The Winter Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance) (29 page)

There was a short silence. Then he said, “Many women—many ladies—react uninhibitedly when in the extremity of, er, lovemaking.”

She said nothing.

“Speaking as the man involved, I found it delightful.”

“Delightful?”
She turned her head to stare at him. “But I scratched and bit you. I screamed, like . . . like one of those vixens we heard that night.”

He smiled. “Yes, but you didn’t hurt me at all. And when a man and a woman lie together, it’s perfectly natural for the animal part of our nature to take over.”

She shook her head. “It’s never . . . never happened to me before.”

“No, but then again, you’ve never had a man make love to you before.”

“What?” She gave him a puzzled look. “But I told you—”

“What happened to you on the ship was not the same thing at all,” he said in a hard voice. “That swine used your body for his own selfish satisfaction.” His voice deepened as his arms tightened around her and he murmured softly in her ear, “I made love to you, hoping you would find pleasure in the act. You did, didn’t you, Damaris? Find pleasure? Just a little?”

She felt a blush warming her face and wriggled a little, turning her face away, not wanting to let him see how much she’d enjoyed it.

“Because if you keep squirming on my lap like that, I will be forced to make another attempt.”

She froze, and he laughed softly. “My sweet innocent, has your puritanical missionary father taught you to be ashamed of your sexual nature? Is that it?”

She gave a small, awkward shrug.

His arm tightened around her. “Thought so. But he couldn’t be more wrong. The pleasure a man and woman find when they lie together is part of God’s plan.”

God’s plan?
She’d never heard anything so outrageous in her life. Her father’s God disapproved of pleasure of any sort. It was probably some piece of nonsense Freddy was making up—he had admitted to not being the slightest bit religious—but she had to confess she was curious. Forgetting not to wriggle, she squirmed around to face him. “How do you work that out?”

He groaned and adjusted her position on his lap. “I suppose you believe the story that God created man and woman.” She nodded, and he kissed her lightly on the nose. “Excellent, and a very tasty little piece of rib you are. So if you believe that, you must believe everything about you was designed by Him.”

Again, though a little more cautiously, she nodded.

“Then let me demonstrate.” He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. “Pleasure, pain, or nothing?”

She just gave him a look. Of course it was pleasure.

“And when I do this?” He cupped her breasts and stroked her nipples through the fabric of her dress. They rose. “Pleasure, pain, or nothing?”

She gave a shuddery little sigh.

“Pleasure?” he asked and she managed a nod, though his thumbs were still teasing her. “Can you make your nipples rise, according to your will?”

“N-no,” she managed. It was a stupid question. They just did. When it was cold or when he did . . . that.

He drew up the skirt of her dress, baring her legs to the cool air, and stroked the delicate skin of her inner thighs. She shivered, but not from the cold.

“Pleasure?”

“Yes,” she said on a gasp. Her legs quivered and fell apart as his hand crept higher. He cupped her at her apex and one long finger slipped between her heated folds. “And when I do this?”

She moaned.

“You will notice a certain part of my anatomy has risen and is hard and demanding your attention,” he murmured, rolling them both over on the bed.

She had no idea why he was telling her—it was perfectly obvious to them both. His fingers were busy stroking, circling, rubbing. She was too distracted to answer.

“And here, at your center, you’re all moist and slippery and delicious.” He demonstrated with his fingers, moving in a slow, rhythmic way that was driving her crazy. Suddenly he stopped. His fingers moved away and she felt a draft against her moist, heated skin. He lightly touched her entrance. “Can you make yourself go wet in this way?”

She moved against his hand in mute appeal.

“Answer the question. Can you choose to make yourself go wet?”

“No.” She blinked at him, wondering why he was asking her these stupid questions. “Not like that. It just happens when . . . when you . . . you know.”

“Oh, I know. I just wanted to make sure you knew—it’s not something you just decide to make happen, is it? It’s the result of desire. You need to be pleasured for this moisture to come.” His fingers resumed their stroking. “And it comes to make it easier for me to do this.” He shifted over her and entered her with one long, slow thrust and she moaned. Her legs, virtually of their own volition, rose and closed around his hips. “That’s . . . yes . . .” He groaned and started to move within her. “And . . . so we . . . ahh . . . yesss . . .”

