Penny curled deep into the corner of the closed carriage. And she looked across the space—not quite enough space for her peace of mind—at the man who was now her husband.
This man who was a stranger.
She was alone with him. She had never been alone with a man who was not a relative in her entire life. And yet, she was ensconced in this carriage, with this man. Panic clawed at the walls of her chest and she did her best to suppress it.
Fought to envision that little jewellery box. To find a way to lock her panic in there.
It was the vastness of the unknown.
Of what lay ahead with the wedding night itself and…how that was changed by him being the groom.
He was untamed. So very male. Foreign and large and utterly savage.
Everything that lay ahead of her now was unknown.
And that was when it occurred to her. ‘Did you bring anything from my father’s house?’
He looked at her, his green eyes cool and filled with disdain. ‘It is unnecessary,’ he said. ‘Anything you need will be provided for you.’
‘But my… My mother’s jewellery box. I want to bring it with me.’
‘It is not my concern, lass. I’m hardly going to make a journey back to your father’s house for a trinket.’
‘That trinket is the only thing I have of hers,’ she said, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. She wasn’t afraid she would cry. There was no purpose in crying. It would accomplish nothing. She had trained herself to keep tears back long ago.
But her eyes burned and she felt awash in helplessness.
There was nothing she could do. Nothing to be done, as her father was so fond of saying.
She was being carried away from everything she had ever known and there was absolutely nothing she could do to fight against it. She couldn’t fight him. And even if she did, there would be nothing left for her to return to. The Duke of Kendal would offer her no shelter. Her father… Her father had been willing to let her reputation burn. She couldn’t go back to him. Her pride prevented it.
Her fate was tied to Lachlan Bain. He was her only protection now. He was all she had.
She did not even have her mother’s jewellery box, after all.
‘Where are we going?’
‘To the Highlands,’ he said, as if the question was the most foolish thing he’d ever heard.
‘I didn’t mean in the long term. I meant tonight.’
Tonight.
The word echoed inside her and she pushed her feelings of disquiet away.
How long would he torture her? How long would he draw all this out?
‘We’ll head to a coaching inn. I hope you find the carriage to your liking. Because it’s a rather long trip to Scotland.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘What I mean to say is, I am aware that it is quite the trip. I’ve never been.’
‘I thought your father’s library was sparse on the subject of Scotland.’
‘It is. But there is quite a lot of information on carriage routes.’
‘How very interesting.’
‘It’s not really. But I had exhausted everything else.’
At least now she had some idea of the road they would travel, the dangers it held and the distance they would traverse. Cold comfort, perhaps, but given all the rest of the unknown that was laid out before her, knowledge of the road felt like no small thing.
She could feel a gap between them and she had to decide what frightened her more. Being near him, or the sheer scope of all that wasn’t known.
It was the unknown, she decided. And there was only one way to solve that.
Questions.
‘Do you really not have toast? Because it’s a very simple thing to make. Only you put the bread on a fork and—’
‘I’m not confused as to how to warm bread on a fire,’ he said.
‘Well. You said you didn’t have it.’
‘Yes, and somehow I’ve spent a fair amount of time discussing it.’
‘I don’t feel this is an unreasonable amount of time given to the subject.’
‘I do.’
And with that, the subject ended. She was beginning to think he was lying to her about the food.
‘There’s no need to be mean,’ she said.
‘There’s no need to be nice either.’
Her lips twitched. Making conversation with him was like trying to talk to a stone. Fortunately, she had quite a bit of practice conversing with stones. Small animals, household staff. A great many things that were not inclined to answer her back.
‘I don’t know about that,’ she said. ‘It might make the journey more pleasant.’
He didn’t respond to that at all. And she found herself gazing out the window, allowing herself to sink into the rhythm of the carriage. It was quite soothing, as long as she didn’t think about where it was carrying her to, and it didn’t take long for her to begin to drift off.
* * *
When she awoke, the dark was drawing low outside and the carriage had stopped.
There was a large, white-stone building bearing a sign that said Old Crown Coaching Inn, but it might as well have simply read: doom. And perhaps that might be seen as a bit dramatic, but Penny’s heart was in her throat and she didn’t feel one could be overly dramatic in such a situation.
