Frail Blood (14 page)

Suddenly he found himself longing to know that young Emma. Impatience
rode him now and more than mere lust drove him as he dropped his coat and
jacket on the settee beneath the picture, and then took the stairs two at a
time to the only door ajar down the long hallway of the second floor.

When he entered, Emma faced a long bank of windows, her back
to him. "You stayed," she said softly, turning to face him. Her smile
was wide and lovely and radiated like sunshine.

"Yes."

His eyes raked over the light lavender robe laced with white
around the wrists and hem and covering a high-necked gown. Far less of her skin
showed now than with the décolletage of the dress she'd worn earlier.

Emma had planned this temptation well. She'd known how
erotic removing that puritanical clothing from her body would be. Obviously his
flame-haired succubus was well-practiced in the art of enticement.

When he reached for her, her hands were like ice. "Are
you cold?" He wrapped his arms tightly around her, tucked her body firmly
against him, and buried his face in her glorious hair. "Let me warm you."

He ran his hands vigorously up and down her arms, her back,
and the firm flesh of her derriere. She arched her body against him and sighed.

God, he was so hot for her he wouldn't be able to contain
himself if they didn't pace their lovemaking. He stepped back, held her at arms'
length, and grinned. "I also need a moment to prepare myself. Where is the
... uh ... ?"

Her eyes looked dazed, her lips swollen as she pointed
across the room.

Inside the small comfort room with adjoining flush toilet
enclosure, he relieved himself. After discovering cloths stacked on a white,
wooden shelf, he washed up in the porcelain basin. When he rinsed out his
mouth, he discovered a tube of dental cream on the vanity. He rubbed it over
his gums and rinsed again.

He scraped his hand over his heavy beard. Nothing he could
do about that, though he'd hate to mar her skin with the spiky bristles. Grinning
at his reflection, he imagined a vision of his head buried between her legs,
his scruffy cheeks chaffing the tender flesh of her inner thighs. His cock
pushed against his clothing like a rapier arising from its hilt.

He splashed cold water on his face and chest once more and
waited for the erection to subside. When he felt fully in control of his lust,
he dried off and put his shirt back on, leaving it unbuttoned, then padded back
into the bedroom on bare feet.

Emma had dimmed the lights and turned back the bed covers. She
stood on the opposite side, twisting her fingers into the lavender fabric. When
he crossed the room toward her and held out his hand, she clasped it eagerly. He
pulled her close.

Framing her face between his hands, he stared into the deep
brown eyes. "God, you are so lovely." He lowered his mouth to hers
and breathed in the faint scent of brandy and cinnamon on her breath.

The kiss began tenderly, but her passion flared so quickly
that he responded by plundering her mouth with his tongue, tasting the soft,
moist interior. She nibbled and sucked at his lip, returning his ardor with an
unexpected fervor that incited him almost beyond reason. Trailing kisses down
her neck, he reached the mounds of her breast through the silky fabric and
suckled the nipples until they rose to hardened peaks.

Although he wanted to rip the garment from her body, he
forced himself to calm his raging libido and slowly unbuttoned the tiny pearl
fastenings holding the robe together. His large, clumsy hands trembled with
eagerness, but he riveted his eyes to her face. Her expression fascinated him,
both practiced and uninitiated, a cross between sultriness and innocence.

Her eyes fluttered closed. Thin blue veins shadowed her
lids, framed by the blackest of short, thick lashes. With each tug of another
button, a moan escaped her parted lips. He ran his tongue across her bottom lip
and her eyes flew open, in such proximity to his own that he felt himself drown
in the inkiness of her irises.

At last he worked the last button open and the robe fell to
her feet, leaving only the high-necked gown covering her body. When he reached
around her, he felt the deep plunge of her bare back down to the rounded
fullness of her buttocks.

Christ, all demureness in front and decadence in back!

