To Tame a Rogue (15 page)

He barely breathed as she ran her fingers over her small firm breasts, tucked them between her legs, closed her eyes. Then she’d frowned and thrown the chemise over her supple, slim body. He’d held very still, uncertain of himself in a way he didn’t like.

A sliver of guilt ran through him. He’d behaved like an ogre. The worst kind of rogue. An idiot. He didn’t like knowing he was responsible for her unhappiness. Yet he couldn’t deny what he was feeling. Raw, naked desire for a woman who wasn’t what she seemed.

Still, he wouldn’t force himself on any woman, even his
lawfully wedded wife
. He’d quietly retreated to his study and his brandy. He cradled his throbbing head in his hands. He wanted to kiss her again. No, he wanted far more than a kiss from her. The last few weeks had been hell knowing she slept in the room beside him. He’d tossed and turned long into the night, his body hard with need.

His dreams were erotic, a place where he knew her body as well as his own. He teased her breasts with his tongue; he buried his fingers and then his hard shaft in her silken core, which was damp and sweetly wet. And she moaned while she stroked the air with his name, over and over.

We are completely unsuited madame.
His words came back to haunt him. Sometime later, he simply fell asleep in his messy thoughts.

32

Camille woke with a start. After trying to get back to sleep, she simply gave up and wandered downstairs, drawn to the wan light slipping beneath the door of Nicholas’ study. The door was slightly ajar, but Camille knocked anyway. No response. She nudged it open and her eyes met Nicholas’ eyes.

He looked dangerous—bleary-eyed and rumpled. He hadn’t shaved so his jaw was darker than it normally was, giving him a strong, menacing appearance. In that moment, he looked like a man who deliberately punished himself by deliberately putting himself in harm’s way every chance he got.

His mouth was drawn into a grim line. He rubbed his eyes, then blinked. “You’re still here,” he said. His words were slurred. “I can’t be sure if I’m dreaming.”

Camille’s stomach was churning. She could only push this man so far, and perhaps now was not the best time to do so.

He straightened but did not stand up. “Please, have a seat.”

He started to pour another drink then stopped, glass mid-air. “Who the devil are you? I can’t seem to figure you out,” he asked.

Camille was sitting with her hands folded in her lap. She didn’t want to meet those tawny eyes again but couldn’t help herself. She wished she hadn’t. His shoulders were thrown back, rigid with tension.

“Who…am I?” She frowned in confusion. “I…perhaps I should come back later. You seem…to have had a lot to drink.” She rose.

“Don’t.”

She froze then sat down again.

“What is it you want at this ungodly early hour, Camille?” He raked a hand through his disheveled black hair.

“I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to talk to you about Arabelle and Damaris.”

He raised a wicked dark brow. “Indeed?”

Camille curled and uncurled her fingers in her lap, dropping her gaze again. “Well, yes. You see….”

“No, I don’t. Please, enlighten me.”

She should probably just leave. The man was practically snarling at her. Was she out of her mind? This really wasn’t a good time.

She stood, resolutely this time. “I’m afraid I’ve disturbed you at a bad time, Mr. Branton. I’ll come back in the morning.”

She had almost reached the door when he put his arm out to keep her from opening it. “No. I’d like to hear what you have to say.
Now
.”

She was in an even worse position. She leveled her gaze at his chest. Another mistake. His shirt was open, revealing his taut skin and corded muscles. She couldn’t think. “I…think…perhaps you could spend more time with them. Especially Damaris. Her emotions….”

His arm snaked around her back. It was unyielding. He watched her lips, but he didn’t seem to hear what she was saying.

“You aren’t listening Mr. Branton. I….”

He couldn’t fight it anymore. All his life he had tried to win his father’s affections. All his life he had promised himself he wouldn’t be like Caindale Branton. But somehow, somewhere, he’d started turning into the man. Hard, unyielding, taking what he wanted. And right now he wanted Camille. Situation be damned. He couldn’t help who he was.

His arm tightened about her waist like a band of steel. That kiss they’d shared in the gardens had been so incredibly sweet and unguarded. He wasn’t a man to desire a woman so…intensely. And why, for the love of God, did it have to be
her
?

He wanted to snatch her against him, feel the ripe litheness of her body pressing into his, and by God, he would.

His mouth descended with alarming quickness. Vaguely, in some far off region of his brain, he realized she was fighting him, trying to twist away from him. He ground his hips against hers. “Easy, love,” he breathed. “Don’t fight it.”

He tasted her with his lips, his heat, his eagerness. She broke the kiss for a moment and he heard her sharp intake of breath. “Is this to be a punishment then, for speaking my mind?”

He laughed wickedly. “Punishment? No. Pleasure? Yes.” His mouth descended again and Camille lost all train of thought. His mouth was moving over hers with such sweet tenderness that heat spiraled and throbbed between her legs. She was powerless to resist the warmth of his lips, the tantalizing teasing of his tongue.

Dear Sweet God, but she wanted desperately to feel the strength of his arms about her, the brand of his mouth on hers. He led her to a settee nestled in the crook of the window, awash in the translucent light of summer moon.

He stared at her as he slowly undid the buttons of her simple blouse. Then he pushed it off her shoulders slowly, very slowly, pressing his lips to her soft flesh. He bent his dark head to her breast. The shock of his warm mouth on her nipple made her feel like her soul was splintering.

The sight of him there, the rough, raw feel of his whiskers against tender skin, caused a delicious throbbing everywhere in her body. She put her hand on his chest. Warm skin. Thudding heart.

She didn’t realize he’d rolled down a stocking until it was discarded at her feet and she felt his large hand resting intimately on the top of her thigh. So close to that part of her that no man had ever touched….

