She tilted her head defiantly. “I know well what you were thinking, my lord.” She made no effort to retreat as he prowled closer.
“I know you do. You were thinking along the same lines.” He halted before her. Lifting one hand, he traced a finger along her jaw, then slid it beneath and tipped her face to his. His eyes held hers. “Can you deny it?”
Francesca let her lips curve. “No. But then I hadn’t come directly from offering for another.”
Gyles realized his misstep, but she didn’t let him retreat.
“How dare you!” Eyes blazing, she jabbed a finger into his chest. “How dare you make an offer for me, and then, within minutes, think, consider, and even start planning on taking another woman as your mistress?”
“That other woman was you!”
“You didn’t know that!” She jabbed him again. He took a step back and she was on him like a whirlwind. “You came after me, looking for me in the orchard—you kissed me—you almost seduced me!”
She was so much shorter and slighter than he, yet her fury burned like a flame. Hands, arms, her whole body was afire; she came at him, and he backed, step by step, before the sheer rage in her eyes.
“You left the woman you thought was your intended, and you deliberately sought me out to—”
“You were very ready to be seduced—”
“Of course I was! I knew who you were—you’d offered for me! I thought you wanted me—me, your intended bride!”
“I did want you—”
She cut him off with a torrent of Italian. He spoke the language fluently, but at the rate she spoke, he could make out less than one word in ten. Words like “arrogant,” and something he thought approximated “swine,” and one or two others gave him an idea of her tack, but not enough of the context for him to defend himself.
“Slow down—I can’t understand you.”
Her eyes flamed. “You can’t understand me? You were set on marrying a lady you’d deliberately barely exchanged two words with! It’s I who cannot understand you!”
She reverted to Italian, a flow of impassioned outpourings that, like a physical tide, swept them both along. Her gestures, always dramatic, became more emphatic, more violent. He continued to retreat while he struggled to find some point to seize long enough to gain his footing. She darted this way, then that, hands flinging wildly about.
He suddenly realized she’d opened the corridor door and backed him to the threshold. Grabbing the door’s edge, he halted. “Francesca!”
The exclamation was designed to jerk her reins, to shake her to reality.
It only evoked another furious spate of Italian. She flung up a hand as if to slap him—she didn’t—she wouldn’t have connected—it was just another histrionic gesture conveying her contempt, but he ducked back, stepped back, let go of the door.
Then he was in the corridor and she was in the doorway, hands on her hips, her breasts rising and falling, her black hair a silken jumble against the ivory of her gown. Green fire burned in her eyes.
She was so vividly, vitally, intensely beautiful, he literally couldn’t breathe.
“And then,” she said, reverting to English, “when you’ve managed to answer that, you can explain why it was, in the forest that morning, you stopped! And again in the stables—was it only last night? You want me, my lord, yet you don’t! You didn’t want me as your bride, but you thought to have me as your mistress. You thought to seduce me—then when you succeeded you turned away!” She flung up her hands. “How can you explain that?”
She paused, the silence dramatic after her tirade. Breasts heaving, she kept her eyes locked on his.
Then she drew in a long breath, drew herself up and lifted her chin. “You put it so succinctly last night. You don’t want me, you don’t need me—you only desire me. Not, however, sufficiently deeply to bother consummating a relationship. And now we’re married. You might think on that.”
She turned away. “Good night.”
He swore and leaped for the door. It slammed shut in his face. The lock snibbed as his hand closed on the knob.
The oath he uttered was not a polite one. He glared at the door. He could hear Fate laughing.
He’d plotted and planned to gain a meek and mild bride.
And landed himself with a virago.
Francesca didn’t waste any time staring at the locked door. She raced across the room to the door from his bedroom—only to skid to a horrified stop. The door had no lock.
She looked around, then ran to the escritoire. Lifting the chair before it, she rushed to jam it under the doorknob.
Standing back, she studied her handiwork. It looked far too flimsy for her peace of mind.
A chest of drawers stood to one side of the doorway; she stepped to its side, drew in a deep breath, and pushed with all her might. It shifted an inch. Encouraged, she tamped down her welling panic and pushed again. The other end of the chest hit the doorframe.
Muttering a curse, she hurried to that end, reached across and tried to jerk the corner free—
Hard hands closed about her waist.
She screamed with sheer shock. But she recognized the hands—they’d been flirting with her waist for the past hours. Her fright drowned beneath a wave of fresh fury. He juggled her, turned her—locked his hands about her waist and hoisted her up—up above his head.
Shocked anew, she grabbed handfuls of his hair—not to pull but to steady herself. His eyes flashed a warning—she ignored it, too busy trying to fathom how he’d got in.
“The other door—the one to your sitting room.”
She looked across the room, and for the first time saw the door in the opposite wall.
“I take it you haven’t admired the decor yet.”
His urbane tone did nothing to calm her. Releasing one hand, she glanced down. He started walking, carrying her like some dangerous captured prize, high above his head at arm’s length.
“What are you doing?” She tried to look around but couldn’t. She thought he was making for the bed.
“Getting these proceedings back on track.”
The steel beneath his words didn’t escape her. “And what track is that?”