The door to the carriage opened and the footman reached out as if to help her, but Lachlan moved quickly, exiting the carriage. As Lachlan moved, the footman froze, as if he could tell by his master’s bearing that his movements were disapproved of.
The man moved aside and it was Lachlan who reached his hand out to her.
She found it nearly impossible to reach her own hand out to meet his. And that was when she found herself gripped around the waist and lowered slowly down to the ground. His strength was overwhelming. She felt engulfed by it, even after such a brief touch. He was so large and broad, and lifting her seemed no more difficult than lifting that injured sparrow from all those years ago.
She felt a glimmer of hope yet again. And she was as terrified of it as she was in need of it.
Because perhaps, just perhaps, that boy wasn’t gone after all.
Because in his strength there was gentleness. Because he had not crushed her in those large hands of his.
She looked up at him and he looked away.
She swallowed hard.
‘Come, lass,’ he said, making his way towards the door of the inn.
She followed.
He issued orders to the innkeeper as if he were still in the army and the man, small and stooped, obeyed as if it were his commission.
The inn itself was clean, with heavy dark wood tables, filled with people. The beams that ran overhead were the same colour, the darkness lowering the ceiling and giving the place a cosy feel.
‘I’ve never stayed in a place like this before.’
‘Never?’
‘No. I travelled so infrequently. To London occasionally, yes, but it’s only three hours in a carriage, so we never stayed overnight on the road. And when Father wishes to spend time in London we rent a town house.’
Likely the reason they had not been in a couple of years. Her father wouldn’t have the funds to rent them a place any more.
The innkeeper led them up a narrow staircase, down the hall, and it was then that the walls began to close in around her. She was headed to a room, a small room, with this very large man and everything was beginning to seem as though it was tilting over on to its side.
The door to the room opened and against the back wall was a bed that seemed far too small, made of the same heavy wood as everything else in the place. There was also a chair and a small table.
‘I will see to my men and the horses,’ Lachlan said. ‘And that you’re brought some dinner.’
With that, he left the room and she could breathe again.
Maybe she would get a reprieve tonight.
Even as the thought entered her mind, she was certain it wasn’t true. Lachlan had no reason to offer reprieve.
She understood it was the way of things. She’d had a brief, short conversation on the subject with the Duchess, but it hadn’t satisfied her curiosities. Penny had asked her one afternoon. She’d been a bit nervous, but nerves always made words come easier for her.
The older woman had seemed taken aback for a moment, but then had sat her down and looked at her with kind, grey eyes.
‘You were such a small thing when your mother died, weren’t you?’ she’d asked.
Penny had confirmed it with a mute nod of her head and a pit of disquiet in her stomach.
‘She didn’t have the chance to speak to you. To tell you what would be required of a wife.’
‘I tried to find out, but the servants wouldn’t answer my questions. There is precious little in books and I’m very curious about—’
‘You’ll be fine, my dear,’ she’d said, squeezing Penny’s hand tightly. ‘It is the natural way of the world and while knowledge might do something to ease your nerves, it is not required.’
‘Is it not?’ she’d asked, feeling unsettled that the one person she might have been able to question didn’t seem to think Penny needed much in the way of answers. ‘Only I feel that there is so much to learn and I want to know so I can be better prepared.’
Penny liked to hoard knowledge. It was her one source of power. She felt quite cross at her father for not keeping books on the subject.
The Duchess had patted Penny’s hand, her expression cool, but the colour in her cheeks had mounted, betraying a small bit of discomfort. ‘Men, well, you know, my dear, men are physical creatures and of course they come to the marriage bed with the benefit of experience.’
Penny had found that to be a source of deep irritation. But she’d said nothing.
‘He will know what to do,’ Her Grace whispered. ‘If you find yourself in distress, simply think of something pleasant to pass the time. You are doing your duty as a wife and that’s a thing to be pleased over. You might think of ways you can rearrange the household, as it will be yours.’
Penny had not found that at all reassuring.
She found it even less reassuring now because she could not think of anything pleasant in the presence of Lachlan Bain. There was no household to ponder rearranging. Even if there were, it wouldn’t be enough to blot out his strength and outrageous maleness.
She hated not having a plan.