Never had she felt so warm and feverous. She tried to speak. She tried to sit up, but he was half lying atop her. “It’s alright.” His lips found their way to her mouth again. She tried to keep her legs together but he wouldn’t have it.

“Open your legs for me,” he said.

His voice in the dark was a raw scrape of whisper that stroked her to the core. Gently but firmly he pushed her legs far enough apart to stroke her with his finger. She gasped. “Nick….”

He plunged a finger inside and she arched her back in pleasure.

“That’s the first time you’ve used my name. God, you’re so wet, so tight.”

He continued to move his finger, slowly, then with more urgency. “I…what’s….”

“Just let it come, love,” he said.

Soon she was writhing in ecstasy, a warm heat spiraling through her entire being, her soft flesh clutching and convulsing around his finger. And then there was nothing but fire, flashes, sweet, almost unbearable release.

He removed his shirt and Camille stared. His shoulders were wide and strong, the muscles of his arms smooth and tight. Vaguely, she was aware of her thoughts. Why this man? Why him? She looked into his eyes and was reminded of the gold light of the sun caressing desert sand. Her heart thundered in her chest; she couldn’t slow her breathing. The ache started again as she watched him undo his breeches.

She stared at him in wonder. She’d never seen a man before. He was large, rigid, and…leaning against the base of her womanhood! Fear curled in the pit of her stomach. An irascible voice whispered inside her head,
what are you doing?

“Don’t! Please,” she whispered. “Don’t hurt me.”

Nick felt like he’d had a bucket of cold water dumped on his head. Was he out of his mind? What the hell was he doing?

He stared at her lovely flesh, the silken golden-haired pink part of her that he wanted to sheath himself inside, watched as she bit her lower lip, then quickly stood and dressed. She pulled her dress down to cover herself.

She drew a deep breath. He looked so angry.

“Hurt you?” he snarled. “I lost my head. It was the drink. I forgot you’ve been ridden by more men than the racehorses in my stables.”

His words stung and twisted themselves deep in her heart. She tried not to cry, but the tears spilled freely down her cheeks. Red-faced and thankful for the darkness, she adjusted her clothing.

She stood, seeking to step around him, only to find herself snared by the elbow and whirled around to face him. She flung up her hands between them. “Let go of me!”

His smile had vanished; in its place was a cruel frown. “And by the way, how I conduct myself with my daughters is no concern of yours.”

“It surely is! I’m your wife. I will never take the place of their mother, but they
need
you. They're still hurting from losing Marlena. My God, can’t you see it?”

He let her go and she practically tumbled away from him. She blinked furiously as more tears stung her eyes. Her shoulders slumped. “You are the most stubborn man I’ve met. I’m going home. I won’t be treated like this.”

“Where will you go? You have no home. This is your home now.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Nick knew it was the wrong thing to say. The sadness that leapt into her green eyes, the way she held herself, it was as if he’d physically struck her. He’d been prepared for her outrage, for fiery, scorching words. But not for this. Not for her sobbing, as if her very heart were broken.

“You’re right, of course. I have no home now,” she said quietly. “I have no one.” Then she was gone.

33

Camille had successfully avoided Nicholas for a week now. She’d spent time with the girls, not as much with Damaris as with Arabelle, but she’d made progress. She truly cared about them and their well being, and she thought she was getting through, even if it was slow progress.

She’d made a habit of going to the stables and riding every day; the exercise was exhilarating. And she’d been to see Meagan twice. Meagan’s bruises were healing nicely. She hadn’t wanted to, but Meagan had finally accepted the money Camille had saved, all the money Nicholas had given her since she’d married him. Camille didn’t need it; she didn’t need things for herself. And now Meagan didn’t have to work in the tavern. In fact, she had returned home and was trying to patch things up with her parents. Meagan would never have her little girl back, would never again hold her in her arms or kiss her little soft cheeks, but perhaps she could start healing, somehow.

Camille was working up the courage to ask Nicholas if she could invite Meagan for a visit. She felt like she shouldn’t have to ask, she should just go ahead and invite her. But Meagan had been through so much, if Nicholas reacted negatively, she didn’t want her friend to experience that.

She’d even managed to mail the letter to Christopher. She didn’t know how long it would take to reach him; she only hoped he would come for her once he got it. The thought got her through the long days, the self doubt, the tangle of thoughts she’d been having about Nicholas. Each time she thought about that night in his study, imagined his dark head bent possessively over her breast, sucking and teasing it, she felt her cheeks flame at the intimate memories. She felt like she was moving in a dream. Unsure of herself, of her place.

She’d been walking in the gardens and was heading back to the house, near the stables, when she heard the thundering beat of a horse’s hooves. Kipp
Gresham
came riding into the yard, dismounted, and handed the
reins
to a stable boy. She'd learned his name since the night of the ball. He was the one who'd danced with her and asked her such forward questions.

“Camille,” he said. “What a pleasant surprise.”

She was wearing her own skirt and blouse again, and getting tired of washing it out so often, but she couldn’t yet bring herself to wear any of the fancy things Nicholas had had made for her. Kipp smiled rakishly.

“Mr.
Gresham
.”

“Nicky and I were going to go hunting today, but he seems to have misplaced his shotgun.”

Camille frowned.

“Oh, not a fan of hunting, are we?”

“To tell you the truth, I find it barbaric.”

Kipp smiled. “Most women do. Must be something wrong with us men. And please, call me Kipp. Have you seen Nicky about?”

“I haven’t seen him for…I don’t know where he is right now, Kipp.”

Kipp beamed at the use of his first name. Camille hoped he wouldn’t read anything into it. She couldn’t even bring herself to call her husband by his first name, for God’s sake. It was too…intimate. It didn’t feel right.