Chapter 20
Something was wrong. Something was very wrong, and that wrongness burrowed under Clio’s skin, making her feel itchy and twitchy and—just wrong.
She made a disgruntled sound, searching for the problem so she could put it right, but all she could find was more—more badness, more worry, discomfort, and fear.
She was cold, she realized. She was asleep, or halfway there, and she was cold.
And alone. She always slept alone, so this was normal, or at least some reasonable part of her tried to argue.
But this wasn’t normal alone; she felt that deeper than any rationality could penetrate.
This was bad. It was forever. She was alone, and she would always be alone, and she would never get warm, it would just be colder and colder and—
“Clio.”
A low voice, rough with sleep. Then, a hand on her shoulder. A warm hand, impossibly warm.
“Clio, sweetheart. You’re dreaming.”
A shake.
“Clio.”
With a groan and a great heaving effort, Clio dragged herself the rest of the way to wakefulness.
Hector was looking down at her, his unfashionably long black hair a tangle around his face, his eyes shockingly blue even in the dim of the room, which was illuminated only by the embers of the banked fire.
Clio didn’t pause to think. She threw her arms around his neck and clung to him.
“Och, lass,” he said, and Clio wasn’t certain that she’d ever felt anything as comforting as the deep rumble of his accent as his voice went through her.
He was so solid under her arms. Solid, and present, and as true as anything she’d ever felt.
“You are fine. You’re fine. You’re safe. I’m right here.”
It was the kind of soothing nonsense that you told a frightened child, or a horse, and if Clio had been a little more in control of her racing pulse, she might have objected to it. As things were, however, she sank even more firmly into his embrace.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered into his chest, even as she dug her fingertips into his shoulders. “I just …”
“A bad dream?” There wasn’t any judgment in the question.
She nodded miserably. It sounded so silly. It was so silly that she, a woman grown, would be reduced nearly to tears by a frightening dream that wasn’t even about anything.
“Tell me about it,” he said, rubbing circles on her back. “It helps, sometimes.”
She shook her head, not in refusal, necessarily, but because she was already embarrassed enough, and she didn’t know if she could stand the feeling of foolishness if she put it into words.
“It was nothing, it was just …” She sucked in a soothing breath, finding it even more calming when she got a lungful of his soapy, masculine scent. “I was just alone. I know that sounds—”
“No,” he said gently. “I understand.”
It was so simple, that assurance, but it made her feel as though she might cry.
“You do?” she asked, hating the hopeful sound in her voice.
“Aye,” he said, laughing, but clearly not laughing at her. “Trust me, princess. I do.”
For some reason, this made her laugh too, another airy sort of sound. It wasn’t funny, not really, but there was a wonderful sort of relief in knowing that he had felt this, too, even if it was horrible.
He rubbed a few more circles on her back.
“What do you need, sweetheart?” he asked, as though this question was so easy and not the most complicated thing in the world.
And yet, somehow, the way he asked made it seem simple for once in her life.
She looked up at him and found his face inches from hers. That comforted her, too. It was so astonishing how familiar his face had already become.
“Make me feel good,” she whispered.
He hesitated just long enough for her to see his smile. And then his mouth crashed down on hers.
She melted into his kiss, letting his strength support her.
It felt so good to lean upon him, to know that he was strong enough to hold her up.
She had spent so long trying so hard to prove that she could do things herself, that she didn’t need her brother, that she didn’t need a husband.
That she was fine when she was alone. That she preferred it that way, even if deep down, she knew it was a lie.
It felt so bloody good to just … let go.
“You delight me,” he murmured into their kiss, and Clio shivered at the strange effect this praise held over her. “You constantly surprise me. You utter marvel.”
She wanted to preen under the words, but she had already shown enough of herself.
“You never thought you would end up here?” she asked.
It was as though the movement away from fear left her more open to feeling than usual, and Hector was determined to fill up every inch of that space with joy. Or maybe it wasn’t just him; maybe it was them, together.
“Never,” he said, but he didn’t sound disappointed about where they’d ended up.
And, to her astonishment, she found that she felt the same.
He moved his hands up to her hair, scraping his fingernails against her scalp lightly and winding the strands through his fingers. She shivered and twisted so that she was half atop him; he palmed her arse through her chemise and dragged her the rest of the way.
When she put her hands on his shoulders to steady herself, he was smiling at her, and she realized that she still was, too.
This was the first time they had come together without arguing first, she realized. And it wasn’t less wonderful for it, wasn’t any less heated or wonderful or consuming.
No, it was more. It was all those things, and it was comfort. It was companionship. It was fun.
“Is that all you have to offer me?” she teased, letting her wait settle more heavily upon him. He was, she realized in dismay, completely dressed. His shirt was even tucked into his trousers.
Even with all that clothing, though, she could feel the hardness of him. She bit her lip and held his gaze as she squirmed her hips against him, thrilling as she saw his pupils blow wide.
“Clio,” he said, the word a rumbling, delicious warning. “I warned you. I meant what I said. We are not consummating our marriage in your cousin’s house.”
She pouted. He reached forward and nipped her lip, then toppled them backward so that she was lying on her back and he was atop her.
