Secrets of a Scandalous Bride (16 page)

“All along,” she whispered, coming to stand behind his broad back, “I’ve been telling myself I wouldn’t marry him. All along I thought I would find a way
to avoid it. But I think I always knew I was fooling myself.”

He dropped his head. “You are
not
going to marry Pymm, Elizabeth,” he said tightly. “Did you not hear what I said?”

Her spine tingled and she dared to wind her hands around his waist and lay her head on his stiff back. “Don’t say such impossible things. Please, I don’t want to talk about him.”

He made an odd sound in his throat as if he wanted to say much more but did not.

She could not get past the lump in her throat. For so long she had hoped for a private glimpse of the man behind the hard façade and now that he was here with her, she didn’t know how to proceed.

“You had better stop this, now,” he said quietly, more to himself than to her. “You see, I can’t stay away from you anymore without your help.”

She swallowed. “I don’t want you to.”

His back rose with his inhalation. “Elizabeth…” He grasped one of her hands and pulled her around to face him.

His eyes glittered like hard glass, his brows like two angry slashes across his face. Not one harsh line of his face softened as he studied her. “I’m going to sleep just beyond that door. I promise he won’t find you. I’m taking you away from here an hour before dawn tomorrow. But tonight, you must sleep. You look ready to drop.”

Her heart raced. “No.”

His lips formed a grim line.

“I want you to stay,” she whispered, daring to en
counter his eyes. “With me. Here.” She felt exposed, her emotions raw in the night air.

The striated muscles in his jaw tensed and released, yet he said not a word.

Slowly, she reached for the three hooks in the back of her gown to undo them. The sash gave way as she pulled one end.

“Are you
trying
to drive me to madness?” His eyes were glazed with pain as he laughed harshly. “Isn’t it enough that you’ve brought me past every rational thought?”

The blue gown fell free of her arms and she stood before him. “I want you,” she said simply. “This memory of you. Nothing more. And I don’t care if it’s wrong. If I must say good-bye to you, let it be this way. Let it be something I can hide in my heart and remember every night…”

She watched him squeeze his eyes shut as if he were in exquisite pain. And then he lowered his head to kiss the top of her head. “Elizabeth…no,” he whispered.

R
owland didn’t dare move—only his cheek rested against her warm head.

He felt her gentle fingers working the knot of his neck cloth and he stood stock-still—unable to summon the will to stop her. Her hands began to tremble as they unbuttoned his linen shirt. She appeared to lose her nerve at the first of his vest’s buttons.

If he simply backed up five steps, he would be at the door. He could then turn and walk away.

But then his eyes became mesmerized by the sight of her delicate fingers unwinding and loosening her corset lacing. The flesh above her underclothes was so lovely, delicate—shimmering in the moonlight. He forgot to breathe when she lowered her chemise.

Oh God.
His iron control cracked like an iceberg sheered from a thousand-year-old glacier.

An unholy sound escaped his lips. His hands latched on to her wrists. Blinded by a level of desire unknown to him, he could not have stopped if a league of devils tried to hold him back from her. In a rush of movement, he grasped the narrow curve of her rib cage and bent his knees to bring himself to the ruched tip of her breast. He sank into her, his lips
catching and caressing the tender bud with a sigh of despair over his inability to withstand her.

She was so soft, so sweet. And he could not taste enough of her. In one smooth movement he gathered her to him, one arm under her knees, the other around her slender frame.

Without knowing how, he found the small bed and lowered her to it. Standing there, staring at the woman in front of him, it was like a dream, so terribly perfect and beautiful that he was afraid he would wake and find himself back in the nightmare of his life.

He would never remember how he managed to divest himself of his formal clothes—all except for his breeches—and Elizabeth of her loosened corset, chemise, and stockings, but he would never forget the sight of her lying before him, her honey-gold mass of hair in complete disarray across the bolster; one arm shyly covered her breasts while the other hand rested above her thighs.

“Don’t hide yourself from me, Elizabeth,” he whispered as he grasped her face between his hands and lowered his lips to her lush mouth. “It’s so rare one is allowed a glimpse of flawlessness.”

A tiny moan escaped from her as he delved gently beyond her lips. His hands stroked her locks as he lost himself in the softness of her.

He reveled in the smoothness of her flesh and how it melded to the coarseness of his own. He could feel her heart’s jangling beat and her uneven breathing as he moved his lips to kiss her again and again.

He never changed the tenor of his giving, never al
lowed her to do more than press her plush lips against his own. She was like some delicacy to be revered, and savored. And he was but a starving man before everything tempting and delicious.

