Too Wicked to Marry (22 page)

She had no idea what he meant, but she wasn't ready for this, she didn't want this!

She expected his kiss to be rough, for his mouth to be hard on hers, for his hands to be harsh and demanding. She flinched, then prepared to fight when his hands and lips touched hers.

His lips brushed across hers like a whisper, a promise, a suggestion, a temptation, and then were gone. "Close your eyes," he commanded softly. "And don't think of anything else but me kissing you."

She responded to the sensual promise in his voice even as she fought it, and her eyes slowly closed.

Martin whispered, "Your lips are warm honey on mine, sweet, ripe. I can taste your smile, drink in your laughter with my mouth to yours. You taste of urgency, hunger, completion, and paradise. Our souls touch when our lips touch. There is lightning when our mouths come together, giving and taking, a promise of much, much more, without any need for words."

He kissed her then, not on the lips he praised so extravagantly, but on the tip of her nose, on the tip of her chin, and on her cheeks and temples and forehead. Somehow her awakened imagination transferred each teasing little kiss to the lips sensitized by his words.

"Let your skin remember my touch," he whispered in her ear, and kissed her earlobe, drawing it briefly between his lips. "Remember last night."

She felt the warmth of his hand at her throat, slamming over her face, across her bosom, but only the heat touched her, stirred her, left her tingling. This touch that was not a touch swirled slowly over her for a long time, almost frightening at first, almost soothing, conjuring the images of the night before. Remembering was so vivid it was as though it were happening all over again. She felt herself growing warm and pliant while his voice continued weaving a spell over her. Heat rose in her and her bones melted from remembered heat until she doubted she could have stood without the strength of his arm around her waist.

"Your skin is smoother than the satin that covers it, alive and wanting. Remember wanting. Want me."

He filled her inner vision, filled her senses. Memories flooded through her, mixed with something more urgent than memory.

"Yearn," he said, defining the stirring for her.

"Oh, do shut up and kiss me," she heard herself say, realizing how close their lips were to each other.

"Why don't you kiss me?" he suggested.

A few minutes ago she'd never wanted to kiss anyone again. She'd never wanted to look upon or perform the act of sex again. But all the blasted diplomat had had to do was
talk
to her and she was on the verge of changing her mind on the subject of carnal relation yet again. She was not a changeable sort of person.

"Passion is a powerful incentive," he said, reading her mind in her hesitation. "Real passion will not be denied. Real passion survives."

Did this real passion survive ugliness such as they'd witnessed tonight? It must, as she could no longer keep herself from running her hands through his black hair and drawing his head to hers until their lips met and clung, and something as wild and bright as sunlight burst through her.

While he kissed her he lifted her off her feet and carried her to the bed. When he put her on the bed, he held her down with one hand flat on her stomach while he tossed aside pillows with the other.

"Ah," he said, and held up one of Mrs. Swift's knives. He was grinning as he knelt beside her. "At least we won't have to worry about ironing out all the wrinkles."

She was not frightened of the man holding her down and brandishing a knife for an instant. She probably could have managed a way to disarm him, but protested instead, "This is my aunt's dress! You can't cut it off me!"

"I'm in a hurry," he explained.

"The thing has buttons!"

"And I have a knife. I'll be gentle," he added, still grinning. "At least with the knife."

Harriet was so flabbergasted she stayed perfectly still while he sliced very, very carefully, but with surprising speed, through first one and then the other narrow sleeves of the off-the-shoulder gown. Satin tore and silver beads scattered and soon her bodice and the undergarments beneath were a piece of history, and in several pieces. When the top half of her body was bare and open to his view, he leaned over her and looked his fill. He watched her bare breasts with intense scrutiny as her nipples tightened, and lifted a brow sardonically at her when they did.

"The air in the room is cool," she offered in explanation.

"I know how to warm them." He dipped his head to suckle and tease each breast in turn.

Her hands roamed over his back and shoulders, drawing a moan of frustration from her when she encountered cloth instead of skin. "My turn," she muttered, and reached for the hilt of the knife he'd dropped onto the bed.

"Now, Harriet—!" he exclaimed when he lifted his head and saw what she held.

His momentary alarm made her laugh. The fact that he knew about the secreted knife meant he'd overheard yesterday's conversation with Mrs. Swift, and that he assumed she knew how to use a weapon. She did, but he was the last person in the world she'd ever wanted to hurt, especially after this sweet seduction.

Giving herself to Martin was wrong, but making love to Martin did not feel wrong, and what did it matter right now if he did not love her? He wanted her as much as she wanted him, and passion would have to do, with Martin Kestrel in her bed looking at her with a twinkle in his eye, one hand on her breast and the other undoing the buttons of his shirt.

And, oh yes, about the knife…

"I'll be gentle," she said.

