What A Scoundrel Wants (32 page)

“Meg, let me see your hands.”

“No, no you don’t.” Her voice, although sharp, revealed the depths of her exhaustion. She sank onto the pallet, tucking bloodied hands into the folds of her gown. “I’ve had enough of your commands.”

“Let me see them. Please,” he said, kneeling before her. He opened clenched fingers and examined her damaged palms. “You opened the scabs.”

“I feel like every tree in the forest took a piece from me.”

He grimaced. “Nearly.”

“Ow.” She winced and yanked her hands away, protectively wrapping one inside the other.

“That hurts?”

“Yes.” Her amazement fluttered between them. A smile like the sun broke through billows of fear and fatigue. “Yes. It hurts.”

He matched her smile of wonder. That she could feel anything at all, even pain, boded well for her recovery. Despite scars and clots of mangled skin, she might regain the feeling in her hands, given time.

“Here, carefully.” He pulled her hands and wrapped his face in her trembling palms. “Can you feel me?”

She grinned, laughing and flinching at once. “Through the splintering pain, yes.”

“Good,” he said softly. “Good.”

She tightened her hold and dug jagged fingernails into his cheeks. “Do not ever do that to me again.”

“Do not make me.”

“Agreed.”

In a most languid homecoming, the air between them slowed and thickened. They drew together for a kiss. Captured by Meg’s clasped hands, he angled his head and better fit his lips to hers. He caught the base of her skull and imprisoned her as surely, catching her little whimpers in the cavern of his mouth.

Inch by inch, she lay back. Bit by bit, he followed her enticing lips, joining her on the pallet. “Close your eyes,” she said.

“They are closed.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Repositioning her hands, she pressed shaky fingertips over his closed eyes, completely obscuring the pallid light of early evening. Surrounded by Meg, joining her in darkness, Will feasted. He savored his remaining senses, catching the salty scent of leaves and sweat on her skin, tasting her tongue.

Braced on a forearm, he relished the feel of her warm and supple flesh beneath his own. Like sun-baked stone emitting heat into the cool of evening, her body warmed him. The insistent press of her lips to his, hot and needy, fanned hungry embers. He grazed a thumb across her lower lip, enticing from her a sigh. She bit down, tearing small teeth into the pad.

Blood that had simmered with impatience flared to a hard boil, urging him to take and bite and demand. But neither did he want to hurt her, not after what she endured. The most patient of sinners, he kissed gently, protecting her from the brunt of his urges.

“Will,” she whispered against his mouth. “You won’t break me.”

A groan of happy frustration ripped loose. She may as well have skulked into his brain and brought his thoughts to the light. “Perhaps you’ve made me more cautious than I like.”

“You always have been.”

“I don’t want to take chances with you. No more.” He kissed the bridge of her nose before journeying lower, nipping along her jaw to her chin. Carefully, mindful of her injuries, he removed her fingers from his face and opened his eyes. “We’ll just have to keep your hands out of the way.”

“Out of the way?”

He nuzzled her skin, the earthy scent of her body shoving aside thought. “Put them over your head.”

“Do you intend to be gentle with me?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Good.” Voice rough, eyes closed, she curved reddened lips into a smile to suit both angels and devils. “Because I’ve missed you.”

She complied, loosely draping her wrists above her head. Her breasts strained against the bodice of her gown, a sight to steal all moisture from Will’s mouth. He caught her lips again, harder now. She arched. He moaned. Hunger and passion blended in their kiss as each crawled more deeply into the other.

Quickly, abandoning caution and grace, he tugged the ties of her gown at the neckline. A stubborn knot drew from him a pitiable curse. “Forget the gown,” she gasped.

He stood and shucked his clothing. On the pallet below, Meg lifted her hips and gingerly slid tangled skirts to her waist. That done, she dutifully returned her hands above her head. The combination of submission and wanton invitation froze the breath in his lungs and throbbed in his straining erection.

He rejoined her in a heartbeat, filling his hands with ripe curves. He whispered her name, nestling his face to the side of hers, and took an earlobe into his mouth. Suckling hard, he reveled in her surprised gasp.

Meg, unable to touch him, nuzzled her cheek to his and kissed the patch of skin where his hair met his temple. She arched again and ground her bare pelvis into his, urging him closer. “You owe me,” she whispered.

“That I do.”

With a hand on the inside of each knee, he urged her knees higher, wider. His tongue found her core. He kissed her. He sucked and nibbled with greedy abandon. She wanted to clamp her thighs around his head and hold him there, pressed tight, but he fought the push of her legs. His hands held her legs open to him, to his torturous mouth, and licked her wetness. She shivered at the thought of her vulnerability. Gasping and arching, she allowed her body to beg.