“Spoilsport,” she accused.
“Och,” he chided, sounding phenomenally Northern, indeed. “You won’t be saying the same in a little while, princess.”
She tried to wiggle out from beneath him and was extraordinarily pleased when he pinned her too firmly to allow it.
“Don’t challenge me, Clio,” he said, which, of course, made her determined to do precisely that.
“Or what?” she asked, raising her chin. “Do you know, Your Grace, I am starting to think that you are all talk.”
If she had any further comments to make, they were kissed right out of her mouth as Hector dove back down to consume her mouth anew. His tongue explored hers; he kissed her like he was dying, like she was the only thing standing between him and the end of his days.
She held him just as tight. She let her fingers trail through his hair, tugging roughly, then moving down to the back of his neck. Her thumbs landed behind the groove of his ears, and she focused briefly on the difference in texture between the scarred side and the undamaged one.
She liked feeling them both. They were proof that this was Hector, her Hector—even if, she thought with a pang, he wasn’t truly hers at all.
But she wanted to feel him now, wanted to feel all the pleasure he could offer her, so she rejected that thought, pushed it away until she couldn’t hear it echoing in her head any longer.
He kissed his way down her neck, leaving each inch with the soft caress of his lips.
He paused at the place where her pulse thrummed in her neck and sucked lightly there.
Clio should have been horrified over the possibility that he might leave a mark, but something inside her thrilled at the idea instead.
She’d packed at least one gown with a high neck, hadn’t she?
It was so hard to think or to care at the moment.
“Are you starting to feel better, princess?” he purred into her skin.
“Yes.” The word was a sigh, a puff of air shaped only faintly by vowels and consonants. She felt too lovely to try for more.
“Do you think I could make you feel even better?”
They both knew he could, so why bother asking? She hummed a vague agreement, soaking up the rough pads of calluses on his fingers as he touched her arms, her collarbones. She luxuriated in his warmth like a cat in a sunbeam. She thought she might never feel cold again.
Except then there was a rending sound and the fluttery kiss of cool air on her skin as he took the neck of her chemise in his powerful hands and ripped the fine linen right down the middle.
“Hector!” she gasped, possibly more scandalized by this than she had been by anything else they’d done together.
His eyes gleamed down at her.
“I asked ye a question, princess,” he said. “It seemed that I didn’t have your attention. Now, I do.”
Her low belly clenched at his rough tone. But she was Clio, and he was Hector, and so she feigned being unaffected.
“You owe me a new shift,” she said accusingly.
He kissed the spot between her breasts, and any effort at pretending to be angry evaporated.
“Haven’t you heard, sweetheart? I’m a duke. I can afford it.”
She laughed at that, and when he kissed a line down her belly, she could tell that his lips were curved up into a smile.
She knew where he was going this time, so as he traveled lower, down over her ribs and to the bones of her hips, she trembled with anticipation of that touch where she needed him most. He made her wait for it, the obstinate wretch that he was.
His fingers traced aimless patterns on her thighs, her sides, even the outer curve of her behind.
She found herself babbling insensibly.
“Please, Hector.” Her voice sounded very far off. “Please. Don’t make me wait. I need you.”
Maybe it had been his plan all along, or maybe her begging pleased him enough to grant her wishes, but he gave in, pressing his mouth to her center.
He licked and sucked at her like he was a man dying, and that made sense, because she was dying, too, because certainly nobody could live through this onslaught of pleasure.
One of his hands gripped her outer thigh so roughly that she knew there would be small bruises, and the idea was nearly enough to tip her over into her crisis. She needed just a little bit more, however.
“Hector, please.” She didn’t know any other words. “Please. Please. Please.”
His fingers were a too gentle touch at first, and then they weren’t; they were plunging, reaching, seeking something—
And when he found it, she fell, tumbled into sensation, everything in her clenching and relaxing so marvelously, and her hands were in his hair, and one heel was pressing into the mattress so she could push herself up against his mouth even harder.
And God, God. How could she have ever felt alone when he was right here with her?
She was still mumbling when the ringing in her ears faded.
“Marvelous,” she said. “Utterly marvelous. You’re a terror. A wonderful terror.”
He guided his mouth away, then his hands. He pressed a damp kiss to her hip, then manhandled her over onto her side. He laid down behind her and pulled the covers over them, tucking her neatly into the curve of his body.
He was still fully dressed and, even so, Clio could feel the burning heat of his arousal against the curve of her rear.
“Can I not—” she asked vaguely, sounding practically drunk as she reached back a hand in a clumsy grab.
He caught her fingers and pressed a kiss to the back of her knuckles, then tucked her hand firmly around her front, his arm over her, keeping her in place.
“Not tonight, princess,” he said, and Clio realized that the nickname had become dear to her at some point along the way. “Just sleep, all right?”
He could not have made an easier request; she was already halfway back to sleep. She grumbled her assent, just so that he knew she wasn’t completely giving in, and he pressed another laughing kiss to the back of her hair.
As a heavy blanket of darkness pulled her under, Clio smiled faintly. This had been good. This had been right. Maybe it would even fix things.
Except in the morning, when she woke, she woke alone, the bedsheets abandoned and already gone cold.