No sooner had he stoppered the decanter and turned to the desk than the hellion cat pounced atop it, circled, and settled into a heap--directly on the very papers he'd intended to inspect.
"Great help you are," Ash said sullenly. "Lump of foul deformity."
Breeches blinked at him.
"Do you hear me? Get out. 'Thou art a boil, a plague-sore, an embossed carbuncle.' King Lear, Act Two."
The embossed carbuncle gave a bored yawn.
Ash gave up. He might as well go to sleep.
He removed his boots, snuffed the candles, and lay down on the bed. It was a monument of a bed, passed down through generations of dukes. Four carved mahogany posts and hangings of richly embroidered velvet trimmed with golden tassels. The hangings trapped heat on cold nights and blocked light on unwelcome mornings.
They also made a nice little cave for hiding from reality.
He folded his hands on his chest and groaned with displeasure. Perhaps Emma was right. Maybe he was infatuated. All the symptoms were there. Though he knew she had flaws--many, many of them--he couldn't pinpoint a cursed one at the moment. Her name kept running through his mind. The song with only one word.
Emma Emma Emma Emma Emma.
He took comfort in one thing. She had also said it wouldn't last. Ash would just have to snap himself out of it.
He clapped his hands, sending a booming sound through the room. That resulted in nothing but making him feel incredibly stupid.
He squeezed his eyes closed until stars exploded behind his eyelids, counted to three, and then opened them. Stupider still.
He thought of the most unappealing things his imagination could conjure: Shards of fire propelled with bullet-force, colliding with his face.
Vomiting himself dry while quitting opium.
Pus. Not even the mildly repulsive yellow sort. Green, oozing, malodorous pus.
That helped for a few minutes, but apparently his brain didn't want to dwell on those memories anymore--not when his mind could so easily reach for her.
Emma Emma Emma Emma Emma.
Ye gods.
He sat up in bed. Tomorrow he'd burn twists of sage and wave the smoke through the house. He was clearly hexed. Bewitched.
The door to his bedchamber creaked open.
"Don't be alarmed. It's only me." Emma entered the room, holding a candelabra with three glowing tapers.
Ash rubbed his eyes. "Why, pray tell, are you in my bedchamber?"
"Because you're not in mine." She set the candles on a chest of drawers, directly across from the foot of the bed. "And because I owe you something, in the spirit of fairness."
She was dressed in only a thin night rail, and her dark hair was woven into a loose plait, tied with a bit of muslin at the end.
As he watched, rapt and disbelieving, her hands went to the buttons of her shift.
Glory above, she began to undo them. One by one by one. As she worked them open, the two sides fell apart, revealing a slice of pale flesh that widened as it dipped from her neck, to the valley between her breasts, to her navel.
When all the buttons were undone, he heard her draw a shaky breath. Then she slid her arms free of the shift, one and then the other, before letting the entire garment drop to the floor.
Jesu Maria.
"I have a confession to make," she said.
"God, I hope it's a long one."
"Breeches isn't my pet. Or he wasn't, until the morning of our wedding day. I plucked him off the street. Given the nature of our arrangement, I needed something warm and cuddly to bring with me. Some creature I might be able to care for. Love." Her lips curved into a slight, rueful smile. "The little beast didn't even have a name until you asked me for one."
Ash had no idea why she was standing there naked, talking about the cat, but he'd be damned if he was going to complain about it.
By all means, do go on.
He drew to a sitting position, the better to see her. All of her. He let his gaze linger on the delectable orbs of her breasts, then the gentle curve of her waist where it flared to her hips. Those tempting handfuls of femininity he'd gripped with fervor in the dark.
And then his gaze traveled to its logical destination . . . the dark triangle between her legs. All those sweet, secret places he now knew so well with his lips and tongue.
He could taste her from here.
"Of all the names that could have come to me," she said. "Buttons. Boots. Even Pocket would have been better. But no. I had to blurt out Breeches. Do you want to know why?"
"I don't know how you expect me to give a damn right now." He'd moved on to memorizing every contour of her thighs.
