Fantasy 03 - Double Fantasy (8 page)

He was offering her the world, yet she balked over petty details like infidelity and God's displeasure! Was she deranged?

Appearing dignified and insulted, she rose. "I'd like to leave now. If I may?"

"If you may ..."

Like a half-wit, he was repeating every word she uttered. He studied her, bewildered and speechless and positive that her absurd feminine hysterics had driven him to imbecility.

When he'd dragged her home, he hadn't known what he'd do with her. He'd simply wanted her back where she belonged. But the fog had cleared, and his motives were gradually growing defined and imperative.

"Take off your dress," he commanded.

"I most certainly will not."

"You will remove it on your own." He grinned wickedly. "Or I will remove it for you." "You wouldn't dare!" "Wouldn't I?"

As if an alien creature had slithered inside him and seized control, he clutched the neckline of her gown and ripped it down the center. The material dropped away and pooled at her feet.

She stood before him, clad in her undergarments, and at being so rudely bared she squealed with affront and crossed her arms over her torso.

"My dress! My dress!" she wailed.

"I'll buy you a dozen more—after the wedding."

He turned and started out.

"Where are you going? You can't leave me like this."

"That's where you're wrong, Anne. I am lord and master at Gladstone, and I can do anything I like—to anyone. At this moment, I'd like you to remain here, and remain you shall."

"But I'm trapped in your bedchamber, and I don't have any clothes!"

"Precisely. I doubt you'll hie yourself off to your precious vicar in corset and drawers."

He started out again, when she snapped, "Lord Gladstone!" When he didn't halt, she implored, "Jamie!"

He stalked over and pulled her to him. At feeling her so exposed and so vulnerable, he was inundated by a wave of lust so potent that he was amazed it didn't knock him over.

"You have tried my patience," he fumed, "beyond what any normal person should have to endure."

"I've done nothing but what I felt was right, which is to keep both of us from making a terrible mistake."

At having her describe their pending union as a mistake, he saw red all over again.

"I am struggling to honor you as I should—when I am not an honorable man." He gripped her shoulders and gave her a slight shake. "I've sworn to myself that I will wait for our wedding night, when you will be my respected and esteemed bride, but I am in such a state that if you continue defying me, I will shed my vow and proceed at once as if you were the lowest sort of harlot. Trust me: You won't enjoy it."

"You would . .. would .. . ravish me?"

"To force this marriage? Absolutely." He stepped away from her. "Stop fighting me, Anne. You can't win."

He strutted out, slamming numerous doors and spinning several keys, sealing her in like a dangerous prisoner, but attired only in her unmentionables.

He tarried a few seconds, then a few more. As her shock abated, she began hammering with her fists, yelling and cursing him again, but it wouldn't do her any good. She wouldn't be able to escape, but if she somehow managed it, he'd make sure the staff knew not to aid her in her folly.

He would not fail in what the Prince had ordered, and she would not foil him in his matrimonial plan.

In the morning, they would be wed, and he would have the chance to fornicate with her as he was burning to attempt. After seeing her, with her hair down and her clothes off, the notion sounded more exciting by the minute.

He left her to her fury, and he hurried down the stairs, eager to find Jack and have him fetch Sarah Carstairs back to the manor.

Six

Anne slowly came awake. She was so warm and cozy that she couldn't open her eyes, but she knew she had to rouse herself. There was something important she was supposed to do, but she was too comfortable to remember what it was.

She sighed and smiled, wanting her drowsy malaise to go on just a while longer.

Suddenly, she jerked to full consciousness as she recollected that she was locked in Jamieson Merrick's bedchamber without any clothes.

The man was a demented fiend!

After he'd stomped off and left her, she'd pounded on the door till her limbs grew tired and her voice raw. Finally, exhausted and disheartened, she'd fallen onto his bed and dozed, but from the sunlight streaming in the window she'd slept all night—when she hadn't intended to.

