His Stolen Bride BN (23 page)

Drake dragged in a deep breath and surged forward. Beneath him, Averyl gasped and
tensed. He felt her body give way and open slowly for his passage. Shuddering, he
sank down into her honeyed depths, completely within her, then gazed into her face.

Pain did not reside there. Surprise, perhaps, but no more.

“Averyl?” he asked, despite the strain he heard in his own voice and the sweat bathing
his chest.

She touched his face, branding him softly. “I am not hurt.”

“You are certain?” he asked one last time, though the delay began to feel like brilliant
torture.

Beneath him, she rocked her hips, inviting him further within her silken body. Drake
did not hesitate. He withdrew to stroke her again. Once more. Over and over until
Averyl rewarded him with her responses, until he knew naught but her scent, her feel,
her moans, her need.

About his waist, her thighs tensed and trembled. Her sheath gripped him without mercy,
and he thought he might lose his mind. She clutched him tighter, demanding his mouth
upon hers as her pleasure peaked and scattered over his senses, which felt already
saturated with her.

Before he could stop it, satisfaction surged upon him. A shattering release consumed
him, even as her pleasure-filled cry echoed in the cottage, cleansing him of all but
rapture, infusing him with a blinding bolt of something bright and warm.

Long moments later, he clasped her against him in exhaustion and awe. She placed tiny
kisses on his face. Absently, he stroked her hair, oddly reluctant to let her go in
the face of his sated bliss and her amazing sensuality.

Never had he wanted to hold a woman after partaking of her body. Such requests always
irritated him for the intimacy they implied. Averyl asked for nothing, simply falling
naturally into his arms when he willingly opened them.

This coupling somehow felt different, almost binding in its intensity, though the
act itself was the same. Why?

Shaking away the odd thought, Drake lifted his head to ask Averyl if she hurt. He
found her eyes peacefully closed, her breathing the even rhythm of sleep.

Into the lengthening shadows of darkness he smiled and held her. Tomorrow, this awe,
this feeling of connection would die. Tonight, though, he would forget all the reasons
he could form no lasting attachment to her and enjoy the delight of his wife’s body
as many times as she would have him.

Eyes still closed to the morning, Averyl yawned before her mouth curled up in a languid
smile. She felt thoroughly touched, so wanted, her body pleasantly tender. Her mouth
curled up further upon realizing she was truly Drake’s wife.

She blushed with remembrances. He’d awakened her thrice last night to make love. Thrice!
Each time, she’d fallen into his arms eagerly, basking in his single-minded attention.

’Twas a surprise to Averyl to open her eyes and find herself alone in their cottage.

Reminding herself that Drake often rose before the sun, she shrugged away disappointment
and set about her morning ritual. Between the time she braided her hair and chose
a dress, Drake entered the cottage, golden filters of sunlight at his back.

A welcoming smile spread across her face. “Good morn.”

Drake nodded, silent, his hot gaze sweeping over her chemise-clad form, resting finally
on its low neckline. Though the garment covered the essentials, Averyl felt decidedly
naked under his penetrating stare. Her cheeks heated as she felt her breasts tightening
in response.

He wanted her. Again. Though she could scarcely comprehend such, she did not question
the desire she felt, too. Instead, she raised her gaze to his, smiling in shy invitation.

He raised a dark brow. “Be careful, else I will accept what you offer.”

“Surely that would not be bad,” she teased.

“Later, when your body has rested,” he said, his voice low.

Part of Averyl thrilled at his words. He did intend to take her into his arms again,
and only concern for her prevented him from making love to her now. Certainly, she
misunderstood his lack of expression or attention.

Yet uneasiness tugged at her. Of late, she had rarely seen Drake so remote.

“Is aught amiss?”

“Nay,” he answered solemnly, turning away to start a fire in the hearth.

Averyl frowned as anxiety rose again. Why was he behaving as if naught had happened
last night? True, he had vowed never to love her, but today ’twas as if she were a
stranger. Did he not remember what they had shared? Even now she felt his soft kisses
on her nape, the scent of his musk on her skin, his soft words in her ear. All night
as he had held her, making her his wife, she felt a warmth in her chest spreading
through her for this perplexing, troubled man.

