His Black Sheep Bride (9 page)

Her hand came up to his chest, but before she could use it to keep some physical separation, he captured it in his, drew it aside and laced his fingers with hers.

His mouth moved over hers, and when she would have made to pull away, he pressed her back against the bookcases, settling his body against hers.

He coaxed her into a soul-searching kiss even as his free hand roamed her curves.

Her hand curled around his, and he held her firmly.

He fit against her curves, his hard planes pressing her, molding her, and she could feel his growing arousal. She
picked up the faint scent of sandalwood soap underneath that of freshly polished leather.

She didn't want to desire
this.
Desire
him.
But pure need fueled her response.

She responded to his kiss with a growing urgency, her hand plowing through the hair at the back of his head.

As if seizing upon her response, he moved his mouth from hers to trail kisses along her jaw. With an impatient hand, he undid the upper buttons of her shirt, exposing the lace of her bra, and then pressed small, warm kisses against the soft flesh of her throat.

When he moved up to claim her mouth again, his hand molded and squeezed her breast, and she met him greedily.

Sawyer made her feel. She was almost afraid of how much and
what
he made her feel.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. This wasn't part of their agreement.

She made a monumental effort to summon the will to resist.

At that very moment, however, as if Sawyer could read her mind, he drew back.

Sawyer's eyes glittered down at her, and she swallowed, clutching her open blouse with one hand.

He rubbed her lower lip with his thumb. “You look as if you've been thoroughly kissed.”

“Thanks to you,” she replied.

She had meant it as an accusation, but Sawyer just gave her a slow, satisfied smile.

“Thanks to me,” he agreed, his voice still rough with arousal. “No one will doubt we're anything but lovers on the eve of being newlyweds.”

The reminder of the status of their
relationship
—if it indeed could be called that—was the last jolt she needed to free herself from their sexual interlude.

“I'll meet you outside,” she said tightly.

As she stalked from the room, she could feel Sawyer's gaze on her.

Damn him. How could she call him on his game of seduction when he kept claiming it was no more than that—a game?

S
awyer stood at the altar waiting for the bride.

He'd started on this road as a means to acquiring Kincaid News. But somewhere along the way, acquiring—no, possessing—Tamara had begun to consume his thoughts.

He wanted her. In his bed. Under him. Moaning, just as she had in his study yesterday before they'd gone horseback riding.

He'd discovered she rode a horse well.
Like a bike,
she'd said.
You never forget.
These days, he was finding her fairly unforgettable, too.

Damn.

His cutaway morning coat wasn't structured to conceal an arousal. If he wasn't careful, he'd be giving the guests in the pews an eyeful.

So far, he had been able to use the excuse of acting like an engaged, albeit not necessarily in love, couple as cover for his real and increasing need to seduce her—a need, he admitted,
that he had increasing trouble remembering was tied to his bargain with Kincaid.

The church organ struck up, and a hushed silence fell over the guests. All eyes went to the doors at the back, which swung open to reveal Tamara on the arm of her father.

Sawyer drew in a breath at the sight of her as she started toward him.

She looked magnificent. Her vivid hair was piled up in an elaborate knot, and a delicate diamond tiara, one of the Kincaid family heirlooms, nestled there, matching the diamonds at her ears. Her dress was a strapless ivory lace confection with a full skirt. Gauzy material wrapped around her shoulders like a shrug and tucked into her bodice.

But it was her face that enthralled him. Classical beauty defined her features, her green eyes captivating beneath arched brows, her lips pink and glossy, inviting his kiss.

Sawyer sent a silent apology to the minister standing next to him, because all he wanted at that moment was to pick Tamara up, stride back down the aisle and ravish her.

Instead, he waited patiently until Tamara reached him and Viscount Kincaid kissed her cheek.

Once she put aside her bouquet of tightly-packed roses, he took her hand, claiming her.

He felt a tremor go through her and glanced her way, but her alabaster profile remained composed.

He barely registered the voice of the minister. “We are gathered together…”

He kept Tamara's hand in his, feeling the vital flow of life between them.

The minister led them in their vows, the same ones used in royal weddings. Sawyer felt his eyes crinkle when Tamara delicately repeated “to love and to cherish” and omitted “obey.”

For his part, he intended to love and cherish her—in the
full physical sense and as soon as possible. In that way, his vows couldn't be more real.

When it was time for the exchange of rings, he produced a filigreed wedding band of platinum and diamonds and slipped it on her finger. There it joined the diamond engagement ring that he'd given her.