"Because that's where I'd been looking at the moment, you see. At breeches. More accurately, your breeches. Admiring how you . . ." She cleared her throat. ". . . filled them."
He lifted his head. Now he gave a damn.
"Admiring," he echoed in disbelief.
"Yes. Perhaps even lusting."
That settled it. None of this was real. He was dreaming.
Lord, let me never wake.
"I am wildly attracted to you. Physically attracted to you. I have been from the first. And yes, I've done a great deal of staring." She stepped free of her pooled chemise. "I want you with a keen, carnal passion. I won't pretend otherwise, and I'm not going to apologize for it. Not anymore."
He swallowed hard. "I see."
"Good." She moved toward him.
Ash leapt to his feet and held her off with an extended arm. "You've made your point. Quite vividly. Now you may return to your bed."
"Return to my bed? Without us even . . ." She waved her hand to fill the gap in her sentence. "Why?"
"Because the only activities I can imagine at the moment involve complete and utter depravity. And you"--he waved his hand in imitation--"cannot bring yourself to speak the tamest of them."
"We don't have to do much speaking, do we?"
Very well, he could demonstrate.
Wrapping his good arm around her waist, he lifted her against him. He pushed his hard, aching cock against her belly, rubbing her nakedness through the barrier of his trousers. "Do you feel that?"
Her gasp was more of a squeak. "Yes."
"I have a bad side, Emma. One that has nothing to do with my scars. You've no idea what I'd like to do to you. Push you against a wall. Drive my cock into your sweet, wet heat. Tup you senseless. Raw. So hard that you wouldn't walk for days. And that's only to start."
Heat sparked and crackled between them. Her nipples hardened, pressing against his chest like spear points.
"Was that speech meant to put me off?" Her voice was breathless. "Because if so, I must tell you it backfired."
Damn it. Of course it had. He should have never expected anything else.
Everything in his life backfired.
First that rocket at Waterloo. Then his engagement. Now this whole blasted arrangement with Emma. Despite the supposedly impersonal nature of their marriage, she was slowly working her way under his skin, under his scars. If not deeper.
Infatuation was dangerous enough. It must stop here. If he allowed her in, Fate would surely laugh in his face. His own heart would backfire, explode to shrapnel, and he'd be as destroyed inside as he was without.
She had to leave his room at once. And he must lock her out, in every way.
He made one last attempt, his voice dark and stern. "Go. Now. Before I use you in ways you don't want to be used."
She swept a gaze over him, biting her bottom lip. "It's not being used if I want it, too."
He gave up. It was over. Brute lust overruled his every emotion, intention, and thought. She'd made her bed, and he meant to take her six different ways on it. Tomorrow the servants could collect what pieces remained.
"Don't say I didn't warn you."
Chapter Seventeen
Emma scarcely had time to draw breath before he'd caught her up, backing her against a bedpost. His hands went straight to her bottom, lifting
her so that her pelvis was level with his. His eyes locked with hers, too.
Would he kiss her?
She closed her eyes, hopeful. She'd been yearning to feel his kiss on her lips again, and to return it with passion.
She did feel his mouth--not on her lips, but on her neck. He dipped his head, running his tongue downward, tracing a path to her breasts.
The bedpost at her back was uncomfortable, its carved embellishments digging into her flesh, and his hands had her bottom in a fierce grip . . . but she didn't care. The pain only sweetened the pleasure as he nuzzled and kissed. He grazed her nipples with his teeth, drawing from her a startled gasp of delight.
Emboldened, she worked her arm between them, delving into his trousers to find the thick, hard length within. Oh, she'd been dying to touch him there. To explore his maleness and understand how it worked. How it gave her so much pleasure, and how she could give him pleasure in return.
She let her fingertips wander the full length and breadth of his arousal, tracing each ridge and vein. Caressing, teasing. She circled her thumb around the velvety tip, spreading the drop of moisture that welled there.
He groaned with pleasure. "Take it in your hand."
