Pirate Hunter's Mistress (The Virginia Brides) (11 page)

Marlee’s release shook her to the very bane of her existence. Nothing and no one could have prepared her for the throbbing sensations centered within her womanly core. Like someone coming out of a daze, she opened her eyes to find Lark smiling down at her. He rose up on his knees and straddled her, his finger gently probing her body’s crevice, opening her to him. It was then she felt his hardened manhood nudging the moist entrance between her legs and suddenly she understood what was about to happen and knew that she was created for this man to love.

She arched to meet his thrust but was unprepared for the sharp ache when her maidenhead tore. Instinctively she started to pull away, but he held her to him until the hard length of him stretched the tender walls. She moaned her pain and he kissed her. He kissed her until a flicker of pleasure darted through her and obliterated the pain.

With wondering eyes, she watched his face. He was more handsome, more manly, if that were possible, in the throes of passion. And his passion was for her.

Each taunting thrust took her to the summit. Grabbing onto his upper arms, Marlee’s fingernails dug into the sinewy muscles. Her release was a heartbeat away, an eternity of waiting. Suddenly he went still and looked at her, his face a mask of pleasure. Once more, he thrust, and her name was torn from his lips.

Liquid warmth spewed inside of her, a throbbing which caused an exquisite explosion so intense that Marlee thought she’d die from the ecstasy of it.

Later, he held her in the crook of his arm, and her head nestled against his chest. “I never thought, never knew—” she began, but words seemed somehow inadequate to describe the sensations she’d felt.

“I know, I know,” he said and kissed her until she was again clinging to him and aching for his possession. For the rest of the night, Marlee belonged to Lark body and soul. Near dawn, she drifted into a peaceful slumber.

Lark, however, didn’t sleep. He couldn’t. Guilt at what he’d done ate away at him like an acid, and he found all he could do was dully stare at the carved cherubs, naked and cavorting on the ceiling.

Marlee lay so trustingly in his arms. Every now and then she’d give a tiny sigh in her sleep, and he realized just how young and inexperienced she was. He’d taken advantage of her youth, her innocence, cruelly used her. Somehow he felt as if he’d just awakened from a torturous dream into a land of enchanted beauty. Never in his life had he felt so alive with a woman, or dared hope he’d find such happiness. But like all delusions of the mind and heart, happiness was a fleeting and gossamer thing. His short-lived happiness was about to end.

Quietly, he left the bed and dressed. He sat by the table and poured himself a large cup of port to fortify himself for what was to come. His gaze never left the sleeping young woman. Even now, after hours of unbridled lovemaking, his loins hardened at the sight of her. What was there about Marlee that set her aside from the other women he’d known? God, if only he could have felt this same sensation for Bettina, maybe the forced betrothal wouldn’t have seemed like the end of life itself for him.

He’d agreed to marry Bettina only to please his father. His father and Bettina’s father had been great friends in their youth and both had wished to unite the two families through their children. Lark would have been married to Bettina now. Fate decreed otherwise when Manuel Silva captured the auburn-haired beauty off of Lark’s ship after Lark had gone to Bermuda to bring her to Williamsburg. Lark knew he must find Silva soon and recapture Bettina—if she was still alive. He’d marry her out of a sense of honor. He owed her that much.

Lark shivered as an early morning rain gently beat upon the windowpanes. A chill settled over him, and he shivered not so much from the cold but from the thought of what awaited him in the future—his impending wedding if he found Bettina—and more imminently, Marlee’s hatred when he told her the truth.

The moment of truth came sooner than Lark expected. Marlee stirred and rolled onto her back. Her beautifully formed breasts were bare. Lark wished he could make love to her again, just once more before he left her. Turning her head, she spotted him. A timid smile curved her lips and she sat up, immediately covering herself with the sheet. “You’re up and dressed already,” she said more as a comment than a question. “I best get up and dress, too. I must look a mess.”

“You look beautiful, wonderful,” Lark hastily assured her and stifled the urge to sit beside her. He wanted to kiss her pretty mouth, to hold her and never release her. Instead, he resisted the inclination to touch her, but he impressed her delicate features upon his mind for later, when he needed to remember her.

“You look wonderful, too,” she praised and dimpled. “You are wonderful.”

He couldn’t help groaning aloud when she took his hand and brought it to her lips. Her kiss felt like golden fire upon his flesh. “I love you so much, Richard. I shall love you forever.”

“Marlee, stop!” he ground out and realized he’d startled her by the vehemence in his voice. He wasn’t angry with her but with himself—so disappointed in himself that he wished to slither away and never face the light of day again.

“Have—have I been too bold?” she asked him and there were tears shining in her eyes. Instantly she withdrew her hand and held onto the sheet.

“It’s not that, not anything-you’ve done. God, Marlee, can’t you see that I care for you? You’ve turned my life upside down.”

“Is that so bad?” A delighted grin spread across her face, expressing her happiness and awe that he cared. “That’s what I want, Richard, I’ve prayed for it—”

“Stop it, Marlee, no more, please.’’

“But I love you. I do.” She started to get up, to reach out for him again, but he purposely backed away. “What is it, Richard? What have I done?”

“Stop calling me Richard for one,” he said with such pain on his face that he noticed she immediately stiffened.

“Should I call you something else, my lord?” She sounded frosty. “I had thought that after last night you’d consider me as something more than a commoner.”

