Perfect Timing (19 page)

Ceara expected to feel little pleasure herself from this moment on. But when Quincy drew back and then plunged forward again, explosions of delight went off deep within her. Limned by golden firelight, his muscular arms and shoulders glistened as richly as seasoned English elm polished to a high sheen.
Beautiful,
she thought. And then she forgot everything—absolutely
everything
. At some point, Quincy’s muscles snapped taut, bunching the full length of his body, and his thrusts deepened with enough force to push her upward on the bed.

The jolts of delight within her became stronger. Her vision went dark until all she saw were bright sparkles. And for the second time, a burning need built within her, a need so great that she found his rhythm and started pushing up with her hips to meet his thrusts. They reached the pinnacle together, both of them crying out and then going limp in each other’s arms, their skin slick, their hearts pounding, his a hard, vibrating slam against her breast, hers quicker and out of time.

Even so, as Ceara drifted over the edge of exhaustion into blissful sleep, she decided that their heartbeats harmonized beautifully, creating a perfect lullaby to carry her off into dreams.

Chapter Eight

Q
uincy didn’t know how long he and Ceara slept, but when he wakened, it was still dark beyond the windows, the fire had burned down to a red glow that barely lit the room, and he was flat on his back with his bride lying on top of him like a soft blanket that was too short to cover his ankles and feet. Her weight was so slight that he felt pretty sure he could endure the burden all night—if it weren’t for the fact that the pressure of her body against him had rekindled his desires and nudged him from dreamland into passion.

Not happening,
he warned himself. Having sex with a man out of duty was something no woman should have to endure even once, let alone twice in a row. From this moment forward, he would insist that Ceara come to him out of desire, which could happen only with time and the development of deep feelings between them.

As if she sensed his wakefulness, she stirred and lifted her head to peer at him through the gloom. Quincy saw her eyes widen when she realized they lay skin-to-skin, with his thigh riding between her legs. As if poked with a sharp pin, she jerked, scrambled off him, and grappled with the rumpled sheet to cover herself. When her body was concealed, she sent him a wary look through the shadowy gloom. In all his days, Quincy couldn’t recall starting his day with the sight of a sweeter or lovelier face.

“Good morningtide,” she said.

“And to you, but I don’t think it’s quite morning yet.”

She snuggled down on her side of the bed, finding a cushion for her cheek on the other pillow. Clearly, their earlier intimacy was something she wanted to pretend hadn’t happened. Quincy lacked practice when it came to morning-after shyness. In fact, he’d made it his policy never to hang around very long after having sex with a woman. He was more a “that was great, and where’s my hat?” kind of guy. The mere thought of his belt buckle wearing a spot on some female’s bedpost gave him the jitters, and he was always careful to select partners who sought mutual pleasure and understood that it came with no strings attached.

This time there were definitely strings, and if he guessed right, Ceara might already be regretting that. He wondered if it was because he’d performed poorly as a lover and she dreaded having to endure more of his advances. His mind still foggy with sleep, he couldn’t formulate the words needed to assure her that he didn’t expect a repeat performance anytime soon.

Settling on his side to face her, he said, “We’ve done our duty now, Ceara. Nobody can expect more from us than that. Loni will either get well now, or she won’t. How you and I move forward from here will be entirely up to us.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes, wishing he’d phrased that better. “More precisely, it will be mostly up to you. I won’t be forcing my attentions on you merely because we’re married. That sort of intimacy should stem only from mutual desire. Don’t you agree?”

“Me mum says a wife must be available to her husband at all times.”

“Well, your mum isn’t here to run our marriage, and in this century, women aren’t treated like possessions by their husbands. At least, they shouldn’t be. Nothing more will happen between us unless you want it to happen. Sound fair enough?”

“But what of yer needs and wants? Do they na play a large part in when we next do it?” She broke off and licked her lips. “It seems unfair fer only the wife to say when.”

As sweet and desirable as Ceara was, Quincy had no intention of making the first night of their marriage the sexual template for the remainder of it. If he couldn’t seduce her back into his bed, he’d do without. That wouldn’t be his preference, of course. He had healthy sexual appetites, and she was delectable. But he wasn’t about to press a female for sex when she didn’t share his desire.

