“You don’t upset me, Matthew, nor does your daughter,” she stated.
“Then what was that little display about when we got home from the wedding?”
“I… I just felt it important to get off on the right foot.”
“The right foot?” he asked, his tone stern. “Meaning you wanted to let Mary know right away that you weren’t interested in being a mother?”
Finnea cringed. She knew he was right, and she felt the heat of embarrassment at the well-deserved recrimination. But yesterday the words had come out before she could think. She hadn’t slept until noon in her life, but she had needed some way to put distance between them, however artificial.
She watched as the hardness in his expression softened.
“Is it because I had another wife?”
Her heart kicked when he stood up from his chair. With the predatory stride of a lion, he came around the table and gently took her arm.
The feel of his fingers wrapping around her, the insistent hum as blood rushed through her veins, his touch seeping into her skin as he pulled her close.
“Is that it, Finn?” he asked, his voice low and rumbling. “Are you upset that I had another wife?”
Embarrassment flashed through her. “Upset about another wife?” God, did she seem so shallow? But the anger drained away as quickly as it surfaced. Of course she was. Shallow and awful.
“You are acting like your own mother, Finnea. Don’t do that to my daughter.”
She locked away the hurt that his words caused. “But it’s true,” she replied, barely able to get the words past the lump in her throat. “I am my mother’s child, after all. You’ve known that all along. How can you expect me to be anything else?”
His blue eyes grew darker with intensity. “Because you are not your mother. You would never care more about society than your child. You would love her and care for her no matter what.”
The words tore at her, twisted around her, strangled her. He didn’t know how true they were. He also didn’t know that in the end none of it had mattered.
“Since you know so much about it, you be the mother. You certainly don’t need me.”
She tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her go. He studied her and she could tell he was looking deep, looking into her soul. She tried again to move away.
“But I do need you,” he whispered, holding her there.
Tears sprang to life in her eyes as he pulled her closer.
His hand came up and cupped her cheek. “Mary needs you.”
The thought of Isabel sprang to life in her mind.
“We need you,” he added gruffly, his thumb brushing against her skin. “I know you aren’t as cold as you’re acting.”
“But I am,” she cried, the sob wrenching from her soul. “I am cold and hard! I can’t do this! I thought I could, but I can’t.”
No one had told her how much she would love her child. No one had told her about the wonder she would experience at the feel of her daughter curled up in her arms, fresh from a bath— or how utterly destroyed she would be when she was gone.
He took hold of her shoulders and shook her gently but firmly. “You can do this, Finnea. You can be a wonderful mother. Just try!” His voice softened. “All I ask is that you try.”
“No.”
The single, obstinate word turned his blue eyes to chips of ice. “Why? Why won’t you even try?”
Pride and defiance surged and she refused to let him see how she was hurting. “I told you I didn’t want this marriage. I meant what I said. And I don’t want you.”
His eyes went blank, unfathomable depths resurfacing. “You might not have wanted a wedding ring, but you have proved on several occasions that you want me.”
“That is not true!”
The words were barely out when he pulled her to him, his mouth descending on hers. His kiss was hard and punishing, but only for a moment. Almost instantly it turned soft and desperate. He murmured against her lips, stroking, urging her with his tongue, making her want to give in. He slid his hands down her sides, then up slowly, his fingers drifting along her back, his thumbs grazing her ribs.
He felt when she started to give in, felt when she started to melt against him. Her hands stopped pushing at him and curled into his shirt. His hands drifted low again, down her side, his thumbs curving around to skim over her abdomen, slipping beneath the thin white cotton of her skirt. He gently sucked her tongue into his mouth and she moaned, the innocent mewling sending a surge of blood to his groin. He was hard for her, hard and aching.
Cupping her round bottom, he pulled her up against his desire. “Do you feel how much I want you?”
At the words, he felt her stiffen in his arms. Tension flowed into her frame, and she tore her mouth away from his. “No!” she cried out.
He set her at arm’s length. “Why? You want me, Finnea, but you keep pushing me away. Tell me why.”
