Wicked Nights With a Lover

He grasped her thigh, circling it around his hips. A quick learner, she wrapped her other leg around him, coming off the bed and shouting her pleasure with each thrust of him inside her.

She gasped his name, over and over, a wild, bewildered sound that echoed in the still lodge. He reveled in it, in her. He struggled to cling to his anger, his sense of betrayal over her lies, but it was pointless. He felt only triumph, a deep sinking pleasure that he was the first man to do this with her. And the last, he vowed, pumping harder, need and possession spiraling his passion out of control.

Naked beneath him, she looked magnificent, shadows licking the curves and hollows of her delicate body, her hair fanning out in a black nimbus around her head. Who knew he would find such a responsive creature in the female who had treated him to such contempt and berated him before half of St. Giles?

He reached between their bodies, found her slick heat, that tiny nub of sensitivity and put his fingers to it, pressing, rubbing until he felt her shudder.

She shouted, nearly bucking him off from the force of her cl**ax. He pulled her up, hauled her into his arms and clutched her tightly as he released himself, found utter fulfillment at last.

“How precisely does a mistress remain a virgin?” Marguerite’s hand stilled from tracing slow patterns on Ash’s bare chest, wincing even as she had known the question was coming. “I guess I wasn’t exactly his mistress. Yet.”

“Yet.” The word dropped heavily on the air. “What of this grand trip to Spain?”

“Oh, I was going to Spain with Roger … I imagine the matter of my virginity would have been dispensed with sometime on the voyage across.”

His chest seemed to harden beneath her cheek. “Do you love him?” he asked, his voice void of emotion.

She shook her head, not wanting to confess the truth, unwilling to admit that she knew Roger less than Ash. She had picked Roger for reasons that had nothing to do with love.

“Could you not find anything else to do? Something other than … than becoming some man’s paramour? Were there no other options left to you?”

How she had come to be a mistress would require explanations … catapulting her into a complicated mire that would probably land her in an asylum.

“You could have gone to Jack,” he suggested.

“No,” she snapped, going cold at the mention of her father. “I don’t want help from him. Besides, his answer would have been to marry me off to some blueblood.” A smile twisted her lips. “It’s doubtful I would be here with you then.”

His hand glided down her back in a possessive caress.

She slid her body over him, thrilling at the press of her bare br**sts against the hard wall of his chest. “None of it matters anymore,” she murmured, her lips close to his.

“Roger doesn’t matter?” Ash pressed, apparently intent on that clarification. His eyes glittered in the shadows, bright with a hunger that echoed in the marrow of her bones.

She hesitated only a moment. “No. He doesn’t,” she answered. And he didn’t, she realized with a start. Even if she returned to London and found Roger waiting, she could never be with him. Could never resume her grand plans and hop on a ship bound for Spain. She could never be his lover. Not after this.

Not after Ash.

Apparently, Madame Foster was right. Some fates cannot be avoided.

Lowering her head, she kissed him with warm thoroughness. He stilled, as though he wasn’t certain what provoked the tender attention.

Finally he moved, cupping the back of her head. Threading his fingers through her hair, he intensified the kiss, keeping it deep and slow until all thoughts fled from her head.

Chapter 16

Marguerite woke with a long stretch, sore in places she never knew existed. She rolled her head on the pillow with a happy sigh, settling her gaze on the thick gray air hugging the window panes.

Suddenly, she stilled, recalling the reason why she was so sore. The events of the previous night flooded over her. Ash. She inhaled and his musky scent filled her nose, surrounding her.

It had been wondrous. Aside from the initial pain, losing herself in passion had been everything she ever dreamed it could be. This was the reason Fallon’s and Evie’s faces glowed pink when their husbands entered the room. Now she understood. She had been a fool to judge them as tiresome in their feelings.

One could die peaceably having lived the night she shared with Ash. It almost made the notion of facing death something she could abide. Almost. One hard fact pressed down upon her. She still wasn’t married. Madame Foster insisted she would be married when the accident claimed her.

A chance remained. A chance to live. She couldn’t toss aside that hope now. She had her night with Ash, her taste of passion. She needn’t marry him now.

Her mind raced as she gazed up at the shadows dancing on the rafters. Ash slept beside her. A horse waited outside. She could just slip away—provided she was quiet and did not wake him.

Heart hammering in her chest at the audacity of such a move—to sneak away beneath his very nose—she turned her head to observe him in his sleep, as if she could find the answer in his handsome, well-carved face. As if one glimpse of him and she would know what to do. Would she regret walking away?

Her gaze fell on the bed. Empty space yawned beside her.

With a gasp, she lurched upright, clutching the coverlet to her br**sts. He was gone. Her gaze swept the dim room.

“Ash?” she called, her voice small and thready. She swallowed, the thought of escape fading with the last of the clinging night.

No answer. Rising to her feet, she slipped on her chemise. Ignoring her chilled feet, she padded about the lodge, moving into the other room, chafing her bare arms. “Ash?”

At no sight of him, she moved to the large mullioned window. Thick snow blanketed the ground. She couldn’t see into the shadowed interior of the small stable, but she imagined his mount was gone.

