When a Girl Loves an Earl (Rescued from Ruin Book 5) (17 page)

The growling groan which tore through him in that moment was her reward. His arms wrapped fully around her, his hands pressing at her neck and lower back. Then, his hips surged upward, and the fullness inside her grew. Then withdrew. Then returned. Then receded. Then began pounding back inside. And out. And inside. And out again. Over and over, he pushed himself deep into her core, his muscles shivering as he controlled her body’s motions, his voice rumbling against her breasts, sounding in her ear.

Although her earlier pleasure did not return, other pleasures did. His voice and his scent and his touch. The feel of his fingertips digging helplessly into her flesh. The heat and roughness of his chest rubbing against her. The light of transcendent ecstasy in his eyes, like the sun shining through verdant leaves. She absorbed these pleasures, storing them up inside her senses as he stiffened beneath her, thrusting one last time and shouting her name over and over.

Viola. Yes,
she
had given him this. And he was hers.

She stroked his face, running her fingertip over the cleft in his square chin, the firm lines of his lips, the bridge of his blunt nose.

He took her face in his hands and kissed her fiercely, panting against her mouth, leaning his forehead against hers. “My God, lass. Are ye … how bad is it?”

She stroked his cheek with the backs of her fingers. Kissed his lips tenderly. “I am fine.”

The tension in his face darkened, turning thunderous. “Nae. Ye bluidy well are no’.”

A shiver ran up her spine at his words, his expression. Her nipples beaded again. Without her permission, her sheath squeezed around him where they were still joined.

Holding her tight to him, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, pivoted, and laid her with the gentlest of care onto the bed. Then, he kissed her. And withdrew.

He flinched at her squeak, as though the momentary pain had been his. But he said nothing, instead scooping up her legs and repositioning her in the bed, drawing the sheet and blankets over her naked body. “I’ll be but a moment, lass. Don’t move from this spot.”

She nodded, lying back against the pillows. As she watched his naked backside in the low, golden light of the lamp, she sighed. He really was a magnificent man. A bit more hairy than she’d imagined, particularly on the chest, but that had turned out to be quite beneficial, in her estimation.

Shifting her legs experimentally, she winced as she felt the residual stinging, burning ache where he’d penetrated. No matter. She was most content. He’d shouted her name four times. Four. She draped the backs of her fingers lazily against her mouth, hiding a satisfied smile. She’d given him great pleasure.

The splashing sounds from the dressing table ceased, and her husband came toward her with a cloth in his hand. And a naked, not-entirely-quiescent male member bobbing rather oddly from a nest of hair between his great, oaken thighs. She blinked at the strange appearance of it. Veined. With a rounded, flared sort of head. The stalk appeared flushed, darker than his other flesh, at least for the moment. Her understanding was that the thing altered its appearance greatly depending on the man’s particular condition. For example, according to Georgina, a man who had been submerged in cold water might have a “shrunken” appearance which, she assured Viola, should not be taken as indicative of either virility or size under other conditions.

Really, Georgina had been most informative. She must thank her again when they returned to Grimsgate.

“Viola,” he rasped, seating himself beside her on the bed. “You must let me care for you, now.”

She reached out to run her fingertips over his thigh. “Why not simply lie down with me?”

He gently removed her hand, silent for a long moment. “I hurt you. I did not want to, but that is what occurred.”

“Silly goose. Virgins feel pain. It is of no importance.”

Without another word, he drew back the blanket and sheet, exposing her nakedness to his eyes. And his hand. “Your pain will always be of the highest importance to me,” he said, his voice roughened by an emotion she did not understand. Then, with surprising tenderness, he used the dampened cloth to soothe and clean her, stroking her gently with subtle, circular motions of his thumb and fingers.

Soon, she was once again heating inside, aching low in her belly, feeling out of breath and needing to move against him. Her hand gripped his wrist, her hips writhing against the mattress as pleasure spiraled and swirled like an eddy in a stream. She moaned and arched, loving the relentless pressure of his fingers, the pulsing sweetness of the sensations he drew from her. He lowered his head to her breast, taking her nipple in his mouth. Then, he suckled. So strongly, so sweetly that the pleasure expanded in a sharp, escalating burst. She gasped. She moaned his name. The burst flew outward, spinning and arcing inside her veins, seizing inside her core, echoing out in ripple after ripple, wave after wave of indescribable ecstasy.

