Sally MacKenzie Bundle (105 page)

She was reaching for her spectacles when she heard a creak and then a scraping sound. She sat up, pulling the covers high. Something was moving on the other side of the room. Something white was emerging from the wall….

She tried to drag air into her lungs. She screamed as loudly as she could, which did not sound very loud at all to her. Then she dove under the covers and began her prayers like the good vicar’s daughter she once was and promised to be again if only she lived through the night.

C
HAPTER
13

Charles put aside his book. He had read the same page at least twenty times. He finally acknowledged that he was not going to make sense of it tonight.

What the hell had Stockley been doing with Emma in the long gallery this afternoon? And he’d been buzzing around her all evening as well. At least Emma had given no indication that she enjoyed the man’s attentions.

She’d bloody well better not enjoy them. She was his. He just needed to get her to acknowledge that fact.

He looked at the connecting door again. God, he would love to go in to her now. He needed to see her. To talk to her. To hold her. To…

Charles shifted position. He would have to go for another dip in the lake. He would never get any sleep in his current state of arousal. Hell, he wasn’t even certain he could get his breeches buttoned. He had to persuade Emma to marry him before a certain organ exploded—and with it all hopes for the continuation of the Draysmith line.

He sat up and swung his legs out of bed, wincing. He had never been in this painful a state. He had to
get relief soon. There were accommodating women at the local inn. Nan would take care of him—he had used her before. But he didn’t want to visit the Green Man.

In truth, the thought of taking any woman other than Emma to bed was not the least bit tempting. No, it would have to be the lake. Emma had ruined him. If she wouldn’t marry him, he was facing a long, uncomfortable life with many nocturnal swims.

He was reaching for his breeches when he heard an odd noise from Emma’s room. He froze, heart pounding. He had heard such a muffled noise before, during the war. Women who were too terrified to fill their lungs to scream properly made such a noise.

He surged off his bed, ignoring his breeches and grabbing the candlestick instead. He needed to see the enemy—and the heavy brass candlestick would put a nice dent in a man’s head if necessary.

He shoved the connecting door open, holding the candle high. No one. He searched the entire room. He saw no one, not even Emma. He came closer to the bed. There was a large lump in the center under the bedclothes. Cautiously, he grabbed a corner of the blankets and stripped them off in one quick motion.

He had found Emma. She was crouched into a ball, her head buried in her hands, her glorious hair spread around her and her lovely, white, soft, naked bottom in the air.

God, he was panting.

Emma drew in a breath and jerked up, twisting to face him.

He couldn’t even pant. He couldn’t breathe. He watched her full breasts move with her body, and his mouth went as dry as another part of him grew hard.

He had seen her bosom by the lake, but this was so much better. His eyes traced the long line of her neck, her delicate collarbone, the exquisite sweep of her milky-white breasts, her slender ribs.

“Emma?” he croaked.

“Charles?” She reached for her spectacles. “You’re naked.”

“Um, so are you, sweetheart.”

God, her eyes had dropped from his face. They were staring at the most obviously male part of him. Very obvious, very male at the moment.

“Is
that
what was under the towel this morning?”

“Yes.” Charles bit back a slightly hysterical laugh. “I usually carry it with me.”

“But how does it fit into your breeches?”

“It collapses for storage.” Charles put the candlestick carefully on the bedside table. He swallowed again, his voice shaking slightly. “Would you like to touch it?”

Emma hesitated, clearly curious. “May I?”

“Please.”

She cautiously reached out her hand. He watched her small fingers come closer. He closed his eyes for a moment as he felt their butterfly touch. It was heaven, but too fleeting.

“Do all men have such…such appendages?”

God, he was going to spill his seed just hearing her talk. “Yes, sweetheart. It’s an important part of making babies. Would you like to touch it again? I promise you won’t hurt me.”

Hurt him, no. Make him insane with lust, definitely.