“I’m accustomed to living alone,” he finally replied. “My needs and wants don’t factor heavily into the equation.” He reached to pull the covers over her. “Dawn won’t show its face for a while yet. Why don’t you try to get a little more sleep?”

She peered at him through the amber-washed gloom, her expression troubled. Quincy guessed that she had been raised to take her duties as a wife very seriously, even if it meant subjugating her own wishes to please her husband. Over time, he hoped she’d come to understand that a happy, modern-day marriage was built on a foundation of give and take, with both partners making sacrifices to please the other. He would not be a husband who slaked his passion on a wife who wasn’t as delighted to be in his arms as he was to have her there.

“What of ye?” she asked. “Will ye sleep longer as well?”

Quincy nodded, jerked a blanket up over his shoulder, and closed his eyes. Moments later, he heard Ceara’s breathing go soft and even. He missed holding her against him—wished that things between them were different. But love didn’t happen overnight. It came softly and built slowly between two people. Maybe it would happen that way for him and Ceara. Maybe it wouldn’t. Only time would tell.

* * *

Ceara blinked and rubbed her eyes. The first faint light of morning came through the windows that flanked the fireplace. All she wanted was to go back to sleep, but she felt Quincy stir awake beside her.

“The journey drained me,” she told him, her voice gruff from slumber. “Though I have rested, me bones still ache.”

He gently smoothed her hair back from her cheek. “It’s your own kind of jet lag, honey. Not much to do but sleep it off. Just close your eyes and get more rest.”

Ceara had no idea what jet lag was, and she was too tired to ask, so she did as Quincy said and tried to drift back to sleep. She missed the feel of his strong, warm arms around her, but never had she slept in such a wonderful bed. Her moss-stuffed ticking at home had seemed the height of luxury, but compared to this ’twas like sleeping on sticks. His mattress felt firm and yet gave with their weight, molding around their bodies and holding the warmth. From even across the bed, heat radiated from Quincy’s skin, enveloping her, soothing her. She found a comfortable hollow in her pillow to cradle her cheek, and let exhaustion carry her away to blackness once again.

Sometime later Quincy’s cell phone whinnied. Ceara had been startled at first by the sound of a horse coming at unexpected moments, but now, even as she jerked to consciousness, she registered that the whinny came from the wee box he called a phone. Quincy rolled, showing her his back, and muttered a word she’d never heard, his tone suggesting that it was a curse, as he groped and fumbled for the strange apparatus. Feeling the chill as the blankets shifted, Ceara drew up her knees to hug them, drowsily fascinated by how the mounds of muscle along his spine rippled as he used his arms.

“Yo, Quincy here.” His voice rumbled, and she wished she were cuddled close to feel the vibration. The thought made her shiver. “What’s up?”

Quincy pressed a bright spot on the phone screen, bringing Clint’s voice in as loud and clear as if he were in the room. “Loni woke up a little while ago and asked for some broth! She’s hungry, Quincy! And her gums have stopped bleeding!”

“Wow, that’s great news.”

“Great?” Clint echoed. “Correction, it’s
fabulous
. I swear she’s got more color. Her lips aren’t as white. Dee Dee is warming some broth right now. I’ll get back to you as soon as I know for sure that it’ll stay down.”

Quincy chuckled as he broke the connection. “You hear that, Ceara? Loni may be a little better.”

After yawning sleepily, Ceara murmured, “The broth will settle well on her stomach. The blood sickness is gone now.”

“Gone?” he echoed, his tone incredulous.

“Yes, gone. She will be verra weak fer a time, but she shall grow better day by day until she is completely well again. We ha broken the curse.”

Quincy rolled to face her so abruptly that Ceara drew back and blinked. In the dim light of dawn, his strong white teeth flashed in a broad grin. “We have, haven’t we? It worked. It really worked!”

Ceara nuzzled her cheek against her pillow, pleased to see the joy that lightened his expression. “Of course it worked. Do ye think I came so far to perform those beastly duties as a wife because I have rocks betwixt me ears?”

