Stormswept (9 page)

The innkeeper eyed Rhys suspiciously. “Begging y’r pardon, sir, but can ye prove y’re married to this woman?”

“Of course.” He showed the man the marriage license, careful to keep her last name covered up. “We’re headed to London so I can introduce my wife to my family.”

“I see, Mr. Vaughan. Well then, I believe I’ve one room available. If you’ll come with me . . .”

They followed him to the stairs, but Rhys paused there. “I’ve forgotten something in our bags.” Flashing her a mysterious smile, he turned to the innkeeper. “Take my wife up. I’ll be there shortly.”

As she and the innkeeper climbed the stairs, Juliana felt the man watching her, but her discomfort with that was quickly eclipsed when he ushered her into their room and she saw the bed.

The innkeeper walked around, showing her where the chamber pot was and extolling the virtues of the room, but she paid attention to none of it. All she could think
of was lying with Rhys in that bed. The mere thought of it warmed her all over. And made her nervous, too.

Just then, Rhys entered, a book tucked under his arm. He paid for the room and asked the innkeeper to notify him when the coach arrived. Within moments, they were alone. She didn’t know where to look, what to say to break the awkward silence.

Then he held out the book to her. “This is my wedding gift to you.” He flushed. “I suppose it’s vain of me, but . . . you see . . . these are poems I wrote myself.”

“Truly?” Intrigued, she turned the pages, skimming the Welsh verse copied out in a bold, male handwriting.

“The last few were written for you.”

She flipped to the back and read aloud, “ ‘Mine is a dank and cheerless song / Hung with heavy tears as long / As Juliana sits above / And is not mine to love.’ ”

“Not quite Huw Morus,” he said. “But it captures how I felt when I feared you might reject me.”

She clasped the book to her chest. “How could I, when you bring me such wonderful gifts?”

“So it’s my gifts you married me for, eh? What a greedy little thing you are.”

As he snatched her to him, she giggled. “I am greedy, you know. For your presence, for your smiles, for—”

“For this?” He brushed a kiss over her lips.

She sighed. “Oh yes.”

“So you like my wedding present,” he said huskily as he reached up to bury his hands in her unbound hair, crushing the strands between his fingers.

“Aye. ’Tis wonderful.” Remembering the rolled-up parchment
in her bag, she said, “And I have a gift for you, too. I will fetch it.”

“Later.” He buried his face in her neck, then began to kiss a path along her throat to her ear, making her shiver with excitement. “We’ve all the time in the world for that.”

True. Later she’d show him the deed to Llynwydd. Later she’d reveal that she, too, could give presents. But now . . .

He sucked her earlobe, and she moaned. Who’d have thought one’s ears could be so sensitive?

Then he drew back to shrug off his coat and toss it on a chair, fumbling for the ties of her stomacher. “Are you very tired? Do you wish to sleep?”

Why was he eyeing her like that? And what did he mean, sleep? Surely he didn’t think they could remain here for hours. “We really don’t have enough time for that,” she said, thinking of the note in her room.

“Not for sleeping,” he said in a low rumble. “But for other things.”

“Like what?”

Without a word, he removed her stomacher. “Has your mother or Lettice ever explained what a man and his wife do in the bedroom after they’re married?”

She blushed. “Like kissing and . . . and touching? Mama said it was only permitted between married people.”

“Yes, and we’re married now.” His intense stare frightened her a little. “Did she tell you what kind of touching takes place?”

“Not exactly.” Thinking of when he’d caressed her between the legs, she turned a bright red. “I imagine it would be like . . . what we did before.”

“It will. But we shall do much more,” he rasped.

Oh no,
now?
What if they missed the coach? What if they were discovered? “We don’t have time to do ‘much more,’ ” she said, unable to hide the panic in her voice.

He searched her face. “Is that what’s bothering you—our lack of time? Or are you simply scared of what we’re going to do?”

She hesitated. He looked as if he might eat her alive, and she was reminded that they hadn’t known each other long. “I don’t know.”

“Tell me this, then. Do you like it when I kiss you?”

“Yes, I do,” she couldn’t help admitting, afraid to meet his gaze. “I know it shows I’m not well-bred, but I can’t help it and—”

“Wait, wait.” He lifted her chin. “What do you mean?”

