Not Quite Married (7 page)

a hard body pressed tightly against hers, melting her against it . . .

feeling somehow frightened and exhilarated in the same moment.

Air-starved and deluged with startling new sensations and volatile reactions, she broke the kiss and shoved back in his arms. His eyes were dark, his face was red, and his lips looked as swollen as hers felt. It was as if a gate had swung open inside her and she stood on the edge of something deep and unknown and tempting.

“That’s quite enough, sir,” she declared, giving a second shove that succeeded in separating them.

“Is it?” He propped his hands on his hips, breathing as if he’d just run a distance. He turned a fierce expression on the barely sensible vicar. “Tell me, Vicar. What constitutes a proper marriage in the eyes of church and state? What are the legal standards?”

“L-legal sssstandards?” Sweat was beading all over the ailing vicar’s brow, his eyes watered copiously, and his face contorted into what might have been either a grimace or a grin. “Conssent.

An’ vows,” he muttered. “And consum . . . consummmm . . .

ation.”

The reverend’s legs and consciousness gave out at the same moment, and he would have smacked the stone floor if not for the quick action of Ella and her uncle. Aaron Durham jolted to help them, and together they lifted him and carried him out the side door and to the vicarage. Brien snatched up the marriage documents and hurried after them.

The clergyman’s residence was little more than a three-room cottage, meagerly furnished but scrupulously maintained. A pair of candles lighted the combined parlor and dining room and allowed them to find a small settee. They dumped him on the threadbare horsehair covering and stood looking down at him until Brien arrived and sent Ella to find the kitchen and some water and cloths.

“He’s feverish,” Brien declared, placing a hand on his damp forehead. “He needs a doctor.” She removed her cloak, knelt beside the settee, and loosened the clergyman’s sweat-soaked collar. When Ella returned with a basin of water, she wetted the cloths and bathed the reverend’s face, then rose. “We’ll find a physician and send him back—”

“Not so fast.” Aaron seized her by the wrist and kept her from retrieving her cloak. “We have a bit of unfinished business.”

Brien froze at the raw command in his voice, then matched it.

“Let me go.”

“Did you hear what the good vicar said before he fell? A legal marriage requires three things.” He held up fingers as he enumerated them. “Mutual consent. Vows. And consummation.”

A wry smile bloomed on his face. “I’ll give you one guess as to which of the three we are missing.”

“Don’t be absurd,” she hissed, trying to wrest her hand from him.

“That was not part of our bargain.”

“True.” His expression sobered. “Fortunately for you, I’m willing to throw it in for free. In fact, I insist on it. If this is the only marriage I get, then at least I want it to be genuine.”

“Absolutely not!” She began to struggle in earnest. “Have you gone mad?”

“Oh, I think you will.” Aaron Durham dragged her closer and then caught her to him by the waist. “I may
want
a real marriage, but you
need
one.” He pulled her still closer and lowered his head and voice to her ear. “Two hours, sweetness. That’s all it requires. Spend two hours alone with me in the vicar’s bedchamber and you go on your way a truly married woman.

Whatever happens between us, your girl Ella, her uncle, and the good vicar here will be able to swear we were together long enough to make the union legal.”

When she hesitated, he added one final, irresistible persuasion. “I won’t do anything to you that you don’t want me to do.”

The warmth and solid strength of him, the taste of his mouth against hers, the galvanic surge of excitement in her as he pulled her into his arms earlier . . . those and a hundred more perceptions came rushing back at once, overwhelming her in a tidal wave of temptation. It was ridiculous to even consider spending two hours alone with him in a bedchamber, much less trusting him not to seduce or ravish her in the process. But there was some part of her, some reckless and long-denied legacy of Eve, that wanted to realize that ridiculous possibility and craved the experience of pleasure, and sensual indulgence at least once in her lifetime.

This was her chance. After all, she was wedded to the man. He was easy on the eyes and probably experienced in fleshly pleasures. Even if the worst should happen and if she were to become pregnant, at least she would be legally married. And there were worse fates than settling in a quiet, secluded cottage somewhere to raise a child. . . . Positives and negatives flew wildly through her mind, propelling her toward what now seemed an increasingly sensible course.

