Moonlight on My Mind (9 page)

“Are you offering to wash them for me?” He began to work the buttons of his shirt. “Because you might want to wait until after we’ve soiled them properly.”

Her eyes met his in an ominous flash of green heat. “I’ve seen stables with cleaner floors than yours. For heaven’s sake, you’re likely to give Gemmy fleas. You need a housekeeper.”

“I’ve a wife.” He shrugged out of his shirt and tossed it away, perversely enjoying the way her eyes widened to follow the article’s deliberate, ceremonious path to the floor. “I’ve been told they are nearly one in the same.”

At her strangled gasp, Gemmy hopped down from the bed and slunk for the shadows.
Smart dog.
Patrick took advantage of the newly vacated space on the bed and sat down to tug off his boots, hiding his grin behind clenched teeth. Then he eased back onto the mattress, holding fast at the invisible battle line that stretched between them.

He cast up a brief prayer she wouldn’t clock him over the head with something for his insolence. Proximity was necessary for the coming business, and whether she realized it or not, he was working his way toward her, slowly but surely, the same way he would approach a skittish animal that required his ministrations.

He dwelled a moment on her scent. Even her fragrance was a poor match for him. She smelled clean, like soap and spice, heated to the point of combustion. He smelled of his daily activities: sheep, sweat, and probably something worse.

And yet . . . as always, there was this odd, nettling attraction he felt in her presence, a surprising flare of interest that defied a scientific explanation. His thoughts were usually more ordered than this. More focused. Certainly more logical. For some reason, being around Julianne made him less like himself.

Or was it that she made him feel more?

He paused over that a moment, there on the bed beside her. His life in Moraig was orderly. Predictable. Perhaps, to some, it might even be considered tedious. He preferred it that way. It suited his character, this steadiness of spirit. But if he was pressed to point to the most enjoyable parts of his life, he could not deny he found more inspiration in the rare, heart-pounding moments—such as the need to save an animal whose life was literally in his hands.

The thought of the coming skirmish with Julianne made him feel much the same way.

She had once informed him—quite suggestively—that he’d think about her when he finally made it to his bed. And he
had
thought of her that November night, alone in his room, the memory of her quick wit and tempting smile every bit as potent as the kiss he had so brashly claimed, there in the foyer. If he was being truthful, he’d thought of her more than was sensible, even after she’d accused him of murder. The chit had made damned sure she was not someone he would ever forget, no matter the havoc she had wrought in his life.

He concentrated on breathing a moment. Reminded himself she was the means to a necessary end, not a treat to be savored. She was neither a hopeful wish nor a regrettable memory. Tonight she was here. His for the taking.

And still in far too many clothes.

Chapter 8

“I
t occurs to me that I have seen you in far more a state of undress when we were veritable strangers, than I have now that you’re my wife,” he drawled, enjoying the way his words made her skin flush red.

“I am not sure undressing is a good idea, all things considered.”

Patrick rolled onto one elbow, though he sensed his leisurely approach was piquing her temper. Why did he enjoy needling her so much? Because no matter the strange fever that gripped his tongue around her, his body certainly wanted to further their acquaintance. Even now, even as she bristled with anger and the air sparked dangerously between them, he was stirring with marked interest. “
Now
you want to retain your clothes? It seems you have been shedding them much of the night. Why, I’ve scarcely blinked tonight and not found you close to naked.”

“All the more reason to keep my night rail on. I would hate to have you avoid blinking. I’ve heard it is a condition that can be quite painful.”

He reached out a lazy hand and ran it over the folds of her gown, gathering the fabric in one hand until the pale curve of one leg beckoned. The condition she would cause him by remaining clothed threatened to be far worse. He traced his fingertips lightly over her calf, brushing in light circles. He could feel the emotion threading just below her skin’s surface, her body’s instinctive softening to his touch.

“There is no need to stage a seduction, Patrick. I understand what the night brings. Neither of us needs to enjoy it, as long as it is done.” Her voice had taken on a lower, huskier tone that told him he was heading in the correct direction, even if her words contradicted her physical response. It was difficult to sort out whether this latest discussion was about maidenly nerves—which he doubted—or Julianne’s unbending need to control her world and everything that came with it—which had more the ring of truth to it.

He raised his eyes to meet hers. “An odd reaction in a woman who kisses like a courtesan and eagerly took her vows. No one forced you to do this, Julianne. In fact, I seem to recall it being your idea.” A pale cousin of the truth, perhaps. But she
had
voiced the idea out loud first.

Her lips firmed portentously. “It was the only way to ensure your return to Summersby.”

“Surely you don’t think this is only about Summersby.” His fingers tightened over the temptation of one lovely knee. “Because if you do, I would suggest that you apply your imagination and consider that it could be more. If you are going to talk about Yorkshire, the coming business is going to be difficult.” Even now, the thought of what awaited him on their return to his father’s house was enough to provoke a state of paralysis.

