My Favorite Bride (23 page)

“That's it,” he decided. “That's all.” He wanted between her legs. He wanted her now. He propelled her against the wall and pressed her against him, naked and bare, male and female. With two fingers, he opened her.

“That hurts,” she said.

For an answer, he lifted her chin with his other hand and kissed her. Ravished her mouth with his. Gave her no reprieve.

She didn't back away. Not Samantha.

He had known she wouldn't.

Instead she kissed him back, bold and wild, and pressed herself closer again. Her whole body closer to his, and the way he stood, knees bent, ready to drive into her . . .

They paused.

He was just inside her. Just the head. Stretching her.

It was the beginning of possession. It was what they'd been fighting against since the first moment they'd met.

And this was inevitable.

Both of them stopped breathing, stopping kissing. They stared at each other in the dim light, not seeing each other with any clarity. Not needing to. She moved her hips, a slow demand that forced him a little deeper. And she sucked in a pained breath.

He put his mouth next to her ear. “You knew it would hurt you.”

“Yes. I knew you would hurt me.”

That wasn't what he'd said, but she pressed downward again, and he couldn't find the words to question her. The sensation was everything he'd ever dreamed. She was silk and sand, warm and tight. He wanted to get inside her and stay there. He wanted to finish quickly and start again. She wrapped him in a heat that thawed the frozen corners of his soul and made him whole for the first time in too many years. In his life.

A burst of laughter came from the manor.

They couldn't do this here.

He lifted his head and glanced around. “We've got to move.”

“I don't want to.” She drenched him with her arousal.

He retained some level of sanity, if this could be called sanity. “We'll be caught. Into the cottage.” He picked her up, his hands under her bottom.

She wrapped her legs around him.

And he slipped all the way inside.

Her maidenhead broke. She gave a shout—of rage, of pain, he didn't know—and smacked him hard on the shoulders. “Ruddy ‘ell!” She swore like a soldier as her muscles flexed around him.

In the sudden, overwhelming gust of desire, he forgot the need for privacy. The need for discretion. The need for anything but satisfaction. He let the wall support her back and slowly pulled out of her . . . almost all the way. And back in. And out.

Her breath sounded harsh in the night air. “William. Dear God. William.”

She didn't sound like she was in pain anymore, and he couldn't have done anything if she was. His thighs, his calves ached from the strain of holding her up, but he couldn't stop. He had to take her, and take her, and take her, until she knew she was his.

She held his shoulders for balance, for support . . . this bliss was too exquisite to bear, and at the same time, he wanted her to hold him forever.

He moved more quickly, his breath harsh, his lungs laboring, his hips thrusting without tenderness. He couldn't get close enough. He couldn't reach that one place . . . that place inside her . . . the place that promised ownership, control. Of Samantha. Forever. He had to reach it. He had to reach it
now
. “Now,” he demanded. “Now!”

Her legs convulsed around his waist. She moaned deeply. And inside, her muscles clasped him, milked him, as he plunged over and over, filling her with his seed.

Slowly, he collapsed onto his knees, holding her, sliding down the wall, groaning with satiation . . . and the need to take her once again.

Chapter Twenty-three

Samantha woke to the sound of the kindling igniting in the fireplace, and the solid thunk of logs being tossed onto the coals. The heat blazed up toward her face. Snuggling her cheeks against the sofa cushion, she smiled and waited. She wasn't disappointed. William placed the blankets over her shoulder and slid in behind her, pulling her against his warmth. “Um,” she moaned, “you're like a stove.”

His voice spoke right in her ear, profound and mellow. “Hot?”

“So hot.” Opening her eyes, she slid around to face him. Firelight put streaks of gold in his dark hair, and gave his austere features a warm glow. He watched her with a smile, as if the sight of her gave him pleasure. Certainly the night had brought pleasure. After their stormy indiscretion on the
porch, he'd carried her inside. They'd gotten no further than the sofa before desire swept them again. The cushions had ended up on the floor. Their clothes had ended up on the floor.
They
had ended up on the floor. There they'd stayed.

Now he brought the blankets and pillows from her bed, making a nest like a mighty eagle enticing his mate.

She skimmed her hand over his stubbled chin. “What time is it?”

Without a glance toward the window, he said, “Two hours until dawn.”

“I'm wide awake.” She looked down at his chest, then up into his eyes. “What would you like to do to pass the time?”

