Ryan's Bride (14 page)

Once she gained a little weight and got over her experiences of living in the catacombs and being in jail, she would be in good health and able to have fine children. In addition, he would see to it that she learned everything necessary to function in and be a part of Richmond society. She would eventually take charge of the household. As the wife of the plantation master, it was only right that she do so. Clarice might not like it, but she would have to accept it.

Dinner passed in a blur of banal conversation with others seated at their table, food Ryan hardly tasted, and too much wine to try to quell anticipation of the night ahead.

Corbett also had too much to drink, and Ryan saw how it appeared to make Angele uncomfortable when he held his Champagne glass up in toast to the newlyweds. She looked as though she wanted to sink from her chair and crawl beneath the table.

Not long after that, she excused herself, declining dessert and tea with the ladies while the men went to their salon for cigars and brandy.

Walking with the other men, Corbett caught up to Ryan and whispered, “I can’t believe you’re wasting time like this on your wedding night. Why do you want to smoke cigars and drink when you can be in bed with your bride?”

“And sometimes I can’t believe how uncouth you can be, Corbett,” Ryan snapped. He turned from the direction of the smoking salon and went instead out on deck.

Corbett was right behind him. “I didn’t mean to make you angry. I just don’t understand why you aren’t in your cabin.”

“I’m giving my wife time to herself.”

“Your
wife
.” Corbett snickered. “You know, I still find all of this hard to believe.”

“Well, it’s not important that you do. But at least you’ve had the good manners to make her think you approve.”

“Whether you believe me or not, I have nothing against Angele personally, and I hope you know I hated telling you about her going off with that man, because I don’t want to be involved in any of this. But I have to say I’m surprised you went ahead and married her after you heard about it.”

Actually, Ryan had thought about saying to hell with it, but he had a lot invested in her…and he also wanted her. “I don’t think it’s anything to worry about.”

“Did you ask her about it?”

“Not directly. I don’t want her thinking you followed her. We’re married now, Corbett, and there has to be peace. She’d resent you if she knew you told me, and I don’t want that.”

“I don’t, either. And if you’re not worried, then neither am I. There’s probably a logical explanation.” He slapped Ryan on the back. “And now that you’ve done it, you know I wish you well.”

“Thanks. Now, why don’t you go join the men? I’d like to be alone.”

“Sure. Sure. I’ll see you at breakfast—if you can get up that early.” With a wink, Corbett went back inside.

Ryan waited a few moments, then decided it was time to go to the cabin. He had given Angele ample time to prepare herself.

He was ready—and eager—to claim his bride.

Angele wished she hadn’t drunk so much. Wine always made her sleepy. Combined with the Champagne, she had hardly been able to keep her eyes open, but at least she was relaxed—on the surface, anyway. Her heart had stopped threatening to leap right out of her chest and her hands had quit shaking. But she had not trusted herself to contribute to dinner table conversation. She had left that to Ryan and Corbett and the two couples seated with them, afraid she would stammer or stutter if she tried to join in.

Once, when Ryan had leaned back laughing at something someone said, his legs had spread slightly, causing his thigh to press against her. She had glanced down, to where her hand had lain earlier, but quickly looked away.
What was wrong with her, for heaven’s sake?
She was acting like a strumpet. At least she thought she was, even though she had no idea how a strumpet behaved. But ladies weren’t supposed to enjoy looking at a man’s privates, and, despite things that had happened in her past, Angele considered herself a lady.

It was the wine, she had told herself, and had pushed her empty glass away. Then Corbett signaled to the waiter to have it refilled, and, because the butterflies were starting to swarm in her tummy again, she drank it.

She had been grateful when it was all over. And it was only with much effort that she was able to walk back to the cabin without stumbling. Her head was spinning and starting to ache, and, dear Lord, she was so drowsy.

She had undressed quickly, not bothering to hang up her gown. Tossing it on the floor, she grabbed up the nightdress she had bought. Plain, unshaped, and made of muslin, it had a falling collar with a frill that continued down the front opening as a border. The sleeves were long, gathered into a cuff, and fastened by a handmade button. Ryan had told the dressmaker in Paris they were to be married, and she had suggested something more revealing in silk or satin, but Angele had refused.

She knew the steward had been to the cabin, because the lantern was burning when she entered and the bed covers had been turned back. Angele crawled beneath them, pulling a blanket all the way to her nose. Tears stung her eyes as she prayed Ryan would be gentle and do it quickly.

She also prayed to stay awake, but that prayer quickly went unanswered as the wine carried her away to a deep, deep sleep.

She was hiding in the stables, beneath a pile of straw. If only her mother would return, she would be safe. Her uncle would not dare touch her then. But he had sent her to the village on an errand, and Angele knew it was because he wanted her to be alone…and helpless. For weeks he had warned he would have his way with her and she would be wise to stop rebuking him. So she had run away from the manse, intending to hide for as long as necessary.

They were both at his mere he taunted, forced to look to him for every bite that went into their mouths.

Cecil Mooring had shamed his family, Uncle Henry delighted to remind, and the only thing that stood between them and poverty was his charity—which they would not enjoy much longer if Angele didn’t agree to marry him. And if she refused, he swore he would ultimately have her anyway.

Angele could not bring herself to give in and had not let her mother know what he was up to. The poor soul had been through enough and was sickly. So Angele fought to keep her uncle at bay and hide everything from her mother.

Suddenly thick strong fingers wrapped about her ankles, and Angele screamed as she was yanked, facedown, from the straw. He yelled at her to shut up, and when she continued to scream, he slapped her till she was nearly unconscious.

