Folly (10 page)

She cried out, lurched a little, but didn’t dislodge the
stones. “They’re cold.” Even as he watched, a droplet of water from one of the
stones traced its way over the globe of her breast. Her skin prickled in
response. She shivered.

“You’ll warm them. Go on. Close your eyes again.” She did.
He didn’t allow himself the pleasure of staring at her. Rather, he took the
fern and drew it slowly over her bare foot.

This time when she jumped, one of the stones tumbled from
its perch. Ethan paused to replace it and scolded her with a gentle tsking.

“Be still, my dear, or this will take much longer.”

A laugh warbled from her—or perhaps it was a wail—but she
settled back and spread her legs again. Her arms, he noticed, remained above
her head, as though he had tied them there.

He focused on her foot, cupping it in his palm and studying
it. Such a lovely foot, with an exquisite, delicate arch and toes like tiny
Spanish peanuts. He wanted to lick its length, nibble on the pads, but he
decided to save that pleasure for later. Instead, he drew the fern’s lacy
leaves along the path his tongue longed to take.

She flinched, gasped, but held her body as still as she
could. So he continued, drawing the frond over her toes and then beneath them.

“Ethan.”

“Hush, sweet.”

He turned his attention to her heel, and her ankle, then
made his torturous way up her shapely calf. As he stroked her tender skin, she
moaned and twitched and occasionally cried out and sighed, but she never moved
her body. The stones on her breasts never tumbled.

But he could see it was costing her.

Hell, it was costing him.

He came to her knee and spent a lot of time there, caressing
and tormenting the tender back until she growled, “Please, Ethan. Please.”

He moved on to her thigh, now making long, sweeping passes
from her knee to the exquisitely tender spot where her legs met her torso.
There was a particularly sensitive spot on the underside of her thigh, just
before the rise of her ass, that made her yelp and snarl and gnash her teeth.
Once, her hands jerked down, an instinctive move to stop this torture, no
doubt, but before he could scold her, she remembered and placed them back above
her head.

As a reward, he drew the frond between her legs and made a
slow, determined pass along her slit.

And she came. It was probably only a tiny orgasm, a
precursor perhaps, moaning through damp, parted lips in a tone he now knew
well.

He allowed her this moment.

And then returned to her foot. Well, the foot on the other
leg.

She did protest now. She sat up and clutched at the stones
as they fell from her breasts. “Oh no. No you don’t. I cannot bear it.”

“But darling, I’m nothing if not thorough.”

“Damn it, Ethan, I’m desperate.” She reached between her
legs, closing her eyes as she rooted there. When she pulled out her hand it was
coated with cream, thick and white and slick. He nearly swallowed his tongue.
“No more teasing,” she snapped. To underscore this demand, she let her bodice
slip all the way down. As she stood her dress piled at her feet and she kicked
it off.

Glorious. Bold. Brazen. Bare. Eleanor, in a beautiful glen
on a lovely day.

And she was his.

“But I’m not done yet.” Not by a long shot. He still had her
backside to explore.

“Oh, you’re done.” She snatched the fern and tossed it into
the water. She sat on the stone and spread her legs, holding her knees up,
open, exposing her core to him. “Now fuck me, Ethan. Put your cock inside me
and fuck me. Hard.”

“I can’t.” He locked his muscles, twined his hands behind
his back.

Her bemusement shifted into annoyance. “Why not?”

“I’m trying to be gentle.”

“What?” She let her legs fall—much to his disappointment—and
sat up to frown at him.

“I’m trying to be gentle. If I fuck you now I won’t be
gentle. I won’t. I will fuck you hard, fuck you heartlessly, fuck you until you
scream for mercy.”

Her brow puckered. “Why are you trying to be gentle?”

“Because…” Something caught in his throat. “James said you
needed a gentle man.”

“J-James? You talked to James about me?”

“Don’t get offended. He was warning me off.”

She tossed her head and snorted. “You’re the gentlest man
I’ve ever known.”

Well. He wasn’t sure how to take that.

Her laugh trilled around him. “Don’t pout, Ethan. I meant it
in a good way. But I find, when your cock is inside me, gentle is not what I’m
looking for.”

“It’s not?”

“No. It’s not. Now come here and fuck me.” She opened her
legs again, lifted them, opened them.

And he was lost.

All thoughts of flipping her over and gently tormenting her
back, exploring the tantalizing globes of her ass, making her cream and come
from behind, fled.

The gentle, domesticated chunk of his soul completely
dissolved, and with it, the mask of his civility.

He fell on her. Ripping at his trousers, which he had once
again forgotten to undo, he dropped to her side and then, once his cock was
free, levered over her and entered her. Entered heaven.

