Wicked Nights With a Lover
Page 16

Unless she spoke. Unless she dared say what tempted her thoughts.
Silence stretched, hung suspended between them. She watched the snow fall in perfect fat flakes, and realized this would likely be her last Christmas. In days, it would arrive, this special time of year that had never been particularly special for her. Apparently, it never would be.
Her chest grew tight, thinking of that. Thinking of all the Christmases she’d spent alone, telling herself that next year would be better. That her next Christmas might be the one in which she didn’t feel so wretchedly alone.
Even when she visited Fallon or Evie, she’d always been a visitor, a spectator. That feeling only grew since they’d married. No matter how welcoming or warmly they treated her, she was a guest. Not family.
All her life she’d felt apart from the world and everyone in it. Alone. Isolated. Even when her mother lived, she’d been absent from Marguerite, staring into the distance, dreaming of Jack. At Christmas especially. Her mother would spend many an evening weeping for the lover who had forgotten to send a gift.
Clinging to the side of the bed, Marguerite imagined she felt Ash’s breath at her neck and shuddered. If she remained, if she accepted Ash’s proposal, she wouldn’t be alone this Christmas. She would be with him. Strange as it was, that might make for her best Christmas yet. She certainly couldn’t claim loneliness.
His hand closed around the curve of her hip, and she jumped. Warm fingers slid inward, following the dip to her belly. “I imagined you wearing this. Golden all over …”
Her breath fell harder.
There was no misunderstanding his intention. She understood perfectly. She felt the same. Felt alive, craving intimacy. Needed it. Needed him.
She drew a shuddery breath, caught in the struggle of wanting him … even if it led her further down the path she was trying to avoid at all costs.
He tugged, attempting to roll her onto her back. She resisted, curling her fingers tightly around the edge of the bed, not yet ready.
He relaxed his grip on her hip until his strong fingers slid free. She lay there half relieved and half regretting that he had released her. She uncurled her fingers from the edge of the bed, let her hand dangle.
After some moments, he sighed. The sound shuddered through her. “What are you so afraid of, Marguerite?”
She inhaled a panicky breath, alarmed that he should be able to read her so well. “Who said I’m afraid of anything? I’m not.”
“Maybe I’d believe that,” he replied, his voice a feather’s stroke down her spine. “If I hadn’t kissed you. If I hadn’t pulled you to me, felt the way your body responded—”
“Stop,” she snapped, squeezing her eyes as if she could block out his words, stop the rush of warmth they ignited in her, the longing that tugged her toward him. “You mustn’t speak like that.”
“Why not? This all ends tomorrow. If I’m to take you back, I’ll at least speak the truth.”
She closed her eyes, squeezing them tight. Tempted. So tempted.
“I want to marry you,” he growled. “This doesn’t have to be some sordid affair. It can be—”
She punched the mattress. “Don’t make this into something it isn’t. You don’t want to marry me. Not really. You wish to speak the truth, then do so.” Emotion burned a fiery trail up her chest. “You merely wish to satisfy your ego and marry Jack Hadley’s daughter.”
“That’s how this began, true, but—”
“Don’t fool me into thinking you’ve had a change of heart and actually feel some affection for me.” She laughed brokenly, the miserable sound curdling through her. Indeed not. That, unfortunately, was her. He wanted her for reasons that had nothing to do with her specifically, and he wouldn’t persuade her to believe otherwise.
“When would this affection between us have started?” she sneered. “When I admitted to being another man’s mistress? When I struck you in the face? Or was it when I ran away and sent you on a merry chase across the countryside? All acts that have endeared me to you, I am certain.” She paused for breath, chest heaving from the bitter rush of words. “I’m not some gullible, green girl.”
Heavy silence fell. His body thrummed beside her, the air crackling, rife with tension.
A hot tear slid down her cheek that she darted furiously away, swiping it to the pillow. For all her heated words, she wanted to be wrong. She wanted to think he felt something genuine for her. That would make the risk of marrying him tolerable.
Passion and a grand adventure might make her last days meaningful, but genuine affection and love would make her life worthwhile. A shame that love should be so elusive.
He sighed again. This time it was a tired sound, and she felt a little at fault for that—to know that she wearied him. “Good night, Marguerite.” She felt the bed shift and knew he had rolled so that his back was to her. Instantly, she felt colder, as if he’d taken the warmth with him. Left her alone. She felt a chasm yawn between them.
Morosely, she lay still for a long time and watched the snow fall in lovely plump flakes, sleep the last thing on her mind.
“I accept.”
For a moment, he said nothing and she thought he had not heard her. Perhaps he already slept.
“What did you say?”
A sigh rattled loose at the sound of his voice. She moistened her lips. “I accept.”
The bed shifted with his weight. “Accept what?” he asked, his voice full of hard demand.
She swallowed. “Your offer of marriage.” And the passion to come. She would have that. Assuming he wanted to pick up where they had left off this morning. But she couldn’t bring herself to confess that to him yet. One declaration a night was enough. For now. There would be time for passion later. After their vows.
Grasping her shoulder, he rolled her onto her back. His dark eyes glittered obsidian down at her. “Just like that? You accept? After all your refusals? After risking your neck and running away?”
