Wolfsgate (8 page)

“You take your role as the overbearing wife most seriously.”

“I’m not overbearing!” Her eyes searched his. “Am I?

He let out a chuckle and squeezed her shoulder. “I’m teasing you. Lord, I forgot how easy it was to tease you, and how much I enjoyed it.”

“Brandon, I don’t mean to irritate you. I’m only concerned for your well-being.”

“I’ll eat something, I promise. Do stop talking though, my head is killing me.” His arm trembled around her body, and he tightened his grip on her flesh. He was uncomfortable again, rattled and unnerved. The aftereffects of the opiate still poured over him in waves every so often. Would this damned torture ever end?

Once home, Justine settled him in the armchair in the parlor and brought him a change of clothes. She crouched before him and removed his boots, then stood over him to remove his shirt.

He scowled. “I can do this myself. I’m a grown man, you know.” He pushed her hands away. But when he stretched to remove the shirt, he grimaced with the effort and cursed under his breath. His arms fell back down to his sides.

“Brandon, who do you think helped Davidson change and bathe you when we got you out of hospital?” Justine asked. His insides tensed. “I did,” she said, holding his weary gaze. “Don’t fight me, let me help you.”

Oh, let her play nursemaid.

He was so exhausted, and her touching him would feel bloody good anyhow, wouldn't it? He dropped his hands from his shirt letting out a sigh. She peeled the wet fabric off his torso, wrapped a thin cotton blanket over his cool skin and rubbed him with it. Yes, this felt very good. Their faces were inches away from each other. Her short breaths fanned his chest.

“You should change too. You’ll catch a cold,” he murmured.

“I will, after. Now let’s get on with it.” Her lips set firmly together.

His jaw tensed as he searched her unsmiling eyes. She was so soft one moment, almost fragile, as if she could break in your very hands. Then she transformed into a determined and resolute worker.

Justine’s fingers undid the fastenings at his breeches. He lifted his eyebrows. Well, no sign of the blushing virginal bride here. He pushed her fingers away, raised his hips and lowered the wet breeches himself, then sank down into the seat again as she yanked them the rest of the way down his legs. He covered himself with the blanket, and she rubbed it over his legs and feet without removing it from him. She was all smart efficiency now. His young bride’s hesitant touch and violent blushing were gone.

She put the clean nightshirt over his head as he sat, his face level with her chest. His pulse thudded in his neck as he took in the golden color of her skin dotted with freckles and the curves of her full breasts straining against the wet material of her dress. He had a savage urge to bury his face in those round, firm globes of flesh. He shut his eyes in a vain attempt to gain control of himself, yet her scent filled his nostrils; clean and fresh like a dewy green forest early in the morning. His cock stiffened, and he groaned inwardly.

He studied her as she folded his wet shirt and added it to the pile of his damp clothes on the floor. A girl who enjoyed the outdoors and didn’t care if she was fashionably pale or kissed by the sun? Wavy tendrils of her hair had fallen in wisps about her neck. Yes, he liked her raw brand of beauty. He liked her.

For God’s sake, this was Justine.

And so?

She wasn’t his sister, nor his cousin; not a drop of familial blood between them. Only bonds of legality. Yes, he could have plenty of unclean thoughts about Justine.

She stood before him again smoothing the sleeves of his nightshirt over his shoulders, her hands spreading their warmth down his arms. Then came the fine wool gown gliding down his torso and over his legs and a very comfortable, warm sock on each foot.

“I feel like an old man,” he said, a rueful smile curling his lips.

One of her elegant eyebrows arched up. “You are most certainly not an old man, Brandon.”

“Oh?” He had to make her blush again. Had to see that pink bloom across her gorgeous skin. “Do I please you?”

She glanced up at him, and there it was. Warmth seeped through him at the sight. Her face reddened, but she ignored the comment otherwise as she busied herself with putting his arms through a dressing gown and tying the belt about his waist. He put his hands over hers as she finished with the belt. “Thank you, Justine.”

“You’re welcome,” she murmured.

He brought her hands to his mouth and brushed them with his lips. Her eyes shone, then she averted her gaze, and he released her hands. “Go take those wet clothes off and have Molly bring us her tasty supper.”

“I will.” She gave him a small smile and made her way up the stairs.

“The mast! The mast is breaking! Watch out! No!”

Justine dashed down the stairs in the dark, holding her nightdress close, almost tumbling down the last two steps, and charged into the parlor. Brandon thrashed on the floor from side to side, gulping for air, his features twisted in the moonlight which streamed through the partially opened curtains.

“Give me your hand…give me…” he choked, his every muscle strained, his back arched, the veins in his neck corded.

Justine bent over him and pressed down on his arms. “Brandon!”

He fought her attempts to stop his movement and shoved her to the side. She placed a cool hand on his forehead and leaned over him.

“Brandon, wake up. It’s only a dream. Wake up!”

He shuddered and his shoulders fell back, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His eyebrows were deeply knit, his skin was covered in a sheen of cold perspiration.

“Brandon, t’was just a dream, a bad dream,” Justine murmured. She wiped locks of his damp hair from his scarred temple. His eyes twitched opened, and he rubbed them with his palms as he tried to focus on her in the darkness.

“Justine?” he choked out through ragged breaths.

“Yes, Brandon, you’re all right.” She rubbed his arms. You were having a nightmare about the shipwreck, I think.”

“God…yes,” he stammered through short breaths. He pressed his eyes closed and reopened them. He bent one knee up, planting his foot on the floor. “Bloody hell, it was so real.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” He gulped in air, his head rolled to the side.

She darted to the kitchen and brought back a wet cloth and wiped his face with it. He moaned softly as she stroked his shoulders, neck and chest.

