The Hellion Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 2)

"Talk to me, Sophie," he said again.

She straightened and leaned back, still held in the loose circle of his arms. "My knees hurt."

"We have a bed. Come, let's sit down."

She eyed that bed, knew that he wanted her, she wasn't blind. His sex was swelled against his trou­sers. She saw Lord David naked and stroking his sex, she felt again how he'd kissed her, stabbing his tongue into her mouth before she'd managed to distract him, and how he always stripped off his clothes at the cottage and showed her his body and his sex and how big he was and how he was going to take her.

And Charles Grammond, middle-aged, his belly sagging, not a bad man really, pathetically grateful when she'd first told him she would take him as her lover, and then how he'd changed, catching her in the middle of the day to force her against a tree and she'd had to hit him with her riding crop and he'd only laughed and pulled his sex from his britches and told her he wanted his sex in her mouth and she could do it now. An

d, dear God, she'd helped to ruin him even as she'd told him what a wonderful lover he was. And he pranced about, so pleased with himself, bragging about his virility—didn't he have four living children to prove it?

Now both of them were here. Both of them believed her a whore. Both of them would take great delight in ruining her. She clearly remembered the looks both men would give her whenever they saw her, and what they said to her in their lewd whispers, how they spoke about the nights they'd spent with her and what they'd done to her and she'd done to them. . . .

She jerked away from Ryder. He stared at her, his head cocked to one side in question.

She bounded to her feet, turned, grabbed up her skirts, and ran from the bedchamber.

He stared after her. He'd seen the blankness on her face when she'd looked at the bed, followed by the myriad facial expressions he knew were from her damned memories of Jamaica, and all when she'd seen his sex swelled against his britches.

He had hoped, prayed, that she was coming around to trusting him. His jaw tightened. He wouldn't let this continue, he couldn't.

He bided his time for the remainder of the day. There was always so much to be done that there wasn't any particular discomfort between them, even during dinner when they were alone. That night, at ten o'clock, Ryder stepped into their bedchamber, and saw that Sophie wasn't in bed. She was seated in a wing chair in front of the fireplace, her legs tucked beneath her, a book in her lap.

"I finished my work," he said.

The book, a collection of essays by John Locke, slipped off her lap. She made no move to retrieve it.

Ryder leaned down and picked it up. "Where the devil did you find this?"

"Your Mr. Dubust left it."

"I don't blame him. Listen to this: 'Latin I look upon as absolutely necessary to a gentleman.' What an appalling notion. I imagine that my youngest broth­er, Tysen—the future cleric—is now quite fluent in Latin. He says that his congregation will glean his meaning from his intonation, that the words aren't important, that God didn't mean for common folk to really understand in any case, only to gain the holy essence—whatever that may be—which will come from him, naturally."

"Your brother really said that?"

"He tried, but he hasn't the facility to be as fluent as I am."

"Nor has he your modesty, I doubt."

"Good," Ryder said, tossing the book back into her lap, "a bit of vinegar. Now, Sophie, it's time for you to come with me over to that bed. I know you had a bath earlier so that excuse went out with the bath­water."

"I don't want to, Ryder."

She was twisting her hands. It was amazing, his strong Sophie, the woman who had directed a score of servants during the past week, humming while she worked, was wringing her hands like a help­less twit.

"Nor do you want to tell me why you were crying this afternoon?"

"No. It isn't important, truly. It was just that. . . I lost some silverware."

Ryder only shook his head at her. He stripped off his clothes then came back to stand in front of the drowsing fire, naked, to gaze down at the orange embers.

She stared at him, she couldn't help it. He stretched out his hand to her. "Come along now, sweetheart. I'm going to try my damnedest to give you some pleasure tonight. And if I fail you tonight, why then, there will be tomorrow night and the night after that."

She shook her head even as he was jerking her to her feet. He picked her up in his arms, carried her to the bed, and gently laid her on her back. He quickly unfastened the sash on her dressing gown.

He ignored the stiffness of her body, the pallor of her face, the damned wariness he saw in her eyes. He stripped off her nightgown, then straightened and stared down at her.

"No, don't cover yourself."