In My Wildest Fantasies (26 page)

"Point taken," his brother replied. "Horses will do."

Darkness had already descended upon the estate when Devon and Blake returned from the fields. They were both soaked through to the bone, their feet numb from the chill, their hands shaking with fatigue, blistered after working with the tenant farmers to dig extra drainage ditches where they were needed.

The butler met them at the door and took their wet coats and hats, then they each ordered hot baths and brandy in their rooms. They took a glass together in the study while they waited for the baths to be drawn, then scaled the steps wearily and headed toward their private lodgings, each of them intent upon collapsing with all due haste as soon as they cleaned the grime from their skin.

Devon said goodnight to his brother and started down the long corridor. A wall sconce flickered wildly as he passed by, then blew out.

He stopped in his tracks, then started again. Reaching the next sconce, he kept his gaze fixed upon it. Thankfully it remained lit, illuminating one of the many palace portraits of his ancestor, the first Duke of Pembroke.

Devon stopped in the corridor and looked up at it. It was disturbingly lifelike, as were all the paintings of that man. No wonder their father was obsessed with them and talked to them in the night.

At last Devon reached his door and turned the knob to discover a fire roaring in the grate and a tub full of hot water waiting for him. He closed and locked the door, then stripped off his wet clothing and stepped into the steaming bath. When his hands touched the water, however, his blisters burned like hot pokers, so he rested his arms along the brass rim of the tub, palms up.

His entire body was aching, his mind in a fog of exhaustion. The fields had indeed been flooded, and if his father had seen them for himself, he would have collapsed in a hysterical fit. Something had to be done, but for the life of him, he didn't know what.

Tipping his head back, he closed his eyes and tried to relax. It wasn't a moment before he felt that pleasant feeling of floating as sleep approached, but a dripping sound pulled him from that place and compelled him to open his eyes.

"I must be dreaming," he said, recognizing his wife sitting beside him, leaning over the tub, dipping a cloth into the water and squeezing it out over his knees. "Because I see an angel."

Indeed, an angel she was, dressed in her flowing white nightgown, her red hair spilling in graceful waves down her back.

Over the past week, they had made love every night, reading from Lydie's diary when it suited them, but more often than not, leaving it in a drawer and exploring their own particular tastes and desires with enthusiasm and curiosity. Their lusty appetites were always in harmony, and the sex was, without question, superb.

Rebecca was adventurous in every sense of the word, and he was thankful for that. It gave their relationship a clear dynamic, for they were both open about what they wanted in bed and had no reservations when it came to the use of titillating words and lusty language. They were each determined to satisfy and be satisfied, and it was the one thing they had in common--the daily anticipation of sex, and the question of when and where they would have it next.

Devon knew their lovemaking was distracting them both from the secrets they had kept from each other before their marriage, as well as his unwillingness to surrender to the kind of love she wanted him to feel.

Every night she said the words to him--I love you--and every night, he answered with a kiss. He simply could not return the sentiment. He was not capable of letting his emotions go free in that way, nor could he lie to her and say it just to please her.

All of it was acceptable to him. He was quite happy to continue on in that way, enjoying sex but never speaking of more intimate matters of the heart. He suspected, however, it would just be a matter of time before Rebecca would want something more.

"How did you get in here?" he asked, determined to enjoy things the way they were, for as long as he could.

"You're not the only one who knows about the secret passages in this house," she said. "Charlotte has been taking me around."

He glanced at the tall wardrobe by the bed with its double doors ajar. "Alas, my secret is no longer a secret. Where else did she take you? Have you seen the mice in the old south passage yet?"

"The abbey underground? No, she refused to take me there. She said it gave her nightmares as a child, because she thought it was haunted by the monks."

He puckered his lips. "I think the nightmares came from her unscrupulous brothers, who told her terrible ghost stories about those monks." His brow furrowed as he recalled certain, specific details from his boyhood. "Maybe there was a spider or two involved," he added.

She shook her head with disapproval, then changed the subject. "I heard you worked very hard today."

"Yes, and I will work my fingers to the bone again tomorrow, and the day after that if this weather continues."

"Not all landlords would do what you did," she said, sounding wistful and pensive. "You picked up a shovel and worked side by side with your tenants. I am sure you won much respect and loyalty today."

He slid down and dunked his head, remained under water for a moment, then surfaced and wiped the back of a hand over his face.

She noticed the blisters and calluses. "Oh, Devon." She took hold of his hand and kissed it.

"I'll survive," he said. "I am not so sure about the fields though."

"The rain will stop," she assured him. "It's just a bad spring, that's all. Summer will soon be here, and we will all be roasting in the sunshine, praying for a cloudy day."

He tipped his head back upon the smooth rim of the tub. "I hope you're right. For my father's sake."

"Of course I am."

She reached for the soap and lathered it between her palms, then stood up, moved behind him, and began to wash his hair. He closed his eyes and relaxed while she massaged his scalp and stroked his temples firmly with her thumbs. He reveled in the sound of swabbing lather, enjoyed the sensation of his genitals swelling pleasurably beneath the water.

"You are a goddess," he said.

"No, I am your wife. Now rinse." She kissed his forehead, then moved around the tub and picked up the cloth again.

He slid down and dunked his head, came back up and wiped his eyes, then lay back while she rubbed the lathered cloth over his neck and chest and shoulders, then down to his navel and lower still.