Aaron watched the girl he had taken to wife weighing his words and promises. Her anxiety-softened eyes caused a melting sensation in his gut. She seemed much younger just now, much less in control . . . much more desperate. Warring urges to plunder and to protect her raged inside him until he stanched both impulses and returned resolutely to the strange course that had joined them together in desire and necessity.

He had no doubt of what would happen if they entered that bedchamber together. They would consummate the vows, and she would be truly wedded and fully protected from whatever it was that had driven her to seek that most intimate of alliances with a total stranger. He tried to tell himself that the pleasures of exploring that mouth and those eyes and loosening that primly bound hair and sensible gown were secondary. But deep inside, he knew better. Just looking at her made his damned fingertips itch.

“Two hours,” he prompted, his voice husky with needs he didn’t fully understand. Two hours ago he had refused a marriage that would have secured his inheritance and paved the way for a life of ease and privilege. Then he had married a total stranger who might or might not have given her real name . . . and was now dead set on claiming her physically. Two hours from now, he would carry the memory of a pair of haunting gray eyes and four thousand pounds away from this fateful encounter. He studied the troubled veil that had fallen over her responses and quietly decided that she would carry more away from this marriage than just his name. He would see to it that each touch, each kiss would be burned into her mind and body forever.

“And then you’ll go?” There was a telling quiver in her voice when she finally spoke. “You’ll swear not to look for me . . . not to seek me out or demand more money?”

“I’ll go.” His heart gave a heavy thud. “You’ll never see or hear from me again.”

He could hardly believe it when she turned to her maid and the old seaman and nodded.

“But, my lady—” The one she called Ella seemed truly alarmed.

Brien Weston Durham, unaware she had just become the wife of the renegade heir to the earl of Wilton, picked up her skirts and shot the maid a tumultuous look.

“Two hours. Find a doctor for the vicar, and wait for me.”

Six

THE DARKNESS OF THE BEDCHAMBER was disorienting at first. Aaron moved toward the center of the room, walk-ing slowly, searching for furnishings with his hands. There was a soft thud as he encountered the edge of a table, then he fumbled for a moment to find a candle and set splint from the hearth to it. A sphere of soft golden light bloomed around them, eliminating the corners of the room and illuminating a simple bed, a table, a pair of sturdy stuffed chairs, and a wardrobe that hung open to reveal a penurious vicar’s wardrobe of pious black and splashes of white.

He turned to find her edging out of the shadows near the door, wearing a scowl. She clearly didn’t trust him. When he started toward her, she moved quickly to put the table between them.

“I simply meant to help you remove your cloak,” he said.

She reddened and, after a moment, untied her cloak and laid it over a nearby chair. Then she wrapped her arms around her waist and lifted her chin, as if to counterbalance her own self-consciousness.

“What will you do with your newfound wealth?” she demanded.

“What trouble are you in?” he countered.

Silence fell. Neither intended to answer the other’s question. He used the next moment to stroll around the table toward her and saw her brace to defend herself.

“We both have secrets,” he said, halting, opening his hands at his sides in a peace-seeking gesture.

“So we do.”

“And now we will have one more.” He edged closer by fractions of an inch as he openly studied her. “Only the two of us will know for certain what happens between us in this room.” He reached for the combs holding her hair and she jerked back, though not entirely out of reach. He nodded, to say he understood, then with exaggerated gentleness plucked the combs from her hair. He paused for a moment, turning the handsome tortoiseshell pieces over in his hand.

“You have beautiful hair. The colors of summer wheat and honey. Is it as soft as it looks?”

Her eyes widened as he leaned closer and, with great deliberation, extended his hand again. The tension in her face almost made him think better of touching her. But his desire to experience her was strong enough to overcome such qualms. He pulled the coil of hair hanging at the nape of her neck onto her shoulder and drew his fingers over it.

“Soft. Like strands of silk.” He smiled and began to comb his fingers through that long, honey-colored rope. “You have eyes like a dove’s breast. So soft. So gentle. So worried.” He stepped closer, so that his boots nudged her skirts. “You needn’t be afraid of me. I have never, would never hurt a woman . . . much less one I have just given my name.”