Not the effect one desired when attempting to bed a new bride.

She worked her lower lip between her teeth in a manner that made his body jerk back to life within the confines of his smallclothes. Slowly—decisively—she eased back onto the mattress. “I’m sorry.” She sighed, though she did not sound sorry in the least. “It has been a long day, and I confess my
imagination
, as you so eloquently put it, had foolishly anticipated something less tedious than the coach ride from Inverness.”

Hell’s bells.
Nothing like having one’s abilities compared to an eight-hour coach ride to deflate a man’s enthusiasm. He leaned over her newly prone form, and closed the few inches that separated them with a deliberate angling of his body. But he stopped just short of kissing her. Because it would be a hard kiss. An
angry
kiss. A kiss that bespoke all the aggression he felt for her, and yet all the want she kindled in him.

Besides, despite her clear expertise on the subject, she looked none too interested in kissing him. Her eyes had fluttered shut—a promising sign—but her lips remained the farthest thing from pliant.

“Julianne,” he told her, his lips mere inches from her disapproving mouth. “This business between us . . . it can go quickly, if you want.”

Her body squirmed promisingly below his. “Have you not been listening to a word I said?”

Patrick knew his own enjoyment would be but seconds away if he just followed her instructions and hurried this along. But whether she understood it or not—and he was still unsure of the extent of her prior experience with kissing and the like—haste would not heighten whatever small bit of pleasure he could provide her this first time around. And given the less than honorable circumstances that forced them here, he was at
least
determined to offer her that.

He leaned down, tipping his forehead against hers, trying like holy hell to keep his instincts in check as the tempo of her breathing sped up in a favorable way. “But I would recommend another option. A
slower
experience.”

Her eyes opened suspiciously. “I am not sure—”

He silenced her with a finger to her lips. The conversation she seemed interested in having wouldn’t serve his purpose tonight. He should have felt too guilty to do this, to turn his mind to seduction as if theirs was a happy joining and a hopeful union. But he was discovering he was not above accepting this as his due, the consequences to his soul and their future be damned.

He wanted her. A simple enough emotion. That he could be angry with her before their coupling, and suspicious of her when it was over, was proving irrelevant.

And he had an entirely different idea in mind for that famously sharp tongue.

P
atrick tossed her gown—the one Julianne had carefully folded to avoid wrinkles come morning—onto the floor with a callous flick of his wrist. She started to protest, but the blasted man curtailed her objection with a neat bit of trickery, stretching out beside her on the bed and pulling the coverlet up around their necks until she could scarcely breathe for want of space.

She struggled against an instinctive urge to both welcome and war with this man who would claim ownership of her body tonight. In retrospect, she should not have come above stairs alone. Not because he had told her to wait, but because the few minutes alone with her thoughts had given her far too much time to think about what was to come. She both wanted and resented his necessary attentions this evening, and could not wrap her head around what she
ought
to feel.

And yet . . . despite the duality of her emotions, she could not steer herself clear of a burgeoning curiosity in the process.

His lips met hers in a questing search, and she welcomed the press of his lips against hers. It wasn’t enough, though. Her body felt awkward, a strummed instrument not fully tuned. She wanted
something
. And it irritated her to no end that she could not place her finger on the nature of that want.

She kissed him back, putting everything she knew into it. She’d learned how to kiss properly this summer, taking full advantage of Brighton’s relaxed rules and fast set, away from the sharp eyes of her father and the perils of the London Season. But those had been muted forays into impropriety compared to the raw nature of this kiss.

It should have gone against her nature to kiss like this—openmouthed, tongues dancing—but it was also strangely exhilarating, like she was shedding her skin, stepping into another world. He smelled of sharply masculine things she could not identify. She could taste the whisky on him. It reminded her that he had tossed back several glasses with friends earlier this evening, while she had waited above stairs for her bag. At the memory, she took his lower lip between her teeth and nipped hard, intending to mete out punishment.

It had the opposite of her intended effect. A groan escaped his lips. His fingers tangled in her hair and she could feel them tremble against her scalp, a sign of his loosening control. She was grateful, now, for her daring this summer, those kisses she had accepted and experimented with. Because with the kiss she now employed with tactical skill against her new husband, she was wrestling the situation clean out of his hands.

Not that she was proving immune to the process.

Julianne’s skin felt stretched across her frame, quivering in need of this man’s touch. His tongue was both an invasion and a discovery, stroking her mouth, promising dark heat and wicked skill. In truth, her Brighton experience with kissing had been a pale, civilized facsimile of this. And in the shift of his thigh, the slide of his tongue, Julianne found her skill eclipsed and turned on end. Now she struggled to keep up, to avoid being swept away by the delicious pull of desire.
Good heavens
. . . no wonder women of good sense and breeding risked ruin.