As the waves gentled and receded, she found her husband lying down beside her, drawing the blankets up over them both. She cradled his head in the curve of her neck, felt his powerful arms circle her waist and draw her tightly into his body. And she fell into sleep holding the only man she’d ever wanted—the only man she’d ever loved—as closely as her own heart.

*~*~*

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“Be cautious about indulgences, Humphrey. One never knows when that which is presently pleasurable will spoil and cause a perfect mess. One only knows that it will.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her boon companion, Humphrey, in response to his implied preference for kidney pie after a good ramble.

She did not
appear
to have been torn in two, at least to James’s eye. Indeed, she threw back her head and laughed at the antics of Nellie’s two boys, Patrick and John, as they chased one another around Mam’s front garden.

“Mind the flowers!” Nellie called, leaning down to murmur something to Viola, who chuckled and nodded.

“She’s a guid one, Jamie.” Mam said, coming to stand beside him where he had one shoulder braced against the cottage’s stone exterior. She sipped her favorite morning tea—one of the first luxuries he’d begun purchasing for her sixteen years ago—and smiled out at her grandchildren. “She loves ye.”

He chose not to reply. Viola
believed
herself in love with him. One day soon, he’d no doubt, she would come to her senses.

It was true he’d wrongly presumed she would reconsider once she saw where he’d come from, once she knew how far beneath her he was. Then, he’d thought she would lose that shine in her eyes when he made love to her, further demonstrating how absurd were the disparities between them, how his big, rough body should be nowhere near her dainty perfection.

She’d proven either more resilient or more obstinate than he’d anticipated, for her smile was as breathtaking as ever. She’d even let him bring her to release again earlier that morning. With his mouth. Although it had been torturous not to take a release of his own, he had deemed it just punishment after the pain he’d caused her last night.

This morning, however she was radiant, her black hair shimmering beneath a bright yellow sun, her silver pelisse making her skin appear even creamier and more blushing than usual. Or, perhaps he’d chafed her with his whiskers, he considered with a frown. He looked closely, letting his gaze wander over her face and throat. No, she simply had a bit of bloom to her cheeks, he decided. Perhaps he should awaken her the same way every morning, with his head between her luscious white thighs. It might prove beneficial for them both.

“Dinna know that I’ve ever seen another lass sae bonnie,” said Mam.

“You haven’t,” he replied. “There is nobody more beautiful than Viola.”

He felt his mother brush a lock of his hair away from his temple, the way she’d done when he was a lad. He turned to see her gazing up at him with a peculiar expression.

She squeezed his shoulder and blinked away the look before he could decipher it.

He leaned down to kiss her cheek, and she reached up to pat his.

She smiled. “It’s been sae long, I thought the bairns wouldna recognize ye.”

“Aye.” He glanced out at the boys, who had sprouted up like barley in May. “Four years since you brought them to Shankwood for a visit.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “Ask old McFadden, and he’s certain tae say it might as weel be four minutes.”

He chuckled. “How fares McFadden? Has his grandson finally persuaded him to stay away from the workshop?”

“Hmmph. No’ likely. He should hae done ages ago, but every time we suppose he’s done fer guid, there be another villager dyin’.” She shook her head. “He’s convinced his markers are the only ones that’ll dae.”

His gaze dropped, and he nodded.

Nellie spoke up, apparently having overheard their conversation. “The last one wis fer old Mrs. Franklin. An’ ere that, it wis puir Douglas Campbell, God rest his soul.”

A shock ran through his body, like lightning striking the top of his hair and singeing him down to his boots. “Douglas Campbell is dead?”

Mam tried to behave as though nothing untoward had occurred. She calmly sipped her tea before replying. “Indeed he is. Took ill two years ago.”

“Why did you not tell me, Mam?”

Again, she gazed up at him with that puzzling, indefinable expression. It seemed a mixture of sadness and love and affection and resignation and perhaps three or four other elements he could not decipher. “Ye know verra weel, Jamie.”

