Weeping Angel (40 page)

Taking a step backward, he entered the next room down. The sunset filled the area with hues of orange, casting a large brass bed with plump pillows in beckoning brilliance.

He'd found the mother lode.

Barely planting his heel in the room, Amelia panted in a rush, “No! Not this room. We can't . . . not here.”

Shafts of fire were shooting through his groin, and his brain wasn't up for a lengthy debate. “Why not?”

“This is my aunt Clara's bedroom.”

“I don't want to sound crass, sweetheart, but she's not using it.”

“Of course she's not.” Amelia reacted with outrage. “But this was her bed, and I could never . . . that is . . . this was where she slept. Where . . . where she died.”

Frank did his best to refrain from swearing foully. “I have slept in beds active with snakes, lizards, scorpions, centipedes, bugs, and fleas. I've slept standing, sitting, lying down, doubled up, and hanging over, twisted, punched, jammed and elbowed by drunken men, snored at, sat upon, rained upon, snowed upon, and bitten by frost. So I can honestly tell you, I have never been kept out of a bed because a dead woman used to sleep on it!” He squeezed his eyes closed, but feeling her struggle against his pelvis didn't help matters. The fullness of his erection behind the placket of his trousers was torture. He'd be damned if he'd put her down now. Not until he could lay her on a mattress and cover her body with his. “Where's your bedroom?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“My bedroom . . . our bedroom is this one.” She
motioned to the door across from where he was standing.

He was inside in a second, bumping the edge of the door with his elbow; the force reverberated the joints in the house.

The setting sun didn't lend much light through the eastern facing window. Dark shadows painted the flock-papered walls, but he could see the silhouette of a bed. It looked too delicate and narrow to hold both of them.

Regardless, he carried her straight to it.

His knee depressed the white crocheted spread; the woven wire mattress made a thirsty squeak from his weight. A lascivious thought flashed through his mind that tonight they were going to make the bed creak as it never had before.

Conjuring the image of naked legs, entwined arms, and fused junctions had him depositing her on the coverlet with a raw grunt. As her head met the pillow, her radiant hair fanned around her flushed face. She looked like an angel—pure and pale. Her lips were swollen from his kisses, damp and full.

His heart opened, and he let her enter him as physically as if he'd put his sex in her body. She was his.

Christ, what had he done to deserve her?

The Rev's words slipped into his thoughts. Thorpe had said love was the crowning grace of humanity, the holiest right of the soul, and the redeeming principle that reconciled the heart to life and eternal good.

Because religion had been beaten into him, Frank rebelled against believing in God. He took the Lord's name in vain all the time. It meant nothing to him. But looking into Amelia's eyes, searching their depths, he conceded that maybe there really was a place of infinity. If there was, he wanted to experience it now. He wanted to feel heaven, sheathed by Amelia. His wife.

“Have you changed your mind?” she asked in a tremulous whisper.

He answered her by dipping his mouth on hers. He kissed her as if he'd die if he didn't, reveling in her soft curves next to his hard muscles. She moaned but not with pleasure. It dawned on him he was too heavy for her, and he shifted his weight to his side. He skimmed his hand across her arm and over the gentle swell of her breast. He could just barely make out the pointed tip of her nipple through the layers of her clothing.

“Sit up.”

He helped her, sitting up as well, and began working the cloth-covered buttons of her shirtwaist through the tiny holes. His fingers were large, and he felt clumsy. Amelia didn't offer to help him. She sat there, her lower lip caught between her teeth. He wasn't going to ask her to do anything for him. Not the first time.

Tugging on the end of her shirt, he pulled the silk free and unfastened the last small button. He peeled the sleeves down her shoulders, pooling the fabric around her waist. She wore a snowy corset cover with tiny roses embroidered around the neck. Slowly, he untied the three satin ribbons holding the front closed. She trembled. He reassured her with a fleeting kiss that turned into more because she gripped his shoulders and pulled him toward her. He guessed she was stalling, thinking perhaps a kiss would be enough.

But it wasn't.

And he intended to show her how much more there was.

He didn't break away from her mouth while he unclasped the long row of hooks keeping her corset tight around her slender waist. When he withdrew the heavy piece of canvas and steel, she exhaled into his mouth. Her open lips were too much of an invitation and he partnered his tongue with hers. Impatiently, he lifted the hem of her chemise so he could feel her bare
breasts. His thumbs stroked her wrinkled nipples with a light graze.

Watching her face, he asked, “Does that feel good?”

She squeezed her eyes closed and mutely nodded.

“Then relax. It gets better.” Without her being aware of it, he leaned her back onto the mattress. He laced his fingers through hers and put their hands over her head. His eyes fastened on the creamy whiteness of her breasts, the dusky nipples. He bent forward and took one into his mouth, rolling his tongue around the tight bead. She squeezed his hands with surprising strength.

The textures of her body, her erotic scent, swam in his head. He knew he should undress her completely. Hell, and undress himself. But the need to bury himself inside her pulled at him, stressing the cords of his taut muscles.

He rested his forehead between the valley of her breasts, his hair falling over his brow. Bunching the fabric of her skirt in his fist, he brought the fullness up to her waist. He pressed his palm on her flat stomach, lowering his hand until he came to the open crotch of her drawers. He instantly felt her stiffen.

“Don't,” he murmured. “Don't.” He nudged her locked thighs apart with his knee. He wedged himself between her legs, putting the bulk of his weight on his elbows so she could get used to him. When he felt the tension in her slacken, he began rocking his pelvis slowly back and forth over her.

The bed springs cried out in rusty protest.

