Fortune's Lady (26 page)

“To you, Cass,” he said with a wide, reckless grin when no one was listening. “My beautiful new wife.”

There was some sort of glint in his eye, but she couldn't tell if it was facetious or not. She could hardly look at him; her emotions were swerving back and forth between timid, trembling exultation and abject misery. She screwed up her courage and clinked glasses.

“To my husband,” she said softly, trying the word out on her tongue. She watched his eyes darken and felt the same flushed, overheated sensation she'd had last night in the carriage. He leaned in and kissed her, not using his hands. After a moment her eyes closed and she sighed, giving herself up to it. But then six or seven people around the table began clapping and stomping their feet and calling out lewd encouragements. She shrank back, pink-faced.

The morning wore on and she grew more and more exhausted. She kissed so many strange men that she was dizzy from it. She drank a great deal of champagne but remained coldly, unrelentingly sober, as though the god of sobriety had put a curse on her. Riordan appeared to be drunk again, and grew increasingly amorous. Lust shone frankly in his bright-blue gaze; again and again she had to pull his hands away, mortified that he would touch her so intimately in public. She was drooping with fatigue, but would have accepted a painful, lingering death before she'd rise first and go outside to the “honeymoon cottage.”

After what seemed like a hundred consecutive hours of enforced smiling and pretending, she looked up to see Riordan surge to his feet. Another toast, she thought, cringing—only this time he made her rise with him. He put an arm around her shoulders, as much to prop himself up as to bestow affection, and raised his glass in his other hand. “Ladies and gentlemen! If I may have your attention. My wife and I want to thank you all for being here, and for wishing us well as we begin our long, uncharted journey down life's, um, matrimonial—oh hell, I can't do it.” He sagged against the table with a whoop of laughter, and soon everyone joined in. Cass didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

He regained a drunken sort of composure and began again. “What I mean to say is, I'm glad you're all here to join us in hoping this marriage is a long and happy one. As long and happy as my Uncle Hal's, in fact, God rest his soul. Uncle Hal had a saying, and I hope to be able to echo it someday: ‘The happiest hours I've lived in my life were spent between the legs of my wife.' ” He collapsed again in hilarity, beating the table with his fist. Cass whirled around, and he caught a glimpse of the back of her rigid, reddening neck before reaching out and grabbing a handful of her gown. He hauled her back unceremoniously and picked her up.

Pandemonium broke out around the table as he strode across the room toward the front door. Cass shut her ears to the whistles and catcalls and vulgar inducements, electing to bury her face in his neck. “Don't kill us,” she ground out when he lurched sideways against the doorpost.

Bright sunshine hit them in the eyes with the force of a slap. A passerby, evidently a native, gave Riordan a wink and made a gesture whose meaning Cass found easy to interpret, though she'd never seen it before. She'd been sure the others would follow them outside and accompany them all the way to the “honeymoon cottage,” and her faith in prayer was restored when they did not. Then she was certain Riordan would slip on the rickety wooden bridge spanning the pond and tumble them both into its placid blue water, but providence smiled on her again. She suspected it would be for the last time today.

Miraculously, they arrived at the cottage unscathed. Cass had to open the door. Riordan stumbled through and kicked it closed with his boot. She swept the room with a glance, noting nothing except that it was clean and neat, then stiffened her arms and pushed back against his chest. “Put me down.”

He obliged, puffing a little. She stepped away as he fell back against the door with a thud, grinning happily. They stood watching each other, eight feet apart, not speaking. Slowly Riordan's grin faded and a different light came into his eyes. Cass looked behind her to see how much farther she could back up before hitting the ludicrously wide, canopied bed. About three feet. But instead of pursuing her, he held out his hand. She hadn't expected that.

She took a couple of steps toward him and stopped. She gestured vaguely with one arm. “It's so—” What? Late? It wasn't, it was early afternoon. “I'm so—” Tired? True, but she didn't want to begin her marriage on that note. Her marriage! Lord God, she was
married.
To this wild man with a beard, who was coming toward her, grinning as if she were a piece of mutton and he hadn't eaten in days. “Wait!” He looked as if he meant to pick her up again, and this time she knew when he put her down it would be on the bed. “Wait!”

