Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (32 page)

      
She took comfort in the words, the earnestness of his voice. “You said we could live in America only part of the time?” she asked hopefully.

      
“I have a business that requires that I be there at least part of each year, but we could return to Naples for frequent visits—extended visits. I am an American now,
cara,
and I would like for you to see my new home and judge for yourself its merits. I do not believe you would find it all that oppressive a place if you gave it a chance...if you give me a chance.”

      
She nodded slowly, her thoughts tumbling about in her head too rapidly to sort out all at once. “Yes, I—”

      
The sounds of good-natured revelry interrupted their conversation as Derrick scooped Beth up into his arms and carried her from the portico to the flower-bedecked carriage waiting for them at the entrance to the garden.

* * * *

      
Derrick had purchased the small phaeton to have reliable transportation now that he was going to reside here permanently with his wife.
His wife
. He looked over at Beth as he reined in the matched bays at the entrance of the modest villa he had let on the outskirts of the city.

      
They had spoken little on the ride. He jumped lithely from the rig and reached up to assist her down as the servants who came with the villa filed dutifully out to greet their new master and his bride. When he placed his hands about her slim waist, she seemed to float from the carriage, a vision in peach and gold, lush and tempting as summer fruit ripening on a tree.

      
Thoughts of ripening led his mind to wonder again if she were indeed breeding. Would he recognize his own child? No difficulty if only Kasseim were involved, but since both Beth and the infamous Irishman had red hair, there would be no way to tell if Quinn had fathered her offspring. His troubling reverie was broken by the sudden sound of barking as a raggedy bundle of fur trotted around the side of the house, tail wagging excitedly.

      
Beth had felt the strange and disturbing undercurrent flow between them as Derrick lifted her from the phaeton. The sound of Percy's barking was a welcome distraction. Derrick's hands left her body as he turned toward the dog, attempting to keep the spaniel from tearing their finery.

      
“Oh, Percy, you should not wear yourself out,” she said, kneeling to pat his shaggy head and examine his wounds, which were healing nicely.

      
“Jacomo arrived early this morning with him in tow.”

      
He did not sound pleased. Beth looked up at her scowling husband. “He is your dog now that his old master is dead, and I—”

      
“And you are my wife, so of course, the dog comes with you. Only let him sleep with the lad in the servant's quarters. He has wreaked quite enough havoc with the household already. I scarce had an unchewed pair of dress boots or a cravat the blighter hadn't slobbered upon when I went to dress for our nuptials.”

      
She suppressed a grin. “You will behave from now on, won't you, Sir Percival?”
 
she asked gravely of the dog, whose tail thumped furiously on the grass. The spaniel gave a sharp bark, looking from Beth to Derrick. “See there: He gives his word.”

      
Derrick cocked one dubious eyebrow and nodded as he extended his hand to help her up. “We shall see.”

      
Jacomo, who had been waiting with the other servants, stepped shyly forward at his new employer's summons and held the dog as Derrick made introductions to the staff, then escorted his new bride into the villa.

      
“Tis small, but comfortable, I think,” he murmured as they walked from the trellised portico inside the main foyer.

      
On one side of it three stone steps led to an airy parlor. Its glass-paned doors opened onto the terrace at the opposite end of the room. Across the entryway through another arched doorway an enchanting dining area was filled with fresh flowers. The fragrance of a slow-simmered marinara sauce wafted from the kitchen to the rear. Two places were set on the polished walnut table, hers close at the side of his in the master's chair.

      
In front of them a stone staircase, its treads hollowed out by centuries of footsteps, curved upward to the second story. “Our sleeping quarters are above. I instructed the servants to draw you a bath before we dine...if that is your wish.”

      
He sounded like a punctiliously polite stranger, not the teasing, carefree Derrick she had known.
He's trying. You musty too,
she reminded herself. “That would be lovely. This gown is so stiff and uncomfortable, I should like to get out of it.”

