Return of the Viscount (18 page)

She rolled her eyes. “They were actually complimentary about your ruthlessness in battle, mentioning several examples of your determination not to quit.”

He nodded but remained silent.

“You expect me to trust you when you don't talk about these things?” she asked with exasperation.

“There is little I can say since I do not intend to discuss my war experiences with you. I won't discuss the things I saw, or what I had to do to keep my men safe.”

She studied him in surprise. Her father used to have many anecdotes to tell, even if he'd tamed them for civilian ears. She couldn't be surprised at Michael's modesty, of which he'd shown plenty, but there seemed to be something else going on inside him.

“Do you think I couldn't understand what you've had to do?” she asked softly. “I lived in India, remember, and my father told us things that perhaps he shouldn't have.”

He stared at her impassively for a moment, before saying, “It was difficult enough to live through some events, Cecilia. Why would I want to relive them?”

She felt a pang of sympathy for him and knew the sacrifice it took to defend the Crown. If he didn't want to discuss it, who was she to press him for answers or explanations? Unless . . . she wanted him to trust her with the worst of it, to perhaps unburden himself.

Oh God, did that mean she wanted his trust because she wanted to offer hers?

As if reading her mind, he said, “Does this mean you're ready to discuss your relationship with your brother?”

“We've already done that,” she said crisply, beginning to blow out candles around the room.

He stood unmoving, watching her. “Cecilia, you've allowed me to be here tonight. It's obvious you no longer believe I might harm you. It warms me to have your trust.”

“Just because I might not think you're a murderer doesn't mean I trust you,” she shot back, her hands gripped behind her back.

For the first time, he gave her a real smile, one of indulgence and surprising tenderness. It took her breath away, made her realize that he did not easily show the world this side of himself. But he showed it to her.

“You trusted me enough to keep away all your old suitors tonight.”

She couldn't deny that.

He began to walk toward her. “I feel so used,” he said softly.

She bit her lip, trying not to smile. But that urge faded into uncertainty and excitement when he didn't stop walking, and she was forced to back up until her knees hit the edge of the chaise longue, and she sat down with a thump. He loomed over her, bracing himself with his hand on the curved backrest.

“I think you owe me something,” he continued.

Very gently, he cupped the side of her face, then slid his hand back into her braided hair. To her surprise, it soon fell down around her shoulders.

“You have the most beautiful hair,” he said hoarsely.

His gaze seemed to devour her, and instead of uneasy, she felt a rise of excitement that seemed all out of proportion to his touch. No man had ever made her feel this way—which was perhaps why none of them lured her into marriage at a younger age.

This thrilling sensation must be desire, a need that was taking hold of her, making her want to explore. She'd always been curious about the world, but never had she felt this kind of yearning.

“And what do you think I owe you?” she whispered, tilting her head up to meet his intent gaze as his hand continued to move through her hair.

“At least a kiss.”

He leaned lower until their breaths mingled. He didn't wait for her acceptance, and she couldn't even have spoken, with her breath coming so fast. When his mouth touched hers, she expected the gentle kiss he'd given her before, but this one was totally different, urging her lips apart once, twice, then his tongue sought entrance, and she granted it in shock, even as a moan escaped her. He swept her mouth like a conqueror, played with her tongue until, at last, she responded with her own tentative exploration. He nibbled her and tasted her, suckled her or plundered like a pirate taking what he wanted.

And she gave it to him willingly, so caught up in his need of her—and her need for him, she realized in astonishment. She felt desperate enough to reach for him, to run her hands up his arms, to hold him tight.

Still kissing her, he sat down on the edge of the chaise, leaning her onto the long, curving backrest. He began to press kisses along her jaw and down her throat, nuzzling her, licking her. She made little noises, whimpers of need that should have embarrassed her, but didn't. She held his head to her, felt the full softness of his hair between her fingers. And then his mouth moved lower, and lower still, as he parted her dressing gown. She was holding her breath in anticipation, knowing she should stop him, even as a sly voice whispered,
He is your husband.

