The Earl's Enticement (Castle Bride Series) (30 page)

CHAPTER 31

Stockinged feet on his desk, a glass of brandy in one hand, Roark flicked his watch open. A quarter past midnight. He snapped the timepiece shut before returning it to his waistcoat pocket. Taking a long swallow, he welcomed the warmth heating his gut. He unbuttoned his waistcoat, then the top of his shirt. His neckcloth already lay in a heap atop his desk.

What a day
.

His mind churned wearily. He couldn’t summon the strength to place his feet on the floor and walk upstairs. Tomorrow he’d have to find Helene and the von Schnitzers. They’d not returned to her house, according to her butler. Nonetheless, Roark’s men monitored the premises around the clock. At least he knew who’d started the fires now.

Rage, second only to that he’d experienced when he’d learned of Adaira’s ravishment, heated his blood and drove his thoughts. He’d sent for the local magistrate at once but didn’t expect the official’s arrival until midmorning. Roark’s gaze prowled the room, passing the whip mounted on the wall, then snapping back to it. For the first time in his life, he was sorely tempted to use the lash on someone.

He’d seen Doctor Thornton to the door over an hour and a half ago. The physician assured Roark, Adaira’s wound was superficial. Her long stays had taken the brunt of the blow. She’d only required five stitches and now, rested comfortably.

Although the ball had ended early, Roark insisted his guests eat before returning home or seeking their chambers. After all, Cook had prepared a succulent spread.

His betrothal went unannounced. Little doubt remained that every soul in attendance was already apprised of the news. He smiled ruefully and lifted his glass, offering a silent salute to his affianced asleep two floors above.

Roark had planned to check on Adaira before he retired. His obligations prevented him from looking in on her earlier. Now, the hour was much too late to go tapping on her bedchamber door. Once again, duty took precedence over his desire.

The responsibilities of an earl; never-ending, trying, and wearisome. Sighing, he lowered his feet to the floor. Wrapped in weariness, he stood. After quaffing back the remaining mouthful of brandy, he placed the glass on his desk. Grabbing his tailcoat from the back of the chair, he quit the room, eager to find his bed.

Since he fully expected a long-winded lecture from Pepperhill reprimanding him for
gallivanting about the house half-clothed
, the valet could retrieve Roark’s shoes and neckcloth in the morning. Pepperhill was happiest when acting the role of a martyr. Roark half-grinned, already hearing the valet’s fussing and clucking.

Shoulders slumped and fatigue clouding his mind, Roark climbed the stairs. He found himself standing outside Adaira’s door, seemingly born there on feet guided by his subconscious. Soft amber light glimmered in the crack paralleling the floor.

Was she still awake? Perhaps she was in pain. Or was she afraid? Given the past two days, she’d every right to be hysterical. That she wasn’t caused him to admire her all the more.

In retrospect, placing guards about the house and grounds might be prudent. He didn’t expect Helene’s rashness to extend to another abduction attempt. Still, erring on the side of caution seemed wisest.

Hearing a soft cry from within Adaira’s chamber, he tried the door’s latch. Irritation gripped him when it turned in his hand. Why wasn’t her chamber locked?

She cried out again.

He threw open the door.

A lamp burned low on the nightstand, wrapping the room in a comforting golden cocoon. Adaira, her petite form dwarfed by the bed, whimpered and thrashed. Roark reached the bed in a few long strides.

Her face contorted. She swatted weakly with her hands. “No. Stop. . .” Voice wavering on a sob, she begged, “Please stop.”

Flinging his coat onto a nearby chair, Roark sat on the edge of the bed. “Adaira.”

He touched her shoulder lightly with two fingers.

“No! she cried, lurching upright. She scurried backward until the pillows and headboard prevented further retreat.

“Shh, vixen. It’s me.” Roark laid a hand on her leg to comfort her.

