Maybe This Time, page 29
His muscles knotting, Kevan knew he’d forgive her anything. He covered her hand with his and resisted the urge to clear his throat, though a tightness there robbed him of breath. “Neglecting to give a man the mead is a serious offense.”
She stretched across his thigh to set her empty glass on a small table, stood up and kept his hand clasped in hers. “You might find mercy in my ignorance, milord. Until tonight, I didn’t know the delicious elixir existed.”
“Mercy is a noble virtue,” he agreed.
Her gaze grew more warm, but she no longer smiled. “Indeed, it is.”
The air between them seemed charged, causing a subtle shift in their relationship. Seeing her lips form a soft pout, her pulse throb at the base of her throat, he knew he was undone. For six weeks, he’d concentrated on helping her grow accustomed to him in a gradual, natural way. Six weeks that had almost cost him his mind. God, how he wanted her. He couldn’t think, couldn’t concentrate on anything other than the desire she stirred in his blood. But feeling the changes in her responses to his advances—accepting, expecting, and lately, even anticipating—had been worth his discomfort. “A man kissed is more apt to be merciful,” he murmured, looking into her eyes. “Would my wife care to induce me?”
“She would, milord. She truly would.”
Bending forward, she cupped his face in her hands. Her sweet scent hung between them, and his heart thudded. Her lips covered his, and he guided her down to sit on his lap. Her arms curled around his neck, her fingers toyed in the hair at his nape as if she enjoyed the feel of him. With a little shudder, he settled into their kiss.
She tasted of mead and Alyssa, and he knew he’d been right in waiting for her to come to him of her own will. A whimper rushed from her throat, and her mouth opened on his, her tongue brushed past his lips and teeth to find his tongue and mate. His breathing grew ragged, his body hard, aching to know more of her.
Her parted lips slid across the blade of his cheek, her warm breath blazing a path along the line of his jaw and down onto his neck. Then she whispered, “Kevan?”
He opened his eyes to find her studying him intently, her emerald eyes smoky with desire. “Yes, love.”
“I want your child.”
His thudding heart stopped. “My child?”
“Yes.”
Kevan swallowed the boulder that seemed lodged in his throat. She wanted him, but too timid to admit that vulnerability, she transferred her feelings into words she found easier to speak. Still, she must come to terms with them. Before he made love with her, she must know that her needing him made her no weaker than his needing her made him. “Are you saying that you want me?”
She didn’t answer.
“Alyssa, answer me.”
Her eyes grew darker, pulling him into their depths. But she uttered no sound. “Please, say the words, love. I’ve a need to hear them.”
Though he felt her body tremble against his, she did not lower her gaze. “God forgive me, I do want you, Kevan.”
With a silent prayer of thanksgiving, Kevan hugged her to him, felt the rapid beat of her heart against his own thundering chest. For a long time, he sat there, cradling her to him, trying to puzzle out why wanting her husband should require God’s forgiveness. Arriving at no answer, he decided that later, after he’d bedded her, become her husband in every sense of husbandry, then she would be more open to explaining. And, God’s truth, then he’d be more able to concentrate on her worries.
Nestling her in his arms, he stood and mounted the stairs to her chamber.
He kicked the door closed behind them. Beside her bed, Kevan set her to the floor and stepped back.
“You’ve had a great deal to drink, Alyssa. I want no regrets.”
Alyssa glared at him. Couldn’t he see? Didn’t he feel that she wanted him? Afraid he would change his mind, her words tumbled from her mouth unchecked. “Are you implying that I don’t know my own mind, Kevan Buchannan? Because if you are, I assure you that I am not addlepated, nor am I foxed. If you weren’t such a dull-wit yourself, you would have known that the time had come to con . . . con . . . Blast and damn!” She stamped her foot in a fit of frustration. “Time to do this long ago. If you don’t want me, just say so. You don’t have—”
Kevan kissed her quiet.
She was nervous—and at least half-foxed. When he felt her surrender her fear, he teased her warm neck with his lips and whispered against her skin. “I want you, love. I’ve always wanted you. But never more than at this moment.”
Her fingers curled into his waist. “Why now?”
