The Bad Luck Wedding Night, Bad Luck Wedding series #5 (Bad Luck Abroad trilogy) (28 page)

"Um, I agree," said Charlotte as she stood on her tiptoes to give her brother a good-night kiss on the cheek. "See you in the morning, Sarah."

"Good night, everyone," Sarah called after them. "See you
all
in the morning."

Her hint for him to leave was broad and unmistakable. Nick chose to ignore it. Despite the fact that she'd used a napkin to wipe her mouth, he couldn't banish the fantasy of taking a taste of any tiny drops of milk that might have lingered.

He wanted her with a fierceness that nearly knocked him to his knees. So as she pulled her bedcovers up to her chin like a nervous virgin, Nick couldn't stop himself from shrugging out of his coat and tossing it over the back of the settee in front of the fireplace. Casually, he slipped the studs from his cuffs, tossed them atop the jacket, then rolled up his sleeves as he crossed the room to her bed. "So, Sarah, what's beneath your pillow?"

The woman went white as the sheet beneath her. She slapped back against her pillow, presenting more challenge than a secret service agent could resist. He slipped his hand behind her.

She pressed all of her weight against the pillow. "Excuse me, this is not your—"

He tugged from beneath her not the notepad she undoubtedly expected, but the true object of his search. The Pillow Book. "It's late and we both should be getting to sleep. Shall I read you a bedtime story, Sarah?"

Her gaze focused on the leather-bound volume in
his
hand, her eyes wide and swimming with a combination of shock and... was it fascination? "You can't... you're not..."

Nick simply smiled.

She groaned and sank farther beneath her covers, the sheet pulled up to her chin. He tugged a chair up next to the bed, sat with the book in his lap, and pulled off his shoes. Then, propping his stocking feet at the foot of the mattress, he settled back against the chair, opened the book, and flipped through the pages to the last entry, the tenth. Some days he found himself inspired to write more than one.

Had she already read the letter he'd left her tonight, or had she saved it to read right before sleep? He suspected she saved it, but that didn't really matter. His letters were intended to be read over and over again.

His gaze skimmed over the words written on the page. He frowned slightly, then cleared his voice and began. "My dearest Sarah."

It's good luck for a bride to jump over a broom before entering her new home.

Chapter 15

Sarah squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn't watch this. She couldn't believe this was happening, that he was actually
reading
those words, those secret, stirring words, aloud in his warm whisky voice. And since she had not read from the Pillow Book yet tonight, she didn't know what to expect.

Maybe he was just teasing. That was it. He would read the first line, just enough to worry her, then he would stop. It was just the sort of dirty trick Nick would like to play. He had to know she'd die of embarrassment, but he wouldn't care. Not Lord Weston. The man was not at all in her good graces at the moment.

Not since she'd learned from his sisters that she wasn't the only woman her husband had been romancing in a park of late.

She wondered if Lady Nickel had a Pillow Book, too. If so, Sarah thought she might cosh her husband over the head with hers.

"My dearest Sarah," he repeated, his voice a low, resonant rumble that skidded across her skin and made her shiver. "Do you realize how much I love to say your name? Sarah. My Sarah. It's a kiss to say. I hold it in my mouth, feel it on my tongue. Your name even tastes special—sweet and spicy, a flavor to crave."

Oh my.
Sarah tried to hold onto her irritation, but she felt it give way to pure panic. He hadn't stopped after the first sentence. He was going to read the whole letter aloud. To her. And she was still flustered from the kiss in the park.

"I wonder, Sarah, is my name on your sweet, luscious lips also a kiss?"

She thought she might just burst into flames. Oh, my. She couldn't believe he'd do this.

"How does it taste?"

No, that wasn't true. She easily believed he'd do this. Nicholas, Lord Weston, would do anything he darn well pleased, and apparently tormenting her this way pleased him.

Maybe she'd be lucky. Last night he'd spent his entire letter on the sound of her laugh. If tonight's letter was all about her name, she might not melt away in embarrassment. Maybe, Perhaps.

"I have an idea. What I hope for, anyway. I want my name to be Rowanclere malt to you. I want it to flow over your tongue smooth and rich and full-bodied. I want it to light a fire deep within you, one that smolders, one that intoxicates."

It does. Heaven help me, it does.
She tried to fight him, struggled to withstand this verbal assault as she waited on tenterhooks to hear what scandalous thing he'd say next.

Except, he didn't speak. Long, silent seconds ticked by and the blasted man didn't say another word. Finally, unable to abide the wait a moment longer, she opened her eyes.

He was staring right at her. "I want to taste my name on your lips as you say it."

Trapped in the power of his gaze, the potency of his words, Sarah melted. She surrendered to the seductive warmth in his words and the knowing heat in his gaze. And as the last vestiges of resistance dissolved, a yearning like she'd never known before filled her. Bone deep and needy, it caught her unprepared. Frightened her.

She whipped the covers completely over her head.

He chuckled softly before continuing. "Your lips. I haven't told you this before, but I dream about your lips every night. I've been waiting to tell you, seeking the words. I fear I will never find ones to do them justice. I'm no poet, Sarah."

No poet? From her perspective, he could have taught Lord Byron a thing or two.

"I'm but a man with a man's needs and desires."

Sarah forced herself not to wriggle as she wanted to.