He tightened his jaw and found his eyes following the motion of Viola’s hand as she gestured and laughed. “You should have told me,” he gritted. “Is she still at the farm?”

“Aye.”

“Has she—”

“Nae. She’s no’ married again.”

Alison was a widow. The day after he’d married Viola, he learned Alison was a widow and had been for two years. He did not know why the revelation should matter, why he should feel as though Gentleman Jackson himself had landed a blow at his navel. Except that he had stayed away this long to avoid seeing her. Speaking with her. Remembering what he had lost.

Again, Viola swam into his vision, her features animated as she described something to his younger nephew, John. Suddenly, James felt as though his chest were being crushed.

“I must go, Mam. I must speak with her.”

Mam looked as though she might argue, but instead, she merely nodded, a sad smile upon her lips. “Dae as ye maun, son.”

Without another word, he headed out of his mother’s garden, tearing his eyes from his wife’s small frown of confusion, and striding along the muddy lanes of Netherdunnie to see Alison. As though it had not been fifteen years since he had last traveled the same road.

*~*~*

“Wh-where is he going?” Viola asked Nellie as they watched James’s broad back disappearing down the muddy path to the muddier road.

Nellie frowned. “Couldna say. Mam! Where is Jamie headin’?”

James’s mother approached, stopping briefly to kiss the head of Nellie’s youngest boy. “Dae ye recall mentioning the wee matter of Douglas Campbell?” she asked her daughter.

Nellie’s eyes widened. Her hand covered her mouth.

“Aye,” Mam said, as though that answered Viola’s question quite well.

“I do beg your pardon, Mam, but I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Viola said. “Was Mr. Campbell a friend of James?”

Mam took her hand and led her into the cottage, inviting her to sit on the lovely green velvet sofa in the parlor, then sat next to her, placing her teacup on a small table. “Now, I dinna want ye tae fret, lass. Jamie hasna visited Netherdunnie in many years. He wis surprised tae hear of the passin’ of a man he knew as a lad.”

A tiny frown pulled at Viola’s brow as she gazed into eyes so very much like James’s, solemn, deep, and rich. They revealed concern, flickering amidst the shadows of some hidden knowledge. Tensing against a vague chill, Viola pressed her mother-in-law. “Where did he go, Mam?”

Those eyes fell away. Turned to glance out the window. Obviously, his mother did not wish to tell her what was happening or why. It sent a wave of apprehension through her, pulling her breath up short.

She looked to Nellie, who stood in the open doorway chewing her lip. “Nellie? Please tell me.”

Even Nellie—the boisterous, outspoken Nellie—hesitated for long moments before responding. “He shall return in a trice. Ye mauna worry.”

All the warmth and assuredness she had felt earlier, the resonant glow she’d experienced upon awakening with James, dressing with James, laughing with James about how many pins were required to secure her hair, standing with James in his mother’s garden while his big hand rested upon the small of her back. All of it drained away, replaced by a cold, drying wind.

There were few reasons his family would not wish her to know where he’d gone, and none of them boded well. She swallowed and tilted her chin. “Please, Nellie,” she said. “I should like to know where my husband has gone.”

Nellie clicked her tongue and sighed. “He’s gaen tae the Campbell farm tae see Douglas Campbell’s widow.”

“Widow?” Her voice sounded thin to her ears.

“Aye.”

Mam glared at her daughter. “Ye just had tae flap yer jaws, didna ye?”

Nellie folded her arms across her chest in an all-too-familiar posture. “She’s his guidwife. She deserves tae know the truth.”

Viola was not certain she wished to know the truth. Presently, in fact, she was experiencing an abundance of dread.

“Weel, now,” said Mam tartly. “Gae on, then. Tell it, if ye’re sae wise.”

Nellie’s plain features softened into a look of sympathy. “My brither is a guid man, Viola. Ye maun ken that much, aye?”

Viola swallowed hard again, cursing the dratted lump that had formed in her throat. “Yes. He is the finest of men.” It came out as a whisper.

“Aye, that he is. Sae I dinna want ye frettin’ that he would bring shame upon ye, or anythin’ of that nature.”

