The Dark One (18 page)

A rap on the door and Hawkins stuck his head inside. “I take it Lord Jackson will not be staying for the bath I was to prepare,” he remarked. “He's left the house.”

“I'll take the bath in his stead,” Armond said. He would send Gabriel after Jackson. If he was lucky, his younger brother was headed back to the estate. With Jackson and Gabriel out of the way, he could concentrate on other matters. Like his wife. And all the problems marriage to her had brought to his door.

Rosalind was asleep when he checked on her. She'd changed her gown. Her dark hair fanned out like a dark river upon the white linen of the sheets. Her lashes made soot-colored shadows against her pale cheeks. She was the picture of innocence and of temptation.

Her lips were parted and called to him even if she didn't make a sound. He wanted to bend down and kiss her, to unbutton the modest row of buttons at her neck and taste her skin. He wanted to crawl into bed with her and spend the rest of the afternoon making love.

While he watched her sleep, he loosened his stock and unbuttoned his shirt. Before temptation got the better of him or his growing adoration became too painful, he walked across her room and entered his own through the open door. A bath sat steaming in the middle of his room. He would let the water ease his tensions, though he'd rather ease them between Rosalind's long legs. He couldn't get the picture of them from his mind since he'd come across her nearly naked earlier that morning.

What would it feel like to have those long, slender legs wrapped around him? To plunge into her womanly softness and lose himself to the worries that plagued him? Gabriel had packed his meager belongings and set off in search of Jackson, who Armond hoped had heeded his
instructions to return to the estate. Armond now had the house to himself again . . . well, almost.

He stared through the open doorway at Rosalind. She hadn't moved, seemed to be sleeping deeply and probably peacefully for the first time in months. A surge of protectiveness rose up inside of him. No man would ever hurt her again . . . he hoped. Ironic that she might have more to fear from him than she did from her cruel stepbrother. But that would not happen, he tried to assure himself. Control was something he did well. He could control his feelings for Rosalind, make certain they become nothing beyond physical desire. He must. The consequences were too unthinkable to face if he did not.

She wasn't asleep. Rosalind stared through the open doorway at Armond from beneath heavy lashes. He'd stripped off his shirt and stood only in snug-fitting trousers and knee-high boots. She'd never seen a man as beautiful as he was. True, her experience in seeing half-dressed men was limited, but still, she sensed what she saw was not the ordinary.

She'd likened him to a great hunting cat the night she first saw him: sleek and built for speed, but he had muscles beneath his fine clothes. Lots of muscles. And glorious tawny-colored skin wrapped around them. His visage rode easy on a woman's eyes—made her want to sigh with appreciation that such a man existed. That, in fact, such a man was hers.

But he wasn't hers, Rosalind had to remind herself, before she lost all ability to reason. He had quite clearly indicated that he would share the outer part of himself with her but not the inner. Not his heart. His heart became less important when he pulled off his boots and went for the fastenings of his trousers. Rosalind knew she should close her eyes, but he held her spellbound.

He slid the trousers from his slim hips, exposing smooth flanks, also a golden cast, which meant either he allowed the sun to beat down upon him when he was naked or it was the natural color of his skin. Skin. Lots of skin. She swallowed the lump in her throat. His legs were long and muscular, dusted with light-colored hair, and indeed, she imagined they would propel him to victory in a footrace with relative ease.

Slowly, her eyes traveled up his legs toward a place she had avoided looking at, a place that would label him male, although there was nothing about him in the least feminine, except maybe those long golden locks that brushed the tops of his broad shoulders. He turned from her before she reached her objective and instead gave her a stunning view of his backside.

And it was stunning. From the muscles in his back that rippled slightly when he reached for a glass he'd set upon his mantel, down to where his hips narrowed and flowed into his tight, firm buttocks. That was where her gaze was focused when he turned from the hearth and faced her full-on. She might have gasped. If she didn't make the sound physically, she certainly made it mentally.

