Pride & Passion (24 page)

Her body began to shake, splintering her thoughts. And then he was inside her, filling her as she continued to tremble, his strong hands fitting her thighs against his waist as he pushed farther and farther into her body. Lucy moaned his name, unable to help or disguise the desire in her voice.

“Come for me, Lucy,” he begged, and she clutched his hair, his hips pumping wildly into her. “I want to be the last thing you see, the last thing you feel.”

She was close, so close, and he was whispering in her ear, dark erotic words, his accent looser and more
guttural—gone was the politeness. The indifference. The respectability.

“Yes. I can feel you clamping around me, squeezing me, milking me. Take me in you…let me come inside you, Lucy, hot and deep.”

Feminine power infused her, and she reached down to snake her hands down his chest. They were staring into each other’s eyes, her hands clasping his cheeks, the ghosts gone, the gray warm and vibrant.

“What do you see?” he gasped.

Shaking her head, she couldn’t say, couldn’t form thought or words. She saw a past, a young girl staring across the kitchen at a feral, frightening male who would not stop watching her with his cold, emotionless eyes.

“Adrian, stay with me!” she cried as she clutched at him, and brought her mouth to his shoulder, which she made horribly indecent noises into.

“I will, love. It’s all I’ve ever wanted—to be at your side, protecting you, making your dreams a reality.”

The little death wasn’t little this time—it was impossibly long and beautiful, their skin slippery with slick heat, the musk of their bodies rising up, their lips and tongues and hands devouring, clutching, never letting the other go. Holding on to him, she fell off the cliff, holding him tight, listening to his primal sounds as they filled the room, and her soul.

T
HE BED HAD
grown cold and Lucy shivered, wanting her husband’s arms around her once more.

“Adrian?” She had been awake for a while, watching him standing at the window, holding the carved bed in his hand as he stared out into the night. The snow had subsided; now only sporadic light flakes floated in the night, a brilliant white on a canvas of black.

He stiffened when she spoke and, reluctantly, he met her gaze. “Rosie has begun to pace. I’ll get dressed and let her out.”

This was not the man she had come to know. This was someone else, someone much darker, and it scared her.

“What is it?” she whispered. Had she been too brazen, too eager for the marriage bed? Had she disappointed him? She felt like cowering in the bed, the bed where they had just made love, where they had become man and wife in the true sense of the word.

“You’re frightening me,” she found the courage to say. “I want you to talk to me, tell me what you’re thinking, because your eyes shield your every thought, and I am left with only my own conclusions, none of which, I may assure you, are at all comforting at the moment.”

Wiping his hand over his face, he sighed deeply. “Go to sleep, Lucy, it’s late.”

“Don’t shut me out,” she demanded, but it sounded more like a pathetic plea. “Please don’t. I…I know I’ve been difficult, but I’m trying. I’m trying to make this work.”

His gaze flickered to hers. “That’s the problem, you shouldn’t have to try. It should just be.”

She was starting to feel panicked now. “I don’t understand what happened between then and now. I thought, well… I thought you enjoyed yourself.”

He half turned, his gray eyes studying her. “I did enjoy it. I lost myself in you.”

Heart skipping a beat, she wiped her hair out of her face and studied him from the bed. “Then what is wrong, Adrian?”

“It’s Gabriel.” He gazed back at her, his eyes remote, full of ghosts. The only reminder of what they had shared was the dampness of his hair and the slick sheen on his chest. He had wrapped his lower half in a sheet, leaving her with the blanket. He was big and muscular and beautiful, and she had utterly lost her heart and soul to him. It was so confusing that it had happened—how it happened, but now seeing him standing there, pulling away from her, well, she wanted to cling to him and hold on for dear life.

“Luce,” he whispered. “Did you hear me?”

Shaking her head, she struggled through the images of what they had done, and tried to focus on him—his needs, which by all accounts were rather large at the moment.

“I’m not who you think I am.”

Alarmed, she sat up and rested back against the headboard, making certain she was covered with the blanket.

“I’m quite certain that you’re my husband. I don’t think there are any loopholes left.” She grinned, but he didn’t return it, instead stared down at his hand, and the bed he carefully cradled.

“I thought you might have reasoned it out—seen it—seen
me
when you clasped my face in your hands and looked into my soul.”

Time seemed to stand still as she thought back to that searing moment of intimacy, when she had felt at one with him, when he had stolen her heart and soul. When their gazes locked, held on—she had seen something, and felt it, too. A searing connection that was profound and beautiful, and soul-shattering.

And then the memory changed into something less sexual, but just as visceral—a connection in another lifetime, with another soul, with someone who knew her, her deeply held secrets, her girlish dreams and insecurities.