She nearly laughed. What plan could she possibly have? She’d been married off to a man she’d known only as a child. A stranger. She was going to Scotland when she’d been meant to go to the estate down the lane from the one she’d spent her life in.
She was supposed to be a duchess.
And now she’d been married off to a…to a barbarian.
He would claim his husbandly rights and she didn’t know what it would entail. She didn’t know how to manoeuvre herself into an active position in this situation.
He had all the power. And while enduring was a particular talent of Penny’s…
She was still utterly terrified.
She felt vulnerable in a way she hadn’t since childhood. Of all the things she resented, she perhaps resented that most of all.
She wrung her hands, pacing the room. But then a maid from the kitchen appeared, spiced wine and stew on a tray, which she set down on the table and left with a curtsy.
Penny found that though she was distressed, she was ravenous, and the stew, which was accompanied by a thick slice of bread, was very welcome indeed.
But when she was finished eating, it settled in her stomach like lead. She paced around for a moment, not sure what to do, then it occurred to her that she should probably get ready for bed while he was not in the room.
Of course, she didn’t have anything to sleep in.
She didn’t have a nightdress and was meant to be sharing a room with a man, and she felt as if she might actually expire from concern.
She stood there, rooted to the spot. The idea of taking off her dress, of stripping herself down to her chemise and letting her hair loose, knowing he would see her…
He would see more than that.
The heavy door to the room opened, this time with no knock, and Lachlan stood there, his massive frame dominating the doorway. On his shoulder, he carried a trunk.
‘Tired?’ he asked.
‘Just a bit,’ she said, her voice more of a croak.
She felt as though her feet had been cursed. Transformed into iron weights that kept her fixed to that exact space in the centre of the room.
When Lachlan entered, she wanted to move away from him, but found she could not.
‘I told you, I had some things sent ahead.’ He set the trunk down near her. ‘Clothes for the journey. A nightdress. I assume you’ll be wanting one.’
‘I’m quite comfortable at the moment,’ she said, curling her fingers into fists.
Her dress suddenly felt heavy and ill-fitting, her skin itchy. She was not comfortable in the least. But there was no nightdress, no matter how soft, that would fix her current situation.
He nodded once. ‘As you wish.’
With heavy steps he crossed the room and went to stand by the bed, his back to her. Then he began to remove his clothes. The flame from the oil lamp nearest to him flickered, the light touching his muscles as he stripped the white shirt from his body.
She couldn’t look away.
She knew that she should. Except…should she? They were married. And this was marriage. That he would remove her dress and he would… He would cover her, the way that she had seen animals do. She shivered, fighting against fear.
No matter that she had told herself it might not occur, she had known that it would. This bed was a marriage bed by virtue of the fact that they had said vows today. There was no getting around that. She was not a child and she knew the way of things. The way of this.
She knew the mechanics and purpose, as it applied to animals, and she knew it was much the same way for humans. Though her mind couldn’t make sense of how those things shifted between man and woman, rather than stallion and mare.
She knew it was a woman’s duty to produce children in a marriage. To be available to her husband in the ways he demanded. She might not know the specifics of those demands, but she knew that much.
The truth was, a woman in her position was required to be innocent in order to be desirable. In order to be the sort of woman who would be deemed worthy of marrying a man and bearing his children. A woman in her position’s entire life centred on this act. If anyone thought she might have done it without the proper vows being spoken, then her entire life would be ruined. If she failed to secure a husband, then her body would be the currency by which she secured her protector.
And it was considered inappropriate for her to know the details of the act itself.
It suddenly seemed desperately and wholly unfair. Had her mother been alive, she would have asked her why it was the way of the world.
But her mother was dead. And as her father was so fond of saying: there was nothing to be done.
This man was her protector. And this was the cost of that protection.
But she found she couldn’t simply think her way through this. She couldn’t push her feelings away or lock them up tight.
Worse than the fear, she found she was transfixed by him. By all the unknown that he represented. By this wild and unyielding bend in her life’s road that she had never seen coming.
She would have been a wife in only a month’s time, but to another man. These were mysteries that would have been answered for her soon, but she had a feeling it would have been different than what was about to transpire with Lachlan.
But she didn’t know enough about it, enough about men to know how.
Except she had felt the safety with the Duke that she did not feel here.
