Trial by Desire (Carhart 2)

Perhaps her circle was too wide—or perhaps he wanted to make her uneasy—because he simply shrugged. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

She shook her head in embarrassment.

“Before I took off my clothing?”

She nodded. “Yes. And took… Took the matter…”

“Before I took the matter in hand?” he finished with a wry smile.

“Yes. That.”

“To answer your question, tonight I needed it cold. If not, I would have wallowed in the luxury of this too completely. Cold sharpens the senses. Heat dulls them.”

“Oh.” Her eyes fell on his body—her husband’s body—naked, spread out before her. He was hard; his body was so clearly willing to oblige her in this particular point of their marriage. She had a thousand questions. Does that feel good? Does the cold help with your release?

Could we build a fire now?

What she settled on was, “Can you do that to me?”

He shook his head. “Pardon?”

She stepped forward into the lamplight. “You’re my husband.” Her gaze fell again to that thick, rigid rod between his legs. Maybe he hadn’t wanted her. Maybe he’d just wanted the privacy of…of the thing. He reached for a silk banyan that lay across the bed linens.

“Oh, no,” she said quietly. “Please don’t cover yourself.”

He looked up at her, his hand clenching on the cloth. “Kate, I have no right to make demands of you.”

“Why not? You’re my husband. Men who don’t exercise their marital rights become irrational.”

He frowned at that.

“Or feverish, or they have headaches or some such. I never did find out. But I have some idea how these things work.”

“You do, do you?” His lips twitched.

“I am only thinking of your health,” she said piously. But her gaze strayed again to impious territory, and she bit back a sigh.

“Why? I left you. I have not been as good to you as you deserve. I—”

“You,” Kate said quietly, “are an idiot. If you have need of me, do you suppose I would flinch away? Do you think me so weak that you cannot lean on me on occasion? Don’t you understand—you aren’t the only one who can make demands. I’m your wife, and I wish to God you would treat me like one. In every way.”

“As you may recall, I can be a terrible beast.” He didn’t move. “And you still don’t trust me.”

Kate crossed over to him and sat down on the bed. The cotton batting of his mattress gave way under her weight. It sagged; as a consequence, his body canted toward her. Ned didn’t pull away. But he didn’t move closer, either. Instead, he looked at her, his eyes dark and dilated. “I’m freezing.”

He didn’t pull her close, as she’d hoped. Instead, he watched her warily. “I don’t like to lose control.”

Kate inched her fingers across the coverlet toward his now free hand. His knuckles were heated, even though he’d been sitting in the cold. “Ned,” she whispered, “let me inside your control.”

A shiver passed through him, from his shoulders on down. The transparent silk that covered her offered scant protection from the chilled air. She fumbled with the knot of ribbons in front. It was awkward to try to remove the garment one-handed, but it felt right to keep her fingers pressed on top of his. The material slid past her shoulders.

His eyes fell to see what she had bared. Beneath the nightgown, her breasts were peaked, the nipples poking into the fabric, her skin pebbled.

“Don’t pretend you don’t desire me,” she said. “And I won’t pretend, either. Let me inside. You’re not the only one who will descend into irrationality if we continue on this path of abstinence.”

His member twitched in what appeared to be happy agreement. But he stared at her for a long while before speaking. “I thought you’d take lovers,” he finally said. His voice was low and hoarse. “I assumed you would, when I left.”

After all that had happened, after all that had passed between them this past week, she hadn’t thought that he could still hurt her. But it stung. His words stung so badly—his casual assumption that she would give herself to another, and the even more casual assumption that he would have simply accepted that outcome instead of fighting to keep her his—that she almost turned away. But she’d asked him to let her inside.

He’d left her. She wasn’t going to like everything he had to say. And as much as the possibility frightened her, if she never risked hurt again, she’d never have happiness, either.