She tried to step away, but he held her there.
“Tell me, Finn, why?”
She stared at him for long seconds, her eyes desolate and darkened with despair. “Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because I can’t stand to feel!”
He expected many things, but not that. The words caught him in the stomach, words he understood so well. But every time he was near her, she made him feel. Desire, life. Hope.
Something flared inside him, twisting and hurting. Her ability to set herself apart was unbearable. She succeeded where he failed.
He wanted her to feel. He needed her to feel.
He had managed to numb himself in Africa, had begun to deaden the pain for all that he had lost. But since he met Finnea he had done nothing but feel, as if she were tearing him apart all over again.
She who had ripped open his heart wouldn’t allow anyone around her to do the same.
Something had defeated her in Africa, he was sure of it now, but she refused to tell him what it was. And clearly her family had ripped her apart even more. Nonetheless, she stood there defiantly, building a wall around herself, standing strong against the pain.
But he needed her. And she needed him. For whatever reason, for whatever purpose. He accepted that now.
It was time she accepted it, too.
“You should have thought of that,” he stated softly, “before you agreed to marry me.”
He curled her closer, and her eyes went wary.
“I’m having your things moved out of the yellow room.”
“Why?” she stammered.
“Because you’re my wife, and from now on, you will sleep in the room that adjoins mine.”
At the end of what seemed like an endless day, Finnea purposely made her way to the yellow room. The closer she got, the harder she prayed that Matthew hadn’t followed through with his threat. But when she opened the door she knew right away that all of her belongings were gone.
A short, bubbly maid in a starched white apron appeared at her side.
“Mrs. Hawthorne, I just finished moving your things. I know you are just going to love the new room. It’s so beautiful.” The young girl giggled. “And Mr. Hawthorne is in his own room right next door.”
Finnea’s heart felt like lead in her chest. She walked down the hall as if she were walking toward an executioner’s block. She couldn’t afford this. But mixed with that knowledge was the clear memory of the touch of his lips, the graze of his fingers against her spine. Her breath grew shallow, and her skin tightened across her chest. Sensation tingled through her body as though Matthew were touching her now.
The door to her new room was open. A fire burned low on the hearth, filling the space with a welcoming glow. The ceiling was high, the walls papered with a delicate floral print. The perfect room for a lady.
“I’ve run your bath,” the maid said. “Can I help you undress?”
“No. No, thank you.”
Even after the maid departed, the door that must connect her room to the next remained closed. But only when Finnea sat down in front of the vanity and still she remained alone did her heart begin to settle. She waited for several minutes to pass, staring at the door’s reflection in the mirror. And still it stayed firmly shut.
Relief and foolish disappointment mixed like wine with her blood. She went to the bath chamber that opened off the room. It looked like a private sanctuary. Marble tiles, hand-woven rugs, porcelain tub, beveled mirrors, a chaise, and even a commode. She wouldn’t have to walk down the hall, as she had at her mother’s house, or outside, as she had in Africa. A giddy pleasure raced through her at such a luxury.
She glanced between the steaming water in the tub and the connecting door. In an instant, she made her decision. Hurriedly, she brushed out her hair and pinned it on top of her head. After tossing her gown aside, she sank into the lavender-scented water until it lapped at her chin. Heaven.
She soaked until she felt the tension drain away. Steam rose up from the water, and she consciously put all thought from her mind.
She didn’t know how long she soaked, but she was nearly asleep when she realized the water was cold. Quickly she washed and stepped out of the tub. She could see the door was still shut, and she breathed another sigh of relief at the thought that she could put off dealing with Matthew for another day.
But just when she pulled on a thin wrapper over her naked body, she stopped. Matthew sat in a wingback chair in front of the hearth, a crystal of brandy in his hand. He wore fine wool trousers and a white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, revealing a glimpse of golden hair. His vest and coat were gone. He looked like a man at ease, at the end of the day, in the privacy of his bedchamber. Finnea’s heart skipped a beat at the intimacy.
