Fantasy 03 - Double Fantasy (20 page)

Ultimately, he snatched it from her and pitched it over his shoulder. They glared, breathing hard, as if they'd run a long race.

"I hate you," she said again, but with much less rancor.

"I don't hate you," he replied, and he dipped under her chin to nibble her neck.

There was something about her that drove him wild. It provoked all sorts of naughty thoughts, and he could have dawdled there for an eternity, sniffing and nuzzling her skin, yet she was stiff as a board, refusing to relax the tiniest bit.

He picked her up and tumbled them onto the bed, and he hovered over her, an arm braced on the pillow, a leg on her thighs and pinning her down. She was sweet and lovely and so much more than he deserved or ever imagined he'd have, and the strangest wave of tenderness swept through him.

His wife. His! Forever. He was so lucky!

"I'm sorry," he murmured, and he brushed a kiss across her lips. "Don't be angry."

The apology sucked the wind from her sails. She'd planned to argue and harangue, but what could she say to an earnest expression of regret? And it was earnest. For the most part.

He wasn't sorry that he'd bullied her, or threatened the vicar, or tied her up, or locked her in. He simply felt bad that she was so unhappy.

"Liar," she petulantly charged. "You've never been sorry for anything you've done in your whole life."

"I'm glad you're mine."

"I'm not."

He kissed her more slowly, easing her into the notion of a wedding night, even though it was early evening.

He intended to go at it till dark, till the next morning, and he'd keep on and on until she was reconciled to the idea of being his bride. He wasn't proficient at words or flirtation, but he knew more about satisfying a woman in the bedchamber than any man alive. As he'd previously discovered, she had a potent sexual nature, so he would soon have her melting with ecstasy.

She'd forget why she was furious, and her reservations would scatter like leaves on the wind.

She broke away and clasped his shoulders, giving him a slight shake.

"Why did you really marry me? Why go to so much trouble?"

"You know why: The Prince asked it of me."

"But he didn't demand it."

"No."

"Yet you pressed ahead." He chuckled. "I certainly did." "I don't suppose there's any way for me to get out of it, is there?"

"I don't see how you could. The vicar read the vows.

We repeated them." She scowled. "All right, one of us repeated them, there was a witness, and it's all recorded neat and proper."

"So it's final, then."

"It definitely is."

"And you forced me into it even though I was adamantly opposed."

"I prefer to say I chose you."

"You would," she dryly noted. "Are you always so adept at rationalizing your offensive behavior?"

"Yes." He grinned. "I'm never wrong. Just ask me; I'll tell you."

He'd thoroughly exasperated her, and she sighed, sounding like the most miserable person in the world, and her despondency was beginning to aggravate him.

He couldn't describe why he'd hounded her so relentlessly. Some of his resolve was spurred by her rejecting him. He was too vain to let Anne—or anyone at Gladstone—snub him, but there was more to it than that.

Though he couldn't fathom why, he'd been desperate to bind her to him so she could never leave. Whatever had caused the peculiar impulse, it had worked to her benefit, so why was she complaining?

She was now rich and powerful. Her sister, who'd done nothing but irk and chastise him, was safe under Jamie's protection.

What more could she want?

Well, maybe to have it all without his annoying self as her spouse, but that pesky detail couldn't be helped. He was part and parcel of the entire package, but he didn't plan to be in residence at Gladstone that much, so it would all be hers with hardly any bother.

"Apparently, it's my wedding day," she grumbled.

"Can't you at least lie and make a kind remark about why you proceeded? Can you stop being a brute for two seconds and tell me something nice?"

He pretended to ponder, then shook his head. "I can't think of a single thing."

"You are the most vile, unpleasant man I ever met."

"I'll grow on you."

"Like an irritating fungus."

He laughed and kissed her again, encouraged when she didn't shove him away. She didn't join in, but she didn't wrench away, either.

"Dearest Anne"—he rolled onto his back so she was draped across him—"how could we not have wed? What if we've already made a little Jamie Merrick?"

