Surrender Becomes Her (25 page)

A fierce smile of satisfaction crossed Marcus’s face when his finger sank slowly into her and he found her wet and ready. He wanted to play, to explore, but he dared not. He was so hard, so aching and full, that he feared if he did not take her, he would shame himself.

He shifted, sliding between her legs. His hands holding her hips to his liking, his lips fastened on hers and, as his tongue
took her mouth, his swollen member slowly entered her. She was tight, her inner flesh slick and warm against him and he was so lost in the scarlet haze of pleasure that he plunged through the frail barrier before he realized what had happened…or the significance of it. But the second after he breached her, he
knew
. His eyes snapped open and he stared down into her face.

In a welter of pain, shock, and pleasure, Isabel lay still beneath him. It took all the courage she possessed to meet his gaze. She tried to speak but words failed her. He looked very dark and dangerous as he loomed over her with black hair falling across his forehead and his gray eyes smoldering with desire, but accusation and suspicion were also there in the hard gaze that pinned her to the bed.

Passion riding him hard, Marcus couldn’t think. Questions flew through his mind, but they were clouded, drowned out by the feel of her soft body beneath him and the primitive desire to seek release from the mating hunger that clawed and screamed through him. He shook his head, trying to concentrate, but he couldn’t; her body singing its siren song, desire drumming so wildly in his veins that it drove all else out of his mind. His eyes closed and his mouth closed demandingly over hers as he withdrew slightly and thrust himself back fully into her. Pleasure jolted through him and he was lost. Again and again, he plunged into her, each stroke coming faster, deeper than the one before, his hips moving in an ancient, urgent rhythm, frantically seeking to prolong the pleasure, yet demanding the sweet release, the scarlet oblivion.

The first shock of his taking filtered away and, with every stroke of his body, a fire, a desperate ache, grew deep in her loins. Her body no longer her own, she was swept up in the moment, her hands sliding to his driving buttocks, and she caressed him, urging him on, wanting, wanting, oh wanting she knew not what. A spiral of pleasure, pleasure so sweet she cried aloud at its intensity, exploded through her and the world spun away.

Her cry was his undoing and Marcus gripped her hips tighter to him and with a low groan, he thrust in once more, allowing ecstasy to take him where it willed.

Except for their labored breathing, the room was very quiet as slowly, reluctantly, Marcus slid from her body. He lay beside her a moment, then, saying nothing, rose from the bed. Heedless of his nakedness, he walked into her dressing room and found the pitcher of water he knew would be there. He poured a small amount of water into the china bowl and, taking up the washcloth neatly laid next to it, walked back into the bedroom.

Half dazed by her body’s ardent response to Marcus’s lovemaking, small aftershocks of pleasure still radiating through her, Isabel watched him disappear into the dressing room, her gaze mesmerized by his tall, lithe form. She shivered with delight as she remembered the feel of his lips on her breasts, the sensation of his big body moving over hers. But all too soon, reality came crashing back and she jerked upright, looking about for her robe, thinking she’d rather
not
face him stark naked. The sudden movement caused her to wince just a bit and, at that reminder of her changed state, a small, almost proud smile flittered across her face. She was a woman now. The smile fled as soon as she remembered the look in Marcus’s eyes when he realized that she had been a virgin, and she decided that she definitely needed her robe before he came back. He was going to have questions, a lot of them, and he wasn’t going to necessarily like or approve of her answers, and she’d just as soon have on her robe. Being naked left one feeling vulnerable and this was one time she couldn’t afford to be vulnerable.

Though she knew he was right in her dressing room, Marcus’s reappearance startled her as he walked back into the bedroom and, before she could stop herself, she shrank back against the pillows of her bed. He halted and stared at her for a long minute before he continued toward the bed. Putting down the bowl of water and washcloth on the table next to
the bed, he said bitingly, “Stop that! I don’t believe that I’ve ever beaten a woman in my life—even when given great provocation. I don’t intend to start now.”

“I d-d-didn’t think you meant to strike m-m-me,” she stammered. “You startled me.”

Ignoring her comment, he reached over and moved one of her legs, his mouth tightening at the degree of blood he saw on her thigh. His jaw set, he picked up the washcloth and, after dipping it in the water, began to clean away the signs of what had happened between them.

