Too Wicked to Marry (17 page)

"Martin!" she cried, more shocked than afraid. Then he deposited her in the center of the bed, and she was afraid. She would have bolted, but he knelt on her skirts and held her down with one hand on her stomach. "I—I—" She could make no other coherent sound come out.

"Don't be frightened," he soothed.

"Easy for you to say," she snarled back. "You're not, not—"

"A virgin?" He looked at her with an altogether encouraging smile. She considered spitting at him as he stroked hair off her cheeks, and caressed her breasts. "Don't worry, my dear, we'll have that fixed in no time."

In her panic Harriet's accent had reverted to a rich Highland lilt, but when she swore at him a moment later, she might as well have been a Cockney guttersnipe. He tapped her on the cheek. "Where did you learn those words?"

"Mrs. Swift was my nanny."

That led to other questions he wanted to ask, but this was not the time or place. He had Harriet in his bed, where he'd always wanted her—or at least a woman who resembled her in the physical ways that mattered—and here he planned to stay with her until morning.

He was naked; now it was her turn. Fortunately, he'd had a bit of experience along those lines. Despite wanting to get her naked as quickly as possible, Martin first took off her shoes, and rolled the sensible stockings down her long, shapely legs. Then he started with her skirt and petticoats. He didn't ask for any help and Harriet didn't offer any, though she did oblige him when he requested that she lift her hips so he could slide the heavy layers of wool and linen off her. He cradled her round bottom in his hands for a few moments after he did so, appreciating the weight and shape of her before he proceeded to finish undoing her corset. Martin kissed and stroked each centimeter of flesh as it came to light. And such lovely, rich, creamy flesh it was.

Sometimes her fingers traced across a spot after he had moved on to another, as though making sure the place he'd stimulated truly existed. How very unaware she'd been of her own body and all the pleasures it contained.

Harriet's hands drifted to his shoulders after her chemise and corset landed on the floor, and she said in a breathy voice, "You could always find employment as a ladies' maid."

He looked up from kissing a spot just beneath her left breast and said, "I'll keep that in mind should I ever need to assume an undercover identity."

"You'd look fetching in a maid's uniform," she agreed, and tugged on his hair. "But only if you grew a mustache first."

"What an odd duck you are," he said, and eased her back onto the pile of pillows at the head of the bed.
And what an odd duck I am
, he thought, delighted to be luxuriating in this slow seduction punctuated by silly conversation. His rage and the urge for rapine were past, and this was far more fun. Revenge could wait until tomorrow.

Harriet didn't protest when she felt him undoing her drawers; she was far too curious to find out what happened next. This was not at all what she'd thought
it
would be like. She'd thought he'd be harsh, rough, quick. But no, he was torturing her by taking his time. And what a fascinating brand of torture it was—both sweet and sharp, and there was a deep, dark mystery to it somehow. Where he touched her she tingled, the sensation stirring both pleasure and a yearning that almost burned under her skin. Could the man have magic in his fingers? In his lips?

After he bared her breasts he kissed each of them for a long time, then drew her nipples into his mouth to tease them with his tongue and his teeth, and it was—nice. More than nice, it was a melting, aching, yearning feeling that caused her to arch her back and fling her head from side to side on the pillows and want to ask him to never stop. Until he moved on to drawing down her drawers and kissing around her navel, and that was nice too.

"What are you doing?" she asked, languor lacing with panic when he spread her legs wide and moved further down her body. His only answer was a deep laugh that she felt more than heard against the soft skin of her inner thighs. "And here I thought I would lie back and think of England," she murmured, and he laughed again. Only this time, he laughed as his tongue touched a swollen, throbbing spot at the juncture of her legs. She jerked and arched her back from a pleasure so devastating
that her body turned momentarily to fire.

The sound she made was not quite a scream, because a purr of indescribable pleasure issued from deep in the back of her throat.

Martin glanced up the length of her body. "Shall I do that again?"

Harriet's hands were twisted in the bed linens and she was panting. "No—yes—I—if you wouldn't mind."

Martin lowered his head and put his whole attention to tasting, teasing, and arousing her. She'd always known he had a wicked tongue, but she's never suspected that he could do
this
with it. Heat flowed through her from the places he touched. Her head swam as she was flung into a dizzy delirium. She ground her hips against his mouth and banged her heels against the mattress as desire shot through her, each jolt stronger than the next. She'd never suspected she could lose control so easily, so completely, and she couldn't mind. She could only want more.

And he gave her more, until she quite simply exploded. It was the most frighteningly wonderful, intense experience she had ever known. It was like climbing a mountain to reach the sun and bursting into flame the moment she reached the highest peak.

"How do you feel?" Martin asked, when her shuddering stilled and the panting breath that burned in her lungs slowed a little.

He lay next to her so that her breasts pressed against his wide chest and his hard penis rested against her belly. His fingers drifted between her thighs and began a slow, gentle stroking. Slowly, delicately, he moved first one finger, then another inside her. She wriggled against this touch, but he persisted, giving her no choice but to accept his questing intrusion.

