Awakening His Duchess (24 page)

She held her breath waiting for him to stroke his thumb
across her skin or press a kiss to the back of her neck. But he didn’t.

He was probably tired.

She was a ninny. Nothing in the past two days indicated he
wanted her as a wife or even a bedmate. He was offering comfort, nothing more.
While she was grateful for that, a disappointment curdled her heating blood.

“The duke and I talked of business affairs.” He sighed, his
breath stirring the hair behind her ear. “Etienne probably knows more about
running the estate than I do.”

She suppressed the shudder that ran through her. “I doubt
that. He has only had the past two years to believe he would inherit anything
so important. Henri had an older son from his first marriage who would have
inherited the plantation.” Even so, Henri had been insistent that Etienne’s
education be comprehensive.

“I never could see the use in learning to manage the duke’s
holdings when I was younger. It was never to be mine.”

“If your father had no surviving male descendants, would the
estate go to one of your sisters?” She hadn’t ever dared ask the duke why it
was so important that he claim Etienne as his heir. Her protests about the
certainty of the marriage had been brushed aside with brusqueness. She’d been
told that she was never to question the legality of her marriage to Beau ever
again. The duke had the letter in Beau’s hand claiming marriage. It was not in
doubt.

“No. It’s entailed.”

“There is a cousin?”

“My father’s cousin. He was a wastrel and gambler when I
left. I do not imagine he has reformed.” Beau took a deep breath.

His chest touched more of her back, and carnal energy
shimmered through her. She couldn’t reveal her mixed thoughts to Beau. Trying
to relax, she steadied her breathing.

His breathing grew deeper behind her. She bit her lip rather
than keep him awake with senseless chatter.

When they had been on the ship his bunk had been narrow
enough they had been pressed together all night. They’d slept little though.
The heat between them couldn’t be banked. He’d tell her she needed sleep, then
he’d kiss her again. One kiss would lead to another and their touches would
turn to caresses.

She let her thoughts flow over that night, and when the
memories of the revolt tried to rear their ugly heads, she shoved them down,
tucking them under the memories of passion. The memories were always
bittersweet because she’d never thought she’d be in Beau’s arms again, but she
was in his arms. Although his arm lay across her more than held her, the weight
pressing against her ribs and her arm. Still, as the night ticked away there
was a certain security in his presence.

That she might fear him never seemed to have occurred to
him. But as the tension leaked from her muscles she realized his harsh words of
banishment might only be a reaction to his father claiming he would sooner
pretend he was an imposter than refuse to acknowledge her. Today Beau’s talk
was more reasoned. He’d spoken of their need to get along for Etienne’s sake.

True, it hadn’t been the acknowledgement of what she’d meant
to him, but he must have believed horrid, awful things of her.

She sighed.

“Can’t you sleep?” mumbled Beau.

She tensed. She’d thought he was sleeping. The burr of his
voice suggested he was on the verge of dropping off.

“I will soon,” she offered.

But she didn’t. Her mind whirred and her body ticked in
expectation. Did Beau feel nothing for her? No attraction, no remembered
affection? She resisted the urge to press her hips back into his and wondered
what was wrong with her. She’d never felt the urge to prompt Henri—of course
she couldn’t remember a time she’d needed to. Many times she would have been
glad if he left her alone.

With Beau she hungered for more, his touch, his hold, his
kiss. Her female parts felt empty as if she needed him to fill her.

The room was filled with the steady sound of his breathing.
She wondered at it sounding heavier than it should, but perhaps that was
because of the weakness of his lungs, the sugarcane disease. She only hoped
that her herbs could help him heal, not just recover from attacks.

Still he didn’t move and she didn’t dare to. The tightness
in her neck shifted lower in her body. The glow from the fire softened and the
moonbeams crept across the bed. She sighed again.

Beau’s hand moved. Concerned that her slightest change in
movement was keeping him from sleep, she stilled. If she woke him, it might
lead to him leaving or exercising his rights as her husband. She couldn’t
decide which would be worse.

