When She Said I Do (11 page)

Yet I am the one with a very fine house.

Complete with a very strange husband inside it.

No matter. She soaked her washcloth in the salted, herbed warm water she had mingled in her washbowl and began to remove the remains of her mad, outrageous day from her skin. She was no silly child, to feel slighted by the Fates because her life did not resemble some sort of fairy story. She was far too practical to long for grand fantasies of love-everlasting, or some such nonsense. As husbands went, the mysterious Mr. Porter was no fantasy.

On the other hand, he wasn’t cruel in the slightest. Yes, he’d raged at her about the blasted ladder, yet she’d not been frightened by his noise. He’d been upset, of course. If she’d been married for more than two days, she might even think he’d been concerned for her.

She scoffed at herself as she ran the cloth over her arms and torso, luxuriating in the warmth of the glowing coals radiating on her bare skin. Mr. Porter had been no more concerned for her than he would have been for anyone who had nearly been injured. She paused, halting in the act of washing her neck. Didn’t that very fact make him a good man?

*   *   *

Ren had also taken some time to prepare himself. There was nothing he could do about his ruined face and broken form, but there was no reason to subject his bride to an unwashed monster.

If anything, he ought to try to polish up a bit.

Yes, be a pretty monster. That will help.

He wished he could stop thinking about her. All day, his thoughts had never been more than a moment away from her. From the way she’d felt in his arms when he’d snatched her from Death’s very jaws. His heart had pounded from the danger … and much more.

It was as though he’d awoken in that moment, truly awoken to the feel of her skin, the weight of her breasts, the sweet warmth of her breath as she sighed at his touch.

He felt quite wild with it, as if something he’d tried to pen up, to forget, had been unleashed. It was untamed and it was hungry.

All the more reason for care, for control. He dared not let her see him, not his face and not his dark, inner core where the man he’d once been had left a man-shaped hole not properly filled by the bitter angry urges of the beast. Any hint of that pain-born being would only ensure her departure at the earliest. She would leave anyway, as soon as she could. Even half the pearls would bring in a tidy bit of coin, so there was no guarantee that he would have an entire year with her.

You’re lucky to have had one night. Every moment she allows you to touch her is one more than you have any right to expect.

In his most recent room, wrestling himself into another loose-fitting shirt that was decades out of fashion, Ren caught sight of himself in a small mirror hung over the washstand. He thought he’d removed them all.

Stepping closer, he gazed at himself in the glass.
Yes, look hard. See what she saw when she screamed in terror. See what she will see if she ever dares to open her eyes.

He put one hand up to block the most damaged side of his face from his view. When he did this, he could get a glimpse of the visage that had greeted him the first twenty-five years of his life. It was like catching sight of a stranger he’d once known well. An older, worn, sallow version of that stranger. A crescent-shaped scar the size of a guinea marred his brow, and narrow white lines cut into his overgrown beard, but it was still a familiar sight.

He’d been called handsome, before. He’d certainly never had difficulty catching a girl’s eye, being always ready with a smile and a flirtatious word. He’d walked with confidence in a dangerous world, as sure of his superiority as he’d been of his immortality. He’d belonged in that world, as surely as Miss Calliope Worthington … Porter … belonged in her ridiculous family.

Brotherhood, camaraderie, a sense of being part of something larger and more important—more than enough reward, he’d thought then.

Until one of his brethren betrayed him into enemy hands, sold like an unbroken horse to a disreputable trader, without a care of the consequences to him. He’d believed in that mad band of misfit patriots—believed with a faith built of the same stone as his loyalty to them.

He moved his hand, to show the other half of his face.

Consequences.

The worst scar ran from his forehead down over the corner of his eye and down his cheek to his jaw. It pulled his eyelid down as if his flesh were melting and twisted his mouth into an ugly grimace. There were more scars, stretching back from his cheekbone and tracing through his hair, to the place where his skull had been cracked with a rock, a final act of mercy leaving him for dead.