He pinned her wrists above her head, holding with one hand while he used his other to roughly tear off her clothing. She squeezed her eyes shut against the hot, stabbing pain, and…

She screamed, long and loud, because the nightmare was real. He was there, beside her, drawing up her nightdress as his hot, moist lips trailed across her cheeks.

“Angele, stop it!” Ryan clamped his hand over her mouth. She was twisting and writhing from side to side as she fought, and a nail raked the corner of his eye. He was finally able to grasp her wrists, folding her arms across her chest as he gave her a vicious shake. “Stop it, I say. What is wrong with you? I’m your husband now. I have a right to touch you…”

She became still, staring up at him in the lantern’s mellow glow. He was not her uncle. He was her husband, as he said, and she knew where she was and why she was there and realized she had been having the nightmare again.

As she seemed to wilt beneath him, Ryan slowly relaxed his hold, then rolled to the side to look at her, bewildered. “My God, what made you do that?”

“I…I was asleep,” she managed to say, still trembling. “You…you startled me.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I was just going to crawl into bed with you and kiss you awake, like this…”

His mouth dosed over hers, gentle yet demanding. She didn’t respond and lay like a statue in his arms. He had released her hands, but she still held them to her bosom.

He slipped his tongue between her lips to part them, but she drew back.

He began to pull her nightdress up, warm fingers dancing up her legs. Angele’s spine went so rigid she feared it would snap. He was naked, and she could feel the hard swelling against her bare thigh. He spread her legs and used his knee to keep them apart.

“No, wait…” she begged. “I…I can’t do this…”

“Of course you can,” he murmured, his tongue licking her neck. “I’ll be easy, and I’ll make it good for you. Just relax.”

“No, please, don’t…” She pushed against his chest, but it was like pushing at stone. “Don’t touch me.”

She bucked against him as he slipped his hand between her legs and began to stroke.

He slipped a finger inside her, and despite her terror, a warm sweetness began to spread upward, and she felt a sweet hot shudder as he began to massage her pearly nub. “Tell me you like it,” he commanded. “Tell me it makes you want more…”

Her legs went straight, toes pointing, and she tried harder to push him away, but he held her tightly, pressing his arm across her chest as he continued the tender assault of her cleft. “You have to like it,” he said throatily, as his own desire was swelling to bursting.

“No, leave me alone!” she cried, bucking from side to side.

He was determined to give her pleasure quickly before he lost control and spilled outside her. He dove his middle finger deep and up as his thumb took over the near-frenzied assault of the nucleus of her sex.

He felt her coming against his finger, but instead of moaning with delight, she was sobbing as though he were hurting her. He knew he wasn’t. Not yet, anyway, and he didn’t want to but had to have her then and there.

As the last shudders subsided, he entered her, slowly at first but then hard and furious to feel no resistance, no tearing of her maidenhead. And as he took himself to glory, the awareness screamed at him above the ecstasy of climax that she was not a virgin.

She had lied.

As soon as he finished, he pulled from her and stood beside the bed to glower down at her. “Why in hell did you fight me? Why did you act like you were scared to death? You weren’t a virgin. You lied, Angele.” He reached to snatch the sheet away that she had pulled to her chin in terror as he blazed out at her. “See?” He pointed accusingly between her legs. “There’s no blood. And I felt nothing holding me back.”

She continued to stare up at him, tongue damped between her teeth to keep from crying. She tasted blood.

“Why did you lie to me? You should have known I’d find out the truth.”

She swallowed hard, lifted her chin, and reminded herself she would not fear him. Not ever. To fear was to be weak, and she had promised herself never to surrender to weakness again. “I owe you nothing but submission,” she said defiantly.

“Remember that,” he warned. “And I warn you—never resist me again. You are my wife now, and I’ll have you any time I want, any way I want. I don’t care how many men you’ve had in the past, but don’t pretend virtue with me. And from this day forward, you will be faithful—or else.”

He dressed quickly and stormed out of the cabin.

Angele could only watch in pained silence, wondering if perhaps she had, tragically, chosen the wrong path to her destiny.

Chapter Ten

It had been a long time since Ryan had left the cabin. Angele worried he would drink too much, because he was so upset with her.

After tossing and turning and knowing she wouldn’t get any sleep, she decided it would probably be best if she went somewhere and hid till morning. It would be better to face his wrath when he was sober. Maybe then she could find a way to make him see she wasn’t immoral like he thought.

Snatching up the gown she’d worn to dinner, she put it on and wrapped a warm shawl around her shoulders. It would be chilly on deck, and that was the only place she could think of to go. She remembered it had been private on the stem, thanks to the bulkhead. No one would see her there.

Stepping outside, she pulled the shawl tighter against the biting ocean wind.

She turned to the rear of the ship but hadn’t gone far when she heard music and the sounds of revelry. It came from below, in steerage.

Walking slowly, she pressed close to the interior walls, not wanting to venture too far out on the deck until she made sure the way was clear and none of the steerage people had drunkenly found their way upstairs. The last thing she needed was a confrontation with rowdies and no one about to come to her aid if needed.

She wished she had admitted to Ryan she wasn’t a virgin. Without going into detail, she could have let him know it was not by her choice. But she had tried so hard to put it from her mind, to pretend it hadn’t happened, that the lie had slipped easily from her lips. To tell the truth would have brought the horror crashing down again, but now he thought the worst.

And what had made him ask if she’d met a man in Paris? There was no way anyone could know. And now she wondered if maybe she should have told him about that, as well. Surely he would not have been angry over her wanting to have a marker put on her mother’s grave. But, feeling so insecure and desperate, she’d been afraid to take any chances.