He stopped walking and went to look up, but couldn’t—she had to release her hold on his hair. Reluctantly, she did. She tried to brace her hands on his forearms, but there was nothing she could hook her fingers in—the sleeves of his robe had fallen to his shoulders. Precariously balanced high above the floor, she was forced to put her trust in him, in his strength, to hold her steady.
Tipping back his head, he looked into her face. Not a single tremor disturbed the locked muscles of his arms—he was supporting her without effort.
She met his eyes. They were stormy, turbulent—intent.
After a moment, he spoke. “We’re married. This is our wedding night.”
A shiver slithered down her spine. Some age-old instinct warned her against replying, against uttering any contemptuous quip, any taunt. She needed to be on the ground, no longer his captive, to continue their battle. She waited, breathing rapidly. His gaze locked with hers, slowly, very slowly, he lowered her.
His hands were level with his chest, her hands had just touched his shoulders, her toes still a foot off the ground, when she felt his muscles bunch, his fingers grip.
He flung her back.
She fell full length in the middle of the huge bed. She caught her breath on a gasp and scrambled to sit up—
Gyles shrugged off his robe and went for her.
She clutched frantically but couldn’t gain purchase on the slippery satin. He drew her back down, tangling her legs with his. When she continued to struggle, he caught her hands, trapped them both in one of his and anchored them above her head, then lifted over her and lowered his body to hers.
His weight subdued her, trapped her beneath him. Propped on his forearms, he met her gaze—wary but still furious.
Her breasts rose and fell against his chest, her body lay fir
m and supple beneath his. He shut his senses to her distractions. In a minute, he’d indulge, but first . . . ”You were right the first time, when we first met, as to what I thought of you.”
Francesca held his gaze and tried to read his eyes; their dark turbulence defeated her. His expression was graven, one she didn’t recognize, yet some part of her did—some part of her responded. To the look in his eyes, to the harsh set of his lips, to the dark, gravelly rasp of his voice.
“I desired you—I still do.” His glance strayed to the ripe mounds of her breasts. He sank against her; she felt his erection rigid against her thigh.
“Whenever I see you, all I can think of is being inside you.” With his free hand, he traced the neckline of her gown, from her shoulder to the center front, where tiny buttons held it closed. One flick and the first button popped free. “Now we’re married, I’ll get to indulge that desire every day, every morning and every night.”
He continued to unbutton her gown.
There was no doubt in her mind which track he was on. She dragged in a short breath. “You don’t want me. You don’t need me.”
He raised his eyes and met hers. He inclined his head. “I don’t want you. I don’t need you. But by heaven I desire you.” He slid one finger beneath her gaping gown and traced her upper breast—they both felt the quiver that raced through her. “And you desire me.”
She knew what he intended, what he would do, knew she had no defense. But it was not what she wanted—not like this. “You don’t want me as your wife. You didn’t want to marry me.”
“No.” He shifted his weight, reaching for buttons lower down. “But I did.”
The last button slid free; her gown gaped to her waist, the silk less sumptuous than the skin it concealed. Gyles slid his hand beneath the gown’s edge, cupped her breast, and circled the peak with his thumb. “Which brings us to where we are.” He met her gaze. “To this.”
He circled her nipple again and felt her spine tense. Saw in her eyes, darkened and wide, the knowledge that she wouldn’t—couldn’t—win the prize she’d set her heart on. And understood why she’d been so disappointed. So very angry.
He bent over her. “Everything I promised, you will have.”
But nothing more.
The vow hung between them, unsaid but implicit.
She’d seen past his mask and had hopes that he would not, could not, fulfill. Passion and desire he would give her, but passion and desire were not love—none knew that better than he.
He lowered his head and felt her tense. A fraught second ensued—he waited, gave her the moment to gauge the situation, to make her decision. Then she eased beneath him, accepting, all resistance flowing from her.
He closed the last inch; his lips hovered over hers, and they parted.
“I’m sorry.”
He whispered the words against her lips, then covered them. He was sorry for disappointing her, sorry for his mistake. But not sorry that he had her, at last, beneath him.
She met his lips with hers, yet she made no demands. Her body lay responsive yet passive beneath his.
Last night, she’d been frantic, eager; now, sunk in the emerald satin of their marriage bed, she was, not physically reserved—her body wouldn’t permit that—but mentally hesitant, reticent. Even reluctant.
Releasing her hands, he drew her into his arms, settling her against him, half beneath him, his hands skating over her face, over her curves.
He’d sworn he wouldn’t woo her, and he hadn’t. But now she was his, he was conscious of a primal need to win her, to overcome her reluctance to give herself, surrender all of herself to him. Too many women had arched beneath him for him not to know the difference between absolute surrender and the mere sharing of bodies for mutual pleasure. He knew which he wanted from his gypsy, from his suddenly elusive bride. So despite the fact he was aching, that his body wanted nothing more than to simply bury himself in her, to slake the lust that had been building for too long, he turned his mind and his considerable talents to a seduction he’d never imagined pursuing.
He’d never imagined seducing his wife.