“That’s not it. You’re making this very hard for me—and I deserve things to be hard, I deserve your hatred.” Lark raked his hand through his hair. The agony in his eyes sent waves of fear spinning through Marlee, but he didn’t realize this. All he knew was that he must confess his deception to her but he was unable to look at her. Instead his gaze found one of those infernal grinning cherubs on the ceiling. His attention was on the little carved statue the whole time he spoke. “First of all, Marlee, I am the Baron of Arden Manor, but I’m not Richard Arden. I’m Lark Arden, Richard’s cousin, from Virginia. I’ve deceived you, Carpenter deceived you—”

He took a quick look her way and found her gaze was riveted on him. Never in his life had he seen another person’s eyes grow so large. Swallowing a number of times, he thought his throat had closed up, but no, his voice came out surprisingly strong.

“I arrived here the same day that Richard had an accident. He died a few days later.” He heard her audible gasp but continued, “You did marry Richard; never doubt that you’re a baroness. But, well, I desperately needed to finance a voyage. My grandfather left me a trust, money which Richard illegally squandered. I arrived here to claim my fortune and found nothing. After I got over my frustration and anger, I learned about you, about your being an heiress. My only recourse was to pretend to be Richard, to woo you into signing the money away so I could take what was due me. And that’s all I’ve taken, Marlee, only the amount that Richard owed me. The rest of the money is yours, the estate and the title are yours—everything belongs to you.”

He stopped, feeling a terrible weakness assail him. Whoever had said that confession was good for the soul had been wrong. Lark felt horrible, miserable. He didn’t dare ask her forgiveness, but he’d like her to say something, anything. He’d settle for her aiming a candlestick at his head, gladly suffering the brunt of her rage.

Nearing the bed, he decided that she might be in shock, so still and quiet was she. “Marlee, are you all right?”

A trembling sigh coursed through her entire body. She looked at him but her eyes were a dull shade of blue, almost as if she didn’t see him any longer. And he suddenly realized that for Marlee, he’d ceased to exist. He waited for what seemed like hours before she finally said anything, and when she did, it was spoken so softly that he barely heard the words, “Leave me alone.”

The problem was he didn’t want to leave her. He wanted to hold her again, to tell her that he loved her and would marry her. But he couldn’t do any of that because he wasn’t free to love her. “Marlee, I won’t leave you like this—”

She suddenly rose up on the bed, resembling a wild-eyed specter with the white sheet wrapped around her. “I said go away! Leave me in peace, Lark Arden, or whoever you may be. Leave me alone!”

He was forced to leave when Mrs. Mort burst through the door and cast a venomous glance his way. “My lady, what is it?” the woman cried.

More than anything, he wanted to remain with Marlee, to somehow make amends for what he’d done to her, but there was nothing he could say or do to help her. All he recalled was the chilling sound of her cries of “Get out!” as he left the house.

“My lady, can I get you anything? Do anything for you?” Mrs. Mort’s voice seemed to come from a far distance.

Marlee sat on the bed, her hands trembling with suppressed rage. She wanted to tear the bed sheets to shreds, to vent her fury upon something or someone, and the someone she had in mind was a deceitful cad with raven black hair and eyes so dark she could have drowned within their ebony depths. Someone named Lark Arden.

She shivered at the memory of it all, more than humiliated. The man had played her for a fool, had led her a merry dance so she’d sign away her fortune to him. Worst of all, she’d fallen in love with the bounder. What had she ever done to deserve such a fate as this?

“Lady Arden, please, please say something,” Mrs. Mort cajoled with a pat on Marlee’s hand. “You’re so quiet that I’m fearful. Should I fetch a doctor?”

Poor Mrs. Mort. She looked so distraught and guilty—yes, that was it, Marlee decided. Mrs. Mort had known the truth and deceived her, too. The old woman dabbed at her eyes with the hem of her apron. “Forgive me, my lady,” her voice broke and she sniffed. “I wanted to tell you all, but, but that Mr. Carpenter wouldn’t let me. And that hateful man—”

“Lark Arden, you mean,” Marlee burst out, needing to say his name aloud.

“Aye, him, my lady. He made me promise not to say a word, that I’d lose me post here if I opened me mouth about who he was. ‘Tis been very hard for me since Lord Richard died. He was my lamb—not always a good man—but he was like the son I never had. Forgive me, I’m begging you, ma’am.”

Despite the intense pain which ate away at Marlee’s heart, she didn’t hold Mrs. Mort responsible for what had happened. The woman was old and had gone along with the ruse only because she had feared being sent away, losing her livelihood.

“I know you’re sorry,” Marlee told her. “I’m sorry, too, more than sorry. I should have known something was wrong, should have sensed it.” But she hadn’t sensed anything out of the way, too involved was she on winning her husband’s affections—or rather Lark Arden’s. God! how could she have been so dense?

“Can I be getting you something, my lady?” Mrs. Mort asked again, as if doing something for Marlee would allay her guilt.

Marlee merely shook her head, not truly wanting anything but to be left alone, but instead of ordering Mrs. Mort out of the room, Marlee threw back the cover and bounded from the bed. Her face was stained pink as the memory of what had transpired between herself and Lark Arden in that very bed washed over her like buffeting waves. Before she’d made up her mind about what she was going to do, she was ordering Mrs. Mort to bring her the silver gown. Hurriedly, Marlee threw on her chemise and had the old lady pull the gown over her head. “But, my lady, you’ve not got on your petticoat and stays. You can’t be thinking of running around without them.”