was most upset about.

How dare Sawyer twist her in knots.

Of course, she'd been an active participant in their romantic interlude. She'd told herself she was going to remind him just how incompatible they were—the bohemian, wayward daughter and the aristocratic lord. But events hadn't unfolded in the way she'd expected.

Her cheeks flamed as she replayed the scene from last night. Sawyer had shown a greater mastery of her body and all its pleasure points than any man she'd ever known.

And then he'd left abruptly.

Was it because he'd come to his senses and realized the two of them were, in fact, a crazy pairing?

She felt an unexpected squeeze around her heart.

Her cell phone beeped, indicating she'd just received a text message, and she got up to retrieve it from where it was recharging on a nearby table.

When she reached her phone, she realized the message was from Sawyer.

Tour the Cotswolds with me at eleven. The guests will expect it.

Before she could reply to the text, however, she heard a discreet knock on her sitting room door and went to answer it.

When she opened her door, she discovered Sage, one of the maids she'd been introduced to, standing in the hall.

“My lady,” Sage said, “his lordship sent me to attend to you.”

“Thank you,” she replied, wondering what Sage thought of the lord and lady of the house communicating at arm's length on the morning after their wedding. “However, I do not require anything at the moment.”

She looked down at herself. She was wearing an oversized T-shirt and well-worn pajama bottoms. She hadn't even bothered with a robe. No doubt about it. She was hardly countess material.

For Sage's benefit, though, she added, “But please tell his lordship I will meet him for our tour as planned.”

Sage hesitated for a moment, as if perplexed, but then nodded and retreated.

As Tamara closed the door, she thought about how Sawyer was a blend of the modern and archaic. He'd sent a text message
and
a lady's maid within moments of each other. He had a Manhattan town house suited to a media baron
and
an English country estate worthy of an earl.

But, she reminded herself, they were still hardly compatible. Sure, he'd surprised her on several fronts, but just because Sawyer had shown signs of being less buttoned-down than she'd dismissed him as being, it didn't mean they weren't oil and water.

She
was thoroughly modern. More than slightly bohemian. Independent and American.

She and Sawyer were proving compatible in the bedroom, but as she well knew, much more was involved in a successful marriage.

 

As Tamara walked alongside Sawyer through the nearest village, she couldn't help but be impressed again with the natural beauty of this part of Britain.

Traditional thatched-roof cottages clung together in little groups under the late-morning sun, and everywhere the local golden limestone was in evidence, from low-lying walls to the exterior of homes and businesses.

The setting was picturesque, and it fired her imagination. She wanted to go home—no, sit in the fields—with her sketchbook and design something inspired by the local landscape.

The locals all hailed Sawyer by name, and he introduced her as his new countess.

This meet-and-greet, she thought, had been Sawyer's purpose in proposing a walking tour of the local village.

Fortunately, she'd dressed for the role of the new mistress of Gantswood Hall. Before she'd left New York, she'd made sure to buy clothes that would be more appropriate to wear during her trip than her usual attire. Her flowered blouse, A-line blue skirt and ballerina flats complemented Sawyer's blue shirt and beige pants.

Yet she'd refused to disguise herself completely. Her favorite self-designed earrings completed her outfit.

She'd expected Sawyer to frown at the sight of such loud accent pieces. Instead, strangely enough, he'd smiled.

She and Sawyer left the baker's shop and sauntered down the street, and Sawyer picked up her hand, lacing his fingers with hers.

At the moment, there was no one approaching them, so she had a brief window during which to speak her mind.

“I'm hardly going to be the Countess of Melton long enough for all these introductions,” she protested in a low voice.

Sawyer shot her a sidelong look. “Nevertheless, the locals
expect it. There would be raised eyebrows, and likely some degree of affront, if I didn't introduce you.”

“I see.”

Of course, she did. Sawyer was simply performing his duties as earl. And as his countess, she now had her obligations, as well.

“The villagers have all been friendly and welcoming,” she added. “And everyone appears to like you.”

Sawyer looked amused. “You're surprised?”

She'd heard tales from the locals of his do-good nature, from his initiatives in local eco-friendly improvements to his charitable endeavors.

Aloud, she said, “Perhaps they're seeing only one side of you. The beneficent one.”

Sawyer stopped and laughed, swinging her to face him. “And you, I suppose,” he said in a low voice, “have seen others?”

She searched his face and remembered last night—seeing him nearly naked and clearly aroused.

“Did you like my other side?” he asked, his voice a caress.

“Why did you leave so abruptly?” she countered.

“Why do you think?” he responded. “If we'd continued, I would have fulfilled your expectation that I wanted to bed you as a novelty.”

She was surprised by his forthright answer. “And that isn't what you were looking for when you appeared during my shower?”

His lips quirked. “I'm thinking you're a lot more complex than a novel shag—”

Her eyes widened.

“—and the earl is only one part of who I am.”

He held her gaze for a moment longer, and then looked up the street.

She turned, too, and noticed a passerby was approaching.

Their private conversation was at an end.

 

“This is ridiculous.”