"A baby?" She frowned at her stomach. "Could I be in the family way?"

"That's the usual result from how we've been carrying on."

"But I thought we were... ah..." She blushed, not able to discuss fornication. "I hadn't considered the consequences. Not that it could happen so soon anyway."

"It can happen the very first time."

The prospect of her increasing, her belly swelled with his son, was oddly comforting, and Jamie suffered another possessive thrill that he couldn't comprehend. With her, the strangest sensations kept popping up.

He'd never wanted to be a husband, had never wished to be a father and was convinced he'd be a terrible one, but suddenly he was nearly giddy with what could only be joy.

"I'm a cad, I admit it, but after I ruined you, there was no alternative but marriage."

"So, you wed me because it was honorable?"

"No, I wed you because you make me happy."

"Because I..." She paused and glared at him. "You said something kind."

"Of course I did. I know how. I just don't do it very often. It wreaks havoc with my contemptible image."

"What do I do that makes you happy?"

"You're just you. Can we get on with our wedding night?"

"I know you don't care about our vows, but—"

"I care about them," he indignantly claimed. He'd merely be selective in which ones he heeded.

"Don't he to me!" She shook him again. "I can tell when you are."

He shrugged. "I'll try my best to live up to them."

"I realize that's the most I can expect from you, but I need you to understand that whenever you take another lover, it will break my heart."

He scowled. She made it sound as if he'd have hundreds of lovers, as if he'd have thousands, as if he might rush out that very instant to see which females were lurking in the hall so he could lift a few skirts and have at it.

He didn't like her to have such a low view of his character. While he'd never given her a reason to have a higher opinion, and his moral fiber was nothing to brag about, he wanted her to regard him as a better man than he actually was.

"I'd cut off my right arm before I'd hurt you," he vehemently insisted. "How could you suppose otherwise?"

"I think you really believe what you're saying." "You're my wife. I'll always respect and cherish you." "I hope so, Jamie. I truly, truly do." She studied him, her gaze astute and probing, and he

squirmed under the intense scrutiny. It seemed as if she could peer through bone and pore, clear down to the center of his black soul. She could see every falsehood he'd ever uttered, every swindle he'd ever instigated, every violent act he'd ever committed, and he detested her shrewd perception.

He wanted to be a mystery to her, and it was unsettling to know that he'd never be able to keep any secrets.

He rolled them again, so she was on her back. "I'm tired of talking."

"I'm surprised you let me chatter on as long as I have."

"So am I, and we're done hashing things out. For the rest of the evening, I'm not listening to anything you say, unless it's, 'Oh, Jamie, do that to me again.'"

He'd finally managed to make her smile.

"You're impossible."

"I know, but as I told you: I'll grow on you."

"You already are, but remember this...." She grabbed him, flipped him over, and pinned him down. "If you tie or gag me ever again, I'll wait till you let me loose, then I'll murder you in your sleep."

"It's a deal," he fibbed. He'd behave however he pleased—even if it drove her to distraction. "Now can we get on with it?"

"Yes, now we can."

With the haggling over, he was awkward as a lad with his first girl. She wasn't a virgin anymore, so he didn't need to delay or worry about maidenly anxiety, yet he was suffering from the most insane urge to make the interlude special for her.

All women dreamed of their wedding day, but he'd given her none of the fancy fripperies for which they yearned. She'd have no pleasant memories of the actual day, itself, but if he could proceed in a tender and passionate manner, he could give her the night to recollect fondly over the years.

He slowed, reining in his rampaging desire.

He didn't want to rip off her clothes, to ram his phallus into her and call the marriage an accomplished fact. He wanted to woo and seduce and, in the end, he wanted her to be glad he was the one.

He pulled away and took her hand.

"Come with me."

'To where?"

"We're going to do this like an ordinary married couple."

"In light of our dubious beginning, is that possible?" "Yes."