“There's nothing short about me, Lady Rosalind.” The words he'd said to her at the Greenleys' ball came back to her instantly, and with good reason. His male member stood out straight from his body. It was long and thick and actually rather intimidating but, at the same time, fascinating to behold.

And oddly enough, the longer she stared at it, the harder it seemed to grow.

“Have you looked your fill, Rosalind?”

Her gaze snapped up to his face to discover he was watching her. Watching her watch him. Her face flooded with heat. Heat not nearly as hot as the moist warmth she felt between her legs. Her nipples had hardened to painful
peaks, poking out, she suspected, from the worn cotton of her day gown. She'd chosen the older gown because she had spent the afternoon working in her new quarters, dusting out the empty wardrobe and arranging what items she'd brought with her.

“No.”

Had she said no? She'd been thinking she should say yes and turn away from him, but deep inside she enjoyed looking at his body, had found she wasn't ready to stop the visual exploration.

“I can stand here longer while you continue to eat me alive with your eyes, but there is one part of me that obviously cannot remain unaffected by your curiosity.”

She knew which part and had trouble keeping her gaze trained upon his handsome face. Curiosity, yes, she was curious and saw no reason not to be truthful about the matter.

“I've never seen a naked man before,” she explained.

“Nor will you ever see another one,” he countered, and she wasn't certain but thought possessiveness had flavored his voice. He seemed to realize his mistake and glanced away from her.

“If you're finished looking, I'll climb into my bath before it grows cold. Unless there is something more I can do for you.”

She couldn't think of what something more might entail, but then, she was being an idiot. She felt a blush stain her cheeks. “No, that will be all.” She wanted to groan. She'd dismissed him as if he were a servant. “I mean, thank you very much.”

His lips quirked. “You're quite welcome,” he said, then moved from her line of vision.

Rosalind flung herself on her back and looked up at the ceiling. Had she thanked him? Lord, her mind turned to mush when he was in close proximity and especially, it
would seem, when he was extremely naked. She heard the sound of splashing as he climbed into his bath. Why hadn't he closed the door? After lying there for a moment, she realized a bed was not the best place to be while her very attractive, very well endowed, or so she assumed, husband bathed in the next room.

It brought visions to mind. All that tawny wet skin sliding against her on the fresh linen sheets. Rosalind rose, went to the mirror over her bureau, and fussed with her hair. It took her only a quick comb-through with her fingers to realize she could see Armond's reflection in the mirror. She quickly glanced away. Then she realized he had his back to her. He wouldn't know that she watched him again.

Water ran in rivulets down his muscled back. His tawny-colored skin gleamed with moisture, and steam hung heavy in the air around him. His knees were slightly drawn up due to the shortness of the tub. It was the same tub she'd bathed in earlier that morning. Her naked. Him naked. Both of them in the same tub. She suddenly took to fanning her face.

“Since you still find me curious, would you mind soaping my back, Rosalind?”

She jumped. Did he have eyes in the back of his head? “Beg your pardon?” she called. “I was just arranging a few personal belongings here on the bureau.”

“I can see you.”

She left her place before the mirror and walked to the doorway, sticking her head inside. That's when she noticed that a mirror in his room was placed in such a way that he could see into her mirror. She refused to blush and ramble about this time. Instead, she bravely entered his room, walked to the tub, and knelt behind him.

“The soap please,” she said in a clipped voice.

He didn't turn and look at her, simply handed her the same bar she'd been forced to use earlier that morning. The one that smelled like him. Rosalind took a deep breath and began to lather the soap onto his back. The texture of his skin was smooth, hot to the touch. She liked it, touching him.

“What else are you curious about, Rosalind?”

His voice had lowered and it penetrated her senses and sent her heart speeding a measure. “Curious about in general?” she asked.

“Regarding my body,” he specified.

“Nothing,” she lied. His shoulders sloped in an intriguing way, flowing into well-muscled arms. Arms he rested on each side of the tub. A woman would think he'd have his hands more strategically placed for modesty's sake. Armond obviously had no modesty.