“Flirt.” His fingers threaded their way into the fall of her hair. His blue eyes were almost black in the firelight, and stark in their intensity. “You're so beautiful. Slender, with the sleekness and strength of a thoroughbred.”

She grinned. Because she could tease him. Because he made her happy. “Are you saying I look like a horse?”

“What do you think?”

The smile disappeared, vanquished by the power of his question. “I think that you really see me as beautiful. And I think . . . I'll bow to your superior perception.”

“You confirm that you're wise as well as beautiful.” With his palm on the small of her back, he brought her bare hips against his. He was aroused again, pressing himself against her. Yet he made no
move to mount her, although she moved enticingly. “You're too new for me to take you again.”

“But don't you want . . . ?” She moved her hands down his chest.

“Yes.” He rose onto his elbow and propped his head on his hand. “But despite my disgraceful behavior tonight, I do know how to treat a woman.”

She rose onto her elbow, also. “What disgraceful behavior?”

“I took you standing up on the porch.”

“What's disgraceful about that? I have rather fond memories of—”

“As do I.” He placed his palm over her lips. “But to initiate a virgin in such manner, so forcefully, without consideration to your comfort or your innocence!”

She shoved his hand away. “Comfort? We were supposed to consider comfort? The thought never crossed my mind.”

“A man should cherish a woman her first time. Such roughness is for experienced lovers, not . . . not you.” He frowned in his stern, military disapproval. “Not so soon.”

“Are you feeling guilty?”

“I can't believe I so lost control.”

“You did, didn't you?” Delighted, she stroked his shoulder. “Colonel Gregory lost his head over a woman.”

“Not over any woman.” He stroked her shoulder with as much pleasure. “Over you. Only you.”

She liked him so much.

“Talk to me.” Taking a lock of her hair, he
brought it forward, draped it over her breast, and over and over, he brushed her nipple. “Since we can't make love, tell me about your family. About your childhood.”

That woke her from her sensuous dream. He asked questions for a reason. He wanted to know the truth about the woman who had made him abandon his vaulted principles.

He wasn't involved as she was.

He watched her so keenly, it was as if he could read her soul. “You look at me with those big brown eyes so accusing, when I'm trying to do the right thing.”

“You want to know about the woman you've slept with,” she said flatly.

“Lovers talk. They tell each other about their lives. Their memories.”

She bristled with hostility. “Their families.”

“I've made my choice. I want
you
. Not your family.”

She knew it. She'd given him hints of her past. Tidbits of her reality. She could tell him about her mother and father, about her background, and he wouldn't change his mind. As long as she didn't push him too far . . . as long as she told him everything except what she'd done to so many people for so many years.

“You were raised on the streets of London, I think,” he said.

“You guessed. Is it the accent?” She dropped into Cockney. “The way Oi use me fingers t' eat? Did ye see me wipe me nose on me sleeve?”

His eyebrows rose, but he showed an insight that frightened her. “You're angry.”

No, she wasn't. She was scared. For the first time in her life, she desperately wanted something she could never have. What had Lady Marchant said?
If you catch a husband fast enough, he won't find out about you until it's too late.
William admitted he couldn't resist her. If she snatched him up . . . but he
would
find out. She had to remember that. She loved him, and she could never have him.

He rubbed the lines between her brows. “Someone must have hurt you very much.”

A multitude of someones, and he was next in line. She dropped back into the crisp, upper-class accent she'd been taught. “I hurt them back, sir. If you truly believe that white is white and black is black and there are no shades of gray, then you should know I'm covered top to toe with coal dust.”

He smiled at her with such passion, such admiration. “You are the most honest woman I've ever met.”

Sitting up, she exclaimed, “No!” He was twisting this around. She was trying to warn him, and he admired her for it. But only because he didn't comprehend the depths of her iniquity.

“I know, I know.” He gathered her to him again. “You're about to thrash me for being biased. But I'll say it right this time. You are the most honest
person
I know.”

She ought to tell him. She ought to. But the air was cold, he was warm, and she was allowed one
full day of happiness. She would take her day of happiness.

He pulled her back into his arms, and she went without resistance, collapsing onto his chest, letting him warm her with his heat. Stroking her hands across his shoulders, she tried to absorb everything about him. The way he looked, the way he felt, that fall of hair over his brow, his strong fingers . . .

With his thumb, he pressed the pad of her chin. “Tell me one good thing about your parents.”

