Trouble With Harry (12 page)

Plum grinned back at him as Temple made a witticism about husbands being led by the nose. He relaxed, warmed by both the avid look in his wife's eye, and the knowledge that all in his world was well. McTavish was on the road to recovery, he had corrected his first misstep with Plum without too much difficulty, and she was evidently looking forward to the evening's activities as much as he was. If there was one complaint he had to make against his late wife, it was that she seldom enjoyed their bed sport. She tolerated his advances, but no matter how much he tried to bring her pleasure, it was only rarely that he was left with the impression that she enjoyed herself. Plum was different. Harry was conscious of a pleasant tension that filled the air between Plum and him, a slight feel of static electricity in the air, as if a storm was approaching.

Temple turned to him near the end of the meal. “While you were sleeping, I had the footmen scour the estate for poisonous berries. They found several, but none in the area Digger said the children were playing before McTavish became so ill.”

Harry nodded, selecting a ripe peach from the bowl before him, his mind automatically traveling the paths of soft, ripe fruit to softer, riper woman. “Send what you found to Doctor Trewitt. He might be able to tell us if that's what the boy ate.”

“I wonder if he could have eaten a leaf,” Thom asked, slicing a bit of cheese from a large hunk of white cheddar. “My uncle used to tell me he thought I was part goat because I was forever eating leaves. You must be used to this sort of thing, Harry.”

He stopped stroking the peach's round, full softness and looked a question at Thom.

“Your other children—you must be used to them having stomach upsets and such.”

“Oh, yes. Somewhat used to it; none of them have ever been as ill as McTavish. Thankfully, Plum was here to take care of him.”

Plum beamed at him.

“She's very good at that sort of thing,” Thom agreed. “She's especially good with babies. They all seem to love her.”

“I have no doubt of that,” Harry answered, giving Plum a little waggle of his eyebrows, just to let her know he was thinking about her. Her eyes flashed in response.

“You'll see how good she is with your babies.”

He turned his head to look at Thom, puzzled by her comment. “What babies?”

“Your babies. The babies you and Plum will have.”

If he could have throttled Thom without Plum noticing, he would have. Dear God, what devil prodded her to say such a thing in front of her aunt? A few more comments of that ilk and Plum would leave him for certain. “We're not going to have any babies.”

Thom glanced from him to Plum. “You're not?”

“No!” He watched Plum carefully, noting the sudden pallor of her cheek and the stillness with which she held herself. Damn it! She probably thought the only reason he married her was to be a broodmare, popping out children of her own in between taking care of his five hellions. He prayed she could read the sincerity in his eyes. “I wouldn't put Plum through that hell for anything in the world.”

“You wouldn't?”

Plum's face was pale, her eyes black, her lovely chest not moving as if she wasn't even breathing. He mentally cursed Thom, then set about making things right with his wife. “Women die in childbirth. My wife—my first wife—died of a fever shortly after McTavish was born.”

“Oh.” The word was soft, filled with relief, with understanding. Color rushed back to Plum's face as she spoke. “Not every woman dies in childbirth, Harry. It's tragic that the late Lady Rosse did so, but I can assure you that should you wish to have more children, I would be willing—”

He quartered his peach with a savagery that belied his inner feelings. He would not lose Plum as he had lost Beatrice. He would take whatever steps were necessary to see that she did not become pregnant. “I believe the children we already have are sufficiently challenging to keep you busy for many years yet.”

“But”—Thom looked from Plum to him—“but Plum…”

“Never mind, Thom,” she interrupted, her cheeks pink with a blush. He glanced at his secretary, who kept his gaze on the grapes before him. No doubt Plum was embarrassed by such frank talk in front of Temple.

In order to spare her any more discomfort, he turned the conversation to a general discussion of his plans for bringing life back to the estate. Temple and Thom argued long and hard over the subject of which was the better crop to plant—wheat or corn—and although Harry participated, he noticed that Plum had little to offer on the subject. Once her gaze met his, and her adorable little chin rose as if he had challenged her. He couldn't help but smile at that. She was so utterly perfect, from the tips of her pink little toes to the gentle curve of that obstinate chin.

