Megan Frampton (15 page)

At least, she thought to herself with a wry smile, you have a
plan
.

“Lie down with me.” His words echoed through the still room.

“What?” She almost leapt off the bed, she was so surprised both by what he said and by the fact that he was speaking at all.

“Lie down. With me,” he repeated.

Even as she squeaked “Why?” she was moving closer to him, heeding his command.

“For some reason,” he said dryly, “you bring me relief.”

“For some reason,” she snapped back, “you bring me an enormous headache.”

He chuckled. “And here I thought I’d said I wouldn’t be giving you a bridal gift.”

“Hmph.”

Mary tucked herself beside him, her legs next to his, her shoulders touching his. She was close, but apparently not close enough, because he swung his arm across her body and pulled her toward him, leaving his arm draped across her body once he had gotten her where he wanted her. She was practically on top of him, and she began to feel his soft, stealthy warmth envelop her.

It would be easy to get used to this.
To him
.

“Did you know you have a mole on the side of your neck?” he asked in a sleepy voice. He flicked his finger on her skin. “Right here. Right where I’d like to—”

He rolled back over onto his back and heaved a great sigh. Mary missed the feel of his arm across her body. She was relieved he wasn’t quite so close anymore.

And if she believed that, she was even more of a gullible fool than she’d thought.

“I’ve revealed my dark secrets,” he said, still staring up at the ceiling. “What about you? Let me guess—you skipped your father’s sermons one Sunday so you could go do some extra good deeds. Or perhaps you kissed a choirboy?”

You were my first kiss
. Mary’s heart thudded in her chest. “I never did any of that.”

He snorted beside her. “Of course not. You’re too perfect, love. You need someone to corrupt you.”

“I’m illegitimate.” She spoke quickly, rushing the words out before she lost her nerve.

“What? What do you mean?” He didn’t sound horrified, thank goodness.

“My parents weren’t married.”

He elbowed her in the ribs. “I know what illegitimate means, love. I meant how could it be possible? Your father being a vicar and all.”

Mary’s voice caught in her throat. “I always believed my parents were married. But when he died, he told me they’d never been married, and that my mother was still alive. That she was living in London. And he told me her name. He said her family hadn’t approved, and …” She hesitated, relief coursing through her now that she was finally
sharing the secret.

His voice was gentle. “So your father fell in love with your mother and they had you? Your mother is a lady, then?”

“Yes.”

He placed his hand on top of hers. “And that’s why you want to go to London? To find her?”

“Yes.”

His grip tightened. “Does she know about you?”

Mary’s tone was wry. “I believe it is harder for the woman in this kind of situation to remain ignorant of a child.”

He laughed in recognition of her joke, then began coughing. She could almost see the pain as it came over him again.

“Are you all right, my lord? I mean, Alasdair?” she said, correcting herself before he could.

“No.” His hand snaked out across her body and clamped onto her shoulder, dragging her onto her side. “I promised to keep away from you, but—hurts so much.”

“Shh. It is fine. Just relax,” she crooned, nestling her body into his. This close, she could hear the pounding of his heart, feel the rapid rush of breathing under her hand.

“So you didn’t know until he died? What did you think?” His words rumbled against her skin.

“He told me she had died in childbirth. I always felt guilty.”

“That was a terribly selfish thing of your father to have done.” No “I’m sorry,” or any other expressions of sympathy, but really, had she expected him to offer them?

“He did what he thought was right.”

“It was wrong.” His tone left no room for argument. “It hurt you, and that is wrong.”

She thought about that for a moment. “Will you hurt me?”

His body tensed under her hand. “No. No, I won’t.” He struggled to get up, but she pushed him back down easily. He was very weak, and beginning to tremble. “Let me up, we shouldn’t be like this.” He spoke in a whisper. “I need to be strong.”

Mary wrapped her arms around his neck and laid her head on his chest. His arm
came up to rest, hesitantly, on her back. “You’re not well, and we’ve seen that the only thing that can relieve your pain is being close to another person. And since I’m the only other person here—”

“I don’t think just any person would do,” he said, a low chuckle in his voice. “Imagine if I asked our host here to hold me while I was sick. The only person who comforts me is
you
.”