Confusion and tears swam in her sleep-heavy eyes. “What?” She closed her eyelids and drew in a tremulous breath, wincing slightly. She pressed a hand to her side. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to check on you before I retired. I heard you shout.” He adjusted his position on the bed, bending one knee to rest his thigh atop the mattress. “Are you all right? Was it a nightmare?”

A haunted look shimmered in her eyes. She nodded. “Yes.”

What he wouldn’t give to go back in time and destroy the man who’d done this to her. “Do you dream of the attack often?”

“Not anymore.” She brushed hair away her face, flicking it over her shoulder. Relaxing a fraction, she said, “I haven’t had that one in years.”

Her lower lip quivered. She sucked the soft flesh into her mouth, biting it with her top teeth.

“Come here.” Roark extended his arms.

Adaira scrambled across the bed. She launched onto his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck so tightly, he doubted her brothers could pry her off. Her nightgown, rucked to her knees, exposed shapely calves and ankles.

He shifted again, extending his legs before him and settled her more comfortably on his lap. He rested against the mound of pillows at the head of the bed.

“How’s your wound?”

“A little sore.”

“Want to tell me about your dream?” he whispered into her silky hair.

She smelt like a walk in the garden. Lily, iris, lilac, summer sun, and morning breeze, condensed into one fragrant little bundle. He touched his nose to her hair and drew her sweet scent deep into his lungs.

She gave a watery chuckle against his chest. “Are you sniffing my head?”

His rumble mixed with hers. “Yes, I am. You smell wonderful.”

“You always smell wretchedly fabulous too.”

“I do?”

“Uh hum.” Adaira sighed and nestled deeper into his lap and shoulder. One hand curved behind his back, the other lay dangerously close to his groin. His member twitched, then twitched again, like a spoilt child demanding attention.

He kissed the crown of her head once more.

“The dream?” he coaxed.

She shook her head against his chest. “I don’t want to talk of it.”

A gusty sigh and a shudder followed her declaration.

Roark trailed a finger over one silky cheek. He lifted her trembling chin upward. “It might help.”

Her soulful eyes, pain and the remnants of remembered horror lurking in their depths, probed his. “I don’t want to remember. I want to forget it ever happened.”

Her focus shifted to his lips. “Will you kiss me and make me forget? At least for a while?”

Her eyes pleaded, even as her lips parted. She tilted her head, her lashes sweeping closed.

To deny her would be beyond cruel. Roark bent his neck, feathering the lightest of kisses across her mouth. She sighed and cupped the back of his head, urging him closer. He deepened the kiss, angling his head and pressing his mouth harder against her velvety softness.

One tentative nudge and she opened fully to him, meeting his tongue with her own. Adaira moaned deep in her throat, one hand running over his shoulder and chest. Breaking the kiss, he lifted her off his lap and onto the bed. He laid down beside her.

She stared at him in wide-eyed wonder. She brushed a wisp of hair off his forehead.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked seizing her hand and kissing the palm.

“Nae, don’t stop,” she whispered, a hint of Scottish brogue coloring her words. “Make me forget.”

Roark gathered her in his arms once more. He kissed her forehead, her eyes, nose, cheeks, and finally settled on her sweet mouth. She relaxed against him, sliding her hand inside the opening of his shirt.

A groan broke from him as her hand stroked and fondled his chest. Nudging her, so she lay on her back, he pressed hot kisses along the slender column of her neck and her delicate collarbone. Her breathing quickened when he trailed his kisses gradually lower. He untied the ribbons holding her nightgown closed.

“Oh, Roark,” she breathed against his mouth.

Her sweet fragrance wafted from her exposed skin. The lone lamp cast her ivory flesh in ethereal light. Parting the fabric of her gown, he stared at the full, plum-tinted nipples thrusting skyward. Brayan’s marks had already begun to fade. A fresh wave of rage crashed over Roark. He forced it aside, concentrating on the trusting woman in his arms.