The silence was so loud in the room Isabel thought her head would burst from the very lack of sound as Marcus quickly washed the stains from her thighs. Embarrassment crawled through her at the intimacy of the moment and she moved, trying to avoid his touch. The tightening of his hand on her thigh warned her to cease and she let him have his way. He said nothing and, staring at his bent head as he worked on her, Isabel wished desperately that he would say something. Say anything. Rail at her. Hurl accusations at her. Demand answers, an explanation.

Just when she thought she would scream to break the oppressive silence, he asked carefully, “So whose child is Edmund?”

She stiffened and her eyes burning gold, she said fiercely, “
Mine!
He is my son and has been since the moment of his birth.”

He looked at her then, the gray eyes cool and assessing. “Don’t lie to me,” he snapped. Tossing the cloth in the china bowl of water, he said, “Proof of your lie is right here before us.”

She glanced away. “In every way that counts, Edmund is my son.”

“I hate to point this out to you,” Marcus said, “but the last time there was a virgin birth, there was a star over Bethlehem.” His voice hardened. “Tell me the truth. Tell me why you’ve allowed everyone to believe that Edmund is
your
son,
the child of your marriage to Hugh.” His eyes flashed. “From the moment you arrived from India, you deliberately foisted an imposter on the baron and allowed an old man to believe the child he adores is his rightful heir. Explain, if you can, how it comes about that the next Baron Manning will be illegitimate—with no lawful claim to the title or estates. And tell me, if you please, why I should help you continue with the charade.” He leaned forward, his dark face inches from hers and demanded harshly, “Did you even marry Hugh? Or was that a lie, too?”

Frightened and angry at the same time, Isabel took refuge in temper. Her head snapped up and she glared at him. “Hugh and I were married in London by special license. You can check that out for yourself if you don’t believe me!” she retorted furiously. Shoving him aside, she slid from the bed and snatched up her warm, yellow robe. Yanking it on, she roughly tied the belt around her waist. Feeling better with something to cover her nakedness, and her first burst of anger dissipating, she looked up at him and said helplessly, “It was what Hugh wanted. Even before Edmund was born he insisted that the boy’s true heritage could never be revealed.” Her throat thickened with memories of those first tense, miserable days in India flooding through her. She’d known from the beginning that some decision would have to be made about the coming child, but all during the long, uncomfortable sea journey to Bombay, she’d pushed that knowledge away. She—they all—were trapped in a terrible tangle, one in which an innocent child’s life hung in the balance and it was all her fault. Her damnable,
damnable
fault! If only she had not been so impetuous and convinced Hugh to marry her…. Guilt smote her and her eyes filled with tears. “It’s all my fault,” she muttered, staring down at her feet.

“I doubt that,” Marcus said acidly. “You could hardly have conjured Edmund up out of thin air all by yourself.”

Despite the gravity of the moment, Isabel almost smiled at his comment. Trust Marcus to be so prosaic.

Standing up, he grabbed his robe and shrugged it on. He was shaken more deeply than he had thought possible. The knowledge that Isabel had been a virgin had filled him with exultation…and remorse that he had not taken greater care with her. But except for that one second of sanity, his whole being had been focused on easing the carnal demons that rode him. Merged with her soft body, coherent thought had been beyond him. It was only afterward, in those few moments he lay beside her on the bed, that he considered all the implications.

Feeling as if he had stepped off into a chasm, Marcus struggled to make sense of what he knew—or thought he knew. Isabel had been a virgin. That was a fact that he knew. His eyes dropped to the pink-stained water in the bowl. She had never borne a child and Edmund could not be her son.

He frowned. The boy was clearly a Manning, and he didn’t doubt that Edmund was Hugh’s son, but
not
Isabel’s. So why had she returned to India claiming that Edmund was her son? To give himself time to think, and to destroy evidence of her loss of innocence, Marcus gathered up the bowl and cloth.

Isabel watched him as he efficiently cleaned up all signs of blood, carefully rinsing the cloth he had used on her and then, taking the bowl with the stained water with him, he walked over to one of the windows and, opening it, threw out the evidence. Setting down the bowl on the table next to the bed, he finally turned and looked at her.

