Trial by Desire (Carhart 2)

He looked up into Kate’s eyes. He couldn’t think what to say, how to apologize. He’d been enforcing an artificial distance between them because he feared if he spent much more time in her intoxicating presence, he’d succumb to complete savagery.

He’d been right. Language deserted him. There was no room for words in his mind; just that limitless, unspeakable rage. He held her hand—gently, even though every muscle in his body screamed to contract.

And then, as if to tempt his anger, he saw the impression the wall had made against her cheek—the red-on-white mark where that bastard had slammed her into the plaster, the tiny scratch where the rough surface had drawn a bead of blood.

“I take it all back.” He could not clench his hand around hers, could not even squeeze his hand. He had to stay in control. “I am going to kill him.”

It wouldn’t make it better, though. Nothing he did now would heal that cut, would undo the pain she had felt. She’d needed him, and once again, he had been gone, thinking of himself when he ought to have been thinking of her. He’d vowed that he would find a way to be a good husband not two days ago, and already he was forsworn.

Worse, whatever semblance of civility he had, he needed just to keep from crushing her hand. All his dark wants, all his savage desires—they were welling up in him now. A gentleman would walk away until he gained control—but the last thing Kate deserved after her bravery was solitude.

“I am going to kill him,” Ned repeated, “just as soon as I work up the fortitude to let go of your hand.”

“Don’t,” Kate said. And for a second that word, too, was meaningless—that silly implication that Harcroft’s life ought to be spared. She could not have meant anything so vapid.

But she said it again. “Don’t let go. Hold me.” And she looked up at him with those luminous eyes, eyes that betrayed all the fear she had not let Harcroft see. It was, Ned realized, her strength that made her vulnerable. She’d claimed she was weak, but in almost every way she was the strongest person he had ever met. And she needed him now.

And so he didn’t let go. He wanted to clasp her to him, wanted to squeeze her hand until the anger ran out of him. Instead, he pressed her fingers lightly between his palms, willing the hot rage in him to flow out of his hands, to warm the fears that echoed in her eyes. He moved his hand in circles until her hand curled in his, until her shoulders relaxed. As if that spare motion could lift away the pain she’d felt.

And when that scant comfort couldn’t take the past five minutes away—when she looked up at him, her eyes still wide with the unspoken horror of what she’d just experienced—Ned turned her hand in his, exposing her wrist and those damned angry red marks. He leaned in and placed a kiss over them.

She smelled like a summer bower in full bloom. He lingered over that inch of fragile skin and let his breath heat her.

No, he wasn’t going to leave her to assuage his own desire to beat Harcroft’s face in, however pleasant the prospect might seem. He was going to stay here, where he belonged. And not just because she needed him, but because he was too damned weak to do anything but take in the scent of her, taste the sweetness of her wrist against his lips.

He could not take her memories away; he could not eradicate her bruises. He’d failed her enough for one day. But now, when she’d used up her strength, he would stand here while she needed him.

“I’m here,” he murmured against her skin. “If you need me, I am here.”

She stepped toward him, and he put his arm around her. She was cold all over; her shoulders were trembling in the aftermath of her fear. He wrapped his other arm around her and felt her press against him.

“Not as if you needed me,” he breathed into her neck. “You were—you are—marvelous. When I left for China, it was a mistake. I’m not doing it again. Not if the Queen herself asks me.” He rubbed his hands up her shoulders, and then down them again.

“I know.” Her breath warmed the fabric of his shirt. She turned and laid her head on his shoulder; her hair tickled his nose. But still, he held the warm miracle of her against him.

“I know,” she repeated. And then, slowly, she tilted her head up to look at him. Her eyes were a solemn gray, and they tugged at some tender spot just inside his breastbone. She laid her hands against his chest.

“You hurt me,” she whispered. “When you left.”

“I’m sorry.”

“There was a time I wanted to hurt you back. I wanted you to suffer. I wanted you to feel as awful as I felt. I wanted you to ache the way I did.”

He shook his head, wordless, not knowing what to say, not knowing how to apologize to her for all the mistakes he’d made. He didn’t know how to prove to her that he would make it up to her. “You said once—that our marriage would dry up and blow away, with one good gust of wind. I’ll do what it takes to make it take root again, Kate.”

