Black Silk (16 page)

W
hat in hell had happened?

Levering up on his arms, Dash winced as his head pounded. He blew out a sharp breath to clear the snow off his mouth. Wet flakes clung to his eyelashes and dripped off his nose. He wiped his face clean with his gloved hand.

At least he hadn’t broken his neck, but where was his horse?

Fighting throbbing pain in his chest, he turned to see Beelzebub trying to race through snow. Damn, the beast would break his leg for certain. Dash tried to push to his feet, but pain sucked at him and his head swam, his eyes dazzled by the whirling sea of white.

He had to get Beelzebub. Had to get away.

He fell back into the snow on his side.

Rifle shot.

There could be another.

Lying there, he drew in shaky breaths. The first time he’d been shot at, he’d been six. Careless poacher. His leg had been grazed, his pant leg driven into the raw slash. Damned terrible accident. And there had been the chance an infection would carry him off.

He hadn’t known then that his uncle had been the one to pull the trigger.

His uncle, at least, had been a bad shot.

Had that been the case again? A man on a horse against a field of white snow should not be a difficult target for an experienced marksman. Or had the miss been intentional?

He struggled to his knees. Snow had sunk in his boots, making them lead heavy. He fell forward but caught himself by pressing his hands into the compacted snow.

Was the villain waiting to shoot again, or had he run after his first, bungled attempt?

“Dash!”

Maryanne raced toward him from the gallery—she had left the glass-paned door open in her haste. Her fists held up her skirts—she wore nothing other than the traveling dress she’d worn the day before, and the air was sharp and cold. Her hair streamed out behind her like a cape of brown silk.

Her pallor was as white as his lawns, shock and fear written in her wide eyes and tense mouth. Was she frightened he was hurt or stunned he was not?

Then his brain kicked into action. “Get back in the house!” he roared. “Now!”

But she kept running toward him.

“Maryanne, go back to the blasted house!” he shouted as he struggled to his feet.

She stumbled as her slipper-shod feet reached the deeper snow, and she fell forward on a cry. White puffs flew up as she dropped face-first in a drift. In a second, she lifted her head, her eyes, cheeks, and lips iced with fresh white.

Dash bit back a laugh at her frustrated grimace—did he really believe she was being paid to destroy him? Bending low, he waded through the snow toward her. But the tenacious woman got back on her feet as he reached her.

He’d been the perfect target as he’d struggled through the snow. The shooter must have run. And one look at Maryanne’s wide eyes made him realize he had to soothe her, ease fears.

He forced a lighthearted tone. “Maryanne, sweeting, you’re going to freeze.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Knocked about by the fall, but the snow is soft. As you discovered.”

“I was so frightened!” she cried.

Water droplets from melted snow ran down her cheeks. Dash put his thumbs to her cheeks and gently wiped them away. Instinct demanded he scoop her into his arms and run for cover, but logic prevailed. If his attacker had wanted him dead, there had been plenty of time for a second shot.

His grooms shouted—one cheered. Someone had caught Beelzebub, and the shout of victory told him his gelding was unhurt.

“Let’s get back inside, love, and warm you.”

She nodded, licking ice crystals off her upper lip with her tongue. “But why would someone shoot at you? I don’t understand—”

“An accident.”

“No, it couldn’t be. Why would someone shoot a rifle across your lawn in the middle of winter? There’s nothing to hunt.”

“A jest then.” Despite the soreness in his hips, back, and neck, Dash caught hold of Maryanne’s waist. He did gather her up into his arms. “I shall carry you across the threshold, dear wife. And we will get you dry clothes.”

“How can you be so cavalier?” she demanded. “You could have been killed.”

“I wasn’t, love. You won’t be rid of me that easy, I promise. I’ve proven in the past that I have more lives than a cat.”

Her brows drew down, her eyes troubled. “I—I don’t want to be rid of you. Is—is that what you think I want?”

“No, sweeting. Of course not. Now, quiet. Let me concentrate as we wade through this snow, or I’ll drop you.”

