The Mask Revealed (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 2) (16 page)

“I think we should undress now,” she said, surprising him; he had been wondering how to suggest that without frightening her.

He moved over to the far side of the bed to undress, turning his back to her in order to give her a little privacy. As he was only wearing shirt and breeches, disrobing would take seconds. He decided to take his time, lingering over every button, so that she could be undressed and decently covered by the sheets before he had finished.

He was just about to remove his shirt, when it occurred to him that she was wearing stays, and would need assistance with the laces. He turned round to ask her if she required any help and froze with his mouth open ready to frame the unnecessary question. She had known she would have no maid for a few days, and had anticipated the difficulty by buying some front-lacing stays, so that she would have no difficulties in dressing.

Or undressing. Alex was greeted by the totally unexpected sight of a perfectly formed naked young woman, her glorious hair cascading over one breast to her hips. He inhaled sharply through his mouth and turned away quickly.

“Don’t I please you?” she said in a small voice, hating herself.

He turned round again.

“Don’t you please me?” he whispered. “Ah,
mo bhean bhrèagha,
you are the most lovely thing I’ve ever seen.”

My beautiful wife.
The words were like a benediction, and although she blushed, she also smiled as his gaze lingered on her, on the perfect breasts, the slender waist, the soft roundness of her hips, the…

“Your turn,” she said, and he realised he was still fully dressed.

He pulled his shirt roughly over his head, unbuttoned his breeches and slipped them off, giving her a momentary but gratifying view of his broad muscular back and taut buttocks. Then he slid into bed and pulled the sheet up to his waist. He didn’t want to frighten her with his erection, which was fierce, demanding. He determinedly ignored it, and smiled reassuringly at her. He leaned over to blow out the candle by the bedside.

“No,” she said. “Leave it.”

He hesitated, lips pursed, surprised. He had thought, being a little shy tonight, she would prefer the darkness.

“I want to see you,” she explained. “I want to know it is you with me. The dark can lead to…imaginings.”

Ah. He cursed silently to himself. But the dark had been imperative that night, when he had had to hide himself from her.

“Come,” he said. “Join me.”

They lay together in the bed, as they had lain to sleep on their wedding night, her head pillowed on his arm. It was relaxing, peaceful, non-erotic, he told himself forcefully. His erection did not subside

“One of the things your friends told you about the wedding night was true,” he said after a short silence.

“Which one?”

“It may hurt, but only a very little if we are careful, when I…”

“When you take my virginity,” she finished for him.

He nodded.

“Thank God for that,” she said. “I can take that. I thought you were going to say it would be over in seconds. I’m not sure I could bear that, after spending two days working out how to get you in bed with me.”

A snort of laughter burst from him. This woman never ceased to amaze him. He hoped she never would.

“No,” he said, leaning up on one elbow and smiling broadly at her. “It will not be over in seconds. Of that I can assure ye.”

He bent down to her, kissing her again, and this time her lips parted eagerly to receive him, and she wound her arms around his neck. After a long minute he broke the kiss, then, as he had on their wedding night, he delicately kissed her, forehead, eyelids, nose, then down her throat, her collarbone, leaving a slow trail of burning kisses. She shivered suddenly, though the room was warm, but showed no signs of leaping from the bed.

Just to be sure, he avoided touching her breasts, instinctively aware that part of her unpleasant experience had involved them. Instead his lips moved between her breasts, only his unbound hair trailing softly across her nipples, which hardened in response. She smelled very faintly of the jasmine soap she used, and beneath that… he inhaled, drinking in the exclusive, sweet female scent of her. He nuzzled gently at the pale, translucent skin. Her fingers tightened involuntarily on his back, and she gasped.

When he reached her stomach he paused, and placing his hands round her waist, slid her effortlessly higher up the bed, before moving his body over hers, spreading her legs gently so he was lying between them, his head level with her stomach, his burnished hair falling forward over her hips, hiding his face. He moved slightly, infinitesimally lower, and she flinched. Dizzy with need, he halted his progress and looked up at her.