“Because I know you aren’t doing this to appease me,” he replied. “You aren’t, are you?”
Alyssa felt the last remnants of rebellion drain from her, and passion flare. “No, Kevan. I want you.”
She watched his emotions race across his face. Searching, sobering, solemn, then searing. “Alyssa,” he whispered, then began removing her clothes.
His hand trembled on her gown. She seemed so sensitive, intimately aware of the first nip of air touching her skin. The first brush of his hand on her spine, brushed her heart as well. Dear God, his eyes. Would she ever tire of looking into his eyes?
His voice, deep and husky, beckoned. “Come, wife. Be loving.”
Beside her in bed, Kevan turned on his side. The fire flickered golden light on his bare skin, and she wondered: were all naked men so beautiful? His body differed so greatly from hers. Even more so than she’d realized during their swim. Dry, his chest felt different, too. Warm and silky, hard and soft—all at once—tempting her fingertips. She remembered him telling her he wanted to feel her touching his body. Her hand drifted down to the soft hollow between his ribs. His muscles quivered, and she looked down a trail of dark hair that led to . . . to . . . “Dear God, Kevan.”
“It’s all right,” he whispered, a smile in his voice. “I’ll be gentle, Alyssa.”
“But you’re so—”
“I’ll be gentle, love,” he interjected, claiming her lips. “Trust me.”
Timidly, she stroked his shoulder from the soft spot at his throat to the rounding of his upper arm, then back again. No silk, no velvet, ever felt so fine. She followed the hair-roughened trail to his abdomen. He inhaled sharply, sucked in air, and she felt his muscles clench under her hand. At her waist, his fingers squeezed her flesh, then glided upward until his thumb swept tiny circles in the hollow under her breast.
At his neck, the crystal amulet absorbed the brilliant colors from the flame. She touched it and found it warm from his skin. A feeling of familiarity suffused her, a sense of rightness, of content. “Kevan?”
“Shh, not now, Alyssa,” he whispered, removing the last of her hairpins. Her hair fell loose, tumbling to her shoulders. His hands tangled in its length. “Later, we’ll talk,” he promised. “Till dawn, if it pleases you. But right now, love me, darling. I’ve waited so long to love you.”
He gave so much, asked so little. She longed to please him, and she wanted—just this once—the freedom to show him all she felt for him. She adored him with her eyes, with her hands that were quickly losing their timidity, with her soft words whispered in a husky voice she hardly recognized.
Following his subtle lead, she soon learned what brought him sensual delight, and then reveled in his throaty murmurs telling her of his pleasure. “Oh, Kevan, you are so good at this,” she breathed against his heated skin. “I knew you would be so good at this.”
She tilted her head. His lips sipped at the skin at her throat, awakening in her body a desire that until now had lain dormant. He took her breast in his mouth, and she shuddered. He was a rake. A glorious, magnificent rake. Surely, no gentleman held the power to reduce his woman to this mindless state of bliss, to inflame her body with such exquisite sensation. Only a rake could incite this wantonness in his woman—and make his woman rejoice because he had.
He shifted his weight and, remembering his size, a flicker of panic shot through her. “Kevan, wait.”
Hovering over her, he looked down, his hot eyes reassuring. “Trust me. You are my wife. I want only to be loving with you.”
Her heartstrings felt a mighty tug. She raised her hands to circle his back, her hips, to meet his hard flesh. “Come, Kevan.”
Pain, sharp and rending, blurred her pleasure, and she cried out into Kevan’s mouth. He stilled and soothed her with his hands. The stabbing pain eased, but the sensation of fullness seemed strange, foreign. Slowly, she grew accustomed to the feel of him inside her.
“Does it still hurt?”
“Only a little,” she whispered. “Will it be like this every time?”
“No, darling.” His muscles bunched, and he swept her temple with his lips. “Just this once.”
“Good,” she replied, glad that the pain would not come again. Yet she felt strangely deflated, too. “Is that it, then?”
Kevan smiled down on her and waited until she met his gaze. “No, love. We’ve just begun.”
Then he began the timeless rhythm as wondrous as a snowflake, as indescribable, irrepressible, as love itself.
