The Wedding Bed (The Sun Never Sets, Book One) (11 page)

“
Sundara
,” he murmured against her throat. Beautiful. English simply wouldn’t do. He needed the words of his childhood, the lyrical music of Hindi to properly express himself. “
Esha
.
Gita
.
Lavanya.”
Desire. Song. Grace. Even that wasn’t enough.

Calla reached up and placed her palm lightly against his chest.
A small, wistful smile curved her lips.

“
Pati
,” she said. Husband.

Derek felt his heart sputter
and then drum wildly against his ribs. For years he had scoffed at superstitious custom of consulting horoscopes to determine the suitability of a bride and groom. Yet in that instant, everything felt intensely, profoundly correct, on a grander scale than any he’d ever known. As though some small corner of the universe had fallen into precise alignment and everything was right with his world.

Calla’s
eyes sought his. Emboldened by his reaction to her touch, she drew her hand over his biceps, and past the base of his throat. She lightly brushed his ribs, then feathered her fingers down the hard, chiseled planes of his belly.

Her brave
exploration stopped just above his engorged manhood and her courage appeared to desert her. Color flamed in her cheeks and she averted her eyes, as though embarrassed by her display of wanton curiosity. Derek captured her hand in his.

“
Feel how I want you,
jaanu
.”

He guided her hand toward his penis, intent on dispelling any fear she might harbor at the very foreignness of that member.
Her sweet, guileless touch was nearly his undoing. At first her grasp was light and tentative, merely the silkiest of touches. She skimmed a single fingertip over the head of his cock, gliding over the flared ridge and across the dewy slit at the top.

Then
, her confidence building, she gripped him harder, wrapping him in the sweet warmth of her palm. She moved her hand up and down his shaft in an experimental motion that drew a husky groan from his lips. When he could take no more of the blissful erotic torture, he shifted reluctantly out of her grasp, lest their lovemaking end too quickly.

Catching her about her waist, he rolled her so that she was positioned beneath him.
He braced himself on his forearms above her and used his mouth to explore her every curve and mysterious hollow. He traced a path of fiery kisses from the nape of her neck to her collarbone, then across her ribs, her belly, and the slender arc of her hip. No detail was too petty to go unadmired. A freckle beneath the lobe of her ear deserved the same devotion as the shadowy cleft between her breasts.

He was dimly conscious of the need to go slowly, but
he couldn't force himself to do it. He was almost frantic in his desire. He cupped her breasts in his hands, awed at the lush weight and the firm, erect feel of her nipples against his palms. He heard her startled gasp as he tweaked her nipples lightly with his fingertips, gently teasing them into even stiffer peaks. When he brushed his lips over her breasts and drew one rosy peak into his mouth, caressing and teasing her nipple with his tongue, she let out a low moan and arched her back, pressing herself into him.

After devoting the same lavish attention upon her op
posite breast, his hands followed the path his lips had taken, heating and caressing her flesh. He felt her shudder at his touch and heard her breathless sighs. Her hands clutched and released his skin. Derek shifted his body lower still, brushing his lips along her upper thighs, eager to taste the very essence of his wife. But she must have realized his goal. Until that moment she had been relaxed, almost melting in his hands, writhing and purring at his touch. Now he felt her stiffen in shocked protest. She clamped her knees together.

“Derek
,” she protested. “You can’t possibly mean to...”

“
Can’t I?”

“
But…It’s not proper.”

He felt a wicked
grin tug at his lips. “For years,
jaanu
, missionaries tried to teach the natives that there was only one proper way to make love, hence the missionary position.” 

“Yes, so?”

“If nothing else, I think we learned something today.”

“What’s that?”

He pressed a light kiss against her throat. “You’re not a missionary.”

She gave a light laugh.
“No,” she said. “I’m not.”

“
That means we’re sinfully free to explore other options.”

He gently parted her
legs and ran his hands over her silky soft skin. Then he touched his tongue to her inner thigh. She cried out in surprise, followed by a throaty purr of pleasure.

Finding the tight pearl of flesh at the entrance to her sex, he tea
sed it with his fingertips until she was writhing beneath him, her breath coming in hot, shallow pants. Her initial reticence was transformed into glorious eagerness as she dug her fingers into his shoulders and arched her hips to allow him greater access.

Bending low, he pressed his mouth to the juncture of her thighs
. He began to nuzzle and kiss her nether lips. She rocked beneath him, whimpering low in her throat as he traced his tongue over the slick pink folds of her sex. He sucked the tiny pink bud of her clitoris, twirling his tongue around that tight bundle of erotic nerves.