Incompetent bastards. When one set out to kill a man, one ought to have the decency to see it through. Beaten, brained, and stabbed, and they still hadn’t managed to finish the job.

They’d driven a pike right through him, into his chest and out through his back. The rest of his injuries from that dark night that he could not recall were minor in comparison, but left his face and body a map of scars—a map that had led him here, to hide his monstrous self away while he waited for the end that a London physician had assured him would come mercifully soon.

He hadn’t cared. Why would he want to live in the world? To frighten children and make pretty girls scream at the sight of him? To make the local villagers twitch their fingers against the evil eye when they were forced by necessity to make deliveries to his cellar and his larder?

His hand dropped to his side and he gazed at his entire face.

Good morning, Mrs. Porter. How did you sleep last night, bedded in with your lurching Caliban of a husband?

One swift step brought him close enough to send his fist into the mirror, smashing the glass and cracking the elderly wooden frame into three pieces. As he placed his hand on the latch of his bride’s chamber door, Ren noticed his bleeding knuckles.

More scars for his collection.

*   *   *

“Keep washing.” The deep voice came from the doorway behind Callie, sending a jolt of surprise through her. She sensed him moving across the room toward her but kept her gaze on the small blue and gold flames darting through the coals of the fire.

“Keep washing.”

Slowly she bent to wet her cloth, then raised her arms to wring it, letting the rivulets flow down them to trickle over her body. The drops of hot water struck her chilled skin and she shivered at the contrast.

Then she ran the cloth over her arms to her shoulders and the back of her neck. A large warm hand covered hers there, taking the cloth from her.

“Allow me.”

The gracious phrase did not have the ring of a request.

Command.

For the second time that day, he bathed her. The warm cloth moved over her back, around to her belly, over her breasts, between her legs. Callie writhed slightly at his thoroughness. Why was this so much more intimate, more invasive, than his shocking exploration of her body last night?

Perhaps it was the tender care he took, or the way he swept her hair off the nape of her neck with one hand while he washed it with the other, or the way his warm exhalation tickled her ear when he reached around her from behind and she heard his breath catch as he slid both wet hands over her skin.

The night wrapped hushed about them. The house hovered silently over them like a protective shell, shutting out the world and its noise and bother, leaving only the soft
shush
of the washcloth on her skin and the crystalline
pings
of the water dripping back into the washbowl and the breathless thundering of Callie’s heartbeat in her ears.

It was arousal, yes, most definitely, but it was so much more—it was the way he spread her fingers to wash carefully between, as if she were a tiny child, and the way he cupped her chin in his warm fingers as he turned her cheek toward him to remove a smudge she’d missed.

When he put down the washcloth and picked up her hairbrush, Callie felt her throat close at the considerate, careful strokes of the bristles through her tangled hair.

She relaxed into the brush, sitting silent and naked with the fire warming her skin in front and Mr. Porter’s large presence warming her from behind. He kept on, stroke after stroke, long after her hair was shining and tangle-free.

She’d not known she needed such a thing until it was given to her. She’d not realized how the long years of nurturing others had kindled a deep and silent ache to be cosseted and cared for.

He had known. Mr. Porter must surely understand the arid lack of such in her life, or he would not handle her thus.

The poor man.

The poor, kind,
good
man.

“I like it when you are naked. I like it even better when you are naked and wet.”

Perhaps “good” wasn’t precisely the right description.

Yet Callie felt not even the slightest shiver of fear. He had saved her life today. The ladder … well, he clearly didn’t believe her, but once she’d worked the shaking out of her knees, she’d realized she could hardly think him guilty of endangering her and in the same breath thank heaven he’d been there to catch her!

Quite frankly, if he gave her the slightest encouragement to accost him, she would have him down on the carpet in a heartbeat, showing him exactly how much his thoughtfulness meant to her.

Slowly, now. Mustn’t frighten the wary wild thing away.

If she waited, patiently—well, stubbornly, anyway—and pretended a passivity she didn’t feel, he would show himself to her.