"I desire to have your mouth on mine. I need to feel the touch of your lips against my body. Everywhere. Long, lingering kisses. Soft, sweet suction. The nip of your teeth. The rough rasp of your tongue against my skin."

She clenched her teeth again a moan. She thought a whimper just might have slipped out.
Soft, sweet suction. Everywhere.
Heaven help her.

Yet she didn't want him to stop. She wanted to listen. Wanted to hear. It was exciting. Stimulating. It was oh, so wicked.

"So come to me and kiss me, Sarah. Come to me in my sleep, in my dreams. Night dreams. Daydreams. Any dreams. Come to me. Kiss me. Come to me."

Her mouth was as dry as week-old toast. Her heart pounded as she held her breath, waiting for him to continue, halfway expecting to feel his touch.

The moment dragged out. The room was silent. Nick was silent.

Sarah waited. And waited. And waited some more. Finally the anticipation grew too much. Stealthily she shifted the sheet and peeked. And blinked. She threw back the sheet and sat up.

Nick, the blighter, was gone. The Pillow Book lay on the empty seat of the chair. Sarah lunged for the volume and quickly stuffed it beneath her bedding. "Out of sight, out of mind," she told herself firmly.

She could have saved her breath. Nick's voice echoed through her mind, stirring her. Haunting her. Moments later, she pulled the book out and opened it. She wanted—no, she needed—to read this latest letter for herself. Maybe if she filled her eyes with the written word, she'd be able to banish the sound of his voice from her head.

She flipped to the last entry in the book and skimmed the first paragraph, expecting to read about her name. Instead, she blinked. Her mouth dropped open in shock.

Dearest Sarah,

Last night I dreamed of your breasts.

She dropped the book as if it had burned her and crossed her arms over her breasts. This was not the letter he'd just read. This wasn't about her name or his name.

Nick had written about her bosom.

"Oh my heavens." She covered her mouth with her fingertips. Where was the other letter? Had he composed it in front of her?

I need to feel the touch of your lips. Come to me. Kiss me.

That's what he'd said. He'd written something else.

She felt the flush steal up her cheeks as her gaze stole to the Pillow Book. One particular sentence rose from the page like a beacon.

I want to take the rosy tip into my mouth and suckle it.

Vaguely Sarah heard herself moan. She didn't know what to do. She couldn't think. It was as if her mind had frozen, which was quite a paradox since her bedchamber had suddenly grown so
hot.

She fanned herself with both hands as she stared down at the book. Once again, she heard the echo of his voice in her thoughts.
Come to me. Come to me. Come to me.

Her hand darted out and flipped the Pillow Book shut in an attempt to quiet him.
Come to me. Come to me. Come to me.
Her pulse thrummed. Her breath came in shallow pants.

Her breasts ached.

"What are you doing to me, Nick?"

The answer came as clearly as if he had spoken it.
I'm seducing you.

Sarah groaned, closed her eyes, and sank back onto her pillow. Seduction. Nick. Nick and seduction. Never mind that he had another woman on the string. Never mind that relations between them would ruin the possibility of annulment. Never mind that it would change her entire life. He wasn't letting the idea go away. Seduction. Nick. Sex.

Wasn't it just her bad luck that for the first time in memory, Sarah wondered if she could bear giving sex a try.

* * *

Nick was lost in a steamily erotic dream when the cold bite of steel against his neck rudely yanked him from his slumber. "Sarah?" he asked groggily.

A rough male voice replied, "It says something about a man that his first thought upon realizing there's a knife at his neck is that a woman must be holding it."

Nick's thoughts cleared in an instant, and he tried to place the voice. It sounded faintly familiar, and he'd made plenty of enemies over the years. Who would be brazen enough, motivated enough, to break into the Marquess of Weston's home to assault him in his own bed?

The Afghan warlord Abdur Rahman came to mind, but the accent wasn't right. The accent was English, with an American twang.

"Where is she, you bloody bastard?"

In that moment he knew. Despite the fact that flexing his facial muscles caused the blade to slice thinly into his skin, he smiled. "Hello, Tom."

His old friend growled. "I've a fierce need to slit your throat, Nick Ross."

Nick imagined he did. He knew how he'd feel if Sarah left town with another man and disappeared from his life for a decade.

"But then maybe that's not the part I should be cutting on. Maybe I should slice off your balls instead."

"I'd rather you didn't. It's truly not necessary. If you'll step back and allow me a minute to light a lamp, I'll explain why and offer information I promise you will want to hear."

"Is it about my wife? Where is she? What have you—yeow!"

Whack.
The knife fell away and clattered to the floor.
Whack whack whack... thud.

As Tom Sheldon fell to the floor, Sarah's voice emerged from the darkness. "Nick, are you all right?"

"Sarah? What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm saving you from the burglar." She raised her voice to be heard over Tom's groan and added, "I heard him come in through the window. Get a rope or something so we can tie him. Hurry, Nick. We need light, too."

Nick was already reaching toward the bedside table, and seconds later the soft yellow glow of lamplight illuminated the room. Immediately, Sarah gasped. "Turn that off!"

"What?"

"You're naked!"

Nick sighed, then reached for his trousers. "I'm glad you noticed. What did you hit him with?"

"Oh, um, I just grabbed something handy," she said. Her hand nervously clutched at the neck of her dressing gown.

"A book," Tom Sheldon said from his seat on the floor where he nursed a lump on his head. "She pounded my head with a book."