Cheryl Holt (29 page)

When they executed her, she’d march to the gallows with a smile on her face!

He reached down and gripped her throat, his large hand making her realize how vulnerable she was. He could strangle her, but who would know? Who would fret?

She pushed him away, declining to be bullied, and resolved
not to let him ascertain how he was scaring her.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she maintained, but the quiver in her voice belied her bravado.

“You should be.” He yanked at the covers, his fiery gaze meandering down her body. “Take off your nightgown.”

“You can’t think I’ll permit you to have sex with me.”

“I don’t
think
I’m going to have sex with you. I know I am.”

“You abandoned the privilege fifteen hours ago when you walked out after the ceremony. When you’re sober and capable of courtesy, you may return.”

“You will not refuse me. Not now, not ever.” He grabbed the front of her gown and ripped it from bodice to hem.

She was so stunned that she hadn’t an instant to react before he stretched out on top of her. Resistance was futile, but she skirmished with him anyway, though she wasn’t sure why. Hadn’t she wanted him to come to her? Hadn’t she been waiting for this very moment?

They were only compatible in bed. The outside world and their petty problems faded away, so if they were to mend their differences, to achieve a truce, it would be when they were dallying.

Still, she was upset, and she needed him to be a friend before he was anything else. Instead, he was being an insufferable, overbearing beast. He seemed destined to act badly, while she seemed destined to complain about it.

Why couldn’t they ever meet somewhere in the bland middle?

“Get off me!” she insisted.

“Not till we’ve finished this farce.”

“I will not participate when you’re behaving like such
a churl.” She clopped him alongside the head, pleased when she delivered a hefty blow.

“Stop it!”

“No.”

“Why must everything be a battle with you?”

“With me? You’re the one who stormed in like a lunatic!”

She increased her wrestling, and he responded by leaping to the floor and retrieving her robe. He tugged the belt free, and while he was occupied she scurried away, but before she could escape he seized her ankles, dragging her onto the mattress and pinning her down. He straddled her, and though she persisted with her grappling, it was all for naught. She couldn’t pitch him off.

A malicious gleam in his eye, he bent down, and to her utter shock, he clasped her wrists and wrapped the belt around them; then he knotted the other end to the headboard. She was shackled like a criminal in a torture chamber, and she jerked and pulled at the restraint, but to no avail.

“Let me go!” she commanded.

He surveyed his handiwork. “No. I believe I like you just as you are.”

“What are you intending?”

“Is there any doubt?”

“I’m not doing this with you! Not when you’ve shamed me on my wedding day! Not when you’ve been to a brothel!”

“My, my, aren’t we in a snit?”

“You loathsome swine!”

“Be silent, or I’ll gag you, too.”

“You . . . you . . .”

He kissed her, capturing her mouth in a bruising embrace.
He was brutal, clearly wanting there to be no question as to who was in charge, who would always be in control. He was a tyrant, her lord and master, her husband, and he would never let her forget it.

She’d planned to defy him, or at least ignore him, but her disloyal anatomy was eager for his clever caresses. There was something extremely wicked about being tied down, and the more she struggled, the more arousing it became.

She felt like a pirate’s prisoner or a sultan’s slave. She was the virgin about to be sacrificed, the daughter sold to marauders, the bride kidnapped by savages. The more adamant he was, the more she fought, and the higher the enjoyment spiraled.

Was she deranged? How could she revel in such abominable conduct?

He blazed a trail to her bosom, his treacherous lips on her nipples. Ruthless, relentless, he took his pleasure with no regard for her own, which enhanced the excitement.

He continued on, down her belly and lower, and he clutched her thighs so that she was splayed wide. She detested being so exposed, and she tried to close her legs, to buck him off, but she had no leverage.

His fingers were inside her, his tongue, too. He was merciless, and she had no defense against his skilled seduction. He could make her beg for what she wanted, what she was desperate to receive.

She was rigid with desire, her body weeping with her need for release, yet he moved away, declining to provide the conclusion she craved.

“Finish it!” she implored.

“No.”

“Do it now!”

“When I’m ready,” he maddeningly replied.

He was on his knees, huddled at her center, his fingers not ceasing their torment. He would lead her to the edge, then ease her away, over and over again, so that she was frantic with unfulfilled ardor. Her heart was pounding so ferociously that she worried it might simply burst.

“You’re mine,” he declared. “All mine.”

“In your wildest dreams.”

“Tell me that you love me,” he ordered.

“That I what?”

“Tell me!” he repeated.

“Never in a thousand years.”

“Say that you love me. Say it and mean it!”

Was he insane? Affection had never played a part in their relationship, and any feelings she harbored had to be hidden from him. If he ever discovered how much she cared, he’d have too many ways to hurt her.

“I don’t love you,” she claimed. “I never have.”

“Liar,” he hissed.

He gripped his cock and wedged it into her. Disgustingly, she squirmed and writhed, anxious to impale herself, and he laughed at her impatience. He bit her nipple, being much too rough, but she needed the vicious manipulation. Down below, his thumb carried on its dastardly provocation, finally flicking at her long enough that she could let go.

