The Official Essex Sisters Companion Guide (24 page)

“Who’s to say that?” Annabel said. “I’ve always thought that adultery was something that gentlemen practiced with some ease. And other types of men as well,” she added.

“Not all gentlemen.” He paused. “Did you think to practice adultery? And that’s a question, Annabel.”

“I thought to marry for practical reasons,” she told him, and only then did she realize that she was going to tell him the truth. “For comfort and ease. I thought to marry a man who desired me, and trade his desire for my security. And then . . . after I had fulfilled the obligations of marriage, I thought that he would likely turn to others and I might, someday, find pleasure for itself.”

“You actually planned to be adulterous,” he said, apparently fascinated.

“It wasn’t like that,” she said crossly. “’Twas only a practical look at the way people truly behave. I spent a great deal of time in the village, you know. I talked to people. Imogen could afford to be romantic, but I never could.”

“Poor love,” he said, and gathered her into his arms. Her arms slipped around his waist now as if they had always belonged there. She leaned her head against his chest and listened to the strong thump of his heart. “Obviously you haven’t been spending your time worrying about things as ephemeral as souls . . . what’s your greatest fear, then?”

“The kisses are piling up,” she murmured.

“Mmmm. . . . tonight,” he said, and she shivered against him with the promise of it. “What does one fear if you don’t believe in the hereafter?” He sounded genuinely curious.

“It’s not that I don’t believe in heaven,” she told him (although she didn’t, not very much). “But I don’t worry about it.”

“What
do
you worry about?”

“Being poor again,” she admitted. “I would hate that.”

His arms tightened. “Hunger is a terrible thing.”

“We weren’t ever really hungry,” Annabel said. “There was always enough to eat; it was just the same food day after day. No, I’m afraid of the exhaustion of it. The strain of not being able to pay a bill when it comes due. The humiliation of trying to convince someone to wait for his justly earned payment. Of not having a single chemise without a hole in it.”

“I’m a rich man, Annabel.”

She felt ashamed, to the very tips of her toes. But he was asking for honesty—still, she wished she hadn’t told. She felt shabby, and small.

“More to the point, I estimate that we owe each other five kisses,” he said, smiling down at her. There wasn’t an ounce of condemnation in his eyes.

“Don’t you mind?” she asked him.

“Mind what?”

“Mind that I—I wanted to marry a rich man, and now here we are—”

He smiled at her, with just his eyes again. “’Tis an example of God’s gift, isn’t it? Money has never meant much to me; I grew up with lots of it, and without family, and I hadn’t the heart to attach myself to the coins. But for you this money was important, and perhaps that’s the reason I have it.”

She buried her head against his middle and thought about how simple his view of life was, and then with a kindled fire, how easy it would be to love a person like him. Like Ewan. “But if you’re only afraid for your soul,” she asked suddenly, “does that mean you’re not afraid for your person?”

“What do you mean?

“Well, when the robbers were in the hotel room, you looked furious, but you undressed without putting up a fight.”

“I was furious. And I was frightened for you and your sister in particular. But there wasn’t any real reason to start a fight. The likelihood was that they might shoot off one of those guns, and then someone would be hurt. Whereas if I just gave them what they wanted, they would leave without violence.”

“Even though they tried to humiliate you by making you take off your clothing?”

He grinned. “I got to see your eyes widen when you realized what you were looking at. That moment paid back any humiliation. Besides, Annabel, what if I had fought?”

“You were much bigger than either of them.”

“I could have taken one of their guns away,” he said. “And then what would I have done with it?”

“Threatened them?”

“Do I look like someone who would hold a gun to your head and threaten to kill you?”

“Why not?” she asked uncertainly. “Anyone can do that.”

“You have to mean it. I would never point a gun at a person because I would never mean to kill them.” He paused. “And there’s an answer to what would kill my immortal soul: killing a man, and all because I wouldn’t share my money with him. How many kisses is that?”

She had to laugh. Until he took her breath away with a kiss.

They had a routine now, like any married couple. Annabel undressed with the help of her maid, and then tucked herself into bed. Sometime later, Ewan came in, all sluiced down from washing at the pump, and took off most of his clothes, and slid into bed. Then he usually got out of bed and found some sort of pillow and put it between them, because he was adamant that it would be a disaster if he woke with her in his arms.

“A man,” Ewan had told her one night, “would be happy to make love morning, noon, or night. But in the morning he’s primed for the exercise, if you take my meaning.”

She had. All those hours spent listening to the women in the village complain about their husbands were truly paying off.

Tonight didn’t feel like the other nights, though. Somehow all the stiffness Annabel usually felt after sitting in a coach all day long had melted away, replaced by a racing excitement and trepidation. For one thing, she couldn’t figure out what Ewan meant to do. Somehow she doubted that he meant to consummate their marriage, because they didn’t have a marriage yet. But—but—

He walked in and Annabel tried to look at him objectively, the way she had back at Lady Feddrington’s ball when she didn’t know him from Adam. He was tall, and powerfully built . . . but checking off those characteristics didn’t work anymore. Because glancing at his chest made her think about their picnic. And—

“Ewan!” she said. “What are you
doing
?”