He kissed her gently, slowly, deliberately drawing out the simple caress. Braced for an onslaught, for a ruthless claiming, Francesca was disarmed. But not taken in. She knew he was doing it deliberately, that for some unfathomable reason he’d decided he wanted more from her than a simple joining. He lay stretched along and alongside her, caging her, his strength palpable, in no way disguised. His expertise screamed in his every touch. He had the power to compel her—to make her body want him, to make her burn with desire.
As she kissed him back, tentatively, uncertain just where this was leading, she scanned back through the careful explanations of his requirements, his explicitly stated needs of this marriage. All he needed to do to achieve his desired ends was impregnate her.
Why, then, this?
She didn’t know the answer. If she followed his lead, she shortly wouldn’t be able to think, yet the temptation to learn whatever it was he would teach her, to discover whatever it was he wished of her, swelled and grew.
Tonight, she would be his wife in fact as well as name—that was indisputable. She’d thought it would be accomplished via a passionate but distant act—thought that’s what he’d had in mind, the track he would unquestionably take.
It seemed she’d been wrong. There could be only one destination tonight, but the path he’d chosen was different and infinitely more appealing than the one she’d assumed he’d hurry her down.
She was, she decided, more than willing to follow his unexpected tack.
He’d been indulging her with warm, simple, reassuring kisses. Now his lips firmed, harder, more demanding. She opened her mouth to him, welcomed him in, gave him what he wanted. Shuddered when he took it. The pleasure he knew well how to press on her swept her wits aside. She let them go, let them slide away as she drew him deep and tuned her mind to passion.
His, and hers. The combination was powerful, dizzying. At this much slower pace, they had time to pause, to knowingly adjust, to better align one with the other. In the depths of her satin-draped bed, passion, desire, and need became physical realities, tangible qualities they weighed and traded and balanced between them.
They stepped out of time, and it lost all meaning. The only point of relevance was the journey they’d embarked on—nothing else mattered. Their kisses deepened, his tongue sliding over hers, tangling, enticing, caressing. Enflaming. Their exchanges grew hotter, more intimate. One hand cradling his lean cheek, she gave herself up to the spiraling heat, to the burgeoning need.
Their lips parted. They drew back to breathe, to catch their breath. Eyes met. The lamp on her dressing table still burned, casting golden light from a distance. Enough for them to see, to search each other’s eyes, to take stock. To wordlessly agree that they’d explored that vista long enough and were ready to move on.
His hand had cupped her breast throughout, his fingers lying passive as they’d kissed. He withdrew his hand from beneath the silk and reached for the gown’s shoulder. He pushed it aside. She met his eyes, then ducked her shoulder. He drew the gown and negligee down; she lifted her arm and slid it free, watching his face, watching the dark glow in his eyes.
He shifted back, and they repeated the exercise, freeing her other arm. He drew the gown down until she was bare to the waist. She had never been ashamed of her body, knew she had no reason to be. One hand resting on his shoulder, the other curled about his nape, she watched him look, survey—then he looked up and met her gaze.
Emotion flashed between them, quicksilver understanding. Her vulnerability. His possessiveness.
His gaze returned to her breasts and he settled beside her. She felt his gaze, felt her flesh react—instinctively, she tensed. But he only raised a hand and, exquisitely gently, brushed the underside of her breast.
He said nothing. Nor did she. Yet he seemed to understand her sudden uncertainty, born of the previous night, a convic
tion that if he suckled her breast, she would lose all ability to function beyond the dictates of rampant desire. He made no move to lower his head but, instead, traced, caressed and fondled her flesh, every touch a practiced pleasure.
Gradually, she relaxed. The unexpected vulnerability eased, teased away by his caresses, by the languid sea of desire that slowly enveloped her, not with a rush but with a gentle lapping. She’d expected to feel cool. Instead, her skin had flushed, lightly fevered, not yet aflame, but the embers were glowing. With the pads of his fingers, he circled her nipples but never touched, never tweaked, and in some intuitive part of her mind, she knew.
When he next met her eyes, his were very dark; she wondered what hers were like. Whatever he read in them seemed to satisfy. He bent his head, touched his lips to hers, and murmured, “Trust me.”
His lips slid from hers to trace over her jaw, down her throat. He found the throbbing pulse at its base and licked, laved. Then he suckled there, and she felt heat flare. He pressed closer—
Her whole body reacted, arching. Fingers digging into his shoulder, she gasped.
He lifted his head.
Hands at his shoulders, she pushed. “Your chest.”
He eased back and looked down. She ran her hands down, fingers splayed, pressing her palms to the heavy muscles. “You’re so hot.”
The sudden touch, skin to skin, the abrasion of the rough hair that ran across his chest, had made her nerves jerk and spasm. Silk-soft and sensitized, her skin seemed more reactive to touch than ever before.
The effect had reached her palms. She ran them over his chest, wondering at the sensations, at the heat, the resilence of muscles under taut skin, at the raspy tickle of his hair. She discovered the flat disc of his nipple and was interested to see its tip was as tightly furled as hers.
He shifted as her finger traced. “You’ll get used to it.”
His chest? Or the heightened tactile sensitivity?