Mad Jack (Sherbrooke Brides 4)

They sat very still, listening to the older man yell at Arthur.

“That,” Jack said, “is Lord Rye.” She squirmed on him.

“Yes,” Gray said, grinding his teeth at the feel of her. Unbelievingly, he was still hard, still very deep inside her, and getting harder. But he managed not to move until he heard Leonard yell, “My lord, shall we proceed?”

“Onward, Leo, onward.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Gray took Jack’s face between his hands, pulled her forward, and kissed her hard. Between kisses, he said, “For a wedding day, dearest, I believe we would capture all prizes for achieving the outrageous and the unexpected.”

“You’re still inside me, Gray. It doesn’t hurt so much now. How did Lord Rye know that you were inside me? My clothes are covering both of us.”

He laughed—what else was a man tottering on the edge of sanity to do? He wanted to tell her that Lord Rye might be a very bad man, but he wasn’t an idiot. He felt her tight around him, felt the weight of her. He closed his eyes. He went deeper, not able to make sense of her words when she told him to stop this instant, when she yelled in his face that she didn’t want him to do this anymore, that she liked the drawings in the book, but this wasn’t at all fun.

“Stop!”

But he didn’t stop, he simply couldn’t. His fingers found her but he realized that it was much too late, for either of them. He heaved and shouted in ecstasy. Jack yelled in his face and bit his neck.

18

JACK STARED down at herself, utterly appalled, once she got over the urge to yell that she was bleeding to death. Thank God she wasn’t still bleeding; she would be all right, wouldn’t she? She wasn’t going to die. But what about the next time?

No, that was ridiculous. This sex business wouldn’t have continued very long if it ended with the woman bleeding to death. Surely that would get out and other women would find out and run. They would also quickly learn how to use swords and guns to keep the men away.

Still, it was dreadful all the same. Now that she knew she’d live, she shuddered, embarrassment seeping to her bones. He’d done this to her. He’d even looked at her while he was shoving inside her, making her bleed. He must have known what he was doing, what would happen when he’d finished. When Gray came around the screen a few moments later, she yelped like a wounded cat and grabbed up her wrinkled gown in front of her.

He saw the blood on her legs before she managed to hide behind that gown. Surely she knew about a virgin bleeding? He looked at her face and realized she was as ignorant as she was mortified.

“Well, hell,” he said, instantly raising his hand. “I know, turnips. But believe me, a mild curse is appropriate in this instance.” She’d bled. He’d been a clod—more than a clod, a careless bastard who should be shot. At least now maybe he could ease her through this. He saw the shine in her eyes and knew she was close to tears.

“You could have killed me.”

As matter-of-fact as would a parent to a three-year-old child, he said, “No, Jack, sex isn’t a killing business. Virgins bleed the first time. It’s natural. It looks as if you’re more virginal than most virgins. No, don’t feel like you should cover yourself. We’re married. I’m your husband. You’re a mess. Let me help you get cleaned up.” He held out his hand. “I’m really sorry, Jack. I will make it up to you, I promise. Next time—”

“Next time? Do you believe me a perfect dolt?” She stared at his hand as if it were a snake to bite her. “Go away. You did this to me. Go away.”

His bride of less than half a day was clearly perturbed. Perhaps she was even beyond perturbed, perhaps close to violence. She did rather look like she would enjoy bashing him with a log, or worse. He was relieved she didn’t have a knife close by.

Taking his life in his hands, he said, “I didn’t know you could make your breasts blush.”

She looked down at herself, blanched, grabbed her slipper off the rug, and hurled it at him.

He just laughed, grabbed her arms, and hauled her over to that big bed, the one Douglas had raved about, and shoved her down. He let her keep her gown as cover.

“Don’t move,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m going to clean you up. No, Jack, don’t go all maidenly on me and squeak. I cleaned you up for four days. I cleaned you up until I could have done it blindfolded.” As he spoke, he turned away to pour some warm water into a basin, float a bar of jasmine soap, and grab a soft cloth. When he was finished, he turned back to the bed.

Jack was gone.

His first insane thought was that Lord Rye had changed his mind and somehow slipped into the bedchamber and snagged her. But no, that was surely impossible. He’d locked the door when they’d finally got to the bedchamber. He was losing his wits.

“Jack?”

Not a hint of a sound.

He found her one minute later, under the bed.

Fifteen minutes later she still wouldn’t look at him. She was, he believed, currently studying the intricate embroidery on the soft green counterpane.