His words sent a shiver up her spine. She’d never been this useful to anyone before; her father had relied on her, but he’d had her stepmother, his parishioners, and, of course, his god. She’d been secondary; important, but still secondary. Was it a weakness on her part, then, that she was so desperate to help him?

“Thank you,” he said in a whisper.

No. Not a weakness. A necessity.

She couldn’t hesitate to help him, even if she knew she would be leaving him once they reached London. If she could just convince him of his worth, make him see that he could be happy again, she would feel that she’d done her job.

“You have to tell me about your brother.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but stopped when she saw his face. His eyes were closed and his breathing had slowed. His lashes lay against his face, his more relaxed expression making him look younger, softer, less lord-like—more like a normal man.

An incredibly handsome man. His head was thrown back in sleep, leaving his neck exposed. His throat was long and very … masculine, although she’d never thought of a throat in quite that way before. The stubble from his beard roughly covered his Adam’s apple and the tendons in his neck, strained even in sleep.

As she watched him, he began to move his head from side to side, slowly at first, then with increasing violence.

She reached her hand up to his face, stroking his cheek, muttering nonsensical words of comfort that seemed to help. After a few minutes, his movements slowed, although Mary could see his eyes rolling frantically under his eyelids.

She nestled her hand under his head and snuggled into his chest—a soft pillow it wasn’t, but it felt safe.

Even though he wasn’t.

It was completely dark, except for a candle sputtering at the end of its lifespan on the table beside the bed. Mary blinked, unsure where she was for a moment, only remembering that she was safe and warm.

A heavy weight was on her chest. His arm was wrapped around her, his hand curled under her body, his head resting almost on top of hers.

His chest was bare, and the candle threw flickering light that both hid and revealed his body. As she gazed at him, he shifted, nuzzling her neck and shifting his thigh so that it touched hers.

Dangerous
. Mary’s breath caught in her throat. To be so close, to know he was her husband—she squeezed her eyes shut, her mind working frantically through the possibilities.

Could she forego this forever? Would she regret it for the rest of her life?

The answers were no, and yes.

Slowly, she slid out from under his arm, twisting so that she was lying on her side. She bit her lip as she drew her shift up over her head.

He made a noise in his sleep and she hoped he’d wake up, then just as fervently prayed he would not. Not until she’d gathered more of her courage.

She flattened one hand and slid her fingers underneath the sheet so that she was touching his bare flesh, his hip. She knew he didn’t wear drawers to bed, but she wasn’t prepared for the shock of his warm, smooth skin. Hair tickled her palm as she laid it flat against him.

She levered herself up onto her elbow so that she was raised above him, her hand gripping his hip for support. She slid her legs so they rested on either side of his hips before lowering herself down gently, feeling the hard angles of muscle and bone touch her softer body.

He moved in his sleep, but still did not wake. She removed her hand from his hip and gently, hesitantly, touched his face. It was all hard angles and stubble, definitely a
man’s face, nothing like her own skin.

Dangerous
.

She stared at his mouth. It was drawn down at the corners, as if he were dreaming of something that displeased him. Her? She shook her head at her own idiocy and touched her lips to his.

There. She’d done it. She’d acted on her own desires. Selfish, perhaps, but also necessary.

Within seconds, it seemed, she was wrapped in his embrace and he was kissing her, stroking his tongue with hers, clamping his hand down on her so she couldn’t leave.

Not that she wanted to.

She pulled her head back from his for a moment, staring into his eyes. They were wide open, lucid, and she relaxed.

“You want this?” he said in a voice husky from sleep. His hand grazed her back in slow, lazy circles.

“Yes,” she replied solemnly, staring into his eyes. “More than anything.”

“Well, wife,” he said, baring his teeth in a devilish grin, “I shall give it to you.”

“By all means, husband. Where should we begin?” She trailed her fingers over his collarbone. “Here?” She ran her hand down his chest to his nipple, encircling it with lazy fingernails. “Or here?”

