Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

Heart pounding, Frances sat up, jerking the covers to her nose.

Her husband walked into her bedchamber and closed the door behind him.

8

Great souls suffer in silence.

—FRIEDRICH VON SCHILLER

“What are you doing in here? What do you want?”

Her voice rang out shrill and hoarse. Hawk saw her outline in the bed from the dim corridor light. She was sitting up, the covers pulled to her chin. He closed the bedchamber door and calmly walked into the room.

“Get out of here, my lord! You shouldn’t be here, ‘tis not your bedchamber!”

He could hear her breathing—fast, nearly gasping. “Frances,” he said, trying to sound reassuring, “I am here to consummate our marriage. It won’t take long, I promise you. All you have to do is—”

“No! Get out!”

“—lie quietly. I’ll try not to hurt you.”

Frances heard the determination in his voice. She stuffed her fist in her mouth at the sounds of him undressing. When his boots hit the floor, she nearly shouted, “I won’t have it, my lord, I—”

“Philip,” he said. “Hush now, Frances. You are my wife and you will obey me. Let me remind you that this is your duty as a wife.”

She knew all about duty, but she’d hoped that he believed her ugly enough to forgo this whatever-it-was for a while longer.

“I really don’t feel well,” she tried, and flinched at his chuckle.

“Did you drink more horse-colic medicine?”

“No, but I wish I had!”

He suddenly sat down on the side of the bed, and Frances scrambled away. He reached out his hand and touched soft, slightly damp hair. He wondered, not at all amused, if she wore one of her ridiculous caps to bed.

He could hear her breathing again, nearly feel her fear. He wished he’d left a candle burning, but imagined ruefully that he’d be unable to do his duty if he had to look at her.

“Frances,” he said, his voice still calm and gentle, “you must trust me. I know that you are ... worried about this”—that was a seemingly vast understatement, he thought—“but it won’t be so bad, I swear it. I know what I’m doing, and if you’ll just cooperate, it will be much easier for you. Don’t fight me, Frances.”

Frances thought suddenly of the dreams she’d had as a girl. Dreams of a man who would love her and woo her and respect her and want all of her. It was nearly too much, this cold deliberation, this ghastly objective of his. She closed her eyes, knowing well enough that there was no hope for it.

“All right,” she managed in a thread of a whisper.

“Just lie still.”

“All right.” And she did, on her back, her eyes tightly closed even though the room was completely dark. She felt him draw back the covers, felt him lightly touch her cheek with his fingertips. She flinched away.

I had more fun in a raging battle, Hawk thought. He quickly grasped her nightgown and pulled it up to her waist.

“Hold still,” he said, his hand coming down on her stomach. She was very soft, he thought, his fingers seeking lower. He felt the nest of curls between her thighs and paused a moment. He heard her suck in her breath, and quickly moved down and parted her legs. Her flesh was soft, her thighs slender. He paused a moment.

“Frances, you do know what we will do, don’t you?”

We? She wanted to spit at him, tell him to go to the devil, but the words stuck in her throat.

Hawk waited a few more moments for her to answer, then said, “You are a virgin, aren’t you?” Of course she is, you damned fool! “Frances, I understand that it is natural to be afraid of something you don’t know about—”

“I understand,” she whispered, just wanting it to be over with and him gone.