The Nude (full-length historical romance) (34 page)

She knew she needed to tell Nigel the truth about Mr. Waver. But what if Nigel, in a fit of rage, killed his long-time friend? He’d promised to do just that. And she had no reason to doubt him. So she kept silent. And stayed miserable.

That night she laid on her back on the rather large bed in what she supposed was now her room and stared at the adjoining door to Nigel’s chamber. She listened to the creaking of the floorboards and the regular footfalls coming from his room. Her forefinger rubbed the cool gold cover on her locket as her ears strained in the darkness.

Nigel was pacing.

She had turned the key in the lock, but she still couldn’t stop herself from keeping a fixed glare on the curved brass handle. Candlelight from his room leaked out under the door.

He never tested the handle.

Some time late into the night the light was snuffed.

Tears pooled in her eyes, blurring the darkness. She wanted him in her bed. Despite the chilling tension keeping them apart, her body still burned for him. She ached to learn more about the carnal pleasures of marriage. But Nigel hadn’t even tested the handle to see if she’d locked the door against him.

Her tears spilled over her cheek, which only irritated her more.

If he’d tried to come to her, would she have opened the door?

Oh botheration
! She roughly wiped her tears away. How could she expect Nigel to know how to act around her when she didn’t even know what she wanted from him herself? And why had she spent her life waiting for some knight-in-shining-armor to come rescue her when she was more than capable of rescuing herself?

She slipped from the bed and padded her way to the adjoining door between hers and Nigel’s bedroom. It was time she rescued herself.

* * * * *

Someone was in the room with him, moving quietly as if not wanting to disturb his sleep. Only Nigel hadn’t been asleep. He hadn’t found a sound night’s sleep since his hasty marriage. And the string of long, frustrating nights had put him in one tiger of a mood. He tightened his hand on the revolver he’d taken with him into his bed. And waited, listening as the intruder moved closer. Well, he wasn’t going to let the bastard win so easily. One more step and Nigel would roll over and pull the trigger.

The light scent of lilacs and orange blossoms caressed his senses, filling him with images of fields of wildflowers and a certain lovely woman who’d stolen his heart.

Elsbeth
?

He kept his hand on his revolver. There was no reason to believe she would come to him. Not in the dark of night. Not to his bedroom. Not like this.

The brush of fabric—soft womanly fabric—whispered in his ear. Slowly, carefully, with the revolver still held at the ready, he rolled over. Her nightrail, a pale creamy white with just a touch of lavender shadows, almost appeared to glow in the dim light as she took another step toward the bed. Her creamy smooth hands were clasped beneath her chin. The pale texture of her skin with a touch of peach highlights begged to be touched . . . stroked . . . loved. Even in the faint moonlight seeping through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the rose in her cheeks appeared nearly luminescent. She was an artistic vision. A glorious, beautiful phantasm.

Perfection
.

He slid the revolver under his pillow when she lifted the heavy, quilted counterpane. As silently as a dream, she slipped into the bed with him. She hesitated when her hand inadvertently brushed his naked hip. He slept in the nude, but of course she had no way of knowing that. Though they were married, they hadn’t spent a proper night together as husband and wife. He held his breath, wondering if she was about to lose whatever courage had carried her into his room.

With a breathless sigh, she settled in next to him. Her delicate fingers lightly touched his cheeks. And with trembling lips, she kissed him.

He kissed her back. Of course he did. He moved slowly, tentatively. At first she pulled away, as if she didn’t expect to find him so awake or so pleased to find his wife in his bed. Or perhaps her courage was faltering. The reason didn’t matter. He kept a tight reign on his desires, not wanting to frighten her. Pleading with his lips, he let her know how much he wanted her kisses. He wanted Elsbeth and her love almost more than he wanted life itself. He wanted to celebrate her presence in his room as a victory for their marriage. But he couldn’t shake the wariness that was drumming slowly against his chest.

She’d spurned him. She’d told him more than once that she could never love him. And now, she’d willingly come to his bed. She was making his head spin . . . and throb.

He grabbed hold of her wrists and pulled her questing fingers from his naked chest, though doing so was the worst kind of torture.

“Wh-what is this?” he had just enough wits to grumble.

He hated to be twisted about. And that was just what she seemed to be doing.

He searched her eyes, eyes that appeared nearly a deep purple in the darkness. “Why are you here? What do you mean to do with me?”

A nervous smile turned up one corner of her orange-scented lips. “If a husband needs to ask, I must be doing something horribly wrong.” She wriggled against his hips. He groaned, his control slipping.

“Do not tease me,” he said through a painfully clenched jaw. His grip tightened on her wrists. “I know what you’re doing. What I don’t know is why.”

The smile faded. Her eyes turned up to the ceiling. And her teasing body suddenly became still as marble. “I want you, Nigel. I-I want to be in your bed. Tonight and every night.”

Ignited by her words, he kissed her deeply . . . passionately . . . thoroughly. And when he pulled away, breathless and near mad with desire, he placed her hand on his throbbing arousal. “I want you here in my bed, too.”

With her lips forming a small moue, she stroked the full length of him. Her eyes widened. She ran her petal pink tongue over her full lips.

