Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (19 page)

Then he pulled her toward the bed, the bed he’d already turned down in welcome.

Pushing her down on her back, he tugged her hips to the edge then spread her thighs wide with his hands. He heard her suck in her breath, and waited. He wasn’t so far out of his mind that he’d truly assault her.

Abruptly, she relaxed, surrendered. Touching her hand to be sure, he found it limp by her thighs on the sheet. He raised it, kissed it, then kissed her inner wrist as he had done so long ago, brushing his lips up to her inner elbow.

Then, her hand still in his, he slid his other between her thighs. “Are you obedient to my every wish, slave?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then I command you to surrender. To enjoy.” To himself alone, he added:
To remember
.

She didn’t fight, so he roused her passion with his hand, pleasuring her breasts with his mouth. Her crushing grip on his other hand spoke her passion, flexing and squeezing wildly, guiding him to go fast or slow, soft or hard. As her hips’ wild dance rewarded him, he eased the pressure, hoping she had her other hand ready to cover her mouth if she screamed.

Hell, if she screamed and brought witnesses down on them, perhaps that would get him what he wanted—her as his wanton mistress.

Then he was rewarded with a deep groan, a sound he’d go odds she’d never made before. A secret, guttural groan for him alone. He’d have more. He was in control, he could do this for hours if necessary.

He drove her on, to bone-aching, tendon-straining tension, easing again to hold her back. Her feet came up to the edge of the bed and she arched off it. He stopped entirely.

“Down, come down, sweetheart.”

With a sob, she settled her hips, rolling. “Don’t … Please …”

“Hush. hush. Quietly,” he murmured, nipping at her wet, swollen nipples.

“Beast.”

“Slave.”

“I hate you.”

“You don’t.”

He began to pleasure her again, and was rewarded immediately with a shudder of desire. “I
won’t
.” She wasn’t referring to hate but to orgasm. She was going to fight him.

He grinned. “Yes, you will.”

And she did, though she fought him so that it became a wrestling match across the bed, one with very strange holds.

Only after her surrender—when she lay hot, sticky, limp, and completely his—did he move over to enter her.

“When I’m dead,” she muttered, “tell Diana. She’ll help you get away.”

He had no idea who Diana was, but he had a true appreciation of her mettle. What a zest for life lay under her quiet manner. She deserved more than the half-life she lived.

“Come with me when I leave,” he said, hovering, the tip of his erection teasing her. “We can do this every night. Every, single, night.” He eased in, inch by inch. Her hips yearned toward him.

“Then I’d surely die.”

“No, dammit. You’d
live
!” And he thrust deep.

She climaxed again abruptly, long before he’d expected. Freed, he pumped to ecstasy, too, and sealed it with a kiss as desperate as everything else between them.

She was right.

It could destroy a person, this.

But he’d die in ecstasy.

“What time is it, I wonder?” she asked.

Time had passed, he knew, without any idea of how much. Minutes? Days? It was still dark, and she sprawled limply beside him, still entangled. Her voice sounded like he felt, drained almost to unconsciousness.

A distant church clock saved him the effort of trying to answer. Twelve strokes.

“Midnight.” She stirred slightly, as if adjusting her body to a new skin. He put his hand on her belly and stroked the silky curve, wishing he could see her like this—luxuriating in her sated body.

He would see her like this. She was his. He only had to prove it to her. Before dawn.

“Six hours or so to go,” he said, sliding a fingertip into her navel.

She squirmed away. “Don’t!”

He trapped her. “Why not?”

“It tickles.”

With a laugh, he weighed her down and kissed her navel, flicking his tongue inside. She shoved him and they wrestled until he let her pin him down. She was agile and strong, and not afraid to fight dirty. Another delightful surprise.

Then, straddling his legs triumphantly, her hands pinning his arms to the bed—though she must know he could break that hold any time he chose—she lowered her head to kiss
his
navel, to tease it with her tongue. His belly muscles tightened and his penis stirred again.

“You like that?” she asked.