“I’m not wearing this shirt to bed,” he said calmly. “I’ll keep on my smalls, to protect us both. But you’ve seen my chest before, lass, and after tomorrow, you’ll see it many a time.”

Annabel swallowed. Ewan pulled his shirt over his head, and his shoulders and arms bunched with muscle, and rather than making her embarrassed, it gave her a peculiar melting feeling in her stomach. His chest tapered to narrow hips, to which his white smalls clung as if they were about to fall down . . . Annabel closed her eyes. Her body felt suddenly all curves and softness, a natural complement to his.

He got into bed and the whole bed listed to that side with a mighty creak.

“It’s a good thing we’re not married yet, because this bed couldn’t survive a bout of shaking sheets,” he muttered, pulling the covers over himself.

Annabel kept her eyes closed tight.

“Now,” he said, sounding very pleased with himself, “I count six kisses left to me, and one of which is the most important of all, since it’s the one owing to me when you answered my question about marriage.”

Annabel’s heart was pounding so loudly that she could hardly hear him.

“I think I’ll save that last one for a bit of education,” he said thoughtfully. “Didn’t you ask me what a coney is, Annabel my love?”

She opened her eyes. “Yes.”

“A coney’s a rabbit,” he whispered, moving closer to her. “A soft, velvety rabbit.”

Annabel tried to think about rabbits and kisses, but his body was just next to hers, and the only thing between them was a frail bit of cotton. She felt as if she could feel the heat of his chest although he wasn’t yet touching her.

Ewan looked at his bride-to-be and told himself for the hundredth time that he would be able to control himself. She was breathing in a shallow way, and he’d seen her looking at him with a stealthy pleasure that suggested she’d be no help in kicking him out of bed. Except—

“Annabel?” he inquired. “Why have you closed your eyes? You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

Thankfully, he saw a glimmer of a smile on those luscious lips of hers. “Is that a question?”

“Yes,” he growled. And then he couldn’t wait any longer: he reached over and gathered the delicious body of his almost-wife into his arms. He kissed her until she was trembling in his arms, until they were both near senseless, until her tongue was as bold as his. And then he slowly, slowly rolled onto his back, bringing her with him.

Her eyes popped open. For one thing, she had direct contact with his groin now, and he wasn’t quite certain she understood the implications of what she was feeling. Not that his Annabel ever showed any particular signs of virginal innocence.

Sure enough, she obviously knew precisely what she was feeling. She was staring down at him with a little frown between her brows and he could practically see the objections racing through her mind.

“It’ll fit,” he said, pulling down her head for a kiss. “I promise. There’s no need to fear me, Annabel.”

She reacted just as he would have guessed. “I’m not afraid of that. You—”

But he swallowed her words, slipped between her lips with all the hunger for her taste that he felt in his body, kissed her until she was clutching his hair and kissing him
back, and until she’d cradled herself between his legs in a way that told him that they would be a marvelous fit for each other.

He pulled away from her mouth only when he found that his hands had stopped caressing her narrow back and had shaped themselves to the most beautifully round bottom he’d ever felt in his life.

So instead of continuing with that caress, which would surely lead to madness, he rolled her over, keeping one leg over hers, determined to gain control of himself before he touched her again. She was exquisite, this bride of his, even with her smoky eyes squeezed tight. They tilted at the corners with an exotic little curve that was at odds with the practicality of planning adultery before she even decided whom to marry. The very thought of it made him grin. But he had to admit that for a woman this passionate, and yet so set on marrying a man of wealth, adultery was likely just a practical suggestion. He’d have to keep her too busy to think of other men.

He dropped kisses on her eyes and the rosy tilt of her mouth, but she still didn’t open her eyes. “Don’t you want to know what a coney is, then?” he whispered in her ear, giving her a little bite.

She gasped, and opened her eyes. She was a great one for seeing the world blind, this lass of his. “You told me,” she said. “It’s a rabbit.” Her voice was all husky and low, and made Ewan’s groin throb so that he almost lost control again.

He took a deep breath. “Aren’t you a bit more curious, then, about the origins of the phrase?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

He slid his leg down the long smooth length of her legs, and surprised himself by wondering if he truly would be able to stop in time. Surely he would. He hadn’t practiced restraint for all these years to have it desert him when he most needed it. Slowly, reverently, he put a hand on her breast.

The warm curve of it made him almost moan aloud but instead he stayed rigid, instead watching Annabel who, of course, had her eyes closed tight. He dared to rub a thumb across her nipple, and her body instinctively arched up. Her hand flew to his wrist and she said, her voice shaking, “Ewan!” But she didn’t open her eyes, and he counted that as a welcome.