“Humor me,” Sawyer responded, capturing her hand from where he lay on the picnic blanket set near a small duck pond.

It was a glorious summer day, with the occasional puffy cloud drifting overhead, and they had a basket of wine and cheese and French bread with them.

Timing was everything, he thought, and he planned to use this interlude to his advantage.

Tamara looked down at him from her sitting position, her brow puckering. “Everyone thinks this isn't a love match, but a dynastic marriage for mutual advantage—”

“Yes, except they don't know exactly what mutual ad vantage.” He waggled his brows as he rested her hand on his chest. “They think you married me for my money and title—”

“Well, for your money,” she conceded.

“—and I've married you to secure Kincaid News.”

“Which you all but have.”

“True.”

Legal due diligence was being performed, and the merger documents were being drawn up. Soon Kincaid News and Melton Media would be one company—if all went according to plan.

“So,” Tamara argued, “people are hardly expecting us to act lovey-dovey. Not that Pia and Belinda, or the Marquess of Easterbridge and the Duke of Hawkshire, for that matter, ever had that expectation. And in any case, they've departed.”

“Your father and most of the rest of our families remain,” he was obliged to point out solemnly. “One can never have too much assurance when you're the father of the bride and are on the verge of parting with your business.”

“Then I wonder why my father did it,” Tamara countered.

Sawyer shrugged. “He's getting older, and consolidation is the name of the game in the media business these days. In any case, he'll retain a title in the new organization. He'll have power over what remains under the name Kincaid News.”

Tamara studied him. “And how do you feel about having my father around?”

Sawyer smiled. “I plan to observe and learn all his tricks.”

She shook her head with mock resignation, and Sawyer played with her hand on his chest.

She looked enticing, staring down at him from her position on the blanket. Her dark-red hair caught the summer breeze. An off-the-shoulder crocheted top and short, layered skirt gave her the look of a latter-day peasant girl and accentuated her sensuality.

Sawyer felt his body stir in response.

She didn't look as if she was immune to him, either, dressed as he was in an open-collared white shirt and dark trousers.

But first he knew he had to break down some of her resistance. Due to some perverse streak of nobility, he'd resisted taking her to bed two nights ago. Her hint of vulnerability had done him in. But now he vowed to rectify the matter.

“You're enjoying the English countryside,” he remarked.

She nodded. “It's pretty. I've never been to Gloucestershire before. It's inspiring.”

He hoped it would inspire her right into his bed, but he settled for arching a brow.

“Not for your jewelry, surely?” he inquired.

She nodded her assent. “The natural beauty is arresting.”

“I see.” And he did. There was natural beauty right in front of him.

“There's some British in you yet,” he joked.

“Scottish,” she amended. “Way up north. A different landscape from this.”

She slipped her hand from his grasp, and he shifted to his side, propping his head on his bent arm.

“We haven't spoken much about your jewelry business,” he said, realizing he was curious. “I know about the hedge-fund wife, but apart from her, who are your clients?”

“You mean, what is my business plan? What are my marketing and promotion efforts?” she joked. “Are you afraid you'll never recover your investment?”

“I already have,” he replied glibly, “and in any case, I could afford the loss.”

Tamara looked into the distance, at the hills visible beyond where they sat on an expanse of ground within sight of Gantswood Hall.

“I'm an artist, not a businessperson,” she said, and shrugged. “I produce what I can by myself, and then exhibit at art shows and specialty boutiques.”

She gave a half smile as she gazed back down at him. “You could say my clientele is rich individuals, or at least they're whom I aim for.”

“Then you're in luck, since I happen to know a lot of wealthy people.”

At her raised eyebrows, he added jokingly, “Of course, if you changed the name of your company to Countess of Melton Designs, you'd add a certain panache.”

“I couldn't,” she protested. “We'll only be married a short time.”

He quirked a brow. “Diane von Furstenberg kept the
von
long after her divorce from the prince.”

Tamara laughed. “Okay, yes.”

He liked her laugh. She didn't do it very often around him, so it was like catching sight of a shooting star.

“As soon as we return to New York,” he said, “we'll hire someone to manage the numbers side of Pink Teddy. And
I'll introduce you to people who'll be curious about your collection.”

For a moment, she seemed both surprised and pleased, but then she shrugged. “New York seems a world away right now.”

He searched her expression. “Don't we both know it.”

A noise came from the direction of the house, and she looked up and shaded her eyes. “My father is heading to the tennis court with your mother, Julia and Jessica.”

Sawyer followed her gaze. Everyone, he saw, carried a tennis racket.

“Kincaid is up for a challenge,” he remarked. “My mother still plays a superior game of tennis.”

“My father's determined to remain in the game, in more ways than one,” Tamara countered.

Sawyer looked back at her. “The tennis court was added to the grounds during my father's day, at my mother's insistence.”

“Was it part of her plan to deal with her new surroundings?” Tamara asked, dropping the hand that shaded her eyes.

“That and running down to Wimbledon every year,” he replied half-jokingly.

“How long did your parents' marriage last?”