“I like that.”

With what sounded like a purr she began to lick his torso, long strokes and short, wriggling sinuously over him as she tried to reach every little spot.

“Why are you gasping?” she asked, mischief in her voice.

“Because I feel like a landed trout.”

“Wet?”

“Desperate.”

“Should I stop?”

“Never.” He deliberately echoed her earlier words. They were both fighting the dawn.

“What else would you like?” she asked, tongue back to swirling around his navel.

“Touch me.”

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Releasing his wrists, she shifted to explore his genitals with curious, sensitive fingers. He concentrated on holding back need as long as humanly possible, letting her cup and flex his balls, stroke him to the tip and back.

His control broke. He grabbed her, rolled her, and plunged into her, into orgasm.

And so it went through the night—playing, exploring, teasing, tormenting. It was the wildest, sweetest passion he had ever known, with a woman made for love, and ready to love with joy and abandon. She found delight in every new twist he thought up for her, and added a few of her own through sheer inventiveness.

There had to be quiescent times, however, and in the sleepy deep of the night, he found himself cradled in her arms, talking. He was perfectly aware that she was giving little in the dreamy flow of words, but he was willing to use his own story to win her if he could. He’d strip himself down to his soul if it would make her his.

He told of his pleasant childhood, and received some unspecific memories of her own in return. He was glad to hear that she’d enjoyed her younger years, and not at all surprised to find she’d been something of a terror.

He told her of his parents’ sudden deaths from fever, the abrupt and absolute change in everything, and was comforted by her hands and her gentle kiss in his hair. He knew she had at least a loving mother still, yet she seemed to understand the paralyzing shock it had been.

Perhaps she understood what it had meant to him and the others, especially the young twins, when Bey had fought to keep them together.

“Bey was only nineteen.”

“Bey?”

“My older brother—half brother actually—the Marquess of Rothgar. We’re all named after Anglo-Saxon heroes—our father’s particular interest. I feel fortunate to have ended up with Brand. Poor Bey, being the oldest, received Beowulf, which Father would use in full, with resonant pleasure, as often as he could.”

She chuckled. “So instead he took the name of an Eastern prince.”

“It suits him very well. Having come into his responsibilities young and abruptly, he’s an autocratic devil. He didn’t have the power and
authority when our parents died, but he stood firm all the same. I was only twelve and grief-stricken, but I gather everyone wanted to split up the family, to take us off his hands. He set himself to keeping everything as unchanged as possible.

“At the time I simply accepted it,” Brand said, staring sightlessly into the past. “He even kept the awareness from us that there was any threat of change, though we suspected and worried. The twins went missing for a whole day. They were eventually found in a cupboard under the pantry stairs, but it had already been checked, so they’d been moving around. It must all have been a terrifying responsibility for him. He’d not exactly been the epitome of responsibility before.”

He stopped himself then, despite the seductive dark, for the whole story wasn’t his to tell. He’d only gathered later that his brother held himself responsible for their parents’ deaths, not without cause. He’d picked up a fever in one of his wild adventures, and had hovered near death. His stepmother had nursed him lovingly, saving his life, but caught the disease herself. The devoted marquess had ignored the doctor’s orders to stay away, and he had succumbed.

The younger children had been firmly kept in a distant wing, which had made the shock more terrible. When they’d been banished there, their half brother had been seriously ill, which was bad enough. When they emerged, their wonderful parents were dead, and Bey—still pale and thin from the sickness—was Marquess of Rothgar and their only protection against the world.

“It must have taken a lot of courage,” she said, hand playing soothingly in his hair.

“An amazing amount. No one would have blamed him for letting the family be split up. In fact, I think he was criticized for not doing so. A lot of people thought him too wild to care for us.”

Again he stopped himself, before he mentioned madness. Bey was not mad. There had never been any sign. But his mother had gone mad, and that hung over him like a threatening shadow. His mother hadn’t seemed deranged either until she had killed her newborn child.