She strove for a mild tone. “You offered a sound arrangement. I’d be a fool not to accept, a fact you pointed out on more than one occasion.” She’d be a fool to run from the prospect of more kisses like the one he had treated her to.
“Indeed,” he murmured doubtfully.
“Indeed,” she echoed.
His fingers flexed on her arm, each one a burning imprint. “What are you at, Marguerite? You don’t want to marry me.”
“There are a great many things I want. Marriage to you shall help me achieve them.” Most of them, anyway. At his continued silence, she challenged. “Have you changed your mind?”
He pulled back slightly. “Of course not.”
“Excellent.” Pulling free of his grasp, she rolled onto her side, presenting him with her back and telling herself she had not just signed away her life. “Good night, Ash.”
After several moments, in which she felt his dark-eyed stare boring into her back, he replied in a voice that reflected his total mystification with her, “You’re the most contrary female I’ve ever met.”
A humorless smile curved her lips. Ironic that the reliable, ever-practical Marguerite should be viewed as anything but a meek and passive creature. She did not entirely regret the designation. To her ears contrary meant … alive.
“What cat-and-mouse game are you playing with me?”
“I play no games.” None, at least, that she did not intend to win.
Chapter 13
Mhey made their way along the snow-laden north highway and crossed the border into Scotland with slow progress. Marguerite stared out of the carriage window at the rising snow, fearing they would become mired deeply at any moment. A curse or blessing, she could not decide.
When they at last arrived at the village, her resolve tottered precariously. She supposed misgivings weren’t unusual for a bride … but she wasn’t the usual bride. Marrying, embracing passion—according to Madame Foster—heralded her demise. Shaking off the sense that a noose was looping itself about her neck, she permitted Ash to guide her into the inn. Madame Foster also said her fate could be averted. It was not an impossibility.
Shortly after securing her into their room, Ash absented himself. A maid soon arrived with a package. Lifting the lid to the box, Marguerite gasped to find a dress within the delicate wrapping. He’d bought her a dress for their wedding day?
With shaking hands, she lifted the gown from the box. The dress overflowed in her palms, a rich plum with gold trim. She’d never owned anything so fine in her life. She fingered the delicate material, spreading it out upon the bed. It seemed to stare back at her, dazzlingly lavish, beckoning her to slip it on.
The most beautiful gown she had ever possessed—and the prospect of wearing it terrified her.
She swallowed tightly and took a step back, her head spinning. Perhaps they would bury her in it, too. She shuddered at the morbid thought. This wasn’t over yet. She wasn’t over.
She closed her eyes in a tight, pained blink. Suddenly, the memory of his mouth on hers, the titillating slide of his hands over her body, wasn’t enough. She could not do this. Not even to live out the passion she felt in his arms.
Panic feeding her heart, she glanced around the room, desperation knotting her stomach. She must act fast. He was likely fetching the reverend this very moment.
A knock sounded at the door, and she whipped around, praying it was not Ash.
She bade entrance, loathing the quiver in her voice. When a serving girl and two young men entered the room hauling steaming buckets of water, the tension in her shoulders lessened. Not Ash. Not yet, at any rate.
One of the lads, much younger than herself, gave her a saucy wink as he paused, sloshing water on the floor for all of his inattention to his task. She stared down her nose, marveling at his impertinence.
“They’ll be back,” the maid explained when the boys left the room with their buckets. As if Marguerite was concerned she would not have enough water for her bath.
As the maid busied herself about the room, tending the fire, Marguerite tried to devise a way out of the untenable situation. She stared longingly at the cracked door.
“Can I help you, miss?” the maid queried in the sharp voice of a schoolmistress, and Marguerite wondered if the girl had been assigned the task of guarding her. Did Ash suspect she would bolt? He had called her contrary after all.
The young men returned then. The arrogant one smiled at her and winked again. This time she didn’t look down her nose—she didn’t look away at all.
She gazed directly at him, even summoning a smile she hoped he would read as enticing. Perhaps even flirtatious. At this point, she couldn’t be too choosy. She’d take help where she could find it. Even from gangly youths.
His eyes widened a bit at her inviting smile. Encouraged, his gaze grew bolder, skimming her from head to toe with a new thoroughness. She abided his stare, deepening her welcoming smile as an idea took shape.
“Robbie, hop to it!” the girl snapped.
Robbie blinked and moved to the copper tub, pouring in the steaming water. Marguerite glanced at the serving girl, happy to see she was looking away, busy stacking linens.
Sidling near the boy, Marguerite whispered for his ears alone, “Interested in some company?” She winced as the words left her lips, wondering if he could possibly believe in the sincerity of such terrible tripe. There could be no worse dialogue at Vauxhall.
Terrible but apparently believable. His eyes widened and a smile hugged his lips. “Aye, love,” he whispered back. “I’d like that very much.”
She flicked an anxious glance to the maid. “Can you do something about her?”
“Och, my sister, Fiona?” He snorted. “I can handle ‘er.”
Marguerite lightly brushed his arm with her fingers. “I should like that. Until then, I eagerly await.” She glided from his side the moment his sister looked up. The maid’s expression turned cloudy as she stared at her brother. “Robbie, what are you still doing here? Get on with you. You’ve duties to attend.”