Adaira arched upward, instinctively asking him to take her into his mouth. With a smile he willingly obliged, laving the tip with his tongue.

She moaned, urging him closer.

“You like that, vixen?”

She nodded, moving her legs restlessly. Roark cradled her breast and lowered his mouth over the fullness, sucking and kneading. Adaira’s breath caught. A long, sultry moan floated from her mouth.

Turning his attention to her other breast, he edged up her nightgown. He skimmed practiced fingers along the softest skin he’d ever caressed. Roark teased her, adoring her breasts with his mouth, tongue, and teeth, while his fingers made a slow, sensual journey along the inside of her quivering thighs.

Adaira ran her hands over his shoulders and back, her movements urgent, almost frantic. “Roark—”

“It’s all right, love. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.” He nuzzled his face between her breasts, his hand nearly upon the black curls at the apex of her thighs.

“Trust me, Adaira. I’ll stop the second you tell me to.”

“Don’t stop. Oh. . .”

He swirled a finger across her curls, gently flicking the bud of her femininity. She arched her hips into his hand. Little whimpers of passion and want purred from her throat. Taking her mouth with his, he tasted her sweetness, while expertly stroking and plying her folds. He barely slid one finger, then two, into her hot wetness—enough to intensify her pleasure without frightening her.

Roark increased the rhythm of his fingers, amazed at the uninhibited response of the woman in his arms.

Adaira needed a powerful memory of passion and fulfillment to obliterate the horror embedded in her memory. Though he threatened to explode in his breeches, this night was for her. He’d not frighten her with his need. He wanted her feverishly, but if he took her now, he wouldn’t be as gentle as she needed him to be.

She deserved to experience sweet release without a man’s selfish demands overshadowing her pleasure. That would come later. After they were married, and she’d learned to trust him. He might be spending a good deal of time swimming nude in the lake in the meantime.

Her whimpers against his mouth deepened. She clutched at his shirt, her hips rotating against his hand. Stiffening, she gave a gasping cry followed by a lengthy sigh. With a final shudder, she lay still. Roark caressed a plump buttock, then smoothed her nightgown over her hips.

“That was . . . amazing,” she whispered against his neck.

He levered onto his elbows, smoothing back her hair before kissing her on the nose. “And that’s just the beginning.”

A frown flitted across her delicate features. “But you didn’t. . .”

An adorable blush pinkened her skin.

He chuckled and sat up. No, he hadn’t. His hard-as-marble, painfully throbbing member was none too pleased either. He hoped to walk from her chamber with his dignity intact.

If he could manage to walk at all.

“Not this time, vixen. This time was for you.” He stood, with his back to the bed. His attempt to adjust the protesting, ill-behaved monster in his breeches proved futile.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

There was no help for it. Roark turned, ignoring the angry twitch in his groin. Adaira’s eyes widened at the eye-level lump before her.

“Oh dear.” She sent him a questioning look, a hesitant smile on her rosy lips. She stretched out her hand, her fingers grazing over him. “Does it hurt?”

Roark closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and cursed the day he’d sworn to be a gentleman. “Not too terribly much,” he managed, although even to his ears, his voice sounded strangled.

The serpent jerked angrily.

Bloody liar.

Roark tugged the covers over her. After tucking them snuggly around her shoulders, he bent and gave her a kiss.

“Goodnight, soon-to-be-wife.”

Something flickered in her gaze before Adaira curled her mouth into a beatific smile. “Goodnight.”

Roark swiveled on his stockinged heels. He snatched his coat off the chair. If he walked slowly, and if he was very lucky, and if God showed him the minutest amount of favor . . . he
might
make the door before he exploded.

The moment the chamber door clicked shut behind him, Roark collapsed against the carved wood. Eyes closed, he released a gravelly groan. He cracked open an eye, taking in his damp lower half, and groaned again. This time in chagrin, not satisfaction.

He’d never hear the end of this from Pepperhill.

Never.