In Scandal They Wed
Page 18
It was not Barbados. She would not wake in the dark, confused and terrified at the rough hands on her. He was a gentleman, a man of honor. Clearly, or why would he have bothered to marry her in the first place?
Lying there, watching shadows chase across the walls with the wind howling outside, she listened to his breathing slow and deepen, his body so close to hers but not touching.
Exhaling, she closed her eyes and told herself to relax. He had vowed not to hurt her, and she believed him. This was not Barbados and he was no Stirling. He would not force intimacy on her. Would not pound her with his fists. She need only withstand their unfortunate attraction.
He began to snore gently beside her. Unable to resist a peek, she turned her face in his direction, unreasonably miffed at how easily he drifted to sleep. Clearly, she need not fear seduction from him.
She mustn’t be that desirable. She was nothing more than the mother of Ian’s child. A convenient bride for a man in need of a wife. She frowned, disappointed. Absurd, she knew. She should feel nothing save relief over that fact.
Squashing her hurt over his lack of interest, she sighed and rolled onto her side, sliding a hand beneath her cheek. The fire popped and a log crumbled. She shivered and buried deeper into the bed.
She would learn to ignore the feelings he roused in her.
She would learn to overcome this bothersome attraction to Spencer, to rise above it and never, ever act on it no matter what methods of seduction he might employ on her susceptible body.
Spencer feigned sleep.
That’s not to say he didn’t attempt to sleep. He tried. Valiantly, he tried. He told himself the night would fly past if he could only surrender to dreams.
He was aware the moment Evie fell asleep beside him, and he couldn’t help wondering if she and Ian had ever shared a bed. He didn’t think it possible. Another first for him, then. His lips twisted. The thought perversely pleased him—gave him something to consider as the minutes rolled past and she slept peaceably beside him.
He doubted he would sleep at all tonight. Not with his c**k hard and the slim female body lying next to him. Linnie—Evie, he quickly amended. His wife. She was his for the taking, yet he did not make a move toward her. Not with her recent words ringing in his ear. She loved Ian still. She didn’t want him. She wasn’t ready for him. Perhaps she never would be.
Suddenly, she woke, surging upright beside him with a ragged breath. He glanced sharply at her but could make out little in the gloom. The fire had died. The room was as quietly shrouded as a battlefield at dusk after the fighting had finished and the last sound of artillery ripped the air.
“Evie?” He sat up beside her, lightly touching her arm. “Did you have a nightmare—”
She released a small shriek at the touch, and he drew back his hand.
He pronounced her name again hard, determined to reach her. “Evie!”
She was quiet for a moment, still beside him before she at last spoke, the shadow of her face turning toward him. “Spencer?”
“Yes. It’s me.”
With a deep breath, she lowered herself back down, trembling beside him on the bed. “Sorry. The darkness . . . surprised me. There was light when I fell asleep.”
He paused, thinking. “Does the dark frighten you?”
“Of course not,” she replied. Too quickly.
He lay beside her, not touching, still feeling the tremors of her body. Something frightened her. If not the dark . . .
“I’m not a child,” she added, her voice ringing defiantly.
He smiled grimly. He knew that. Every time she walked into the room his body came alive. “I know.”
Several moments passed and she still shook. He was on the verge of demanding an explanation when her voice stroked the air, small and anxious. “I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to stoke the fire. It is a strange room. A little light wouldn’t be . . . unwelcome.”
Without a word he stood and moved to the hearth, locating the poker. In moments, a soft glow filled the room. When he climbed back in bed, he noticed she had stopped shaking. He settled beside her.
“Thank you,” she murmured, rolling on her side, presenting him her back.
He grunted a response, staring at the waterfall of gold-brown hair. His palms tingled, itching to gather the mass and feel the silken texture.
His wife was afraid of the dark. And she didn’t want him to know it.
Interesting. What else would he learn about her?
Curled on her side, Evie shivered as cold air stroked her neck. Foggy with sleep, she whimpered and tugged her coverlet higher, snuggling closer to the pulsing warmth that felt like satin beneath her seeking palms. She rubbed her chilled nose against the silky smooth pillow.
