The Hellion Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 2)

"It's cold," she said, still staring at his fingers. "I'd forgotten. Also, living in Jamaica for four years thinned my blood."

He smiled at her and pulled down his pants.

She closed her eyes, which was absurd really because she'd seen him naked, seen his sex swelled, seen him sprawled on the cottage bed with Dahlia over him. She swallowed.

"Sophie."

His voice was quiet, very warm and intimate. She opened her eyes. He was standing not three feet from her, quite naked and quite relaxed. He was smiling at her, his hand held to her. "You are my wife. Come here."

She didn't move.

"Should you like me to undress you? Is that why you've waited?"

"I should like a bath."

He blinked at her. "Very well. Let me ring."

He strode away from her and pulled on the silver-tasseled bellcord. He turned, then said as he climbed into the huge bed, "It is just as well. I have much more to say to you and we can have a pleasant chat while you bathe. If I touched you right now, I suspect we wouldn't say much until morning."

He wouldn't leave. She hadn't expected him to. He was behaving quite nicely, really, not lashing out at her, not condemning her, or calling her horrible names like her uncle had when she'd gone against his wishes.

It was another thirty minutes before Sophie was seated in front of the fireplace in the deep copper bathtub. She'd undressed in the shadows by the window and slipped on a dressing gown. However, to step into the tub, she'd had to take the damned thing off and she knew he was watching her. And she thought, I must accustom myself. He will do whatever he wishes to do to me for as long as I live. Then she shook her head at her thoughts, for nothing was right, nothing was as she'd expected it to be. He was acting so normal, so relaxed, as if they'd been here, in this bedchamber, chatting about everything and nothing for the past ten years.

He said nothing until she was soaping herself. "I like your hair wet around your shoulders and streaming over your breasts. I'm smiling, if you would but look at me once. I am happy to see you. I can't wait to get my hands on you, but I'm sure you recognize all the male signs—the lust-glazed eyes, the erratic speech, nonsense, most of it. I even like the way your legs are sticking up. The flesh behind your knees is very tender, by the by, and I will show you how much you will enjoy me touching and kissing you there. I must remember to kiss that small birthmark of yours too."

She lathered her hair with a vengeance. It would take a good hour to dry it.

"I can't wait to kiss you silly. Perhaps I can con­vince you to return my kiss. I will try my best." He sounded so sure of himself, so completely confident. She rubbed her scalp until it hurt. He also sounded amused.

"Shall I come and rub your back for you?"

"I wish you would go away," Sophie said, opening her eyes through a haze of soap. It stung and she gasped, ducking her head under the water.

"Very well," he said agreeably. "I will doze here in bed and wait for you. I really forgot everything I wanted to say to you. Why, I won't even think of you—my wife—all naked and wet and soft. You have five more minutes, Sophie, not a second more." He consulted the clock on the mantel as he spoke. Then he leaned his head back against the pillow and cl

osed his eyes. He crossed his arms over his bare chest.

When he opened his eyes she was standing swathed in a voluminous white nightgown. Her hair was matted and tangled wet down her back. If she got any closer to the fireplace, she'd be standing atop the flames.

She was trying to dry her hair.

"Hold still," he said and rose. Ryder wasn't a randy boy. He was a man and he'd proved not only to himself but to her that he could be patient. He would continue to be patient. He took another towel from the chair beside the copper tub and pointed to his wing chair. "Sit down."

She sat like a prim schoolgirl on the edge of the chair, her hands in her lap. "Now, where are your comb and brush?"

He spent another fifteen minutes brushing her thick hair. He set the brush aside. He smiled down at her. "You look like a Madonna. You are quite lovely, Sophie. You please me. Your hair has so many varied shades in it. Yes, you're lovely. You would please me even more if you opened your eyes. I'm naked, 'tis true, but you've seen me on several occasions. Surely I don't displease you?"

She opened her eyes then and looked him straight in the face. "Please tell me the truth, Ryder. Did you truly believe I was pregnant?"

Their wedding and the subsequent damnable night were stark in his mind, but he managed an indifferent shrug. "I had no idea. You refused to tell me the course of your monthly flow. It was possible you were pregnant, based upon my knowing noth­ing." He wondered if and when he would tell her the truth. Ah, soon, he knew, for he hated lies. They were always lying in wait to trip a man up. And Sophie was fast-witted. If he didn't tell her, she would catch him and he didn't want the consequences of that. Actually, though, she would know it was a lie soon enough.

Always his wit, she thought numbly. He drowned her in his damnable wit, in the easy flow of his speech. Had she used to be like that? Had she mocked him and teased him as he now did her? Memories flooded through her. Ah yes, she'd done it with great skill, even to touching him just so to make him mad with lust for her. But now she was a silent fool, dull-tongued and stupid. Why couldn't she treat him as she had Sir Robert? She sometimes wished she had herself back again but then she'd realize she wasn't exactly certain who that self really was.

She felt his hands on her wrists. He pulled her upright and against him. He said, his breath warm against her damp hair, "Now let me tell you how we're going to spend the greater part of this won­derful evening. I will not rush you. We must take time to learn each other. I will kiss you and—"

He paused, kissed her lightly on her mouth, then said, "No, let me just show you. Do me a favor, Sophie. Forget all those damned men. Just forget them. They have nothing to do with us, with this. This is private, this is us alone, a man and his wife together."

But she couldn't. She also knew she couldn't refuse him. He was her husband; he had full and complete control over her, more control, in fact, than her uncle had exercised, which had been unbearable. If he wanted to strip her naked and tie her to the bed, why he could do it. She tried to be calm. After all, she'd had weeks and weeks to come to grips with it. She'd learned that much, surely she had. She wouldn't start screaming or become hysterical. She wasn't that way, and even if she had ever been that way, her uncle Theo would have beaten it all out of her long ago.