Sweat collected on his forehead, but he kept the rhythm until Amelia groaned, clasped the back of his neck and brought his lips to hers. She kissed him, turning him to liquid fire. Still, he kept the same motion until she tentatively raised her hips to meet his. To match his tempo. He was so thick and swollen, he hurt.

“Do something,” Amelia pleaded in a silky whisper.

Frank one-handed the buttons on his fly and freed himself without removing his trousers or drawers. He felt her entrance, felt the heat radiating from within. She was slick. He pushed himself inside her, slow and smooth, until he could go no further in the tightness surrounding him. There was no other way to go on other than to thrust quickly. He captured her mouth with his, silencing her cry of pain, trying to stay focused and move with control. He held himself back, poised on the brink of release. He wanted her to come with him, to be fulfilled.

“Let go, Amelia.”

She said in a shaky voice, “I'm trying.”

He moved—stronger, deeper. “Relax. Feel us. Together.”

His hips began to move faster. He couldn't hold out much longer. As it was, he'd been so caught up in her, he hadn't even taken his clothes off.

He stared down at Amelia. Her eyes were closed.

The heat, the friction, his mind in a haze, he felt the last borders of his restraint crumble. He climaxed, pouring his soul and his life into his wife.

He collapsed on top of her, nestling the hollow of her shoulder with his nose. His blood pounded in his ears. Amelia lay beneath him, motionless. The air in the room was hot and moist from his labored breathing. Her heart tattooed in an even beat with his. Words failed him. He was a fool to the pleasure she gave him.

He slowly lifted his head and gazed at Amelia.

She refused to meet his eyes, but her expression was riddled with disappointment that speared him straight in the gut.

“Excuse me,” she whispered brokenly. “I have to use the water closet.”

A
melia sat on the wooden lid over the water closet, her elbows digging into her knees, and her chin resting on the heels of her hands. Both the four-paneled entry doors to the diminutive chamber—the one leading to the hallway and the one leading to her bedroom—were shut and bolted. She'd changed into her cambric lawn wrapper and was debating taking a lukewarm bath. She was sore, but despite her discomfort, her breasts continued to tingle. Her mouth still craved Frank's dominating kisses. She felt as though she were blindly grasping for something but wasn't able to reach it.

The door connecting the bathroom with her room rattled. She lifted her gaze to the skeleton key in the lock. The white porcelain knob jiggled. Severely.

“Amelia, unlock the door.”

“I'm indisposed.” Without looking, she reached behind her and grabbed the chain pull above her head. She gave it an absent tug. The rush of water from the tank sloshed through the pipes in the wall and gurgled.

As she brought her arm down, her gown's flowing cuff fell back, exposing her wrist. She plucked the Valenciennes lace and rearranged the gathers. The last vestiges of daylight crawled through the windowpanes with just enough luminance to accent the fire of her opal and diamond ring. She held out her hand, fingers apart, and examined her wedding ring.

“Amelia.” There was an impatient edge to Frank's voice, and he shook the lock in the jamb. “Open the door.”

“I'm occupied.” She rolled the Honest Count toilet paper backward for a few revolutions in its bronze fixture to make it sound like she was using it.

She didn't like deceiving him, but she couldn't face her husband.

Not yet.

She should have pretended. She should have made him believe she'd liked it. Actually, that wasn't true. She had loved—been thrilled by—everything he'd done to her up until he . . . when they'd joined. The knifelike pain, the largeness of him stretching her, had caught her by surprise. Even when he returned to the sensual tempo of his hips grinding into hers, she hadn't been able to relax.

She'd been scared to death he was going to break her.

Amelia stared at her bare feet, curling her toes under. She wasn't ignorant about sex. But she and Narcissa had never had a conversation about it with much depth. It simply wasn't a topic one lady discussed with another. The particulars of coupling were supposedly left up to a bride's mother to relate.

That thought saddened Amelia. Though she highly doubted Ruth Marshall would have reviewed boudoir conduct with her, at least she could have had the opportunity to ask her mother general details—if she'd gotten up enough courage. Which she probably wouldn't have anyway.

“Amelia,” Frank called through the barrier. “If you don't unlock the door, I'm going to bust it in.”

She rose from the water closet, unable to prolong her exile any longer. He would make good on his promise if she didn't let him in. Before clicking the key in the lock, she made sure her wrapper was demurely covering her up to her neck.

The door instantly swung inward as soon as she unbolted it. Frank filled up the opening with his great height. He was fully dressed and, she quickly noted, the closure to his trousers was buttoned in place. However, the masculine definition behind the placket suddenly made her feel very accessible. She shouldn't have taken her remaining clothes off, but she'd headed for the bathroom in such haste, she'd left half her apparel behind. Her only means of fully concealing herself had been her wrapper, which she kept hanging on a hook behind the door. Her Mother Hubbard nightgown was stored in her dresser.

She raised her hand to her throat, keeping the high collar in place. “Yes, Frank?”

Even in the barren light, she could see his scowl. “What were you doing in here so long?”

“I was conducting matters of a private nature.” She walked around him with forced calm while her pulse strummed an uneven beat at her wrists. She wasn't the least bit tired, but what else was there left for them to do but go to sleep? Night had all but fallen outside, the broad branches of her linden tree snuffing out the sunset's fragments. She noted Frank had lit the kerosene lamp on her bureau, but kept the wick low. The light wasn't much, just enough for her to view her tousled bedclothes.

She was glad for the semi-darkness; it hid the hot flush of embarrassment burning her cheeks. The image of them paired on the cramped bed flashed through her mind. Veiled in soaring degrees of passion, she'd abandoned herself to his virility. She'd
wanted . . . let him . . . reveled in . . . his mouth tasting her body. But without intense desire making her limbs weak, she'd grown suddenly, and horribly, self-conscious around him.