“I can stop, if you want me to, at any time,” he said huskily.
Oh, God.
“You dinna have to feel obliged because you invited me…”

She reached down, and placed one finger on his lips. Her eyes were smoky, the pupils dilated.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered breathlessly. “Do anything, but don’t stop. Please.”

He didn’t. His strong fingers stroked gently down the side of her ribs, which were frail as a kitten’s, and his lips continued their downward progress, over the soft pale thistledown of hair and onward. His tongue teased out gently between her legs, and he tasted the sweet, musk scent of her. He sighed, deeply, contentedly, and bent to his task.

 She made a deep guttural sound then, in the back of her throat, and arched convulsively away from him, but his hands were firm on her waist, holding her in place, and he made no further offer to stop, because the movement was a reaction to almost unbearable pleasure, and he knew it. Her fingers tightened in his hair, pulling his head towards her even as her body arched away, and she trembled from head to toe. His lips curved in a smile against her tender flesh. It was torture, what he was doing to her, and he felt her abandon herself to it, willingly, utterly.

This time the slight rush of moisture as her body prepared itself to receive him went unnoticed by her, although not by him. She was ready for him, breathless, flushed, almost, but not quite, at her climax.

As for himself, he was more than ready, and his body shook with the effort of restraining himself as he slid smoothly up the bed, taking his weight on his elbows so as not to crush her beneath him. Their bodies were joined from breastbone to thigh, and his arousal pushed eagerly against her. The urge to plunge himself inside her was almost overwhelming. Almost. With any other woman he would have given in to it.

He shifted position and eased himself slightly, a fraction of an inch, into her. He felt the tautness as her unaccustomed flesh closed around him, and he swallowed, hard. She raised her knees instinctively, opening herself to him, and he slid into her, one inch, two. It was unbearable. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his muscles strained with the effort of holding himself back. Her head was thrown back on the pillow, her eyes unfocused, her breathing, harsh and ragged, matching his.

Then suddenly, unexpectedly, she lifted her legs and wrapping them around him, pulled him deep into her with one violent movement that lifted her off the bed. He felt the delicate membrane tear, heard her gasp of pain, and for a second her eyes looked straight into his, perfectly focused and perfectly happy. Then he was moving inside her, slowly at first, and then with increasing speed as her nails dug into his back and her hips intuitively kept rhythm with his, and his fragile control shattered, hurtling them both into sensual oblivion.

Afterwards they lay together for a short while, her head pillowed on his arm, as they had on their wedding night, but apart from their position in the bed, everything else had, irrevocably, changed. Long after her pulse had returned to normal, her breathing had slowed to the soft, regular sound that told him she had slipped into sleep, and the candle had guttered and died, he lay awake, smiling in the dark.

I’ve beaten you, you bastard,
he shouted in silent triumph to his unknown adversary.
She’s mine now, and will never belong to another, while I live. And God help you if I ever find out who you are.

This surge of fierce possessiveness took him by surprise, accustomed as he was to relieving only his physical need with a woman, before departing cheerfully and forgetfully into the night. The responsibility felt good. It felt terrifying. He curled his arm around her, and she made a small inarticulate sound, before relaxing back into sleep. He would not press her to tell him who the man was. She would, when she was ready. And then he would find him, and kill him.

She woke in the morning to the dull thud of an axe rhythmically striking wood in the yard below. Voices engaged in friendly banter drifted up, the words muffled by the closed window, the tone unmistakably amicable. Beth smiled lazily, truly happy for the first time in months.

Alex was still asleep, lying on his side, one arm stretched out across the pillow under her head. Her back was curled into his chest. His other arm rested heavily on her waist. She lifted it gently and turned onto her back, then lowered it back onto her stomach. Turning her head, she watched him for a while as he slept, his face relaxed, mouth curved in a half-smile, long lashes sweeping his cheeks. Asleep he looked younger, and the resemblance to Angus was more pronounced. They had the same eyes, the same high cheekbones, and the same disarming smile.