She had thought the shattering climax had wrung everything out of her, but her body began to quicken again at this gentle invasion. She made small, needy sounds, and without realizing it, her fingers closed around the base of Martin's penis and began to match the rhythm of his fingers inside her.

"How do you feel?" Martin asked again, voice tight with strain. "Shall I tell you how you feel? Your body is singing. You've never felt more alive, but you still haven't had enough. Nowhere near enough." He spoke slowly and his fingers moved slowly, punctuating each and every word.

Harriet strained upward, meeting each of his movements as his fingers curled and flexed and probed. Her body did want more, more stimulation, more release, more of Martin. All of Martin.

He responded to the hungry sound that came from somewhere deep in her soul, shifting to put himself between her wide-splayed legs. Within a moment she felt the hard thickness of him pressing, separating soft warm flesh, pushing inward, filling her slowly. She felt him shaking with the effort to hold back, to control the instinct to ram his length all the way home within her surrounding flesh. The sensation of her body being joined to his was strange for only a moment, but it was not an unwelcome strangeness. A burning craving grew to discover what taking the whole, hot length of his penis into her would be like. It was inevitable, natural, needful… Her hips lifted of their own accord, her senses straining for more.

He slowed further, and a whimper escaped her throat. "Martin…" she said, breath catching on his name.

He grew completely still, and she whimpered again.

"Am I hurting you?"

His concern raced to her heart, but she couldn't bear it anymore. She lifted her head and demanded, "Would you
please
get on with fornicating!"

"Harriet!"

And his control broke with the word. And his concentration broke, and his hips bucked, desire overcoming control. Laughter broke over them both like a refreshing wave that eased the pain as he breached the thin barrier, burying himself as deep in her as he possibly could go.

There was a certain amount of discomfort, but her body was primed enough by the pleasure that came before to accept the necessity. She closed her eyes and held on tight, gripping the straining muscles of his back. The heady sensation of being stretched and filled, the heated friction sent waves and waves of fire through her, and her senses soon took her beyond the ability to think, to do anything but ride the swelling of the waves. Soon the building torrent overwhelmed her to the point where she knew she was going to drown, and she didn't mind at all.

"Good God," Martin murmured as he collapsed, exhausted and sated, on top of Harriet's soft form. He lay still, getting his breath back, getting his bearings back. Perhaps he slept for a while, but eventually he stirred. Harriet slowly opened heavy-lidded eyes as he lifted his head from the pillow of her breasts.

He kissed her. When he was done she ran her tongue over her lips and asked, "Is that me I tasted?"

He traced the outline of her lips. "Couldn't be anyone else at this point."

She breathed a deep sigh. "I think my bones have melted; I feel all floaty and creamy. Is that supposed to happen?"

He couldn't help but smile, and take a certain amount of pride in his work. "If it was good. You'll be sore in the morning, though."

"I expect so." She sighed again, and slowly combed her fingers through his hair. "I'm not quite sure what happened. I thought I was supposed to be the one who served your every whim and desire."

"I promise to be a demanding lover tomorrow night. Let us consider tonight as a dress rehearsal for your playing my mistress."

"Tomorrow," she said, and sighed again. They snuggled closely together with her head over his heart and his arms around her without discussion or thought. The last thing Martin heard before deep sleep claimed him was, "Tomorrow."

The next thing Martin heard was the door banging open and a woman's gruff voice announcing loudly, "Your man's here."

Martin blinked through sleep-drugged eyes. He stared without comprehension at the thin, angry woman who glared right back at him until Harriet sat up with the bedcoverings bunched around her and said, "Thank you, Mrs. Swift."

Martin blinked, and recognized the harridan as Harriet's maid. Then it occurred to him that her announcement probably meant that his valet had arrived with the luggage. Glad as he was for this news, he glared back at the woman and demanded, "Why didn't you knock?"

Mrs. Swift ignored him. "I brought you bathwater," she said to Harriet. Sniffing disapprovingly, she added, "I can see you need it."

Martin watched in confused awe when Harriet slipped meekly out of bed without meeting the woman's gaze or issuing a rebuke at the servant's presumption, and quickly stepped behind the screen that shielded a hip bath from the rest of the room. Mrs. Swift cast one more venomous glare his way and followed her mistress, carrying a steaming pail of water in each hand. Once the women were out of sight, Martin got up, stretched his own strained muscles, and dressed in yesterday's clothing. He would give Harriet some privacy by finding Cadwell, and then bespeak a separate room so he could properly bathe and clean up himself. He was roaringly hungry, and quite pleased with himself, and a wave of amusement overtook him when he recalled Harriet mentioning that the formidable Mrs. Swift had once been her nanny. No wonder the clever, commanding Miss MacLeod had slunk off to obey her maid's bidding. Lord knew, Harriet deserved every comeuppance the world could throw her way.