Chapter 14

"Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
clean from my hand?" –
Macbeth

Malachi dipped his fingers beneath the fabric and kneaded
the soft flesh of her bottom for a long moment while he kissed her slowly and
deliberately. Her breathing hitched provocatively as he continued to stroke her
with his hands and his mouth.

At the shoulders, he loosened one of the two silky ties
which held the nightgown in place. The garment fell below her breast, exposing
her flesh – full, soft, and firm – pale as fine porcelain and tipped with a
soft, rosy peak. The sight of her bare skin mesmerized him.

He rubbed the nipple between his thumb and forefinger until
it hardened to a firm nub. Then he took it into his mouth and suckled, gently
at first, but when she tugged his head closer to her chest, harder.

"I can't wait," he breathed harshly against her
throat.

"I want you," she panted. "God, I want you
inside of me."

He untied the other ribbon and let the gown float to the
floor, pooling like pastel paint at her feet. "Christ, you are beautiful,"
he muttered, impatient as a young buck with his first woman. Greedy to explore
every naked inch of her.

Kneeling in front of her, his eyes at eye level with her chest,
he trailed his fingers from her breasts, across her belly, and down her thighs.
He parted her legs to dip his fingers into the flaming curls and the moist
folds beneath.

Her gasp of pleasure incited him further.

She grabbed his shoulders and clutched him as if she'd fall
without support while he probed the delicate flesh of her sex, the soft silky
folds, and the tiny nub of pleasure. She was hot and slick and wet, and so
ready for him that he bit his lip to hold his lust in check.

"Oh," she cried, "I can't – stand any – oh my
God – oh, don't – stop – "

He smiled with primitive pleasure, the mating urge so
intense he felt he could die tonight and be deliriously sated. Unwilling to
wait longer, he scooped her up in his arms and laid her naked body on the bed,
staring at the glow of her flushed skin, her body moist and aroused with need
for him.

He quickly disrobed and stood a moment before her, letting
her take in his full nakedness. Her eyes widened in amazement or surprise. He
couldn't decipher the precise mood. He paused but a second to understand the
emotion on her face before his urges took over and his primordial lust
overwhelmed all rational thought.

His heavy cock thrust forward, eager to plunge into her
ready and willing body.

He mounted her, kissed her deep and long, and probed the
tender flesh between her legs. He felt her slick readiness and the ease with
which the tip of him glided toward her entrance.

Propping himself on his elbows, he framed her flushed face
with his hands and gazed into her eyes, dark with passion. She moistened her
lips and drew his attention to her mouth.

He kissed her again and whispered in her ear, "Sweet
Emma, are you ready for me?"

Her eyes widened in bewilderment. "Yes – b – but you
are so very large."

He frowned and stared at her. "Not so very big,"
he protested.

But by now his cock had a mind of its own and dipped and
pushed into her tender flesh slowly, agonizingly so, until he could no longer
bear the delay and thrust forward with a single powerful pump until he was deep
inside her.

He knew at once that something was wrong.

The stubborn barrier had held him back for only a second,
but he knew immediately that a sturdy blockage had tried to prevent his entry.

Tried, but failed.

Good God, she was a virgin!

Even as he realized the damage was done, his mindless
carnality took over at the same moment that she screamed and he spilled himself
into her untried body.

#

The tonnage of a hundred-hundred pounds of unmoving flesh
pinned Emma's body to the mattress. She felt a sticky wetness – surely her
blood – running down her thighs as freely as the tears that flooded her cheeks.

Why hadn't she thought of the blood?
She felt like
the lamb sacrificed on an altar.

Why hadn't she realized he'd know?
What had begun as
a lovely, thrilling adventure had ended in such pain that her body felt ripped,
raw and bleeding.

Why hadn't she considered the consequences?
His
weight on her body was unbearable.

She gasped for breath, emitted a tiny whimper, and shoved
half-heartedly at the pressure his weight created on her lungs. At length
Malachi shifted his body and rolled off her, lying on his back, one arm flung
over his eyes.

The silence in the room was as deadly as a tomb.