Because Lachlan had a wildness that radiated from the very centre of all that he was.
A wildness that stood in stark contrast to that cloistered upbringing of hers.
He was everything that she had learned to turn away from. Everything that she had spent her life repressing. For she had learned to spend her life walking an invisible, narrow cobbled street and if she took a turn off it, it was only when she was away from the sight of her father.
Whenever she felt an emotion that was too large, she shut it away. Whenever she had a burst of energy that would be too loud, she pushed it down.
She had the feeling that Lachlan Bain never pushed down a thing.
He turned then, not moving his hands to the kilt that he wore over the lower half of his body. She could see his whole chest, those broad shoulders, muscles that spoke of hard labour. A strange thing, how fascinating such a thing could be.
A simple physical feature like muscles.
He was a man and therefore physically stronger than she. He did labour, therefore, he had developed that strength.
These were easy lines to draw, yet there was a response that it created inside her body that had absolutely nothing to do with these facts. It was all simple appreciation for his form that made her stomach feel warm and her limbs feel languid.
How could she feel that and fear at the same time?
And she was still unable to move.
‘Do you need help preparing for bed?’ His voice was much softer than she had heard it before.
‘I…’
‘You’ve a lady’s maid at home, have you not?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘And usually she helps you get ready for bed?’
‘Of course.’ Her gown had tiny buttons down the back. Getting out of it on her own would be a graceless pursuit.
‘I’ll be assisting you, lass.’
He crossed the small space, coming perilously close to her as he bent and opened the trunk. From it he produced a simple, white night shift and a beautiful ivory hairbrush, far finer than anything she’d ever owned before.
‘Sit,’ he said, gesturing to the vanity that was shoved against the back wall.
And for some reason, now, her feet were capable of movement. And slowly carried her to that vanity, where she sat as he’d commanded.
She could see him behind her, large and impossibly broad. And she could see the reflection of her own fear looking back at her. Her eyes wide, dark half-moons beneath them as though someone had bruised them.
When he touched her, she jumped. Her lips parted and she despised the woman in the mirror. The woman who looked so fragile, so upset by the moment.
But his touch was gentle and it was clear he did not want her fear.
Something about that realisation made her shoulders relax. He said nothing as he began to remove the pins from her hair, curling locks falling down over her shoulders in golden waves.
‘Aye,’ he said, the word full of rough approval. ‘I thought your hair would be a glory.’
He said the words as if to himself and not to her. They did not seem to require a response, so she did not give one. He lifted his hand, the ivory brush clutched tightly, looking far too delicate in a fist that she knew could easily wield a broadsword. Brute strength, leashed, as he began to comb her golden curls.
Her heart fluttered uncontrollably and she felt pain. Real, undeniable pain radiated through her.
For when had someone last been tender with her? She’d had a lovely governess for a while. And she’d had a calm, soothing voice. She didn’t like to think of her, because losing her had hurt.
She’d gone away because the money had gone away.
All the care she’d experienced since the death of her mother had been bought and paid for.
And now her father had…he’d paid a debt with her and it was as though the floor had become the ceiling, to experience this, from him.
She had expected him to be rough. Callous. Uncaring.
He was such a large man. He could easily kill her with a firm press of his thumb to her throat. He had made it no secret he was angry. That he hated her father.
This was not what she had expected. And more than that, she had not expected her own response to it. A deep ache that made her chest feel as if it was being torn in two.
He was compromising every wall she’d built up inside herself. She was stronger than this. She’d had to be. She’d cried all the tears out of her body when her mother had died.
And then there was him.
She hadn’t cried when Lachlan had gone. She’d already let go of tears then. But he had given her a sense of friendship she hadn’t experienced before she’d met him, and at nine his departure had left her devastated.
That he’d come back into her life only to destroy it, only to break barriers she’d built in part because of him, made her want to lash out.
She didn’t want his care.
His care had mattered when she’d been a girl. And he’d left.
It didn’t matter why. He didn’t care for her, why should she care at all for him?
‘I loved him,’ she said, the words tumbling out of her mouth. ‘Just so you know.’
Thinking of the Duke made her feel calm for a moment. Safe.
Until she forgot he was no longer her ally.
His home was no longer her haven.