Perhaps she made too much of her fear. His was not a tender nature, and she’d known
better than to expect avowals of love. Though somehow this morn, her heart wanted
them.

“Have you broken your fast?” she asked. “I will be happy to make you—”

“I ate earlier.”

His curt reply did not comfort her. Knowing not what else to say, she turned away
and donned her dress of muted gray, which matched her mood of a sudden. Fastening
the deep blue hip girdle about her middle, she caught Drake’s eyes upon her. Again,
they spoke of desire and damp skin, of midnight cries and moonlit skin. But nothing
of the warmth she had seen yesterday on the beach, or even deep in passion.

Averyl disliked this mood, for she knew he was likely to shut her out should she ask
what plagued his mind. With a heavy sigh, she wondered how she, a woman who knew little
of men, could coax Drake from his silence. Still, she must try.

“Drake, is all well?”

He shrugged, dark eyes turning impassive. “Well enough.”

“You seem ill pleased by last night—”

“It was pleasing,” he replied, awkward.

Pleasing, not astounding. No mention of the silent connection, of the tender touches
communicating care.

Drake thought little of the most amazing night of her life. A wave of mortification
washed over her, leaving her cold.

“’Twas pleasing,” she agreed carefully, folding her hands together. “But I expected
to be treated less like a stranger.”

His dark eyes pierced her, accusing. “You wanted words of devotion and declarations
of love.”

How could she deny what she longed for in her heart? Given the scorn upon his face,
how could she not?

“I seek them not,” she said finally. “’Tis simply that you seem…unhappy this morn.”

“Not so,” he answered, looking away to secure a long, thick knife to his thigh. “Now,
with your leave, I must hunt.”

Before she could reply or wish him safe, Drake was gone.

* * * * *

Three weeks later, naught had changed. Each night he came to her in fire, each embrace
feeling somehow more desperate than the last. Just last night, he’d propelled her
to their bed before dinner, before the sun even set fully. He waited not to disrobe
her but lifted her skirts and took her in an ardent coupling of pants and moans, of
tangled limbs and twined fingers. Then again in night’s blackest hour, he’d reached
for her, his hands needy, his thrusts urgent. Responding to his magic, Averyl had
given her body with ease, in trust.

Always during those hours he was caring, seemed at ease with their joining. Smiles
came her way, as did the affection in his voice.

Then the sun would rise. Then he treated her little different than one would a civil
stranger. Certainly, any hint of the man who had shared his warmth, his body, and
painful secrets with her was now gone, a mere phantom in her memory.

Feeling the recurrence of this morn’s tears, Averyl willed them away. For the more
she showed her pain, and the more she inquired about his solitary moods, the more
Drake withdrew. She could give him no further cause to believe she cared for him.
This foolishness was hers alone.

Now, his endless dark eyes seemed not to display any feeling beyond lust. And she
was a fool for hoping to see otherwise. She was no more than a convenient, if homely,
body on which to slake his lust.

Averyl doubted Drake would ever love her. Even so, she had tonight devised a test.
When he came to her, and he would, she planned to seduce him, pouring her heart into
each touch, her care into every kiss. If, after such a fervent display of her feelings,
he still did not respond with softness of emotion, she would finally know the truth.

What she would do then, she knew not.

Through the cottage’s lone window, she noted the setting sun and lit two candles,
setting them on the table behind her. Drake would return within the hour, and still
she had not garbed herself for this eve’s test. The dress, a scarlet gown with rich
gold braiding about the waist and low neckline, was among her best. She laid the garment
across the bed, checked on their simmering stew, then braided her hair.

Drake entered the cottage well before she expected him. He’d bathed in the pond outside,
judging from the rivulets of water that ran from his damp hair, down the golden skin
of his hard, bare chest. He wore a hungry expression on his face.

Averyl swallowed, trying to force down her desire. ’Twas nothing short of witlessness
on her part to yearn for him so. Yet when his heated eyes traveled from her coifed
hair, down the slope of her shoulders, to take in her form beneath the transparency
of her smock, his very stare singed her.