After an eternity of clamorous quiet and silent
recriminations, Emma rolled on her side and curled into a tiny ball, yanking
the sheet up around her naked, stained thighs. Another eternity passed during
which she lay quietly spent, drowsy even as the stinging pain between her legs
subsided to a dull ache.

Malachi hadn't spoken a word since they'd completed the act.
Evidently her performance was sadly lacking, not that she cared a whit for his
opinion. He'd also been a great disappointment to her. A fresh flood of tears
threatened to overcome her.

Finally, he sighed heavily, what sounded like a heaving of
frustration and anger, and swung his legs over the opposite side of the bed. She
glanced over her shoulder at his bare back and buttocks. He hunched, his head
held in his hands as if the burden of Atlas lay across his shoulders.

Well,
he
had not been pummeled and prodded, riven in
half like a defenseless animal.
He
did not lie raw and bruised, sore and
bleeding in his own bed. She sucked in her breath on a shaky sob and felt,
rather than saw, the turn of his head toward her.

Walking to her side of the bed, he crouched down, still
naked and sheened with a layer of sweat, and peered into her face. A veneer of
dazed shock covered his face. She realized how thoroughly she'd deceived him
and felt momentarily ashamed.

His brows drew together and his voice held barely suppressed
anger. "You should have told me, Emma. You should have told me."

He stood and entered her bathroom from which a moment later
she heard the running and splashing of water in the basin. When the noises
subsided and she heard him emerge, she closed her eyes.

Perhaps he would just leave, go away and allow her to mourn
in private, wash her body of the awful evidence of her conduct. For, if she
were honest, she would admit that all of this ... this debacle was her own
fault.

She had committed a grievous error. She'd yearned to know
sexual pleasure between a man and woman, but in spite of the wild stories of
her foolish classmates, she'd never really believed something which began with
such sweet pleasure could end in pain and humiliation.

Soon she heard him roaming around the room, and when she
opened one eye, she saw him pulling his trousers up over naked hips. Her heart
beat faster and her skin grew warmer at the sight of his muscled thighs and
buttocks. Another aching spasm ran through her private parts.

Oh, no, she would not travel down
that
road again,
she warned herself. She'd learned a severe lesson from this painful experience.

Suddenly the mattress sank beneath a firm weight and her
eyes flew open. Malachi held a cloth in his hand and while his face no longer
looked thunderous, his blue eyes were devoid of emotion. "Let us clean you
up," he said, reaching for the edge of the sheet.

"No!" She clutched the cover to her waist and
covered her breasts with her arm.

"Don't be ridiculous, Emma. You'll feel better once you've
washed." Now impatience tinged his practicality.

"I can do it myself."

"I know." He passed a hand wearily over his eyes. "But
this is my fault. Let me help."

Because she hadn't expected his admission of guilt, she
allowed him to wash the tears and sweat from her face and breasts. He used
slow, careful motions over her forehead and down her cheeks. His movements were
so gentle she wanted to weep.

He rinsed the cloth in a pan of warm water he'd fetched from
the bathroom and ran the cloth down her arms and over her breasts in an
intimacy that should've made her squirm, but did not. Then he pulled the sheet
down to her ankles and wiped the evidence of their deed from her thighs and
belly.

She watched his large, brown hands as they swiped away the
blood along with the sticky evidence that he'd spilled his seed into her. When
he finished, he patted her dry with a large, fluffy towel, scooped her up in
his arms, and positioned her in the arm chair by the fire.

His motions were spare and accomplished as he covered her
nakedness with her discarded robe. Such practice surely indicated his
familiarity with deflowering virgins, did it not?

While he ministered to her body so carefully, he never
looked at her. Perhaps, as she suspected, her performance was so inept he
couldn't bear to look at her.

With the proficiency of a maid, he stripped the bed of its
coverings, rolled them in a ball, and tossed them in a corner. He then rummaged
for clean linen in the armoire while she watched him with wary eyes. Discovering
the bed sheets on the bottom shelf, he began to remake the bed with military
precision.

