The Traitor (21 page)

With her fingertips, Milly traced the muscles on either side of his spine. “You could rush just a little, Sebastian, couldn’t you?”

“No, I could not. I want you mindless with need for what I can give you, and such an undertaking will not be accomplished with haste.” Oh, how very English he sounded, how lordly and patient. “You smell good, like lavender sachets. You must have washed…”

Milly had washed. Had used five precious minutes to freshen up, and her last coherent thought was gratitude that she had.

“You taste like lavender,” Sebastian went on. “Here.” His tongue lapped at the spot beneath her ear where Milly had dabbed a bit of
eau
du
bain
. “And you taste worried. Don’t worry, Milly St. Clair. These are among the few moments in a marriage nobody is required to manage or worry over.”

He’d let her have some of his weight, a much-needed comfort as Milly gathered herself to him. His cock—old women could delight in shocking language—was hard, smooth, and warm against Milly’s belly, and the way Sebastian pressed it against her suggested this part of him did not need delicacy from her.

Milly’s hands trailed lower on Sebastian’s back, until she felt the muscular contour of his derriere beneath her palms.

“I like that,” Sebastian growled against her ear. “I like that you’re bold and curious, that you want this.”

This.
Milly had no experience with
this
.
This
made her breasts feel heavy and her spine as flexible as an old rope. “I want
you
, Sebastian. I want children with green eyes and dark hair, I want—”

He covered her mouth with his, like an incoming tide, and even as Milly welcomed his kiss, she had the sense he’d needed to stop her words. His tongue touched her lips, bringing with it a hint of mint.

Part of his five minutes above stairs had been spent on his tooth powder, which made Milly smile as that same tongue—a
hot
tongue—traced her teeth. “Open, Milly St. Clair. Kiss me the way a village girl kisses her swain.”

She clutched at his backside, involuntarily at first, so naughty were his words, and then experimentally. “Even your fundament is muscular.”

When she did it again, Sebastian shifted up so Milly was tucked more firmly beneath him. He could kiss her lazily from this angle, braced on his elbows as if he were a freight wagon whose brake had been set. The slow tour he made of the inside of her lips suggested he could take all afternoon acquainting himself with her mouth.

Milly used both hands on his backside this time, anchoring herself before she touched her tongue to Sebastian’s. He returned the caress, the way duelists would test each other’s reactions with a beat and rebeat of their swords.

“Again,” he whispered. “Take your time.”

The wind gusts picked up, and the tempo and volume of the rain against the mill’s roof rose, while amid the blankets, Milly went from warm to hot. That Sebastian could be so in control of himself was both reassuring and exasperating.

She squirmed, pressing her breasts against his chest, and he groaned with an answering pressure.

Like
a
village
swain
kisses
his
damsel.
She pulled his hair rather than struggle for the words, holding him still so she could possess his mouth. When Sebastian broke the kiss and cradled her head against his shoulder, they were both breathing hard.

Milly waited, the rain pounding down outside a perfect metaphor for the tumult inside her. They were not finished. Heaven help her, they were not even started, and already, she was struggling against the urge to weep.

***

Sebastian rested his chin on his wife’s crown and mentally grabbed for some…some restraint. Thank God his path had not previously crossed that of any village girls, if Milly’s kisses were an indication of how they went about their pleasures.

He’d have marks on his arse from the way she clutched at him. Marks he’d delight in knowing she had put there.

“Stop wiggling.” He delighted as well in her name: Milly St. Clair. She’d think him daft if he appended it to his every remark.

“Wiggling is part of it,” Milly replied, tracing her tongue up his throat. God abide, she was a fast learner. “Perhaps you’d care to demonstrate?”

The way she patted his backside…affection, command, protectiveness, and desire, all in one small, warm caress.

“Not until you stop thrashing about.”

The slow undulations of her hips ceased, like an ocean going quiet as the wind died. And yet, like an ocean, Sebastian could feel currents moving in her even when the surface of her appeared calm.