      
“I should like to see you out of it, too, my love,” he murmured, sweeping her once again into his arms and climbing the stairs. Once in the spacious bedroom, he set her down, then showed her to the balcony overlooking the countryside. The villa was built on a small hillside, and a lush vista of vineyards and fig orchards stretched to the horizon.

      
“Tis lovely,” she said.

      
“Yes, indeed,” he replied, nuzzling her neck while his fingers began unfastening the silk-covered buttons down the back of her dress.

      
“The servants—”

      
“Have orders not to disturb us until I summon them.”

      
She gave in to the heady rush of passion that his hands and warm lips evoked, leaning back against him, closing her eyes and remembering all the other times, the lazy afternoons and languid nights of loving him. But this is different, irrevocable, this will make you his wife.

      
As if sensing her hesitance, perhaps echoing his own, Derrick turned her into his embrace as he whisked the unfastened gown down her arms. It fell to her feet and lay in a glittering puddle. She stood in a thin white silk chemise and slip, both delicately embroidered with lace, the fabric so sheer that the warm tones of her flesh were almost visible through it. His seeking lips found the pulse hammering at the base of her throat. Her head dropped back and her arms draped over his shoulders, allowing him access to that which he so desperately craved.

      
Her quiescence only served to inflame him. Stand so languidly, would she?His desire was matched by a fierce need to have her want him as much as he wanted her—to have it be as it used to be when they had first become lovers. That seemed a lifetime ago now. He let his mouth travel across her collarbone, then down to the full high thrust of her breast, wetting the tip through the silk so that it stood out, a hardened little nub of deepening pink. When she moaned and drew his head closer, he swept her up and carried her over to the big high bed at the opposite end of the room.

      
He laid her on the bed quickly, almost dropping her on the soft pillows as he stepped back and began tearing off his own clothing. Beth's eyes flew open. She lay still, watching as he worked methodically and efficiently to rid himself of his wedding finery. How well she knew what lay beneath, the splendid male beauty of his flesh. He had undressed unashamedly in front of her often. But this was different. She could sense it and suddenly felt vulnerable, lying with her slippers and stockings still on, her dampened chemise clinging to her aching breasts.

      
It seemed but a moment until he was standing over her, completely naked, his staff hard and pulsing. The tip of it glistened with a pearly drop of semen as he placed one knee on the edge of the bed. He reached out wordlessly and took her hand, the left hand with the wedding ring on it, and placed it around him, shuddering when she stroked him, still saying nothing.

      
“Derrick—”

      
He reached down and lifted her up into his arms, his mouth smothering her entreaty, whatever it would have been. Kneeling on the bed, they shared a kiss of searing intensity. His tongue plundered deep inside, teasing forth a response from her, driving in and out as he held her pressed close against his hot, bare skin. The barrier of sheerest silk seemed to add a wicked enticement to their embrace. Then, without breaking the kiss, he began to slide the chemise straps down her arms, pausing when the garment caught on the tips of her breasts.

      
The soft rasp of the silk made her whimper with longing. She ached for his mouth on the sensitive nipples once more, but he only pulled the chemise past them, then untied the tapes of her slip and shoved all the undergarments down so they fell around her knees. Finally his mouth left hers, breaking off the kiss as if he were a drowning man struggling for breath. She could see the pulse pounding in the strong column of his neck. The muscles of his arms were taut as he guided her to lie back on the bed once more, then followed her, looming over her like some dark and desperate god.

      
His bare skin gleamed with perspiration as he braced his arms rigidly on either side of her while his knee parted her legs. The silk undergarments were tangled about her ankles now,but before she could protest, he plunged deep inside her with a great shuddering sigh, murmuring her name as his eyes closed. The old familiar heat of this joining scorched her, and she moved her hips restively when he remained still. Then, with a soft murmur he began to stroke, swiftly, powerfully.

