Pendragon (Sherbrooke Brides 7)

He looked up at her then, and she saw that his jaw was locked, his eyes glazed, and all of him was pulsing madly. His seed was on himself, on the sheet, on her belly. It was an overwhelming upheaval that she couldn’t begin to understand, really didn’t want to understand, but she did know one thing for certain—he was a liar. It was obvious he knew very little about this lovemaking business.

She hurt really badly. She hated what he’d done to her and wanted to hurl him out of the window. And what had he meant that he couldn’t do it? Do what? Stay inside her? What was he talking about?

She didn’t care. Then he

stopped his quivering, his shuddering, and just hung there over her, not breathing quite so hard now, his eyes closed, saying nothing, doing nothing.

She said loudly, right up into his face, “You shouldn’t have done what you did. It wasn’t right. You hurt me and then you just came out of me. I am going to kill you.”

15

THOMAS COULDN’T THINK, just couldn’t gather his wits together. He’d managed to come out of her, he’d actually managed to make his body obey his will, and he hated it.

Suddenly Meggie lurched up and bit his shoulder as hard as she could. She hoped she’d make him bleed.

That brought him back to his brain and miserable body. He managed to straighten. He blinked at her. “My God,” he said slowly, disbelieving, “you bit me.”

“Yes, you hurt me.”

“It happened.” She’d actually bit him. He’d come out of her, not his fault, he’d simply had to. Well, for the moment, he didn’t give a damn about her feelings, about that damnable Jeremy. He wanted to punish her for what she’d done to him. He came down hard over her and went inside her again just as she yelled, “Don’t you dare have the nerve to hurt me more, you bastard.”

Then she shuddered.

He felt her muscles clenching around him, he was deep inside her, it was driving him mad, and this time, the rage banked, the desire to punish, to gain revenge on her both for what she’d done and hadn’t done, fell to his own need, his own wild urgency and that was more powerful than anything else. He pushed again. “Oh God,” he said, panting until he thought his heart would burst from his chest, “I don’t want this. Damnation. This will kill me.”

“Probably not, you clod. Get off me, damn you!”

He fell forward, flattened her, kissed her and shoved hard again and again. It was over again in less than a minute. He was heaving and panting, nearly crying because his body felt so very fine—nothing but soul-deep satisfaction and the overwhelming urge to sleep, to forget what he’d just done. Damn him and damn her. At least no one could take her from him now. Damn her honor. He’d been rough with her. He was sorry he’d hurt her, but in the end, she would have to learn that whatever he did, she had no say in it.

He thought about that life-changing conversation between father and daughter he’d overheard in the vicarage gardens not three hours after she’d become his wife. His wife whom he’d wanted to pull behind a shrubbery and kiss her silly, but that hadn’t happened. He’d seen her father, taken a step forward to ask if he’d seen Meggie, but then he’d heard her say in a voice stumbling with pain, “I truly didn’t want him to speak to me, Papa, but Jeremy believed that since I’d married Thomas, he could now redeem himself because obviously I didn’t love him anymore and it bothered him that I believed he was an idiot. Papa, Jeremy is honorable. I should never have believed that wretched act of his. He did it to make me stop loving him, oh God—so noble and I hated him, scorned him.”

Her father had held her close and whispered against her hair, “It will be all right. You’ve got a fine husband. You will come to love him, dearest. You will see.”

And Meggie cried against her father’s shoulder, and Thomas Malcombe’s life, as he’d known it, as he’d anticipated it would be with his new wife, fell into pieces at his feet.

The candle was nearly gutted when he rolled off her onto his back. She was up in an instant, ready to clout him when, her fist hard and ready, ready to strike, he snored.

Meggie couldn’t believe it, just couldn’t. She wanted to kill him for what he had done, damn him a million times more than she’d already damned him.

She looked down at him, waved her fist not an inch from his nose, and whispered, “Blessed hell.”

Slowly she got off the other side of the bed and managed to stand straight. Every part of her hurt, but nothing compared to the pain deep inside her, where he’d poked and pushed and shoved, and no, she still wanted to kill him, very badly. She felt wet and sticky and her legs were shaking. She could barely stand up.

She’d trusted him.

She’d been an idiot.

Was this the way things were always done? First a man left a woman’s body and the second time he didn’t? Was it some sort of strange ritual? Did her father do this to Mary Rose? Her brain shied away from that. What about Jeremy? Had he done that to his precious Charlotte their wedding night? Meggie had been eaten up with jealousy at the thought of Jeremy kissing Charlotte, not her, but if it had led to this utter humiliation, then her jealousy was ridiculous. Meggie walked over to the small table that held a basin of clean water and washed herself. She winced at the pain and saw that the water was red with her blood. He’d done that to her the first time just before he’d jerked away from her.

Then she headed straight to the table where the remains of their meal still were, and immediately picked up the champagne bottle. Thank the good lord it wasn’t empty.

She downed the rest of it. Warm or not, bubbles or not, it was quickly down her throat. She didn’t stop drinking until the bottle was empty. Then she stood there, staring out over the English Channel, at the magnificent moonlight that was a wide swatch across the water, making it glitter. Hah, glitter. Here she was admiring the beauty of nature when that man who was her husband was lying on his back, naked, snoring, on that wretched bed where he’d behaved so strangely. Surely a husband wasn’t supposed to do that to his wife. She wouldn’t believe that Jeremy had done that to Charlotte, that that was simply the way men behaved. Very well, if men weren’t all like this, then why had Thomas done it to her? Because he didn’t love her and thus didn’t care if he hurt her or not? That just made no sense. He’d laughed with her, saved Rory’s life, wanted to marry her. Meggie just stood there looking out over the moon shining onto the water, and wondered what to do.

She tipped the champagne bottle again, but the wretched thing was empty. She wondered what the innkeeper would think if she ordered another bottle, and then she just didn’t care. She pulled on Thomas’s dressing gown that he’d tossed over the end of the bed, an old burgundy velvet, its elbows nearly worn through, and tied it tightly around her waist. She left the room, walked barefoot down the hall and down the stairs. Mrs. Miggs was the only person in the taproom. Her hair was coming out of the tight knot at the back of her head, her apron was spotted, but she was humming as she wiped a wet cloth over the wooden tabletops.

“Hello, Mrs. Miggs.”

“Oh my,” Mrs. Miggs said, startled, her hand holding the wet cloth, clutched over her breast. “Lady Lancaster? Goodness, it is nearly midnight. What is the problem?”