He shifted his weight to one elbow, took his cock in one hand, and nudged among her damp folds. “Do not think of moving.”

An intended command came out sounding like the plea that it was. Milly kissed his throat and brushed her hand over his arse.

Reassuringly?

He pushed forward cautiously, assured himself he’d located the proper trajectory, and hitched himself over her.

“Sebastian, I want—” She grabbed two handfuls of his backside and gave him a solid squeeze.

“Hold on as tight as you please. It helps me…” Helped him resist the urge to charge headlong.

“I want to move. I
need
to move. It isn’t fair that you’re moving…”

He quieted her with a shallow rhythm, a slow, gentle invasion and retreat that would last as long as he needed it to. “Move, then. Never let it be said I was unfair to my bride.”

What followed was a conversation of bodies new to each other, and in some sense, new to the business of lovemaking. For Sebastian, anything but a mindless rogering between strangers had been beyond his reach for years, and for Milly…

He was her first, her only. No man had even kissed her before he’d appropriated that privilege for himself, and that…suggested he had judgment superior to any of the Englishmen strutting about old Albion.

She delighted him, with her hair pulling and arse grabbing, but now that the moment of consummation was upon them, she delighted him with her trust. Her maneuvers were delicate, questions rather than commands. A flex of her hips here, then a pause.
Have
I
got
that
right?

He answered as civilly as enthusiasm would allow, with incrementally deeper thrusts.
Perfect. You’re perfect. Again, please.

Rhythm took over, not his, not hers,
their
rhythm. Milly’s sighs fanned past Sebastian’s neck; she hooked her ankles at the small of his back.

He could hear her body awakening, could sense passion overcoming all her caution and self-restraint, and the wonder he felt to witness her transformation aided his control.

“You’ll not rush me, love.” A vow, one that ought to be included in the wedding ceremony.

“You’ll not… Oh,
Sebastian
.”

Sebastian understood torment in all its forms. As Milly unraveled beneath him, bucking into his thrusts, mashing her face into the crook of his shoulder, moaning softly against his neck, he had his first experience with the bliss that lay on the far side of torment.

For her, he could endure the sharp, burning ache of unfulfilled desire. For her, he could go quiet, stroking his hand over her hair, cherishing her in silence while his body clamored in vain for its own satisfaction.

Her moment was his, her pleasure his goal and his glory.

“Sebastian St. Clair.” She kissed his jaw. “You…You… I shall cry now. Please tell me it’s permitted. Nobody warns one, nobody even hints…”

He gathered her close, cradled the back of her head in his palm, and became her personal handkerchief. For an instant, he entertained the possibility—the fear—that he might have hurt her, but the way Milly moved—like a houri far gone in her bliss—banished the notion.

“Again, Wife.”

Her grip on him became desperate. “Not again. I could not bear—”

She bore it. She bore it with such unbridled enthusiasm that it was likely a good thing old mills were built on double foundations. She bore it as the thunder rumbled, the rain beat down, and every corner of Sebastian—heart, soul, mind, and strength—gave itself up to furthering and then sharing in her pleasure.

When he was certain Milly’s body had wrung from him the greatest satisfaction he could give her, he let himself fly free, let himself pour into her not only his seed, but everything he was or would ever be.

And for a moment, for a procession of moments wrapped in old wool and a new wife on a hard oak floor, Sebastian felt
light
—he felt both weightless and illuminated from within, as if he were radiance itself.

He did not know how long he drifted in that light, how long he lay collapsed on his wife, filleted of all worry, all intentions, all past and future. Milly’s hand drifted through his hair like a benediction; her breathing gave his own exhalations their rhythm.

“I’m crushing you.”

She murmured something about wheat being ground into flour, of all things, but made no move to push him off. Sebastian managed to hike one knee—a knee somebody had abused, come to that—under him, enough to give Milly some space.

“Stay.” Her word was clear enough, as was the way she wrapped a hand around the back of his neck. “Please.”

She rubbed a damp cheek against his jaw, reminding him that he’d made her cry. He wiped her cheeks with a handy shirttail, then tucked her under him and prepared to beg. “You’re my wife now. I’m your husband. I forbid you to cry.”