      
He felt her skin, softer than the silken things he'd torn from her body, felt the wet heat of her tighten around him, her hips writhing, imploring him. And all he could think of was the sheer exquisite ecstasy of making love to her.
Making her my wife
. No, he did not want to think of that. He only wanted to feel, to revel in the way they fitted together, the way she was his and only his, to exorcise from their consciousness the memories of Quinn and Kasseim and any other lovers she might have taken after he'd left Naples.

      
Any child she had would be his. He would think of it no other way. But that had proven impossible for him ever since Blackthorne had raised the issue. This then was his despair. But when he smelled her scent, touched her flesh, felt the searing need for her pounding through his veins, then all thought was obliterated. In loving her he found surcease for the moments that the mindless bliss lasted.

      
He labored to make it last, gritting his teeth, holding back his completion as he felt her body spasm around his, the tight rhythmic contractions squeezing him as he held on, slowing down, waiting for her whimpers of pleasure to quiet, for her body to relax in satiation. Then he began again.. and again .

      
There was an almost demonic frenzy to his lovemaking, a driven despair that frightened her. But in spite of it, her body, so hungry for his, could only give in to the pleasure he brought her. Her eyes opened as she looked up into his face, seeing the fierce grimace of concentration. He was holding back, letting her climax three times while he still did not allow himself satiation. She ran her hands up over his arms and chest, down his hard belly and around his straining back, feeling the sweat-slicked muscles bunch and flex, the blood pounding through his veins.

      
“Now, Derrick, fill me!” she murmured, arching high as her legs locked around his hips.

      
And he was lost. A deep guttural cry tore from him as he spilled his seed deep within her in the most intense, wrenching orgasm of his life. He collapsed on top of her, panting and sweat-soaked, his face buried in the sweet fragrance of her hair. One of the opal combs lay tangled in the ruins of her elaborate coiffure, winking at him. He rolled off her, closed his eyes and fell instantly into an exhausted sleep with his arm stretched across her waist just beneath her breasts. Holding her possessively, Derrick could not relinquish their closeness, even if it was only physical.

      
Beth lay beside him, looking at his face as he slept. She reached over and brushed at the black lock that fell across his brow, then stroked his jawline. His face appeared younger in repose, all the wariness evaporated, the harsh mocking gleam in those blue eyes gone for the moment. She felt his despair still hanging in the air, a palpable thing, and knew that what had just passed between them had everything to do with possession. And nothing to do with love.

      
Tears burned her eyes, but she blinked them back, staring up at the canopy overhead. Her body was satiated almost to the point of numbness, but her soul remained hungry.
Oh, Derrick, husband, what have we done?

      
She gently removed his arm and swung her legs over the side of the bed, wincing at the tenderness inside her. He had used her hard, glorying in her helpless cries of release, yet trying to hold himself aloof. That he had not been able to do it gave her satisfaction. Only when she stood up did she realize that her torn silken undergarments still clung to her ankles. She kicked them away, looking down at her snagged stockings. One garter was pulled lower than the other. Both slippers had been lost in the bedclothes. Rather than search for them, she picked up the undergarments and walked from the bedroom into the dressing room, where she sat down on a chair. She felt in dire need of that hot bath Derrick had promised her when they first arrived.

* * * *

      
Bright moonlight splashed across the bed, spilling inside the canopy curtains, which had not been drawn. Derrick awakened slowly, as if from a trance. At once his hand groped across the bed,searching automatically for Beth. She was not there. He rolled over and felt something prod him in the back. Reaching for it, he saw that it was one of her gold silk slippers. Its mate lay at the foot of the bed. Then the desperate interlude from earlier in the evening came back to him, and he clutched the slipper so tightly that he crushed it in his hands. Just as he had crushed her with his lust and despair. He had made her his wife, but he had treated her badly, perhaps even hurt her physically. Feeling sick, he tossed the slipper away and placed his head in his hands.