Her thighs tightened. Her body was definitely of the opinion
that Beau exercising his rights would be a good thing, but she had grown
comfortable with not having to answer the demands of a husband, not having to
think or feel that deeply. Her feelings knotted and twisted. Yet her blood
thrummed expectantly.

If he wanted her, would he turn her and kiss her, start with
a slow caress of her shoulders? Even as young as he’d been on the night of
their marriage, Beau had been good at seduction, knowing a soft easy approach
allowed her excitement to stir and build. If she woke him, would he make love
to her as tenderly as he had all those years ago on the ship?

His hand slid away from hers and reached to cup her breast.
She tensed. Anticipation and uncertainty pulled her in different directions.
She made no move of acceptance or rejection, just waited for what he would do
next.

Or was he asleep? He didn’t caress or squeeze. His hand was
just there, curled around her left breast. She wanted so badly to arch into his
hand, but if he was asleep...

Had his breathing quickened?

He pulled his arm down and placed his hand on her hip.
“Pardon me,” he muttered gruffly.

Had his hand on her breast just been some sort of accident?
She stared into the darkness. Disappointment filled her like molten lead being
poured into a mold. What was wrong that her that she’d hoped he’d wanted her?

How did a man accidentally cup a woman’s breast? It wasn’t
like his hand had brushed against her or fallen off her arm to land against her
chest. No, he’d done it deliberately, but why? Had he thought her asleep? She
tried to form the words to ask, but she couldn’t bring herself to shatter the
stillness of the night. She didn’t know if he still hated her or if he was weak
in areas beyond his lungs. Or had he sensed the churning desire in her?

His fingers dug into her hip and he eased back from her as
if to make certain they would not touch below the waist. Why would he do that
unless he was trying to prevent her from realizing he was hard?

She stared across the room, her mind spinning and her body
growing more urgent. It wasn’t the gentle kisses or caresses she expected from
Beau, but it was Beau.

His hand slid from her hip to rest against her stomach. She
futilely tried to suck in her soft belly. If he had desired her, the rounded
remnant of three pregnancies wouldn’t increase his desire. No, it was more
likely to repulse him.

She had to do something...

“Relax, I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to
do,” he said.

Yes, but she wasn’t sure what she wanted. Her body was
screaming for his touch, but the rational side of her said she should pretend
sleep.

Chapter Thirteen

“Go to sleep.” Beau wished Yvette would fall asleep so he
could slide out of bed, creep through his bedroom into his dressing room, and
rid himself of his problem. His stones ached he’d been hard so long. From the
first moment he’d lain down and touched her. She smelled so good, womanly
sweet. Her skin was soft, her hair in front of his nose fragrant with the smell
of an exotic soap.

He’d thought he could offer comfort, nothing more, and he
might have managed if she had fallen back asleep quickly. But the longer he lay
still, his arm draped over her, the more awake he grew. His cock throbbed to
painful fullness. Even if he didn’t trust her, his body craved release.

She was his wife. No one would think it amiss if he slaked
his passion on her, even if he was unwilling to let it be a joining wrought
with tenderness. He wanted release and nothing more. It was a crass want, but
he’d been denied pleasure for too long to think of it as anything more than it
was. Certainly he didn’t want Yvette other than she had the right body, a
luscious body, softer and fuller in places than he remembered, more perfect.

Nor was he at all certain she was willing. Why would she
want him? He rather thought she didn’t—he hadn’t been kind to her since
arriving, and he was no longer a refined man of distinction but an ill,
scarred, ex-slave. But perhaps she thought she had to submit out of obligation.

Yet the idea of using her body—any woman’s body—against her
will stuck in his craw. Too many years he’d had no choice in what he did.

She’d also been terrified by her dream. Sex with her now was
wrong on so many levels, but he couldn’t resist touching her in a way that
signaled what he wanted. If she was willing, he could proceed.

But when he curled his hand around her breast, he had his
answer. She didn’t want him. All he succeeded in doing was taking his desire to
a new painful level while she had stiffened.

Leaving her bed was the best course. “I’ll go—”

“No!”