She was about to sneak over and try the door again when it occurred to her that she wasn't alone. Someone was stretched out on the mattress behind her. Their

bodies were spooned together, her back, bottom, and thighs touching where they had no business touching. An arm was lazily draped across her waist, a hand firmly planted on her belly.

She peered over her shoulder, and as she might have guessed, Jamieson Merrick was snuggled with her, but she had no idea of when he'd returned. She attempted to ease away, but he scowled and dragged her to him, as if—even in slumber—he refused to relinquish the slightest authority over her.

She was determined to escape, though, and she shifted away, but the second she moved he was alert and grinning as if he'd played a wicked joke.

She was ready to scold and berate, but he flummoxed her when he murmured, "Good morning, my beautiful Anne."

"Lord Gladstone."

"You call me Jamie when you're angry."

"Then I'm sure I'll be calling you Jamie very soon."

He chuckled and snuggled nearer.

"Can I go now?"

"No."

She was curious if cajoling would work where arguing never had. "Please?" "No."

She could have started another quarrel, could have harangued about Ophelia, about his arrogance and conceit, but she was weary of their constant bickering.

"Have you found my sister? Is she all right?"

"She's fine. Jack was with her; she never left the house."

"Don't send her away again."

"It's up to you, Anne. Not me. Whether she stays or not is completely your decision."

She yearned to tell him what a lying swine he was. She had no actual control over Sarah's fate. Anne could do everything he asked and he might still renege on his promise not to evict Sarah, but any dispute was lost in the fog of their burgeoning intimacy.

Their bitter feud of the previous day had ended with him as the winner, but it wasn't a fair fight. Anne hadn't any weapons with which to battle him, and it was draining, going up against ail that masculine certitude. He was bigger and stronger, and he wanted events to happen much more than she did.

His plans for her seemed inevitable. Wasn't it better to simply relent?

He came over her, his torso pressing her down. His naughty fingers caressed her hip. His lips were mere inches from her own.

Down below he was wearing his trousers, but the upper half of his body was bare. Instantly, she was awash in too much male flesh, but she wasn't alarmed. When he tucked away the bluster, he could be very charming.

"You smell good," he sweetly told her.

"Do I?"

"Yes, and you look so pretty, with your hair down and the sun shining on your skin."

He dipped under her chin and nuzzled her nape. He hadn't shaved, so his face was rough and scratchy, and it tickled, causing goose bumps to cascade down her arms.

He positioned himself between her thighs, and he flexed his loins, the odd gesture making him groan with what could have been pain or a strange sort of ecstasy.

"I'm always filled with lust first thing in the morning," he said.

"So it's a common condition that has nothing to do with me personally?"

"Oh, it has everything to do with you, my dear scamp."

She smiled, a glutton for his compliments.

"After we're wed," he continued, "there'll be no separate beds for us. We'll sleep together every night—so that I can wake up with you just like this."

He kissed her, one of those long, lush embraces he was quickly teaching her to relish. With his anatomy crushed to hers in several delectable spots, she should have pushed him away or at least pretended maidenly outrage, but she didn't want to object. The moment was incredibly precious, and even though he was a bully and she was furious with him, she was bowled over.

He was fussing with the laces on her corset, and as he yanked it away without her protesting, she wondered where her moral fortitude had gone. Whenever she was with him, he swiftly goaded her to iniquity, and he was so clever at tempting her that she forgot to complain or resist.

The thin fabric of her chemise was scarcely a barrier to any advance, and his hand easily drifted to her breast. He fondled the soft mound, gently squeezing the rigid nipple.

She couldn't understand how she'd failed to note that the rosy tip was so sensitive. It seemed to be directly connected to her womb, and with each pinch and tug her insides wrenched in an enchanting way.

"You've never had a lover, have you, Anne?" he asked.

"Of course not. When would I have?"

"So no man has ever touched you here but me?"

"No."

"Not even your beau, when you were seventeen?" She scowled. "How do you know about him?"

"I know all about you. I made it a point to know." "But... why?"

"I had to find out if I was getting a shrew."

"And since I'm not a shrew, you must have been relieved." When he didn't jump in to agree, she added, "I'm not a shrew. Right?"