His family would no longer be hers.
‘No concern of mine,’ he said. ‘It’s not your love that I’ll be wanting tonight.’
‘And you don’t mind if my affections are with another man?’
‘I have a hard time believing it’s him you’ll be thinking of. And it’s not love that will make you cry out with pleasure.’
His words sent an arrow of sensation down low in her stomach. She didn’t understand what her pleasure had to do with anything. She only knew enough about male jealousy and possession to know that it might bother him if she loved the Duke. ‘My heart is with Hugh,’ she said, his name feeling a strange impertinence on her lips.
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘But your body’s with me.’
The words felt a betrayal of the tender act of him combing her hair. Yet he kept on, his movements not coming any more hurried, not shifting into anything rougher.
She hated it. She wanted him to be angry.
It was easier to stand strong against anger.
‘Beautiful,’ he murmured as he parted her hair and shifted it over her shoulders so that it hung long and curling below her breasts. Then he began working on the small buttons on the back of her gown, letting the fabric go slack, then fall to her waist. It revealed her stays. Left one less barrier between them.
Her heart pounded a thick and heavy rhythm in her throat.
She fought to hang on to her anger, but fear…and something that felt closer to curiosity, rolled through her, beginning to eclipse it.
‘Do you know of what happens between a man and a woman?’ he asked, his voice rough.
‘I know everything,’ she said, keeping her chin tilted upward, her eyes steady with the mirror. She would not look at him.
And she would not give in to weakness.
‘Everything?’ His words held a hint of mockery. ‘That is quite a lot.’
‘I told you,’ she said, the words wooden. ‘I love another man.’
Perhaps if he believed she was ruined he would send her away. Ruined was the worst thing a woman could be, after all. Ruined was one thing you must never be, as then a man would not want you.
Lachlan did not react.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘Then I shall expect you to teach me a few tricks. I have been to some of the finer whores that England has to offer, but I dare say not even they know everything.’
She shivered, disquiet moving down her spine like a wave.
His hands moved to the front of her body, where he unlaced her stays with steady hands and threw the small garment aside, leaving her in nothing but her chemise.
Rough hands went to her shoulders and the garment went down, only her hair covering her breasts. Her entire back was bare and she could feel the heat of him against her skin like a roaring fire.
‘I will make a bargain with you,’ he said. ‘I’ll not punish you for your lies. And I’ll not treat you as you’re asking to be treated. Because it’s clear to me that you are nothing more than a frightened virgin and you don’t know what it is you’re tempting.’
‘And what is my portion of the bargain?’ she asked, the words barely a whisper.
‘Your body.’
It felt an impossible ask.
‘We’re strangers,’ she said.
But that was as close as she could bring herself to ask that he postpone the act. She knew the duties of a wife. She knew what was expected of her. He might not be the husband that she had anticipated, but he was the husband she had.
She knew there were no negotiations to be had. Not here.
Rough hands went to her bare waist and she waged a battle within herself against the desire to run. Against the desire to lean into his touch. She fought to remain still.
‘We are not,’ he said. ‘I helped you save a bird.’
She had nothing to say to that.
No man had ever touched her like this. No man had laid his hands upon her bare skin.
And now these rough warrior’s hands were resting against such an intimate part of her. She felt dizzy with it.
With those strong hands, he guided her upwards so that she was standing. Then he pushed her gown down her body, letting all of it fall to the floor.
He did something very unexpected after that.
He growled.
The sound rumbling in his chest, vibrating through her.
Her entire body went cold, then hot. Shame rioting through her.
She felt exposed and terribly afraid.
She was afraid to look at her reflection in the mirror because the woman there would be naked. While her hair might be concealing her breasts, the rest of her was terribly exposed. She didn’t want to look at his reflection either. Didn’t want to see him impossibly tall and ferocious behind her.
He moved closer to her and she could feel the heat and strength of his body. One hand was still on her waist and it moved, making its way around to her stomach, where he spread his fingers wide and pulled her back against him.
He was solid and hot like a furnace. He bent his head down and pressed a kiss to the back of her neck.
A shocked sound escaped her lips and heat radiated from where his mouth had touched, like the spark from a fire had landed on her skin.
