Chapter 8 #2
Except this, he realised belatedly, wasn’t Jack.
His scent was all wrong.
Jack’s scent was cold and sharp, almost metallic. It was frost and snow on stone, braided through with flickering twists of warmth, like a fire on a winter’s night. Arden had found it fascinating from the very first breath.
The large man he’d crawled into bed with smelled completely different. Earth, hot sun, growing things, and the fresh, cool mossiness of a woodland stream.
Arden’s breath froze in his lungs.
“Mhm,” the man in the bed behind him said, and hitched hard hips—and hard other things—against Arden’s arse.
Arden gripped the arm around his waist with both hands, digging his nails in without meaning to.
Beckett? Was it…?
The man nuzzled the back of Arden’s neck. Then set his teeth to it.
Arden’s nails dug deeper and he let out a frightened little whine.
The arm immediately tightened. “Shh,” the man said. “You’re all right. It’s me.”
Arden went limp with relief. It was Beckett. Arden recognised the lovely deep timbre, and something horrifyingly deep inside him responded to it. It felt as if…it felt as if something was opening up.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought—oh.”
Beckett rolled onto his back and he didn’t let go of Arden for a second, meaning he took Arden with him, and now Arden was lying on his back, only it wasn’t the mattress beneath him, it was Beckett’s long, hard body. He blinked and stared at the ceiling.
“Thought I was Jack, did you?” Beckett growled in his ear.
Arden wasn’t sure if Beckett was angry or not.
There was certainly a warning edge to his rough words.
He stopped digging his nails into Beckett’s forearm and petted him lightly with his fingertips instead.
“Um. Yes. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have…if I’d known…
so sorry. I wouldn’t have intruded if I’d known you were here. ”
Beckett flipped him around without warning and Arden shrieked. He stared down into Beckett’s face. The surprised amusement that he must have caused by his ridiculous noise faded, and was replaced with the frown that Arden had anticipated all along.
“Intruded?” Beckett said.
Arden’s heart was pounding. “Um. Yes. Into your private chamber.”
Beckett scowled. Arden couldn’t help but cringe. Up until recently he hadn’t ever thought of himself as a coward. Timid, he would accept, although it exasperated him and he tried to be braver. But not an actual coward.
On the other hand, anyone would quail in the face of a heavy scowl from a powerful young alpha like Beckett. Servant or not. Sometimes, rank just didn’t matter.
Lying naked and trapped on top of him being one of those times.
“This isn’t my chamber,” Beckett said slowly. “It’s Jack’s. His Grace’s, I mean.”
“But surely you share—”
“I sleep in the servant’s quarters.”
“I see.”
“Because I’m a servant. Out of the two of us, Your Grace, you’re the one who’s supposed to be here.”
Well, that was blatantly untrue. Arden didn’t feel as if he was in a strong position to argue with him, however.
“You could toss me out on my arse if you like,” Beckett said with another of those ferocious scowls.
Perhaps it was the stress of being a newlywed all alone on this big estate, barely having exchanged a word with Jack since standing at the altar with him.
Or the stress of losing his virginity to a stranger.
Or the stress of losing his virginity at all.
Because it wasn’t technically funny, what Beckett just said, but the idea of Arden throwing him out was so ridiculous, that Arden giggled.
Beckett’s face lit up at the sound, and the tension in the big arms locked around Arden’s waist eased.
Arden blushed and looked away before glancing back up. “I don’t think I could manage that,” he said. “Even if I wanted to.”
Beckett’s small smile remained, and a thick dark brow lifted. “And you don’t?”
“No,” Arden said.
Beckett made another of those little sounds at the back of his throat. It was considering, and a little disbelieving.
Arden glanced away again. “Anyway, I apologise for intruding, and if you’d be so kind as to let me go, I shall leave you to your rest.”
“Not a kind man, me,” Beckett said. “And you’re the one who’s supposed to be resting.” He slipped a hand down Arden’s back and shaped it over a buttock.
Arden sucked in a breath.
Beckett squeezed. “Unless you’re here for a shag, Your Grace?”
Arden had been slowly, unconsciously, relaxing against the enormous footman. As if it wasn’t scandalous for the pair of them to be lolling around together, naked, in Jack’s bedchamber.
At the insolent tone, however, the crude invitation and the heavy-lidded, sexual look that Arden now realised he’d seen before on other men—he’d always thought they were tired, or drunk—Arden went cold.
“No,” he whispered, trying to keep a grip on his composure. It was a valiant effort. It was unsuccessful. The panic rose. “No.” Not without Jack. He flailed, pushing and shoving to get free.
Beckett didn’t fight him.
He slapped and writhed his way out of Beckett’s arms, out of Jack’s bed, and bolted.