He pressed kisses along the neckline of her nightgown, until she squirmed beneath him, desperate for more, though she didn't know what. He skimmed his lips along her breasts, and then through the silk of her gown, he took her nipple into his mouth. She cried out and arched her back, shocked and aroused and joyful all at the same time. She'd never imagined such intense feelings, and it only doubled when he cupped her other breast with his palm and gently kneaded it. With his fingers, he rolled one nipple, with his tongue he licked the other, until she was quivering and desperate. She gripped handfuls of his shirt, sliding it up his back so she could touch his hot skin beneath. To her surprise, he sat up long enough to pull the shirt off over his head, and she stared in surprise at the muscular expanse of his chest, the scars, one near his shoulder, another on his arm, a third along his ribs, like something sharp had deflected across the bones.

“Oh, Michael,” she whispered, touching the one on his side. “You've been so hurt.”

She sat up, and he stiffened, his hungry expression fading away into impassivity as if he thought he'd lost her. She slid her dressing gown off her shoulders. It pooled on the chaise, and his eyes seemed to smolder.

“Cecilia.”

He whispered her name with relief and urgency and the hunger that made her feel like she was the only woman in the world, the center of his universe.

And then he pulled the ribbon of her nightgown, and the neckline parted at her shoulders. His fingers spread it wider, brushing across her sensitive skin, freeing her breasts. Her nudity almost shocked her, but he cupped them and once again worshipped them with his mouth, until she was moaning and moving fitfully in her tangled nightgown. Then he lifted her free of it, and she was naked in his bare arms, feeling every inch of his hot skin against hers. He limped across the room to the bed and spread her out across it, his hands sliding down her torso and thighs as he stood up.

She lay there naked, her hair all around her, and watched him finish disrobing. He bent to remove his trousers and undergarments, and when he straightened, she stared at her first sight of a naked man, his erection prominent in his dark hair. She was distracted by the web of raw-looking scars twisting down his thigh.

“Oh, Michael,” she breathed, wincing in pain for him.

She reached to touch his scars, but he caught her hands.

“Not now. They mean nothing to me.”

And then she forgot them, too, because he stretched out on top of her, every inch of their bodies touching. He felt so different from her, hard where she was soft. She could feel his penis cradled against her belly, strange and threatening and intriguing all at the same time.

He started kissing her again, deep, drugging kisses over and over, taking her mouth, seducing her thoughts and will until she was nothing but aching need. She held him to her, desperate to be closer. She wanted to wrap herself around him, and parted her legs to do so. But then he settled between her hips, rocking against her.

She cried out at this new, deeper, stronger jolt of desire. Pressing herself against him, she murmured, “Please, oh, please, tell me what I should do.”

He chuckled against her neck, and she lifted his head to stare at him, shocked. His mouth was still wide with amusement, his brown eyes soft with warmth.

“I'll show you everything,” he whispered, “but not so quickly. I feel I've waited a lifetime for you.” He slid off her, resting on his side.

She groaned and reached for him.

“Not yet, my inquisitive one. You aren't in command here.”

Then he kissed her again, and his hands took a journey down her body, caressing and teasing her breasts and belly, moving ever closer to the part of her that burned to be touched, even as somewhere inside her she felt hesitant. She ignored the cautious voice that ruled so much of her life. When his hand slid along her thighs, she only briefly considered holding them shut. But they opened as if of their own accord. His fingers brushed her curls and slid deeper, stroking her. Gasping at the shocking pleasure, she buried her face in his shoulder, unable to look at him when he was doing such brazen things to her.

The pleasure suffused her, built inside her until she was panting. He was gentle at first, then bolder, and she couldn't help noticing how wet she was, how easily his fingers slid along the crease of her body. She was straining for something elusive and so powerful, then gaped up at him when he suddenly pressed her onto her back.

“Michael!”