She curled her fingers, grasping his rigid shaft at the root. He was so thick and hard, the circle formed by her thumb and second finger didn't quite meet. She dragged her grip slowly upward, sliding his soft, pliant skin over the steely column beneath. As she began the downstroke, he thrust into her hand.
His eyes closed. "God."
He swelled even harder in her hand, and she licked her lips. Her mind was fuzzy. Her skin flushed with roving patches of heat.
He jerked free of her grip and spun her away from him, positioning her to face the bedpost. He bent her forward at the waist and placed her hands on the tall column of carved wood.
"Hold it," he said.
She gripped the post tight.
That accomplished, he nudged her legs further apart. Emma felt exposed, almost on display--and apparently that was his aim. He spread her intimate places with his fingers, opening her to his view. Her embarrassment was mollified--somewhat--with the sound of satisfaction he made. His thumb slid over her creases and folds, making them soften and swell.
"Please," she said. "Please. I want . . . You know what I want."
"If you want my cock, then tell me so." His length teased her as he rocked back and forth on his heels. "I want to hear you say it."
"I can't."
"You can. After all, it's in Hamlet."
It wasn't Shakespeare's permission Emma needed. She didn't know how to explain it, but she felt more comfortable having his male organ inside her than speaking its crude name with her lips. In lovemaking, she could pretend her actions belonged to someone else. Someone bolder, more seductive. Words, however . . . they were inescapably hers.
That was the source of her reluctance to say it. Now she wondered if it was also the reason he wanted to hear it. To know the desire was sincere, and wholly hers. She supposed he deserved that much.
"I . . ." She closed her eyes. "I want your cock."
He grunted with approval. "Then you shall have it. All of it."
He lifted her by the hips and slid into her, filling her with one blissful inch after another. She gripped the bedpost, pushing back against him until her thighs met his. He began to move in a slow, steady rhythm.
"Do you feel that?" His thrusts gained pace. "That's what you do to me. How hard you make me. I've been wanting this. Every time you've teased me, defied me, given me that arch little smile, I've wanted to bend you over and teach you a lesson."
She clutched the bedpost for balance as he drove into her, making her breasts sway with each thrust.
"I lived in the grip of laudanum. I know what it is to crave. To tremble with wanting, be ruled by need. It nearly destroyed me. This is worse. There's no respite. As soon as I leave your bed, I'm counting the hours until the next night."
He pulled her hips higher, forcing her to balance on her toes.
"Sometimes," he panted, "even in the middle of the day, I have to lock the library door and stroke my own cock, spending into a handkerchief like a randy youth. And it's still not enough. It's never enough."
There was an angry edge to his words, and a brutish quality to his rhythm--as though he wanted her to be sorry for driving him mad with lust. Well, Emma had no intention of apologizing. His growled confessions were the best things she'd ever heard. She only hoped she could remember them long enough to write them all down in her diary tomorrow.
She felt his forehead rest against her shoulder, feverish and damp with sweat. He put one hand over hers on the bedpost, bracing his weight, and then reached with the other to touch her between her thighs. Circling his fingertips just where she needed it, just where he knew it would break her apart.
All the while, he took her in forceful thrusts. It was animal and uncivilized and she was wild with arousal. Her body quivered as he drove her toward the most devastating orgasm of her life. She couldn't hide from it, couldn't hold back. When the pleasure caught her, she came in racking, tearless sobs. She forgot where she was, who she was.
But he hadn't kept his promise to tup her senseless. Not quite. Her awareness of him only heightened. She sensed the heat of his body, heard the harsh rasps of his breath, breathed the earthy musk of his skin, felt the iron length of his cock at the center of her.
"God," he choked out. "God. Emma."
A thrill shot through her as he called her name. Even in the mindless fury of joining, he hadn't forgotten her, either.
A ragged groan signaled his crisis. Then it was only stillness and quiet and dark and labored breath.
After several moments, he kissed the top of her head. His arm tightened around her middle, drawing her close. "Tell me you're not too scandalized."
She smiled to herself. "I'm scandalized the perfect amount, thank you. But my thighs are jelly."
