Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (8 page)

Again, she wanted to crawl under the bed.

She reminded herself grimly that it didn’t matter if she was ridiculous, or if he lusted after her. Only that she get with child.

And he’d promised.

As if coming to the same conclusion, he flipped back the sheets. She slid under them, wriggling her shift down neatly—

There she went again! In the night, she’d pulled up her nightgown and snuggled up to him. Now she lay stiffly, covered, and as far away as she could manage without falling off the edge of the bed.

Brand regarded his mysterious bed partner with concern. Neglected wives who sought out men to satisfy their needs were one thing. What was he to make of this?

What he had to make of it, he supposed, was a good experience for her. He had no doubt that she had saved his life, and he remembered her gentle care of him in the night. He owed her a debt and she had specified the payment, one he could afford. It wasn’t for him to back away, even though he felt strangely uncomfortable and unsettled by her manner.

He remembered the fear he’d awoken with. Was that the problem? Terror had faded in daylight, but a taste of it lingered. Perhaps that and his missing memories were upsetting him.

Was this a trap?

Why?

Blackmail?

It was hard to imagine how.

An attempt to trap him into marriage?

Her husband could be imaginary, though her wedding ring had the look of one worn for years. Or she could be a widow. Even so, how could she think to drag a man to the altar this way? Would an outraged relative charge in at a crucial moment and demand marriage or a duel? With regret, he’d fight, and if necessary, kill.

Or would the intruder stab him as he lay, claiming righteous provocation?

But who the devil would want to murder him? The Malloren family had enemies in high places, but it was hard to imagine any of them coming after him in the rural north. Besides, most of the enemies were owned, and
handled, by his brother the marquess. As estate manager, Brand wasn’t tangled in his brother’s political machinations.

No, these formless terrors were the product of whatever had felled him the day before, and nothing to do with this poor woman. He couldn’t let them get in the way of giving her the reward she wanted for her kindness, and giving generously.

He just wished he was sure he knew what she wanted.

Wryly, he decided that the only thing was to go slowly, so she could retreat if she changed her mind. That wouldn’t be hard. Sweet though she was in nature and body, it would take a while for him to summon any real enthusiasm, especially with that grotesque mask.

As a first step, he eased her into his arms. She stayed stiff for a moment, then relaxed, seeming almost to snuggle into him. That was better.

Once she seemed at ease with his touch, he settled to enjoying her, to stroking and tasting her smooth skin, starting with the less alarming places, then slowly trespassing under the modest shift.

She didn’t object.

He began to be very pleased about that. He always enjoyed the feel of a woman’s soft curves, the satin of her skin, the warm, earthy smells of her more private places. The mask had only a narrow opening at the mouth, preventing kisses. That was a shame, but perhaps in time she’d relax enough to put it off.

Or perhaps she’d worn it deliberately for just that reason. Some women felt kissing was more intimate than sex.

Soon any notion of effort melted. She was lovely to his senses, shapely, musky, soft and sensuous. Pleasantly plump yet firm, like perfect fruit, she was just as he liked a woman, and though she was passive, he could sense response in the very way she shifted her body against his.

What a shame that such a delightful creature was wasted on a man who didn’t appreciate her.

He eased a full breast free of her loosened neckline to nuzzle it, breathing deeply.

Perfect.

Absolutely perfect.

Rosamunde let him handle her like a rag doll, dazed and amazed. She didn’t know what she’d expected—something like Digby’s direct efforts, she supposed, but more vigorous since Mr. Malloren was so much younger. Not all this touching, stroking, licking.

But then she began to worry. When were they going to get to the important bit? His hands seemed to have been everywhere but where it mattered, and even there, hands wouldn’t do it.

Those clever hands were doing other things, however, things that made her want to shiver and twitch. In the end, she did, and he asked, “Like that?”

Like? She hadn’t been thinking in terms of
liking
. She wanted him to get on with it! She said, “Yes,” to encourage him, only realizing a moment later that it was true.

She liked it.