He covered her body with his, and she felt his erection slide along her. She shuddered, her need cresting again, when he suddenly drove home. More shocked than hurt, she was amazed that the two of them fit together at all.

He bent to kiss her mouth. “Are you . . . all right?” he asked, his voice tense, his expression almost angry, although she knew he wasn't, not if he felt anything like she did.

“I'm fine. But please—”

She broke off as he pulled back, then surged in again, shocking her very nerves into a rising explosion that, with just one more thrust, sent her helplessly over an edge into a shuddering oblivion of blinding pleasure. He kept moving, harder and faster, and she didn't know where the first wave of pleasure ended and more began.

She knew when his own climax took him by the way he groaned into her shoulder, then collapsed onto his forearms, bearing much of his weight. They were both breathing hard, gasping, and she could only stare up at him in wonder.

Chapter 16

A
s Michael gazed into Cecilia's damp, flushed face, he couldn't remember a time when he had felt more at peace. His body was still afire with lust, and he could have kept pumping away until he was ready to do it all over again, but his wife had been a virgin.

At last, she was his wife in truth.

She searched his face with wide eyes, her lips parted. She almost seemed bewildered, as if emerging from a dream. Very carefully, he slid out of her body, already missing her as if he'd found what he'd been searching for his whole life. He rolled onto his back, then gathered her against him so that her cheek rested on his shoulder. But she seemed tense, as though she might flee if he made one wrong move. So he said nothing, just stroked her hair where it tumbled in a tangle across his chest.

Then, to his surprise, her eyes drifted closed, and she fell asleep without a word.

Michael was usually the silent one in any relationship, and her behavior briefly puzzled him. But she'd been fearing for her life for days now, perhaps lying awake, listening for footsteps. He winced, remembering how many times he himself had walked past her door as he patrolled the corridors.

He came up on his elbow to blow out the last candle, then drew the blankets over them both. He kissed her tousled hair, silently promising she would never have to be alone with her worry again.

C
ecilia slowly came awake, warm to her core, vaguely surprised that sunlight streamed in the windows. She'd never drawn the curtains, she drowsily thought. And she never slept this long.

And then all the rest of her senses returned in a rush as she realized she was lying on her side, that Michael was snug against her back, their naked bodies spooned together, his very obvious arousal nestled against her backside. His large arm encompassed her waist, his hand loosely cupping her breast.

She went tense with surprise and burgeoning regret, even as she heard him snore softly into her ear. Letting out her breath, she closed her eyes, barely stopping herself from groaning loud enough to wake him.

What had she done?

She'd become his wife in truth, and any chance of invalidating the marriage was gone. Her emotions seemed all jumbled inside her as the memories of their night together overwhelmed her. She'd been like an animal, so desperately in need of him, she'd allowed him to do . . . anything he wanted. It had felt good, no doubt about it, but that didn't make such absolute baseness forgivable.

She moved the tiniest bit and could already feel a tenderness at the juncture of her thighs from his lovemaking. He'd been forceful and overpowering, and she'd wanted all of it. Even now, as she stared down at his hand against her breast, she could have pressed herself into him to feel it all over again.

She couldn't be so close to him; she couldn't want him this much, depend on him. He was leaving her, and she wasn't going with him. She might be married, but it didn't mean she would lose herself in him, or lose herself in sorrow when he left. She would go on as she had before, in control of her life and her emotions. She wouldn't let herself love him or need him—he had to understand that.

But, of course, she needed his help to find whoever wanted to harm her.

But oh God, he felt so good against her, his body sinfully warm and alluring. She could have sunk into him, beneath him, and let all that rough masculinity consume her. Instead, she gritted her teeth and forced herself to slide toward the edge of the bed.

He caught her back against him, and she gasped.

“Good morning, wife,” he murmured into her ear.

She shivered at the rumbling of his voice, which seemed to echo through his ribs and into hers. His hand was no longer loose but cupped her breast firmly, playing with it, teasing it into a point that abraded his palm and made a surge of pleasure shoot all the way into the pit of her stomach. And then he slid his hand down her torso and between her thighs to boldly cup her.