She had only to look into his eyes to recognize the need coursing through his body and the errant thoughts on his brain.

"Would you like me to get in there with you?" she asked. "Or would you prefer to come out here with me?"

"I think I would like you to hand me a towel."

Smiling, she reached for it and held it out. He rose from the hot tub, water sluicing down his naked body and dripping noisily into the tub, his skin glistening in the firelight.

"I should apologize in advance," he said. "After the day I've had, I doubt I'll have my usual stamina."

"I'll have enough for both of us."

She held the towel up while he stepped out, but he did not make use of it. He took it from her and dropped it carelessly onto the mat, dripping water and leaving shiny footprints behind him as he followed her, naked, to the bed.

"You're going to get me wet, aren't you?" she asked, backing up toward it.

"Undoubtedly, so you better take that off." He pointed at her dressing gown.

With a mischievous glimmer in her eyes, she pulled it off over her head and stood before him, also naked.

He stopped where he was, letting his eyes feast upon the graceful swell of her breasts and the curve of her hips and the enticing triangle of curls between her thighs.

He thought again of their argument the day of their wedding, and how he had felt when her father had informed him that she'd been engaged to another.

Devon had told her everything about MaryAnn that day. Well, almost everything. He had left certain details out.

He wondered in turn, with a hint of unease, what details he did not know about her former life.

He strode toward her and rested his hands on her hips. "Tell me something. Did he ever touch you?"

Her elegant eyebrows drew together in a frown. "Who?"

"Rushton."

She looked disappointed that he had interrupted what they were about to do by bringing that up again. "Why does it matter?"

"Just tell me."

"Why? What good would it do for you to know something like that? And why do you want to know?"

He realized suddenly that he was now the one digging for information about intimate matters outside of their sexual encounters, and the thought was disturbing to him.

Not, however, as disturbing as the fact that she would not answer the question.

She sighed and climbed onto the bed, completely uninhibited about her nudity, as always. She patted the spot next to her. "Come and lie down with me."

He joined her on the bed. "Tell me, Rebecca. I want to know."

She hesitated, then finally began to explain. "Mr. Rushton used to come to our house and have tea with us. It was always very strange and silent and awkward. He would look at me in a way that made me uncomfortable."

Suddenly agitated, Devon inched closer to her. "Did he ever touch you?" he asked again, more demanding this time.

Her slender throat bobbed with a swallow. "Once."

Devon braced himself for whatever she was about to tell him, and began in advance to subdue the anger he knew would come. "What happened?"

She hesitated again. "It was a year ago. I did not know he had come to visit. I was in the stables after returning from an afternoon ride. He came up behind me, grabbed hold of my skirts, and tore them as he pulled me toward him. He tried to kiss me, but I fought him and scratched his face and ran into the house. I never told Father."

"You should have."

"I don't know that it would have made a difference. Father would never have confronted him, and I did not want to place that burden of guilt on him."

Devon was surprised that his principal reaction was not anger, but his need to reassure her that she was now safe here at Pembroke Palace--that nothing like that would ever happen to her again. He touched his lips to hers.

"Neither he, nor any other, shall ever touch you that way again, Rebecca. If any man does, you shall tell me, and I will not hesitate to confront him. In fact, I will hunt him down tirelessly in order to do so."

She nibbled at his lips. "I thought you did not wish to be my protector."

She was challenging him, meaning to prove that he was wrong to think he was not born to be her hero.

"It is my duty as your husband to protect you."

"Just duty?" she asked, eyeing him intently. "Does it have nothing to do with passion? Jealousy? Love?"

His heart was beginning to pound in his chest. He shifted uncomfortably. "Sometimes we have no choice about the things we must do."

"Do you regret the choices you have made?" she asked, referring, of course, to their marriage.

Growing more and more uneasy with the direction of this conversation, he rolled on top of her. "I regret nothing. But tell me, do you think Rushton will ever try to see you again?"

"Why are we talking about this tonight," she asked, "when you have avoided the subject all week?"

"I don't know. I am always surprised by the things I feel when I am with you."

She wiggled her hips invitingly, beckoning him, pushing against the throbbing tip of his erection. "I doubt he will come here. This is Pembroke Palace, and you are the future duke."

He thrust gently into her heated folds, but paused. "If I were him, I would want matters resolved once and for all--perhaps an apology from you for leaving without a word. I would also want to meet the man who stole my fiancee."

She cupped his buttocks in her hands and pulled him in closer and tighter. "I told you before, I never agreed to be his fiancee. He knows that. He will simply have to let the matter go."

Devon pushed and entered her in a single, deep thrust. She sighed with rapturous delight, while he began to lose sight of life beyond this bed, his raging arousal sliding in and out. She gyrated beneath him, and he quickened his stroke.

Soon, passion obliterated everything else. They made love eagerly, changing positions often, exploring different sensations and responses. In the end, shortly after they both climaxed, they lay flat on their backs with their heads down at the footboard, struggling to catch their breath in the fading firelight.

"That was wonderful," Rebecca said in a breathless sigh of release.

"As it has been every night," he replied.

They lay quietly, exhausted. He was just drifting off to sleep when she spoke.

"Why did you want to know those things about Mr. Rushton? Do you still believe there are things I am keeping from you? Do you suspect there was something more between us?"

"I confess, part of me still wonders."

"There was nothing, Devon. Nothing."