Elizabeth’s flesh felt like it was aflame from the unseen heat beyond his lips. Each place his mouth brushed, each caress from his gentle hands, brought a surge of fever. And yet, each time she tried to touch him, kiss any part of him aside from his lips, he stopped her, intent on touching, tasting her in his own fashion, on his own timetable.

God.
She was here with Rowland Manning, painfully aware of the seconds and minutes that were slipping past them. Tears rose in her eyes.

She had not dared to think he would allow this. It had taken her too long to realize he was a man determined to deny himself every pleasure, every happiness in life. She wasn’t sure why he felt such a need to torment himself, but there was one thing of which she was absolutely certain.

There was no other man so good in this world, and so determined to think the opposite of himself. And she wanted desperately to share her love for him, and to leave a piece of herself behind, reserved solely for him alone. She wanted to cry for the pleasure he was giving to her, feeding her soul with such happiness.

“Elizabeth…” he whispered, a question in his pained voice.

She didn’t want to be diverted from the torrent of emotions in this dream. But she forced herself to lift her head. “Yes?”

“I can’t do this. Can’t bear the idea of ruining you—hurting you.” His forehead lowered to her collarbone.

“Hush…” Slowly, she eased up onto her elbows for support. “You’re doing nothing of the kind.” She paused for a long moment. “You told me a long time ago that women have few choices in their lives. This is one I’m allowed. One I
demand
.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking. This will bring you naught but pain, I assure you.” He dragged his lips along her collarbone until he reached the notch of her neck. “You have no idea what happens between a man and a woman, do you?” His question drifted.

“Of course I do.” She stroked his hair as she whispered the words.

He raised his head. His eyes were inches from her own. The corner of one side of his mouth held the smallest suggestion of amusement. “Really?” He said it with grave doubt.

She swallowed. “Privacy isn’t always possible during war. I—I once came upon a soldier rising from a lake—unclothed—before I hurried away. I’ve seen statues in London, too.”

His long fingers stroked the length of her jaw, and became lost in her locks. “Oh, Elizabeth,” he said softly with a touch of sadness, “you know nothing of it.”

“I know that part of a man joins with a woman. I’m not afraid.”

“Of course you’re not afraid.” A groan rumbled through him. “I’m the only one with enough understanding and sense to be terrified.”

“Why would you say such a thing?”

He sighed. “
Mhuirnin
, I’ve never taken a woman’s innocence. I swore I never would. It’s a brutal thing.”

There was something dark and desperate behind his words and for the first time she heard a glimmer of the cockney behind his usual practiced façade. She refused to give in. “Well, I’m glad you’ve never done so. But,
you
are taking nothing from me.
I
am giving myself to you—only this is an even exchange, for you will give yourself to me.”

He groaned. “This is impossible. And that’s not how it works. There’s only one doing the giving and the other doing the taking.”

She leaned toward his face and pulled his neck toward her once more. “Please…just try.” She poured every last ounce of hope into the one word.

He sighed and for a long moment, she was certain he would refuse her. But then he untangled the blue ribbon from her hair. “Give me your wrist,” he whispered.

“Why?”

“Elizabeth, if we’re to do this, it must be my way. In my fashion.”

“You’re not going to tie me to the bed, are you?”

His half smile appeared in the way that always made her heart ache.

“I should. It would serve you right for all you did today, and now tonight—tempting me like the devil with promises of heaven.” He bound one of her wrists to his own with the ribbon. “This is the way of it in Ireland, my mother’s homeland.”

She didn’t try to stop him. A flood of emotion welled deep inside of her. He was going to do as she
asked. He would make love to her…Oh Lord, he would give this gift to her. It would be the exact opposite of the infamous medieval stories of
droit de seigneur
, when an English lord was said to have the right to take the innocence of the female Celts of the lower classes before their marriage.

And then she could not think about rituals at all. She could only feel the slight rasp of his beard against her shoulder as he kissed her there and then on her ribs and again lower. He was easing the trunk of his body between her thighs, and lowering himself farther. Everything was happening so quickly.

She grabbed his massive shoulders. He stopped moving and lowered his lips to her belly, dusting a thousand and one kisses on the taut flesh. “
Mhuirnin
…my Elizabeth,” he whispered, mixing Gaelic and English words with reverence. She wished she could understand it all.

While she was paralyzed with uncertainty of what to do, his free hand stroked her arms, her breasts, and the outsides of her leg until his fingers sought a sensitive spot behind her knees. She tried to relax her grip on his hand bound to hers.

And then before she could say a word, in one smooth movement, he opened her knees wide and dipped his dark head.

She exhaled roughly and tried to scoot away. His hand held her in place.

“Wait!” She tried to close her knees together.

He rose up to face her, his eyes dark with mystery. His hand rearranged her legs closed. “Of course,” he rasped. “You’ve come to your senses.”