To be kissed in this manner was to stand on the edge of a cliff wearing only paper wings and believe you could fly.

She only barely swallowed the small, gasping sounds trying to work their way out of her throat. He was already confident enough. She refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing how he sent her sanity spinning out of control.

His hand at her breast proved a lovely distraction through the cotton of her night rail, as did his busy mouth, which was now tracing a path of fire down the column of her neck. His tongue pressed against the hollow of her throat, warm and wet.

Julianne’s expanding pleasure promptly stuttered to a halt.

Was he . . .
licking
her?

The realization burrowed deep beneath the very skin he laved. Her body shuddered as he continued his torturous, languid path, down one side of her cotton-clad breast, up the other, leaving a trail of cooler air in the wake of his attentions. Surely this wasn’t a necessary part of it. The thought of being licked by another human should have sent her bolting for the washbasin.

But it seemed she lacked the capacity for protest. He turned her into someone unrecognizable, someone she wasn’t sure she liked. Because she not only tolerated his tongue there against her skin, she wanted him to continue with a desperation that frightened her.

She opened her mouth, prepared to lodge a protest. But then his stern, sensual mouth closed over her nipple—still wrapped in its cotton prison—and she was lost to sentient thought. She sagged back against the mattress, the feel of his mouth on her breast sweeping her balance clean out of reach. She hadn’t known . . . she hadn’t
imagined
, that a man might do this to a woman. She had thought herself worldly, had counted kissing as a skill well learned. But now she realized she had experimented with the clumsiest of boys. Patrick’s mouth—working some kind of black magic on her breast—told her just how little she knew.

The moans she had struggled to keep buried now pushed out from between her stunned lips and hung in the air between them. The sound pulled his attention regrettably away from her breast, and the loss of his warm mouth felt cruel, somehow.

He straightened over her, a looming scepter that surely spelled her doom. “You don’t
sound
as though you think this is tedious.”

His knowing gaze felt like a heavy blanket over her soul, and she wanted to thrash about and throw him off. She exhaled hotly, wanting his mouth to return to its torturous—if unhygienic—path along her breast. She refused to give voice to that wish. She wanted what came next, and she was honest enough to admit that she was not someone used to waiting. The man seemed to actually take
pleasure
in the torture.

Inspiration struck. “It is a cold night. I’d hate to risk pneumonia because you meandered your way through this.”

He frowned. “Meandered?”

“I understand what is expected, and would prefer to arrive there a little faster.”

“Julianne, there is pleasure to be had if only you—”

“Now.” She might be a wife, but she was also a woman who would be in control of her destiny. She straightened her shoulders, welcoming the scratch of the coarsely spun sheets against her neck. “If you please.”

If she could credit him with any emotion, she might swear it was disappointment she saw in his eyes. But he fumbled beneath the covers to remove his smallclothes. Bent her legs and settled himself between them.

And then he seated himself inside her.

A sharp flash of pain erupted, pain she had been prepared for, and yet went so far beyond what she had expected. She gasped her surprise at the stabbing loss of pleasure.

Not that
he
seemed diverted from the path. He moved against her then, a rush of muscle, a slide of skin, and she was wrapped around him and praying for it to end. Miraculously, he obliged her, for once. She had no idea how long he labored, but it thankfully fell on the side of minutes rather than hours. And then he collapsed on top of her with a muffled groan. “I am sorry,” he breathed against her neck, his words an exhausted echo of her own feelings on the matter. “If we had gone slower . . .”

A haze of tears—all the more embarrassing for how unexpected they were—stained her vision. It was clear he’d been planning to take a more leisurely approach. But then, true to form, she’d opened her mouth and ruined it, just jumped in without thinking and forced his hand.

As well as other pertinent parts of his anatomy.

A droplet of sweat trailed down his nose to land on her cheek. Distaste kicked whatever residual pleasure she had enjoyed from the kissing part of it completely out of reach. “It was my choice, Patrick,” she told him, pushing her hand against his shoulder in an unmistakable demand. It was his rough, sweaty body causing her this pain, and now that he was through, she felt a desire to wrestle the situation back to heel. “You only did what I asked.”

“Yes.” He obligingly lifted his weight off her. “But I am beginning to realize you do not know your own mind.” He detached himself from where they were still joined, and that proved an indignity all of its own. She fumbled for the coverlet, the sheet, anything to cover her from his postcoital scrutiny. The warmth she had felt earlier had been extinguished like a guttering candle, and there would be no rekindling of it tonight.

“Julianne . . .” The mattress shifted as he moved to sitting. She gave in to the urge to look at him, but regretted it almost instantly. His eyes probed her face, and her night rail felt transparent beneath his inspection. If he was looking to identify some hurt, he really ought to look a little lower.