Chapter Eighteen
Laughter echoed in the distance, followed by a squeal of pleasure.
Doubtless the young maid was “fooling around” with Tom—perhaps they were sweethearts, promised to each other.
Olivia sighed. Most likely Betsy envied her for being a countess.
Being a servant, Betsy would be at the beck and call of her employers, but she had one privilege that was denied Olivia—the freedom to marry for love.
The innkeeper and his wife clearly loved each other.
The friendly, sporting exchanges between them were not due to disrespect or dislike, but the free, easy speech between lovers able to tease one another without fear of reprisal.
Much like Eleanor and Montague.
Oh, Eleanor. How I wish you were here to soothe my fears!
Eleanor had said that tonight Olivia had nothing to fear from her husband and everything to enjoy, provided she relaxed and conquered her embarrassment when her husband touched her intimately.
Olivia had to admit that the prospect of the wedding night sent a little thrill through her. And, if Betsy’s squeals of delight were anything to go by, the attentions of a man were something to take pleasure in.
But when she heard footsteps outside and caught sight of a shadow beneath her door she stiffened, curled her fingers around the bedsheet, and held her breath.
Was she expected to invite him in? Eleanor had said nothing about that.
Or would that be too forward and he would think her a wanton?
But then, might he be angry if she said nothing and kept him waiting? He didn’t seem to be a man who liked to be kept waiting…
…or disappointed.
What if she disappointed him?
She opened her mouth to call out, then checked herself.
What if it wasn’t him?
Oh, heavens! What am I supposed to do?
At length, the door creaked open, and she suppressed a cry.
Foolish girl—do you want him to think he’s married a weakling?
Her husband stood on the threshold, his huge body silhouetted against the light outside.
Then he entered and closed the door, plunging them into near darkness.
In the soft orange glow from the dying embers in the fireplace, she saw him approach the bed, moving as silently as a panther approaching its prey.
He pulled back the bedsheet, and the bed dipped and creaked under his weight as he slipped inside. She caught a flash of light reflected in his eyes as he lay back, staring at the ceiling.
Then he shifted closer, and his body heat almost seared into her skin. Olivia let out a whimper as her stomach somersaulted.
He was naked.
He rolled toward her, his eyes gleaming in the dark, then reached for her nightgown and tugged at it.
She held her breath as he pulled it up, but rather than her feeling a rush of cold over her exposed legs, her skin seemed to burn with the heat from his body.
He lifted a hand, and she let out a soft cry at the unexpected tenderness with which he touched her cheek, caressing her skin with his thumb.
He began to withdraw his hand, and she caught his wrist, arching her back to lean into his touch, seeking comfort from the tenderness.
“Please…” she whispered.
Without friends or family—without anyone who had ever loved or cared for her—even the slightest sign of friendship was like an oasis in a desert of loneliness. And if that was all that he could give her, then she would treasure it.
“P-please, my lord…”
He stiffened as she uttered the plea once more. Then he pulled her nightgown further up, exposing her naked body.
Just relax, Olivia, and you’ll be well.
With Eleanor’s reassurance in her ears, Olivia swallowed her fears and lay still, conquering her instinct to flee.
Her husband rose up, a dark shadow swelling in the air before her. Then, in a swift, sharp movement, he tore her nightgown apart and climbed on top of her. A shock of horror rippled through her as he grasped her thighs.
Surely this couldn’t be the tender pleasure that Eleanor spoke of?
“What’s happening?” she cried, growing rigid with fear.
He pushed her thighs apart.
“My lord!” she cried, shame and embarrassment swamping her senses. “Wh-what are you doing?”
He parted her thighs wider, and she let out a scream.
“No!”
He jerked back as if she’d struck him.
“M-my lord!” she sobbed. “I-I don’t know what…” She broke off, shaking as she drew in a ragged breath. “I-I mean…I haven’t…” She shook her head. “F-forgive me… I-is it supposed to be like…that?”
He drew in a sharp breath, then leaped off the bed. He approached the door, then she cried out as he rammed his fist into the wall.
“Stop!” she cried. “Don’t hurt yourself!”
He let out a sharp huff and turned toward her.
“Please!” she said. “Tell me what’s wrong. What must I do?”
He raised his arm and raked it through his hair. Then he approached the fireplace and crouched beside it. She caught a flare of light, then he held up a lit candle, and she let out a whimper.
His body glowed in the light of the candle—the sharp, chiseled features of his face, the broad shoulders and sculpted arms, and the planes of muscles on his chest, nestled together in pairs.
A thin layer of downy, dark hair covered his chest, growing thicker lower down, toward a thatch of dark curls from which jutted out…
Oh, sweet, sweet Lord! Even in her mind she couldn’t bring herself to voice it.
And he was going to put that inside her?
B-but it was so…
So big.
He narrowed his eyes and lowered his gaze to that part of him which seemed to shift and throb in the candlelight with a primal need, as if it beckoned to her.
Heaven save me…
A low growl reverberated in his chest—a predator readying himself to devour his mate.
Olivia glanced about the chamber, but there was no escape. He was blocking her access to the door. In any case, she belonged to him now. She had vowed, before the Almighty, to honor and obey him.
For several heartbeats he stared at her. Why didn’t he just devour her? Or did he savor her fear like he’d savored his port after supper?
Then he set the candle aside, picked up the cup on the dressing table, and smashed it against the wall. He took a shard and dragged it along the heel of his palm until a fat red droplet appeared, then he advanced on her.
“No!” she cried. “Please, no!”
Ignoring her pleas, he tore the bedsheet from her grasp and rubbed his palm across it, leaving a dark smear. Then he released the sheet and withdrew to the door.
“Don’t go!” she said as he opened it. “Come back inside—you’re supposed to…”
She faltered as he raised his hand and shook his head. Then he slipped outside, closing the door behind him.
Moments later she heard another door open and slam shut, then the sound of splintering wood—a fist pummeling the paneled walls in the adjacent chamber once, twice…five times in total.
Olivia held her breath, willing him to return—to tell her what she was supposed to have done. She heard footsteps and a creak, presumably as he climbed into the bed next door, followed by another series of thuds—he was giving a pillow the same treatment as the wall. Then, silence.
She drew her tattered nightgown around her and rolled onto her side, curling up. Only when she caught the distant sound of female giggling elsewhere in the inn did she surrender to her despair. Hot tears splashed onto her cheeks, blurring the glow from the fireplace.