“Mama explained that men have strong feelings that well-bred women lack. She said only women of impure blood like Lettice feel that way, so since I . . . well . . . get excited when you touch and kiss me, I figured I must have impure blood.”

He looked stunned.

She swallowed hard. “You don’t mind that I have impure blood, do you? Mama says all the Welsh and Scottish and Irish have it, and even a few Englishwomen, although well-bred women like me aren’t supposed to.”

Something flickered in his eyes. “Your mother was wrong. Plenty of Englishwomen, even well-bred ones, have the feelings you speak of, although they pretend otherwise.”

“Why would they pretend?”

“Because people like your mother hold them to such an
impossible standard that they don’t dare admit the truth.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Believe me, you have the purest blood of any woman around, and your enjoyment of what we shall do in this room together in no way reflects upon that.”

Should she believe him? The way he made her feel had to be scandalous. Still, if he didn’t mind her having scandalous feelings, why should she? “You said we’d do more than kiss and touch. What did you mean?”

She felt his dark smile to the tips of her toes. He grasped one end of the neckerchief tucked into her bodice and drew the piece of silk toward him so it whispered over her skin like butterfly kisses. Then he skimmed his knuckles over the swells of her partially exposed breasts, making her breath catch in her throat.

His voice sounded almost strangled when he answered, “I think ’tis something better understood in the doing. All I ask is that you trust me.”

That had an ominous ring. “Why?”

“Because I intend to give you pleasure.” Then he began to undress her, showering her with hot, fervent kisses that made her blood race.

Only when her corset fell away, leaving her in just her shift, did she pull back. Her high-necked nightdress hadn’t been nearly so revealing, and she felt almost naked. Still, with the fiery look he gave her, she scarcely noticed the chilly air.

But when he began undressing, too, it gave her a start. After the night he’d caressed her beneath her nightdress while remaining fully clothed, she’d assumed lovemaking was one-sided—he did things to her and she let him.

Apparently not, for he now wore only his breeches. And when she lifted her hand to stroke his bare chest and he growled, “Yes, touch me. God, please touch me,” she needed no more invitation to explore the dusting of black curls, the well-defined muscles, the skin taut and smooth over hard sinew, like silk over steel.

Unlike her brothers, who were built like battle-axes, he was lean and sleek as a rapier and nearly as frightening, for she could feel the strength he held in check. The longer she stroked his skin, the more quickly his chest rose and fell, as if he couldn’t quite catch his breath.

Oddly enough, neither could she. Especially when he moved her hand to the buttons of his breeches, his eyes darkening to a rich cobalt. She jerked back in shock.

“I don’t suppose you’re ready for that,” he said in a rough rumble. “Never mind. I can do it.”

He undid his breeches and removed them, although mercifully he left his drawers on. This time when he took her in his arms, she felt something she hadn’t noticed before, a hard bulge between his thighs that pressed into her skin.

“Juliana,” he said hoarsely, “I want to touch you all over, as a husband touches his wife. Will you let me?”

All over. It sounded wonderful. And scary, too. “Yes.”

He wasted no time in slipping his hand inside her shift to cup her breast. With a happy sigh, she pressed herself into his palm. He’d done this before, and she’d liked it. A lot.

He thumbed her nipples until they tingled, then filled both hands with her breasts. When she clutched his waist,
he ravished her mouth, delving deep with his wicked tongue. She scarcely noticed when he dragged her shift down her until it whispered to the floor about her ankles.

“Oh, Rhys,” she whispered, twining her arms about his neck.

“There’s more, my love. So much more.” He gave her a scorching look as his hand slid sensuously down her belly to the secret, aching place between her legs. Unlike that night in her room, he was bold about what he wanted. Not content with merely cupping her and rubbing the cleft, he stroked further, until she felt his finger plunge inside her.

What in heaven’s name? She tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her, capturing her mouth with a possessive kiss. This time his tongue stabbed restless and deep as his finger probed inside her. Soon her faint urge to protest faded. What he was doing was so delicious, she wanted more. His fingers created a strange ache and then soothed it, all at once. Blindly, she grabbed his shoulders, wanting him to . . . to . . .

