Promise Me Tonight (36 page)

“Oh, James!” She wiped at the tears running down her cheeks. “That was the way I felt when I went to your room that night. I thought if you enlisted, you would die. I thought if you married me, you would be safe. I knew you would hate me, but I could bear it as long as you were alive. I was so scared when Mr. Marbly told me you had joined the navy.” She placed her hand on top of his, needing the contact, the feel of his warm skin beneath her fingertips.

“I’m so sorry, Izzie,” he said, turning his hand so they were palm to palm, their fingers interlaced.

It was unexpectedly sensual, the movement of their fingers sliding past one another, the brush of skin on skin. She wondered if the simple motion had affected him as well. She tilted her chin up to look at him, noting the slight hitch to his breathing, the almost imperceptible flare of his nostrils, and the heavy- lidded slant to his eyes—eyes that watched her with a burning intensity.

His gaze never leaving hers, he lifted their joined hands to his lips and lightly nipped one of her knuckles, his tongue darting out to taste her flesh. The feeling of his wet, warm mouth on her skin flipped some sort of mechanism inside her. Without thought, out of control, she raised her free hand, tangled it in his hair, and drew his mouth down on hers.

It was a kiss made of the frustrated longings of lonely nights, a kiss forged from the heat of anger, a kiss born of the aching need to comfort and be comforted. But mostly it was the kiss of lovers whose bodies had been too-long denied. The fires of passion raged brightly, igniting their blood, driving them into a fever of lust and desire.

The very small, logical part of Isabella’s brain that was functioning tried to intercede. It was too soon. There was too much unresolved between them. Sex was not the solution; it wasn’t the answer to their problems. It would only muddy already-cloudy waters. But her body didn’t care. After all the tears and the pain of the previous months, surely she deserved this one moment, this perfect pleasure.

Her mind made up, Isabella slowly trailed her fingers down through James’s hair and around his nape, where she employed both hands in undoing his cravat. She hadn’t had the chance to undress him before, so she lingered over the novel task of taking off a man’s clothing. She took her time with his neckcloth, stroking her fingertips along the rigid lines of his jaw, dropping light, fleeting kisses on his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, and then longer ones on his mouth.

He sat like a statue, so still she could barely see the rise and fall of his chest, as if he were afraid to move for fear it was all a dream, but she could feel the pulse hammering away at the base of his neck. Tossing the cravat to the floor, she leaned forward and placed her lips over that rapidly beating pulse, breathing in the scent of him. She splayed her palm over the hard planes of his chest, thrilled by the way his heart was racing like a stallion at full gallop.

“Izzie,” James groaned, reaching for the ties to her wrapper. Then, abruptly, he stopped and jerked his hands back to his sides. “You need to tell me if this is what you want,” he said raggedly. “If I start touching you, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop.”

“I want you.”

His breath released in a slow hiss. “Is that an invitation to your room?”

She nodded, and he scooped her up in his arms and took off at a near run. He wasn’t going to give her time to remember all the reasons why this was a bad idea. Thank God.

As if he had read her mind, James pressed a quick, hard kiss on her lips. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t think, Izzie.”

And she didn’t. They had reached her bedchamber, and once she heard the bolt shoot home, Izzie closed her eyes and gave herself up to him and all the amazing feelings he aroused in her.

He slowly set her down, sliding her down the length of his hard body until her feet touched the floor. She clung to him, but he held her at arm’s length, untying her wrapper at an infinitesimal pace, teasing her as she had done to him. He kissed and laved her nape, gently raking the tender spot with his teeth, an action that caused each hair on her body to stand on end, and then he slid the garment off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.

“God, Izzie,” he breathed, his eyes widening at the sight of the lace-trimmed lawn chemise her aunt had insisted was the proper nighttime attire for a married woman. His gaze fixed on her chest, and her breasts swelled and peaked in response, straining against the thin fabric, hungry for attention, hungry for
him
.

She wriggled her shoulders, and the gown slipped off, puddling at her feet. Reveling in her nakedness, Isabella threw back the coverlet and climbed onto the bed, expecting James to pounce on her at any second. When she finally turned to look at him, he stood frozen beside the bed.

She crawled over to him and rose up onto her knees so they were face-to-face. She pushed his waistcoat off the broad slope of his shoulders. Her fingers moved to loosen the button at his collar from its hole.

“Your shirt,” she commanded breathily. “Take it off.”

He yanked the white muslin out of his breeches and lifted it up, revealing inch after delicious inch of golden skin. Her breath caught when she saw the scarred flesh on his torso where he had been wounded, and a little cry escaped her throat when his shoulder came into sight.

Heavens above, she had come so close to losing him.
Too close
. She didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t want to
think
. She flung herself against him, molding her curves to his hardness. She needed to feel the steady drum of his heart in his chest, needed the way he could make her forget, needed
him
.

As if he could hear her thoughts, he asked again, “Do you need me, Izzie?”

This time she couldn’t deny it. She couldn’t deny him, and she didn’t want to deny herself. “Yes,” she whispered fervently, planting an openmouthed kiss at the base of his throat. “Oh God,
yes
!”

Chapter 22

Now that we are back in England, I suppose you will inevitably see James. I asked you once before not to shoot my husband, but I am not certain you ever actually agreed. Remember, he is my husband and the father of my child, your niece. If ever he deserves to be shot, surely the honors should fall to me.

From the correspondence of Isabella, Lady Dunston,

age twenty

Letter to her brother, Henry Weston, containing a reasonable

argument for the precendency of mariticide over

fratricide—December 1798

A
t her words, James felt something raw and broken inside himself heal. At her kiss, something primitive caged within him broke free. One of his hands fisted in her hair, angling her to receive his kiss. As his mouth descended on hers, his other hand captured one of her breasts.

