Raven's Bride (14 page)

She could not tell him. She never wanted to remember what had happened—it had been too horrible. The squire had nearly had his way with her, as if she were a common trollop—a creature that existed only to service his beastly lusts. And she didn’t know to this day whether or not he had survived the blows she had given him. The law might be on her tail. She might have maimed him, or worse yet, killed him.

She could not tell Lord Ravensbourne about her actions. He would not understand. He would blame her for the attack, or accuse her of having brought it on herself by her wanton behavior. He would despise her.

“He was the reason you had to leave your old home in such haste and seek protection from your family,” Lord Ravensbourne stated.

That much at least she could confess to. She nodded through her tears.

“He forced you.”

The terror of the moment when she had first realized the squire meant to rape her returned to Anna in full force and she wept anew, with noisy, shuddering sobs that racked her whole body.

“I will kill him.” Lord Ravensbourne’s voice was low and deadly.

She could not leave him thinking the worst. She would rather he knew the truth—that she preferred to protect herself, with violence if need be, than to fall victim to the evil lusts of a wicked ravisher. She was no Lucretia to suffer in silence, then take her shame out in doing violence to herself. Had she been Lucretia, she would have killed Tarquin with the sharp point of her dagger, not herself. “It was n…not so bad as you think. I stopped him before he could…before he…”

“You stopped him?”

She held on to her courage with all her might. She would not be ashamed for what she had done. She had been right to protect herself. If she ever had to, she would do the same again. “I hit him.”

The darkness on Lord Ravensbourne’s face faded somewhat. “Good.”

“Twice.”

Lord Ravensbourne was almost smiling. “Even better.”

Her confession was not as hard as she had thought it would be, when he was so understanding. He did not seem to hate her. “He offered me the position of governess for his three daughters after my father died. On my first night, he came into my room and tried to force me. First of all I knocked him out with a blow to the head. I used a candlestick. A heavy one, made of iron.”

His smile widened. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“And then I hit him again, as hard as I could. Between the legs.” She savored the memory of the blow she had dealt the squire. He had deserved every pain she had dealt him, and twenty times more. “I wanted to kill him.” Her cousin could not have guessed at this dark side of her character. She looked sideways at him, waiting to see how he would take this proof of her violent nature.

He gave an involuntary wince, and crossed his legs protectively over himself. “I imagine he wanted to die after that. Remind me never to make you angry.”

Seeing the effect the mere thought of a blow like that had on Lord Ravensbourne, she almost felt sorry for the squire. “I do not know if he recovered from the blow.”

“I hope he did not.”

But, evil or not, Squire Grantley’s death would lie heavy on her conscience. “I may have murdered him.”

“Whatever you may have done would never change my feelings for you. I love you, Anna.”

“You may love a murderess.”

“
I love you. And you are not a murderess.” Lord Ravensbourne’s voice was calm, and he placed a kiss on her brow as gentle as the brush of a sparrow’s wing. “You need have no fear.”

Anna had lived with her terror and her guilt for too long to let it go so quickly or easily. “But if the squire is dead? Will I not hang for it?”

“If he is dead, he was killed by his own wickedness and by the will of God.”

She was the instrument of God. It was a comforting thought that took the edge off the fear that had held her in its grip ever since that terrible night. Maybe God would still forgive her for her sins and give her a glimpse of Heaven when she died.

But man was so much more unforgiving than God was. Man was cruel and had no compassion. Man hanged poor vagabonds for stealing food to fill their starving bellies. What cruelties would they have in store for a murderess?

“Would you still love me if I were thrown into gaol?” she asked, feeling the icy wind of a prison cell blowing down the back of her neck. “Would you still want to marry me then? Or would you turn away from the shame I would bring on you and your family? Would you come to see me hanged and cheer along with the rest of the crowd as the rope was placed around my throat and all life squeezed out of me?”

“I love you, Anna, whatever you may do. And I would rescue you from prison, though you were locked in the pits of hell itself.” His arm pulled her closer to his body, so she could feel his strength through his fine clothes. “You shall not feel badly, now that I can share the secrets of your conscience and lighten the burden of your heart.”

His acceptance of her secret shame captured her heart and held it prisoner as none of his fine words could do. Quietly she lay her head on his shoulder. A single tear trickled out of her eyes to come to rest on the blue brocade of his jacket. “I love you, too, my lord. I love you with all my heart and I always will.”

She had not planned to say the words, but once said, she could not wish them unsaid again. He had bared his soul before her. He deserved to know the secrets that lay locked in her breast.

“You will marry me then?”

She looked deep into his eyes, to read the truth of his heart. His eyes were dark with love and longing, but Charlotte’s words hung heavy on her heart, and she needed one last assurance before she could plight her troth to him. “Will you be true to me?”

He clasped her hands in his own. “I have not looked at any other woman since I met you, my pretty cousin. Once you are my wife, I shall never look at another again. On my soul, and my hopes of Heaven, I swear it.”

She could tell he spoke from his soul.

Her heart was too full of joy to bear. He loved her and had sworn to be true to her. “Then I will marry you, and gladly, too.”

“So, will you kiss me now we are betrothed?” His tone was teasing, but when she looked at his face, his eyes were serious.

She had not the strength to refuse him. She did not need to refuse him any longer. Reaching up to him, she touched her lips against his. His lips were slightly rough against hers, and infinitely gentle as he allowed her to kiss him. He tasted sweeter than she could have imagined—sweeter than Heaven.

“I promised myself that I would not return home before I had tasted your lips,” he murmured against her ear when she finally broke away from him again. “That is all I meant before, I swear to you.”