Oh, God. Matters were growing worse by the second.

“Anyhou, he an’ Mrs. Campbell—afore she were Mrs. Campbell, mind ye—were a wee bit tangled oop together.”

“They intended tae marry,” Mam clarified, still frowning at Nellie. “Ere Jamie gained his title.”

Nellie nodded. “He had a grand plan tae take over McFadden’s workshop, marry Alison, and dwell in Netherdunnie for the remainder of his days. Plans changed once the title passed tae him. Fer a time, he wis in England, tendin’ his lordly matters. When he returned, Alison had wed Douglas Campbell.”

Dropping her eyes to her hands, Viola wondered if one could suffocate while sitting upon green velvet in a cottage parlor. “Alison,” she murmured. “Is that her name?”

“Aye. A milkmaid. Her faither worked the dairy—”

“It doesna matter,” Mam said sharply before continuing in a softer tone. “They were both sae young, Viola. It were nothin’ but youth’s fancy. Calf-love. Ye ken?”

Viola nodded. Indeed, she did understand. Alison had been James’s first love. Perhaps he loved her still. “How—how long has he stayed away, Mam?”

Nellie answered flatly, “Fifteen years. We visited England a time or two, of course. He’s much tae occupy him, bein’ an English lord.”

Focusing on containing the cold expanding like icy crystals through her body, Viola carefully brushed at the folds of her pelisse. “I should like to speak with my husband,” she said quietly.

“Aye, of course. Nae doot he’ll return—”

“No, I mean I would like to know where the Campbell farm is. I would like to find my husband and speak to him. Now.”

Both Mam and Nellie stared at her.

“If you please.”

Mam took a deep breath and shared a meaningful glance with Nellie. “Weel-a-weel. Nellie shall take ye.”

Nellie’s brows shot up. “I shall?”

“Aye. An’ be quick aboot it. Jamie said they maun depart fer England soon if they are tae arrive at the castle afore dark.”

Reluctantly, but with her customary briskness, Nellie led Viola through the lanes of the small village, making a transparent attempt to delay and distract her by sharing fond recollections about this shop and that cottage, this slovenly neighbor and that cantankerous fool. She pointed out the workshop where “auld McFadden trained oop Jamie in masonry.” Like many structures in Netherdunnie, it was a humble, rectangular building made of light-brown stone. This one was tucked away behind a bakehouse, just off the path to the broad, open green at the south end of the village.

“We could gae inside, if ye like,” Nellie offered helpfully.

“No. Thank you. Perhaps another time.”

Nellie sighed, abandoning her cheerful prattle. “Ye’re the one he married, Viola. Dinna forget that.”

She nodded, though her heart sank deeper into ice with every word. Nellie did not understand. James had only married Viola because he was an honorable man, and she had left him no other choice. She was not the wife he’d wanted. She was the wife he’d been forced to accept.

“Weel, I tell ye this. I never thought her worthy of him.”

Viola glanced at the other woman, whose dark-blond hair reminded her of James. Who had accepted and welcomed her new sister-in-law with open gladness and not a hint of reserve. “Why?” Viola asked, even as she wondered if the answer would prove to be false comfort.

Nellie gave a wry smile. “She luiked at him the same way she luiked at other lads. Nothin’ particular aboot it. Just … ordinary lust.”

Blinking at the frank language, Viola struggled to reply. But her curiosity was piqued, so she sallied onward. “And you took exception to this?”

“Aye, that I did. Jamie binna the common sort. Ye could see it from when he wis a wee lad. Started workin’ when our faither died. Said no’ a word aboot it. Just went tae McFadden an’ said, ‘Here I be.’” She chuckled. “Nae whiskers yet. Puny wee thing. But a sense of duity and honor as solid as the earth. He’s a guid man, Viola. Guid an’ strong.” She patted her hand over her heart. “In here, ye ken.”

Viola nodded and battled a choking emotion she could not afford to release. “He is extraordinary.”

“An’ that be the difference.
Ye
luik upon him like he’s the moon an’ stars an’ all the sweet words Rabbie Burns ever wrote. Ye love him. A body can see it, plain as auld McFadden’s knuckles.”