The Hellion Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 2)

She cried out.

Ryder froze, but the madness prodded at him, and all his fine and honorable vows about her pleasure escaped his brain from one instant to the next. He was more awake than before but it made no differ­ence. It was intense and powerful, this lust of his, and he thrust deeply into her, then pulled nearly out of her, heaving with the strain of it, the savage pleasure, again and again until suddenly he stilled. Then it dug at him again, this urgency for her, this frenzy to have her, to make her a part of him, to bind her to him. But he wanted to slow down, to make it last beyond the moment he knew was left to him. He held her tightly to him and rolled over, pulling her on top of him. He forced her upright and pulled her knees under her and against his flanks. She was riding him now, and she splayed her fingers over his chest to hold herself up. He thrust upward, holding her waist, then sliding his hands to her hips to lift her and bring her down on him, to show her what to do. All women enjoyed riding the man once in a while; they could set their own rhythm. They drove him mad with lust and they laughed as they did it, until like him, they moaned and flung their heads back. But Sophie wasn't moving; nor was she moaning. She held him deep inside her and he was forcing her to hold him, more deeply than the first time. Her breasts were thrust forward, beautiful and white and he gasped and pressed her further down on him. He couldn't see her face clearly in the dim light. And he wanted to. Then he heard her sob. He twisted about until he could see her face more clearly. Her eyes were closed and tears were rolling down her cheeks.

Sweet Lord, was he hurting her? He hadn't thought, hadn't realized, that this way of making love was deep, very deep and she was unused to a man, not just a man, but to him, her husband. Quickly, he lifted her off him and onto her back once again. When he rolled over onto her, he came into her again, not so deeply this time.

He wanted to pull out of her, to kiss her and soothe her, to tell her that he hadn't meant to go so strongly into her before she was ready to take him, but suddenly she moved, twisting to the side, and it sent him right over the edge.

It was a repetition of the first time, and he was furious with himself once he

'd regained his wits. Again, he was balancing on his elbows over her and he felt the force of her sobs against his body, felt her heart against his, and he didn't like what he'd done.

"Go to sleep," he said and rolled off her.

She did eventually, but he listened to those soft, gasping cries of hers for more minutes than he could bear. He awoke the following morning at the streaming of sunlight through the front windows. He felt her weight against him and smiled until he remembered the fiasco of the previous night. He'd been a clod, not once but twice, a selfish clod, a fool, a half-wit. He didn't understand it, and he didn't like himself for it.

Well, it was done. He would make it up to her. He would exercise more patience than he ever had in his life. On the other hand, he hadn't ever needed patience with a woman; a smile, a jest, a caress, and most had come to him. He knew the experi­ences in his life hadn't demanded much of anything that he couldn't readily and willingly give. Ah, his life had been filled with laughter and hour upon hour of pleasure and reckless freedom—the pound­ing strength of his stallion beneath him and the utter yielding of all the women he'd known and loved and held. His life had held no responsibilities he hadn't asked for. And that included his children, all seven of them. No, they were a joy, not a respon­sibility. It was true. His life had been fashioned by a benign deity. Now everything had changed. The woman he'd brought into his life, the woman he'd chosen for himself, didn't want him. There didn't seem to be laughter in her, no spontaneous joy, no wildness that came from deep within, and burst forth freely and gladly.

There was darkness in her. He understood at least some of this darkness for he'd seen it himself, he'd seen the results of it. Hell, he was the victim of it as well as she was. As for himself, the patches of pain and uncertainty that had come as they must to every man had been few. He'd been lucky and he knew it and he thought about it now, starkly. Everything was different and he perforce must also be different because of what he had done and of what she was and what he wanted her to become and be to him.

She still slept. He eased up until he was on his elbow and could look down at her. Her hair was tangled about her head, wild on the pillow, her face blotchy from her crying and she looked beautiful to him. This girl who wasn't really a beauty, not like some of the ladies he'd known so well, no she wasn't a diamond like Alex's incredibly lovely sis­ter, Melissande, but she was impossibly beautiful to him, impossibly and inexplicably dear. He light­ly ran a fingertip over her eyebrow. Slowly, she opened her eyes. She didn't move, didn't make a sound, merely looked up at him. He felt the tension building in her but ignored it.

"Good morning," he said and kissed her mouth.

She froze. He watched her eyes darken, then become carefully blank. He wouldn't tolerate it, this withdrawal from him. "Stop that, damn you. I won't hurt you again, I swear it."

"Men always hurt women."

"I admit that your experience hasn't shown you much of the other side of things. Men included."

"You hurt me two times last night. And you will do it again and again because you are the man and stronger than I am and you have the control and power and you can force me to do anything you wish to do."

"All that? Perhaps I should consider announcing my godhood." The studied lightness gave him a moment to think. The good Lord knew he needed many such moments now, with her, with this wife of his.

She shoved at him but couldn't budge him. She was panting now, and he could practically feel her urgency to get away from him. It was unnerving. It was frightening. "No, Ryder, I don't believe you. You will force me whenever you want a woman. You are

lying to me. All men lie to get what they want."

He let her go and rose to stand by the bed. "You will learn to believe me, to trust me."

She was now on the far side of the bed. She simply stared at him and he saw all her fear of him in her eyes, a damned irrational fear, and in that moment he wanted to throw her out of the window.

The irony of it didn't escape him. He wondered what the hell he was going to do now. He rang for bathwater. Once he'd dressed, he left the bed­chamber, left her alone and silent, lying in bed, the covers drawn to her chin.

Sinjun said to the breakfast table at large, "I saw the Virgin Bride last night. She probably came to visit Sophie and got the wrong bedchamber. Just think," she added, turning toward her sister-in-law, "you just might get a visit from the family ghost too. She won't hurt you. She just wants to welcome you to the Sherbrooke family. She's been around for ever so long and all the past earls have written about her."

"Be quiet about that damned ghost," this earl said. "There is no ghost, Sophie. The brat has a very active imagination. Ignore her."

"A real ghost? You're not jesting?" Jeremy whis­pered so that just Sinjun heard him. He wasn't about to disagree with the Earl of Northcliffe.

"Yes, I'll tell you all about her. Later, when we go riding."

"I've never seen her," Ryder said, setting down his coffee cup. He took a bite of egg, looked at his wife, and winked at her. "Perhaps she'll visit us. Would you like that?"

"A ghost. Yes, I would. Who is she?"

"A young lady whose husband was killed before they could consummate their marriage," Ryder said. "Sixteenth century, I believe. She has long, very blond hair and all the filmy trappings, so Sinjun tells us. Evidently she appears only to the women of the family."

Alex opened her mouth then shut it.