His smile faded. “Beastly? I thought . . . well, last night, I got the impression—”

Ceara laughed. “’Tis jesting I am. ’Twas surprisingly pleasant, nothing at all like the goings-on between pigs.”

His black brows snapped together in a scowl. “That’s it? It was ‘surprisingly pleasant’? A lot better than what happens between pigs? That doesn’t sound so good.”

As shy and embarrassed as she felt when she recalled the intimacies they’d engaged in last night, Ceara wanted him to understand that she’d found the act unexpectedly pleasurable, but the rules of ladylike behavior, drilled into her since early childhood to prepare her for a suitable union with a man of status, made her think twice before speaking. “A lady canna wax poetic about that kind of thing. ’Tis brazen. Me mum wouldna approve. Na at all.”

His scowl lessened. “So you’re feeling brazen, are you?”

Ceara’s stomach clenched, for in her time there were strict social mores for all wellborn women to follow, not to mention that the Catholic faith itself had strict moral codes. Those females foolish enough to ignore them paid a dear price. “I dinna say I’m feeling brazen, only that ’twould be brazen of me to discuss it.”

He settled his head on her pillow so their noses nearly touched and they shared each other’s breath. Without her toothbrush, Ceara had been unable to give her teeth a good scrub last evening, and she worried that her mouth might smell sour. If it did, he gave no sign.

“In this century, a lady isn’t considered to be brazen if she enjoys physical intimacy,” he told her huskily. “And that is especially true if the lady in question is married to the man she enjoys such things with.” His expression grew intent and solemn. “Just to be sure we aren’t getting our wires crossed, can you tell me, honestly, if what we did last night was . . . well, you know, just okay, good, really good, or . . . spectacular?”

Ceara had never heard that last word, but judging by the context of his question, she guessed its meaning. And judging by the anxiety she saw in his eyes, he yearned for her to say their joining had been enjoyable beyond description. Sadly, the training of a lifetime made her guarded. She considered carefully before replying.

“Let me say only that if ye approach me again with such things on yer mind, I willna object.”

He studied her for a long moment, and then scooted back to his own side of the bed. “Okay, I’ll be sure to bear that in mind.”

Ceara couldn’t think what she might have said wrong. If a lady told a man she wouldn’t object to his future attentions, she was inviting him to make advances whenever he wished. But for reasons beyond her, Quincy didn’t seem to comprehend her meaning. “Ye’re displeased with me.”

“Not at all. It’s just that I need a bit more from you than that.”

Ceara yearned to ask him why, but then she might appear to be throwing herself at him, and that, too, was unacceptable behavior for a lady. “I wish to be a good, dutiful wife,” she offered.

“I’m sure you will be,” he replied. “But when it comes to sex, strike the word
dutiful
from your mind, because it doesn’t sit well with me. If and when we make love again, there will be no feelings of
duty
involved. You’ll either
want
to do it, and let me know that in every conceivable way a woman can, or we’ll never go there again. Am I clear on that?”

Ceara wanted to make love with him again, but to tell him that—or show him that—well, ’twas unacceptable for her to do either. ’Twas the man who was supposed to be the aggressor. She tried to think how she might explain, but before she could get a word out, he’d closed his eyes, signaling that he meant to get more sleep.

They definitely had their wires crossed, she decided as she plumped her pillow, using a little more force with her fists than was necessary.
Men
. Her mum said they could be dumber than sheep at times, and that was certainly proving to be true of Quincy Harrigan.

* * *

Upon awakening a third time, Quincy discovered that he was holding Ceara in his arms. He didn’t know whether she’d gravitated toward him in her sleep, or if he’d been drawn by her gentle warmth and softness. He knew only that he liked having her pressed against him—and so did his dick. He gave himself a silent lecture about not making love to her again. For one thing, he couldn’t do that until he was sure she wanted him to, and so far, her responses to his questions on that topic had fallen far short of the enthusiasm he needed to hear. Second, though he was no expert on virgins, common sense told him that overuse of her sensitive female anatomy might make her sore, and, hell, he had the rest of their married life to enjoy her body—if and when she ever gave him a green light. Problem. Old Glory, Quincy’s name for his dick since childhood, had no common sense and was ramrod stiff.