He led her to the dressing room that separated their bedchambers, and with it containing only her meager wardrobe, the space seemed very empty. He made a mental note to remedy the situation immediately. He'd accouter her in a way that would accentuate her new status, that would have fussy, fashionable Ophelia looking like an old frump.

'Turn around so I can unbutton you." He hesitated. "Unless you'd like me to ring for a maid?"

"At this late date, I don't see why we should be too conventional."

"Neither do I."

He spun her, taking a quick nibble at her nape, then he unfastened her garments, but he didn't remove anything. Instead, he retrieved her robe and offered it to her.

"Put this on," he explained. 'Then come to my bedchamber. Whenever you're ready. I'll be waiting for you."

He'd decided they should finish it in the earl's bed, not the countess's, and she needed to join him of her own accord. He was positive he'd calmed her sufficiently so that she'd accede to his polite request.

She peered over her shoulder, her bodice loose, a fist clutching it to her chest, and the gesture reminded him that though he had stolen her virginity, she wasn't much past it. The realization made him feel like a heel. He was too used to dabbling with whores, and he had limited notions of how to carry on with a genuine lady.

He was always pushing her further than she knew how to go, but then, it was her own fault. She was so wonderful, and he lusted after her as he'd lusted after no woman before her.

He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek; then he left for his own room, and he stripped to his breeches and reclined on the bed. He was so impatient that it seemed an eternity before she arrived, and his relief was so immense that it was a good thing he was lying down or she might have perceived his peculiar fit of nerves.

She came in, and he was tickled to see that she'd taken down her hair, but her robe was cinched so tightly that barely an inch of skin was exposed.

She appeared so young, so shy and lovely, and he smiled and held out a hand to her. With a few faltering steps, she was at the bed, and he seized her fingers and kissed her knuckles.

"Welcome, Mrs. Merrick," he murmured, and he helped her climb up next to him.

"I feel so... scared." She chuckled selfconsciously. "Like I'm a real bride and I don't know what's about to happen."

"You silly goose! You are a real bride."

He eased her down on the pillows, and as he studied her, his heart did the oddest flip-flop, his earlier possessiveness sweeping through him again, but there was another emotion, too, a deeper one he didn't recognize. He was just so very, very thrilled that she was his, and he would never let her go.

"I'm delighted that you're my wife," he blurted out when he hadn't planned to wax on, and she assessed him with a great deal of suspicion.

"You're not just saying that, are you?"

"No. I'm very glad."

He commenced, dawdling as he never had in his amorous pursuits. He had all night, he had the rest of his life, to make love to her, and there was no reason to hurry. He could take his time, and as he did, he was stunned to learn that the journey was as enjoyable as the conclusion—maybe more so.

Gradually, he opened her robe, slackening the belt and tugging at the lapels so he could slip his fingers inside. He toyed and played with her breasts, massaging and stroking, then meandering down to suck a nipple in his mouth.

He nursed till she was groaning in agony, till she was begging for mercy; then he continued on, blazing a trail down her belly, her abdomen. As he reached her woman's hair, she tensed and raised up to glare at him.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Let me show you something."

"Tell me what it is first."

"You trust me, don't you?"

"No farther than I could throw you."

He grinned. "Lie back."

"Jamie!"

"It'll make you feel better."

"I already feel pretty good."

"Lie back," he repeated, and she acquiesced, flopping down and staring up at the ceiling, looking miserable, as if he were about to perform an unspeakable surgery on her innards.

He eased her thighs apart and wedged himself between them; then he leaned in and licked her. She lurched away and sat up.

"What was that?"

"Everything's allowed, Anne? Remember?"

"I know, but when you said that, I never imagined you'd do anything quite so ... so ..."

To stifle further complaint, he simply dragged her to him and tossed her legs over his shoulders. He laved her again and again, while she moaned and writhed.

Her taste and scent inflamed him, luring him to his doom, and he could have kept on and on, but she was rapidly losing the fight against desire. He slid two fingers inside her, and the instant he did, she came and came, bucking and wrestling to escape his torment.

As she spiraled down, he was nuzzling his way up her torso.