He felt a tremor race through
her, sensed her stiffen and arch her hips as though nearing her completion. Derek drew back. Calla gazed up at him, glassy-eyed and flushed with arousal, but he could only shake his head. He needed to be inside her when she came. He needed to feel the tight muscles of her sheath clench around his cock, needed to feel her hard nipples press into his chest, needed to feel her warm breath in his ear. Needed her.

But
most of all, he needed to watch her face as her climax overtook her.

Lying on his back, h
e drew her on top of him, so that they faced one another and her knees were splayed open on either side of his slim hips. “Guide me,” he gritted out. “Take me in,
jaanu
.”

Confusion showed
in her expression, replaced seconds later by astonished comprehension. “Can we? Like this?”

Yes. Like that and a thousand other ways, if it pleased her. At the moment, it was all he could do to let her lead, to allow her to set the pace and the rhythm. He gave a curt nod, battling the urge to arch his hips and th
rust himself inside her, to put an end to the sweet, prolonged torture.

Calla spread her knees further apart, straddling him. She tilted her body forward and thrust her ass slightly in the air. She brought herself lower.

The rounded head of his shaft brushed up against her sex, swollen and moist now, guarded by enticing chestnut curls.

Yes.
By all that was holy, yes.

With a toss of her head, Calla
brushed her damp mane of hair over her shoulder and began a slow yet steady descent. Derek let out a husky moan as she clutched him gently by his shaft and guided him inside her. Her nether lips slid downward, gently parting to slip over the swollen head of his erection and slide down his cock, sheathing him in her wet, silky warmth. He could have found his release that instant, but he gritted his teeth and willed himself to hold back.

She lifted herself up, then down,
taking him more deeply inside her, slipping and sliding over his length, teasing him with the hot, wet friction of her cunny. He felt her inner walls stretch to accommodate him, tightly clutching his cock. An expression of feminine confidence came over her delicate features. Her lips curved in a smile of wicked delight as she balanced herself atop him. She arched her back and drew her slim, elegant hands up her torso, cupping her breasts and teasing her nipples.

Derek groaned and reached for her, but Calla remained firmly in control.

Abruptly shifting positions, she pressed her palms flat against his chest, restraining his movements. Soon she began to lift and thrust her hips with increasing speed and certainty, swallowing him completely, establishing a rhythm that drove him wild. Her soft, perfect breasts bobbed up and down with her exertions. Her sweet, soft ass brushed against his hips. Her nipples came to tight, hard points. Her eyes glassed over and her breathing grew shallow.

Madness.
It was mad how much he wanted her. Madness he never wanted to end.

“Yes,” he murmured, gripping her hips, arching his pelvis in time to her motions. “That’s it,
jaanu
. That’s it.”

Her breath fell against his neck, hot and shallow. He met her fervent pace
, driving deep and hard into her. Suddenly Calla stiffened above him. She let out a cry of release as a shudder tore through her body.

Derek
allowed himself the unparalleled gratification of watching his new wife as she found her satisfaction. Her eyes fluttered shut; her lips were swollen and parted. Her dark hair swirled over her shoulders in wild disarray. A flush spread across her chest; her nipples were drawn tight and hard. A silky sheen of perspiration glistened on her skin, coating her body with a fine mist that sparkled in the amber light.

Pleasure swelled within him, pleasur
e so intense it was almost pain. Unable to hold back any longer, Derek drove forward once again. Two hard, sharp thrusts were all he needed to reach his own climax. He poured into her with an explosion that rocked him to his very toes, leaving him physically drained.

Calla collapsed on top of him. His strength depleted, he
cradled her body against his while they both fought to regain control. He traced his hand over the lush curve of her hip, her buttocks, and her breasts in a relaxed, unthinking motion. Like breaking free of a raging fever, he slowly regained his senses. His ragged breathing became almost level. Rational thought returned. He was once again aware of the chill of the night air, of an owl hooting outside the bedroom window, a carriage passing in the street.

Call
a shifted against him.

"
Are you all right?" he asked.

She
snuggled against his chest. "I didn't think it would be so . . ." She paused abruptly and peered up at him from beneath a veil of thick, sooty lashes. A look of wonder transformed her face. “Could we have made a child?” she asked, pressing a hand against the soft, flat expanse of her belly.

“Perhaps
. We won’t know for weeks.”

A
t the reminder of the potential consequences of their union, a wisp of tension coiled through Derek’s chest. Loath as he was to address it, the issue would have to be dealt with eventually. Since she brought it up, he might as well face the problem straight-away.

“If we do,
” he said, “in the eyes of Society, the babe will be of mixed heritage.”

Calla was silent for a
long moment. Derek had done nothing but state the obvious, but perhaps in her haste to see her mother and siblings provided for, she hadn’t considered the full ramifications of their marriage. The dark blood of India would run through their children’s veins—there was no way to hide it or prevent it. They would never be accepted in proper Society. He glanced down, watching her face as she mulled over his words.