“People do what they have to do,” she said. “Find the courage when they need it.”

“Some people.” Then he wondered if she was talking about herself and longed for the key to unlock her guarded mind. He pushed down that spurt of resentment and went on to relate some of his more innocent adventures.

“And how did you come to be your brother’s land manager?”

“I don’t know how familiar you are with the way of aristocratic families. To preserve the family power, nearly everything goes to the
oldest son. The younger sons and daughters receive a portion, usually from property their mother brought to the marriage. In that way, the original holdings are not broken up. Younger sons are supposed to make their own way. The church, the army, and the navy are the usual paths.”

“I don’t quite see you as a vicar.”

He laughed. “And Bey didn’t want any of us in the army or navy. Says they are barbaric and ill-run institutions. I’ve always had an interest in agriculture, so I ended up with that.”

“What would have happened if you’d longed to be a dashing officer?”

“Exactly what happened when my youngest brother took that route. Flaming rows and physical confinement.”

“Mercy. What happened?”

“Cyn’s a major now.”

“So your brother is all bark and no bite?”

“No more than I am, dear lady.” He nipped her to make his point. “Bey has particularly sharp fangs and uses them. But in the end he wants what’s best for us. Cyn loves the army, and I’m happy with enclosures and turnips.”

She nipped him back. “I’m glad you have a fulfilling life.”

He’d begun to reacquaint himself with her breast, but he paused. “It will be unsatisfactory without you.”

She didn’t even respond. He’d returned to the subject often enough through the night, battering her will with his need, unable to believe that in the end he would lose. With a sigh, he set to doing the only thing he could—searing the memory of him into her body, mind, and soul.

Gathering memories of her into his own.

But even when every minute is precious, nature will have her way, and people are not automatons. Eventually, still touching, half-laughing over their latest contortion, they stilled, and sleep stole the rest of their night.

Rosamunde came awake, instantly aware of everything, tears aching behind her eyes.

They had only the sheet over them, and she felt a little chilled. He lay on his front, apart from her, but his arm draped over her, for comfort and possession.

Possession.

Again and again in the wild night he’d asked her to leave with him, demanded to know what tied her so firmly here, what bond could be so much stronger than the one they had forged.

After a while she’d stopped trying to argue with him. She couldn’t give him the truth, and she wasn’t sure he’d see the force of it if she did.
In the wild tradition of High Romance, he expected her to toss everything away for love.

Love.

That’s what it was. She could no longer deny it.

And outside, silver dawn signaled the end.

She eased over, wanting to study him in the fragile misty light. What had happened to them, not just last night, but over the past few extraordinary days?

An intimacy had grown, a familiarity that went deeper than the skin. It was something a little like the closeness she had with Diana—a bond that physical distance, or change, or even disagreement could never touch.

That was a friendship begun in the cradle, though, not a brief encounter. How could she feel this way about a stranger? It was all there, however—the gift of laughter, the discovery of trust, the miracle of instant communication, of shared interests, of secret understandings. A security that defied any challenge.

She swallowed and breathed back tears, refusing to tarnish the treasure with denial. They had found something precious here, she and Lord Brand Malloren, a connection never dreamed of, come about through pure chance.

And it was as useless as seed thrown on rock.

In normal circumstances, they would never have met—the marquess’s son and the gentleman-farmer’s daughter. Certainly they would never have cracked their conventional shells to find the bonding-flesh that lay beneath. And now she must seal the shells closed again, seal them with betrayal.

If he’d promised not to seek her out, perhaps she could have avoided this. Diana would not have approved, but she would trust his promise. Throughout the night, however, he’d fought her will, and she couldn’t believe he wouldn’t try to find her.

Therefore, she had to make sure he couldn’t.

She had to drug him.

Just for a moment she imagined the insane alternative. She could roll closer, kiss his skin as she had so often in the night, breathe his smell that she would now recognize anywhere, explore the muscular contours of his body for the sheer delight they gave her fingers, and tell him that she would surrender past the dawn.