“My God,” she whispered while she watched him, his eyes as haunted as she had ever seen them before. Her hand flew to her mouth and trembled against her lips as she looked him over, her gaze lingering on the scar that marred his eyebrow. “You are…you are…”

“That arrogant little gutter rat who thinks himself equal to you.”

That was what her father had called him—the butcher’s boy.
Gabriel
. Adrian had whispered it so softly, so painfully. She saw him as a boy, standing in the kitchen, his clothes tattered and torn, his dark hair
in need of a cut and taming. In his dirty hands he held out the bed to her, his only words,
“For you.”

“I’m a bastard, Luce. Born in the stews, raised in the alleys of St. Giles amongst rubbish and animal offal. I am that gutter rat who came to your house and watched you. Who accepted your friendship because it was the greatest gift ever given to me.”

“Adrian— Gabriel—” She paused, unsure of how to go on. “Dear God, I don’t understand. How this can be?”

“Don’t you? It’s my deepest, darkest secret and I cannot go on lying to you. Not after tonight—after that.” He motioned to the bed, to her, and he closed his eyes. “I thought never to tell you, but it seemed a sacrilege to me to make you think I’m something I’m not. I’m a fraud. An impostor—well and truly beneath you. I never wanted you to know, not because I feared you would not keep my confidence, or that I might lose my title, but because I didn’t want you to look at me the way your father looked at me when he cut me from your life. What we shared tonight…it was beautiful, and all I could think of was that I would never lose you, never give you cause to leave me.

“My God, I’ve never felt anything like it, and all the time I was watching you—taking me deep inside you, thinking how damn arousing and humbling it was the way you were giving yourself to me—a filthy by-blow. And then I began to think of how many years it had been that I’ve wanted you. How I never forgot you and swore when your father turned me away that one day I would come back, and you would look at me, and think me worthy of you—that
I
would know I was worthy of
you. I was branding you, making you mine, making you forget everyone but me, every place but our bed, and finally I realized you were mine and I was worthy of you. But then…” He glanced away. “A bead of my sweat fell on you.”

She recalled that moment, still tasted the salt of it as it dripped from his brow and landed on her lips. It had been him, his essence, and it had not repulsed her, but aroused her, made her feel feminine in his masculine arms.

“It reminded me of the first day we met. I was filthy, and you took me to the water pump and washed my hands and face so that I could eat a tart with you. I was conscious then, as I was in that moment tonight, that I was so far beneath you. Rutting on top of you like a wild animal—like the gutter rat I was born to be.”

“Adrian, Gabriel,” she cried. “What do I call you?” she pleaded as she tried to get her limbs out from beneath the weight of the blanket.

“I have no identity.”

“You must explain,” she whispered as she came to him, pressing up against him, trying to hug him. She was naked and vulnerable and cold, but she would weather it all; this moment was the crossroads—his crossroads.

“Don’t walk away—not again. Please not again.” Taking his face in her palms she forced him to look at her. “I never forgot you, whenever you would look at me these past few weeks, I would think of him—my friend—and how your stare reminded me of his—intense and determined, silent, but knowing and seeing. I should have known it was you, so often you made me
think of him—that boy I fancied…the one who listened to my dreams.”

She was crying and he was brushing her tears away with his lips.

“I just wanted to be yours—for you to be mine.” He sighed, caught her lips in his and kissed her, robbing her of breath as he held her close.

“Tell me all of it, everything,” she murmured between kisses.

“I can’t,” he choked, pressing his face into her hair. “I can’t confide in you because the secret is so dangerous, so…I simply cannot.”

He pulled away, and reached for his trousers. “I’ll be back. I need to clear my head.”

She understood the need to run, but she was still afraid. He had turned away from her once, and disappeared amongst the humanity of the city. She had lost him once, and she wouldn’t do so again.

Reaching up, she cupped his face and kissed him.

“It’s fear that makes you run, but I understand it. I have done my fair share of running, too. But don’t run because you think I cannot look upon you with anything other than acceptance. I don’t see what my father saw. I don’t see that young boy. I see a man, Adrian. A man who is strong and passionate and honorable. A man I want to be married to—I want it,” she said, kissing him. “I want you. Please come back to me soon,” she whispered, and stepped back. It was the only thing she could do—for now.

Watching him nod and walk out of the chamber was like a blow to her middle. She felt sick and frightened. Memories of the last time he had walked away made
her run to the window, to stand watch as he emerged from the inn, Rosie slowly walking behind him.