They were bigger now, fuller, and her nipples had deepened to a dark plum color. They were more sensitive, too, he thought, when she inhaled sharply as he plucked one of the hard buds, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

When she tugged him closer, James felt his heart stop beating, then resume in double time. He eagerly stripped out of what remained of his own clothing and joined her in the bed, and then they were both reaching for each other, touching each other.

Lord, how he needed this woman. She was like a fire in his blood, making him fierce and wild in his desire to conquer her, to brand her as his own. And yet he knew that even if he possessed her in every way, it wouldn’t be enough. He would still want more of her. She was an addiction he would never truly be free of, a craving he would never quite fill. He knew that every struggle for release, every attempt to sate the hunger would only make it worse, but underneath his proud armor, he was a willing prisoner, and she was a feast of which he would never tire.

He raked her naked body with his eyes, devouring each delectable curve so magnificently laid out before him on the bed. Her breasts. Her hips. The gentle swell of her stomach—a sweet, lingering reminder of the tiny blessing that lay upstairs in the nursery.

Her beauty overwhelmed him, humbled him, and gave him the sensation that he was a lowly supplicant in the presence of a goddess. And then she held out her arms to him, a sultry, inviting smile on her lips, the spark of passion and longing lighting her eyes. He went up in flames.

He fell on her like some sort of ravening, rutting beast, frantically running his hands over her body as he drew her breast into his mouth. He was rewarded with the sound of her moaning his name and the feel of her nails digging into the muscles on his back as she clutched him to her, silently urging him to take her.

He reached down between their bodies and found her wet and ready for him. He felt light-headed, knowing she was as desperate for the joining as he was. It was a good thing, too, because he wasn’t going to be able to love her slowly and tenderly, the way she deserved. He had spent too many sleepless nights and had been celibate far, far too long for that. There would be other times when he would cherish her. This time he was going to take her. . . .

And when he was done, she would know she belonged to him.

He stroked her cleft, circling his index finger around the bud at the peak of her sex. She moaned and arched her back, lifting her hips to give him better access. Keeping his thumb pressed against that button of pleasure, James slid a finger into her.

“Now!” she panted. “Please. I’m almost there. I want you with me.” She brought her hands up to frame his face. “I want you in me.”

He groaned. “Tell me again,” he said, flexing his finger.

She gasped, her hands falling away from his face to clutch at the sheets. “Oh, James! Oh God!”

He began to withdraw his finger.

“I want you inside me. Please. Now.”

Sweat was beading on his forehead and every muscle in his body was painfully tense, but erotic as her words were, they weren’t the ones he wanted to hear. The reins on his control were frayed and quickly slipping from his hands, but he started working a second finger in beside the first. “Tell me you need me.”

“I need you,” she pleaded.

He pressed deeper into her, gently rocking his hand back and forth.

“I need you,” she yelled, bucking up against him. “
Need you, need you, need you, need you, need you
,” she wailed as he brought her to the peak, then withdrew his fingers before she could tumble over.

James positioned himself against her entrance, swallowing hard at the feel of her soft, slick flesh. He nudged forward, sheathing the tip of himself, fighting the urge to thrust all the way in.

Her hips rose as she tried to draw him deeper. “Yes,” she whispered.
“Yes
.
”

He pressed forward another inch. “Tell me you love me.”

“James!” she begged.

“Say it.”

“I love you,” she cried brokenly.

The reins snapped as he surged forward, claiming her mouth in a rough, wet kiss as he drove into her velvety warmth. He closed his eyes and threw his head back, savoring the way she clasped him so tightly, her inner muscles clenching around him, drawing him deeper with every stroke. Again and again he pounded into her, spurred on by the sound of her throaty cries of desire, the musky scent of their mingled, mutual arousal, the taste of ripe strawberries and golden honey that was uniquely Isabella, and the feeling of her fingers tangled tightly in his hair. . . .

She was a feast for his senses and, having been denied this particular delicacy for far too long, James gorged himself like the hungry beggar he was. He took everything she had to give and demanded more. More from her, more of her. He pushed her ruthlessly, higher and higher, using whispered words of love and the commanding tempo of his hips. She followed where he led, lifting up to meet him, her nails digging into his flanks, her body making its own wordless requests.
Deeper. Harder. Faster.

He gave her what she wanted . . . and more.

“James,” she groaned in protest when he withdrew from her.

“Trust me,” he rasped in response, as he turned her over onto her stomach.

“But—”

“Hush,” he ordered, grabbing a couple of pillows and positioning them under her hips, preparing her to receive him.
Perfect.
His erection throbbed with anticipation. Shaking and trembling with need and excitement and desire, he guided himself into her, delighting in the resulting symphony of needy whimpers, harsh moans, and frenzied gasps.

He pumped into her over and over, each stroke making his body more desperate and frantic for release. Guided by some primitive instinct, he leaned over her and lightly bit that sweet, vulnerable spot where her neck and shoulder met. Her inner muscles clamped tightly around him, caressed him intimately, and James knew he didn’t have long. Reaching beneath her, his fingers sought out that secret, sensitive nubbin of flesh that crowned her sex, praying that the additional stimulation would send her over the edge.

“
Now
, Izzie!” he directed her. “Come for me
now
!”

Her entire body went tense, and her head lifted off the bed, her mouth open in a silent scream. As the first ripple of contractions radiated from her core, squeezing him in unbearable rhythmic bliss, James let himself go. He thrust once, twice, three times, and then he was gripping her hips, shuddering and jerking violently as he spilled his seed deep within her womb. For all he knew, he had just planted another babe there. Surprisingly, he felt only pleasure at the thought. And then he stopped thinking entirely and gave himself up to feeling and pleasure.