Her cunt was slick—oh so slick—and hot and wet and welcoming
as he nudged inside. And then the time for nudging was over. For at his entry,
the muscles at the mouth of her cavern sucked at the head. Sucked and quivered
and stroked him.

“God.” He tipped his hips and buried himself, deep, deep
inside her. She cried out and spread her legs wider, lifted her body to meet
him halfway, to thrust herself at him, to get him where they both wanted him to
be.

“Yes.” Her voice was breathy, hot, in his ear. “Yes, yes.”

He pulled out against a delicious, delirious resistance and
shoved back in. She quivered. Shivered. Clamped down on him—hard. He hissed
through his teeth and pulled out again.

His cock stiffened, swelled. His balls tightened. Tiny
trails of elation coiled in his belly.

He hastened his strokes. Shorter. Faster. Harder.

Her cries rose. She wrapped her legs around his waist and
raised her hands to his neck, pulled herself closer, scraped her breasts back
and forth across his chest.

He was close. So close.

So was she.

But not close enough.

He slipped a hand between them, where they were joined, and
stroked the tight bud between her legs. She exploded. Around him—a tight wet
fist—and with him.

They went there together, flew up into the great maw of a
dark dazzling light, bathed in bliss, wrapped, and rapt, with an agonizing
ecstasy. Pleasure dribbled through his body, infused his soul, as he emptied
into her, and still, long after the crisis had passed.

He was still quaking through lingering bolts of bliss, when
he slipped out. He shifted over to her side, propped his head in one hand and
stared at her. Her eyes were closed, lips parted, chest quivering. With his
free hand, he drew back her hair, dabbed the tears from her lashes.

“Darling.” It was a whisper. And it came from his mouth. It
didn’t shock him, because somewhere, deep within, he already knew. She was his
darling.

Somehow in the past few days, he’d come to love her. No.
More than love her. Adore her.

Her.

Ulster’s wife.

It was unthinkable.

But it had happened.

And he wouldn’t change the past few days for the world.

Chapter Eight

Eleanor’s eyes fluttered open. Their gazes tangled. She was
relaxed, replete, tender. Ethan wanted to love her again, right then and there,
but he was drained.

“That was wonderful.” She offered him a smile, but it wasn’t
tentative, it wasn’t shy or timid, like the first few smiles she’d proffered.
It was a knowing smile. The smile of a woman who recognized her own power.

“You’re wonderful.” He bent his head and kissed her
forehead, drew in her scent. He loved the way she smelled when the sweat of
their lovemaking dampened the tendrils curling along her hair line. His kiss
ended in a laugh. “But I cannot help feeling cheated…”

“Cheated?” She stroked his nape. He leaned into that tender
touch, irresistible as it was. “How could you feel cheated, after that?”

He attempted a smile. “I had plans for you, wench.”

“Ooh.” She bit her lip but her smile blossomed, dimpled,
beneath the pressure of those perfect teeth. Oh. To have them nibble upon his
lips. “That does sound wicked. Do tell.”

He glanced at the ground, at the stick and the various
leaves and stones he had collected. “I think I’ll save that for later.” There
would be another time. There would be many other times.

She smacked him on his shoulder. “Beast.”

“But I’ll tell you what I really wanted to do before you
interrupted me and insisted I end this little tryst so abruptly.”

“I did no such thing. It was high time you fucked me. I was
utterly mindless from your teasing.” Now, there was an enchanting thought. “You
are a beast, you know, to tease me so. How would you like it if I did the same
to you?”

Like it? He’d love it.

His expression must have said as much because she took one
look at him and blew out an aggravated breath. “No, you wouldn’t like it.
Teasing is one thing but there is a point, my good sir, when it just goes too
far.”

He had a hard time imagining such a thing. Not when his mind
was flooded with the sudden fantasy of her sweet mouth stretched around his
cock, sucking, nibbling, teasing him to insanity.

No. He couldn’t imagine too much of that.

She edged out from beneath him and stood, facing him, arms
akimbo, like a goddess in the soft shafts of sunlight, nude and proud and
desirable. A smile teased her lips. “In future, when I say fuck me, you will do
so, and without delay.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Do not mock me.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

She cast about, hunting for her dress. It was there, at her
feet. He sat up and nudged it with his foot and then fastened his pants. Damn,
if this didn’t happen nearly every time. He got close to her and forgot everything.
Forgot to unbutton his trousers until he was in a fair frenzy. Forgot to be
gentle. Forgot to withdraw when he came. When he was near her, all sanity
receded.

“Did you mean what you said?”

She laughed as she bent to pick up her dress. “What did I
say?”

“That I was a gentle man.”

“Of course. Don’t you know?”