Gazing up, he saw her in the window, and stood there watching her. What a sight she must be, with her red hair wild from his lovemaking and her nude body covered with nothing but a sheet. She pressed a hand to the frozen glass, and he smiled: a slow, sad smile that broke her heart. How had she not realized she saw her friend’s eyes in the duke’s beautiful face?

I love you
. She wanted to say the words, but he turned away before she could. She stood there for a long while, searching into the black night for any sign of him and the liver-and-white spaniel that walked at his heels. But he did not return, and she collapsed onto the bed, exhausted from worry and crying, and fell into a deep sleep.

“L
UCY
, I
NEED YOU
!”

She came awake with a start, only to see Adrian kicking the door closed. Rosie was in his arms, mewling and whimpering. Blood soaked his hand, and he placed the dog on the mat before the hearth.

“What’s wrong?” she gasped. She had donned her night rail, and ran across the floor in her bare feet. Rosie was whimpering and kicking her back paws.

“She’s whelping.”

“Oh, no!”

“Of all the damn times,” he said. “I’ve nothing here, nothing prepared. My breeder is in Yorkshire, of all places.”

“No, don’t use that,” she said when she saw how he
was making a bed with his coat. “It’s the only one you have. Wait.”

Running to her trunk, she reached for her extra night rails and wrappers, and tore them up then handed them to her.

“They’re ruined.”

“It’s only linen, for goodness’ sake. I have plenty more. Now then, tell me what to do.”

He smiled. The darkness was still in his eyes, but he seemed lighter, and the ghosts were not there—at least not at the moment. “Ring the bell pull. We’ll need some water and blankets, and something comfortable for Rosie to lay upon. The fire needs building up, too.”

Abigail answered the summons and immediately ran down to gather the things they had requested. In the meantime, Lucy came to kneel by Rosie’s head and petted her. “There now, it will be over soon.”

Adrian glanced up at her. “She hasn’t even begun.”

“It’s good to offer hope. I hope you’ll do the same for me when my time comes.”

Lowering his head, she saw his grin before he hid it. “Let us hope your time does not come while we are stranded in a country inn far from home.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” she said thoughtfully as she sat down on the ground and placed Rosie’s head into her lap. “I’ve always dreamed of a nice little cottage on a beautiful winding country lane.”

Rosie let out the most mournful sound, and the first puppy was born in its sack. Lucy was rather horrified by it all. Especially when Adrian instructed her to release her hold on Rosie so the dog could break the sack and clean the pup.

“It’s the way of animals,” he said as her face scrunched up with distaste. “Her licking will stimulate the pup to breathe, and when it does, we’ll help to dry it, then place it by the fire and wait for the next.”

“How many will she have?”

“Up to seven. My God,” he groaned as he watched Rosie with her baby. “I hope it’s not that many, I can’t stand much more. Her crying is making me feel damn guilty for bringing her along.”

Lucy placed her hand on his arm. “It’s the way of Mother Nature, Adrian. Rosie will do just fine. And we’re together,” she said. “We’ll do it together, and then I will write to Lizzy and let her know how wonderfully Rosie did—and you, as well.”

It was a long process, but by the time the morning light crept over the horizon, Rosie had delivered four little puppies: one male and three females. She lay by the fire exhausted while Lucy stroked her ears, and Adrian placed the pups at their mother’s teats, making sure the warmth of the fire blanketed them. Their eyes were fused, and they were the most adorable little things in the world.

“You did it,” she murmured.

“No, Rosie did it.”

“Lizzy will be pleased. I don’t know why she didn’t come along with us. She would have been present for Rosie’s big day.”

“She wanted us to be alone. I tried to persuade her, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”

“You’re very good to her, Adrian. She told Isabella and me once, that you were not always so kind to her. But that you became deathly ill, and upon convalesc
ing you had changed and that you had become the ideal brother to her.”

“I’m a fraud,” he said quietly. “There is nothing ideal about me—but my love for her is real. I care for her and wish only the best for her.”

“Does she know?”

Shaking his head, he opened his mouth to talk, but stopped instead and reached out, stroking his hands over the puppies’ little bodies, which were only the size of a mouse. “They’re nice and warm. We should make sure the fire doesn’t die out. They need heat and Rosie is exhausted, she won’t awaken if the room becomes chilled.”

She allowed him to distract her—for now—and got up from the floor and walked to her trunk, where her velvet traveling cloak lay folded. “This will keep them warm—and Sybilla can clean it when we’re done using it.”

She covered the pups, and stroked Rosie’s head. “It was really rather wonderful, wasn’t it?”

He reached for her, pulled her down so that she was sitting in his lap. “Harrowing and exhausting,” he corrected, “and I found myself wondering how men watch their women lie upon a bed suffering hour after hour, feeling helpless and inept.”