The Accidental Bride (12 page)

Phoebe frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“It will be a Pyrrhic victory at best,” he said with a sigh.

Phoebe hesitated. The conversation seemed to make him gloomy and that was not the mood she wanted for this evening.

“Well, I’m glad you managed to get home,” she said, swiftly changing the subject. “When I saw the snow, I wasn’t sure whether you’d be able to.” She swooped suddenly on the fire and, seizing the poker, began to stab at the logs with businesslike ardor.

“Be careful. You don’t want sparks flying onto that ten-guinea gown,” Cato observed.

“Do you like it . . . the gown, I mean?” Phoebe dropped the poker with a clatter in the hearth and straightened, facing him.

Cato considered her with a quizzical eye. “Why is it so creased? It wasn’t this morning.”

“Oh.” Chagrined, Phoebe looked down at her dark red skirts and saw how the silk was crumpled. “I expect it’s because I was sitting cross-legged all afternoon.” The explanation was so helplessly resigned that Cato smiled. What a ragged robin she was. And what an amazingly intense blue were her eyes. Quite magnificent with their thick fair lashes.

“Should I ask why?”

“I was writing my pageant. I can’t seem to write at a table like ordinary people. I don’t get inspiration that way.”

Cato regarded her over the lip of his tankard. “So, what’s the subject of this pageant?”

Phoebe’s cheeks took on a deeper pink. Could he be mocking her? He’d never expressed any interest before.

“It’s about Gloriana,” she said cautiously. “Queen Elizabeth, you know.”

“Yes, I do know. That’s a big subject.”

“Oh, it’s huge,” Phoebe agreed, unable to hide her enthusiasm now, her eyes star-bright.

“You must be very ambitious,” Cato observed.

“Well, I think I am,” Phoebe confided. She glanced up at him from beneath lowered lids. “I was hoping you would take a part, my lord.”

Cato laughed. “As if I have time for such playacting, my dear girl.”

“No,” Phoebe said, “I don’t suppose you do. I’ll go and tell Olivia to come for supper.”

T
he clock on the mantel struck nine. Phoebe stopped her
restless pacing around the bedchamber. When would he come? It seemed an eternity since they’d left the supper table. The maid had removed the warming pan and turned down the coverlet. The fire was banked; only the candles on
the mantel remained lit. The chamber was prepared for the night. It wanted only the master.

Phoebe repositioned the fireside chair for the fifth time, moving it so that its back was more fully turned to the window. She was going to conceal herself behind the heavy velvet curtains. Cato would not go near them when he came to bed. The night was dark as pitch, snow still falling heavily; he’d have nothing to see if he looked out of the window.

She went to the bed again and checked that the bed-curtains were completely drawn, not a chink showing. He never touched them until he came to bed, after he’d snuffed the candles. But supposing tonight he did. Supposing tonight he looked behind them for some reason when he first entered the chamber. The fact that he’d never done it before didn’t mean he would never change his routine.

In a panic, Phoebe flew behind the bedcurtains. She shoved the bolster into the bed, pulling the cover up over it. It didn’t look in the least like a person, but it would be dark and the mound would surely satisfy him. He would be expecting to see a shape and that’s what he would see.

But when would he come?
Most nights it was soon after nine o’clock. Phoebe grimaced. She guessed that he came up early out of consideration for her. Their coupling was a perfunctory enough business without waking her up for it. So he got it over with before she went to sleep. Quite often, afterwards, he would get up again and go to work in his study. And most mornings he was awake and out of the house before she stirred. Indeed, one could hardly tell that they shared a bed at all.

But that was about to change.

She went to the door and opened it a crack. The corridor was dimly lit by the candles sconced at either end. She could hear nothing. The household rose at first light and went to bed as soon as the supper dishes were cleared away.

Phoebe tiptoed into the corridor and crept soundlessly to
the stairs. The hall was lit only by the fire. Then she heard a door open. The study door. She caught the flicker of a carrying candle.

Phoebe turned and raced back to the bedchamber. She dragged off her nightrobe and, naked, dived behind the window curtains. It was freezing! Icy drafts needled through every tiny gap in the window frame. Her teeth chattered. How could she possibly hope to be seductive when her skin was all pimpled like a plucked goose? she thought in despair. Why did things never work out the way they were supposed to?