He hugged her against his wet clothes, his snow-dampened greatcoat swinging around them. Waving back the concerned servants, he carried Maryanne to the open door of the sun-filled and now chilled gallery. Curious maids rushed off at once at the housekeeper’s command that the fire be stoked in the mistress’s bedchamber and hot water be brought up.

“I am capable of walking, you know,” she protested, but she shivered in his arms, and he ignored her to rush to the stairs.

Could a fall in the snow, frigid weather, and fear for him harm their child?

“You should rest. You were the one who fell! I’ll sit on top of you to pin you down if you won’t stay still, or…” Maryanne glowered down at her stubborn husband, who lay on her mussed bed.

“Or?” he prompted.

“Or I’ll tie you to the bedposts!”

“Is that a promise, my love?”

Dash’s devilish grin returned, and she gave a sigh in relief, even as her heart gave that little skip she now knew well. His every smile set her body trembling, her nipples hardening, and an…awareness sizzling through her every nerve.

That she understood. She’d read enough descriptions in her authors’ books. It was lust—intense, fiery, all-consuming lust.

He was nude now, but he had been wearing his black clothes again. For the wedding, he hadn’t worn his usual black. But now he had returned to it, as though he was mourning his life before he’d been forced to wed.

It hurt.

Maryanne turned from her husband. “I should think you would be too sore for games like that.”

“Never, love.”

Her hand trembled as she clutched the handle of the teapot; a tea tray had been brought by a maid, by one of the seemingly dozens who had swarmed in and out of her room. Her attempt to pour him a cup sent a stream of hot tea to the silver tray. “Clumsy!” she muttered.

She blinked back tears—of relief, not out of grief at wasted tea.

When she’d seen him fall from his horse, her heart had stopped. She’d run like a hoyden down the stairs, not caring about her half-buttoned dress or her trailing hem. She’d run to Dash, heedless of snow, cold, and propriety. Even of being shot! She’d thought her heart would burst of the fear before she’d reached him.

Was this love?

Was she in love with Dash, who was both her husband and a stranger? Love, hopeless love, hurt terribly. She knew that from watching her mother.

Maryanne touched her belly below the knotted belt of her robe. No matter what happened, even if Dash broke her heart, she would never resent her baby. She would never call her baby a “folly.” She would never look at her child and see her lost dreams in its face.

“But there’s no better cure for any ill than climax,” Dash teased from behind her.

She almost dropped the teapot. Gaining control, she poured. This time the tea swirled into his cup. “Where did you go last night?”

At once she regretted the words. Wives probably did not ask.

The bed creaked. “I rode to the village.”

“Oh.” On her wedding night. Perhaps he kept a mistress there. Or he was a favorite of the barmaids at the local inn….

“To ask if any dangerous drivers had traveled through yesterday.”

She jerked around, and a splash of scalding tea on her bare wrist reminded her of the cup in her hand. “Blast!” she muttered, and she ran over to stick her arm into the basin of cooling wash water.

He was on his feet. “Are you all right?”

“I’ve burned myself with tea any number of times,” she muttered. “I’m fine.” Gritting her teeth, she let her skin soak. “But I’ve read enough gothic novels to know what you were looking for! Evidence—a description of the driver who ran us off the road. Dash, why is someone trying to hurt you?”

His warm body pressed against her from behind, hard chest against her back, groin against her rear. His arms slid around her waist as she lifted her arm from the wash water and toweled dry.

“I was investigating a peer,” he said. “And some other men involved with white slavery. I suspect someone could be trying to frighten me off.”

She tried to twist in his arms, but they were locked around her middle. “Who?”

“It doesn’t matter, sweet. The peer will not be the one who drove the curricle. He won’t be the one who pulled the trigger today.”

“If you have an enemy, I want to know who it is.”

He nuzzled her neck, and she gasped at the warm touch of his lips. “I’ll protect you—”

“Tell me.” Strangely she needed him to share this with her. She was shaking with the fear he would refuse. Why? She knew to expect that her husband would not want to share much with her. He had not answered her questions in the carriage. They were not a love match like Venetia and Marcus. And Rodesson, her father, had never shared anything with her mother.

“Remember, I have no proof of this, and you must not breathe a word of it. Do you promise?”

She nodded. “Not a word. Ever. It could never be dragged from me.”