He was glad to see Tamara's lips curve into a faint smile as she looked at the new ring on her finger. He'd debated long and hard before selecting the wedding ring at longstanding Langsford family jewelers Boodle & Dunthorne. He'd wanted a ring that fit Tamara's fashion-forward sense and was impressive enough for the new Countess of Melton. From the look on Tamara's face, he'd made the right choice.

Moments later, Tamara slipped a wedding ring on his finger—the plain platinum band with small grooved edges that he'd ordered.

When it was time to kiss the bride, he settled his lips on hers with satisfaction, letting her glimpse his simmering passion and feel the promise of more.

He was joined to Tamara now, and somehow it didn't feel just like a means to an end. Except, of course, if that end was the wedding night.

 

Tamara sipped her champagne, adjusting to the weight of two magnificent rings on her finger—and adjusting to the enormity of what she'd just done.

Married to Sawyer.
She was now the Countess of Melton.

She was seated among the seventy-odd invited guests in the main dining room of Gantswood Hall, where the traditional wedding breakfast was taking place.

Thankfully, she thought, glancing around, this whole affair would soon be over. Pia was ignoring the Duke of Hawkshire, and Belinda and Colin sat like two combatants at an impasse.
The remaining wedding guests and a roving photographer were convenient buffers.

In fact, the only person who appeared in the best of spirits was her father.

As if on a cue from her thoughts, Viscount Kincaid pushed back his chair and stood.

“A toast,” her father announced, raising his glass.

Tamara nearly groaned aloud, and everyone else dutifully reached for their glasses.

This, Tamara thought, was destined to be her life if she stayed married to Sawyer. There were all sorts of issues of protocol, precedence and etiquette that she would need to be aware of. She would need to conform to certain rules after years of priding herself on being a nonconformist.

True, she'd enjoyed her horseback ride yesterday. True, she found Sawyer's kisses more potent than any other man's. But they were all wrong for each other.

She pulled her mind back, realizing her father was looking at her, for once in her life, with approval.

“To Tamara, my dear daughter, and Sawyer, whom I proudly welcome as my son-in-law,” her father said. “May your marriage be long and fruitful.”

Tamara refused to glance at Sawyer.
If only her father knew.
This time he'd met his match in ruthlessness.

“And may you find a lasting happiness together.”

Tamara hid her surprise. She wasn't expecting
that
toast. Looking at her father's face, though, she realized he meant it.

“To Tamara and Sawyer,” the other guests said in unison, saluting them before sipping their champagne.

Tamara set down her glass, and then before she could react, Sawyer picked up her hand and raised it to his lips.

“I shall endeavor to use my very best efforts to make Tamara happy,” he announced, gazing into her eyes.

She could almost read the end of his sentence in his tawny gaze.
In bed.

Extricating her hand, she gave a fixed smile. “Sawyer, you've already made me happy.”

She thought of her loft back in New York and her dreams for Pink Teddy, and banished all thoughts of Sawyer's seductiveness.

Sawyer's amused expression was all too knowing, and she angled her chin up stubbornly.

She refused to be vanquished over plates of salmon in a delicate cream sauce with a side of asparagus spears.

 

A door connected the master's and mistress's private quarters at Gantswood Hall.

Sawyer contemplated the door now. He'd just showered, his hair still damp as he pulled on a pair of cotton pajama bottoms.

In centuries past, the door, which connected the earl's and countess's sitting rooms, had been the gateway through which the lord and lady of the house were expected to meet to do their sacred duty—namely, to beget heirs.

It was how his father had been conceived, and his father's father and so on down the line.

He himself, on the other hand, had by all reports been conceived in one of the luxury hotel suites at Claridge's, soon after his parents had embarked on their impetuous and tempestuous union.

His aristocratic father had married a free-spirited American socialite and heiress, and the marriage had been a—thankfully brief—disaster.

The thought gave him a brief moment's pause. He was well-versed in the pitfalls of marrying a woman unsuited to the role of countess.

But he'd struck his bargain with Viscount Kincaid. And even in this day and age, he had a duty to secure the earldom by
producing a successor to the responsibilities of his hereditary peerage.

And the truth was he was as impatient to consummate his marriage as any bridegroom. He'd been suffering the pangs of frustrated desire for his bride for too long.

Tonight, God help him, there'd be no untimely interruptions by sad-sack boyfriends or unsuspecting household help.

Tonight, he'd seduce Tamara.

With that thought, he strode to the door and tapped lightly. After a moment, trying again and receiving no answer, he turned the knob and entered.

Tamara's sitting room was empty, and so, for that matter, was what he could see of her bedroom through the doorway.

