Chapter Seven #3
He released her, his head spinning. As he had looked into her dazed, distant cornflower blue eyes, Darcy had been shocked at his sudden realization.
With not a little horror had he discovered that she was not some temptress that had been unleashed upon him to drive him mad, but an innocent, simple girl who had aspired to nothing more than being but the wife of a shepherd.
She had not bedded a man before and, in an instant, his duty became to guide her and keep her safe through the night.
His responsibility to worship her and accept the sacrifice she made would come with all the tenderness and honour he could give.
He had won her in a dark manner, and to be good to her now was the least he could do to repay her for the sins he had committed against her heart.
Gently, he pressed a kiss to her forehead and turned away to add to the fire.
As the coals settled in the fireplace, he had become conscious that, for the first time in his life, he was terrified.
What if he failed her again? The thin line he now walked seemed to shrink before him and he teetered precariously on the edge, waiting to disappoint her.
As he poked at the fire angrily, he attempted to regain control over these foreign emotions but was undone when he stood and turned around.
She was there, nude and bashful, her hands falling in front of her sex unconsciously.
Her skin was pale and smooth like a pearl, which, he mused, was very much like a badge of her innocence.
Her eyes were on the floor, and when she bit her lip, his heart stuttered within his chest. His drive to possess her physically gave way to his need to keep her from harm.
“I cannot unfasten my hair. Heather used too many pins.”
He came to her, took her hand, and pulled her closer to the fire. She looked up at him, embarrassment turning her cheeks, neck, even the tips of her ears pink, then abruptly turned away.
“I can see your skin prickle. I shall not allow for you to be cold,” he whispered as gently as he had ever heard himself speak.
He pulled a blanket from the end of the bed and wrapped it around her.
With a light touch, he pulled the jewelled pins from Elizabeth's hair, letting her fair curls tumble loosely down her back.
Sparks of red flashed bright within her pale mane in the firelight.
When the last lock was set free, she moved to the bed wordlessly and sat down on the edge, clutching the blanket to her.
Still in his breeches, Darcy settled next to her and tenderly took her hand. “Are you frightened?”
She appeared to be shocked. Silently, she nodded, her fingers instinctively tightening around his.
“Did you ask no questions of Jane?”
“We spoke a little. Frankly, I was too embarrassed to ask more of her. She knows from experience, and her experience is with Finn. To ask questions felt intrusive. I cannot think of either of them in such a way.”
He smiled at her nervous babbling. “Then why did you undress?”
“Is it not expected?”
“Aye, it is, but I expected to have to fight you.”
“I have a duty as a wife.” To his ear, she nearly choked on the word.
His heart tightened at the cracking sound in her voice.
Darcy leaned into her, his lips skimming her shoulder as he tried to erase her pain and calm his budding guilt.
His eyes met hers and held them for a long moment while his fingers skimmed her round cheek.
They slid around her neck and tenderly pulled her across the space between them so that their lips met again.
* * *
Once again, the kiss was different. It was not urgent and forced, but tender and slow, heating her body to a measured, bubbling simmer.
He grasped her shoulders and laid her back on the bed.
His lips skimmed her face, feathering kisses over her eyes, nose, cheeks, and mouth, which made the depths of her stomach thrash about like an animal trapped in a net.
Instinctively, Elizabeth returned the kisses that fell on her mouth while she forced George to become a vague shadow in the back of her mind.
The part of her brain that still worked understood that she could not lie with another man as long as she had thoughts of her beloved, so she pushed away thoughts of his grief and her betrayal and let her body guide her and respond for her.
His mouth was at the hollow of her throat, licking, nibbling, and kissing her with all the skill of a learned man.
Her hands threaded through his thick dark locks, which had somehow become loose from its leather tie.
With surprising delicacy, Lord Darcy delivered a soft kiss to the flesh between her breasts, and she froze.
Elizabeth looked at her husband, who was drawing his tongue across the untouched skin. Her belly rolled again, like it was full of hot iron, as his hands moved up her sides, twined with her fingers, and squeezed lightly.
“Elizabeth, I have wanted you for so long.”
She said nothing, but her body issued a shuddering sigh that Lord Darcy translated immediately.