“Liar,” he said softly. “It would be more unnatural if you weren't curious. Feel free to explore any areas you would like to better acquaint yourself with.”

She wouldn't fall for that trick. “As I'm sure you would then feel justified in doing likewise with my body.”

“Not if you didn't wish me to,” he said. “I told you the choice was yours. It still is, regardless of what you do to me.”

Rosalind didn't believe him. She wanted to believe him, because she did, in fact, want to do further exploring. “It would be wrong,” she decided.

He shrugged and muscles rippled beneath wet skin. “We are married. Nothing we choose to do together in these bedchambers from this point on is wrong.”

She'd almost forgotten she was his wife. Moral issues, at least to a degree, no longer applied to her. But it was the physical she was trying to avoid until Armond was ready to give her more than that. “I don't think it would be fair,”
she said. “I'm not ready to . . . to consummate our marriage, and touching you in an intimate way might lead you to believe that I am. It would be like . . . like—”

“Teasing,” he provided. “Love play.”

“Love play? What does that mean?”

She heard him laugh softly. “Come around and face me and I'll show you.”

Did she dare? She recalled that she'd already dared much with him. She'd dared to leave with him at the Greenleys' ball. She'd dared to take a coach ride with him that led to far more intimacies together than they had shared since. She'd dared to marry him. And she'd dared to make a silent vow that he would one day love her. Love her with his heart and not simply his body.

“Do you swear that I can do whatever I wish to you and you won't wish to do anything to me in turn?”

“No,” he answered. “I'm certain I'll want to make love to you, I want to make love to you now, but yes, I swear to refrain from following the desires of my body until you are ready for me to follow them. I have excellent control. If I didn't, you'd already be mine. You would have been mine that first night at the Greenleys' ball.”

Rather a slap in the face to remind her that she'd been willing and he'd been the one to walk away from her. But she hadn't even known him then, had merely meant to use him to further her plans of escape from Franklin. And he'd helped her to escape, after all. But escape to what? A loveless marriage? One where their future together would be based solely upon a physical attraction toward each other? And his smugness over the issue of control grated upon her very sensitive nerves. She, to the opposite, felt out of control when confronted with the feelings he stirred in her.

He'd given her a reason to do exactly what she wanted to do and to test his trustworthiness. Rosalind rose from
her position behind him and walked around to face him. Their gazes met, locked, and although he tried to hide it, she could tell her decision surprised him. She bent beside the tub, their eyes never breaking contact.

Rosalind still had the soap in hand and she reached out and rubbed it against his bare chest, creating lather before her hands followed to draw patterns in the suds against his skin. The steam made her hair curl around her face, but she couldn't seem to break eye contact with him long enough to brush it away.

Her fingertips grazed his nipples and she heard his sudden intake of breath, but still he held her gaze with his. She wanted to look at his chest, but she'd seen it earlier. The muscles, the flat, round copper-colored nipples. His chest was smooth except for a darker trail that started below his breastbone and traveled downward. Downward past his stomach, which reminded her of a washboard, to a place where his hair was darker around his jutting member. She didn't realize her hand had followed her thoughts . . . followed that thin trail of darker hair, until his eyes became more intense as they stared into hers.

Her hand had disappeared below the water's surface, was poised just above the indention of his navel. Did she dare touch him there? She wanted to, she realized. Wanted to feel the texture and weight of the part of him that made him male. Her fingers slid down and closed around him. He drew in a ragged breath and his eyes took on a glow.

Her fingers could not close the width around him, and she marveled at the soft skin covering his steel-hard rod. The tip was larger, the skin there the texture of smooth velvet. She ran her hand down the length of him and back up. His body jerked involuntarily, but still, he did not break eye contact with her.

“Does it hurt you for me to do this?” she whispered,
because his jaw muscle had clenched and he no longer looked slightly amused by her curiosity.