She seemed unconvinced as he leaned backward from the waist to better view her, and then used both hands to loosen and spread her hair around her shoulders. That gentle ministration drew some of the tension from her.

“Your eyes, on the other hand,” she whispered, looking up into his face, “are the color of a gold coin.” She swallowed hard. “Or is that just a reflection of the color you see when you look at me?

Gold.”

He studied her upturned gaze, searching her even as she was examining him.

“If you truly believe that, why are you here with me?” he said, filling his hand with her hair, luxuriating in the feel of it.

“Perhaps because you are curious?”

“About what?” She glanced at the hand holding her hair.

“This.” He released that hair and ran his fingertips down the side of her cheek, around her jawline and up her chin to her lips.

“You’ve never been with a man. My guess is: You want to know what it’s like before you enter the life of a married woman who lives and sleeps alone. Or is celibacy your aim? You don’t seem to be the sort to loathe a man’s touch. Perhaps you have a lover who cannot wed you. . . .”

“I have no lover. Nor will I take one after we part.” She jerked her head to break that contact with his hand.

“A shame.” He gave a wry, quiet laugh. “I hope you do not expect me to make the same promise.”

She turned her head sharply.

“What you do after you leave this chamber is no concern of mine.”

He absorbed the details of her smooth, unblemished skin, rose-colored lips, and feathery lashes. Her face was heart-shaped and filled with refinement, intelligence, and strain. And the tension of waiting was only making things worse between them.

He slid his arms around her and pulled her stiff form against him.

She braced her palms against his chest and stared uncertainly at him. He reeled her closer by degrees, overcoming her resistance but giving her time to adjust to the inevitability of his touch.

What or who was there in her life that forced her on to such a radical course?

Finally, they were chest to chest and breath to breath.

“Close your eyes,” he ordered softly. “And tell me what you feel.”

He watched her lashes flutter in protest, but then close as curiosity triumphed over trepidation. Her lips were tempting, but they had two whole hours and instinct warned him to go slower.

He veered instead to her closed eyes and placed a gentle kiss on each of them. She drew a startled breath, but her eyes remained closed. He could feel her fear subsiding, being replaced by surprise.

“Tell me,” he prompted. “What did you feel?”

“Soft . . . it was delicate. It felt like a butterfly brushed me.”

“Ummm. And this?” He stroked her face with his fingertips, tracing the contours of her cheeks, the rims of her eyes, the faint wrinkle in her brow.

“Touches . . . gentle strokes . . . like a puppy’s tongue . . .”

He chuckled. “And this?” He cupped her chin and ran the pad of his thumb slowly over her lips.

“I . . . I don’t . . . it tickles.” She raked her lips with her teeth and they reddened.

“I take it that’s a pleasant thing.” Unable to wait any longer, he lowered his head.

Brien’s eyes flew open as his lips touched hers, but she quickly clamped them shut and concentrated instead on the sensations that contact produced. Warm, sensuous sliding, massaging, caressing, molding . . . for a time she forgot to breathe. When he ended the kiss, she looked up to see an odd look on his face, which melted into a grin.

“Your turn.” When she hesitated, he shook his head. “Don’t tell me you haven’t wondered what it would be like to be the one doing the kissing. Here is your chance, sweetness.” He leaned close enough that his breath bathed her lips. “Kiss away.”

How did he know she wanted that? Refusing to overthink it, she surprised herself with how surely she slid her arms up around his neck and pulled him down to meet her lips. A flood of pleasure washed over her, engulfing her in a tide of warmth that buoyed her and sent her on currents of sensation and loosening restraint.

One kiss merged into another and then another. She melted against him, seeking a contact that would assuage the new and strangely pleasurable ache of longing in her. Somewhere in the midst of that stream of sensation, her reserve and mistrust were forgotten. Her awareness narrowed to here and now; to the small circle of candlelight surrounding them, to the circle of his arms.

There was nothing but this lush physical closeness, in which discoveries awaited and desire could only deepen. Time seemed to still and each moment, each sensation stretched out with leisurely abandon to claim her.