"I'd rather you'd hurry."

"All right."

"But
carefully
."

"Of course."

Within a short while and with his enthusiastic assistance, Martin's tailoring was as shredded as her dress. They kissed and touched, and giggled like naughty children while fine wool and linen mingled like May Day ribbons with the beaded blue satin of her gown.

"Now we have to face Cadwell as well as Mrs. Swift," Martin pointed out as they finished undressing each other.

Harriet was so breathless from laughter and arousal that she could barely form words to answer. "We're too old to be sent to bed without our supper."

"Spoken like a governess." His voice was husky with need despite the humor. He swatted her gently on the rump. "Besides, we're in bed already."

"So we are," she agreed and rolled on top of him, reveling in the contact of his hard muscles against her softer, smaller frame. From this angle, his erection pressed hard against her bare belly. His hands cupped her buttocks and darted between her thighs, extracting a sharp jolt of pleasure. She gasped and slid up his body. She took the time to kiss around his navel and run her palms through the dark hair covering his chest. He lay on his back and bunched his fists in the bedclothes, letting her caress and arouse him.

"What are you doing?" he asked when, at last, she positioned herself with her knees on either side of his hips.

"I was scared tonight. I've always been told to confront what frightens me," she said, grasping his shaft. She stroked him until he moaned, and then maneuvered their positions to the exact point where their bodies were meant to join. His hips bucked, but she eluded his thrust until she was ready. "If you fall off a horse, for example, you should get right back on." She managed to get title words out, though she was about to lose all control. She eased herself down until the tip of his penis was planted a little way inside her. Her breath caught on a gasp as his heat and hardness filled her. "Aùstallion—in this case," she finished, and thrust her hips down, taking him swiftly and completely into her body.

From that point on she lost all coherence. Words and thoughts fled before the rising, endless tide of sensation. She closed her eyes and lost herself in the glorious flood. At some point their positions shifted so she was on her back and Martin was over her, in her, and then the great shuddering spasms of pleasure began and she was aware of nothing until the exhausted, sated man collapsed on top of her. She gradually became aware of his lips lazily nuzzling her throat and of her fingers slowly combing through his thick, sweat-damp hair.

"You see," he mumbled against her throat. "It isn't always bad."

No. And it wasn't always for always, either. She'd have to resign herself to holding on to the memories and learn to live without him.

Four years and two nights. There were plenty of memories to last her there, the bitter and the sweet. Especially the memories created in the last two nights, things her body as well as her mind would remember always. She supposed she could look to Aunt Phoebe's example and manage to live the rest of her life as both a spinster and a fallen woman. The point was not to feel sorry for yourself, and she could learn to do that in time.

Her thoughts drifted, but her deeply satisfied body melted into the deep featherbed. She could not have moved if she tried. She had Martin's warmth and weight to share, and took infinite comfort in the way they fit so neatly together. She wept a little as she fell asleep, joy and sadness mixed together.

Martin dozed, but came awake enough to pull a blanket over them before settling spoon fashion beside Harriet again. Half-awake, he kissed her shoulder and smiled against her loose hair, and tried to remember that he hated and loathed her for a liar, a betrayer, and a spy. She was a stranger in his bed, he reminded himself, a conspirator and a skilled actress who'd deceived him for years. He should take pleasure from using her, not from comforting her, not from simply lying beside her through the night, not for acting like a man gentling a virgin bride, when he should be toying with a sexual plaything. It was not right and fair that he kept following the impulse to treat her like a cherished lover, rather than a temporary mistress. Not fair at all.

He must put his foot down, be stern, cruel, extract the revenge he was owed with exquisite humiliation. Only then could honor be satisfied. It was not enough to have her for a lover. He must treat her to the same dose of mortification she'd fed him.

"Tomorrow," he murmured, putting an arm closer around her and sighing with contentment. "I'll take my revenge tomorrow."

"Hurry up, woman."

Harriet glared at Martin's broad, black-clad back from across the bedroom, and answered, "Yes, my lord."

"Your tone leaves a great deal to be desired, my dear."

"I was only trying to be polite, my lord."

"I would prefer it if you were expeditious. How long does it take for a woman to put on clothes meant to be taken off? Quite a while, apparently."

"Yes, my lord." She was wearing scarlet this morning, and feeling quite the scarlet woman under the lash of his tongue. She bit hers and finished pinning up her hair.
He
was the one who had chased Mrs. Swift out, leaving Harriet to finish her toilette on her own.

He whirled to face her, dark brows lowered over stormy gray eyes. "Don't mock me."

She did not recall having done so, but kept her eyes lowered and her tone mild as milk. "No, my lord."

He opened the door and gestured her forward. "You'll do as you are. I want my breakfast and some company besides that of women."