“They were married.”

His eyes grew somber. “A little stark.”

It was the middle of the night, the time for confidences. He was her lover, a man she wanted desperately to trust. Why not tell him everything? The worst that could happen was that he would turn away from her . . .

“Darling, you look as if you're in pain.” He cradled her head against his chest. “Don't . . . I'm sorry I asked.”

In a rush, she said, “My mother was a member of the minor gentry, a parson's daughter who worked in a great house as the governess.”

She could hear the gust of breath into his lungs, rode the swift inhale beneath her cheek. “So you're treading in your mother's shoes,” he said.

“I hope not.” Was she? What would happen . . . after today? “My father met my mother in the park on her half-day off. She had a small inheritance from her grandmother, so he romanced her and against her father's wishes, she wed him. And
she . . . descended into hell. She lost her position, of course. Her family wouldn't speak to her. And my father revealed himself to be a black-hearted blighter. He spent her money, then put her to work, not such work as she was used to, but sewing until her eyes ached. Begging . . . she hated the begging. Standing on the street corner, her hand outstretched, being spat upon by her former mistress, ridiculed by the lads, offered money for her services.” Samantha buried her face in William's chest. “Da used to thrash the gents for that.”

“Thank God!” He sounded appalled, yet pleased that her father had shown some small sign of chivalry.

She crushed his hope. “He didn't want her, but no one else should, either.” Why had she started to confess? Now she was lost, wandering in the recollection of those nights which seemed to have no day and hunger always clawed at her stomach. “My mother gave birth to me under the worst circumstances while he was out romancing yet another lady. He liked fooling them, you see. Taking them down to his level. And sometimes they had money, and then we had money, too, enough to buy food and coal.”

William stroked her hair. “You were cold and hungry?”

“Aye, sir, and me mum gave almost everything t' me.” Remembered guilt clawed at her as she slipped in and out of her Cockney accent. “I knew it wasn't right, but I sat before the fire and ate her food.”

“How old were you?” His hand slid along her spine, up and down, offering comfort, but beneath her, his muscles tensed.

“She died when I was seven.”

“Seven? You were seven when she passed on? You made your mother happy by surviving.” His hug was both tender and exasperated. “Dear girl, you are not a parent. I tell you the truth—once you've given life to a child, you'll do anything to keep her alive, even starve and freeze.”

Samantha almost laughed at him, but that wouldn't have been kind. “You're naïve, sir. My father felt no such parental urge, nor did my mother's most holy parents. Mum told them they had a granddaughter. She begged them to take me. She, who hated to beg.” Her fingers dug into William's shoulder. “They refused her, told her she deserved her fate as I deserved mine.”

“You might pity them for their shriveled souls.”

“Or hate them for turning their faces away.” She did hate them. “When Mama died, Da sent them word. He didn't want me, and I suppose he thought he might reap some profit out of my sale.” She shook her head. Why was she still talking? She'd never told anyone any of this. It was humiliating to be so poor and unwanted, especially by those who should have cared the most. Why couldn't she just shut up?

“How did you survive? A child of seven, with no one to care for her?”

“I sang on the street corners. I begged. I swept the crossings. I did what you see children doing every day in London.”

He didn't say anything.

He must despise her now. She'd blabbed all her secrets—well, almost all her secrets—and he realized at last the kind of female he had embraced. She cringed as she thought of facing him . . . but she couldn't put it off forever, and at last she lifted her head and looked him in the face.

He observed her with . . . well, it looked like with affection. Admiration, almost. “You are a remarkable woman,” he said, and cupping her face, he kissed her.

With a sob, she relaxed against him. She kissed him back, deep kisses she had shared only with him. She gave herself to him completely, and hope sprouted and grew in a spirit she would have sworn was barren. That was so dangerous, to think that because he accepted all the horror of her early life, he would accept her completely. But she couldn't help it. Perhaps . . . perhaps she had found a home at last.

Leaning her forehead against his, she looked into his eyes. “I've told you my secrets. Now tell me yours.”

She didn't know what she expected, but nothing could prepare her for the truth.

“My secrets? I only have one. I catch spies.”

She blinked at him. “What?”

“See how much I trust you?” His blue eyes twinkled at her. He smiled as if he were proud. “I swear to you it's the truth. I catch spies—”

How foolish she had been! “At night on the road. Of course.” She clutched at him. “That's dangerous.”