Love Then Begins (9 page)

But then, remembering the subdued breakfast, the absentminded talk about travel preparations, weather and packing, which was interrupted by her announcement she was taking a walk to see her mother, alone, made him frown. She had refused the carriage and laughed at him when he tried to exercise his conjugal prerogative to accompany her and left him with his newspaper.

“It is your fault, you know, since you keep threatening me with a horrible journey to Cheshire. I feel I must see her before we go lest I end up a Bluebeard’s wife in some ghastly forgotten corner of this isle. This may be my final chance,” she teased, “and I want to see her alone. I shall be back in good time before dinner.”

However, dinner was still far off, so that was of little comfort. He paced to the windows. They faced the wrong way and he would not catch her walking back from the village from there. For a moment he contemplated removing himself to the drawing room, which offered an excellent view of the road, but then he was reminded of the hazards of encounters with his bride in the drawing room. Last night after dinner they had been very close to scandalizing Mrs McLaughlin in their eagerness on the sofa and, although she had taken it very well and simply refrained from any other comment than a loud assertion that she would run up to check on the fire in the bed chamber, he was not so very certain she would not confront him candidly were she to stumble upon him again, without coat or waistcoat, kissing his wife’s bare shoulder, hands buried beneath her skirts.

No, the library was safer. No one ever disturbed him there. Except Holly. Well, disturb was perhaps the wrong expression, although she had done it often enough in the past, and in fact was doing so right now by her absence. He felt restless and he entertained a number of schemes for bringing her back and depositing her where she belonged. Upstairs. In their bed. Just as she was last night—waiting for him unabashed, unclothed and clearly impatient.

He shifted his leg over the other. Where the devil was she? Did she not realise that the longer she stayed away, the thinner his memory of her wore? He could no longer close his eyes and feel her skin on his, her breath in his ear or her fingers around him and that made him restless. When he could not exactly recall the tone of her voice when she urged him or called him, he felt at a loss. Her scent no longer lingered around him—that made him ache. What a selfish woman he had married! Her mother, indeed!

He uttered a quiet oath and drew a deep breath conjuring up exactly how he would reward her for causing him such pain when she returned . . .

H
OLLY GAVE HER MOTHER A
kiss and a hug good-bye, then another hug as she promised to write often. Dashing away the tears, she picked up the packet of sketches and drawings from the table, tucked it under her arm and turned her steps toward home. Home. It was a bittersweet thought, how she had so quickly exchanged Rosefarm for Clyne in her mind when she thought of home, and how very soon she must leave that home too. Leave the warmth and comfort of Clyne Cottage for the unknown, and from everything she had heard, cold and unwelcoming atmosphere of Cumbermere Castle. She shuddered involuntarily. Even the name sounded harsh and unyielding.

It had not been easy to get away from her new husband and in Holly’s mind that was both reassuring and slightly disconcerting. If she had not kept him away from visiting her mother’s with easy banter, she was very certain she would have had to abandon the other purpose for her trip. Even so, she thought she could feel her mother giving her disapproving looks when she bundled together those sketches and notebooks she had left behind among her mother’s papers. But of course she had not. Mrs Tournier could not have known about the disagreement between Holly and her husband or any discussion between his lordship and Dr McKenna. Could she? Feeling strangely sheepish and proudly defiant at the same time, she turned to walk home.

Apart from the fumbling collecting of her work materials, it had been a good visit. Mrs Tournier’s shrewd understanding and thorough knowledge of her daughter’s heart and mind told her much more than Holly had need to explain, and she was well-contented that her girl had made a good and happy match. Holly was happy and so she was happy and what this strange evasive chatter while hastily packing Dr McKenna’s illustrations was about, Mrs Tournier had no wish to get into. It was no longer her concern; her daughter had married and moved out of her house into the guardianship and companionship of another.

As Holly approached the outskirts of the village, her steps quickened, and the image of what, of who, was waiting for her at the other end of the road filled her thoughts. She smiled to herself—she really ought to be ashamed of how much she enjoyed their intimacy, but she could not be. It was too wonderful; and she marvelled at how wrong all those conduct manuals and books on deportment had been in their advice: in her experience, her man’s desires were not to be avoided or merely tolerated, but to be encouraged, and enjoyed . . . to be shared. Her desires, she found, were quite equal to his and at times she shocked even herself. She had briefly wondered if perhaps there was something amiss in her, though his lordship did not seem to think so—especially this morning he had not, she remembered with a blush. So, while neither the question nor the answer was formed in actual words, her time with her mother helped her to understand that this was a good and natural circumstance in a marriage.

Walking across the grounds she restrained herself, waiting until she reached the outer gardens before breaking into a run. Stopping briefly to collect herself at the door, she dashed down the hallway, tugging at her bonnet and pulling at her gloves while heading straight for the library. She was just about to reach out to turn the knob when the door suddenly opened and she found herself facing two very intense blue eyes.

“Oh, love, I . . . ”

But that was all she could utter before a pair of strong and purposeful arms caught her and swiftly whisked her inside the library, pushing the door closed with his boot.

“Five hours and forty minutes, madam!” he said before he swept down on her and kissed her urgently. He leaned against the door and pressed her so close to him she felt faint.

“Sir!” she protested and broke free. “Please! I will swoon!”

“Well, I hope you enjoyed your taste of freedom for it will not happen again for a good while.” He looked down at her and although he feigned a stern tone of voice, his eyes were alight with a different sentiment. A brief rush of nervousness swept over her as he took the packet from her, but she relaxed again when he tossed it onto the desk without a second look. “Most irresponsible,” he muttered and gently tugged at the bonnet ribbons.