Though he didn’t understand why she’d come to him, it was clear that she truly wanted to be with him . . . that she wanted him to act like a husband should with a wife. With exquisite care, he undressed her. His hands trembled slightly as he did. Removing her nightrail was like peeling away the protective paper from a newly purchased masterpiece, revealing a delicate beauty hidden beneath.

And her body was perfection. He caressed her as he would a beloved work of art. The soft curves of her hips contrasted against the slender plains of her stomach. Her skin was as silky as a mink’s down.

The only flaw was where the bullet had nipped her side, an imperfection she wouldn’t have if not for his own carelessness. He traced the line of stitches. The wound was still red and angry. He would send for a doctor to take another look in the morning.

“Does it hurt?”

She shook her head.

He gently slipped his hand between her legs. He stroked her, urging her body to open up to him.

“Please,” she squeaked. “Love me.”

It was all the encouragement he needed. With his mouth making love to her velvety soft lips, he slowly filled her. Her legs wrapped around his waist and he reveled in the most satisfying embrace he’d ever experienced.

I love you, Elsbeth. I love you like I’ve never loved anyone before
. He couldn’t quite find the strength to make that confession for her out loud. But the words were there . . . on his lips . . . waiting . . .

And every beat of his heart beat with the love he was feeling for her, his wife.

His beloved wife
.

A wife who was
unwilling
to tell him what had happened that night in the storm. A wife who was
unwilling
to give him the information that might save his life.

Lord help him.

But still he loved her.

* * * * *

Sometime in the first gray light of morning, Elsbeth woke disoriented and drowsy. Her stomach and legs were pressed against something hard and warm. She shifted in the tumble of sheets, slowly remembering.

She’d not spent the night in her own bed.

The realization should have unsettled her. But the arms wrapped around her middle, the legs following the contours of her hips felt much too comforting, much too safe to worry her.

She twisted around, careful not to wake Nigel, and watched him as he slept. He was smiling, but she could tell by his deep, steady breathing he was sleeping soundly. With a featherlight touch, she caressed his stubbly cheek.

“Are you the knight-in-shining-armor I have been waiting for? Have you finally come for me?” she whispered the question.

His smile broadened though his breathing remained slow and deep. His slumber remained unbroken.

“I love you, Nigel,” she whispered. And then, she too smiled, and drifted back to sleep.

Later that morning when Elsbeth woke up again she discovered she was alone in Nigel’s bed. She quickly returned to the adjoining chamber, dressed with help from an inexperienced maid, and set out to find him. She arrived at a small, shadowy breakfast room where a footman stood waiting to serve her. There was no sign of Nigel. And the footmen didn’t know of his whereabouts.

Since she was hungry, she decided to sit at the table and wait for him. She nibbled on her toast and stared at the bare walls. Odd, she thought. There didn’t seem to be any paintings in the house. A sunny landscape would help lighten the deeply shadowed, somewhat grim breakfast room. The next time she saw her husband, she would ask him about that.

She had other important things to talk about with him as well. Their marriage, for one. And their relationship. But the thought of opening the door to those topics terrified her. She’d much rather talk about the house’s lack of paintings.

Though last night was one of the most glorious nights in her life—and something she wouldn’t mind repeating—it settled nothing between them. She was still withholding Mr. Waver’s name. They needed to trust each other with their secrets. But that was a step she didn’t feel ready to take, which only made her feel as gloomy as the breakfast room.

She was picking at the eggs on her plate when Gainsford, Nigel’s butler, came into the room. He cheerfully reintroduced himself and offered to give her a tour of the household whenever she was ready. He, too, couldn’t tell her where she could find her husband.

“We are all ever so happy you have arrived at last, my lady,” he said just before he left her to finish what was left of her breakfast. “We have been ever so worried after his lordship. He would lock himself away for days and refuse to see anyone. That will surely all change now.”

She took a sip of her tea and wondered how Gainsford expected her to change Nigel’s life. Lord Mercer hadn’t changed a single thing about his life in all the years she was married to him. It was
she
who had radically changed her ways.

And here she was, sitting at another man’s table, being forced to change yet again.

She knew she needed to trust Nigel with her secrets, with
all
her secrets. Especially with what she knew about the smugglers. They had left Dorset before dawn three days ago and before Mr. Waver could have had a chance to prove whether he would appear at the estate to confess his involvement in the smuggling operations. For two long days, she’d held her tongue. If Nigel came to any harm, her mortal soul would be damned. She knew that, but she still kept silent.

You will be his murderess if he dies. You will be no better than your late husband . . . or Charlie
.

She dropped her half-eaten toast onto the bone china plate, no longer hungry.

She’d personally seen one attempt against Nigel when the boulder crashed onto the beach frighteningly close to where he’d been standing. Mr. Waver and Guthrie had both spoken of a burr in a saddle. And there had been the bullet that had struck her and the bag of stones that had hit Nigel in the head.

There may have been even more attempts
.

“Dionysus.” The name sounded like a curse beating on her ears. If not for him, she would have never married Lord Mercer; she would have never met Charlie Purbeck or Nigel. Her life would have been so different.