He looked up when she entered, and she could see his blue eyes darken at the sight of her. The knowledge that he wanted her sent a tremor through her body. Her heart began to pound nervously and she forced a laugh.
“Fancy meeting you here,” she offered. “Did you lose your way?”
His eyes darkened even more. “I lost my way a long time ago.”
The words seared her soul, knowing that somehow he spoke a very deep truth.
She wanted out of there; she wanted him gone. She couldn’t take his pain because there was nothing she could do about it. She couldn’t ease his anger; she couldn’t solve his problems with his father. She couldn’t fill his need for a mother for his child.
“So much for jokes,” she replied with a flippancy that even to her ears sounded false.
“Are you enjoying your new room?” he asked.
She shrugged as casually as she could. “A room is a room, a few walls, a floor, a ceiling, a bed—” She went still.
He glanced at the furniture mentioned, then back at her. “Come here, Finnea.”
The words were a sensual command, making her body burn. “I’d rather not,” she managed.
“I’d rather you did.”
Her heart fluttered as he held out his hand, all casual pretense evaporating.
“I can’t do this,” she whispered, choked.
He stood, his chiseled body unfolding from the chair, so broad and tall that he blocked out the firelight. “You can, Finn, and you will.”
Turning sharply, she intended to flee. But she hadn’t gotten more than a few steps when he took her hand, pulling her back. His touch was gentle, though commanding, his eyes filled with all the emotion she refused to let herself feel.
He turned her around until she faced away from him, facing the fire. She stood woodenly as his hands trailed up her arms to her shoulders, then her hair, his fingers pulling the pins until the long strands tumbled free. His hands slid into her hair, his palms cradling her head, rubbing slowly.
“What are you doing?” she asked, holding herself perfectly still when she really wanted to lean back against him.
“I’m touching you.” He leaned down and whispered in her ear. “I’m going to touch every inch of you.”
Her stomach tensed.
“I’m going to touch your breasts,” he added, his hands working their magic on her scalp. “I’m going to touch you between your legs, slip my fingers inside you until you’re wet and slick and ready.”
The knot in her stomach tightened, righting with the sudden hot warmth that spread through her thighs.
“I’m going to show you how much you do feel, Finnea.”
The words stabbed through the fog in her brain and she tried to jerk away. “Why are you doing this?” she gasped when his arm curled around her like a band of steel.
He seemed to pull a deep, jagged breath at the quick movement, pressing his lips to her head. “Because you are my wife,” he said at last.
“But I don’t want to be.”
She felt him tense.
“Too late now,” he whispered, his arm pulling her firmly back until her spine pressed against his chest.
He touched his lips to her hair; before parting the silk of her dressing gown. She gasped as slowly his hand slipped between the lapels, brushing against still-damp skin from the bath.
“Did you feel that?” he asked, his voice low and deep in her ear.
She jerked her head to the side, but it only brought her cheek up against his chest.
“I think you did.”
His hand caressed her belly, sliding dangerously low, the tips of his long fingers grazing the tight curls between her legs, and her entire body burned.
“You feel, sweetheart,” he stated.
His gentle touch made her want to weep.
“You’re wrong,” she replied, unable to say anything else. “I don’t care enough to feel.”
The motion of his hand stopped, hesitated as if he battled within himself and he might cease his torment. But then a deep sound rumbled in his chest and his hand started again, this time moving higher, and her heart began to pound.
The silk lapels of the dressing gown fell apart completely, the long sash hanging at her sides. One large hand cupped her breast, pressing it high, his thumb brushing over the peak, making it taut.
“Still no feeling?” he asked.
“No,” she whispered, her eyes closed.
Despite her plea, she tried to turn around, her body instinctively seeking what her mind didn’t want. But he wouldn’t let her, holding her captured against his chest as if he didn’t want her to see him.
He buried his face in her hair as he palmed her breasts with both hands, gently rolling her taut nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. She felt dizzy and hot. Her head rolled on his chest as his hand drifted low. One hand still tantalized her breast, the other slipped between her legs as he had promised.