Alarm filled her brilliant blue eyes even as she managed a calmly murmured, “No.”
His gaze dropped to the fingers that she was twisting blue. To hide his smile, he sank into the armchair beside the window and began tugging off his boots, certain he would hear more on the matter of their shared room. If he knew one thing about his wife, it was that he made her uneasy. His smile slipped. Being in love with another man, even a dead one, would do that to a woman.
True to form, she inquired, “Were there no other rooms available?”
“Inn’s full.” His first boot hit the floor. “Didn’t seem logical to move to another inn across the village simply for a second room. Not as we’re married.”
She nodded, clearly suppressing her thoughts. Not that he needed her to speak her feelings to know her thoughts. The fine skin of her jaw feathered where she clenched her teeth. He knew. He knew she was staring at that bed and thinking of them in it together. Thinking of Ian . . . . and that the moment she climbed in bed with him, she betrayed Ian. A deep growl swelled inside his chest.
Why, he wondered, did he not suffer the same sentiment? How is it she felt a greater loyalty to Ian than he did? He dragged a hand over his jaw. He had loved his cousin, mourned his loss. Shouldn’t there be a token of shame twisting his gut for wanting to part her thighs and claim her? Mark her as his own?
With a vicious yank, he dropped another boot to the floor. “I suggest we get some sleep. Weather withstanding, we’ll depart early in the morn.”
She moved to her valise, pulling out her nightrail. With a guarded glance over her shoulder at him, she stepped behind the screen.
He stripped off his shirt, then paused, hands on the front of his trousers. Deciding to respect her sensibilities, he left his trousers on.
She emerged from the screen clad in the same white nightrail as the night before. Even so, he was stirred. He watched her as she moved to the mirror and unpinned her hair. It tumbled over her shoulders like dark honey in the candlelight. Her eyes flickered to him and away. She looked very young.
The thought came to him, unbidden: had Ian ever seen her with her hair unbound? More than likely their secret trysts had not afforded them time to fully unclothe. Jealous, stupid hope unfurled in his clenched chest. Perhaps his cousin had not even seen her entirely naked.
Dragging a hand through his hair, he silently cursed. He couldn’t change the fact that she had been with Ian. It was the reason he even knew her. The reason he’d married her. Perhaps, to some degree, the reason he wanted her so badly.
He was a fool to feel jealous over the past . . . or to seek a first with her.
You married her. You’re her first in that regard.
“Bloody hell.”
She shot him a quick glance, blinking at his harshly muttered expletive.
“Did you say something—”
He pulled down the bed with a rough yank. “No,” he bit out, angered beyond reason. “Nothing at all. It’s been a long day. Let us just go to bed.”
She slid beneath the coverlet, pulling it up and folding it neatly at her chest.
For a moment he paused, staring at her on her far side of the bed. She clenched trembling hands together over her stomach. Bloody hell. He terrified her. Did she think he would pounce on her?
He turned away and quickly doused the lamp. Climbing into bed beside her, he was careful not to touch her. More for himself than her. He didn’t trust himself. Didn’t trust his control.
Lying in bed, the low-burning fire from the hearth cast the room in a lazy glow. Outside, a flurry of white fell.
He thought of their vows. She had turned her cheek to him at the end. His hand curled into a fist at his side in memory of that rebuff. Could she not bear even the smallest kiss to seal their union? Did Ian’s ghost prevent her from even so small a gesture? And why the hell should any of it matter so much to him? He had his wife. Soon he would have his heir. It wasn’t as though he wanted her affections.
In that moment, he couldn’t abide himself. He couldn’t stomach the jealousy he felt for his cousin. And he couldn’t understand this overriding need to claim the woman he had wed, to prove to her that she wanted him, that he could make her burn with desire. More than any ghost she loved ever could.
Evie feigned sleep.
That’s not to say she didn’t attempt to sleep. She tried. Valiantly, she tried.
She told herself the night would fly past if she could only surrender to dreams. She wouldn’t even know a man slept beside her—a man as virile and handsome as the one she had wed. The bed yawned large enough between them. They would likely never even brush against each other.
In the morning they would wake and return to Ashton Grange. To the separate beds that awaited them there. One night in a bed together was nothing about which to feel alarm.
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 cock 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 darkn
ess . . . 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 breasts, playing with the nipples 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.
&
nbsp; 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.
Anger churned inside her, washed through her in embarrassing heat even as her body responded, arched into his fingers playing in her moist heat, unerringly finding that place—the spot Millie had told her about. Where a woman would forget herself, forget the world around her and dissolve into a puddle of quaking, screaming nerves.
The part of herself she’d never even known existed before Millie told her. Before he found it. Touched her there. His fingertips slid against her, wringing desire from her.
He knew. Of course he knew.
And he used the knowledge to torment her, enslave her. He dragged that tiny nub in small, tight circles until a strangled cry ripped from her throat. Hating him—hating herself—she flew off the bed, lurching upright, coming apart.
He pulled her back down to the bed, working his hand faster between her legs, his face close now, the planes and hollows harsh and relentless in the low glow of firelight.
Moaning, she strained, arched, fisting the bed linens.
“That’s it.” His eyes gleamed down at her with a primal satisfaction as he continued his sensual assault, his fingers stroking her in deep drags.