She smiled and took over so that he could replace his arm around her waist and continue to hold her. She found she had missed it. Indeed, the way he looked at her with a distinct hunger, and the way the warmth of his closeness burned through her still cold clothes made her hands shake impatiently just a little.

“There,” she said and threw the bonnet and gloves on a table. “So I gather you missed me? I was only gone for a very short while.”

“No, you weren’t,” he said, “you were gone an age. I have been thinking of all the terrible things that might have happened to you, planned the most spectacular rescues and plotted revenge upon you for your selfishness. Come here.”

He led her to the sofa and sat her down, immediately taking the seat beside her and drawing her close.

“I cannot imagine,” he said quietly fiddling with the lace around her neckline, “what possible topics you could have to discuss that kept you away so long, or that are more important than what you and I can indulge in right here.” He leaned over and kissed the smooth, cool skin on her collarbone. She sighed as she felt the touch of his warm, dry lips.

“Nothing of . . . import, I assure you,” she said and ran her fingers through his hair. “Just . . . the usual.” She found it hard to concentrate as his hands lightly ran down her bodice settling on her stomach.

“Good. So . . . it would not disturb you if I suggest we leave your mother’s health, opinions and greetings for later?” His hand now travelled down her hip, slowly inching up the fabric of her skirts.

She sighed. “No, not at all. That . . . that can wait. Most definitely, that can wait . . . until later.”

And indeed, she soon forgot about her mother, and everything else, for his fingers were running lightly along the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. His breath and lips at her neck and throat were sending shivers of delight over every inch of her body.

“There’s so much beauty here,” he murmured. “There’s the line of your hips, the softness of your bottom, your hair, the delicious taste of you and the way I long to feel your skin against mine. Nothing between us—no fabric, no selfishness, no hurry.”

The combination of sensations made her quiver with desire. She leaned back and pulled him to her. “Now love . . . I need you . . . now . . . ”

“No, you must wait,” he whispered hoarsely into her ear. “This is your punishment . . . this is my revenge for five hours and forty minutes of torment.”

So he took his time, touching and re-discovering every aspect of the woman who had felt so far away, so distant just a short time ago—committing her to memory once again. Only after he had indulged himself in her closeness, once his hands remembered her softness, his head once again filled with her scent and his mouth recalled her taste, did he relent.

“I think maybe I should go away more often,” she murmured when he at last released her.

“No,” he said lazily tracing her neck and shoulders with his lips, “I really don’t think you should . . . It has been most stressful.”

“Will you take me upstairs?” she whispered.

He smiled and nodded.

“This time we will stay there,” he said. “For five hours and forty minutes, times five hours and forty minutes, you are only mine.”

I
T WAS AMAZING, HE REFLECTED
later in the night, how a single candle in its fragility could light up a whole room, how it could make perfect alabaster skin shine, chestnut hair glimmer and eyelashes cast shadows. Just like this one woman could make him feel things he never thought possible. How she could take him to the depths of despair and heights of euphoria simply through her words and being so close. Indeed, how she made him simply experience sensations as if they were new and unique.

  He wondered if she was asleep. She was lying so still beside him and her breathing was so deep. He watched her and the simple beauty of her so close to him. But watching a miracle was not enough. He reached out his hand and slowly brushed those long silken tresses from her face and shoulders. She stirred and as she turned around to his touch her throat and breasts were exposed. As he leaned over, unable to resist their promise of unimaginable sensations, she opened her eyes.

“My lord,” she mumbled, her voice husky with sleep. His hand found its way through the sheets and rested in the warmth and moisture of her body.

“Don’t say that, love,” his mouth closed on those exposed rounds and nooks, “I am not your lord; I am your slave.”

“
W
HY IS IT,” THE YOUNG
husband asked as he leaned, arms crossed, against the doorway, “that every time you go missing, I always seem to find you here?”

She turned and smiled down at him from the ladder where she was standing, perusing the upper shelves with several books in her arm.

“Mostly it is because, aside from my own chamber upstairs, and yours, the library is the one room in this house that I know best. But today,” she turned back and continued her search, “it is because I am in search of reading material for our journey.”

He could not but notice her lack of enthusiasm, in fact, he shared it, but it really could not be helped. She looked back at him again, her expression hopeful.

“Must we really go quite so soon?”

“I’m afraid we do, love,” he sighed. “I’ve kept you to myself for long enough so it’s high time I play the responsible and thoughtful Master and bring you round to meet the staff at Cumbermere and in Town.”

He watched as her brow creased and her hopeful face fell, and for some reason he could not help the huge grin that spread across his features.

“What do you find so amusing?” Holly demanded, a little sharply.

“Well, aside from the fact that I am rather flattered that you are as reluctant to see the end our honeymoon as I am, I think the reason for my smile is the sight of you on that ladder again, arms full of books and looking at me crossly.”

“And why should my looking at you crossly cause you to smile?”

“Because,” he said as he stepped into the library, closing the door behind him, “it gives me the opportunity to rectify some past wrongs as well as remedy some very glaring oversights I have been guilty of in this very room.”

“And what might those be?” she asked with a slight smile.

He held his hand up to her.

“First, my ravishing librarian, I must ask you to come down from that ladder.”

“Well, if that is the case, you had better help me.”

Holly placed the books on his outstretched hand and gave him a saucy smile as she carefully made her way downwards a few rungs. Wasting no time, his lordship dropped the books on the nearest chair, climbed up behind her so that her descent was arrested on the third rung or so, and covered her hand on the rail with his one hand and the hand that held her skirts with the other.