But there was no time to remedy the situation even if she knew how. The door opened and Cato came in.

Phoebe glanced down at her feet. She couldn’t see her toes. Oh God! They were sticking out from under the velvet curtain. She scrunched them tightly, inching them backward. Her heart was hammering so hard she couldn’t understand how Cato could fail to hear it.

Cato set his carrying candle on the small table and glanced around the chamber. The bedcurtains were tightly drawn as usual. A small sigh escaped him.

He pulled off his boots against the jack and began to undress methodically, hanging his clothes in the armoire as he removed them. Shirtless but still in his britches, he sat down in the chair to take off his stockings.

And something fell across his eyes, blinding him. His hands flew to his eyes as the thin silk was suddenly pulled tight across them.
“What the hell. . .”

He made to jump up and then something landed in his lap, forcing him back into the chair. His hands encountered soft but chilled skin. The unmistakable contours of a naked female body.

For one astounded instant Cato thought he was in the midst of a delusion—either that or he’d fallen asleep without knowing it and was having some extraordinary dream bred of frustration.

Then the body in his lap twisted slightly and he was vibrantly aware of soft breasts pressed against his bare chest. This was no dream. He reached to tear off the strip of silk covering his eyes.

“No, please don’t. Not for a minute.” Phoebe spoke softly but urgently against his ear, her hands closing over his wrists, trying to prevent him from uncovering his eyes. A ludicrous shyness prompted the request. Sitting naked in his lap was one thing, but she didn’t want him to see her, not yet.

Cato let his hands fall. He didn’t know what was happening, but his body was responding to the warm weight in his lap, and the desire to discover what she would do next drove reason from his mind.

He closed his eyes beneath the silk and his hands began to roam of their own accord.

“Why are you so cold?” he asked, cupping the curve of a breast in his palm.

“I was standing in a draft, behind the window curtain,” Phoebe replied, her voice muffled against his throat. For so many weeks she had longed to press her lips against the fast-beating pulse, and now tentatively, shyly, she did so.

“Of course. Such a simple explanation,” Cato murmured. “Why didn’t I think of it myself?” He circled the nipple with his finger and it rose hard beneath his touch.

Phoebe felt the first tug in her loins, a deep and wonderful sense of fullness. She moved in his lap, an unconscious little wriggle of pleasure.

Cato scooped her other breast into his free hand, teasing the nipple with his thumb. His blindness seemed to heighten his sense of touch. He had never explored her body, not with his eyes nor with his hands, and it was now as if she were quite new to him. Untouched and unknown territory waiting to be discovered. And indeed this softly sensuous, deeply responsive girl in his lap bore no resemblance to the stiff, taut woman who had endured his sexual invasions, rigid with revulsion, night after night.

He moved his hands down to her belly, smoothing over its soft roundness. It was tender and sweet like a juicy plum. He dipped a finger into her navel, a surprisingly deep indentation, soft as the silk covering his eyes.

Phoebe stirred again in his lap, her thighs parting in involuntary invitation. Little spasms of pleasure were darting through her loins now, and she was aware of a strange little ache of need between her thighs. It was hard to tell where it was centered, impossible to describe exactly how it felt, but it seemed to intensify as Cato’s hands slid over her belly.

“Untie the scarf,” Cato commanded softly. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but it’s no longer a game of blindman’s buff.”

Phoebe obeyed, her fingers fumbling with the knot at the back of his head. The scarf fell away but her hands stayed where they were, her fingers straying through his hair, getting to know the shape of his skull, tracing the curve of his ear. She wanted to know every part of him. Not a hair or an inch of skin could be ignored. She wanted to know his eyebrows, the little frown lines crisscrossing his forehead, the grooves beside his long nose, the little cleft in his chin.

Cato’s own exploration ceased for a minute. He rested his head against the back of the chair, regarding her with a puzzled half smile. She bent and kissed his eyelids, the tip of her tongue moistening the thin skin.