His sharp intake of breath pleased her more than his words could.

She leaned down and licked where her hand was, swirling her tongue over the planes of his chest, teasing his nipple with her teeth.

“Where did you learn this, Mary?” he gasped. “Not at church, certainly.”

She laughed low in her throat. And sent a silent thank you to Amelia. “I just imagine what I want you to do to me. Does it feel good?” She wiggled her hips as she spoke. His erection pressed against her, an obvious answer to her question.

He ran his hand over her buttocks, slipping it between the crevice of her cheeks and grasping their fullness. “You have quite an arse, Mary,” he said in a strained voice. “Not as spectacular as—”

He rolled her over onto her back and bent his head down to her chest, shoving the fabric of her shift aside.

And his mouth found her nipple. Just as she’d wanted.

“Aaah,” Mary moaned, as he circled the erect flesh with his tongue. He laughed, a rumble against her skin, and caressed the underside of her breast. He drew her nipple into his mouth and sucked, gently, causing a ripple of sensation to skitter through Mary’s body. Before meeting him, she’d never imagined this could be so … intoxicating. And she wanted more.

Mary arched her back and he took full advantage of her position, sliding his free hand underneath her and yanking her against his flesh. She was pressed fully to him. He continued to lick and suck and kiss, nipping gently with his teeth and then soothing with his mouth.

Dangerous
.

Mary lay there, pliant, her head filled with nothing but him.
Don’t stop, do it all, make me forget everything but this and here and now
. She opened her eyes and looked down at the top of his head, his black hair falling around his face as it was buried in her bosom.

“How does this feel, wife?” he asked against her skin.

“Ahhh,” she moaned, clasping his head between her hands and stroking it. His hair was silky under her touch. She couldn’t speak.

His hands—dear lord, his hands had moved purposefully down her body and were caressing her thighs, just a few inches from where she wanted him—no,
needed
him—to touch her.

“Please,” she gasped, yanking his head up. His green eyes met hers. He had an intense, knowing look on his face that made her breath come even faster.

“What, wife?”

“Please—touch me.”

His smile turned wicked. “I
am
touching you.” He squeezed her thighs gently with his fingers.

She exhaled loudly, blowing a few wisps of hair onto her nose. “That is not what I meant.”

“Oh?” he asked in an innocent tone. “Where did you mean, then?”

She gave him a look of mock outrage, unable to keep the laughter from her eyes.
She had not expected to be laughing in this situation.

“There.”

But then again, she never thought she’d be in this situation in the first place.

“Here?” He edged his hand closer to the apex of her thighs.

She shook her head. “No. Not there.”

“Show me,” he whispered, stroking the skin of her leg.

“Here,” she replied, taking his hand and putting it on herself.

“Oh,
there
,” he said, pushing the heel of his hand against her mound. His touch relieved her immediate desire, but it kindled an additional fire, low in her belly.

“Please,” she whimpered, writhing under his body. She stretched her arms up and grasped him behind the neck, pulling his face down to hers.

His mouth met hers eagerly, his tongue ravishing her even as his fingers caressed her down below. He held her hard against him with his other hand, their bodies touching from their chests down to their feet, which were tangled together in the bed sheets. She arched into him, nearly mindless with need.

And then he slid one finger inside her, and she felt as though she was going to explode. She grabbed his buttocks hard and pulled him close, as if they weren’t already pressed skin to skin.

He lifted his mouth from hers and gazed in her eyes as he began to stroke his finger in and out of her, still keeping constant pressure on her mound.

“Ahhh,” she gasped. She saw the triumphant look of satisfaction on his face—was he so invested in her pleasure? Because she could feel him, hard, pulsing, huge, against her leg. She realized that as much as she needed to be touched by him, she also needed to touch him.

She nudged his leg off hers and slid her hand between their bodies, her fingers moving over his skin until they reached his cock. His
cock
, she said to herself, relishing the freedom of thinking such a vulgar, exciting,
sexual
word.