The Bridegroom (15 page)

“Oh, my goodness!” Reggie exclaimed. “Is that Freddy?”

The boy swaggered up to her, grinning from ear to ear, and made a creditable bow. “It’s me right enough, Reggie.”

“Whatever are you doing here?” she asked.

“The earl says I’m to watch over his prime bits o’ blood in Scotland,” the boy said proudly. “I’m to have a home of my own someday near the castle and I—”

Clay caught Freddy’s eye and made it clear the boy should take his leave.

“I’ll be goin’ to my berth now—to get my ration of rum,” Freddy said.

“But, Freddy—” Reggie protested.

“Don’t say I’m too young to be drinkin’ rum,” Freddy said as he backed away. “I’m a man now, Reggie, with a man’s duties and—” He stumbled over a coil of rope, picked himself up with an embarrassed grin, and disappeared belowdecks.

Once the boy was gone, Reggie looked up at Clay, her eyes soft and full of pride—in him. “My lord, you have managed to surprise me again with your thoughtfulness. I have always believed you were a kind man, but this is the best wedding present you could have given me.”

Clay felt his insides squeeze tight in response to the adoration in her eyes. He did not want her admiration,
her adoration, or anything else resembling approval. His bride would soon learn that where she was concerned, he intended to be neither thoughtful nor kind. He had brought Freddy along only because he had seen the light in the boy’s eyes when it became known he planned to take ship for Scotland.

“I will need help with my cattle in Scotland,” he told Reggie, shrugging dismissively. “And the boy was willing to come.”

She placed her palm on his heart. “Yes, my lord. I can see how such a young, inexperienced boy would be the perfect choice when you are setting up a new stable.” She laughed. “You cannot convince me that what you did was not a noble gesture, or keep me from loving you for making Freddy so happy.”

His throat clogged with feeling, making it impossible to explain that he had brought the boy for his own comfort. Neither her feelings, nor the boy’s, had been any part of his decision.

He noticed her frowning at one of his men and turned to see who had caught her eye this time. Bloody hell! It was Pike. He stepped into her range of vision, circled her waist with his arm, and drew her close.

“That sailor looks exactly like—”

His mouth covered hers to distract her, while he used his free hand to wave Pike away, behind her back. He found himself caught up in the kiss, unwilling to let her go. His tongue slipped inside to claim her, as he had wanted to do since he had first laid eyes on her in the decadent wedding gown he had provided. She was pliant and sweet. “Come below with me,” he murmured
against her lips. “There is enough left of the night for me to make a wife of you.”

Her eyes looked unfocused, and she seemed a little dazed. He had already taken another step toward the stairway with her before she remembered the forgotten waltz.

“The dance, my lord,” she reminded him.

It would cause only a small delay in his plans. And he would still be holding her in his arms—indecently close, if he had his way. He took her palm in his, tightened his hold on her waist, and swept her into the dance. Pegg slowed the tune as it became necessary to waltz Reggie around the mast, under the boom, and across the hatches. He used his artful maneuvering around the ship as an excuse to pull her snugly against him, so that her soft, full breasts were crushed against his chest. He could feel her breathy laughter against his cheek as he danced her toward the companionway steps, intending to slip away even before the dance was done.

Pegg thwarted him by ending the tune abruptly. Clay turned to find out why he had stopped playing.

“I’ve forgotten the rest,” he said with a grin. He rose and headed belowdecks. “I’ll leave the night to the two of ye,” he said with a wink at Clay.

Clay looked around and realized they were alone. He had his hand on Reggie’s back, urging her toward the stairs, when she edged out of his grasp and headed for the ship’s rail. She leaned so far over the rail, she was in danger of falling off the ship—and out of her dress. His body responded with violence to the brief glance he got of her nipples before she leaned back a little, and they
were hidden from sight again beneath the square neckline of her gown and the makeshift fichu.

He joined her at the rail, standing beside her without touching. He searched for whatever had caught her eye and saw the lights of London on the opposite bank of the Thames.

“The city looks so beautiful at night,” she said, her eyes shining in the moonlight.