“Try to relax,” she whispered, tossing the cloth on the corner table. He sat up and leaned against the settee. She pushed the hair back from his face, and he reached out and pulled her down next to him. His arm wrapped around her tightly, and her oversized nightdress slipped off her shoulder. He slid his hand down over her ribs settling just under the swell of her breast for a moment then back up to her shoulder. His breath began to even out.

Hers was racing.

“I haven’t thought about that night for a very long time. Images here and there, but not the whole of it.”

Justine wrapped her arms around his trembling torso, her fingertips pressing into his damp flesh. “It must have been horrible,” she said against his neck.

“Did many people survive, Justine? Did you ever hear?”

“Not many, only a handful.” Her one hand roamed over his taut abdomen in an effort to soothe him. “The ship got caught in a storm and the crew lost control of her. It’s truly a miracle that you survived, and finding you was quite another.”

She pressed herself deeper into him as the memories of those horrible days snaked through her. The servants had whispered and cried in the hallways, Molly bent over her kitchen table, her head in her hands, her bony body racked with sobs. Richard wandered around the house aimlessly gibbering to himself, everyone had stopped paying him any mind. William had drunk himself into a stupor in the drawing room and sat in a chair in the center of the room the entire day staring out the large main window. Justine had weaved around them as if it were all happening in slow motion in a land of fantasy. She couldn’t face Lord Jeremy bedridden in his room just then, none of them could, but she knew they expected her to do it.

Instead, she had run outside to escape from them, to escape from the suffocating hopelessness of death once more. She had run as fast as her legs could take her up and down the hills until she had reached the sheep pasture. There she had screamed wildly at the fluffy clouds and the ridiculously tranquil blue sky over and over. She had pulled at her hair and fallen to the grass, ripping clumps of earth and green out from the ground, kicking and crying. Martin had found her and listened to her laments and weeping until she had gotten herself under control, then taking her hand in his, he had walked her home. But the heaviness had remained in her heart and her soul.

All that was over now, wasn’t it?

Justine’s hand skimmed over the cool, smooth skin of Brandon’s firm chest. “It’s done, all that pain and grief is over. Thank God, you are alive and safe.” She inhaled his warm scent at the base of his throat. His other arm snaked around her middle and stroked her side flooding her body with heat. She shifted in his embrace, her insides shuddering. Brandon’s eyes glinted at hers in the moonlight, and her breath caught as his hand wrapped around her neck tilting her head to the side. His lips dragged against the delicate skin of her throat, and she jerked in his arms letting out a low whimper.

His mouth blazed a path over her cheek and took her parted lips, her body shivering under his. He swallowed her soft cry, his tongue delving deep inside her mouth as his fingertips dug into her back through the flimsy fabric of her nightdress. She stiffened momentarily, but then she opened for him, welcoming his invasion. Her fingers swept up to the side of his face then lost themselves in his hair. A groan escaped his chest, and Justine’s body arched against his at the sound. He tugged her chemise down until his fingers curved over the soft skin of her breasts. She exhaled on a cry as he gently cupped one in his cool hand.

“Oh, Justine,” he groaned as his lips burned a trail down her throat to her chest. A cool draft swept over her exposed flesh stinging her skin, and a foreign, searing ache ignited between her legs.

“Brandon.” Her hand gripped his shoulder tighter, and her lungs squeezed for air as his mouth suckled on the fulness of a breast. His fingers toyed with the nipple of her other breast, and the sensation ripped through her. Her eyes squeezed shut, and a moan uncurled in her throat. He clutched her hand and brought it down between his legs. Her heart stuttered as he guided her fingers under his nightshirt to his smooth hardness, her small fingers wrapping around his shaft.

“Bloody hell.” He groaned, his stiff cock pulsating in her hand. Her face was buried in his chest, her lips nuzzling his smooth flesh. He pressed his hips up and moved both their hands against his hard length. “Yes, like that…” Brandon moaned in her ear. “Oh…”

His deep, trembling voice sent tingles searing through her. He crushed her even closer to his chest, and she inhaled the sweet, woodsy alcohol fumes from his warm breath. His body stiffened against hers. He let out a string of undecipherable words in her ear, his savage tone leaving her breathless. Underneath their hands, his throbbing cock sent bursts of fire straight to her belly. Brandon clasped her hand in an iron grip against his pulsating hardness and showed her how he wanted her to stroke him. He buried his face in her hair and groaned, his fingers digging into her skin.

Justine’s lungs constricted as needy, primitive sensations racked his body. His cock spasmed in her hand, filling it with a warm, thick, sticky substance. Brandon’s body slackened against hers, and his breathing relaxed and deepened. Justine peeked up at his face. His eyelids were closed, his lips parted. He had found rest.

She, on the other hand, needed a brandy.

Justine reached for the wet cloth in the tray and wiped her hand and his abdomen. Her gaze swept over his peaceful features; only the scars gave witness to any turmoil that lay within him. Her finger outlined the edge of his jaw, and that glorious image of him at the shore of the creek this afternoon immediately invaded her brain—naked, the water falling off him in sheets, his skin glistening in the sunlight. Yes, quite a different picture from when he was a boy that summer day with William and Annie.

At the creek this afternoon Justine had stopped breathing as her eyes had been helplessly glued to the image of bare, beautiful manhood before her. Even though he wasn’t eating that much food now, he had filled out since he had come home and seemed more a man his age. His lean form was quite simply perfect, like the ancient Greek and Roman statues she had seen at an art exhibition in London years ago.

She rolled her eyes at herself and sighed. Brandon wasn’t made of marble or stone, and neither was she. Justine leaned over him and brushed his lips with hers.

She definitely needed a brandy.