The Sherbrooke Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 1)

He unfastened his britches and came into her and she was soft and willing, quite ready for him, and it amazed him, this awareness of him that was deep in her, this yielding that was his even when he had hurt her. “Alexandra,” he said into her mouth and thrust hard and harder still.

She opened her eyes even as she pushed upward against him to draw him deeper.

“I seems I must take you every day, for our health, you understand, otherwise we will grow quickly old and mean and testy. Do you understand? Tell me you understand.”

“I understand,” she said, and pulled his face down to hers. She was hungry for him, always this hunger, and she kissed him, her tongue in his mouth, taking the lead, and it both surprised him and made him instantly wild.

“Ah, don’t,” he said, but it was too late. Always too late with her and he surged into her and over her, panting and heaving, his eyes closed against the intensity of the feelings coursing through him, and that pressure, always building, and then, quite suddenly, he jerked out of her. Her eyes flew open but he only shook his head. He lifted her hips in his large hands and brought her to his mouth.

Alexandra screamed.

Then she groaned, softly, beyond herself, and it went on and on and he forced her to ease then he built the sensations again. He was controlling her this time but there was nothing she could do about it. She cried out, her head thrashing on the bed until finally, he left her and came inside her once more and he arched his back and yelled her name at his release.

When it was over, when he could find a breath, Douglas came up on his elbows over her, and said into her dazed face, “Don’t you cry again. I don’t like it. There is no reason for you to cry. I came to you, did I not? Did I not give you great pleasure?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, you did.”

He was still deep inside her. It was time for lunch. Absurd, the middle of the day and he was growing hard again. He forced himself to pull out of her.

“No more crying,” he said and rose to stand over her. He straightened his britches.

“Why can’t you trust me, Douglas?”

“You speak nonsense.”

“Did I not try to save you from Tony?”

“That has naught to do with anything.”

She managed to come up to a sitting position, pulling down her gown. She was wet with him and with herself, she supposed; she still felt the pull of the languorous feelings, the draining pleasure. She looked at her feet, bare, hanging over the side of the bed, not reaching the floor. “Very well, Douglas, I will do as you wish. I will not pry into anything. If you get into trouble, I shall be sorry for it, but I will do nothing. That is what you wish, is it not?”

He frowned. No, it wasn’t, but it had been what he’d said.

“I wish you to arrange yourself. I am hungry. It is time for luncheon.” He left her then, going into his own bedchamber, closing the adjoining door behind him. She sat there, staring after him.

“Merde,” she said.

CHAPTER

21

DOUGLAS CAME AWAKE suddenly. He didn’t know what had awakened him, but one instant he was deep in a dream, in a heavy skirmish near Pena, the French drawing closer and closer to his flank, and the next, he was staring into the darkness, breathing fast. He shook his head and automatically turned to reach for Alexandra.

His hand landed on smooth sheets. Foolishly, he ran his hands over her pillow and on the blankets bunched up at the foot of the bed. She wasn’t there. She was gone. He felt panic surge, raw and painful in his belly. Dear God, Georges Cadoudal had taken her.

No, that was absurd. Georges couldn’t have gotten into the house, up here into the bedchamber, and taken her, all without waking him. No, it was impossible.

Douglas was still wrapping the belt around his dark blue velvet dressing gown when he walked quickly downstairs, his feet bare and soundless on the heavy carpet. Where the devil could she have gone?

He quietly looked into the two salons, the breakfast room, the huge formal dining room. He paused in the wide entrance hall, frowning. Then, he walked quickly back toward the library. He stopped, seeing the flicker of light coming from beneath the door.

Very quietly, he turned the knob and looked in.

Alexandra was sitting at his desk, a candle at her left elbow, an open book in front of her. She was concentrating fiercely, her forehead furrowed.

He was on the point of charging in and demanding what the devil she was doing when he heard her say quite clearly, “So that is what merde means. Well, well, it is certainly bad enough and Douglas was right. It would relieve a person’s spleen splendidly and very quickly.” She said the word several times, then added aloud, “Of course it won’t do much good in the long run. Come on, my girl, let’s get to it.”

He had a difficult time to keep the laughter in his throat, but he managed, for now she had begun repeating aloud in poor but understandable French, “I won’t go. Je ne vais pas. He won’t go. Il ne va pas. They won’t go. Ils ne vont pas.”