“The dark does a great deal to conceal the poverty and filth,” he said dryly.

“Your ship is certainly beautiful,” she said, undaunted by his sarcasm. She turned to face the mainmast and laid her arms along the ship’s rail. “Where did you get it?”

“I won it.”

“I thought you did not wager for great stakes,” she said, eyeing him askance.

“I never said that.”

“What did you risk in return for such a great prize?” she asked.

“My life. Or, rather, my services for life.”

“You wagered your freedom?” she said, aghast.

“At the time, it was all I had. I wanted—I needed—this ship, and a life spent sailing the Seven Seas did not seem such an awful fate if I lost.”

“I am glad you won,” she said fiercely, letting go of the rail and turning to face him. “And came back home to find me.”

Clay looked down at the small, delicate hand covering his own, then back up at her intense gaze. She was pleased for him. Proud of him.
In love
with him. He felt
his breath hitch in his chest. Time to get her below. Time to finish what he had started. He slid his arm around her waist. “Shall we go below?”

“Not yet,” she said, resisting him with a coy glance. “Tell me about our new home. Is it very beautiful?”

He hesitated, wondering whether to force her to go with him. He could see from the way she peeked at him from beneath lowered lashes and then looked away, that she was nervous, anxious perhaps in the way a maiden would be on her wedding night. One more brief delay would not make any difference.

“Castle Carlisle is perched on a cliff above the sea,” he said in answer to her question. “You can hear the waves crashing on the rocks far below if you try hard enough. I always imagined I could, anyway. As a boy, I used to stand on that cliff and look out to sea and wonder what was beyond the horizon.”

“So you came by your love of the sea honestly,” she said with a shy smile.

“I would never have chosen to see it the way I did,” he said brusquely. He needed to remind her—and himself—of the passage he had made in chains. And finish what he had set out to do. “Come, my love, it is time—”

“Not yet. Please,” she said, sliding farther down along the rail. “Tell me about your family.”

“They are all dead.”

She turned to stare at him, her eyes filled with sorrow, and he felt desire rise like a dragon inside him, talons ripping at his insides. He fought the fierce need, struggled to subdue it. He had only one use for her. He could not afford to indulge the dragon.

She stepped back when he reached for her and babbled, “I lost my mother when I was only six. A tragic fall down the stairs at Blackthorne Abbey.”

“Gossip says she was drunk,” he said ruthlessly. “And that your father pushed her.”

“What a wretched thing to say! Especially when it isn’t true!” She glared at him in indignation.

He stared at her, not backing down.

“Perhaps Mama was drunk,” she conceded at last. “But Papa could never have done such a thing. He is too kind, too—”

“How did you get this scar?” he interrupted. He traced the tiny scar that sliced through her upper lip.

“Papa said—” She hesitated, then looked up at him. “I will not lie to you, my lord. Papa told me it was an accident, but one of the maids let the truth slip. Papa was sitting in a rocking chair, holding me over his shoulder, when Mama threw a crystal goblet against the stone wall near his head. The glass shattered and one of the fragments ricocheted and cut my lip.”

He resisted the urge to kiss her, to take away the wounded look in her eyes. Instead, he said what he knew would cause her pain. “Rumor says the duke and his first duchess fought often and loudly.”

“I don’t believe—”

“And that your uncle is really your father.”

Her face paled, and she looked at him with haunted eyes. “How dare you repeat such vicious, vicious blasphemy! Uncle Marcus would never—Papa is—” She stared at him, speechless with outraged hurt.

“Hearsay can often be mistaken for truth when you do not look hard enough to find the truth,” he said.

He watched as understanding dawned in her eyes. “As my father did not look closely enough to see the truth about you,” she said slowly. “And thus failed to discover your innocence.”

He said nothing. He simply scooped her up in his arms and headed briskly toward the steps that led below. He tried to see her features in the dark companionway, but it was not until he had reached his cabin and shut the door behind them that he saw the hurt and confusion on her face.

He set her down and took a step back.

“My lord, can we not delay—”

“No.”

“A gentleman would wait until his bride—”

“Take off that dress,” he ordered.