“No,” she whispered. “It’s just…it’s just…”

He stroked a lock of her hair and curled it behind her ear. “What?”

“You’re right. I know nothing about this—or what I should do. Won’t you tell me?”

Rowland pondered her words, trying to ignore the mountain of flesh trying to burst free of the falls of his breeches. It was fortunate he had a lifetime of experience with deprivation. Hunger of any sort was second nature to him. With each beat of his heart, he pulsed for her. Perhaps it would frighten her. Perhaps he could scare her enough to think twice.

“All right, Elizabeth,” he said evenly as he pulled himself beside her. “But there’s very little to be said. You had the right of it.” His free hand unhooked the side of his breeches, and his monstrous length of aching flesh sprang free of the fabric. “This is the part of me that would join with you.” He watched her eyes, which for a flicker of a moment showed uncertainty. The muscles of her throat constricted and her eyes rose back to his own.

“That’s not at all like…”

His one hand shook slightly, betraying his need as he began to refasten his breeches. “I told you this was a bad idea, a bad—”

“I’m not afraid.” Her hands stopped his while he listened to her lie with conviction.

It nearly broke him. “You should be,” he insisted. “I told you it’s all about a man—
me
—taking, hurting
you
.” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He had counted on shocking her. He should have known
better. A female courageous enough to race at Ascot would not be afraid of him.

A moment later, his mind registered the soft, cool feel of her small hand caressing his shoulder, elbow, and coming to a rest on his hip.

He exhaled roughly.

She murmured something that did not register in his mind. And then her hand moved to trace the trickle of dark hair in the center of his chest. A moment later, her fingers dipped to the molded hollows of his gut.

Her touch was hesitant and soft and he wanted to shout with the pleasure of it.

She paused. “May I touch…”

He didn’t bother to misunderstand. “No.”

She continued to caress his chest, her hand trembling slightly. “I’m sorry I stopped you before.”

He groaned as her hand drifted to one side, her thumb brushing the sensitive flesh above his hipbone.

In a flash of movement, he was on top of her, a growl of pure desire rushing from his throat. His ballocks were on fire, drawn tightly to his body. He squeezed his eyes shut as his arousal instinctively sought the moist notch of her beneath him. He stopped in the midst of a daze of agonizing desire.

She tentatively kissed his hot brow and he managed to regain his footing. He rested their joined hands next to her face and made a small space between them. Attempting gentleness, he traced his fingers down a path past her ribs to the curls that tempted him so.

Her breath quickened and her eyes became dazed
as he touched her, parting, tracing the silken folds. A blush crested her cheeks and she could not seem to look at him. A moan escaped her and he pressed the advantage, dragging a finger past the plush entrance to her and then backsliding to test the edges. Her hips moved to meet his palm.

She was so damned tight—far too small for a brute like him.
God.
What had he agreed to? As he sunk his finger a little deeper inside of her taut depths, his thumb circled the peak nestled in the curls, edging ever closer.

She was making inarticulate sounds, and it was driving him past the point of no return, past a point of madness no mortal man could withstand. It had never been like this. He’d never for a moment in his life ever lost control. But this ache began so deep inside of him. And then an easing coolness pressed against the small of his back, and he could not stop himself.

He was going to hurt her. Impale her. He was going to break her body and break his oath
never
to take advantage of a desperate, innocent woman.

A woman like
Mary
had once been.

No matter how much Elizabeth thought she wanted this, he knew it was wrong. But the black impurity that was ingrained in his wretched makeup would not allow him to stop. He closed the distance to her aching peak with his thumb, the friction causing a wave of desire to cross her beautiful face.

He was frantic to bring her pleasure. He would not stop until her breath caught and she appeared lost to the world. Only then did he reclaim the age-old posi
tion above her, his hand arranging her limbs wide to accommodate his monstrous frame.

Her dazed eyes were teary with emotion and it nearly killed him. His breath ragged, he flexed his hips forward until his hot, raging flesh found plush, wet relief.

Courting her body to accept him, he teased her opening just the merest bit until slickness eased the way. Black dots began multiplying in his field of vision, and through them he saw her passion-filled face below him, her lovely hair spread like that of an angel from the heavens.

With an unstoppable surge, the great length of him pierced her, and he was filled with the most pure sensation of both bodily pleasure and emotional pain so deep and yet perfect. At the same moment a terrible sound escaped from her clamped lips. Black horror flooded him—all the nightmares of the past were before him.

Suddenly, he felt her fingers interwoven with his own tenderly squeeze his hand in reassurance. He looked down at her, expecting to see regret and far worse.

“Rowland,” she whispered, tears flooding her cheeks, “Love me.”