Will sat back, stealing the warmth but leaving the madness. He kept her wanting, wanting him closer. He cupped her sex, nestling his thumb at the apex of her need and wrapping his fingers to her backside. He flexed. She jerked, a streak of pleasure running through her body.

“Am I your husband, Meg?”

“What?”

“Do you love me?” He circled his thumb. A whimper escaped her control, a whimper that pleaded for more. “Do you need me as fiercely as I need you?”

She could not breathe fast enough. She could not think. The steady, mounting pressure of his circling thumb stole all she had. “Will,
please.
”

“I love to hear you beg, my dear.”

She groaned. “Because you want me to succumb?”

“No, because at the next opportunity, I know you’ll treat me in kind.”

Licking her lips, she smiled. “You have my word.”

“And I want your answer,” he said. “Otherwise I’ll have to prolong this all night.”

“Decisions, decisions.”

She wound her ankles over his shoulders. Crossing her feet, she used her legs to pull his head closer. He kissed the skin of her inner thigh, then settled alongside her body. The insistent pulse of his thumb never faltered.

The warm slide of his tongue at her jaw made her shudder. Warm breath feathered over wet skin. “No jest now. Did you mean your vows?”

“What does it matter? I said the words.”

“Can you deny what I know of you? I’ve seen how you show people whatever face they care to see. But I won’t be one of those fools,” he said. “I’m in love with you.”

His thumb threatened her sanity. He gently bit her earlobe, pulling a gasp from her arid throat. “Perhaps you’re the bigger fool.”

“Perhaps.” He kissed her mouth. His lips matched her own trembling. “Do this with me, Meg. Be the bravest and the most reckless you’ve ever been.”

“And if I will not? If I cannot?”

The insistent madness of his thumb against her sex slowed, stopped. He placed a feather soft kiss atop her head, twisting tears from her eyes. “My wife, my love, how long has it been since someone cherished you?”

A sob leapt free.

“Let me try, Meg.”

Yes. Please, yes.

She melted into his muscles and skin and warmth, burrowing her lips into the crook of his neck. Kiss, breathe, be.

He pulled from her desperate embrace and dipped his mouth, replacing his thumb with his tongue, replacing tenderness with renewed passion. But he did not offer release. As good as his word, he prolonged her pleasure, drawing out every caress, every nip of his teeth. She writhed and fought, clenching her hands despite the shivers of pain.

“Help me,” she rasped, thrashing her head.

With a last lick, he raised his mouth. “You know what to do, Meg. But mean it this time. I’ll hold you to it, whatever you say.”

The smile in his voice melted her defenses. Fears had piled onto one another like dirt thrown atop a coffin. No joy could come from such a life. But Will showed her a way clear, giving her a reason to fight, a body to crave and prize. He saved her. The champion she never dared imagine—he helped her come back to herself. Peace settled over her, a warm blanket.

She freed her smile, marveling in the pleasure they shared, seeing only what she needed to see. “I love you, Will. My husband. I love you and I need you.”

“You’re a good girl.”

Half crazed, she giggled. “I haven’t been called that before.”

“And good girls earn rewards.”

He closed his mouth over her sex, creating an insistent rhythm. The cadence of his suckling lips and his throbbing tongue shredded all reason, all restraint. She clasped her knees and ankles, holding him her prisoner just as he claimed her. The strength of her climax left her dizzy, floating, flying. She cried his name, grinding into the source of her torment.

“Watch your hands,” he said, urging her to turn over.

He fondled the curve of her bare backside, sustaining her arousal. The sensitized skin of her nipples scuffed the material of her bodice. He gripped the bones of her hips and pulled her to her knees. She rested on her forearms, too dazed to resist, too lost in him.

His thrust demanded another gasp. Long, rigid, he stretched and filled her with every powerful push. He moaned. Her body rocked. Knowing hands wound around her body, again finding her aching nub. Will matched the timing of his thrusts to the pinching, insistent clutch of his fingers. He leaned low over her body, biting the thin skin at her neck.

The rasping sounds of his breath, so harsh and hard near her ear, washed Meg into another place as sweet as paradise. She arched and spun away on a spray of bright colors. Will wrapped powerful arms around her middle, holding her tight as he sought his own pleasure. He drove into her once more, and again. A violent spasm claimed his body. Her name became a cry and a plea.