Kate pulled his hand close. “It’s not about my honor. It’s… Well, I thought about infidelity at first. It would have been easy enough. I wanted to make you really and truly sorry for abandoning me. I imagined that Lady Blakely would send you word, and you’d come rushing back to me, all hotheaded anger.”

“Ah,” he said slowly. “When you imagined me rushing back, did I challenge your lover to a duel?”

“On bad days,” she said with some asperity, “you lost.” But she drew a circle on the back of his hand with her thumb.

That little scene was so much supposition—a fanciful drama, to contain the shape of her own tortured desires. Because what she’d really imagined was that her husband had cared about her, enough to come rushing to her side. “I did think about what I would do if I returned to find you’d taken a lover.”

“And did you think about challenging my hypothetical lover to a duel?”

“No.” He raised his eyes from their joined hands to look her in the face. “In my imagination, I was given the chance I squandered when first we married. This time, I would court you. I would seduce you. I would show patience and care and I would convince you that this time, you would choose me—not have me foisted upon you by some happenstance of fate. I wanted to earn your regard, not have it handed to me by default.”

“Well. You’re seducing me now.”

He ran his thumb along her wrist. Such a tiny point of contact, to send such a jolt through her. “No, blast it. You’re seducing me, which I have to say is rather unfair of you. I want to prove that you can rely on me, that I’m not some foolish man driven only by irrational lust. I want—I need you to know I’m not Harcroft, to be swept up in a surfeit of emotion.”

It was the first criticism she’d ever heard him utter of his friend. She wasn’t sure how to respond. But if there was a surer way to bring this conversation to a halt than to discuss Harcroft, Kate didn’t know it. She looked up at him in cool regard. “Are you saying it’s irrational to want me? Is this going to run along the lines of the reasons why you refuse to light a fire?”

He walked his fingers up her wrist, up the curve of her arm to the crook of her elbow. And now he leaned in until his face was inches from her.

“Hardly.” His voice was dark; his breath came hot against her lips. “I’m fairly certain I don’t deserve you.” She could actually see the mist his breath made in the cold.

“Naturally.” Her voice seemed calm, but her heart was racing. “Luckily for you, I’ve decided to take you as my lover anyway.”

He peered into her eyes. “You seem to have forgotten my many flaws. That’s not like you. Are you sure you’re my wife?”

His naked chest brushed her breasts as he leaned toward her. She could feel the heady weight of him poised above her. His flesh, so warm, was in sharp contrast with the cold air. Her own skin quivered in anticipation. He brought his hand up to touch the side of her cheek, and he brushed her jawline. A shiver went through her, a sweet portent of pleasures to come.

She could taste his kiss before he touched her lips—a mingling riot of mint and sherry. His other hand came to her shoulder and he guided her down, down until her spine met the mattress. For an instant, he looked into her eyes. He held himself above her, the muscles in his arms corded to support his weight. And then he lowered his whole body atop her, from the hard planes of his chest to the weight of his thighs. She could feel his erection pressing into her belly. His mouth found hers, and her mind emptied

of everything except desire.

She wanted his kiss, and his mouth opened to hers. His lips were warm against hers; they moved slowly, yet firmly. His hand slid down her side; she could feel his touch through the thin fabric of her half-discarded nightgown, trailing down her ribs. There was nothing between them but a scant layer of silk, and even that seemed too much.

No wonder he’d not started a fire. He was a blast-furnace himself, his body searing hers.

He pulled back for breath. “Feeling feverish?”

Her blood was pounding in her head; her own breath came only in short pants. And she was hot all over, from the palms of her hands to the core of her body. She nodded shortly.

“Do you have a headache?” His tone was solicitous. “Or any pain? Or do you find that you are thinking irrationally? Women who don’t find release often do, you know. I’m only thinking of your health.”

She stared up at him, her mind completely blank for a bare instant. Then she remembered what she’d told him when she came in—her worries about the symptoms of male abstinence. She smacked his shoulder with her fist. “Are you mocking me, at a time like this?”

“Are you laughing?”

She was; her breath froze around him.