Captive Bride (25 page)

Sweeping shudders rolled through her, gripping, folding within one another,
tumbling
in a race to reach every mote of her skin and blood and bones at once. She gasped in air, her pleasure sounding in deep, hard sighs.
Then flowing everywhere.

She struggled to sit and threw herself into Tip’s arms.

“I want to do that to you.” Her body quivered, and she sank her face against his neck, kissing him, breathing him in, reaching for him. Her hand encircled his thick male part and he sucked in breath.

“I would be more than happy to oblige you,” he said huskily.
“But not now.”
He rolled her onto her back, pushed her thighs apart, and came down on her, pressing her hard into the mattress. “Now, I must be inside you.”

She nodded frantically, wordless beneath his ravenous gaze. Her fingers plucked at his trousers, the fabric brushing against her flushed feminine parts with rousing roughness. He lifted himself away, off the bed, and removed the garment.

Bea had only a moment to stare in astonishment and some alarm before he covered her again, wrapping her in his arms, and capturing her mouth. His tongue stroked hers, and her insides melted. Against her he was so hard and hot. She shifted and lifted her knees, bringing him closer. Her breaths were quick. He drew back, his eyes so dark, hungry. “There should not be pain this time.”

“I know,” she said quickly, running her hands down his spine and pressing into his lower back. She wanted the sensation of him inside her again. She wanted it more than life. “Please, now. Please.”

He reached between them and pressed into her entrance. There was only a slight soreness, and the odd stretching, and deeper a quivering, stirring sensation. Her body accommodated swiftly to him, cradling, pulling him in.

“Sweet woman,” he breathed as though in relief, “Bea,” and sank into her completely.

There was no waiting this time. He moved in her, his hands circling her face, fingers
tangling in her hair as he stroked in and out, caressing her need. Slowly, tantalizing, his thrusts grew faster. She gripped his arms, opening to him. Again and again he came into her, and she met him eagerly, her neck arching, pleasure mounting. His hand came around her throat, his thumb atop her windpipe.

“Peter,” she
whispered,
the pressure of his touch a sweet danger, the building tension in her core a wonderful torment. She moved against him, needing, seeking. “Make me yours.”

It didn’t make sense. She didn’t know where the words came from. But he understood. She grasped his hips and he kissed her, long and deep, his body slowing, stilling,
grounding
his possession of her in time.
In a single perfect, immutable moment.

Then, drawing away from her lips, he thrust hard, harder the second time, then again until the fierce pleasure twined, built, and rose until she could not bear it. She gripped him, his sinews taut and his gorgeous face averted as he filled her, over and over, faster, firmer, so steady, and then not steady but desperate, reckless.

“Sweet Jesus, Bea.”

“
Peter
.”

She convulsed, crying out. He moaned, and they came together, entwined in one another, rocking with pleasure and clinging.

His arms surrounded her and he buried his face in her neck. With her arms she encircled his back, slick with sweat, and held him tight, reveling in his closeness, never wanting him to go. Beneath her hands, between her thighs, and against her belly he trembled. Bea’s heartbeat stumbled. She sucked in air, grasping for a hold on reality, her own body shaking.

Tip pulled back and she loosened her grip on him. He cupped her face in his hand and brushed a damp curl from her cheek. His eyes shone with wonderment. A sob caught in her throat—improbable, foolish. She swallowed it down.

He drew out of her body and shifted to lie beside her. Taking her in his arms, he rested his cheek against her hair. He held her until she slept
.

CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN

Tip watched her in slumber. Her lips softened into a gentle curve, as though she dreamed pleasant dreams. Her breaths rose and fell, slow and shallow.

His heart pounded, faster and harder than when she had first entered his bedchamber, even greater than when she had touched him. His body was satisfied for the moment. Yet still he craved her, with a force beyond anything he had known.

He’d thought he knew what it was to love her, but he had been a fool. Now he was truly lost, consumed, needing her with every fiber of his body and every corner of his soul.

He didn’t want to sleep. He only wanted to look at her, to trace the lines and curves of her face, her creamy shoulder and arm tucked into the coverlet like a child, resting so trustingly. If she only knew the damage he could inflict on her, the pain he could cause simply by being himself.
By loving her.

His feelings were too raw. Somehow he must get control of them before she woke.

A night years earlier came back to him, when he had been close to leaving for university. That evening his father left the house after a row with his mother, ravaged like a man broken. Before he walked out the door he warned Tip in a hollow voice never to allow love to weaken him. Hell was preferable, he’d said.

But Tip didn’t feel weak now. Gazing at the woman he loved, who had given herself to him so
thoroughly,
strength resonated in his limbs and chest. Strength like he’d never felt before. Perhaps his father had been wrong.

But perhaps not.

Bending, he gently kissed Bea’s closed eyes.
Then her brow.
Her neck.
Her rose-hued lips.
Until she stirred.

He turned her onto her back and without foreplay came into her. She arched to him,
sighing
her pleasure, her lashes fluttering. He moved in her, stroking her need, satisfying his, slowly building her pleasure. She whimpered, begging him for release. He gave it to her, and took it, sinking his soul deeper, giving away the last remnants of his heart. She had owned most of it for so long, the remainder did not resist going.

After, with her slender body curled around his, her hand rested on his chest as light as a feather yet branding him as hers forever. Like the ghost within stone walls, Tip was trapped, in a heavenly prison whose walls he might—despite his desires and the woman he loved—
shatter
himself.

“
Cheriot
?
Cheriot
, wake up, damn you!” The door handle rattled.