She pushed him off her and vaulted from the bed, standing dazed and naked on the carpet. Where were the garments she'd so wantonly relinquished in her frenzy the night before?

Michael pushed himself up on one arm, his eyes full of admiration, the covers falling loosely about his waist. “You look exquisite with the morning sun bathing you in light.”

Without thinking about it, she crossed her arms over her breasts and groin. Laughing, he dropped back on the bed, arms wide, body arched as he seemed to stretch every muscle. She gaped at him, shocked at how much she enjoyed the sight of all the masculine beauty dominating her feminine bed.

He grinned at her, as if he knew what she was thinking. She couldn't stop staring at his face either, the way his smile transformed her sober soldier into a lighthearted lover. Once again, she had the strangest feeling that only she had ever been privileged enough to see this satisfied, relaxed side of him. It made her feel all funny and melancholy and sweet inside, and she desperately ran for her dressing gown. Only when it was belted around her did she let out her breath and close her eyes.

She practically jumped a foot when she felt his arms close about her from behind.

“Come back to bed,” he urged.

“You're naked!”

She tried to pull away, but he seemed to think it a game and only held her tighter.

“Naked and eager for you,” he replied.

“I can't do this!” she cried.

He let her go, and she only briefly saw his happiness fade before she firmly turned her back.

“Please don your trousers. I can't—I can't talk when you're like”—she waved her arm in his direction—“that!”

After a minute of rustling, he quietly said, “Very well, I'm decent. Now you can talk to me.”

She turned around to find him leaning on his cane, nude from the waist up. Briefly, she had a flash of memory of the terrible wound in his leg. But she couldn't afford to feel any sympathy right now.

And she couldn't keep looking at his impressive chest, full of muscles she couldn't imagine having, tiny ripples of them leading down his stomach. She forced herself to bravely meet his eyes and not feel sadness at the lack of emotion there. Only moments ago, he'd been so happy, but she couldn't let him think that was how their life would now be.

“I guess you have what you wanted, a legal marriage,” she said, trying to sound as impassive as he always could. “I know I initiated all of this.” She threw her arms wide. “But I would have ended it, and you pursued me.”

“You're my wife. What did you expect me to do? I did not
force
you to make love with me last night.”

“I know,” she whispered, letting out her breath in a sigh. “I'm not blaming you.”

The tension in his shoulders eased, and he took several steps toward her. “Then why are you so upset?” he asked in a quieter voice.

“Because intimacy doesn't change things between us! You need to know that. We can't have a normal marriage. You're going back to India, and I'm staying here.”

He inhaled. “After this, I thought you'd see we belong together. When Oliver reaches his maturity, you'll be free of the estate. You could travel.”

“First, you imply that my brother might mean me harm, and now you're talking as if he's a functioning earl, ready to assume every responsibility. Which is it, Michael?”

“I don't know,” he admitted. “We will find out who wants to harm you, then we'll deal with what comes after.”

“I know how I want to deal with what comes after,” she said, trying to sound like she had everything figured out. “You have a career in the army, and I'm here. I can't risk the livelihood of everyone on all the Appertan estates by abandoning them.”

“And I can't abandon my family without a source of income,” he answered, sighing. “I have some small shipping investments just beginning in India. Perhaps sometime in the future . . .”

“And you'd just give up on your career, what you're best at?” she asked pointedly. “Or do you think I'd blithely follow you to India? I won't, Michael. That country was the death of my brother and mother, even my father. It tore apart our family. I won't be second place again.”

They stared at each other, and she tried to keep composed, but for some reason, her eyes were stinging, and she knew her nose was getting red.

And then a knock sounded at the door, startling her. “May I answer my own door? I don't imagine a villain would ask permission to enter.”

“If it's the easiest, most unexpected way to get to you, he might.” He raised his voice. “Who's there?”

“Nell, milord.”