Still, never for a moment did she think he abandoned her. Even without the intimacies of the night before, even without the tenderness in which he’d loved her body, he wouldn’t walk away from her. If nothing else, he’d invested too much time in her, and there was the score he wished to settle with her father.

She scanned the landscape. Where had he gone then?

Trapped, defenseless as any animal in a cage awaiting the return of its captor, she turned from the window. Past caring that she’d slept little the night before and should rest to gather her strength, she strode into the bedroom and dressed herself. With a deep breath, she settled down before the fire to wait.

aAsh shook the snow from his great cape and led the reverend and the requisite witnesses—his driver and groom—toward the hunting lodge, pausing outside the door to kick snow from his boots.

He’d left at the first hint of dawn while Marguerite still slept, determined, now more than ever, to see them wed. As far as he was concerned, the only thing missing from last night was that he could not yet call her wife. A matter he intended to rectify within the next few moments.

With a single knock, in case Marguerite was still in the delectable state of nakedness he had left her in, he entered the warm confines of the lodge.

She sat before the hearth in the overstuffed chair, leveling her wide eyes on him and his small party. She rose quickly to her feet, brushing at her mussed skirts. She’d attempted to arrange her hair, but he guessed she had been unable to locate all the pins. Only half of the thick mass was pulled up, the rest trailed over her shoulder in a meandering stream of liquid black. He remembered all that hair twisting like silk between his skin and hers, and his body tensed in eagerness, ready to repeat last night. Relive every delicious moment.

“Marguerite,” he greeted, unable to stop the thickness from entering his voice. The sight of her did that to him. Had he ever thought her anything less than soul-stirringly beautiful? Had he only thought her a means to secure his business? To get back at her father? He snorted. If he wasn’t careful, he would start reciting poetry to her beauty.

She said nothing. Her darting eyes reminded him of a panicked animal, skipping past him to the three lurking men. She thrust out her chin defiantly, once again girded in her invisible armor … almost as though last night hadn’t happened, hadn’t softened her toward him. Contrary yet again. He sighed. At least she would never bore him. There was no predicting with her. Unlike any other female of his acquaintance.

Ash motioned to the lanky man with mutton-chop sideburns, stepping aside so that he could move forward. “This is the Reverend James, Marguerite.”

“Miss,” the gentleman greeted, removing his hat and stepping fully inside, patting his gloved hands to his face for warmth. “Dismal weather, but with your happy festivity upon us, I am certain brighter weather is on the horizon. The Almighty shall see it so.”

Ash swallowed a snort.

“Reverend,” she murmured, her voice skeptical as she crossed her arms over her chest. Her boot peeped out from her hem, tapping out her ire. Fire sparked in her eyes, reminding him of the Marguerite he first met in St. Giles, ready to blast him with her venomous tongue.

The reverend tipped his head. “Indeed I am.”

“Then I am sorry for your trouble. There is no need of your services here.”

Ash cast a glance heavenward and strove for patience and understanding. After she had given herself so ardently to him—multiple times—he believed she had accepted their union. Apparently, he was under a misapprehension.

Her gaze drifted to him, as though sensing his annoyance. Her whiskey-eyed stare was flat, devoid of emotion. Nothing of the passionate creature from last night lurked there.

The reverend clucked good-naturedly. “Well, now, I’ve never forced a truly unwilling maid to take vows. That would be unethical.” Mr. James flicked his wrist. “However, sometimes a lass simply doesn’t know her mind until I help her along.”

Marguerite’s gaze snapped back to the reverend. “Indeed? And you credit yourself with the insight to know a woman’s mind?”

He nodded cheerfully. “Precisely.”

Ash winced, wishing the imbecile would hold his tongue. The fool wasn’t helping matters. Ash wasn’t going to force Marguerite to wed him.

She cocked her head, a dangerous glint in her eyes. She no longer looked at the reverend but at him. “Do you deem me incapable of knowing my mind, Ash?”

He couldn’t resist. “A more contrary female I never knew.”

Heat colored her cheeks, but she didn’t deny his claim.

“You want to marry me, Marguerite,” he murmured, staring intently into her eyes, certain of this but still seeking confirmation. After a short moment she nodded, the motion jerky, reluctant.

“Shall we proceed?” Ash asked before she changed her mind again. He moved beside Marguerite’s stiff form. “Where shall we stand? Is this adequate?” he asked, taking Marguerite’s elbow and steering her before the hearth with him.

“Ah, yes.” The reverend chuckled. “I’ve performed this ceremony in settings far worse than this simple abode.”

“I’m certain,” Marguerite muttered, a hard statue beside him.

Reaching down, Ash took her hand. Her fingers felt cold in his grasp, limp and lifeless. His gaze drifted to her face, only to find her already looking at him. Her fiery gaze locked with his eyes. Beneath the fire an emotion lurked he could not quite identify.

He couldn’t fathom it. After yesterday, he knew she felt something for him. He could admit to the same. He felt something for her. Something real. Something besides the cold wrath that had compelled him to abduct her at the start of their journey.

As shocking as it was, he’d come to believe they could have a real marriage, something based on desire if not actual affection. It was more than he had ever hoped for. It was reason enough for him to face the reverend and repeat the vows prompted without qualms.