Their coupling flooded her with feelings, created a need in her that commanded fulfillment. A strong and steady growth toward something unknown. With a mind of its own, her body bucked against his, demanding that he increase the pace of his thrusts, that he take her to the something her body sought.
“Easy, love. Not yet,” he whispered, torturing her crested nipples with hot lashes of his wet tongue. “You feel so good. Too good to rush. I must love you . . . longer.”
She panted, feeling raw desire, hot and fluid, rushing through her veins, smothering all but the need to quench itself. “Please, I—I—”
Melding, their hips ground together. He stoked the fire in her until its flame burned wild, scorching her every pore. A strange sensation of pressure built to pain in her center and her hips thrust hard. She tried to still them, but couldn’t. Her body was no longer hers to command. “Kevan,” she cried, tasting the salt on his neck. She must ease this pressure. She must, or she’d surely die.
“Let go, love,” Kevan grated out in a harsh whisper. “Let go, and come to me.”
His words heightened her sensitivity, and, two rapid-fire strokes of his body later, a shattering burst deep in her core. Brilliant spots flashed before her eyes, and her body racked with uncontrollable tremors. Was this pleasure-pain normal? Natural? Frightened, she cried out. “Kevan!”
He moaned, baring his teeth. “Oh, God, Alyssa. You feel so good.”
He groaned her name again and again. The spasms inside her rippled to delightful shudders, and atop her she felt Kevan tense, his chest heave, his hollow buttocks grow round under her hands. Then with a savage thrust, he drove her up on the bed, and spilled his seed. Throbbing, his great frame shuddering, he collapsed against her.
A long moment later, he raised his head and sought her lips for a lush, languid kiss. He breathed against her mouth, winded, sweat glistening on his slick body. “You have accepted my body and my seed, milady. Now you are truly my wife.”
Twenty
ALYSSA AWAKENED, her head pounding. She forced her left eye open. Bright sunlight flooded the room, and, wincing, she groaned. Dear God, she was cup-shot. She, who had silently condemned her father’s lack of self-respect in allowing himself to enter this god-awful state.
Had she known then of the pain and suffering involved, she would have been showing the man more sympathy.
The door to her chamber opened, but she couldn’t make herself look to see who had entered. “Go away,” she muttered, then pulled the covers up over her head.
“Good morning, love.”
The sound of Kevan’s voice brought her memories of last night into sharp focus. Her churning stomach knotted, then lay quivering. Had she really told him she wanted his child? Had she really done all of those things to him? Had she really . . . Oh God, she had. She squeezed her eyes closed and groaned again, deeper.
Kevan pulled back the coverlet and sat on the edge of her bed.
“Don’t rock the room,” she moaned. Swaying toward him, she gripped the bed to still herself. Maybe he wouldn’t notice that things weren’t normal. And even if he did, she assured herself, Kevan would be sympathetic. He’d consider her tender feelings and pretend ignorance. He was a darling man.
He chuckled.
“Lout,” she muttered, then crossed her lips with her finger and hissed a heartfelt “Shh!”
“Drink this, love. It’ll make you feel better.”
“Dead people feel better than I do, Kevan,” she mumbled into her pillow. “I must get well enough to die. Bury me in my blue satin.” She peeked at him through one eye. “It is your favorite, isn’t it?”
“Come on,” he said, sitting her up. “You aren’t going to get off so easily as to die. You’ll have to stay with me and suffer.”
“You’d end the misery of your horse, but your wife you force to suffer?”
“I don’t make love with my horse, my dear.”
“Selfish lout,” she muttered, finding his amused tone annoying. “You’re no gentleman, Kevan.”
Her body felt limp as a doll made of rags. Her mouth was cottony, her tongue, thick. She leaned heavily on Kevan and felt the rim of a glass press against her lips.
“I know. Just swallow, darling,” he coaxed her. “A little more.”
“Enough,” she pled. “That concoction tastes vile.”
“True,” he agreed. “But it is effective.” He set the glass on the bedside table and urged her back to her pillow. “Rest now, and in a few minutes you’ll feel like a different woman.”
Alyssa sank back into her pillows and mumbled that she’d never be well again. The last thing she recalled before sleep claimed her was the feel of Kevan’s cool hands soothing her forehead.