“We still have much to discuss about your current situation,” Michael said, pulling his shirt over his head and tucking it into his trousers.

His choice of words was almost amusing. She found it easier to breathe without staring at all his flesh, remembering where she'd pressed her lips, how she'd licked the salt from his skin. It was as if she were a different person in the night. “Please allow me to dress first. I'll have Nell send up breakfast, and we can eat here in privacy, where no one will overhear us.”

“Very well.”

“Come in, Nell,” Cecilia called, trying not to sound relieved.

As the maid bustled in, Cecilia knew her own face was bright red. The counterpane was in a pile near the chaise longue, and to her horror, her nightgown was in a discarded heap nearby.

“I've a bath on its way, Lady Blackthorne,” Nell said, nodding politely to Michael. “Milord, Tom tells me he's seein' to one for you.”

“My thanks, Nell,” he said.

Then, to Cecilia's surprise, he took her hand and brought it to his lips. She wanted to pull away, to furiously ask if he'd heard anything she said.

“Until breakfast, Cecilia,” he murmured, and in his eyes was a promise that their discussion wasn't over yet.

She couldn't help but stare after him as he started to leave the room.

Suddenly, Nell called, “Wait, milord, I've a message for ye. In the commotion of Lady Blackthorne's scare yesterday, and then dinner, Will forgot to let ye know he returned with a letter from yer family.”

“Returned?” Michael said blankly.

Cecilia winced. “Because of yesterday's . . . upheaval, I forgot to tell you that I sent a letter to your family first thing in the morning inviting them for a visit.” He frowned at her, and she hurried on. “I felt bad that you'd delayed visiting them, and I didn't want your mother to think that a woman of poor manners had married her son.”

When he narrowed his eyes, it was obvious that he didn't believe her explanation for even a moment.

But he turned to Nell. “And where is the message?”

She removed a sealed envelope from a pocket in her apron and handed it to him. Without looking at Cecilia, he left the room.

She stared after him, feeling both guilty she hadn't told him and irritated that he had chosen not to share the letter with her. But, of course, she would hate it if he'd gone behind her back in the same manner. Her actions seemed . . . underhanded.

She heard Nell moving about the room, humming even as she picked up the nightgown. There was nothing normal about this situation, though Nell pretended otherwise. When the maid began to remove the bedsheets, Cecilia groaned and closed her eyes, remembering that there might be evidence of her “wedding night.”

“Now there's nothin' to be shy about, milady,” Nell said matter-of-factly. “I knew the moment you were left to die in that hole that his lordship would never let you sleep alone. And such a virile man as hisself? O' course he would never be able to keep his hands from his own wife, beauty that ye are. And I say it's about time. Everyone could see how fascinated ye both were with the other.”

“Everyone but me, apparently,” Cecilia said grumpily, sitting down at her dressing table and glancing at the mirror. She stared in horror at her wild hair, her bare throat, the gaping dressing gown that showed far too much of her breasts. “Good lord!”

“That's what a man likes to see in the mornin',” Nell said with satisfaction.

“And how do you know that?” Cecilia demanded.

“I hear things . . .” she said innocently, then went back to humming.

Cecilia slipped behind the changing screen while the pages carried in the bathing tub and buckets of hot water. The bath felt soothing, and she tried not to think of anything, simply let Nell care for her.

Nell tsked over her bruised cheek. “Ye poor mite,” she murmured.

“I'm all right,” Cecilia said. “And I promise I'll take things easy today.”

“Good, ye deserve to be pampered and petted.”

And then she chuckled, even as Cecilia felt her face heat with embarrassment. Her gaze kept returning to the dressing-room door, as if she expected Michael to burst back in, wearing the furious expression she'd only seen once, when Sir Bevis had attacked her during Oliver's billiards party. She should be relieved, she told herself. She wanted to keep some distance between them, and the letter would certainly help. But Michael didn't arrive, and soon she was dressed, with breakfast on its way. Dismissing the servants, she went through the dressing room, took a deep breath, and knocked on his door.