Oh my. Instead of waiting tensely for the dreadful deed, she let herself savor his touch. His whole body, warm-rough-rubbing, making her warm-soft-humming, liquid as lapping water, warmed by his warmth, dizzied by his smell….

Lord save her! This drifting, fevered feeling must be desire—the fire that inspired poets and rascals, and drove men and women into sin and disaster. This was the mystery she’d sensed, but never before experienced.

Here.

In her!

She looked at him, wanting to say something to express her wonderment, but was caught to silence by his rapt admiration of her breasts. She watched as he kissed one again and again, cradling it in his hand as if it were a fruit he desired to eat.

Her.

He cradled and hungered for her.

Hungry herself—for those lips upon hers—she wove her fingers in his hair and tilted his face up to hers, bending to put her lips to his.

Only then remembering her mask.

He drew away, but with a smile. “Can we dispense with the mask yet? You can trust me to be discreet….”

He was already tugging at the strings, but she seized his hands. “No!”

He stilled. “Trust me.”

She wavered, pained by his honest need, longing to be honest with him. But then, like icy water, she remembered what lay beneath the mask. Not just her identity—something that could ruin everyone—but her damaged face.

“No,” she repeated firmly.

He shrugged. “Then there can be no lip kisses.” Instead, he bent to kiss her nipple, drawing it deep into his mouth.

With a choked cry, Rosamunde went limp, but when it seemed he might stop, she clutched him to her. He laughed softly against her mouth-wet
skin. “I fear your husband is not just neglectful, but ignorant, my sweet.”

Digby? Digby should have been doing things like this?

He’d squeezed her breasts sometimes, but she hadn’t liked it. He’d certainly never done the things this man was doing. Now, he was working the same magic on her other breast.

Assailed by sweet sensations, she laughed softly, recognizing a natural force, greeting it as a birthright long denied. He looked up, warm eyes smiling as if her laughter gave him genuine pleasure. Then he touched the important place at last, delicately, almost questioningly.

In answer, she spread her legs, but he didn’t cover her and enter her. He just stroked her there. Without pride or dignity, she clutched him, silently begging. For the first time in her life she truly wanted a man inside her. It was an extraordinary need, an aching hunger, an instinct, almost, that could not, must not be denied.

He just touched, and stroked.

“Now,” she commanded. “Do it
now. Now
!”

His eyes flashed heated humor. “Are you sure?”

It wasn’t a serious question, and she didn’t even try to answer. He grinned and moved over her.

Though braced for it, she didn’t feel squashed or smothered. She even relished his weight in the cradle of her hips and raised them, seeking. As if in direct response, he guided himself slowly into her.

At last.

She relished every inch of it, but then, startled by the fullness of completion, she cried out. Laughing, he put his hand over her masked mouth. “Hush. No matter how safe you think we are, we can’t have you screaming and yelling.”

Rosamunde put her own hand over her mouth, because for the first time she could imagine screaming and yelling. She’d cried out the first few times Digby had claimed his rights, but that had been from pain, and after the first time, she’d tried to suppress her noises because it hadn’t been his fault. That pain had stopped, but in the years after, she’d never made any kind of noise except the occasional grunt if he squashed her.

Now, she braced herself for the pounding thrusts, commanding herself stay silent.

It didn’t happen.

He was back to her breasts again, nibbling and sucking and moving only slowly inside her. Now her hand served to stop pleas for more, for quicker, for harder.

Now
!

She mustn’t interfere. She couldn’t afford another failure like Digby’s recent efforts. She couldn’t help but move her hips, however, feeling his so hard against her. How different it was without a round belly between.

How tightly he filled her. She supposed that Digby filled her, too, but with all the bouncing and pounding she’d never been so aware of it as now when she felt the friction of his slow movements, as she flexed her own hips in synchrony with his.

She stared up at him, looming over her, many inches taller than Digby, and broader. Perhaps it should be frightening to be so overwhelmed, but it wasn’t. Instead, she felt sheltered. Cherished. At home. A creature safe in its burrow, lovingly tended.