"Right." His reply was hesitant, and he sounded as if he hadn't quite decided.

"Could you be a tad more certain?"

He laughed, redeeming himself. "You're definitely not a shrew."

"Would it have made any difference to you if I was?"

"I don't think so."

The comment was ominous, as if there'd been negotiations over her, and she wasn't too keen on his having private information to which she wasn't privy. She'd meant to inquire as to how he'd learned of her, who had investigated, and why, but he grinned again, and she was swept up, unable to pull away or fight his potent allure.

He was smug with his possession of her, and as he shoved away the bodice of her chemise, baring her bosom, she was lost. Any argument or discussion was incinerated by the heat he generated.

He gazed at her, rippling with male appreciation.

"My, my, Anne, you are so lovely."

He bent to her inflamed nipple and sucked it into his mouth, and he nursed as a babe would its mother, but with none of the tenderness. He was rough and demanding, his tongue and teeth nipping and laving her.

He played with both nipples, his lips tormenting one while his fingers worked at the other. He shifted back and forth, back and forth, driving her to such a fevered pitch that she was dizzy, and she started to fret. It had to be dangerous for something to feel so good.

"Jamie, stop. Oh, do stop."

"No."

"You never listen to me."

"I would—if you ever said anything worth hearing."

"Someone might come in. They'll see."

"No one will see," he insisted. "Besides, you spent the entire evening in my bedchamber, so you're thoroughly ruined. If a maid walked in just now, you'd be doing precisely what she'd expect."

"Ruined," she muttered with dismay. In the quiet ambiance of the lazy morning, she hadn't thought about the consequences of her being imprisoned in his room. By locking her in, he'd effectively quashed any refusal to wed.

If she spurned him now, she'd be tarred and feathered and run out of the neighborhood by an angry mob.

"There's no fixing the past, my little soiled dove. You'll have to marry me."

"You're a beast, Gladstone."

"Yes, I am, and don't you forget it. And you're to call me Jamie when we're alone. Don't forget that, either."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"I do. I absolutely do."

"I can't abide a surly woman. Don't pout."

He commenced again, and for a brief second she imagined herself rearing up, tossing him off, and strutting out in a huff. But with her downfall complete, it seemed so futile. His mouth was at her breast, and every inch of her—down to bone and pore—was elated.

Though she was loathe to admit it, she was possessed of a previously unobserved licentious character, and he knew that she was. He'd lured it to the fore, had teased and cajoled until she wished to do nothing but lounge in his bed and romp with abandon.

With resignation, and a bit of petulance, she joined in, drawing him close and beginning to explore. She'd never viewed a man's body before, and she was intrigued by the differences. He was so firm and muscled, so strong and solid. She wanted to touch him all over, and she glided her hands over his shoulders and arms, excited by the feel of his hot skin.

To her amazement, he had hair on his chest. It was thick across the top, but it narrowed to a thin line and disappeared into his trousers. She kept riffling through it, never tiring of how soft and springy it was. He enjoyed having her massage him, and occasionally he'd tremble with delight. The realization—that she had the power to titillate him—made her more bold, which spurred him on, too.

His hand was moving down in slow circles, dropping lower and lower. She was too overwhelmed to fully focus on his destination, and before she could clearly discern his intent, he'd eased up the hem of her chemise so that her privates were bared.

He caressed her between her legs, his fingers tangled in her womanly hair. She tried to protest, tried to wiggle out from under him, but he merely held her more tightly.

"Jamie?" She felt as if she were standing on a cliff and he was about to hurl her over. "What are you doing?"

"I'm making love to you, as a husband does to his wife."

"I don't like it." "You will."

"But... but... are you sure this is how it's done?" "Very sure."

"It seems awfully . .. physical." "It is that." "But..." "Hush."

He slid two crafty fingers inside her, and they fit perfectly, as if they'd been created for just that purpose and no other. To her ultimate chagrin, her loins flexed, eagerly trying to drag him deeper.