Beneath him, she chuckled, which was inordinately reassuring. Women—tenderhearted women—sometimes cried in bed. Men, by contrast, cried after battles, if they were lucky enough to survive.

Milly had known a few battles. He kissed her nose.

“That’s better.” He rolled with her, which untangled his softening cock from her body but also put her straddling him. “I neglected your breasts again.”

She tried to bat his hands away from her neglected parts. “Sebastian, hush, and don’t be difficult.”

He did not feel difficult. For the first time in years, he felt
easy
. He wrapped the blanket up over her, lest her mortification at his frank appreciation for those breasts set the mill afire.

“Do you feel like a wife now, Milly St. Clair? Like a baroness? Will I do as a husband?”

The scent of sex mingled in the air with the scent of the passing storm, old grain, and spring flowers. The fragrance of the moment was unique, as unprecedented as the ease with which Sebastian drew breath and the temptation he felt to laugh.

“I feel like
your
wife,” she said, a little peevishly. “Also like having a short nap.”

The lady clearly wanted to hide, to find some quiet and safety in sleep, and some peace from him and his mischief. That Sebastian knew this told him Milly was, in truth and already, his wife.

“Sleep, then,” he said, tugging her down to his chest. “You’ve earned your rest, and I’ve earned the right to hold you while you slumber. We’ll attack that hamper when you’ve napped.”

She ducked her head against his shoulder, but not before he saw her smile at his gallantry. In moments, she was breathing regularly, her weight warm and comforting over him.

Beneath him, some knot or gnarl in the oak floor made a nuisance of itself in the vicinity of his left buttock. Sebastian moved a few inches without disturbing his wife, but had the odd thought as he dozed off that oak leaves symbolized bravery.

Married to him, Milly would need her courage.

And married to her… Sebastian’s sense of lightness dimmed as sleep drew nearer. Married to Milly, he would need the ability to treasure each moment, to hold shadows and duels and memories at bay, lest he ruin for himself and his wife the gift of whatever time they had together.

***

“I know when somebody feigns sleep or unconsciousness, and you, Madam Baroness, are no longer asleep.” Sebastian spoke so close to Milly’s ear as to tickle her with his words.

“Does your observation have a point?”

Because a point was rising between them, a husbandly, loverly point Milly found as intriguing as the ease with which she lay sprawled naked on her baron.

“You have to be hungry,” he said, kissing her ear. “I certainly am.” Another kiss, brisk, like a pat to a horse’s neck before directing it to trot away from the stable yard.

“You are hungry.” Milly lifted herself away from the warmth of his chest, let the blanket fall from her shoulders, and stretched,
lazily
.

Sebastian goggled at her Neglected Parts for an instant, then tried to hide his fascination.

“I
am
hungry,” he said. “Breakfast was ages and some exertion ago. We’d best locate our attire lest a searching party find us as God made us.”

He sounded disappointingly determined. Milly gathered the blanket about her but didn’t move off of him. “Can one make love only once per day? Is this another pertinent fact nobody tells a woman until she’s taken a husband?”

“
Taken
a husband?”

Sebastian’s tone curdled the edges of Milly’s sense of well-being and wonder. “Don’t sound so amused. You
took
a bride, as best I recall.”

He brushed a stray lock of hair back over her shoulder. “And she took me, you are quite correct. Now I would be pleased if she’d allow me to provide her some sustenance.”

His touch had been gentle, but something in his words rankled. Milly moved off of him—being a bride was not the most dignified undertaking—and realized Sebastian had subtly implied that lovemaking was not sustenance.

She fussed the blankets and appropriated Sebastian’s shirt. “You didn’t answer my question. Do we make love only once at a go? Must we eat between rounds, sleep, dress, receive callers, that sort of thing?”

He found his breeches and pulled them up, but left half his buttons undone. “I could make love to you until neither one of us could recall how to walk or why we’d want to. Do you care for strawberries?”