Burrowing deeper, she sighed contentedly, dimly aware of the snapping cold outside her bed, and grateful for the heat cocooning her. There was nothing like a cozy warm bed when winter closed its teeth on the land.
The slightest pressure at the small of her back urged her deeper into her pillow. She obliged, moving closer to the source of heat, welcoming, seeking, pressing her lips against . . . skin.
Her eyes flew wide but found nothing but darkness. Awful darkness.
Gasping, she jerked—lifted her face off her warm wall, desperate for some light, for saving light.
Relief flowed through her at the low glow of firelight suffusing the room, staving off complete darkness.
The relief lasted only a moment before she remembered, before she grasped the terrible truth.
She was not snuggling against a pillow. She was not alone. She shared a bed with Spencer. Her husband. The pressure at her back was his hand. A large, warm, masculine hand pulling, urging her closer. The warm wall at her front was his body.
She pulled back and studied his face in the murky room. He was asleep. Eyes shut, lips loose and relaxed, he looked like a dark angel. Relief swept through her.
He doesn’t know you’re awake. Close your eyes and go back to sleep.
Jamming her eyes tight, she fought to relax, to reclaim the sleep of moments ago. The peace. Sweet oblivion.
The hand at her back shifted, fingers fanning out, spreading wide, branding her like fire.
With nowhere else to place her hands, she laid them lightly against his chest, praying she did not wake him. Air hissed between her teeth at the contact—a bare chest like hot satin.
How could she have thought him a pillow? There was nothing soft about him. She chalked it up to his warmth, to the incredible smoothness of his skin. Skin that seemed everywhere. All around her. His broad chest spread out like a wall before her. Afraid to move, to alert him that she was awake and clinging like a vine to him, she waited.
She waited, growing achingly aware of how truly mortifying the situation had become.
Her nightrail was bunched around her thighs, her left leg wedged intimately between his. Thank heavens he had left his trousers on.
His hand moved again and she sucked in a silent breath as it slid down, cupped her bottom in a grip that felt achingly familiar. A twist of heat licked through her belly. He brought her closer, adjusted her against him as though searching for the right fit.
She bit back a groan and forced herself to remain perfectly still. Stone against him. With her face buried against his chest, her lips tasted his skin.
Her body hummed, alert, alive, a wire strummed. Her heart hammered wildly within her chest and she could not imagine he did not hear its wild fluttering.
Dear God, she had to move, had to extricate herself from this shocking situation. She could not remain as she was, his hand clutching her derriere and pushing her up against the impossibly hard length of him.
Still feigning sleep, she sighed and twisted, breaking free in what she hoped to be an artless maneuver. Turning on her side, she was mindful to put a few inches between them.
Her body now gratefully separate from his, she dug her fingers into her pillow in a bloodless grip and waited. Listened to a log pop and crumble in the hearth. Watched the flurry of flakes against the deep blue of night outside the room’s window.
Moments crawled past. Gradually, relief glided through her. And something else. Regret perhaps? That she had moved. That he slept while her body ached with need. That he had not woken and made the choice for both of them.
Then she forgot about regret, sucking in a sharp breath as an arm circled her waist and dragged her back. A shudder racked her at the hot press of his body. He spooned her, her back perfectly aligned to his chest, her legs bent with his, her derriere cradled in his hips.
She should never have moved. This position was much worse. Her skin prickled, flushed with heat. So much worse. So much better.
For several moments, neither moved, and she thought that was the end of it. He slept, unaware that he had pulled her to him. She would simply resign herself to sleeping this way in torment. All night long.
Then, he moved again.
A broad palm closed over her breast. The air seized in her lungs. Her heart jumped, its fierce beat drumming against his hand, shuddering in her rib cage like a wild bird.
She waited, held herself motionless, her eyes so wide that they ached.
He held himself still—didn’t move. Not his body. Not his hand on her swelling breast. Evidently he was still unaware of his actions.
Brilliant. She could not sleep like this. She would go mad.
She prepared to pull free, but she froze when she felt his hand flex. Her nipple hardened, beaded against his palm, betraying her.
That hand began a slow, steady knead on her breast.
She bit her lip, stifling her pleasured cry.
