Untouched

Very carefully, so he didn’t touch her, he stretched out and stared fixedly up at the ceiling. He drew the sheet up to hide the fact that he kept his breeches on. His loins ached like the very devil. It was going to be a very long night.

Grace turned her head and studied the marquess. Even in profile, his expression was tense. Frustration and displeasure all but steamed from him. She longed to smooth the hair from his brow, calm the turmoil in his soul. She wanted to kiss every pale scar that marred the golden skin of his back. She wanted to take the agonies he’d suffered into herself and make him whole again. She wanted to save him from any pain to come.

Futile wishes, all of them.

With a stifled sigh, she leaned over to blow out the candle but Lord Sheene spoke first. “Leave the light.”

She almost said as you wish, but the innocuous words had already provoked such fury, she stopped herself. Instead, she lay back and tried to pretend nothing out of the ordinary occurred. She’d shared a bed with Josiah. For most of her marriage, the sharing had been chaste. She was used to lying beside a male body with no expectation the body would roll over to claim hers. Where was the difference?

The difference was desire.

Even at the height of her girlish infatuation, she’d never wanted Josiah the way a woman wanted a man.

She wanted Lord Sheene. She’d never experienced the pangs of sexual need. How cruel that they burgeoned in this impossible situation.

Her heart caught as she remembered how he’d looked when he came in. Tall, powerful, commanding. The wh

ite shirt loose at the neck, hinting at the shadowy planes of his chest. She now knew the skin there was smooth, with a scattering of black hair. She knew how lean muscles tightened over his belly and ran in sinewy, vein-crossed strength down his arms. He already had more physical actuality for her than Josiah ever achieved.

The marquess was close enough for her to feel his warmth and smell lemony soap mixed with the underlying essence that was purely him. He was close enough for her to sense each breath. His eyes were shut but he was no nearer sleep than she.

As if to confirm that thought, he spoke. “I’m sorry my presence disturbs you.” He opened his eyes but didn’t look at her. Instead his gaze fixed again on the ceiling.

Yes, his presence disturbed her. In ways he couldn’t even begin to guess.

“You do this for my sake.” She watched that sculpted profile. The high-bridged blade of a nose. The mysterious eyes. The passionate mouth. She wanted that mouth on hers. She wanted that mouth on her body. The image was so graphic, every nerve tightened and she shifted uncomfortably.

He said no more. Grace assumed he eventually slept. She stayed awake and restless until dawn stole into the room.

The hurried thud of rough boots on the stairs outside woke Matthew. He barely had time to fling the sheet up to cover Grace before Monks loomed in the open doorway.

“What is the meaning of this?” Matthew asked coldly, his grip firming protectively around her shoulders. He was already holding her. Somewhere in the night, he must have taken her in his arms.

Lascivious appreciation replaced the furious consternation in Monks’s blockish face as he took in the couple entwined on the bed. “Beg pardon, your lordship,” he said out of habit while his pig-like eyes focused on what little he could see of Grace. “I was right worried when I saw nowt of you downstairs.”

Worried because he feared his charge had escaped. The brutal facts of imprisonment never faded into the background. They oozed into the sunny room like a foul miasma.

“Well, now you’ve located me, remove yourself,” Matthew growled. Against his chest, Grace muffled a distressed sound. His arms tightened in silent warning.

“Aye, your lordship. I reckoned you’d get around to spreading the slut’s legs one day. Was she good, lad? A wild ride? Or cold and tasteless as barley water?”

Matthew’s eyes sharpened on the man who had tortured and tormented him for eleven years. “I’ll kill you one day, Monks,” he said in a quiet, deadly voice.

Monks remained unimpressed. “Aye, well, that’s grand and I wish you luck, my lord. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride, as my mam would say.”

“Get out,” Matthew snapped. Grace’s hands curled like claws in the sheet and her breath was a frightened flutter on his bare neck.

Monks shrugged and turned toward the door. “You’ll want to get back to business, I warrant. Enjoy your sport, lad.”

“You will grant us privacy, Monks,” Matthew growled.

The big man paused in the doorway and glanced back with a gloating leer. “Shy, is she? Or is it your lordship who’s a might bashful? Aye, well, if she’s keeping you entertained, there’s nowt else we need to know. Filey and I will get our turn at her when your lordship’s had his fill.”

This time Grace’s whimper was clearly audible. Matthew didn’t shift his eyes from Monks. “If you harm so much as a hair on this lady’s head, you will pay.”

The mockery in Monks’s smile became overt. “His first fuck always makes a lad right brave. Brave and stupid.” He bowed his head in a gesture of respect that held no respect whatsoever. “Any road, I wish you a right good day.” He didn’t bother to contain his laughter at the crude witticism as he stumped across the landing and down the steps.

Matthew struggled to restrain his anger. The urge was strong to smash something. Preferably Monks’s smug face.