She felt strange. Lightheaded. And then those rough hands moved over her skin, his calluses brushing over her stomach as he shifted and pressed another kiss against her, this time below the first.
Pinpricks of sensation broke out over her body.
His words echoed inside her. Pleasure.
She had never heard pleasure connected with this act. Not for women. She knew that men were not supposed to be held responsible for their desires. But even then, it wasn’t presented as pleasure as much as a natural instinct that could not be denied.
But he spoke of pleasure as if that was something she could expect. As if it were something that mattered.
And it didn’t feel bad, the press of his hands on her. His mouth to her skin.
It didn’t feel bad at all.
She could feel her nipples grow tight and a restless ache began to build between her legs. She looked up at the mirror and her eyes caught his. There was a black flame in those green depths and it startled her. She looked away, but it was no better, because she caught her own reflection in the mirror then. Golden hair cascading over her breasts, her slim exposed midsection with his large, dark hand resting there possessively. The pale thatch of curls just below.
Her heart was thundering wildly, threatening to gallop right out of her chest.
‘Perhaps you don’t know everything?’ he asked.
She said nothing to that. She found strong arms wrapping themselves around her body, her bare skin against his naked chest. Then he lifted her off the ground as if she weighed nothing. ‘You are my wife,’ he said, the word filled with an intent sort of possessiveness.
She found herself being carried over to the bed, deposited in the centre of it. This was it. It would be it. That part that came with roughness and heaving, which she had of course witnessed between horses.
But he did not cover her. Instead, he stood back and looked down on her.
She fought the urge to cover herself, because again, she despised that fear. She didn’t want to show him that she felt vulnerable. She wanted to find a way to go inside herself. To think of something pleasant. To remain passive and to keep herself from reacting. It seemed a better thing than weeping, which was what she truly wanted to do.
With methodical hands he divested himself of the kilt. There was nothing beneath it.
His male member stood out from his body, large and thick, and she knew that was meant to go inside her body and she had no idea how she was supposed to accommodate such a thing.
It didn’t seem possible. Couldn’t be possible.
But hadn’t Her Grace said all a woman had to do was lie back?
That he would know what to do?
She had never heard of a woman being torn asunder on her wedding night, so she supposed she was in no more danger of it than anyone else. Though, he was Scottish. And it was entirely possible he was simply larger than most men. Entirely possible that an Englishwoman was not made to accommodate such…vast maleness.
But when he came down on to the bed, he was beside her and reached out, taking a strand of her hair between his thumb and forefinger. It was not what she had expected. He looked at her, those eyes intense, and she felt she would have rather he’d simply done what he needed to and got it over with.
It seemed preferable to this. This long stretch of time, this suspended moment of agony where her innocence remained and her questions were only half-answered, taking her closer to truths that were hidden from her, without revealing them entirely.
‘Put your hands on me,’ he said.
‘I…’
He wrapped one large hand around her wrist and brought it to his chest. His skin was hot, his heart raging beneath. He had hair on his body. She could feel her own heart thundering the same rhythm in response. But he wasn’t nervous, surely. So why was his heart working in time with hers?
He made that same growling sound he’d done before, then he lowered his head.
His lips had never touched hers. Her lips had never touched anyone’s.
His mouth was firm and masterful, slow, coaxing movements instructing her where words would have failed. He angled his head and then he did the strangest thing of all. He slipped his tongue between her lips.
She gasped and drew back. ‘I don’t think that’s a done thing.’
He chuckled, the sound strained. ‘It is. Believe me, it is.’
‘But why?’
‘You have to let me show you.’ He brought his mouth back to hers again and this time, when his tongue parted her lips, she did not pull away. This time, she allowed him to lead with a slick, startling rhythm. Like a waltz. And she was lost.
Her skin felt hot, her body flushed as if she was sick.
But she didn’t have time to think about it too long, because then he brought his hand to her breast, his calloused thumb moving over the tightened bud there.
It created a restless ache in her that no one had told her about. Was this what he meant? Was this the pleasure?
‘I was told…’ She tried to catch her breath. ‘I was told that I was supposed to think of household chores during this act.’
‘I thought you were going to think of your man?’
Her man? It took her a broad space of time to remember who he was speaking of, because the only man in her mind was the one in this room. The one whose hands were creating dark magic inside her.