He shrugged. “I don’t feel gentle when I’m around you. I
feel…”

“You feel what?” She demurely turned her back to slip her
chemise over her head.

Two things occurred to Ethan at that moment. The first was,
how incongruous her modesty was after what had just transpired, how the action
spoke to her nature.

It was the second thing he noticed, however, that caused his
heart to still.

For as she turned, he saw her back.

And his belly lurched.

Dear God. Had he done that? He leaped up from the long flat
stone and glared at it.

Gentle. Bah. He was a beast, nothing more.

He had fucked her, long and hard, against a rock, for fuck’s
sake. Her back was a mass of scratches, of angry red marks. And bruises. And
scars.

“Holy Hell.”

She spun around, clutching her hands to her breast. Fear
flashed through her eyes. She drew a deep breath in through her nostrils.

He watched as she collected herself. Calmed her heart with a
palm to her chest. “Ethan? What is it?”

He approached her, his steps weighted by agonizing
trepidation. “Your back.” He spun her around. She dropped her head, held
herself preternaturally still. “Did I do that?”

She allowed him to lift the chemise, to see the damage he
had done. His hand trembled as he stroked one thick scar and then another. She
flinched at his touch.

Had he…?

But no. These were scars.
Scars.
And the bruises were
yellow and faded. Two or three weeks old.

No. He hadn’t done this.

A great wash of relief flooded him but was replaced almost
immediately with a scalding snarl of blinding fury.

Yes. It actually blinded him. His vision blurred and he saw
red, the insidious throb of his heart beating through the tiny veins in his
eyes.

He’d never been so enraged.

Never been struck dumb with the urge to kill a man. To wrap
his hands around a scrawny neck and squeeze and squeeze until, hacking and
drooling, the life oozed from him.

“Ulster.”

She nodded, though it was barely noticeable at all. Other
than that tiny infinitesimal bob, no movement was noticeable. She stood before
him, as he traced her wounds—old though they were—holding herself still, not
even daring to shiver as he explored the true horror of her marriage.

“He beat you.”

Another nod. She shot a look over her shoulder. It was a quick
glance, limned with fear and, perhaps, guilt.

Ethan’s fingers trailed away from her warm flesh. They shook
with rage. He curled them into a tight ball and let the chemise fall.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m ugly.”

Dear God. What?

“No. This is not about you. This is not your fault.” That
Ulster had made her hate herself made Ethan want to kill him all over again. Or
better yet, show
him
the taste of the lash.

But Ulster was gone. Beyond reach. As James had said, all
that remained of him was his effect on this woman. And, of a sudden, Ethan was
possessed of the determination to erase Ulster altogether, and forever, from
both their minds.

Harshly, he took her arms and turned her away from him. He
yanked up her chemise and dropped to his knees. He pulled her close and kissed
her. Kissed first one angry scar and then another. And a third and a fourth. He
kissed all of them, again and again and again, ignoring the hot tears dampening
his cheeks, dampening her back.

He kissed her until she stopped him. Until she fell to her
knees by his side. She took his face in her hands and dried his cheeks with her
thumbs. And she kissed him. It was the gentlest kiss, but in it, he tasted so
much. Her gratitude. Her absolution. Her release.

Dear God. He loved her.

He loved her, and he feared he always would.

He held her like that—on his knees in the cool loam, with
his arms around her—for an eternity, but Eleanor wouldn’t have pulled away if
her life depended on it. It was, in short, the most magical moment of her life.
She would hold this memory to her breast in cold, lonely future nights. She
would hold this memory to her breast and think of him.

Her Ethan.

He’d given her so much—not the least of which was hope for
the future. Even if she didn’t get with child in the next few weeks, he’d
helped her remember who she was. Who she’d been.

She
liked
who she was again.

She liked her life.

“How often?” Ethan’s voice was muffled, his mouth buried in
her hair, but Eleanor heard him.

“How often did he beat me?”

“Yes.”

Heavens. She didn’t want to think about it. “Just after.”

“After?” He raised his head, met her gaze. She saw when
comprehension dawned. “After.”

She nodded. “It was wicked. I was wicked to make him want
it.”

“So he punished you?”

“Yes.”

“God, he was more twisted than I ever imagined. Is that why
you thought I was gentle? Because I didn’t beat you to a pulp after fu…after
making love to you?”

“I thought you might. That first time.” He’d said,
I’m
not finished with you yet
. Just like Ulster always had. And she’d been
frozen with fear.

“Bloody hell.” He pulled away, stood and paced about the
glen. “Never. Never. Never!” He stormed back to her and yanked her to her feet.
“I will never strike you. Do you understand?” He gave her a gentle shake. “Do
you, Eleanor?”

“Yes.” The word caught in her throat, strangled by a cloying
elation.