Finally
she released a deep, almost dreamy sigh. “Yes,” she said, “our children will have that gift.”

Gift.

The word was so contrary to Derek’s expectation of what she would say it rendered him speechless. The taunts that had followed him through his childhood echoed through his mind.
Half-caste, chee-chee, dirt.

Rather than be appalled
by that, his new bride could only smile.
Gift
, she said.

As though it were a blessing, rather than a curse.

Chapter Eleven

Calla
leaned against the plush velvet seat of the carriage, turning her face to the passing streetscape. She couldn’t remember ever having seen a more somber day. Thick grey clouds hovered overhead and frosty gusts of wind whipped through the alleyways. Pedestrians, huddled deep within their coats with their heads tucked low, scurried to their destinations. Even vendors who normally crowded the streets were largely absent, having surrendered to the foul nature of the day.

The unrelenting gloom seemed to be affecting her as well. She felt restless and
anxious, more than a little worried about Ram. Three days had passed since she and Derek had made their trek to the East End to inquire after the boy. Surely Ram should have heard by now that she was looking for him, yet she’d received no word back. The long stretches of silence were wearing on her nerves.

After a moment,
she noted that their carriage was carrying them away from the Thames, rather than toward it. “I thought we were going to the docks,” she said.

“
Not today. Madame LeReau is expecting you.”

“
Madame LeReau?”

“A modiste. Her shop is just off
Hillary Lane.”

Gowns.
Again. Calla thought they had dismissed that tiresome topic days ago. Apparently Derek had made the appointment without consulting her. The thought of spending her morning engaged in the frivolous pastime of selecting gowns, while Ram might be lying somewhere hurt or in danger, struck her as unconscionable. She said as much to Derek.

He shook his head.
“If Ram is still in London, we can assume by now he has heard we’re looking for him. Obviously he feels there is greater safety in hiding or he would have made his whereabouts known to you.”

“But what if—”

“Calla,” he interrupted, “be reasonable. One does not put out a fire by fanning the flames. Inspector Nevins will continue to make his inquiries, we will continue to make ours. I suggest we do so tomorrow evening at Lady Williston’s gala, where the gentlemen from the Custom House will be in attendance.”

Calla blinked in surprise.
It wasn’t Derek’s suggestion that caught her off-guard, but his use of her given name. Until that moment, her name had been reserved as a whispered endearment, nothing more than a silky breath against her ear while he stroked her body and turned her limbs to liquid fire. This was the first time he’d spoken it outside of her bedroom.

Surely that should register as a sign of some monumental shift between them, but she couldn’t begin to fathom what it might mean. All she knew was that her sense of balance had been thoroughly thrown off-kilter. In India she’d been so sure and confident, but she hadn’t been able to establish a secure footing in London.

A large part of that, obviously, was her relationship with
Derek. How was it possible they could enjoy such steaming physical intimacy at night, only to revert to cool politeness during the day? The juxtaposition was entirely unnerving. But worst of all was her inability to make sense of her own feelings. Theirs was not a love match, she reminded herself. From a logical point of view, she should have been delighted at the marital routine they’d established. She should have been thrilled that they’d managed to maintain a state of emotional independence. But victory sat uneasily on her shoulders.

She didn’t want to
need more from Derek Arindam Keating than he appeared willing to give.

But she did.

Oh, she did.

Calla clenched her fists in her lap in silent frustration.
How to change her course? How could she stop dreading the moment when Derek left her bed at night after their lovemaking? How could she stop herself from longing for his touch in the early morning hours when she woke, feeling drowsy and achingly alone, only to hear him stirring about his room? Although she’d successfully resisted the impulse to call him back to her bed, the temptation had nearly overwhelmed her.

She bit back a sigh, rein
ing in her wayward thoughts as their carriage rumbled around a corner. “This is very kind of you,” she said, “but it isn’t necessary. I’m sure one of the gowns I brought from India will suffice.”

“Hardly,” he returned, his gaze sweeping over the tired navy blue cloak she wore.
“This will be your first introduction to society as Lady Keating. I suspect you would like to be presented wearing something other than your missionary’s costume.”

Irritation flashed through her
. “Forgive me for lacking the proper vanity. Obviously I should take better care with my appearance.”

“
This has nothing to do with vanity. This is London. As your husband, it is my duty to offer you protection.”

“Protection? What has that to do with buying new frocks?”

“The fine lords of England no longer attire themselves in steel and chain mail when they go into battle. Now the preferred garb is silk and satin, and the armaments of choice are rumors, backbiting, and innuendo. If you are to be presented to Society as my wife, you will need all the protection you can get.”

“Really? Are you so very awful?”

“
Not awful,” he replied carefully, evidently giving her question more weight than she’d intended. “Merely an outsider.”