Withdrawing, turning Meg in his arms, he guided them back to the warm embrace of the pallet, his muscles quaking as badly as hers. Wrapping her forearms around his neck, she left battle weary palms face up. Long, quiet moments passed as their twinned breathing slowed.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I lost myself for a few days. Maybe longer than that.”

“I’m sorry too.”

“I thought we’d finished with you playing nursemaid.”

He unraveled their limbs and crossed to the fire cauldron. After adding a few logs to ward off the evening chill, he looked back on Meg—prone, limp, ravished. And dreadfully dirty.

“You have to trust me,” he said, smiling. “You don’t want anyone else to see you.”

“That bad?”

“Oh, you are a thoroughly loved mess.”

“This one last time, then.”

He dressed and fetched water, bandages, and medicines from Alice in the kitchen, avoiding her meaningful looks. Feeling like a scurrying rat, desperate only to avoid Robin and Marian, he returned to the bedchamber within moments.

She lay dozing with her gown rucked around her thighs, tempting him anew. But the raw wounds of her hands stayed his yearning. He had hoped and gambled, and she rediscovered her strength in the forest, conquering the melancholy that hindered her recovery. That she returned to him whole in spirit made him all the more eager to heal her body. He needed her well and safe and his. They had undergone too many trials to waste more time, more happy time together.

Kneeling by the pallet, he dipped a cloth into warm water and washed her face. She smiled from beyond the haze of sleep, a quiet purr in her throat. Careful, patient strokes cleared away the grime and blood to reveal the luster of her skin. The fire’s placid glow bronzed every newly cleaned inch, a pagan goddess made flesh.

He circled the cloth over the balls of her feet. She roused, eyes fluttering open and skittering. She giggled and flinched. He trapped her ankle, working the cloth up each supple leg. Blood thumped with a heavier weight, more insistently, as he worked toward her torso. A few bumbling tries finally freed her from the knotted strings at her bodice, baring pale flesh to the golden light.

After returning the cloth into the water, wringing it, he paused. He thought she should wash between her legs; the chore was too intimate, even after what they had shared.

“Almost finished, Scarlet.”

He licked his lips, his mouth dry. “For certain?”

“Yes,” she whispered, a little flushed.

He stroked the cloth into Meg’s dark curls, crossing a barrier between washing and petting. She sighed, eyes closed, body asking for more. But her hands remained untended. Will finished the cleansing as quickly as his shaking hands could manage, intent on healing her before enjoying a resumption of their pleasures.

Legs tucked to the side, she sat up and presented her hands. He opened them tenderly. Tears sliced her cheeks as he washed. She hissed softly.

“Sorry.”

“I’m not,” she said. “I can heal now.”

He touched her lower lip, then kissed her there. “We both can.”

Every application of the remedies tore a cry from her, a whimper, sobs. Every application wounded him too. But soon the injuries were clean, salved, and bandaged.

She released a shuddering breath and crawled nude beneath the coverlet. “What now?”

“I can read to you from Al-Rhazi,” he said, climbing in beside her.

“You’ve taught yourself to read Arabic in a fortnight?”

“Arabic?”

“The things you do for me,” she said. “Now I won’t have to ask it of Ada.”

“Maybe another scheme to occupy our time.” He cupped the soft curve of her breast.

“I meant our future, in truth. Our lives.”

“We didn’t plan this very well, did we?”

She nuzzled her nose into the arc of his neck. “Maybe not.”

He stared at the light sparkling on the ceiling and listened to the crackle of a comforting fire. The difference between that tiny blaze and the flames they had battled—he could not make sense of all they survived. He wanted no more of it. He wanted only Meg, there in his arms.

“Robin and I shall be speaking again come tomorrow,” he said.

“Truly? All is forgiven?”

The brief moments he had shared with Robin in the garden teased him with hope. Stomachs full of pride, they ground a few stilted sentences into being, but it was a start. The morrow would offer another chance, a chance he intended to take. “I believe so, yes. We can leave him and Dryden to administer Finch’s punishment.”

“You want no more of it?”

“Do you need revenge, Meg?”

She lay silent. A spray of short brown hair concealed her face where she rested on his chest. “Let justice have them,” she said at last. “I need you. And Ada. I must find a way to explain this to her.”

“To reconcile?”

“If you can manage with Robin, I can reach Ada. That was our deal, yes?”

He smiled, remembering the near and distant times when he had gloried in provoking her. The people they had once been seemed so lost and heartbreaking. “Well good,” he said. “We shall begin there. Tomorrow, we can travel to Bainbridge.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

She dragged a knee higher, brushing his phallus, his belly. She kissed his neck and sucked. “Many hours from now.”

“Yes.”