Would he do that in his sleep? Was it an unconscious act?
To her horror, she arched, pushing her hardening nipple deeper into his palm.
There was no fear in this moment. Nor in the deep throbbing ache between her thighs.
Without thought, she began to move, wriggling, pressing herself back into him, grinding into his groin, nudging at the hard erection prodding her backside. His fingers found her nipple and her world grayed.
A low moan built deep in her throat as his fingers started to softly roll her nipple, teasing, plucking lightly until she was panting. His touch grew harder, more insistent on her breast. The ache between her legs almost hurt now, pulsing and clenching, desperate for satisfaction. She bit her lip against a moan.
His breath fogged at the crook of her neck. He sounded like her, his breathing fast and heavy.
Her nightrail became an unwelcome barrier between them, a nuisance that prevented her from feeling his skin flush against hers. She whimpered, writhing against him.
His other arm came around, slipped beneath her. This time there was no suppressing her moan as both his hands cupped her br**sts, playing with the ni**les until she thought she would scream.
Her thighs worked, feverishly opening and closing, seeking, desperate to find relief for the throbbing squeeze there. One of his hands left her, sliding unerringly down the front of her rumpled nightrail. That hand delved between her thighs before she could protest.
Not that she would have. Not that she could.
Her entire body quivered, burned for him. Her mouth parted on a cry at the first brush of his hand—at the smooth slide of his fingers against her slick folds. She closed her eyes, lost in sensation. She lurched, shuddered, swallowing the tiny sounds at the back of her throat.
“God, Evie,” he groaned. Alert. Awake. Awake.
She stilled.
“You feel so good.”
Chapter 16
It was the sound of his voice. The confirmation that he was awake and aware of his actions that turned her to stone in his arms.
If she had taken a moment to consider the matter, she would have realized he no longer slept. Only lost to his touch, to the hunger clutching her body, she had permitted herself to ignore what should have been patently evident.
His breath warmed her neck. “Do you taste as sweet as you feel?”
At the rumble of his voice, she could no longer delude herself. Those words, so deep and throaty, so full of sexual intent, made her feel the fool. Duped and ill-used.
He’d known this would happen. Had planned for it—the very seduction he had threatened.
Lying there, watching shadows chase across the walls with the wind howling outside, she listened to his breathing slow and deepen, his body so close to hers but not touching.
Exhaling, she closed her eyes and told herself to relax. He had vowed not to hurt her, and she believed him. This was not Barbados and he was no Stirling. He would not force intimacy on her. Would not pound her with his fists. She need only withstand their unfortunate attraction.
He began to snore gently beside her. Unable to resist a peek, she turned her face in his direction, unreasonably miffed at how easily he drifted to sleep. Clearly, she need not fear seduction from him.
She mustn’t be that desirable. She was nothing more than the mother of Ian’s child. A convenient bride for a man in need of a wife. She frowned, disappointed. Absurd, she knew. She should feel nothing save relief over that fact.
Squashing her hurt over his lack of interest, she sighed and rolled onto her side, sliding a hand beneath her cheek. The fire popped and a log crumbled. She shivered and buried deeper into the bed.
She would learn to ignore the feelings he roused in her.
She would learn to overcome this bothersome attraction to Spencer, to rise above it and never, ever act on it no matter what methods of seduction he might employ on her susceptible body.
Spencer feigned sleep.
That’s not to say he didn’t attempt to sleep. He tried. Valiantly, he tried. He told himself the night would fly past if he could only surrender to dreams.
He was aware the moment Evie fell asleep beside him, and he couldn’t help wondering if she and Ian had ever shared a bed. He didn’t think it possible. Another first for him, then. His lips twisted. The thought perversely pleased him—gave him something to consider as the minutes rolled past and she slept peaceably beside him.
He doubted he would sleep at all tonight. Not with his c**k hard and the slim female body lying next to him. Linnie—Evie, he quickly amended. His wife. She was his for the taking, yet he did not make a move toward her. Not with her recent words ringing in his ear. She loved Ian still. She didn’t want him. She wasn’t ready for him. Perhaps she never would be.