She eyed him thoughtfully. “That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Some men use money as a tool. You seem to use it as a weapon.”

“It happens to be a very effective weapon. Particularly in my case.”

“But you’re a lord of the realm.”

He let out a sharp breath and turned away from her, looking out the carriage window. “Yes. A lord of the realm.”

It was impossible to miss the mocking disdain in his voice. And with good reason, she supposed, for the
title didn’t entirely suit him. The Tiger of the Thames. Now
that
was fitting title. Neither British nor Indian, but a nation entirely unto himself. Large, sleek, exotic, powerful, cruel.
No, not cruel
, she amended silently. Just…fierce.

The half-caste lord pushed to the fringes of polite society, treated with the barest, brittle veneer of civility. A man who’d accustomed himself to the scorn of others
. A man who built an English fortress in which to live, but remained as untouchable as the
Dalit
. A small corner of her heart ached for him.

“Is that why you didn’t wear your
kurta
at our wedding?”

“
A kurta?” He made no effort to hide his disdain for the garment. “I think not. Standards must be kept—even by someone like me.”

“I see
.” Calla licked her suddenly dry lips. Was the insult directed against her, himself, or their arranged marriage? She couldn’t decide. In any event, it didn’t bode well. At a loss for words, she drew her hand to the window, causing the cluster of silver bangles she wore at her wrist to jingle like bells.

“
Speaking of standards,” he said, “you’ll need jewelry. Real jewelry—not cheap Delhi trinkets.”

“
I beg your pardon,” she bristled. “They may appear to be nothing but trinkets to you, but they are very dear to me. They were a gift. I couldn’t bear to part with them.”

“I see.”
A look of possessive heat flashed in his stormy gray eyes. “You’re wearing another man’s jewelry.”

“What?”
she blinked. “No. Of course not.” Her hand moved automatically to the thin silver bangles that encircled her wrists. “Do you see the tiny stones on each one? They’re birthstones. I’m wearing one bracelet for each of my sisters, and one for my mother. They gave them to me before I left Calcutta. That way I would always have my family with me.” 

“My apologies. I didn’t understand their significance.”
He paused, studying her intently, then arched one dark brow upward. “And the bracelets you wear about your ankles?”

“Oh, those.” Calla’s cheeks heated.
She hesitated for a moment, debating the depths of her honesty. At length she replied, “I once saw a beautiful woman dancing in a bazaar. She wore similar bracelets about her ankles. I thought they were so…” She paused, searching for the right word. She had been entranced by the woman’s seductive power, by the beauty in her movements, her confidence and grace. Normally she was frugal with the household budget, spending money on her mother and sisters rather than herself. But in a rare indulgent splurge, she bought a set of ankle bracelets and wore them hidden beneath her gowns. “Enticing,” she finished, at a loss to adequately describe the feelings of wonder that had swept through her when she’d watched the woman dance.

“
Indeed,” Derek returned. He shifted slightly, brushing his thigh lightly against hers. “Particularly when they’re the only thing you’re wearing.”

A shiver ran through her that had nothing to do with the weather. A heady mixture of pride and pleasure swelled within her, making her nearly light-headed.
Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. Not just his words, but the way he spoke. It shouldn’t be possible for a man to set her pulse racing with so light a touch, so few words. Yet he did. It seemed the only defenses Calla needed were ones to protect her heart from him.

Their carriage rumbled to
a stop before their destination. She glanced out at an attractive brick storefront that was set apart from the other shops on the street by lacy wrought-iron scrollwork flanking the window and doorway. Derek exited the conveyance, then turned to assist Calla. Taking her elbow, he guided her up the wide brick steps to the shop’s front door. “Madame LeReau is expecting you.”

“You’re not coming in?”

“To a modiste’s shop? Hardly.” A wry smile curved his lips. “The English have a saying about that. Something to do with teats on a bull.”

She tried to form a smile in return, but it felt false on her lips. She tilted back her head and searched his eyes. “What about you?” she asked. “Where will you go?”

“I have business to attend aboard the
Makara
. I’ll send the carriage back for you.”

With
a polite bow, he released her arm and turned. Calla watched him walk away, feeling absurdly bereft at the loss of his company. Moreover, she had hoped for his guidance in navigating current London fashion.

“W
ait!” she called after him. “What would you have me buy?”

“Anything you like, so long as it is both expensive and exquisite.”
He stepped inside the carriage and pulled the door shut behind him.

Apparently
he was not pining for her company the way she pined for his. Teats on a bull. Ha. Very well. Neither was she a lovesick cow. She was a young, independent woman, fully capable of making her own choices. Let him go.

Giving herself a mental shake, she stiffened her spine, squared her shoulders, and moved resolutely into the welcoming warmth of
Madame LeReau’s shop.