His delighted grin only widened. “I've been waiting for weeks, Cass. I don't have to wait anymore!” He drew her close with one arm around her waist, the other behind her neck, and kissed her lustily. His mustache tickled and his technique had lost all subtlety, but she found herself responding anyway because he felt so good and solid in her arms. His mouth was hot and eager, his hands urgent as they slid up and down her back and tangled in her hair. His hectic need excited her in spite of herself. She kissed him back thoughtlessly, opening her mouth to the fierce, sweet onslaught of his tongue. But Riordan's timing was hopelessly off; he took her reaction as a signal that she was ready for him to undress her and started fumbling at the buttons in the back of her dress.

“Oh, don't,” she panted, pushing him away.

“Why? Oh, Cass, I want to.”

“Don't you see? If we do this, if we—consummate this marriage, you'll lose your grounds for annulling it.”

“Not consummate the marriage?” He said it as a boy might say, “Not have any Christmas?” Then he heard the part about the annulment. “
I'm
not having this marriage annulled!”

They stared, both taken aback by the vehemence of his announcement. He reached for her again and kissed her with a little more finesse, encouraged when she sighed into his mouth and put her hands in his hair. He told her how good she tasted, how much he loved to touch her, and she arched her back and let him nuzzle at the base of her throat. But even as her blood heated, a knot of fear began to tighten in her stomach, diluting the pleasure. They weren't in a carriage now or in front of a window, and what was happening wasn't going to stop with kisses. She began to tremble with trepidation instead of passion; and when he cupped her buttocks and tried to slide his hands between her thighs in back, she broke away again.

“What's wrong?” he asked in puzzlement. “Tell me what's wrong.”

She told him. “You're drunk, and I've never done this before!”

He grinned at her and combed his hair with his fingers. “I'm not
that
drunk.”

She waited for him to address the second half of her answer. He didn't, and she turned her back so he wouldn't see the misery and disappointment in her face. She took a quavery breath and looked up at the ceiling.

He went to her and touched her shoulders. She was stiff as a plank. “Honest, Cass,” he told her softly, “I'm not that drunk. I was pretending for the others.” He began a slow massage, intrigued by the way the sun irradiated individual strands of her glossy hair. There was magic in her skin for him; he couldn't keep his hands off it. He saw that the hairs on the back of her neck were golden, not black. He put his tongue out and touched their tickly softness. She shuddered deeply. At another time he'd have kept that up, even supplemented it with creative variations, but this wasn't Riordan's day for subtlety. He snaked his arms around her and squeezed her breasts while pressing his hardness against her bottom—and was amazed when she gasped in dismay, not desire, flinging away from him to the far side of the room.

“Cass! What is it? What's wrong?”

She kept her back to him. “I told you! I'm innocent and I'm frightened!”

He tried a laugh, hoping she'd laugh with him. It embarrassed him that she would say that now, lie to him at a time like this. And it was so unnecessary. He pushed his fingers through his hair again, wishing he hadn't drunk so much wine. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her feelings. “Cass,” he said gently, coming toward her. “Don't you know by now that I don't care if you are or not?” He put his hands on her hips and stroked her with his thumbs. “Sweetheart, it just doesn't matter.”

Cass bowed her head. His disbelief cut as cruelly as a knife. He thought he was being kind, but it would have been more honest if he'd simply admitted that his expectations of a woman like her were, out of charity, low. No matter that he would find out the truth in a few minutes—or at least she hoped he would; she'd heard that a man could tell when it was a woman's first time. She wanted him to believe her
now
, before he had the evidence of his senses.

Riordan could see he was losing. He stared at all the tiny buttons down the back of her dress, saw the obdurate tautness in her neck and shoulder muscles. He felt unequal to the mental and physical dexterity the situation was fast requiring. He wanted their first time to be good, not weighted down with snarls and tangles and complexities he didn't even understand. He gritted his teeth, feeling frustration wash over him in a drowning wave.

Cass felt his hands slide slowly away. Guilt sliced through her like a chill, straight to the bone. She was ruining it for him, but she couldn't help it. She wanted him to see her for what she was, before he made love to her. She'd saved herself for him. She wanted him to understand the gift and savor it, not ignore it, not discover too late that she'd given it to him.