“I will not.”

Her anger only made him want her more. He reached behind her and gave a yank, and pearl buttons went flying. The gown fell away from her shoulders, leaving only the net fichu and the sheer chemise to cover her.

“Let’s get rid of this,” he said, pulling the net free of her shoulders and tossing it aside. He had purposely had the gown cut in a style more fit for a courtesan than a wife. After all, that was the role he had planned for her—a woman to be used and discarded when he was done with her. He had admired her ingenuity in creating a fichu from the veil, but her attempt at propriety had only made the dress more enticing. “Now, let me see what I have.”

He surveyed her as he would a horse at Tattersall’s, murmuring sounds of approval as his eyes lingered on the various assets he discovered. He intended to humiliate her. He intended to make her cringe from him. He intended to hurt her as he had been hurt by her father.

She stood before him proudly, daring him to touch her. Daring him to take her. She had no idea the harm he could cause if he chose. But he did not choose to wound her further tonight. And then he remembered. There was one more unavoidable wound to be inflicted—when he broached her.

“Perfect,” he announced at last. “And every inch of that perfection mine to enjoy.”

She stood like a beautiful marble statue as he began to kiss her, to touch her, to skillfully seduce her. The cold stone began to melt like ice in the heat of the sun. Her helpless, mewling sounds of excitement spurred him to touch more, to take more. He saw the surprised look in her eyes, the need she could not bear to feel, the pleasure she could not deny, and felt a surge of triumph.

By the time she decided to fight, it was too late. The battle was already won. Her hands clutched frantically at his hair while her body molded itself to his. It took little more effort on his part to urge her complete surrender.

“What do you want from me?” she whispered.

It was a plea for mercy. But there was no mercy in him.

Clay had nothing to lose. He decided to ask for what he wanted, pleasures a husband did not normally seek from his wife, but found only with his mistress. “Undress me,” he said.

She looked at him in shock, but then reached with trembling hands for his neck cloth, pulling the ends and releasing the elegant
trône d’amour
. She slid the strip of linen from beneath his shirt and let it fall to the floor, then began unbuttoning his waistcoat.

He reached for the straps of the chemise and drew them down off her shoulders.

She quickly crossed her arms over her breasts to keep herself covered. “I would not have worn such a garment if there had been any choice. It was all I could find.”

“I know,” he said. “I chose it on purpose. I wanted to see you this way.”
As a mistress. As a person intended for my pleasure. Not as a wife
. “Don’t hide yourself. You are quite lovely.” He unwound her arms, and the chemise slid to her waist. “And you are mine now.”

She reached out in turn to unbutton his shirt, shoved it aside, and put her hands flat on his chest. “And you are mine.”

She met his gaze defiantly, and he felt a sudden flare of desire. And unwelcome shame. And then anger, because she was only an instrument of vengeance. There would be no belonging of one to another, only his possession of her. She must submit to him; she was his wife.

He grasped her breasts roughly in his hands, intending to shock her, but her eyes slid closed, and she moaned deep in her throat. He kissed her hard, his teeth biting at her lips, his breathing harsh as his blood began to pound and his body hardened. He took her nipple in his mouth, biting and sucking as though she were an experienced courtesan.

She gave a guttural cry, and her hands tore at his hair.
He lifted his head, expecting her to punish him, but she wanted only her mouth on his. She returned the bites he had given her as her body arched against his own.

He clutched her hips, afraid she would lurch away with virginal fright when she felt his hardness between her thighs. But her body tipped into his own, and she rubbed herself against him, eyes closed, her head thrown back in total exultation, making an animal sound that provoked a lust he had never imagined he could feel.

He did not think, could not think, overwhelmed by a rapacious need that demanded satisfaction. He stripped her bare as she tore his clothes from him. Her hands found places he had not known could crave a woman’s touch, and she moaned and writhed beneath the onslaught of his hands and his mouth.

They fell onto the bed together, their arms and legs tangled, their bodies already slick with sweat, their breathing labored.

“I feel so much,” she said breathlessly. “More than I ever dreamed I would. And you are so beautiful, so strong and—”