For Love of the Earl (13 page)

And then blackness.
 

His brain knew he had had too much even if he didn't know and had turned off.
 
Only to turn on abruptly, suddenly alert and reeling to catch up with what was happening to his body, when his wife had herself pressed totally against him, her soft mouth on his numb lips.
     

But his body was way ahead of his brain and had simply reacted to the taste of Sarah on his lips, had reacted to her warm body pressed to his cold flesh.
 
And he had surged up toward that warmness, to that tart taste of her mouth. And when she had tried to pull away, his hand had caught her head and held her in place, desperate to keep her from leaving him.
 

What had she been saying right before he had grabbed her?
 

God, he wished he could remember.
 
But he didn't.
 
He only remembered her wrenching away from him, remembered following the movement of her body by rolling with her, covering her body with his so the contact wouldn't be severed.
 
He had thought she had made some noise, but it was such a muddled blur in his head, he really had no idea.
 

And then she had wrapped her legs around his hips.
 

That he remembered.
 
He remembered that quite well.
 
How could he have forgotten?
 
The woman he had loved for four years, the woman who had done everything except promulgate her hatred for him from the steps of Parliament, was beneath him and wrapping her legs around his hips, grasping at his shoulders, his neck, as if she wanted everything that he was giving her, wanted it so much that clinging to him was the only way to make sure she got enough.
 

He had said something then.
 
Probably something flip.
 
God, he hoped it was something flip, even if it wouldn't make Sarah laugh.
 
But then Sarah had choked on a scream so he either had done something right and she liked it, or what he had said had really made her mad.
 
He hoped it was the first and not the latter.

It was at that point that he realized her breasts were in his hands.
 
Her uncovered breasts.
 
He had laughed.
 
He really didn't know any other response.
 
His brain was thawing and with each movement of his hands, he was becoming more and more aware of just how naked his wife was.
 
So he had laughed some more.
 
Laughed at the irony.
 
It was finally possible for him to show his wife exactly how he felt in the way he touched her, the way he caressed her, the way he kissed her.
 
But the only thing his poor head was capable of doing was responding to the physical nature of the situation he found himself in.
 

The woman he loved wanted him.
 

That was all that was running through his mind, and he couldn't summon the energy to think of what to do to show her that he wanted her back.
 
He simply reacted.
 

That was when she touched him.
 

The pleasure was so intense it was painful.
 
Her soft palm cradled him, skimmed along the length of him.
 
The breath rushed out of him, and the only thought left in his head was how the hell his trousers had become undone and how did he thank God that they were undone.
 

After that, all he remembered was pleasure.

And that's why he had dirt in his mouth and didn't care.
 

And if he lifted his head, he would have to look at Sarah.
 
He would have to see reality in her face, and the harshness of that reality would gouge out his eyeballs when Sarah spoke and undoubtedly released her eternal wrath on him.
 

So he left his head on the ground.
 

Until he heard it.

Until he heard the twist in it as she tried to muffle the sound.
 

Until he felt the unmistakable catch in Sarah's body beneath his.

She was crying.
 

He was out of her and off of her in an instant.
 
But he didn't look at her.
 
He looked at the fastenings of his trousers as he scrambled to get them done up.
 
He shoved at his shirt to get it tucked back in.
 
The blood roared in his ears, and he didn't know whether or not to be grateful that he couldn't hear her, couldn't know if she was still crying.

His trousers were fastened faster than he would have liked them to be and then he didn't have anything more to look at or do.
 
So slowly, reluctantly he raised his eyes.
 

Oh.
 
God.

His wife was beautiful.
 

Through the gloomy, watery light that leaked into the hut through the single, muddy windowpanes along the front wall he took in the sight of her spread before him.
 
Her skin was pale and smooth, and his fingers itched to touch.
 
Her full breasts, her slightly rounded stomach, the curve of her shoulders.
 
He wanted to run his fingers over all of it.
 
Hell, he wanted to run his mouth over all of it.
 

And then one of those delicate shoulders shook with a sob, and Alec forced his eyes higher.
 

His stomach dropped.
 

A layer of mud caked her neck and one cheek.
 
More mud soaked the part of her hair that rested against the mud caked cheek.
 
She had her eyelids shut so tightly it made his head hurt.
 
And blood oozed from her lower lip.
 
Alec's heart sped up, and he thought he was going to be sick.
 
He swallowed hard and drew deep breaths.
 
But a single thought kept ricocheting around in his head.
 

He had just taken advantage of his wife.

He reached for her before the thought could truly solidify, before it became something that he'd actually done.
 
He gathered her in his arms, and she didn't even fight him.
 
If she had resisted even a little bit, he would have felt a whole lot better about it.
 
But she didn't fight, she didn't tense, she didn't even squirm.
 
She fell against him, lifeless.
 
Alec felt his own tears coming on and swallowed harder.
 

He rubbed her shoulders and noticed for the first time that her skin was rough with cold.
 
God, what was he thinking?
 
She was naked and caked with mud, which meant at some point she had been wet, so really she was naked and wet and he was being such an arse by kneeling there staring at her breasts.
 