He rounded her nipple with his tongue, visibly delighted as it grew hard.
When it was swollen and taut, he drew it in and sucked.
Her back arched and she whimpered, squeezing his hand as the pressure within her body began to build.
Her whimpers gained strength, tumbling into helpless moans while he nibbled at flesh; she had not known could respond in such a manner.
He paused, caught her eye, then pinched her other hardened nipple between his fingers.
She unintentionally squealed, and a fiery surge flashed through her.
The heat then flooded into a single place within her body that demanded what she could not comprehend at that moment.
Breathing fast, she searched his face in hope he would have some sort of answer for her, but all he gave her was a sweet, understanding smile before he leaned towards her mouth once again.
After stealing a quick kiss, he trailed his tongue across her jaw and caught the lobe of her ear mildly with his teeth.
“My lord,” she said, her voice breathy. “I fear I shall melt.”
“Elizabeth, we are wed. Will you not call me by my name?” he whispered. The whiskers on his chin scraped the tender flesh behind her ear.
Panting and thoughtless, she grabbed a fistful of hair and tugged him back so that they were face to face. With a need to torture him as he tortured her, she pulled his face close and drew his bottom lip into her mouth, sucking softly and nipping when his eyes grew wide in surprise.
He drew his callused hands down her body, her sweat slicking his palms. She pressed her hands to his chest, the violent beat of his heart against her palm.
“You must be patient, my sweet.” His warning was in a soft tone. “I am, after all, merely a man. To encourage my passion might be unwise.”
She opened her mouth, but he placed a single finger over it, effectively stilling her words. Moments later whatever had been on the tip of her tongue erupted as an incoherent groan when he pulled his rough chin over her belly and blew a cool, lingering breath on her hot centre.
With the realization of where he was, Elizabeth's modesty came rushing back, and her hands flew to cover herself, but he stopped them before they reached their destination. He brought her palms to his lips, placed a kiss on each one, and laid them to her sides.
“You must not allow yourself to feel shame in this. I am your husband, and it is my prerogative to displace your modesty.” He grinned and placed a kiss at the top of her sex where she could see his lips touch her skin.
The flames flared through her body, threatening to consume her. How could this man make her feel like this? At the thought of another kiss, she found herself in want of more. Could he shower them upon her? His dark hair fell like a curtain and blocked her view of his handsome face.
“Stop!” She gulped, nearly panicked. “My lord, stop.”
He paused, sighed heavily, and sat up. With all the strength she could muster after having been reduced to a quivering mass, Elizabeth pulled her body up and glanced around the bed.
Snatching her prize when she espied it teetering on the edge, she rose to her knees and slipped behind him, gathering his thick black hair and tying it off securely with the leather band.
She ran her fingers through the mass that fell down his back to the middle of his shoulder blades and, impulsively, brushed a kiss across the back of his shoulder.
He turned to look at her and found her nibbling at her lower lip.
“Whatever is wrong, my lady?”
“My heart is slower, and my thighs are damp. What did I do wrong?”
He chuckled, reaching out to stroke her unbound curls, and shook his head. “My sweet, you have done nothing wrong. Lie back.”
“I could not see thy face through thy hair.” Her voice was soft, her tone sheepish.
“Then that is my fault. I would cut it off if it pleases you.”
She gasped. He was a highborn warrior, and hair was a sign of birth and honour. It was, in this part of the country, a statement of a wife's commitment to her husband. A proper wife took pride in grooming her husband. Cutting his hair would have been a sacrifice for him and a humiliation for her.
“No! I would not have ye do such a thing,” she cried. “It is fine.”
He dropped another kiss between her legs, his eyes holding hers. “You are mercy itself, my sweet.”
Her breath grew faster once more as his soft lips pressed against her thighs and her sex, reigniting her body immediately.
He withdrew somewhat to lay his hands over her knees, which he pushed further apart.
Air met the wetness inside her, giving her a strange coolness within her molten core, and she sucked in a breath.
He ran a finger along the moist folds, and her whole body convulsed.
Elizabeth squeaked in surprise, then put her hand over her mouth.
He slipped the tip of his finger into his mouth then smiled at her.