Obviously, he'd done this before, damn his perfidious hide!

He reached for the lavender gown lying on the floor, seemed
to think better of it, and discarded it with the soiled linen. He found a less
elegant, but warm cotton shift inside the dresser. Standing her up, he tugged
it down over her head and hips. She felt the first tinges of exhaustion melt
her bones and droop her eyes.

"There, much better, isn't it?" he asked as he led
her back to the bed, tucked her in, and pulled the covers up to her neck. "You'll
feel better in the morning," he said in a matter-of-fact tone before
leaving and shutting the door quietly behind him.

As if she could ever feel better again.

She closed her eyes and slept.

#

Malachi shuffled around Sarah Ralston's kitchen – an
invasion he was sure she would not appreciate – until he found the items he was
looking for. Hot cocoa rather than tea or coffee.

When he'd finished preparing the drink, he placed the
utensils on a tray along with one of the cook's cinnamon scones Emma had
remarked on earlier. He added a small pot of clotted cream and carried the tray
upstairs.

Emma's breathing was rhythmic and even, so Malachi placed
the tray on the dresser and scooted a chair closer to the bed. He must remember
that deflowering a virgin wreaked havoc on both the man and the woman, he
thought wryly.

She lay on her right side, facing him. Asleep like this, she
looked frail and vulnerable – a misconception if he'd ever seen one. Emma
Knight was anything but frail in spite of what had happened.

For the tenth time he asked himself what he – a sensible,
logical, rational man – was doing with a woman like her – unpredictable,
opinionated, and stubborn as hell. He ought to have known she was lying to him.

Not in words, of course – she'd dissembled on that quarter –
but she'd fabricated the image of a
femme fatal,
a worldly woman
experienced in all kinds of sensual pleasure. Now he realized that every act of
wantonness she'd shown him was a sham, the worst kind of prevarication.

But his conscience pricked him hard. As a man acquainted
with both harlots and innocents, experienced widows and foolish virgins, he
should have known she was lying. He should have recognized her bravado as a
façade.

Goddamn her!

She'd put them both in a most prickly position. How in God's
name would they extricate themselves from this situation? And yet he could not
be totally sorry for the experience. Every moment until the final entry into
her sweet body had been heady and heavenly, the likes of which he could not
remember with another woman.

Christ, her response to him! His hunger for her! It seemed
he could not have enough of her.

As he drowsed in the chair by her bed and watched Emma
sleep, he thought only minutes had passed, but when she finally roused, he saw
by his pocket watch that she'd slept nearly an hour.

She frowned at him and blinked her eyes as if trying to
remember.

"So, you're awake then?" He brought the tray to
her and helped her sit up in bed, stuffing plumped pillows behind her back. "The
chocolate is cold now, I'm afraid."

He sat back down and watched her pick at a scone for a
moment. Then she pushed the tray aside and dangled her legs over the bed's
edge, attempting to stand.

As she wobbled on unsteady feet, he caught her. "Easy
there." He guided her to a sitting position.

They sat quietly while she garnered strength and he thought
of how to approach the discussion they must have, to find a solution to their
indelicate dilemma.

But the wily maid beat him to the punch. "I suppose now
you will be convinced you must marry me," she said without preamble,
arching a brow at him.

Damned chit!
He'd already made it clear he was eager
for her, but he wouldn't marry her – she knew that. Of course, at the time he
hadn't realized she was a blasted virgin. He'd never seduced an innocent – not
a true innocent, he amended, thinking of Constance's false claims of
maidenhood.

He raked his fingers through his hair and bit down hard to
keep from tossing a quelling retort her way. "We had discussed the
impossibility of marriage," he reminded her woodenly.

"Oh, yes." Her voice dripped with sarcasm. "You
indicated that you had no inclination for matrimony, but you'd gladly
participate in its conjugal amenities."