Reluctantly Tip loosed his arm from around Bea, climbed from the bed, and pulled on his trousers. She rustled in her sleep, releasing a soft sigh and turning her cheek to the pillow. The coverlet exposed one smooth, pale shoulder and slender arm, and the swell of her breast.

Tip drew the bed curtain closed, took a steadying breath, and went to the door.

Thomas looked frantic. “Blast it, Tip, what business do you have sleeping so late? It’s nearly noon.”

“I was under the impression that you were at the village with Lady Bronwyn, Tom.”

“I was, of course, but I hurried over as soon as—” He broke off, his face a study in agitation. “Listen, I can’t find Bea anywhere, but Aunt Grace said she saw her last night after
midnight. She’s nowhere now, and I’ve looked everywhere but—
Good God
.” His mouth snapped shut.

“Hello, Tom,” Bea said at Tip’s shoulder. She wore his dressing gown cinched about her waist. It draped almost to her knees, revealing shapely legs that Tip had discovered held surprising strength. “Is everything all right?”

Thomas swallowed a few jerky times, his eyes shifting back and forth between them.

“Well, I say,” he stammered, “Aunt Grace didn’t mention anything about— What I mean to say is, she told me
Iversly
bluffed the whole thing, as you predicted, Bea, and that you were right as rain after all. I had no idea— I was always under the impression that—” Abruptly he went ramrod straight and shot a hard glare at Tip. “Do you mean to make an honest woman of my sister,
Cheriot
?”

“She is already honest, as you should know. I do intend to marry her, though,” he said, “as soon as she will have me.” Warmth suffused his chest, a cool trickle of apprehension chasing in its wake.

“Well, I daresay you ought to have—”

“What do you need, Tom?” Bea asked with extraordinary composure. If she could see her rich eyes sparkling, her face aglow amidst tangles of satiny hair, she might not be so sanguine, standing before her brother now. And if she knew what Tip wished to do now to the body beneath that dressing gown, she would be even less so.

Thomas seemed to recall himself to his earlier distress. “It’s Aunt Julia, Bea. She’s ill.”

Bea clutched the dressing gown over her breasts.
“When?
How?”

“I don’t know. Aunt Grace said Julia wouldn’t wake this morning, and when she did, she went all dizzy and weak. Lady Bronwyn has just sent
Dibin
to the next town over for the sawbones.”

“Is Lord
Iversly
about? Has anyone spoken to him?”

Thomas looked taken aback. “No. I don’t believe so.” He shook his head. “Whatever would we want him for?”

“Don’t be a complete idiot,
Sinclaire
,” Tip said, pulling on his shirt. Bea’s eyes swam with guilt, clutching at his gut.

“O-oh,” Thomas stuttered. “I hadn’t thought—”

“You never do.”

“He said he would not hurt her,” Bea said firmly. “I believe it.”

“She seems terribly bad off, Bea,” Thomas said, “and he’s a nasty fellow.”

“Perhaps the effects of the curse are not entirely within his control,” Tip said, wishing Thomas to perdition so he could speak with Bea alone. She wouldn’t meet his gaze.

Thomas stuffed his hands in his coat pockets. “But that’s not all, Bea. There’s more.”

“More? Is it Aunt Grace?
Or Lady Bronwyn?
Tell me, Tom.”

“You won’t like it.” Thomas’s gaze flickered between them again, growing more anxious. “It’s our parents, Bea. They’re here.”

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

Mama and Papa?
Here?
Now?
It wasn’t possible.

More importantly,
why
?
They had come all the way to Wales . . . for
her
? No, that could not be. They must be worried about Thomas.

“What do you mean by here, Tom?
In the village?”

“Here in the castle. Downstairs.”

“Oh, good heavens,” Bea muttered, clasping Tip’s dressing gown tighter to her skin. She was entirely bare, all the way above her knees. No wonder Thomas had gaped. But the satin was marvelously soft and it still held Tip’s scent. And of course
her own
nightclothes were a wicked shambles. Heat filled her cheeks at the memory of how they had gotten into that state.

She nudged past Tip’s solid frame into the corridor, darting a glance both ways.

“I will see Aunt Julia immediately, after I dress.”

“I would go right down to the parents after dressing if I were you,” Thomas warned after her. “Mama’s brought at least five servants and they’ll all be on their way up here in a heartbeat, with Mama in their wake. You’d better face her and our father head-on and get it over with.”

Bea cast him an exasperated glance before dashing down the corridor. She couldn’t manage to look at Tip.

Inside her bedchamber, she braced herself against the inside of the door, breathing fast. She knew she ought to be constricted with alarm and confusion. But all she felt was languorous, perfect happiness.

Except for Aunt Julia’s illness.

She went quickly to her traveling trunk. “
Iversly
, I hope you returned my underclothes,” she spoke aloud. “I don’t think Mama would understand that little joke at all.”

She froze. Had Thomas told them everything? Was Lady Bronwyn down in the parlor right now introducing herself as Tom’s betrothed? Would Tom tell them about her and Tip?

No. Not the last. He couldn’t. But he was heedless, and he’d said she should get it over with. Oh, Lord. Why couldn’t she be allowed to revel in bliss for even a single morning?

She
rang
for Aunt Grace’s maid. Within minutes Peg had buttoned her into
a jonquil
muslin, regrettably wrinkled, but at least
Iversly
had returned her undergarments and she wore a clean shift, stays and petticoat beneath. Bea wrapped her hair in a hopeless knot and threaded a red ribbon through it, her single admission to her newly fallen state.