Her hand came out again. This time she let her fingers explore, tracing the length of him, circling his width, even fondling the sacks that hung between his legs. He moved to give her more room to
explore, spreading his legs slightly. He grabbed the bedpost tightly, biting his lip. Sweat trickled down his back. He was going to spontaneously combust, he had no doubt of it. He only hoped he would get the opportunity to bury himself in Emma’s body before he did so.

“When I do this, it moves by itself,” Emma said, stroking him. He did leap in her palm. He clenched his teeth, savoring the waves of pleasure that rippled from her hand.

“It’s so hard and smooth, but the tip is soft and, and damp.” Her finger spread his moisture over him and he jerked in her hand again. She giggled, moving her fingers up to the thick nest of curls at his base. “And the hair here is even curlier than the hair on your head.”

He grunted and she pulled her hand back.

“Are you sure I’m not hurting you?”

“Yes. I am completely certain.” God, did he shudder when he said that? He cleared his throat. “Completely certain.”

“Your voice sounds funny.”

Because he was mindless with lust. His knees were going to give out. He swore he was going to collapse on the bed—a very good idea—but first there was something he had to get from his room.

“Emma.” Charles was delighted his brain was still capable of formulating a coherent thought. “Stay exactly—
exactly
—where you are. Do not move. At all. I will be back in a moment. Swear to me you will not move.”

“Well…” Emma flushed and reached for the bedclothes. Her hand flopped around on the naked bed. “Where are the blankets?”

“I’ll get them—later. You don’t need them now.
I promise you. They are totally unnecessary. Superfluous. Annoying, even. You are perfect the way you are. Don’t move. Please.”

She let out a short little breath. “Very well.”

“Good. Splendid. Wonderful. Stay still.”

Charles backed to the door, keeping his eyes on Emma. She did not move. In fact, she kept her eyes on the most prominent part of him. He could feel it becoming yet more prominent. Surely there was a limit to its growth? He was aching almost unbearably already.

He took a quick breath. Aching, yes, but not for much longer. Surely he would find relief tonight. If he didn’t, he would die. It was the truth. If he didn’t slide into her warm, tight body before another day dawned, he would…he would…he didn’t know what he would do, but it would not be good. At the very least he would cry. More like he would run howling through the halls of Knightsdale completely, utterly mad.

“Remember…stay right there,” he said as he reached the threshold to his room. “Do not move.”

It would take only a second to get the betrothal ring. He knew exactly where it was. He would have it on her finger in a moment. And then he would have his body in hers—but not in a moment. No. It was her first time. He would take many, many moments. He would wait until she begged him to finish it.

If he could wait that long. Sadly, he was not certain of his staying power in this particular instance. He had been able to last as long as necessary in every encounter but his first—it was a point of pride. But tonight…

He feared he would be embarrassed tonight. He couldn’t—he couldn’t fail for Emma’s sake, but she
affected him so much more than any of the others. It was almost as if he were contemplating an entirely different act, an act he had never performed before.

“Don’t move,” he said one last time.

She raised her hand to push her hair off her face. Her breasts lifted and swayed with the movement. So beautiful.

“I’ll be right back.”

He would die, he would literally expire on the spot, if she suddenly remembered she was a proper English miss.

Emma watched Charles back toward the door. The, um, pokey part of him was the oddest thing she had ever seen. It stuck straight out from his body and bobbed a bit as he walked. He had clearly wanted her to touch it, but he had acted like he was in pain when she did.

It had felt so odd—hard and soft, hot and smooth.

What could he possibly need in his room?

What was she thinking? He was probably going to get a weapon. He had come in answer to her scream, hadn’t he? It was just the shock of seeing her naked…

Lud! She grabbed again for the covers. Where were they? She crawled to the bottom of the bed and saw them lying on the floor.

“You promised you wouldn’t move.”

She jerked her head up. Charles stood in the doorway, just as naked as he’d been when he’d left.

“But I’m not complaining.” He smiled. His eyes glowed. “That is a very fetching pose, sweetheart.”

Lud, she was up on her hands and knees, every
inch of her exposed for his examination. She flopped flat on the bed. He chuckled and walked closer.

“You still don’t have any clothes on,” she mumbled into the mattress. The cool sheets felt good against her burning cheeks.