She thought again about last night, and smiled. This wonderful, gentle man had laid her worst memories to rest. She would never be haunted by Richard again. If she dreamed of strong hands against her naked flesh in future, the hands would be Alex’s, and the dream would not cause her to wake sweating and shaking with horror as in countless nights before, but at peace and relaxed, as she was now.

And sore. She had hardly noticed the tearing of her tender flesh the night before, but she did now. And she was thirsty. And it was late; the angle of the sun slanting through the half-open curtains told her that. She shifted position, wincing, and then, turning, started to slide carefully out of bed, so as not to wake him. His arm trailed limply across her stomach for a moment as she moved across the bed, then suddenly wrapped round her waist, halting her progress, and pulling her firmly back against him.

“Where are you going?” he said, his voice clear, alert. If she resisted, he might let her go. Hmm. She snuggled back into him.

“I thought you were asleep,” she said. How long had he been awake, aware of her watching him, smiling to herself like an idiot?

“I was,” he said. “You woke me when you moved.”

“It’s late,” she said. “We have to get up.”

“In a minute,” he murmured, his voice drowsy now he knew there was no danger. He always woke clear-headed, ready for instant action if necessary. It was essential for survival. “Five minutes will make no difference. Are ye all right? After last night?”

“Yes,” she replied. “A bit sore. But you warned me about that. And I daresay it won’t hurt at all in the future.”

“No’ in the way of last night, no,” he agreed. “But I canna guarantee I’ll always be able to be so gentle as I was last night. I’ll try, mind. But you are verra lovely,
mo chridhe
, and I’ll confess I nearly lost control more than once.”

She flipped over to face him.

“Can I take that as a compliment?” she said, kissing him on the tip of his nose. Something stirred ominously against her thigh. She smiled, delighted that he found her so desirable.

“Aye, ye can,” he growled. “I’ve changed my mind. Let’s get up. Now. Otherwise we’ll be verra late and you’ll no’ be able to sit down tae breakfast, let alone endure the ride to Dover.”

He had no wish to turn her slight soreness into a burning agony, which he would not be able to resist doing if she stayed pressed against him any longer. He swung his legs out of bed and got up. Contrary to what she believed, there would be plenty of private moments during the trip to Europe.

He would make damn certain there were.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Nice, October 1743

Dear Friends,

                 At last I have found the time to write a letter to you, and I am determined I will not allow myself to be distracted until I have told you all my news! I meant to write to you before this, but have really not had a chance. This is because Anthony was most anxious to reach the south of France before the weather becomes too difficult to attempt the sea or alpine crossing to Italy. His intention was to travel with all possible speed to Italy, which we could then explore at some leisure, and to see the sights of France on our return journey. When I pointed out to him that our projected tour is not to exceed some three months or so, in which case a winter crossing of the Alps would be inevitable, returning from Italy to France, he merely stated that one such crossing would be bearable; two would be beyond the ability of mortal man to endure.

What he had actually said was that traversing the Alps in December would give Beth a taste of winter life in the Highlands of Scotland, as, although the alpine mountains were higher than those of Scotland, the horrendous weather was comparable. Added to that was the fact that the Spanish were currently at war with the Duchy of Savoy, and were occupying the main pass between France and Italy, which ran over Mount Cenis. When Beth asked if a meeting with the Spanish army would give her a taste of Highland warfare, Alex had replied that nothing on earth would prepare her for that, as the Highland charge was both a glorious and unique sight to see.

The joyous gleam in Alex’s eyes as he had revealed this rendered Beth both curious and apprehensive. She had seen that gleam in both his and his brother’s eyes several times in the weeks they had spent travelling the length of France, usually when they were laughingly describing some highly dangerous and illegal raid they had participated in around the shores of Loch Lomond, in the days before he had become Sir Anthony.