His gaze locked on hers, he said bitterly, “I’m now part of your lie. No one but the two of us know that you and Hugh never consummated your marriage and that Edmund is not your son.”

She nodded, too full of emotion to speak. She had always known that Marcus would never betray her secret and Edmund’s, but it wasn’t until this very moment that she under
stood what she had thrown away by not telling him. Never once had she given him any chance to decide for himself whether he wanted to be part of the lie that she had lived since the moment she had first learned of Edmund. Intent upon insuring her son’s position—and she could never think of Edmund as anything but
her
son—determined to keep the vow she and Hugh had made on that long ago, hot, tragic day, she had never considered Marcus’s role in the lie. Never realized the choices she had made for him.

There was no one in the area, she admitted miserably, who was held in higher esteem than Marcus Sherbrook. Everyone, from the most titled aristocrat right down to the lowliest scullion, knew that Marcus Sherbrook was a man to be trusted, an honest, fair man. And now she had made him part of the lie she lived every day.

Her hand rose, as if to reach out to him, then fell to her side. “I’m sorry,” she said baldly. “I never meant to involve you.”

“And how did you think to keep me out of it?” he demanded, not certain which infuriated him most: that she had not trusted him with the truth, or that she had insured that it would be impossible for him to do anything but continue the conspiracy. “You had to know that once I discovered that you were a virgin, I would know the truth.”

Her ready temper spiked and, eyes bright with anger, she said, “If you will remember, I tried everything I could to end our engagement.” She pointed a finger at him. “This is your fault! I never wanted to marry you. You forced this marriage upon me, and if you had not married me, you’d have been none the wiser. So don’t blame me!”

Marcus grimaced. She had him there. “Very well,” he agreed. “It is my fault that we are married and because of that I’m now privy to some unexpected truths—or lies if you will.” His gaze narrowed. “Is this what Whitley was blackmailing you about? Edmund?”

Isabel ran a hand through her tumbled locks. “Yes,” she said tiredly.

“How much does he know?”

“He can’t prove anything and, if I hadn’t lost my head that first day and given him money and had brazened it out instead, he would have gone away. I think.” She sighed. “But once I had given him money, he was like a jackal scenting a tiger’s kill: he knew there was something in the wind; all he had to do was keep circling around until he found it.”

“But he has no proof of anything?”

She sighed again. “Not that I know of. The locket is the closest thing to proof, but in and of itself, it proves nothing.” Her eyes met his. “But I didn’t know what he had and I couldn’t take any chances.” Her eyes pleading for understanding she added, “But even without the locket, even if he couldn’t prove anything, all he would have had to do was to plant suspicion and speculation in other people’s minds about Edmund’s legitimacy and Edmund’s life would have been blighted and the baron’s peace destroyed. The circumstances of my unexpected marriage to Hugh caused, I’m sure, a great deal of gossip here at home. And when the announcement of Edmund’s birth arrived at Manning Court, I don’t doubt there were some raised eyebrows when certain people counted on their fingers and realized he was an eighth-month child.” She laughed bitterly. “Of course, it was probably no more than anyone expected of me, but if anyone had been paying attention, they’d have realized that Hugh wasn’t even in the neighborhood when Edmund had to have been conceived.” Wearily, she added, “While Hugh was alive we always worried about that, but there was no reason for anyone to look farther or to actually try to prove that Edmund wasn’t anything beyond what we claimed: Hugh’s and my son.” Her hand closed into a fist and she threw Marcus an appealing look. “But if Whitley were to start asking questions, poking about, offering idle speculation, it’s possible, though unlikely
after all this time, that someone might uncover the truth. I could not take that chance.”

Marcus cast his mind back to those painful months after Isabel had run away and married Hugh. Too well did he remember the gossip and speculation; even more did he remember the sly looks and smug smiles exchanged between several old tabby cats when the baron, delighted and proud, talked of his grandson, Edmund. He should have realized the reason behind the looks at the time, but he had still been reeling from the knowledge that Isabel was lost to him forever…and that she had borne a son to her husband. Even now, he felt the knife-edge of black despair he’d suffered then. He shook himself. That was over. Isabel was his wife now. A fierce, satisfied smile crossed his face. And she had never been Hugh’s….