She heard him go to the bed and sit down. A boot hit the floor; another. She turned around slowly in disbelief. His coat and waistcoat were on the floor and he was engaged in unbuttoning his shirt. In gathering numbness, she watched him pull it over his shoulders and drop it on top of his other clothes. Her mind took note that he was beautiful, but she derived no pleasure from the thought. She had to turn away when he stood up to remove his stockings and breeches. Her arms went around herself in a frozen hug of protectiveness and she waited. He was her husband. He could do anything with her he wanted. Whatever happened, she vowed she wouldn't cry or ask him for—

“Don't go anywhere, will you, Cass?”

His voice was light and boyish. She felt a rush of air and realized he was passing behind her, moving toward the door. For three seconds she had an unencumbered view of his bare backside. She had to put her hands on her chest for fear her heart would punch its way through ribs and skin and plop out on the braided rug at her feet. Then he was through the door and gone.

She stared, flabbergasted, at the empty space he'd occupied. For a wild second she imagined him striding back to the inn and bursting in on his friends, stark naked. But he'd been carrying his breeches. Then she heard it, the mighty splash, and she clapped her hands to her open mouth to smother a giddy squeal of relief. She threw her head back and laughed. He'd jumped into the pond.

After the first shock, the water was like a revitalizing balm on his overheated flesh. Gradually his blood cooled and his heartbeat steadied. He stayed under as long as his lungs would allow, peering at green undulating things, savoring the sensuous chill of the water, thinking of Cass. When he came up, he turned and floated on his back. The azure sky was cloudless, the air soft. The lone duck that had paddled away in protest on his arrival lumbered cautiously down the bank and reentered the water, keeping its distance.

The cobwebs were clearing rapidly, but his need for his wife was only growing stronger. He felt the gentle lap of the water on his skin and it teased him with a memory of hers, soft and cool and inviting. The lilies on the bank smelled fresh, like her. He imagined her body enveloping him like the cool blue pond. He stood up and scrubbed himself clean for her with his hands. Here in the middle, the water came up to his ribcage. He flexed his toes, feeling the cold, squishy mud between them. Everything excited him. He felt as if his senses were snapping and sparking with life. He strode up the bank, shaking water from his hair like a dog. He dragged on his breeches and buttoned them, his eyes on the cottage.

Inside, Cass explored the two small rooms, bedroom and dressing room, with quick, restless steps. She opened her bags and passed her hands over her clothes without seeing them. She stared at the bed. Should she undress? Put on a nightgown? She couldn't stop moving, couldn't think. She decided to take off her shoes. At the mirror, she did a double-take. What a sight! She readjusted the pins in her hair to create a semblance of order, but her mind was elsewhere. There was nothing to be done about the twin spots of bright color on her cheeks, or the rapid tripping of her heart. She went to the door. Riordan was floating on his back. She turned away, breathless, flushing. She sat on the edge of the bed to calm herself. When at last she heard his step outside she sat up very straight, smoothing her skirt with one hand and clenching the other over her heart.

He entered quietly, testing the air. Water ran down his chest and stomach, his bare calves, and pooled at his feet. She couldn't stop staring. Half-naked, he seemed bigger to her than he ever had before. Without speaking, he went to the dressing room. In a few seconds he appeared in the doorway with a towel. He rubbed his hair and beard vigorously, watching her, then slung the towel over his shoulder.

“There's a door in back, did you see it?” she blurted. “It looks out over a meadow.  It's pretty.”

He lifted his brows. “Show me.”

She couldn't tell if his interest was real or polite or amused, but she rose and went toward him, careful not to make contact as she sidled past into the dressing room. She pushed open a low door in the rear wall and went out. Riordan followed, ducking his head. They stood on a tiny porch, two steps up from a grassy yard. Beyond was a pasture, empty but for half a dozen spotted cows in the quiet distance. The porch contained one wooden, wide-armed chair, pushed back under the eaves of the cottage roof to keep it dry. For a few seconds they both thought of all the newly married lovers who had gazed out together across the humming field, or sat together in the chair, arms entwined, sharing their dreams. Cass came out to the spindly railing and turned around toward him, resting her palms lightly on top; Riordan leaned in the doorway. She'd never seen a grown man's feet before. She could hardly look away from the arrogant length of his, the bony toes, the elegant insteps.