Well, that answer was faster and more definitive than he
expected. But she was probably still in the throes of her nightmare and didn’t
want to be alone. He fought to stifle his urges and simply provide the comfort
he’d offered.

God knew he’d had more than his share of nightmares. Dreams
that left him shaking and trembling until the tropical morning sun broke over
the horizon. Mostly dreams of being in the coffin and unable to get out. Or
that he really had died and his life as a slave was a hell he’d never escape.
He’d hated himself for being so lily-livered.

She wiggled.

A rush of excitement and need shot through him, electrifying
his every sense.

Oh God!

He gasped. Squeezing his eyes shut and tilting his head back
he held his breath. It was everything he could do to keep from clenching his
fists and stiffening. He’d learned during floggings to stay relaxed. Although
now desire flayed him with more cruelty than he thought possible. He didn’t
want her, but his body was of another mind. His cock refused to soften, no
matter how much he protested. And she was dangerously close to wriggling
against it.

She took his hand from against the soft curve of her
stomach. He rather liked the curving belly because it was a mark of her being
imperfect like him. Lord knew he wasn’t much of a physical specimen. But
clearly she was uncomfortable with the heel of his hand resting against her
abdomen, which made him even more of a bastard for leaving it against her.

She unfurled his fingers and brushed her cooler fingers against
his. He half wondered if his blood had begun to boil from being heated so long.
The dressing gown felt stifling hot. Still the warmth of her body against his
chest was oddly right.

He only hoped she didn’t attempt to thread their fingers
together. Holding her hand in such a manner would be too much like a gesture of
affection. He just wanted to shag her.

She turned his palm toward her and placed it against her
breast. A hot surge pulsed through his body and landed in his engorged cock.

“Yvette,” he gasped.

She made a small sound and pressed her hand over his holding
it in place. The rounded flesh under his hand was like all the rewards of
heaven. His head swirled and his breath rushed out in a heaving sigh.

“It’s all right,” she whispered. “I don’t mind.”

All right? Don’t mind?

A jab of shame hit him as his fingers tightened around her
breast. If he were a better man, he’d roll away and leave her to rest. But he’d
be damned before Yvette just let him use her body out of pity or duty or fear
of being alone or whatever the hell had prompted her half-hearted submission.

He’d made her pant and moan for him once. Surely he could
remember enough of what excited her from that night to make her acceptance turn
to desire. Besides, she was an experienced woman now. He didn’t have to seduce
her with kid gloves. “Yes, then?”

She didn’t answer for a long second that had him aching as
if cracks were opening in his chest. “
Sil vous plait.”

If you please. Her equivocation drove him mad, but he damn
well did please. He growled, but stopped just short of demanding she say she
wanted sex.

Even if he was a fool for wanting this joining, lust had
sent him into a fever there was no denying. His only hope of not hating himself
in the morning was to pull her into the same fevered frenzy.

He stroked the inner curve of her breast with his thumb and
didn’t know if the touch did anything for her, but the feel of her firm yet
pliant flesh made his heart beat faster, his breathing heavier.

She sighed and her hand moved away from his, down over his
wrist, her fingers testing an old scar caused by a slip of the machete. Damn,
he did not need her searching out his every imperfection.

“Leave it,” he snarled.

Her fingers stiffened and her body followed. “I’m sorry,”
she whispered.

He was an idiot. Still he needed to distract her so he
thrust his hips against her curved derrière. Raw pleasure exploded in a shower
of sparks in his body. He wouldn’t last if he didn’t slow down.

While running his hand over her sweet curves, he forced
himself to think of long hard days in the sugar cane. The black ash floating
away from the stalks as he chopped. The heat so thick it was like a cloak on
his skin, the sun burning down, browning his skin, bleaching his hair. Sweat
running down his spine. The thirst burning in his throat, the thirst that had
made it so easy for the bokor to persuade him to drink the poison even when he
had reasoned out what was happening. With that came his memory of the hate that
fueled him to get through the long hours. She’d put him there—or it was because
of her—