Wicked Nights With a Lover

“I don’t understand—”

“I never wanted this.”

“What? Me?” She made a low sound in her throat, tossing her head. “Hard to fathom when you abducted me and chased me across England you didn’t want this.”

“I wanted to marry you, wanted you in my bed, I simply never wanted …” His voice faded and he tore his gaze from her.

What?

“It’s become complicated, Marguerite. These feelings … I never expected them.”

He had feelings for her? Her heart raced, beating a mad rhythm against her throat. Hope surged inside her. She propped herself up on the bed. “I have feelings for you, too,” she began.

“And that’s just it,” he said abruptly. “I don’t want you to. I can’t, I won’t—” he stopped, shaking his head, and her heart dropped heavily in her chest. She heard everything he wasn’t saying, sensed, felt his unspoken words like a penetrating wound deep in her bones. He wouldn’t love her.

Finally, he looked at her again, and the last of her hope withered. His eyes looked empty. Dead.

“Well,” she said with a rushed exhale, quickly grasping the tattered remnants of her pride and storing them inside her. “I will strive to be a dutiful wife and please you.” Tearing her gaze from his handsome face, she resumed eating. Or at least pretending to eat. She scooted her kipper around her plate. “When shall I leave?”

“Tomorrow. If you feel fit for travel and can pack in that time.”

She stabbed the kipper with her fork, hoping he did not notice the amount of force she used. “I’m fit,” she said, her voice tight. “Tomorrow is fine.”

“Good,” he murmured, moving from the window and striding swiftly from the room.

She stared after him, her heart lodged in her throat, wondering where the Ash she had come to love had gone. Had he ever existed at all?

Chapter 24

Ash stood staring out the window in his dressing room the following morning. A dark sky hung and it felt more like evening than morning. A perfect backdrop to his mood.

Today, he banished his wife to the country, an action certain to earn him her eternal enmity. For the best, he supposed. Hard to love someone who reviled you, and he knew from the hurt in her eyes yesterday that she would soon hate him. A few weeks in isolation at his estate, and it would be a certainty.

With a fist squeezing his heart, he watched as one of the grooms loaded the final trunk, waiting for her to appear. He hadn’t seen her since yesterday, burying himself in his office at the Devil’s Palace, fearing that if he spent another moment in her company he would relent—break from his purpose and keep her with him forever. However fleeting that may be.

At the sound of the door, he turned, a sinking sensation in his chest telling him who he would find there.

“Marguerite,” he murmured as she strolled toward him, something akin to dread beating a staccato in his pulse. Her red cloak swished about her slim ankles, and that simple sight made his mouth water.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she pressed cool fingers to his lips, shaking her head sternly at him.

He held silent, watching her. It was easier to say nothing. Everything had been said between them. Eyes locked with his, she pushed him back onto a chaise at the center of the narrow room with a roughness he had never seen in her.

Ash fell back. She dropped down on her knees before him. Hands sure and fast on his trousers, she freed him, her silken fingers closing around the length of him. He was already hard. He had been since the moment she stepped into the room.

She stroked him up and down with deep, slow pulls.

He groaned. “What are you doing?”

She looked up at him through the dark fan of her lashes. “Making sure you remember me.”

Then her head lowered and she took him in her mouth, her soft lips sucking first at the head of him, then all of him, drawing him deep into the warm wet of her mouth. She licked and tasted him until he was bucking, desperately seeking more. He ran his hand over her head, scattering her pins. Her dark hair tumbled over him. Her mouth increased its pressure, working faster until he was begging, grinding his teeth against the incredible sensation.

Then she stopped.

He blinked, his desire-clouded vision watching her as she rose to her feet before him. For a panicked moment, he thought she was leaving. Her hands flattened on his chest and sent him backward on the chaise. Lifting her cloak and skirts, she climbed atop him. Her fingers found his c**k and guided him to her sweet heat. She glided the tip of him against her folds, back and forth, back and forth, teasing him at her opening until he was pleading and groaning again, his hands digging into her h*ps through layers of clothing.

At last, she seated herself fully on him, sinking down with a breathy sigh. Her slick flesh surrounded him, clenching and wringing him in blissful agony.

She took his hands and placed them on her br**sts. Her own hands fell to his chest and she leveraged herself, working her h*ps over him, setting a steady pace, pumping slow and deep over him.

Fondling her br**sts through her dress, he tried to rouse her into quickening her pace, desperate to end his torment.

“Marguerite,” he begged.

If anything, she slowed her movements, the tight, dragging sensation of her body on his too much. A hissing breath escaped him as she ground down on him and then held herself still, unmoving save for the flexing of her inner muscles around his cock.

He tightened his hold on her hips, prepared to toss her on her back and finish what she had begun.

Her voice stopped him, hard and firm in a way he had never heard. “No. This is my game.” She stared down at him, her delicate jaw locked hard, determined, the fire glowing in her whiskey eyes more than passion … more than lust.

With a nod, he loosened his hands on her h*ps and thrust his h*ps up. Her hands pressed harder on his chest, stopping even that effort on his part. She angled her head in warning at him and tormented him with another delicious squeeze around his cock.