She caught his rhythm and they moved together faster and faster until . . .

The little death. Which was a glorious celebration of life.

Later, when they’d recovered, he slid from her body with a little smile. “See? God’s plan for men and women,” he said solemnly, in the manner of completing a rather dull lecture.

Still floating on a little cloud of bliss, she frowned and tried to concentrate. “Hmm?”

“Tut, tut, wench, haven’t you been paying attention? Must I go over it all again?”

“I wouldn’t mind,” she murmured and stroked her hand down his stomach.

He picked up her hand and kissed it. “Enough of that, insatiable creature. I’m explaining something to you and it’s very important. God’s plan.”

“Oh. Yes?” she said vaguely.

“Yes. The pleasure men and women receive from lying together. Without the pleasure, it would happen far less frequently, and then where would we be? Would we be so happy about going forth and multiplying, as we’re told to do in the Bible?”

She stretched languorously and didn’t answer.

He went on. “Stop distracting me and listen. No, we wouldn’t. So the pleasure is all part of God’s plan and it is your sacred duty to enjoy it to the best of your ability. The future of the human race depends on it.”

It was so ridiculous she burst out laughing. “God’s plan indeed.”

“Are you doubting my word, wench?” He held her down threateningly.

She giggled and managed to say in a prim and virtuous tone, “If that’s what you want to believe, sir, who am I to argue?”

“Good, and since I am to be your husband, I insist you believe it too.”

In the silence that followed she heard voices. Male voices, coming from outside.

He heard them at the same time. “Damn. I think we’re about to be rescued. We’ll finish this conversation later.”

He seemed more irritated by the inconvenience of being interrupted, but Damaris knew it was the end of their brief idyll.

He saw her expression and misunderstood. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell them you’re my wife.”

She pushed herself off the bed and stood up. “Get dressed,” she told him. “I’ll tidy the cottage.”

He stood and stretched as if he had all the time in the world, sublimely, carelessly naked. It was probably disgraceful of her to want to look her fill of him, but she couldn’t take her eyes off him; he was so magnificently made.

The voices were coming closer, but she couldn’t prevent herself from watching every move he made as he pulled on his shirt, boots, waistcoat and coat, caressing him with her eyes, the elegant, sculpted body, the carelessly graceful moves, the firm backside, the proud masculinity.

Memorizing him.

He finished dressing. “Do I look sufficiently respectable?” he asked. “Good God, listen to me. My friends would never believe I asked a question like that—and was serious about it. But do I?”

She reached up and tidied his hair.

“Very wifely,” he said. “Wish me luck.” He pressed a quick kiss on her mouth, then let himself out the front door. She heard a shout as he appeared.

I’ll tell them you’re my wife.

Doubts still lurked in the corners of her mind, but she refused to think about them. She had tried to do the right thing, had done her best to refuse his offer. She’d explained about the captain, and proved she wasn’t a virgin, and he’d still said they needed to marry. He didn’t even mind that she’d behaved like a vixen in bed.

So if he still insisted on marrying her, who was she to argue?

Wasn’t it everything she’d ever wanted?

Apart from love.

She swiftly cleared the bench and wiped it and the table down, then glanced at the bed. They’d slept two nights in that bed. She couldn’t just make it and leave it for the old woman to find that strangers had slept in it. And rutted in it.

She ripped the bedclothes off and found fresh sheets in the chest. From the slight yellowing of the cotton and their stiff, pristine creases, she thought they might have been a long-ago wedding present, but she didn’t care.

She swiftly remade the bed then took the used sheets out to the scullery. She hesitated a moment and buried her face in the sheets, breathing in the faint scent deeply. Essence of Freddy. Essence of lovemaking.

Not rutting; lovemaking.

She shoved the sheets in a bucket of cold water.