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

He pulled her into his arms and held her, rocked her, all
the while stroking her back, running his fingers over the scars and murmuring
to himself. Or to her. Or to heaven, perhaps.

“I wish I could make them go away. I wish I could heal them.
I wish I could go back in time and kill Ulster before you married him.”

“Ethan. Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not being silly. I’m being serious, Eleanor. If I
could, I would.”

She put a palm to his cheek, stroked him, reveling in the
budding stubble. “I know. Ethan.” She went up on her tiptoes and kissed him. “I
know.”

And she smiled, all the way to her soul.

Because for the first time in her life, she had a champion.
Someone who would protect her and fight for her and…want her.

It was magnificent.

She only wished it could last forever.

As he walked her back to the house, he noticed rival trails
of pink and orange twining on the horizon. He slipped his arm around her waist
and chuckled. “The day is almost gone.”

She peeped up at him mischievously. “I’m not the one who
slept until noon.”

“I was referring to the fact that we spent the entirety of
the afternoon naked beside a pond.”

“Can you think of a better way to spend an afternoon?”

“Now that you mention it…”

But his response trailed off as something captured his
attention. Something horrific. His steps slowed. His muscles tightened. His
breath hitched. His gut lurched in revulsion at a hideous prospect.

“Ethan? What is it?”

Carriages.

In the drive.

“The others have arrived.”

He knew things would change when the other party attendees
appeared on the scene. He just hadn’t realized how much. And he hadn’t
anticipated how utterly annoying they would be. The changes, and the party
attendees.

As he and Eleanor arrived on the terrace, they were
introduced to Dent and his wife, both of whom were tolerable. But then there
was Dent’s sister, a youngish miss named Louisa, who looked straight out of
leading strings and utterly besotted with—of all people—Ethan.

However, even with her dreamy glances and sly touches and
the dribbling nonsense issuing forth from her mouth, Louisa was not nearly as
annoying as Haversham.

Haversham.
Ethan shot him a darkling glare.

Well put together, he was tall and slick, oozing charm, with
clearly padded trousers and a nauseatingly handsome visage—complete with a
dented chin. His eyes were large and brown and had thick dark lashes that gave
him a feminine aspect. His lips were strong and firm but he kept dampening them
with his tongue, which Ethan found galling. Most specifically, because he did
it whenever his hungry gaze fell on Eleanor.

Ethan didn’t care for the way Eleanor’s nostrils flared when
Haversham took her hand. The way she flushed when he pressed his lips to her
fingers. Or the way her hand went to her cheek when the pup piled compliment
after compliment upon her.

How revolting could a man be?

Unbidden, Ethan’s attention was drawn to Louisa. Probably as
a result of her unexpected hand on his arm. She smiled at him and then turned
to Eleanor. “I do love what you’ve done with your hair.” She patted her own
elaborately arranged locks. “It’s so…simple.”

It was a bun of Ethan’s own creation. Eleanor’s coiffure had
been utterly destroyed sometime between Ethan’s arrival at the secluded glen
and their departure. He recognized Louisa’s attempt at a catty gouge and he
didn’t appreciate it. He’d never before had his hairstyling skills called into
question. And no. He definitely didn’t care for it.

Helena leaped to his defense. Of course, she probably didn’t
realize she was defending him—in her mind she was defending Eleanor against a
tonnish harpy. At least, he hoped Helena didn’t realize she was defending him,
that he’d mussed Eleanor’s hair and, perforce, had fixed it. In a glen. By a
pond. While she was naked.

“Now that we’re in the country, we like to be informal,
don’t we, Ellie?”

Ethan caught Helena’s knowing glance.

Hell. She
was
defending him. The glint in her eye
betrayed her. Still, she linked arms with Eleanor, claiming her as a protected
friend. “Shall we go inside? No doubt you’re parched.”

Ethan couldn’t help noticing the way Helena patted Eleanor’s
hand as she led the way into the house. He wasn’t sure if that meant her
comment was directed at Eleanor alone or not. But he suspected it wasn’t.

Come to think of it, he was a little parched himself. And
hungry.

While it bothered him to release his claim upon her, to
release Eleanor into another’s keeping, as long as it was Helena, he would
tolerate it.

Haversham, on the other hand, was another story altogether.

Holy hell. Haversham was a complete ass.

Ethan glared at him across the table as he sat next to
Eleanor, feeding her one idiotic anecdote after another, whispering to her,
laughing with her. Touching her arm.

Touching
her, for God sakes.

Ethan wanted to rip Haversham’s hand off at the wrist.

To make matters worse, even as he was glaring at the man,
trying desperately to hear every word passing between them, the debutante—what
was her name again?—Louisa, kept trying to engage Ethan in conversation.