That thought bounced around again in his head.
 

He had forced himself on his wife.

But he shoved it away and rubbed Sarah's skin harder.
 

He could feel her tears now, hot against his neck.
 
Neither of them had spoken, and Alec suspected neither of them would.
 
Sarah would be too stubborn to admit she was even involved in this whole thing.
 
She would sink into herself and pretend that she didn't exist.
 
And Alec, well, hell, he was scared to death of Sarah, so there was no way he was going to say something.
 
And even if he did, he knew it would not be enough.
 

He had forced himself on his wife.

God, why couldn't he remember what had happened?
 
Sarah had been kissing him.
 
He knew Sarah had been kissing him.
 
But how had Sarah gotten naked?
 
Had he gotten her naked?
 
Had he made her get naked?
 
Oh, God, what if he had forced her to touch him?
 
He recalled that moment clearly, and he had thought she had done that willingly, but what if he had made her do it?
 

The tears fell from his eyes now, and he didn't dare reach up to stop them.
 
He was afraid to stop rubbing Sarah's skin in an attempt to bring heat to her flesh.
 
He was afraid that if he stopped she would freeze and shatter, if he stopped she would disappear.
 

But he had to get her dressed.
 

He eased her away from him, but she didn't try to raise her head.
 
The tears fell harder now as he looked at her.
 
He knew she was still crying, her shoulders shaking.
 
He knew she was trying to pretend she wasn't in this moment, and Alec knew there was nothing he could do about it.
 

He looked around the room.
 
Her dress was on the ground a few inches away, and he lunged for it.
 
The material was slightly damp, but it was better than having her shiver naked against him.
 
He pulled the dress over the ground, and the material fanned out.
 
The collar was ripped, and buttons were missing.
 

Whatever Alec had eaten came up into his mouth then.
 
He swallowed it, welcoming the acid burn, the bitter taste as the contents of his stomach went back down.
 
Oh God, he had ripped her dress off.
 
Had she been crying then?
 
Had she tried to stop him?
 
Dammit, why couldn't he remember?
 

He somehow managed to get the dress over her head.
 
She moved her arms, slipping into the sleeves when appropriate, but she didn't move more than she had to and she never looked up at him.
 
It was best, he told himself.
 
He probably wouldn't like to look at him after the fact either, after he had forcefully taken her virginity.

Oh, God, her innocence.
 
He knew Sarah had come to the marriage a virgin.
 
It had been in her file.
 
Everything had been in her file.
 
And he had just-
 

He buttoned the few buttons that still clung to the soiled material, and a horse whinnied in his ear.
 
He looked up startled, ready to defend Sarah against whatever it was.
 
A horse's nose batted his ear, and Alec leaned back to look up at the animal.
 
He had to wipe his eyes first as his vision was blurred with tears.
 
But yes, there was a horse in this hut with them.
 
How the hell had he missed that?
 

Alec threw himself back, his head striking the ground with enough force to make his ears ring.
 
But Sarah landed softly over him, draped across his chest, her head resting below his chin.
 
He held her there, keeping her face down, so she wouldn't have to look at him, wouldn't have to know that she wasn't alone.
 

And then he closed his eyes and hoped oblivion would come quickly.
 

~

In a hut in southern England

A few moments later

Sarah waited until Alec's breathing had evened out before she dared to wipe the tears out of her eyes.
 
She tried to open her eyes, but she just didn't have the strength.
 

Alec was alive.
 

Alive.
 

And he had just made love to her.
 

More tears suddenly surged behind her eyes, but she bit the inside of her cheek, confusing her system and forcing the tears to retreat.
   

The echo of his heartbeat was soothing below her ear.
 
Her fingers twitched in the dirt as she ached to wrap her arms around him.
 
But she had already felt too much, and she didn't want to remember what that was that she had felt.
 

Cherished.
 

That was the word for it.
 

The way he had cradled her against him when he had become fully aware of what was going on.
 
After the surge of desire, after the fog of unconsciousness had lifted, he had held her like she was the most important thing in the world to him.
 
And all she could do was cry.
 
Some wife she was.
 
Alec probably thought he had done everything wrong, and that was why she was crying.
 
But knowing the way she always belittled him, always put him down so he wouldn't suspect that she loved him, she couldn't blame him for believing what he did.
 

But she could blame herself.
 

She tried to keep sleep at bay, because if she slept, it would mean that at some point she would have to wake.
 
And waking in Alec's arms was not something she wanted to experience, to know what it felt like to wake up and instantly know that you were safe and loved.
 

Loved.
 

She didn't want to know what that felt like, because you couldn't miss something you'd never felt.
 

But Alec's heartbeat was too comforting, his arms too secure.
 

Sleep came even though she begged it not to.
 

CHAPTER SIX

On a ship bound for France

April 1815

"I didn't hurt you," Alec whispered.
 

Sarah picked up her head.
 
"I can't believe you thought you did.
 
I mean, I-"
 
How did one address seduction with the one who had been seduced?
 
"I forced myself on you."