“Just what is going on here?” he inquired. “And no . . .” He raised a forestalling finger. “Don’t tell me you wanted to surprise me.”

“I wanted to show something to you,” she said. “I couldn’t think of any other way to do it. Does it matter? Is this not good?”

“Oh, yes, it’s good,” Cato said. “And it’s an ungrateful man who’d look such a gift horse in the mouth, even if he doesn’t have the first damn inkling of how or why it’s been given to him.” With a lazy smile he put his hands at her waist and repositioned her on his lap, so that she was leaning back
against him. Then he slid his hands inside her thighs and parted her legs.

“I think it’s time I surprised
you.”

Phoebe’s eyes widened. She felt suddenly exposed, as if her secret places were laid open, and with a jerky little movement tried to resist the pressure of his hands.

Cato moved one hand to her belly again, stroking and kneading the silken flesh. His other found her breast and tugged gently on her nipple, rolling it between finger and thumb.

The ache sprang fresh and new again and the little pulse in Phoebe’s loins began to throb. Her thighs fell open of their own accord and she offered no resistance this time as the hand on her belly slid between them.

He touched her, gently opening the flower of her sex. Phoebe moved against his fingers, aware now only of the hot, wet center of her being. He found the erect little bud of pleasure and teased it with the tip of a finger, flicking delicately until she moaned, hovering on the brink of a maelstrom of sensation, her belly and thighs tightening, her loins quivering. His fingers slid within her as his thumb continued to play on the swollen little nub.

Phoebe gave a little cry almost of surprise as the first sweet ripple of ecstasy radiated from his fingers, moving up into her belly and along her thighs. She twisted on his lap, pushing herself against his hand under the spiraling urgency of pleasure. Then something astounding burst deep within her, making her cry out, her breathing swift and shallow, as streamers of delight shot through her body.

Cato held her as she quivered in his arms, the entire surface of her skin flushed and damp against his chest.

Phoebe’s loins were filled with a delicious languor and yet deep inside her the faint stirrings of desire renewed themselves. She brushed his mouth with hers. Her lips touched the tip of his chin then trailed down the strong brown column of his throat. Her tongue darted against the pulse at its
base and then painted downward. She found his nipples and her lips closed over them, her tongue flicking, her teeth lightly grazing.

The scent of him filled her with heady need. It was musk and leather and lavender. She wanted him . . . all of him. She could feel his hardness pressing against her bottom and she moved seductively against it as she played with his nipples.

Cato gave a little sigh as he yielded to the irrational power of desire. It was a tiny sound that filled Phoebe with an almost triumphant satisfaction. Following blind instinct, she squiggled her hand between their bodies, her fingers pulling at the fastening of his britches. Her hand slid within the loosened waistband to close over his erection.

His penis jumped against her palm. It was hot and hard and her finger brushed the jewel of moisture at its tip. Cato slipped a hand beneath her bottom and lifted her off him just enough to enable him to release his swollen flesh. It sprang forth, and Phoebe with a little moan of delight moved her thighs to take him between them.

Cato’s head fell back against the chair with a soft murmur of satisfaction. He scooped her breasts into his palms, playing with her nipples as she squeezed him between her thighs, pressing her sex against him, bringing the ripples of delight in her belly to dancing life again.

Phoebe swiveled on his lap until she was facing him. Again she seemed to know instinctively what to do. She brought one leg over so that she was sitting astride him and then raised herself and lowered her body onto the hard, thrusting shaft of flesh. She took him deep within her moist and opened body, feeling him touch her womb as she pressed down on his thighs.

Cato grasped her hips and stretched his legs beneath her. The movement changed the sensation inside her and she gasped. He smiled and drew his legs up again. He moved his hard muscled thighs, bouncing her on his lap.

Phoebe gazed at him, her eyes locking with his in astounded
wonder. She leaned forward, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, so that every part of her sensitized body was touching him. His tongue snaked over the mounds of her breasts, licked down through the deep cleft between them. Phoebe threw back her head as sensation ripped through her, seeming to tear her apart, hurling her through space into star-shot oblivion.

Cato cried out with the strength of his own climax; his penis throbbed deep within her velvety sheath as her inner muscles closed around him with a life all of their own.