Sliding her spare hand up his muscled arm to his broad shoulder, she silently thanked him for precious gifts. But then, caught by a startling pang of need she dug her nails in his flesh. He grinned, eyes afire, and thrust once, hard.

And she arched, lifting him off the bed, counting her own hot pulse pounding through her flesh like a drum, reveling in her liquid need tight around him. He coiled down and sucked at her nipple so hard it should have been agony, but it made her cry out against her hand and arch up harder, like the hard thrusts she’d expected from him.

And this time he met her.

At last he met her need for need, urgently, powerfully driving her back down where she wanted to be. Beneath him. Around him. Part of him.

He was saying things, urging her to things as he moved harder and faster.

Never stopping.

Never pausing.

She began to almost want him to stop. This was too much.

Too hard.

Too unrelenting.

Don’t stop
!

Oh mercy, mercy
.

She was mad with something that must be completed, terrified of the hovering doom, racked with a pain that she loved, groaning with fear and pleasure….

Sobbing with it.

Until—at last, at last—it happened!

No wonder she’d never started a baby, she thought with startling clarity just before she burned up in sudden, obliterating fever. She’d never done it properly!

She held on to that thought as she spun wildly through the fire, and afterward, as she wept into her mask. She wasn’t at all sad and was glad the mask hid her folly.

She held on to the thought as a promise—a promise of the baby she’d surely created. Held it as she lay beneath his shuddering heat, feeling as if she’d melted entirely into a puddle of sated senses and sweat.

Truly, that had been the most remarkable thing that had ever happened in her life, and she was very grateful not to have missed it.

He was kissing her neck, her breasts again, but she just wanted to stay a puddle, a surely pregnant puddle….

He rolled onto his back, taking her with him, holding her close. After a languorous while—a moment, an eon—he whispered, “Delightful mysterious lady. More?”

“What?” Even talking seemed too much effort.

He slid down a bit, holding her up on his arms, and suckled her dangling breasts.

“Oh no.” Rosamunde had never imagined doing it more than once a night. Or day.

“Oh yes.”

“We can’t.”

“We can.”

“
I
can’t.” And she couldn’t. She felt as wrung out as a boiled sheet on laundry day.

“Yes, you can.” He nipped at her, making her want to giggle. “I’m not niggardly when it comes to paying debts. You must let me pay in full.”

“You’ve paid….”

“For my very life?” He ignored her feeble protests, lowering her and soon trapping her in need again.

Twice to make sure. Why not?

But when he rolled her onto her back, he used his hand between her legs, slowly, slowly, so she was whispering pleas and even cursing his control before the brilliant end.

As he stroked her and soothed her, she said, “But we didn’t do it. Did we?”

“Do what?” Though she was too embarrassed to look at him and talk about this, she could hear the humor.

“Er … the whole thing.”

“Didn’t you like it?”

She knew it was pointless to lie, but tucked her head down as if there was a point to hiding her masked face.

He raised her chin. “You know, your husband could do that for you, even if he can’t do other things.”

Rosamunde tried to imagine prosaic Digby indulging in such antics.

“No?” he asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“Some men don’t deserve their treasures. But most of it you can do for yourself.”

“That’s a sin!” How absurd, when she was here, sinning.

“More?” he asked.

Limp and almost quivering, she shook her head and meant it. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“I’ve killed no woman yet. Turn, my dear.” He didn’t wait, but turned her and raised her onto all fours. From behind, he covered her, nipping her protesting neck like a stallion with a mare. “More?”

Stiff in shock, Rosamunde resisted a moment longer, but he wrapped an arm around her and brushed her sensitive nipples while his new erection stirred between her thighs.

A moan escaped her and he licked around her ear, whispering, “More? Please?”

“More,” she agreed, and he entered her, quick and fast this time. Like a bitch, or a mare, or a ewe with a tup she let him master her and take her, until they collapsed down in shattered ecstasy, him half over her.

Tangled like that, they slept.

Chapter 6