The ladies withdrew, arguing over whether or not a riding habit with breeches underneath was a substitute for breeches alone. Harry sipped at a bit of port as Temple expounded on his recommendation for rebuilding cottages and charging the tenants a higher rate. He answered mechanically, his eyes frequently straying to the clock that sat on the sideboard. A half hour had passed—surely that was long enough for Plum to have chatted with Thom? Yes, yes it was. They couldn't possibly have anything else to say.

Smothering a yawn he had to force, Harry stood up, made a pretense of stretching, and said, “Good, good, it all sounds wonderful, Temple. Write it up and I'll look at it in the morning. I'm off to bed.”

Temple pursed his lips. “I suppose it would be impolitic to point out that just a few hours ago you awoke from a ten-hour sleep?”

Harry shared an entirely male grin with Temple. “That would be extremely impolitic.”

“Then I won't do so. May I bid you a pleasant evening, sir?”

Harry laughed and threw pretense to the wind as he hurried upstairs to his bedroom. He undressed quickly, dismissed his valet, and, waiting only long enough to draw on his dressing gown, went in search of his wife.

He found her in the nursery, sitting on the edge of McTavish's bed, all five children clustered around her in their nightgowns as she read to them from a familiar-looking volume. “‘
September
30, 1659. I poor miserable Robinson Crusoe, being shipwreck'd, during a dreadful Storm
…' Oh, Harry, have you come to say good night to the children?”

“Yes, yes, I have. Good night, children,” he said. He plucked the book from Plum's hands and handed it to a startled India, scooping Plum up in his arms. “Finish the chapter.”

“Harry! I was reading to them—”

“India can read, taught her myself. Good for her.” He hoisted Plum high on his chest and quickly opened the door before she could slide down.

“But…but…the children—”

“Will be just fine without you.” He paused just before closing the door and leaned his head back into the nursery. “McTavish? How are you, lad?”

“Hungry!” the boy shouted, jumping up and down on the bed.

Harry nodded, said good night again, and stalked off down the stairs, ignoring Plum's protests.

“You needn't have made such a scene, you know. I would have finished the chapter and tucked them all in, and no one would know that you and I…that we…”

She really did blush in a most delightful manner. He grinned at her, warmed to the toes by the shy little glances she was giving him. “Sweetheart, not even the archbishop of Canterbury could stop me from bedding you tonight.”

“Harry!” Plum gasped in a delighted sort of way.

“Plum!” he gasped back to her as he kicked open the door to his room, just as delighted, if not more so.

She giggled.

He strode over to his bed, his lovely bed, his lovely big bed that would soon be all that much lovelier because it would hold Plum, and said in his best gothic villain voice, “You are in my power, alone with me, my seductive little wife. Now I shall ravish you as you have never been ravished.”

“Really?” Plum asked, her eyes aglow with excitement. Her eyelids dropped for a moment, then she peeked up at him in a most fetching manner. “Perhaps I have been ravished many ways before, my lord. What sort of ravishment did you have in mind?”

He set her on her feet, and without waiting for her to offer assistance, quickly stripped her of gown and stays, leaving her standing in her chemise and stockings. Since he was a gentleman and not an animal, he gave her a moment to recover her breath while he admired the scenery. He nodded his head. Twice. “Yes, yes, you're lovely in your underthings. You do appreciate the fact that I think you're lovely with your clothing on, don't you? I'm not an animal who just wants you naked and writhing with pleasure beneath me while I thrust into you again and again, burying myself in you, losing myself in your heat, wanting to pound my flesh into yours until I pour every single last drop of life I have into your body? You know that, yes?”

Plum looked a bit dazed. “I…well…I suppose…”

“Good!” Without further ado, he grabbed the neckline of her chemise and tore it from top to bottom, gently pushing her on the bed at the same time he yanked off his dressing gown, tossing his spectacles onto the table.

“Harry!” Plum shrieked as he threw himself onto top of her, bracing his weight with his arms so he didn't crush her into a woman-shaped bit of pulp.