The sensation commenced in her nether regions, cascading out, and as she came, he penetrated her, driving deep at the first clenches of her orgasm. She sailed to ecstasy, the rapture so intense that she was blinded by it. As she flew up and up, she screamed with delight. With her hands fettered, it seemed as if she’d leapt off a cliff,
but there was no bottom and no method to hold on. The bindings lent an extra amount of iniquity to the deed, making her feel more sinful, more decadent, than ever.

Through it all, he thrust, his hips ramming him into her like the pistons of a huge machine. He rode her hard, keeping on and on, as if he couldn’t get enough of her, as if he might never be sated.

As she reached her peak, he did, too, his hot seed flooding her womb; then he shuddered and collapsed, but only for an instant. Then, as if he couldn’t bear to touch her, he pulled out and rolled away, flopping onto his back. His pulse was thundering, his torso coated with perspiration, and he stared up at the ceiling, an arm flung over his eyes.

They lay in the aftermath, stunned by how erotic it had been, with neither of them having the faintest idea what to say or do next. After such a rowdy escapade, what could possibly be appropriate?

The moment grew strained, then awkward. Ultimately, he broke it by untying her wrists. Once she was free, she wrenched away and curled into a ball.

She’d hoped, with the exploit being over, that he’d leave, that he’d be chagrined and would slink out without a word, but she should have known better.

He chuckled, sounding much too proud of himself, and his mirth rekindled her fury. Why had she joined in with such relish? When he started in on her, why couldn’t she muster any restraint? Had she a shred of dignity remaining?

“The whole house had to hear you screeching.” He swatted her on the rear. “Good. They’ll assume I beat you, which you’d thoroughly deserve for being such a shrew all day.”

She rippled with ire. “Me?”

“Yes,
you
. Don’t you dare deny it.”

“You huffed out after the ceremony, you don’t come home till it’s almost dawn, you admit to being in a . . . a. . . brothel, but
I
am the shrew?”

“Bloody right.”

His speech was slurred, reminding her of how much he’d had to drink, and it occurred to her that he’d viewed bedding her as a chore, so he’d required fortification. The realization had her near to weeping.

“I may be a shrew,” she muttered, “but you’re an absolute ass.” She elbowed him in the ribs.

He grunted. “Stop fussing, or I’ll tie you up again.”

She glared over her shoulder. “Try it, and I’ll murder you when you least expect it.”

“You loved every second, you little strumpet.”

“I hated it!” she felt honor bound to insist. For emphasis, she added, “I hate
you!”

“No, you don’t. You love me.” He spooned himself around her, enfolding her in his arms. “Go to sleep, Countess.”

“No, I plan to stay awake all night. Merely to spite you.”

“It figures. You’re the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met.”

“I am not,” she argued.

They were still, lost in thought, their respiration slowing, and he whispered, “Everything will be all right, Ellen.”

She imagined it was as close to an apology as she’d ever get, that it was his initial attempt at a truce, and she answered, “I know.”

“It will all work out. Give it some time.”

“I will.”

“I wasn’t at a brothel,” he said. “I was just trying to make you angry.”

“You despicable lout.”

“I like how your eyes flash when you’re in a temper.”

The candle sputtered out. He snored. She cried quiet tears.

  19  

“What are you doing?”

“I’m snooping through your belongings,” Ellen called through the door to Alex’s dressing chamber, “as any proper wife would.”

“Let me know if you stumble on anything interesting.”

“Believe me, I will.”

He was bathing, and she’d boldly entered as if she had every right—which she supposed she did—and she was surprised by how normal it felt to carry on as if they were a real married couple. Perhaps there was some hope for them, after all.

“Ouch!” he barked.

“What happened?”

“My hands are a bit shaky. I cut myself shaving.”

She giggled and retorted, “An excess of liquor has that effect on a person.”

He muttered several indecipherable remarks, and she chuckled with satisfaction. He’d awakened with the worst hangover, which she deemed a suitable penalty
for putting her through such anguish the previous evening.

Morning had brought an odd peace. Neither of them mentioned their awful wedding, or their dissolute wedding night, though the belt from her robe still dangled from the posts of her headboard. She blushed every time she glanced at it.

Her body was bruised and sore from their raucous coupling and, due to his overindulging, he was in a wretched state, so they’d both been too miserable to quarrel. They’d proceeded as if sleeping and rising together was their usual condition.

She was already dressed, her hair arranged, so her day was progressing a tad quicker than his. Though she was aghast to admit it. she’d agree to romp again, should he show the slightest inclination in that direction, but he was incredibly grumpy, so ardor was probably out of the question.

He’d ordered them a private breakfast to be served in his bedchamber, but their food hadn’t yet been delivered, so she had the perfect excuse to explore while she waited. She’d taken advantage of the opportunity, riffling through shirts and trousers, counting shoes and boots.

At having the chance to poke around she suffered a possessive thrill. He was her husband now, and touching his things was deliciously romantic in a fashion she couldn’t describe.

She shut the wardrobe and moved to a dresser. The top drawer was littered with jewelry. There were bracelets and rings, necklaces and chains, haphazardly tossed into bowls and boxes, and she was fascinated. The collection was gaudy, with heavy stones that she presumed to be
genuine, and she was amazed by the fortune spread before her. If a burglar ever entered, he’d certainly be delighted! Why weren’t the treasures secured in the family vault?