She didn’t know what. When she arched into his hand, rubbing against his palm, he whispered, “You like that, don’t you? You’re so warm, so wet . . .”

He bent to seize her breast in his mouth and she clamped his head to her in a kind of half-mad joy that made no sense. It was like the quick pierce of fear and anticipation whenever she raced her horse. His mouth drew on her breast, hot and ravening, making her body hum with excitement, especially in that place between her legs where his fingers still plundered her.

Then he drew back to shuck off his drawers before
walking her backward to the bed, his mouth scorching kisses over every inch of skin he could find. He tumbled her down and lay half over her, one knee parting her legs. She wanted his fingers inside her again, but didn’t know how to ask for such an embarrassing thing. When his knee brushed between her thighs, she arched upward in an unconscious bid for more.

With a sound half-laugh, half-groan, he caught her face in his hands. “Listen to me, my dear, wanton wife. I’m going to put myself inside you. ’Twill hurt a bit at first, but I’ll make it as easy for you as I can.”

You’ve already put your fingers inside me and it didn’t hurt
, she wanted to say, but he silenced that with kisses, long, hungry ones that intensified the sweet ache in her lower belly.

Then his legs were between hers, spreading her thighs apart, opening her to his questing fingers. Suddenly those were replaced by something else, something long and hard and wholly unfamiliar, sliding up inside her.

She tore her mouth from his. “Rhys, what—”

“Trust me,” he choked out. “I promise I’ll be gentle.”

As that mysterious part of him pushed deeper, stretching her inside, she wiggled beneath him. “Oh, but you’re not! It feels . . . too tight. There’s something wrong! ”

“Nay, ’tis always this way the first time for a woman.” He kissed her neck, then slid his tongue along her jaw.

“How do you know? You’re a
man
,” she snapped.

“Trust me, my love. If you’ll relax a little, it will go better.”

He worked his hand down between their bodies, then
caressed the hidden nub that seemed to be the source of all her enjoyment. She gasped and arched upward, planting him further inside her.

But that wasn’t enough for him, for he inched forward. “Hold on, love, and ’twill be all right in the end.” Then he thrust deep, making her cry out as something tore inside her.

“Rhys,” she whimpered helplessly. “Please . . .”

His mouth cut off her protest, all warmth and sweetness. Then he moved again, drawing out, then in, then out in a motion that at first gave her discomfort.

“Never forget that I love you,” Rhys whispered against her lips. “It gets better, I promise. But you must relax.”

She tried to do as he bade, and to her surprise felt the intrusive pressure lessen. And as he slid into her with slow, long strokes, his movements even began to warm her.

“Ah,
cariad
,” he murmured, “you feel so good, so tight.” He lowered his mouth to feed on hers, making her forget the invasion in her nether regions.

The more he caressed her mouth while driving that hard part of him into her, the less discomfort she seemed to feel. Her breath started to quicken and her heart to pound in anticipation of she knew not what.

Soon conscious thought forsook her. Her body seemed taken over by a wonderful bundle of urges that made her cry out without meaning to, arch up without her mind giving the command, and strain toward a greater closeness with him.

Apparently he felt it, too, for he abandoned any attempt to be gentle. His arms bracketed her body, the muscles
straining as he fell into a driving motion that put him deeper inside with every thrust. To her shock, she reveled in the lusty way he plunged into her, keeping her breathless. He was consuming her . . . no, he was annihilating her and in the annihilation was such . . . untold freedom. To give one’s body up like this . . .

“Juliana . . . my love . . .
fy
annwyl
mhriod
 . . .” he said, but she was so beyond thought she scarcely heard him calling her his “darling wife.”

He drove himself into her until they merged like two streams joining a torrent rushing to the sea. The current swept them both up, pushing them faster and faster toward the edge of a cliff by the dark, wild ocean, their limbs tangled together.

She strained against him, feeling the roar of pleasure in her ears. She didn’t know when she began chanting his name, writhing mindlessly beneath him, with him.

“Juliana! ” he cried hoarsely. “My God, Juliana! ”

“Yes . . . oh yes . . .”