“Yes, it's me, how clever of you to recognize me without my spectacles. Now, what have we here? I don't see too well without my spectacles, so you'll have to excuse me if I need to examine very closely the various parts of you.” He leaned back to look at her, to allow his gaze to sweep her from crown to toes. “Mine,” he said in a voice laden with possession.

“Yes, I am yours, but Harry!”

He dragged his eyes up to hers.

“I still have my stockings on.”

He looked to where she gestured, admiring the lovely length of her legs. They weren't too long, or too thin, just right, with the exact amount of curve and softness he required in his wife's legs. “Yes, you do. It's a bit shocking, isn't it? I shall remove them. Later.” He leaned closer, his breath brushing her mouth. “With my tongue.”

“Oh,” she breathed, her eyes huge and filled with hope and desire and a good dollop of anticipation.

Harry gave her a heated look promising a reward for all that anticipation before focusing his attention on the twin mounds that heaved before him. “What's this?” he asked, squinting slightly at one perfect breast. “Breasts?”

“Yes, I have two of them. They're a set,” Plum said.

“Matched, too. I loved matched pairs.” His mouth closed over the taut little peak crowning her silky white breast. Plum bucked beneath him, her eyes alight with passion as he nibbled and kissed his way around her breasts. He was suddenly filled with the overpowering desire to taste her, all of her, to lick the satin skin that glowed with a pearly luminescence that seemed to fill his soul. He kissed the twin of the first breast just so it wouldn't feel slighted, then licked a path down her ribs to the little mound of her belly. Plum moaned and writhed beneath the onslaught of his mouth, but Harry would not be stirred from his course. He held her down with a hand on either hip, and after kissing each hip bone, nipped his way across her belly, pleased by her reaction to his touch. Her breath shuddered within her, making her flesh quiver and contract wherever he licked. He dipped lower, breathing in the perfume that was the very essence of Plum, reveling in the thought that it was he who stirred her, that she was reacting to him and no other. He kissed a line across the top of her pubic mound, and then paused. “Give yourself to me, Plum. Open for me.”

Her legs tensed. “Harry, I'm not sure—”

“But I am,” he said, sliding a hand up the soft length of her thigh. He gently insinuated his fingers between the tightly clenched legs. “You'll enjoy this. Trust me, Plum.”

He could almost hear her thinking it out, reasoning with that delicious mind of hers, weighing his words against her natural modesty and hesitancy. He willed her to yield, to give herself to him in an absolute show of trust, and thought his heart would be ripped from his chest if she didn't. Just as her legs relaxed, allowing him to spread them and breathe in her scent, the knowledge struck him with blinding force.

His heart was already hers.

He shook the thought away, unwilling to acknowledge it, unwilling to admit that she had such power over him, and concentrated on giving his wife pleasure. He rubbed his cheeks gently along the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs, enjoying the hitch in her breathing his actions caused as he kissed a hot trail to the core of her womanhood.

“You are all pink and rose-hued,” he murmured, kissing the juncture between her legs. “You are soft like the finest silk, and these sweet petals hold your heat for me.”

Plum arched her back and thrust her hips up when he parted her woman's flesh, his fingers dancing around her heat, stroking, teasing, rubbing her until she was moaning soft, endless moans, her head thrashing from side to side as she clutched handfuls of the bed linens.

“You'll like this,” Harry promised and leaned forward to lick at the tiny focus of her pleasure.

“Blessed St. Genevieve!” Plum yelled and, grabbing Harry's head, pulled him tighter to her. He held her firmly by the hips, dancing his tongue around her silken folds, suckling and nibbling her until she arched her back again and screamed his name.

“I told you that you would like it,” Harry said smugly, pleased with himself, pleased with her response to him, and a bit surprised that the pleasure he had given her was thrumming so strongly in his blood, leaving him hungry and aching with the need to plunge himself deep within her depths. Plum lay panting, quivering slightly with the aftereffects of her pleasure, but when he moved up to cover her, she suddenly twisted out from underneath him and pushed him down into the soft mattress.