“Don’t say that, even in fun, Maryanne. The peer I suspect is Craven.”

“Well that makes perfect sense—the Earl of Craven is a horrible, lecherous rogue! At the salon he was, anyway.” She reached down and clasped her hands over his. “It is very noble of you to be rescuing kidnapped girls.”

“There is more to me than simple lewdness, love. But I’m not feeling very noble now. I want to make love to you. I
need
to.”

His growl sent tremors down her spine. She knew she must remind him of the baby—she knew sex wouldn’t bring harm, but he feared it might, and she didn’t want him to be angry and regretful afterward.

He brought her fingertips to his lips for a kiss. Then he winced as he moved his arm.

“You are still hurt,” she observed. But alive—thank heaven, thank heaven.

He let her hand drop but turned her with a simple but convincing pressure on her shoulders. “Look down,” he murmured.

One glance and she couldn’t drag her gaze away. She could see how rigid and thick and big his cock was.

“It’s hurting me more not to, angel.” Black hair, damp with melted snow, fell over his eyes, and he shoved it back with a harsh thrust of his hand. The head of his cock bobbed.

What did it feel like to have a part that jutted out that way? Was it heavy and cumbersome? Did he treat it with paternal pride and detached amusement, as her courtesan authors claimed men did? Georgiana claimed that once a man was erect, it was the small head that did the thinking.

“I want to make love to you.” His breath came ragged then.

She couldn’t resist reaching out and touching his hard chest. Her hand slid down the sculpted valley between his firm, high pectoral muscles. His dark curls teased her palm. The sensation shot right down to her quim, and she wriggled her hips in response.

“I want to make love to you inside your bottom,” he admitted hoarsely. “That should be safe for the baby, I think.”

Inside her bottom? She blinked. She had not expected that. As the toy had been?

Her bottom actually tingled with anticipation. It had felt terribly good to be penetrated there with the slim toy, but his cock was so much bigger.

“You—you can do that?”

A grin spread across his face. “Yes, sweeting. Your bottom would accommodate me, and when I filled you, you would feel incredibly good.”

“I know.” In the books she edited, women screamed at first at the invasion, but within a few thrusts they were crying out for more.

“You said, ‘I know.’ Now how, sweet wife, would you know that?”

She certainly couldn’t admit the truth, that she’d read several dozen passages of stunning sex where well-endowed men pleasured women from behind.

“It felt good when you…” Courage almost failed. “When you put the toy there. And of course, I’ve seen Rodesson’s pictures. I looked at his books. I wasn’t supposed to, of course.”

She had to distract him. She wrenched her hand from his and scrambled up onto the bed. Tugging at the belt of her robe, she cast off the peach silk.

He was so hard. She marveled at the length of it, the way it curved toward his taut abdomen. Veins, prominent veins shot up the shaft. The heavy head was a blend of purplish red and dusky pink, and his dark nest of hair lush and thick.

His massaging hand rubbed his leaking fluid into the broad head. Such rough ministrations, and he panted harshly as he did it.

Then doubt struck. “You truly don’t think you should rest?”

“Sweetheart.” His laugh was a raw bark. “You do know how to torture me, don’t you? No, this is what I want.”

On her knees, Maryanne gazed at her husband beneath lowered lashes. This mattered. Doing this as he wanted, in a way that would please him. She didn’t want him to go to other women for adventure, she knew it as surely as she knew her heart would beat. She wanted him to herself.

She was determined to keep him for herself.

And all those books she had edited had told her exactly how she could do that.

Daringly she slid her fingers down to her quim. Foolish, shy, embarrassed—she felt all those until her fingers touched her clit and sensation exploded through her. Then all she wanted was sex. Sex and orgasm. “Now what do you want me to do?” she whispered.

A gentleman did not introduce his wife to anal pleasures by leaning her over in front of her vanity and taking her hard from behind.

No, a gentleman didn’t. But Dash did.

“Bend over the table and study yourself in the mirror,” he directed. Her round and generous bottom thrust out as she did. His heart pounded as hard as it had when he’d fallen from Beelzebub. He prowled toward her while she hummed innocently and twirled a curl around her finger.