Suddenly, she woke, surging upright beside him with a ragged breath. He glanced sharply at her but could make out little in the gloom. The fire had died. The room was as quietly shrouded as a battlefield at dusk after the fighting had finished and the last sound of artillery ripped the air.
“Evie?” He sat up beside her, lightly touching her arm. “Did you have a nightmare—”
She released a small shriek at the touch, and he drew back his hand.
He pronounced her name again hard, determined to reach her. “Evie!”
She was quiet for a moment, still beside him before she at last spoke, the shadow of her face turning toward him. “Spencer?”
“Yes. It’s me.”
With a deep breath, she lowered herself back down, trembling beside him on the bed. “Sorry. The darkness . . . surprised me. There was light when I fell asleep.”
He paused, thinking. “Does the dark frighten you?”
“Of course not,” she replied. Too quickly.
He lay beside her, not touching, still feeling the tremors of her body. Something frightened her. If not the dark . . .
“I’m not a child,” she added, her voice ringing defiantly.
He smiled grimly. He knew that. Every time she walked into the room his body came alive. “I know.”
Several moments passed and she still shook. He was on the verge of demanding an explanation when her voice stroked the air, small and anxious. “I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to stoke the fire. It is a strange room. A little light wouldn’t be . . . unwelcome.”
Without a word he stood and moved to the hearth, locating the poker. In moments, a soft glow filled the room. When he climbed back in bed, he noticed she had stopped shaking. He settled beside her.
“Thank you,” she murmured, rolling on her side, presenting him her back.
He grunted a response, staring at the waterfall of gold-brown hair. His palms tingled, itching to gather the mass and feel the silken texture.
His wife was afraid of the dark. And she didn’t want him to know it.
Interesting. What else would he learn about her?
Curled on her side, Evie shivered as cold air stroked her neck. Foggy with sleep, she whimpered and tugged her coverlet higher, snuggling closer to the pulsing warmth that felt like satin beneath her seeking palms. She rubbed her chilled nose against the silky smooth pillow.
Burrowing deeper, she sighed contentedly, dimly aware of the snapping cold outside her bed, and grateful for the heat cocooning her. There was nothing like a cozy warm bed when winter closed its teeth on the land.
The slightest pressure at the small of her back urged her deeper into her pillow. She obliged, moving closer to the source of heat, welcoming, seeking, pressing her lips against . . . skin.
Her eyes flew wide but found nothing but darkness. Awful darkness.
Gasping, she jerked—lifted her face off her warm wall, desperate for some light, for saving light.
Relief flowed through her at the low glow of firelight suffusing the room, staving off complete darkness.
The relief lasted only a moment before she remembered, before she grasped the terrible truth.
She was not snuggling against a pillow. She was not alone. She shared a bed with Spencer. Her husband. The pressure at her back was his hand. A large, warm, masculine hand pulling, urging her closer. The warm wall at her front was his body.
She pulled back and studied his face in the murky room. He was asleep. Eyes shut, lips loose and relaxed, he looked like a dark angel. Relief swept through her.
He doesn’t know you’re awake. Close your eyes and go back to sleep.
Jamming her eyes tight, she fought to relax, to reclaim the sleep of moments ago. The peace. Sweet oblivion.
The hand at her back shifted, fingers fanning out, spreading wide, branding her like fire.
With nowhere else to place her hands, she laid them lightly against his chest, praying she did not wake him. Air hissed between her teeth at the contact—a bare chest like hot satin.
How could she have thought him a pillow? There was nothing soft about him. She chalked it up to his warmth, to the incredible smoothness of his skin. Skin that seemed everywhere. All around her. His broad chest spread out like a wall before her. Afraid to move, to alert him that she was awake and clinging like a vine to him, she waited.
She waited, growing achingly aware of how truly mortifying the situation had become.
Her nightrail was bunched around her thighs, her left leg wedged intimately between his. Thank heavens he had left his trousers on.
His hand moved again and she sucked in a silent breath as it slid down, cupped her bottom in a grip that felt achingly familiar. A twist of heat licked through her belly. He brought her closer, adjusted her against him as though searching for the right fit.
She bit back a groan and forced herself to remain perfectly still. Stone against him. With her face buried against his chest, her lips tasted his skin.