He helped her onto the bed, and they collapsed in a tangle of sweaty limbs.
"Well," he said, "that was a delightful first course."
"First course? Of how many?"
"Depends on how hungry I am."
She buffeted him with a nearby pillow. He took it from her, and tucked it under his head.
As he drew her close, he jolted in surprise.
"What is it?" she asked, alarmed.
"By God, woman. Your feet are ice."
"I told you, I seem to be one of those people who's always cold."
He rose to a sitting position and caught one of her ankles, drawing it into his lap. He rubbed briskly with both hands, warming her chilled foot. When he was done with the first, he reached for the other.
Emma resisted. "Truly, you don't need to do that."
"I need to do it if you're going to stay in my bed. And you are going to stay in my bed. I'm nowhere near finished with you tonight." He reached for her ankle. "Give it here."
She didn't know how to refuse. She let him take her foot in his hands. "Don't mock me, please. I know it's unsightly."
"Unsightly?" He stroked her bare leg from her ankle to her knee. "Nothing about you could be unsightly."
"It's my toe. Or rather, my lack of one."
He finally dragged his gaze down to the end of her foot, to the empty space where she was missing the small toe. "Were you born without it?"
"No, I . . . It froze in the snow."
He ran his thumb over the stub of flesh.
"I tried to warn you." She tugged her leg from his grip. "Lord, it's so embarrassing."
He broke into laughter. "You are the most ridiculous woman. Of all people, you'd worry that I would give a damn that you're missing a tiny scrap of a toe?" He waved at the scarred side of his face. "Have you looked at me?"
"As much as you'll allow me to, yes. But that's different. You have war injuries. They're marks of valor. I have a mark of foolishness."
"The only foolishness here is the fact that you'd hide it."
/> She tilted her head. "Hm. Shall I point out the hypocrisy in that statement?"
"No."
"You did walk right into it."
"In point of fact, it crashed into me." He reclined onto his side, his head propped on one elbow. "A Congreve rocket at Waterloo. Powerful impact, nearly impossible to aim. One happened to turn back on our ranks, and I was its lucky target."
Emma lay on her side, facing him. She didn't dare say anything, for fear he would shutter himself again.
"After my injury, when I woke up in blinding pain and missing parts of myself, I looked down to see if my cock was still there. When I saw that it was, I said--fine, I suppose I want to live."
She smiled. "I'm glad you did. Tonight was . . . I've never felt anything like it."
"I'm tempted to take that as a compliment, but considering your limited experience I'm not certain I can."
"My experience might not be as limited as you're assuming. I . . ." Emma gathered her courage. "I'm not a virgin. Or, I mean, I wasn't when we wed."
Silence fell over the room, heavy as an anvil. She found it difficult to breathe under the weight.
"You're very quiet," she finally ventured. "Won't you say something?"
"Let me guess. The boy back home?"
"Yes. I knew it was imprudent, but that was what made it exciting. My father was uncompromising, and I have a rebellious streak."
"So I've noted."
Emma had never been a good vicar's daughter, no matter how she'd tried to be. Her father's expectations were too elusive. If she made the slightest progress toward his approval, the line only moved further away. At some point, she gave up on trying and went looking for approval and affection in other places.
That, of course, was what had landed her in trouble.
"He was the local squire's son," she said. "Three years older than I. Sometimes we would meet by chance during walks, and I was flattered by his interest. A kiss became two, and so forth. I fancied myself to be wildly in love with him. There was a ball at his sister's house, and he asked her to invite me. Said it would be a special evening for us both."
"I can guess the sort of 'special evening' he had in mind."
She looked over his shoulder, her gaze unfocused. "I made myself a new gown for the occasion. Rose-red silk with gold ribbon at the sleeves and waist. I spent hours fussing with curling papers and tongs to make my ringlets just right. Fool that I was, I thought he meant to propose. And even when he tugged at my bodice and reached up my skirt, I still thought he meant to propose--afterward. I thought he was carried away with passion, that was all. It felt dizzyingly romantic."