‘His mother said I should think of duty.’
‘I’ll have you think of me,’ he said.
His mouth went down over hers again, this time rougher. Harder. Deeper.
Everything he was doing, everything he made her feel, didn’t seem as though it should be possible. Ladies did their duty and that was all.
It was men who had appetites.
Yet he made her feel hungry.
That’s what it was like. Hunger pangs. But in low, intimate spaces.
Then he moved his hand, settled it between her thighs and she arched her hips up off the bed, trying to escape him. But he was too strong. He moved his fingers between her feminine crease, with startling ease. She was slick there. Wet.
It made her feel a blooming sense of heat and shame and she didn’t even know why.
He felt no shame. His hands were sure and he began to move his thumb in slow, decisive circles. And she was lost. Lost in the pagan rhythm that he created there. She could no longer resist, could no longer find shame in the fact that he was a stranger and the fact that her body was responding in ways she hadn’t known were possible. Somewhere, in the gauzy, confused mists of her mind, she realised that everything she’d ever been told about being a woman was a lie.
This was why women fell.
This was why there was such concern about ruination. It wasn’t about a simple, accidental step into a darkened alcove. No. It was about the temptation that might wait there. She hadn’t realised that. Because the way it had all sounded, it seemed a woman could not be tempted.
But his hands were temptation. His wicked mouth was temptation.
His muscles were a temptation. They were not simply a physicality. They were magic.
A sort of magic of masculinity that called to the feminine in her.
It went so much deeper than societal roles. So much deeper than body parts.
She felt something building inside her, foreign and delicious, and she found herself moving her hips in time with his fingers, chasing that nameless sensation inside her.
It was like a bowstring, pulled taut. And it stretched and stretched until she was certain it could go on no longer.
And that was when the release came. And she soared.
There was a great, gasping sound in the room and it took ages for her to figure out that it was coming from her own mouth. That she was the desperate, whimpering creature she could hear as if from a distance. That she was clinging to him as though he might anchor her to earth. She was shattered. And she didn’t know if she would ever be able to be put back together.
He said nothing. He only regarded her with those eyes. Then he shifted his touch between her legs and breached her, one finger sliding deep inside. The invasion was strange, but not painful. Until he added a second finger to the first and she found herself gasping for breath.
‘Best to make sure you’re as ready as you can be,’ he said, his voice rough.
She felt a flutter of terror in her breast, but then he had moved and was over her, the blunt head of that most masculine part of him where his fingers had been only a moment before. She nearly cried out in protest, but then his hips surged forward and she cried out in pain as he entered her.
This was what she had expected. And everything that had come before had been a cruel trick. This was why a woman needed to lie back and think of housekeeping. Because nothing could have prepared her for the pain she felt at his invasion.
Her eyes stung with tears.
Tears.
She fought to hold them back because she would not give this man her tears. But he had invaded her.
Why did any woman ever fall?
Was it because of the promises made with masculine hands that were not kept with masculine members? She wiggled against him, fighting it. Fighting against him. Because it was better than crying. She would not cry.
He made a low sound, comforting, as if he were trying to steady the horse. And she bucked against him in anger because she was not a horse and refused to be soothed.
‘It will get better,’ he said.
It wouldn’t. He was lying. But he didn’t move, his body resting heavily atop her, his hands pinning her wrists down to the mattress. She began to settle, the tears that had been threatening to spill from her eyes receding. And along with it, the pain.
She slowly began to grow accustomed to the size of him inside her.
And then, inexplicably, as she grew accustomed to him, she felt something more.
Not pleasure, not like before, but a strange sensation of being bonded.
She could not remember the last time she’d been held by another person. Not until he had lifted her in those strong arms and brought her to the bed. And now he was surrounding her. Now he was in her.
She had been lonely. So lonely for so long. And the only end to that loneliness that she had seen was through her marriage to the Duke. She had ached so much to belong to that household filled with wonderful women she could talk to. Whom she could confide in. Women who might understand her, who would not make her keep all that she was locked away in a box inside her heart.
But how could she be lonely like this?
There was no way to be closer to another human. Nothing separated them. Nothing. Even their breath mingled together as he stared down at her.
And he would give her children.