“Correct. I don’t foresee a need for clothes in the immediate future. In fact, I’m hoping that they will be very much in the way.”

Mercy. She felt his broad hand stroke down her spine from her neck to her bottom. The mattress shifted, then she felt both his hands move down her back. Her front began to throb. She buried her face deeper in the bed. His hands were skirting her sides now, brushing against her breasts, dipping between her thighs. She spread her legs. She had to fight herself to keep from lifting her body up so his hands could slide underneath her.

“Where’s your weapon?” She gasped as one of his fingers traced the cleft between her buttocks.

“What weapon?”

She moaned. His hands skimmed her thighs, so close to where she wanted them.

“Am I hurting you, sweetheart?”

She heard the laughter in his voice. “No,” she panted. She was not going to let him distract her any longer. “Isn’t that why you went back to your room, to get a weapon? You did come in here because I screamed, didn’t you?”

“That’s right, I did.” His hands left her body. She almost cried. The bed shifted again and he appeared before her. His pokey thing was pointing at her, as if it wanted to be petted again. She grabbed the sheets to keep from reaching for it.

“What exactly was I supposed to rescue you from, Emma? I don’t see anything threatening.”

She lifted her head. She had to admit that there was nothing in the room at the moment. “I saw something over there.” She gestured with her chin. “Something white, coming out of that wall.”

“Coming out of the wall? Can you be a little more specific?”

Emma flushed. “Well, I didn’t have my spectacles on at the time.”

“Ah, another ghost like the one Nanny saw.”

“No. Well, I’m sure I saw something….” Emma was almost certain—but what could it have been?

“Here?”

Charles had a very nice back. Muscles flexed and rippled as he ran his hands over the wall.

“Is this where you thought you saw your ghost, Emma?”

“Yes.” His body tapered from his broad shoulders down to his slim waist and muscled buttocks. She had had her hands on that part of him in the conservatory. He’d had breeches on then. What would his…what would
those
feel like without breeches?

“I don’t see anything, Emma.”

“Um.” She was consumed with lust. Her mind was a haze, her entire body throbbed. It was shocking, but she wanted Charles to come back to her bed. She wanted him to show her more of what he had shown her at the lake. She wanted to know everything.

Even if he didn’t love her.

It didn’t matter. She loved him.

He was the reason she had never felt the slightest interest in any other man. Meg had been right—she had seen eligible lords as no different from elderly chaperones—except for one eligible lord, that is. Charles had spoiled her for all the others.

She had loved him from the moment he had dried
her eyes in the woods when she was six years old, when he had let her shadow him, even though Robbie and James had teased him. He had been her Lancelot then, her Robin Hood.

And when she was older, he had been the hero of all the Minerva Press novels she’d read secretly in her room. He’d frequented her dreams, comforting her when she was tired or discouraged, when raising Meg and keeping house for her father had overwhelmed her. At first he’d just draped his arm around her, kissing her forehead. But after she’d seen him with the anonymous woman on the terrace at his brother’s wedding ball, he’d wrapped both arms around her, held her tightly, and kissed her on the lips.

And now? Oh, my. Now her dreams were hot, tantalizing. Frustrating. Some crucial details were still missing.

Well, she would learn them tonight. God help her, if Charles didn’t come to bed right now, she was going to cry. She was twenty-six years old. She had never been with a man. As Mrs. Begley had asked, what was she saving herself for?

Even if she had to beg Charles, she was not getting out of this bed a virgin.

He turned, and her eyes dropped to his waist. She smiled. She did not think she would have to beg.

“No sign of any ghost, sweetheart.”

“Um.”

God, Emma’s eyes had fastened on the part of him that most ached for her. He smiled. Perhaps that was not entirely true. His heart ached more. He had never thought such a feeling possible. If Emma wanted him to, he would just hold her tonight.

He fervently hoped that she wanted more of him than that. Much, much more. All of him. Every hot inch of him.

He cleared his throat and tried to clear his mind of his raging need. “I think I’d best stay here with you tonight. To protect you. Don’t you think?”