“Supper is nearly ready.” Her hands trembled suddenly as she retrieved her gown. “As
soon as I dress, I shall—”

“Nay.” He was across the room in three steps. “Forget supper,” his voice enticed.
“Forget your gown.”

He took the garment from her fingers.

Averyl held fast and opened her mouth to rebut, but Drake held up a hand to stay her.

His bawdy smile nearly stopped her heart. “’Tis not your good cooking or pretty clothes
that interest me.”

Drake tugged on the dress again, and it fell from her fingers. After he tossed it
across the bed, Drake turned her to the small mirror, fitting her back against the
heated length of his body. The candles behind them illuminated their figures, from
head to thigh, man and woman.

Against her buttocks, she felt the hard heat of his desire. Even as the answering
flame ignited within her, she panicked. What of her plans to seduce him? She could
not allow him to melt her from them. Yet as he glided one feathery finger across her
jawline, down her throat, then descended into the valley between her breasts, Averyl
felt her breath catch.

Determined to take control, she made to whirl about. His thumb brushed her distended
nipple before she could move.

Averyl closed her eyes, fighting another wave of mind-numbing desire. Why did he always
have this affect on her? No matter how great or small the stroke of his hand, she
felt it all the way from her womanly core to her heart.

Nay, this could not happen. She must have her answer!

Turning to him, she opened her mouth to speak. Drake silenced her with a blistering
kiss that seduced her, sapped her of fight. His tongue swirled, his lips possessed.
He tasted of water and need and something so elementally man. And she felt herself
melting against him like a candle too long lit, the scarcely covered mounds of her
breasts pressed against the velvet steel of his chest.

When she moaned, he broke the kiss and turned her toward the mirror. The face that
greeted her was nearly a stranger’s. Her lips were swollen and berry red, her cheeks
flushed, her eyes heavy-lidded. Her braid lay untwined about her shoulders.

Slowly, she turned to Drake in question. Inexorably, he turned her back toward the
reflective glass.

“Nay,” he whispered against her ear. “Watch. See what I see when we lay together.”

His intent became clear to her when he cupped her breasts through the thin smock,
rolling her nipple between his fingers. Her stomach clenched, both at the feel of
his touch and the sight of his large golden hands upon her. The flesh in his grasp
tautened to hard pebbles. She arched into his hands.

“Aye,” he encouraged, reaching inside her smock to withdraw her breasts.

Averyl stared at the dusky rose of her nipples and Drake’s fingers teasing them. Heat
curled deep in her belly. By the saints, how she wanted him. More than she had last
week. More than she had last night.

The gentle play of his fingers tormented her with one last shiver before drifting
down the smooth plain of her abdomen, to the juncture of her thighs. Through the smock,
his thumb made tight circles upon her moist flesh. Averyl reminded herself of her
plan, even as she gritted her teeth to hold in a cry. Drake must be made to feel the
depth of her emotions in their joining.

Her resolution held until his teeth nibbled on the sensitive skin of her neck and
her first release crashed over her senses. Averyl’s eyes slid shut. Her control slipped,
for Drake knew how to touch her, had spent these last weeks learning to play her as
a musician would his lute. She drew in a deep breath, struggling not to allow the
waves of desire to submerge her in their depths.

The sound of rending fabric and the feel of cool air on her skin brought her eyes
open once more. Through half-open eyes she noted her own nudity and her torn smock
hanging about her arms in shreds. The hard core of his arousal pressed against her
back.

“The garment is not as important as this,” Drake whispered against her ear, just before
his fingers began delving the slick flesh between her thighs again.

Her knees buckled as she watched her own ecstasy envelop her once more. Her breasts
stood taut, her flesh turned damp and rosy as he sent her closer to heaven. Her pale
hair hung behind her shoulders, tangled, wild. She knew her dilated eyes no longer
resembled her own.

And Averyl found that she could not care, not when fulfillment began to sluice and
tingle its way through her body. Vaguely, she heard her own cry above her heartbeat
roaring in her ears. Held upright by the strong support of Drake’s arm, she let the
waves of pleasure crash into her, one after the other, until she felt limp and warm
and spent.