But she surprised him again. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Now I just want you.” And then, impossibly, she went on her tiptoes and placed her mouth against his.

It wasn’t an angry kiss or a frightened kiss or a kiss intended to seduce him. It was just Kate’s kiss, pure and simple. It was the taste of her, given freely; the feel of her lips, warm and soft. It was her body in his arms, light and fragile and vulnerable, and yet strong and unbending all at the same time.

He wanted to be strong for her, and yet unbidden, it became Ned’s kiss, too, an outpouring of all those words he could not find, all that emotion he could not express. When his hands touched her shoulders, she understood that it meant she could rely upon him. When she opened her mouth to him, when their tongues touched, it was because she wanted him. And when she melted against him, it was the trust he’d hoped for.

She tilted her head back, and he kissed his way down the delicate swell of her throat. She leaned against his hand, trusting he would not let her fall. This time, he wouldn’t. He wanted her—needed her with a palpable desire.

She must have felt the restraint in the tightness of his shoulders because she raised her head to his. “How many times do I have to tell you, Ned? Let me inside your control.”

She ran her fingers down his form, slipped her hands inside his coat. It was so unspeakably intimate, that gesture, a sign of sweet possession.

“What control?” he growled.

Because with her touch trailing down his ribs, there was none left, not even the bare semblance of civility he’d been struggling to maintain. Not with her hands undoing his waistcoat, her fingers dancing down his abdomen. Not with his mouth on her neck, nor the sweet swells of her breasts soft against his touch. The lacy edge of her bodice was in the way; he tugged it back, revealing the muslin of her shift. He could see the dark rose circle of her nipple through the fabric. Every last sinful fantasy flitted up in his mind and screamed to be made reality.

“What control?” he whispered again, and he fastened his mouth around her breast. Fantasy and reality merged; she was responsive and willing in his arms. The hard nub of her nipple tasted sweet, even through the sheer material of her shift. She gasped, and his fevered imagination could never have manufactured the hard choking sound of her desire, the feel of her body. He should think. He should stop. But instead, he kissed his way up her neck. His thumb found her wet nipple. A thousand desires flooded him; he circled it back and forth, feeling her own want build up. She was gasping. And then he leaned down and gathered her skirts in his hands. Lace and starched petticoats foiled his approach for the barest seconds; then he found the muslin of her drawers. He reached inside to the place between her legs.

She was wet and silky, as hot as he’d ever hoped. He tasted her mouth as his fingers found that spot. He’d learned her last night. Now he knew just where to touch her, knew just how to flick his fingers along her sensitive flesh.

Dimly he recalled that he should…that he was supposed to… What was he supposed to do? Any consideration be

yond this—this hot need for her—seemed immaterial. There was nothing but his want. His hands fell to her waist. His groin pressed into her pelvis. It felt wonderful against his erection. She felt so damned good.

It wasn’t enough. It could never be enough, not with this distance between them. He wanted her in every way possible.

But there were consequences. There were considerations. He knew there were, even if his mind could not recall what they were.

When he pulled away, however, her hands fell to the placket of his breeches. He could feel himself twitch against the rough fabric. She undid his breeches, and then her fingers were warm against the length of him. He might have come right then, from her touch. He didn’t. Instead, he gritted his teeth and slid his fingers against her. It didn’t take much to imagine plunging into that warmth, to imagine those legs of hers around his waist. Her fingers brushed the head of his penis.

“Damn,” he swore. “If you keep doing that, I’ll—”

“Do it.” Her words were a taunt, a dare to shed the last vestiges of his discipline. And when she ran her finger down the length of his erection, he did. He growled, wordless, and lifted her against the wall. He didn’t think; instead, his hands held her steady.

She wrapped her legs around him, and then, with one motion, he sank inside her. Gravity pulled her down his cock, settling her around him. The slick friction of her was glorious. He leaned down and found the tip of her nipple again. She was joined to him. He pulled out and stroked back in, and she shuddered.

Yes. This was what he’d wanted, what he’d needed. This slick wetness. This unthinking bliss. This spiraling, thrusting want, their bodies coupled. He’d needed this damned burn, painfully pleasurable, a satisfaction that raged from his balls all the way to his hands, clasping her to the wall.