He stroked her br**sts, found her ni**les through the fabric and circled them. Her breath hitched. Gratified, hoping to rouse her into losing control, he tweaked the tips until they were hard points prodding her bodice.

With a slow moan, she released herself, gave herself to him, pushing her body over his again and again, building to a furious, violent pace. His body burned, every nerve stretched, bordering on pleasure and pain.

He clenched his teeth, fighting the need pounding through him, begging to burst free.

Her scream undid him, followed by the sudden drop of her body, sinking deep, quivering all around him.

He pushed up into her sucking warmth, claiming her one last time, bursting from the inside out until he saw spots.

She draped over him, her milk and honey fragrance heady and intoxicating. He smoothed a hand over her jet tresses, silk through his fingers. He was still smiling, dazed, enjoying the aftermath when she pulled herself free of him.

Standing, she straightened her clothing with cool efficiency. He watched, marveling that this composed creature was the woman of moments ago who had made love to him with such abandon. She scooped up a few pins scattered upon the chaise, not even looking at him. It was as if he were no longer in the room at all.

“Marguerite,” he began, having no idea what he wanted to say.

She looked at him then, her eyes dull and vacant, more brown than gleaming whiskey. “Yes?” she asked, hardly pausing before adding with a ring of finality, “I have a carriage waiting.”

For a moment he thought he saw a flicker of some emotion, something, cross her eyes. But then she was gone, without a farewell, her tread a parting whisper across the carpet.

Moving to the window, he waited for her to emerge. When she did, he waited for her to look up, toward the room where she knew she had left him. Every fiber of his body pulsed, leaning forward as though he would dive through the glass to reach her. If she would only look at him, mouth his name …

His will was insignificant right now. His body weak and broken from her use of him. But that had been her purpose. His mouth pressed into a grim line. She had wanted to ruin him, punish him, leave a mark on him, a permanent imprint.

Foolish female. A corner of his lip curled. Didn’t she know she already had?

With a grim heart, he turned from the window, no longer willing to see if she turned and looked for him or not. It didn’t matter.

The rain broke free from the skies. Not that its arrival came as any surprise. The winds had been howling for some time, and the air rumbled dark and foreboding outside the carriage. She had ceased peeking out the window, unwilling to let the cold and wet inside with her.

Marguerite felt a twinge of pity for the driver and groom suffering outside in the cold downpour. If Ash had not been in such a hurry to be rid of her, he might have waited for a more promising day.

She smoothed a hand over her skirts and inhaled a deep breath, instantly detecting his familiar scent on her. She doubted she would ever be rid of it, even after she’d changed garments and bathed. He’d always be there, in her head, her blood, her skin.

The carriage picked up speed and she guessed London had fallen behind. She reached for the strap to steady herself on the seat. In this weather, she wished the driver would take more care, even if they were now on less-crowded roads.

A crack of thunder shook the earth and Marguerite jumped, her heart skipping to her throat at the sudden crash of sound. She shivered, unable to recall the last time she’d been caught in a thunderstorm … especially the likes of the one that raged outside the walls of her carriage.

She scooted to the center of her seat and settled more snugly into the squabs, desperate to warm herself. As if she would find some sort of reassurance in being warm and cozy in her carriage whilst a storm raged inches away. Unbidden, a voice floated across her mind. I see a carriage, wheels turning, rolling so fast… horses scream. It’s raining. Thundering.

Thunder. How had she forgotten Madame Foster’s mention of thunder? There had been no thunder the day the carriage nearly ran her down in St. Giles.

Her heart pounded hard in her chest, making it difficult to breathe.

She replayed the rest of Madame Foster’s prophecy, searching for an inconsistency, proof that she was wrong to suspect …

Ash! Ash was not here. He had sent her away. Madame Foster said Ash was with her at the end. There was no chance of having the accident Madame Foster described. Not now. Not with her husband safe and sound, miles away in London.

Chapter 25

Not one hour after Marguerite’s departure, Ash saddled his mount and fell in hard pursuit of his wife.

As he rode out, thunder cracked in the distance and he winced, pulling the collar of his great coat up around his face.

Hopefully, she would forgive him. He hadn’t needed much time with his thoughts or solitude to realize he had made a colossal mistake. Putting Marguerite away from him only drove home how desperately he loved her. Distance and time between them wouldn’t change that.

Hopefully, the fact that she wouldn’t even sleep one night alone at his estate might absolve him in her eyes.

Whatever the case, he would not let fear keep them apart another day. He would make amends and show her his love. In time, perhaps she would grow to love him, too.

At the driver’s shout, Marguerite scrambled to the window. Heedless of the rain and wind lashing like needles into her face, she peered outside.

“What is it?” she called up, fearing her voice was lost in the storm.

Fortunately, the driver’s voice was not. His loud bellow rang out with terrible clarity. “Highwayman!”

Marguerite whipped her head to look behind them. Dread tightened her chest. Through the hazy rain, she made out the lone horseman. Much of him was indistinguishable. She could only identify a dark-swathed shape crouched low over a mount. He rode hell-bent after them, shouting something, but the words were lost in the roar of rain and wind. Just the same, she imagined she heard his ominous threats. Stand and deliver? Your money or your life?