She wanted him to kiss her again. To not stop kissing her until the two of them had mingled souls and flown to paradise together on the wings of an angel. “I would not have my husband known as an oath-breaker.”

His breath was soft against her neck. “Come and kiss me again, then, and fulfill my vow twice over.”

“No. I want you to kiss me this time.”

He hesitated. “Will you not be afraid?”

She shook her head. “I will never be afraid of you again.” His kisses were sweet and pleasant, not rough or demanding. They did not hurt her—they made her sigh with longing.

His kisses would heal her soul. They would exorcise her spirit from the memory of the squire’s attack forever.

His mouth approached hers as if he were afraid she might take fright and flee from him.

She was not frightened any longer. It was passing strange, but she could not even remember what it felt like to be frightened any more. Eagerly she angled her head up to meet his lips with her own.

His kiss started gently, with light, feathery touches around the corner of her mouth, before settling as softly as a honeybee on a patch of sweet clover on her bottom lip.

A shiver of longing passed through her, and she moved closer to him on the sofa, arching her body towards his. The tips of her breasts grazed his chest, and sparks of fire ignited within her.

His hands moved along her arms, to her shoulders, and then to her breasts. With a growing sense of longing, she thrust them out, filling his hands with her soft, womanly bounty.

His fingertips glided over her breasts, stopping at the tight nub of her nipples. He rolled them between his thumb and forefinger through the thin fabric of her nightgown. “Do you like that?” he asked, his voice a breathy whisper. “Do you like me to play with your breasts?”

“Yes,” she whispered, feeling like a brazen hussy. “I like it.”

“How much do you like it?”

“Very much,” she confessed. “More than I can say.” Her body had never felt so delicious, so languid, so hungry. She ached to touch him, as he was touching her. Of their own volition, her hands moved up to lay against the fine linen of his shirt-front.

He shivered under her ministrations as she stroked him tenderly through the fine fabric. She wanted to touch all of him, skin to skin, with no barrier between them.

“Would you like me to kiss you again?” He didn’t wait for her whispered reply before his lips were on hers again, this time a little more insistent, teasing her with his tongue, which darted over her mouth like quicksilver.

Her mouth opened under his advance, and he took full possession of it at once, as if he had been waiting for her acceptance and encouragement of his eagerness.

He lifted her onto his lap, the better and deeper to kiss her. Beneath her bottom she could feel the length of his engorged shaft tremble with passion. With a sigh of sensual delight, she shifted until it was encased between her buttocks.

Fumbling hands—she did not know whether they were his or hers—pushed away the woolen wrap that had covered her night-rail and kept her from the night air. She was no longer cold. She could not be cold, when the touch of his hands on her made her blaze brighter than the hottest flame.

His mouth left hers, and she could have cried for the desolation he left her in, but before she could utter a sound of protest, his lips were on her neck, and lower.

The lacing in the front of her nightgown was soon undone, and his mouth moved lower yet, to her breast.

She arched her head back and cried out in delight as he took her tightened nipple into his mouth, laving it with his tongue until she felt as if she were going up in flames. Never before had she felt such urgency. With greedy hands, she clasped his head to her breast, urging him on in his explorations.

Then his hand was on her leg, pushing her nightgown up above her waist. She gave a startled squeak, but did not move to stop him. His touch against her skin felt so right, as if he had been born to touch her there.

“I shall marry you come morn,” he promised in her ear, as his warm hands stroked her thigh. “On my hopes of Heaven and my fear of the devil, I promise you and I shall be wed.”

She knew she ought to move away, but she had not the will to do so. He would be her husband in a matter of hours—he had sworn it. What would it hurt if their marriage vows were anticipated by a few hours? Surely such a sin was merely a venial one, not a mortal one. She would atone for her sin in so many ways, she vowed, when her sinning was over.

His mouth was on hers again, dangerous and yearning. She met him, thrust for thrust, as their tongues dueled to give the other pleasure.

His hands had reached the juncture of her thighs. He stroked the triangle of black curls that glistened there.

The urgency was building in her again, so rough and demanding it took her breath away.

With only a slight pang of conscience, she allowed her legs to part, giving him access to all her secrets. With the soft pad of his thumb, he found an exquisitely sensitive place, and circled it. Then she felt his finger inside her, gently thrusting into her channel, and withdrawing again until she felt as though she would go insane with the pleasure he was giving her.

The gentle friction of his fingers made her wild with passion. Wordlessly she thrust against him as, slick with moisture and urgent with the same want that drove her, her needs brought her to the edge of an unknown precipice.

Then, with one final thrust, a scream burst from her throat as she plunged over the brink and lost herself in a delicious whirlpool of sensation.

Melcott fought to control his labored breathing as he turned away from the scene in the window and tucked himself back into his breeches. The pleasure he had given himself was built on pain—the torment of seeing his future wife made into a whore before his very eyes.

Damn his nephew for a rake, and damn Anna for succumbing to his blandishments. Anna and her beautiful body would not come to him as pure as she ought to. He did not think he would forgive her for that. She did not deserve his forgiveness. When they were married, he would devise a fitting punishment for her wantonness.

He wanted Anna untouched by any other man, but his base and lecherous nephew had foiled the fulfillment of his desire. His just and proper grievances against his nephew were replaced with a black and blinding anger that corroded his very soul. Lord Ravensbourne must die—this very night. He must not be allowed to defile Anna once more, as he had just defiled her. The woman that Melcott would marry needed to be kept as pure from sin and the knowledge of evil as ever a sinful creature could be. Only then could she hope to rise above the base nature of her sex to be a proper helpmate for a man of God.