ALYSSA OPENED her eyes slowly. The room had stopped spinning, and she felt no pain. Gingerly, she got out of bed. At the pitcher and bowl, she splashed her face and throat with cool water. Much better, she decreed. Near normal.
She looked up into the cheval glass and regret hit her full force. Dear God, what must Kevan think of her? She’d been sotted—and wanton! And, again in her mind, she heard every warning Meg and Lady Jersey had issued about a wife’s proper conduct. There wasn’t one rule, not one warning, that she’d not violated.
“Ah, I see you’re awake.”
Alyssa spun around to see Kevan near their connecting door, inside her chamber. She couldn’t face him. She couldn’t! Good lord, why didn’t the floor open up and swallow her? “What are you doing here?”
The smile on his face faded, his expression became unreadable. “I came to see if you were feeling better.”
The drink. That’s why she’d behaved so . . . “What was in that mead?”
He seemed baffled. “Mead is mead.”
“Kevan,” she warned him.
He shrugged a massive shoulder. “Long ago, some professed it had medicinal properties. Others said it was an intoxicant—which, after seeing its effect on you, I would agree—and others claim it, er, heightens sensitivity, makes one impatient for lovemaking. That, however, is merely a tale.”
Alyssa gasped. “You drugged me, Kevan Buchannan! You rake. You scoundrel. You—you—”
“Husband, Alyssa,” Kevan said in a deceptively soft tone. “I am your husband. I did not drug you. You overindulged of your own will. A fact I pointed out to you before we made love last night. I would remind you, my dear, that you agreed there would be no regrets.”
She ground her teeth. He had said that. She clearly remembered hearing him say those words. And her own that followed them. “But you knew—”
“I knew I’d die if I didn’t make love with you soon. I knew my patience had grown as thin as your gossamer nightgowns. I knew I wanted nothing more than to do all that we did last night.”
Her heart shattered. Physical. He wanted her body only because he’d been denied it. Her refusal had increased his ardor. He felt no love, no emotional affection. What he described was not making love, it was slaking lust!
Pain knotted her chest. She knew pain, and she knew how to bury it, using her pride as a shield. Last night she had given everything she possessed: herself, body and soul. And this morning, Kevan had mocked her offering, equated what they’d shared to satisfying lust.
But no more. If she admitted her weakness for him, if he learned what her father had done, or of his financial condition, Kevan would leave her. He’d probably, God help her, request the Prince Regent’s permission to seek a divorce!
Oh, no. No. He might leave her. That she could not prevent. But he would never know that if he did, her heart would leave with him. If refusing him her body would keep him married to her, then that was what she must do.
“What’s wrong with you, love?” He stepped toward her. “I know I hurt you last night.”
Her hands trembled to touch him. She clasped them in the folds of her gown and turned her back on him. “Just—just leave me alone, Kevan. Please. Just go away.”
His footsteps heavy, Kevan walked to the door joining their rooms. “I’ll give you a few minutes to come to terms with yourself, but we can’t go back, Alyssa. You’re my wife in every sense now. You will sleep in my arms every night and awaken in my bed to my touch each morning. I won’t let you take us back to what we were before.”
He walked through and closed the door. Her heart shattered and hot tears burned Alyssa’s eyes. Threat or promise, his words expressed that which she most wanted. But if she surrendered, his conquest would be complete. She wanted more from her husband than his lust. She wanted his heart. And, because of her father, she was not free to seek it.
She turned toward her bed. On the pillow where Kevan had rested his head lay a single budding stem. She looked at the list and groaned. “The passion flower.”
ALYSSA READ the letter delivered that morning from Lady Jersey. Then she reread it. The scandal regarding her, Kevan, her father, and Innes had started to fade. The Prince Regent had usurped the interest of the ton. When he’d gone to open Parliament in January, he’d been hissed, and the latest on dit was that his daughter, Princess Charlotte, was heavy with child. She freely admitted that the babe was expected in early November. And she’d announced, too, her desire to bear fourteen children! Her goal: to outbirth her grandmother, the Prince Regent’s mother, who, together with the virile and faithful King George III, had graced the earth with thirteen children.