Outside they seemed to be in a dispute of some kind, a debate rather than a fight, she was relieved to note. Freddy sounded amused rather than intimidated, so she decided not to worry. Yet.

She hurried around the cottage, flicking things into place until it looked almost as tidy as when they’d found it. She seized the old woman’s brushwood broom and started to sweep the floor.

“Stranded, were ye?” The cracked old voice came from behind her.

Damaris whirled around. An old woman stood just inside the entrance, her bright dark eyes roaming the interior of the cottage. What she saw seemed to reassure her, for she gave a little nod and came right in, shutting the door behind her.

“We saw the smoke. The lads came wi’ me a’cos I were worried that you be gypsies, see?” She gave a toothless smile to Damaris, her face a mass of weathered wrinkles. Her accent was thick, but Damaris could just follow her.

“Your man be gentry-born, anyone can tell—a few words from him and they gurt lummocks out there be eatin’ out of his hand and all but tuggin’ their forelocks.” She gave a scornful snort. “But I can see you be a lass what knows how to keep house proper.” She nodded at the broom. “Never saw a lady sweep before.” She sat down at the table. “And you took good care of my girls.”

“Your girls?”

“My hens. I counted ’em. Not a one missing—neither by fox nor gypsy nor hungry gentleman,” she added with a twinkle.

Damaris smiled. “If the flood had lasted much longer we might have had to resort to that. I’m afraid we’ve eaten most of your food. And used up a lot of your wood.”

“Never you mind, my lovely, your man paid me a proper handsome sum, he did. Keep me livin’ high on the hog for a few good years, it will.”

“We slept in your bed.” Damaris tried not to blush.

“You be right welcome to it.”

“I haven’t had time to wash the sheets. They’re soaking in the bucket.”

The old woman cackled. “Newlyweds, are ye?”

Heat rushed into her cheeks. Damaris turned and put the broom away. The door opened again, and Freddy stepped in. Three burly middle-aged men, locals by the look of them, in rough frieze coats and muddy boots, went to follow him.

The old woman jumped up, saying sharply, “Stay out o’ here wi’ thy gurt, mucky boots, Jem Eales. You too, Billy Payne and Frank Eales.” The men stepped back sheepishly. Freddy glanced at his own equally muddy boots, but there was no mention made of him, so he stayed where he was. Dancing blue eyes met Damaris’s, silently inviting her to share the humor of it.

“All a’right inside, then, Granny Meg?” the oldest man called in.

“’Course ’tis, ye young fool; don’t insult the lady and gentleman.” She shook her head and said to Damaris, “Pack of old wimmen, they be. Panicking about a little bit of smoke from a chimney.” There was a gasp of indignation from the other side of the threshold, but before recriminations could start, Freddy said smoothly, “We’ll be going now. Thank you for the use of your cottage, Mrs. . . . Er. Gentlemen, if I could prevail on you to assist my wife and me with the curricle and horses, I’d be most grateful.” He reached into his pocket and there was a clink or two as money changed hands and the men abruptly departed.

My wife and me
. She swallowed.

“Ready to leave, my dear?” Freddy asked Damaris.

She wasn’t, but she nodded and slipped on her coat. She thanked Granny Meg for her inadvertent hospitality, bid her good-bye and took a last long look around the little cottage where so much had happened.

Ten minutes later they were back in the curricle, which was damp but otherwise no worse for wear, and were heading along the road. The horses were fresh, champing impatiently at their bits, but Freddy reined them in firmly, frowning in concentration as they made slow and careful progress. Mud and refuse covered the road, making it slippery and dangerous.

There was no conversation, for which Damaris was grateful. She had too much to think about. In an hour or so they’d reach Davenham Hall, and somewhere close by was the cottage she’d been promised in exchange for a false betrothal. She supposed she wouldn’t get it now.

They’d be returning to London soon and she’d be back with her sisters and Lady Beatrice. She’d fled them before, unable to bear the lies she was telling them. Now the betrothal was real and, somehow, she was going to have to explain it all to them and hope they wouldn’t be hurt by her deception.

How had something that had started off so simple end up so complicated? But it would all work out. It had to.