“Yes, love,” he whispered, keeping his hand—and his thumb—right where it was. Then he let himself kiss her again and desire exploded like fury between them. She was writhing under his hand now, making little squeaking sounds that inflamed his blood. Slowly, slowly, he ran his hand from her breast to the sweetness of her flat stomach, over a hip, down a long sleek leg, and finally found the edge of her nightgown, bunched at her thighs.

Her eyes flew open. “What are you doing?” she cried, grabbing his wrist again.

It was time for kiss number three. He kissed her until her eyes closed in helpless surrender, until she dropped her fierce grasp on his wrist and wound her arms around his neck. And then before she could stop him, he ran his hand up the sweetness of soft skin at her inner thigh to . . .
there
.

She went rigid. “I thought we weren’t—” she said, with a gasp.

“We aren’t,” he told her, at the same time he warned himself of the same thing. “We aren’t. This is just another kind of kiss, Annabel.”

But her eyes were open, and narrowed at him. “I’ve never heard of such a thing!”

“You didn’t learn everything there is to learn in the village,” he said to her, trying to keep his voice even when his fingers were wandering over the softest tangle of hair he’d felt in his life, and his breath felt as it were exploding in his chest.

“I don’t think this is proper,” Annabel insisted. “We’re not—”

She squeaked, and Ewan knew it was time for kiss number four. And in the middle of that fevered kiss, he touched her until her legs relaxed and she cried out against his lips again and again, finally hiding her head against his shoulder and twisting against him.

“But the kiss, Annabel,” he said, knowing that his control was growing weak. Another moment of this and he’d simply roll over and—“Our last kiss, and my gift . . .”

She mutely tried to pull his head down to hers.

“Nay,” he said gruffly, “that’s not it.”

And then quickly, before those beautiful eyes of hers could fly open and she could leap off the bed, he moved down.

Annabel was in a haze of heat and desire. Against her thigh she could feel Ewan’s—Ewan’s—and for all he said things would fit, she had a nagging suspicion that they wouldn’t. But every time the suspicion grew firm in her mind, he would kiss her senseless again and she would forget the point she wished to make, lost in a haze of ecstasy.

At least he’d finally taken his hand off her breast, but—

“What are you
doing
?” she said, surprised by her own ragged voice.

He was lying between her legs and there she was, like a wanton, with her nightgown pulled up almost to her waist. “Stop that!” she cried, trying to sit up, but a huge muscled arm slid up her stomach and held her down. And his other hand . . .

He touched her there. She couldn’t help it; a whimper broke from her lips. But he could
see
her. He shouldn’t be in such a position. “Ewan!” she said, trying again for rationality, for decency, for—

She lost her train of thought. His fingers were—

That wasn’t his finger!

“Ewan!” she choked, but he didn’t answer, and his hand was holding her down—well, it was caressing her breast—and there was nothing to do but close her eyes tight and sink into a velvet darkness that had nothing in it but his tongue and the flames licking around her body, sending her arching helplessly against him, trying to cry his name but managing only muffled sounds, her voice cut into ribbons by the sweetness of his kiss.

This—this—but she couldn’t remember what it was called. She couldn’t remember her own name. Every sensation in her body was focused on the decadent, silky touch of his lips.

“I can’t—I can’t—” she managed . . . and then she shuddered, bursting into a spasm more intense than she had ever felt before, an all-consuming, raging explosion that had her gasping and crying out, and then falling back, limp, to the bed.

Eyes closed.

And when she finally opened them, he was there, propped on one elbow, smiling at her. She felt nothing more than a passionate desire to wipe that smile off his face.

“Do you know what Tess told me about marital consummation?” she asked him.

He shook his head. “I trust it wasn’t some foolishness about lying back and enduring.”

“She told me that whatever my husband does to me, I should do to him,” she said, making her voice as provocative as she could make it. And since Annabel had practiced the art of provocation for some four or five years, she was very, very good at that particular skill. “That means, oh my almost-husband,” she clarified, “that tomorrow night—”

There wasn’t a trace of laughter on his face now. His eyes had darkened to black and he looked as if he were in shock.

She let her smile turn from provocative to wicked. Then she reached out one finger and put it on the smooth skin of his chest. Delicately, delicately, she trailed that finger down . . . down . . .

“And what do they call the coney’s kiss when it’s not a coney being kissed?” she said, relishing the tightness of his jaw.

Her finger swept down to the rigid length of him, and if it made her blink with shock, her smile didn’t slip a notch. Ewan shuddered. He hadn’t taken his eyes from hers, though.

She pursed her lips at him and then he was there, rolling over on her with a strength that she was powerless to resist, plunging into her mouth with a ferocity that made her shudder against him as if she hadn’t been limp with pleasure only a moment earlier.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered against his lips, once she regained her breath.

And he was the one who closed his eyes this time.