“I’ll use my male wiles on you,” he said. His voice was sinful, and filled with a mad joy that was quite unlike his customary amusement.
Annabel shut her eyes and pretended she wasn’t lying on the ground. Then his mouth came to hers again, ravenous, taking her with all the savagery of his anger and the pleasure of his possession.
Ewan almost groaned at the ragged sound of Annabel’s breath, at the cries she couldn’t stifle against his lips. His hand memorized her softness, the precise movements that made her moan with pleasure, clench around his fingers and finally—finally catch his hair in her fists and twist up against his chest with a cry that burst from her lungs, leaving her breathless with the pleasure of it.
A moment later he scooped her into his arms and carried her into the house. The need to take her, to possess her fully, was pounding through his blood. His only thought was to put her on the bed and—
How the hell had he forgotten that there were no sheets on the bed? Only the stained tablecloth was there. He couldn’t put a lady on that. He stopped.
Annabel had her arms around his neck, but there were tears in her eyes. “What?” he asked, bending his head to kiss her. “Why tears?”
She shook her head and pressed her lips against his chin. He felt his body throb with need; he was coiled tighter than a spring, desperate for her body. So he rolled himself backward onto the cloth, stains and all. His ass burned from the bee stings, but her luxurious female curves hovered above him, making his vision blur.
Even though her eyes were still teary, she was smiling. After a hasty wrench at his breeches, he slid up, into her, completing her, completing him. She surged forward to meet him with a cry. And then he was thrusting into her with no apologies for his lack of finesse, just a joint madness and a shuddering pleasure that rocked between them.
Ewan threw back his head and tried to focus on the rough-hewn logs of the roof. He wouldn’t go without her—he wouldn’t—
His hips surged upward, demanding that she come deeper…his hands shaped her breasts until she fell forward, burying her face in his neck.
Harder and harder he pounded, his mind black, but the words kept beating in his head until finally he gasped them through the burning in his chest. “I don’t have to marry you just because we slept together. Or due to that scandal in London.”
She froze above him, her eyes wide.
“I have to marry you because you are mine.” He stared at her, craving her even as he took her, with a desire that would never die. “You are mine. Mine.”
There were tears sliding down her cheeks now, but she was with him, her body shuddering with his every stroke, coming to meet him.
“God Almighty, Annabel,” he finally said, his teeth clenched with his need to bring her with him. “I love you, don’t you see that?”
But then he finally lost the battle with his hunger. The air exploded from his lungs and his vision went black, and the only thing he felt was the shuddering of her body against his. And dimly, dimly through the explosion of pleasure in his body, he felt gratitude for the way she sobbed his name as she clenched about him.
Twenty-six
“This has gone far enough,” Imogen said, making her voice as clear and commanding as possible.
She and Mayne were alone in a sitting room in the Wood and Horn. They had traveled all day, and barely had time for baths and a change of clothing before a late supper. Directly thereafter, Griselda had taken Josie off to bed and left Imogen and Mayne together.Yet that rather astonishing intimacy seemed to have gone unnoticed by Mayne. For the last hour, he had been seated before the fire wrapped in a fascinating book about halters and bridles he’d discovered in a corner. She had spent the time examining the room: one long-necked bottle of wine, one suit of armor minus an arm, one portrait of a Miss Jogg. She knew the name of the long-nosed young lady because she’d actually gone over to examine her tarnished name-plate.
That was how tedious the evening was.
“What has gone far enough?” he asked, not even looking up.
“Your indifference toward me.”
She finally got his attention; Mayne blinked and looked up.
Imogen had meant to be seductive, once he stopped reading his musty book. She meant to dance across the floor and perch on the edge of his armchair and coax him into taking liberties with her, or flirting with her, or doing anything that would make her feel as if she were a beautiful, desired lady.
Instead she heard with horror her own voice crack as she said, “Surely you despise me.”
Mayne put down his book. “Are you asking me to kiss you?”
The words were at her lips before she could stop them. “How can you spurn me when you’ve accepted every invitation offered in the past ten years?”
She was seated opposite him, her hair gleaming in the firelight, her low-necked gown a shade of rose that suited her dark coloring. With that wild light in her eyes she looked like a passionate gypsy, the kind who would steal a man’s purse and his heart at once.
“I do not wish to go to bed with you.” He saw her shoulders grow slightly rigid and felt a pang of guilt.
“Why not?”
“Put it down to my age.”
“You’re not so old. Don’t you think—” She paused and he saw her throat work for a second. “Don’t you think I’m beautiful?”
He stood up. She was right: he had always been catholic in his tastes, and she was both lovely and available. He brought her to her feet, but even as he did so, he knew…he just knew.
She met his eyes and now there was fury in hers. “I hate you!” she cried.
He dropped his hands instantly. “I expect you do.”
“How dare you…how dare you. I saw you try to make yourself and then you—you—”
“Which has everything to do with my incapabilities and nothing to do with you.”
She froze. “Are you incapable?”
For a second he toyed with the idea. Let her spread the word that he was a limp lily…but no. Instead he walked over to her and crushed his mouth onto hers. Her lips were plump and full and tasted of tears and anger. His body had never failed him, not even after two bottles of brandy, and it didn’t now. He pulled away from her, took her hand and deliberately pressed it to the front of his trousers.
“There!” he said, voice bleak. “Am I incapable?”
A tiny, triumphant smile curled her lips. “No.”
“But there’s more to me than functioning equipment. I would guess that your husband was as bungling riding a woman as he was a horse.”
She gave a small squeak but he didn’t stop. “So now you’re wanting to use me, like a square of gingerbread at the fair, to amuse yourself and make you forget your memories.”
All that weariness he felt at the very idea of tending to another woman in bed, of making her dewy-eyed so that she’d coo and promise she’d never felt that before—all that weariness came into his voice. “You don’t give a damn about me, Imogen. And to be brutally honest, I don’t give much of a damn about you either. And that’s where we are.”
She stared at him, eyes wide, fist clenched to her mouth.
“People like us shouldn’t be going to bed together. There’s no bloody point in it. Don’t you see that? You married for love, for God’s sake!”