Her body hummed, alert, alive, a wire strummed. Her heart hammered wildly within her chest and she could not imagine he did not hear its wild fluttering.
Dear God, she had to move, had to extricate herself from this shocking situation. She could not remain as she was, his hand clutching her derriere and pushing her up against the impossibly hard length of him.
Still feigning sleep, she sighed and twisted, breaking free in what she hoped to be an artless maneuver. Turning on her side, she was mindful to put a few inches between them.
Her body now gratefully separate from his, she dug her fingers into her pillow in a bloodless grip and waited. Listened to a log pop and crumble in the hearth. Watched the flurry of flakes against the deep blue of night outside the room’s window.
Moments crawled past. Gradually, relief glided through her. And something else. Regret perhaps? That she had moved. That he slept while her body ached with need. That he had not woken and made the choice for both of them.
Then she forgot about regret, sucking in a sharp breath as an arm circled her waist and dragged her back. A shudder racked her at the hot press of his body. He spooned her, her back perfectly aligned to his chest, her legs bent with his, her derriere cradled in his hips.
She should never have moved. This position was much worse. Her skin prickled, flushed with heat. So much worse. So much better.
For several moments, neither moved, and she thought that was the end of it. He slept, unaware that he had pulled her to him. She would simply resign herself to sleeping this way in torment. All night long.
Then, he moved again.
A broad palm closed over her breast. The air seized in her lungs. Her heart jumped, its fierce beat drumming against his hand, shuddering in her rib cage like a wild bird.
She waited, held herself motionless, her eyes so wide that they ached.
He held himself still—didn’t move. Not his body. Not his hand on her swelling breast. Evidently he was still unaware of his actions.
Brilliant. She could not sleep like this. She would go mad.
She prepared to pull free, but she froze when she felt his hand flex. Her nipple hardened, beaded against his palm, betraying her.
That hand began a slow, steady knead on her breast.
She bit her lip, stifling her pleasured cry.
Would he do that in his sleep? Was it an unconscious act?
To her horror, she arched, pushing her hardening nipple deeper into his palm.
There was no fear in this moment. Nor in the deep throbbing ache between her thighs.
Without thought, she began to move, wriggling, pressing herself back into him, grinding into his groin, nudging at the hard erection prodding her backside. His fingers found her nipple and her world grayed.
A low moan built deep in her throat as his fingers started to softly roll her nipple, teasing, plucking lightly until she was panting. His touch grew harder, more insistent on her breast. The ache between her legs almost hurt now, pulsing and clenching, desperate for satisfaction. She bit her lip against a moan.
His breath fogged at the crook of her neck. He sounded like her, his breathing fast and heavy.
Her nightrail became an unwelcome barrier between them, a nuisance that prevented her from feeling his skin flush against hers. She whimpered, writhing against him.
His other arm came around, slipped beneath her. This time there was no suppressing her moan as both his hands cupped her br**sts, playing with the ni**les until she thought she would scream.
Her thighs worked, feverishly opening and closing, seeking, desperate to find relief for the throbbing squeeze there. One of his hands left her, sliding unerringly down the front of her rumpled nightrail. That hand delved between her thighs before she could protest.
Not that she would have. Not that she could.
Her entire body quivered, burned for him. Her mouth parted on a cry at the first brush of his hand—at the smooth slide of his fingers against her slick folds. She closed her eyes, lost in sensation. She lurched, shuddered, swallowing the tiny sounds at the back of her throat.
“God, Evie,” he groaned. Alert. Awake. Awake.
She stilled.
“You feel so good.”
Chapter 16
It was the sound of his voice. The confirmation that he was awake and aware of his actions that turned her to stone in his arms.
If she had taken a moment to consider the matter, she would have realized he no longer slept. Only lost to his touch, to the hunger clutching her body, she had permitted herself to ignore what should have been patently evident.
His breath warmed her neck. “Do you taste as sweet as you feel?”
At the rumble of his voice, she could no longer delude herself. Those words, so deep and throaty, so full of sexual intent, made her feel the fool. Duped and ill-used.
He’d known this would happen. Had planned for it—the very seduction he had threatened.