Where was she?

It was nearing midnight, and they'd both had a long day. After the wedding breakfast, they'd continued to socialize with various guests, until they'd seen a number of their visitors depart.

Sawyer walked farther into Tamara's bedroom.

Her personal belongings lay about, and his eyes came to rest on the wedding dress that was draped on a rose-and-gold-striped armchair.

Walking over, he picked up the dress and brought it up to his face, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply.

A hint of jasmine.

A little exotic, a lot erotic.

His body tightened.

Allowing the lacy gown to drop back onto the chair, he let his eyes follow a path of strewn clothing from where he was standing to the bathroom door.

A pair of red panties, a white garter…

His blood began to hum.

He could hear the shower running now, and his feet took him to the bathroom door.

He didn't even think. He opened the door and walked in
side, and immediately focused on Tamara's silhouette visible through the fogging shower door, her dark-red hair partly wet.

Her face was turned up to the shower jet, her eyes closed as soapy water ran in rivulets over her shoulders and disappeared beneath the steam that partially concealed her from his avid gaze.

Sawyer felt his blood pound harder in his veins. His body was revved, ready on a hair trigger to seek mind-blowing pleasure with her.

At that moment, Tamara turned her head and saw him.

He watched her eyes go wide with shocked surprise.

They stared at each other while the steam continued to rise between them.

Then she slapped her hand on the handle of the shower and shut off the water.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded as she turned to face him again.

“I live here, if you'll recall.”

He wanted to enjoy the show.
Step out of the stall slowly.

He reached for one of the plush beige towels hanging nearby and moved toward the shower door.

Her green eyes flashed, as bright as any fine emeralds. But despite the performance, he could read her nervousness.

“You haven't answered my question,” she said.

“We need to discuss what we're doing tomorrow,” he replied. “This is the only time we'll have to speak privately. We still have guests—including your father—who'll expect us to act like content, if not lovestruck, newlyweds.”

It wasn't a complete lie. They did need to talk.

But his body damned conversation. It wanted something more elemental from her.

“Out,” she demanded.

“Precisely what I was thinking.” He held the towel before him. “I won't look.”

She hesitated, and then chin held high, opened the stall door and stepped out.

He lowered the towel, and she sucked in a breath.

He drank in the sight. Her shoulders and arms were sculpted, her waist tiny. And her breasts…

He swallowed.
Beautiful.
Her nipples were erect and rosy, beckoning to him in their tightness.

And that damned rose tattoo…

“You said you wouldn't look!”

His lips twitched. “The sight proved irresistible.”

Her eyes rounded, the sexual current oscillating between them.

“Tamara, all grown-up,” he said roughly. “You do make an exquisite countess.”

Her lips parted, her eyes moving from his bare chest and down to his arousal.

The part of his brain still functioning was a bit amused by her loss for words. The other part took satisfaction in the evidence that she was just as affected as he was.

He let the towel fall from his grasp to the floor.

The curls at the apex of her thighs were just as dark and lushly red as her hair.

Heaven.

He reached out and drew the pad of his forefinger over her nipple.

She gasped, and he hoped the sensation was as exquisite as she gave every evidence of it being.

Her eyes flashed. “Looking for some novelty, Sawyer? A shag with someone who's not your usual type?”

“With someone who's my wife.”

“In name only!”

“Labels are only as meaningful as we allow them to be.”

She bent to snatch up the towel, but he was just as fast…bending with her and dragging her into the shelter of his arms as his mouth fastened on hers.

Lips locked together, they rose slowly.

He folded her close, and her arms inched around his neck. The wetness that still clung to her skin dampened them both, joining them, as his arousal settled against her.

Ever since their first kiss, the attraction between them had been combustible, and now it seemed they were both powerless as it flamed to life again.

His hand slipped down her back, rubbed over her derriere and back up again.
She felt so good.

He moved his mouth from hers, trailing kisses across her cheek and down to her throat.

“You're a moth to the flame, aren't you, Sawyer?” she taunted softly.

He lifted his head, and looked into her green eyes, bright with desire and provocation.

“Does it get boring for you buttoned-down types?” Tamara asked.

“Never when you're around.”

A hint of vulnerability flashed across her face, but it was quickly gone. “Is that a compliment?”

“A promise.”

She opened her mouth, but he swallowed her response with his, breathing in the scent of jasmine that lingered lightly on her skin.

He slid his hand over her thigh, lifting it and wrapping it around him.

He let his hands dance over her body, plying her with pleasure until he felt her relax. Only then did he bend over her, cupping and nuzzling her breasts.