Chapter 36
Thirty-Six
Have you ever traveled by sleigh? The experience is wonderful, particularly if you leave behind an ancient abbey, a mausoleum full of bones, and a motley collection of ghosts—not to mention, a woman with murderous intentions.
The abbey sleighs were painted a dark crimson that shone against the dark woods and white snow. Each sleigh was drawn by stamping horses, tossing their heads, shivering under their rugs. Coachmen sat on the front seat, each with a groom holding a long rifle in case wolves made an appearance.
Godric, Ophelia, and I climbed into the first sleigh. We sat down on sheepskin-covered seats and wiggled our toes on hot bricks. A groom tucked thick merino wool rugs over us and then heaped more sheepskins on top.
I have never forgotten that ride in the snow-scented air, the boundless forest stretching away in all directions, the jingle of the horses’ harnesses and reins.
Godric’s shoulder brushed mine, his left leg snug against my right leg.
Under the blue merino rug, one of his hands settled on my knee: an innocuous gesture, meant to offer comfort.
As woods whipped by us, warmth spread down my legs from that simple touch.
I fancied I could feel each of his fingers through my stockings, chemise, thick traveling gown, and mantua.
The woods were hushed, and the sky seemed to hang low, like great swaths of gray silk, a grand dame’s voluminous skirts. As we slid toward the base of the mountain ridge, fir trees became interspersed with sturdy oaks.
“More snow tonight,” Godric said in my ear. “We may have to remain in the inn for a few days.”
I didn’t care where we were, as long as it wasn’t the abbey, and he and Ophelia were with me.
There was nothing impermissible about his hand; he hadn’t touched me anywhere other than my knee. And yet the closer we came to the inn, the more I felt like a kettle on the boil. Our eyes met, his widened, and my heart quickened.
“Evie?” his voice was so quiet it couldn’t be heard over the sound of snow beneath the rails.
I smiled at him because the truth of it was in my heart. This would be the first night of our life. In time, Burnsby would be no more than an unpleasant memory, but to the end of my days, Godric would be next to me.
In a sleigh, in a carriage, in bed.
I wasn’t afraid any longer. “Yes, please,” I said, trusting him to know what I was talking about.
Godric wasn’t like Lance, prone to uttering a stream of curses when deeply moved. I saw a flush come up in his cheeks, and his lips shaped a word or two.
His hand tightened. I sat still and savored the way his hand covered my entire kneecap.
Our chamber at the Pickle and Crowdie shone with wax candles. The sheets were sprinkled with almond blossom scent, and the dressing table held a tray with all manner of delicacies, as well as a bottle of champagne and two glasses.
Did I mention that Tess had chosen a lace nightgown that I hadn’t seen in months?
(My maid couldn’t have made it more obvious: I wasn’t to leave the room until my marriage was consummated.)
After that, my memory becomes somewhat spotty.
When Godric lay down naked beside me, I came up on my knees before he could reduce me to a shivering body who took pleasure rather than giving it.
“May I?” I asked, my hands hovering.
“Always,” he said with a driving conviction that settled my nerves. He put his arms behind his head.
“I will learn how,” I assured him.
“We’ll both learn. It’s new for me, too, Evie.”
I trailed a finger down Godric’s neck, blotting a drop of sweat.
His whole body quaked as my fingers drifted down his chest. I kissed his lips, his chin, the thick cords of his neck.
Wiggling farther down in the bed, I remembered the way he had sucked my nipples, and I ran my tongue over one of his, imitating what he’d done to me.
“You’re doing that?” he said hoarsely. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“Mmmm, salty,” I said, loving the way his chest was heaving.
His hands weren’t behind his head any longer. “Kiss me, Evie.” He lifted me so I skated over his body and my open mouth met his, my legs falling to either side of his hips. Our tongues twisted together in a filthy way (surely the right word).
When I drew away to take a breath, we were both panting. I was very aware of the thick, hard length underneath me.
I gulped and told myself I could do this.
Moving to the side, I ran my hands down to his stomach, exploring the hollows between his muscles, and then down to his—
To that.
It wasn’t as ugly as I had initially decided. In its own absurd way, it was . . .
(No, it was ugly, but I didn’t need to comment on the fact.)
I couldn’t be a lady afraid to name body parts. That was a cock. Those were his balls.
Drawing my fingers lightly over those parts made my husband groan, teeth clenched, his hips rising. I froze until his hand took mine and showed me how to pleasure him.
I could scarcely believe it. Godric—composed, legal, thoughtful Godric—was sweating, his eyes gleaming slits, his face open and hungry and urgent.
He drew me back up his body so that we could kiss again; this time his hands ran everywhere, over the curve of my arse, down between my legs. I felt engulfed with lust.