Oh, not the hood. She had no hope of that anytime soon. No, he revealed himself with the way he touched her. The sensation of being touched with such longing and deep, aching need was most exhilarating. Especially now that she knew that not only would he not harm her, but that he would go to great lengths to protect her.

So when he held out the shimmering little symbol of their bargain, she took the pearl upon her tongue and closed her eyes.

He stood and, taking her hand, brought her to stand up before him. The heat radiating from his body surrounded her, soothing and burning at the same moment.

“You belong to me, Mrs. Porter. For this little while, you are mine. I have bought you.”

Callie nodded, lowering her head in submission. The rough emphasis in his voice when he said the word “mine” … a streak of hot fire went through her at his intensity. It was a heady combination, this mingled excitement and trust, anticipation and faith. What might have been frightening became intense and stimulating. What might have shrunken her soul with fear became glowing and empowering. To be wanted the way this man wanted her … she’d never thought to know such a thing!

She wondered if she would want him the same when she had him in her grasp at last. She heard the rustle of fabric and knew that he had removed his hood. His face …

One really shouldn’t care about superficial things like that … yet, didn’t she revel in his lust for her body? Didn’t she want to be wanted? Surely he wanted to be wanted, as well?

Oh. Oh, my.
It was as though the key to him fell into her hands as she stood compliant at his command. He wanted her to want him … so he thought to make her want him so intensely, to taunt her body so wild with lust, that she wouldn’t care about his damaged face and form.

The sharp bite of sympathy went through her. Not pity. He was too powerful and intimidating to truly stir her pity. Yet, to be so sure one was unworthy of love … to think that manipulation and extortion was the only way … it was just bloody heartbreaking, that’s what it was!

She felt him lean in even closer. The crisp, clean scent of him was quite astonishing. Her rigid nipples brushed the silk of his dressing gown.

They stood so close they were almost one.

He leaned closer yet … and softly kissed her neck.

The exquisite tenderness of it quite took Callie’s breath away. Oddly, her eyes stung behind her closed lids as he trailed a line of small, warm kisses down her throat and then up the other side of her neck to her jaw.

She turned her head instinctively, seeking to meet his lips with her own. She felt him draw back.

“Be very still.”

Yes, he liked her to remain still. She would obey. She would be as still as a hunting cat in the dusk.

He kissed her cheek, then her temple, where his breath stirred the tiny hairs at her brow. He kissed below her ear and then traveled back, tilting her head down to kiss the back of her neck, moving around her slowly, working his mouth, now softer and warmer, now hot and wet, around the back of her neck and out along the ridge of one shoulder.

Then he came to stand in front of her again. This time when he kissed her throat, she lifted her chin and leaned slightly into his kiss. She couldn’t help herself. How was she supposed to feel when from the darkness came soft, tender lips and hot, tracing tongue and gently nibbling teeth? He was fair to driving her mad and he’d not yet shifted below her collarbone!

And then he did, dipping down her sternum until his lips pressed directly between her breasts.

Oh, yes. Yes, please. Please …

Then his mouth, seeking slowly, found her nipple at last.

Where before she’d experienced the demanding intensity of his hands, it had in no way prepared her for his mouth.

*   *   *

Fierce. Urgent.

Oh, Sweet Charlotte’s Arse! Oh, the
heat
! The swirling tongue and the way his teeth brushed gently across her hardening nipple, the way he sucked her in, deeper. A cry escaped her lips, wordless and wild. She could feel his need as he fed upon her …

A hot throb of wetness erupted between her thighs and her knees wobbled.

His response was to wrap both his big hands about her rib cage and pull her up, arching her back to bring her breasts to his seeking hot volcanic mouth.

She rose to stand on tiptoe, with no fear of falling whilst in his hot urgent grasp. Her head fell back in complete submission while he sucked first one nipple, then the other—sucked, licked, nibbled, sucked again, harder as she felt her nipples swell and spring forward as if begging for more. She would have begged as well, had not the pearl in her mouth kept her silent.