The thought made her heart lift.
The thought of having the Duke’s children had made her happy. Of having a family. But he’d come with family and so part of that need had been fulfilled with them. Lachlan…
She’d been certain she’d been facing a future of unimaginable loneliness, but she had not thought of children.
She could still have that. That connection. She could be a mother.
The idea made her ache.
She’d lost her mother when she’d been a girl and she could never have a mother’s arms hold her again.
But she could hold a child.
Could offer comfort. Care. Love.
Could give all those soft, painful emotions that had spent years building inside her, locked away.
For the first time she thought perhaps this was not the prison sentence she had first imagined it to be.
Then he cupped her face and kissed her.
It was sweet. It was sweet and deep and tender, and she relaxed into it. Into him. It was wonderful. Those kisses.
Only moments before she hadn’t understood. But she did now. This restless, deep need to be as close as possible.
And when he began to move inside her, she found it didn’t hurt.
Rather it built a slow, aching rhythm somewhere deeper than the one that had come before.
He gripped her face, kissing her deeply, before pressing his forehead hard against hers, his movements becoming unrestrained. Gone was the tenderness of only a moment before. And somehow… Somehow it seemed right.
Because this wasn’t sweet or tender. It was primal and it was quite the most intimate thing two people could share. She found herself arching to meet his every thrust, found herself moving against him, shamelessly.
Shameless.
Had she ever been shameless in all her life?
No.
She had always fought against her nature. Against all that she was.
She had spent so much of her youth wanting to disappear. And everything in her was wrong for the life she’d been forced to lead. The daughter of a man who wished her invisible…who wished her gone instead of his wife, that much was certain.
Everything she was. Everything within her was shame.
But not now. Not with him.
And when the cry of pleasure rose up in her chest, she did not push it down. She did nothing to silence it. She let herself shudder gloriously and held nothing back.
He pulled away from her and she clung to his shoulders. He shuddered against her, his breath hot against her neck, as he seemed to find a release similar to her own, culminating in a feeling of warmth on her skin. And then he pulled her against his body for a brief moment, dropping a kiss to her forehead, the moment unexpectedly tender, but all too brief. Before she could revel in the simple touch, he released her.
‘Sleep,’ he said, getting out of bed.
His departure felt abrupt and a personal insult, somehow.
‘What?’ She felt shattered and dishevelled and had no earthly idea what had just happened.
‘I need to be sure everything is prepared for tomorrow. We leave early. Sleep.’
‘You won’t stay?’
‘You don’t need me.’
He began to collect his clothes and she could only lie there on the bed, watching as he did.
Now the shame was back. She felt small and wrong somehow, because certainly had she done right he would want to stay with her.
Then she felt angry that she would care at all. Why did she want him to stay? She didn’t know him or care about him in any way. And what had happened between them wasn’t…
It wasn’t knowing someone.
And it was certainly nothing large enough to take away a lifetime of shame and loneliness. She had been foolish to think otherwise. Even for a moment.
He left her there and she curled in on herself, doing her very best to try to press her shattered pieces back together.
She hadn’t known.
She hadn’t known that the physical act between a husband and wife could take you up to the stars and then—back down to the rocks just as quickly.
That a moment of deep connectedness could leave you feeling lonelier than you ever had before.
It made her despise him. More than she had before.
Because he had shown her pleasure.
And then he had taken this new, fragile thing he had built inside her and broken off pieces of it. He had stolen her protection. Stripped her bare and made her vulnerable. Nearly brought her to tears.
She was strong and knew how to protect herself against all manner of things.
But he was a storm. And against him she had no defence.
She would have rather he’d been cruel.
She would have rather he’d made it harsh and painful, and nothing more.
He had made her feel.
Sensations that were too big to be contained. That could not be shoved down inside her.
And it was then she realised that he had withdrawn from her in such a way that pregnancy would be prevented.
The darkness and a sense of isolation crushed down on her.
He had taken something from her. And he had given the possibility of nothing back.
She lay there with her eyes dry and her heart thudding a full, defeated rhythm.
And her last thought before going to sleep was that he had compromised her ability to lock her emotions down inside herself. And if that were true, she had no idea how she would survive her marriage to Lachlan.
No idea at all.