“I’d like to make love now,” I said, my voice louder than I intended.
“We have a lifetime of nights ahead of us.”
I smiled—a real smile. “All those nights, too.”
Godric eased me onto my back and bent his head, sucking one of my nipples into his mouth. I yelped as my body lit up. Then he rubbed his swollen cock through my folds.
He moved slowly, his eyes searching my expression, perhaps anticipating the stab of agony Miss Pentwhistle described. She was wrong again, because I wasn’t struck by blinding pain, merely a feeling of being stuffed like a sausage.
(I know! Not romantic! I held my tongue.)
Godric’s eyes crinkled with laughter. “Not painful, but not all that good, either?”
I cleared my throat. “You know how the Christmas pudding is stuffed into a boiling bag?”
His eyes lit with laughter.
“That wasn’t polite,” I said apologetically.
He rocked forward again, sliding farther inside me. “Tell me if you wish to stop. You’re not a plum pudding. You get to choose.” He sounded soothing and logical, but at the same time his voice was thick with pleasure.
“I like it,” I said. It was almost true. I couldn’t tell him the truth, the absolute truth, could I? Besides, the tone of his voice, his need, was delicious.
I began taking stock. Godric was braced on his elbows, rocking back and forth. It wasn’t terrible. I liked the expression in his eyes. They were glossy, eager, almost desperate. And he looked affectionate.
I kissed his nose and decided that affection wasn’t the right word, because Godric made me feel loved. I slid my hands down his back, feeling the muscles flex as he moved, and thought about how blindingly happy I was whenever he said he loved me.
The rocking situation was slowly improving. My heartbeat had stopped rattling along like a horse on the loose. He was kissing me around my face, which made me feel as if I was stuffed with happiness, instead of his big . . .
Whatever.
Cock.
In fact, it was all beginning to feel rather good. His eyes were still fixed on mine, and the only sound in the room was his rough breathing, along with a squeak from the bed, every time he surged forward.
Abruptly I remembered the way I had clenched on his fingers and tried that—which sent a wave of heat through my legs.
The sound that burst from his lips was more like a grunt than my name. He lowered his head and breathed into my mouth, “Is it better, love? A little better?”
I would have answered—I was thinking about what to say!—when he did something with his hips, like a circle. My body melted around his long, slow slide forward and back. I arched my hips, following him when he moved away.
“Want more?” my husband growled, a thrumming, deep happiness in his voice.
“Yes,” I said, barely managing to sound coherent. “I would, thank you.”
His hand slid under me to the small of my back. He pulled me up, tilted my bottom, and before I got used to the sensation, he drove forward.
I squeaked. His deep eyes gleamed under his eyelashes, and he did it again, and again.
And again.
I started gasping every time he flexed his hips, my hands running over his arms, and then more daringly caressing the heavy slabs of his chest. Pleasure turned to a drug that eddied through my body and stole my composure.
I was gasping and pleading by the time he rolled onto his back, bringing me with him.
I found myself seated, my breasts in the open air.
Not under the covers. Not counting backward from one hundred. Rather than squeezing shut, my eyes widened.
Godric said, “I’m yours, Evie. Do you know that?”
I did. He was mine, and I was his.
“Making love is emotion in action,” he reminded me, bumping his hips upward in a way that made me gasp.
Finally I understood: tender and carnal, affectionate and hungry. All those adjectives locked together like a puzzle, locked together like our two bodies.
“I love you,” I whispered.
I leaned forward and kissed him, then reared back, not a paper doll, but a living, sweating, desirous woman. Godric’s sooty eyelashes were lowered, but I saw the hungry gleam of his eyes when I tentatively raised myself.
He arched and ground against me as I slid down the whole length of his cock, making me shiver convulsively. I was cautious at first, but was soon sobbing for air, kissing him over and over, smoldering heat running through my body.
Pleasure simmered in my legs when he flipped me over and kissed me again, our bodies as tightly connected as possible.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” he said, his voice unguarded. Ungentlemanly.
“Yes,” I said, grinning. “Yes, please.”
After that I couldn’t think about anything other than the heat pounding through my veins, the smell and the taste and the feel of him. The way Godric was above me and in me, hard and fierce—and when he drew back and stroked into me again?
I lost all control, my heart hammering until I began twisting under him and crying his name, pressure surging up from my toes and cascading through my body.
“There you are,” Godric said, his raw tone sending another wave of heat through me. “You’re with me, aren’t you?”
“Godric,” I said, my voice a plea and a prayer and a request, all at once. “More.” I felt the moment when he let go, surging, impatient, mindless desire.
And how did I feel? I felt shameless.
Free.
“I love you,” I said, holding tight. The emotion flooded out of me. “I love you, I love you.”
His answer was a wordless groan.
Which was just right.