Jade Lee - [Bridal Favors 03] (24 page)

“Then…” She bit her lip thinking. She’d learned of something new—sexually speaking. Helaine had whispered it to her, and Irene had been consumed by the thought. “Will you put it on?” she asked.

He nodded, his fingers already fumbling in his pant pocket. As she watched, he shed the rest of his clothing then slid it on. And when he was done, she took a step backward, away from him.

He frowned. “Irene?”

Then she slowly stepped out of her gown, allowing it to pool on the floor. Corset and shift were already tossed aside. She wore only her stockings and her shoes. He watched her closely, his eyes burning, his organ proud as it stretched for her. He was a large man, she realized, but they would fit well enough. They always had.

So she turned around, arching her back as she slowly bent over. She bared her bottom to him as she braced her arms on the sides of the cradle. It wasn’t as stable as she’d thought. It was meant to rock, and so she swayed back and forth as she took her position. But one glance behind her told her that it didn’t matter.

Grant’s face was flushed, his body taut. His eyes burned into her, and he swallowed. “My God,” he breathed. “That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

She had been feeling a little inferior lately. In truth, she’d felt old next to all his virgin dance partners. But now, any doubt was swept away. And as she smiled, her bottom high, he grinned and closed the distance between them.

He kissed her back, a delicious sensation, even as she felt his organ thrust between her legs. She was already wet, but the slide of him there made sure everything was ready.

His hands were on her breasts, squeezing her how she liked, but it wasn’t what she wanted. So she pressed backward and was rewarded with his groan.

“Fill me,” she rasped. “Now.”

His hands slid down her sides to her hips. He hadn’t even gripped her yet, but his organ was pushing inside. Little thrusts—from him or from her—and he was nudging into her core. She arched her back, wanting more, wanting him.

Then his hands tightened, and he suddenly jerked her back.

Big. Hard. He filled her.

She purred and was surprised by her own sound.

But damn him, he didn’t move yet. He was deeply embedded, but he didn’t continue the motion.

“I wish this was our home,” he said as he pressed a kiss to her spine. “I wish we were here right now making our child.”

“I wish that we had met when we were younger,” she said. And as she spoke, she squeezed her internal muscles, hugging him tight enough to draw out another of his groans.

“I am done with the past,” he said as he slid his hand between her legs. “I want you. I want our future.”

He was stroking her in earnest now—clumsy pushes with his finger against that magical spot. She cried out, trying to curl toward his finger and arch back onto him at the same time. In the end, she gave herself up to him. Behind her. Between her. Before her. It was all him.

“Yes,” she rasped. “Now!”

Her heart lurched as her body rolled.

Pleasure took control.

She heard him growl, felt his thrust. And then he joined her. He filled her.

Or rather, he filled the condom, keeping that magical future out of reach.

She pretended it didn’t matter. She reveled in the pleasure still coursing through her body. Eventually, they both pitched forward. They went slowly, with him doing his best to support her as her knees bent, and she collapsed across the cradle. He pulled out then, and she mewed in distress, but she had no strength to prevent it.

Then they lay there, her head on her arms, and his body surrounding hers. He pressed kisses into her shoulder, even as he tightened his arm around her belly.

“Am I too heavy?” he asked.

“No. Don’t move. Stay with me, just like this.”

She felt the rumble of his chuckle. “I’m not sure I could do anything else.”

She smiled, and she closed her eyes. She let her mind drift and her body relax. Then when her resistance was at its lowest, she forced herself to say the words she had held back for so long.

“I am afraid to love you,” she said. “I am afraid I already do.”

She felt him still against her, a sudden tension, and then a hard squeeze as he pulled her tight. Then he rolled his face into her back and held still.

It lasted a long time, while her heart hammered and her mind rebelled at what she had revealed. Then she felt him relax his hold. He kissed her again. Tiny kisses at the back of her neck. And then, he slowly pulled back.

She felt a tension in him long before he spoke—anxiety that transmitted without words from his body into hers. He was anxious, and that made her stiffen in fear. Then he spoke, his voice laced with regret.

“There is something you have to know,” he said. “Something I have to tell you.”

He didn’t want to let her go. He didn’t want to tell her the things she needed to know about him. And yet, he didn’t want to share it with anyone else. And he feared if he didn’t talk about it to someone, he would go mad.

Or more mad. Or less sane.

Bloody hell. He pressed his face one last time into her skin. He smelled her musky scent, tasted the salt on her skin, and he waited a moment more.

One moment more.

She was the first to move. She stroked her fingers across the back of his hands. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

He rolled away, feeling exposed, and not just because he was naked. He didn’t stop touching her. Just sat on the floor and held her hand. She looked at him, her hair tousled, her cheeks flushed, and her breasts hanging free. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathed.

“And you’re avoiding the topic.” She sat beside him, curling into his arms. “What is it?”

He took a deep breath then forced himself to speak. “Do you recall when my brother asked me if the madness had returned?”

She frowned. He felt the shift in her expression where she was pressed against his chest. But then, she nodded. “At the inn. You told him what we suspected, and I remember he looked very sad. And then he said your madness had returned. I meant to ask you about that, but forgot.”

“When I was thirteen years old, I had a tutor named Claymonte. He was pompous and very French. He was also very smart. He had this way of telling me exactly what would happen if I did something. He never stopped me, but he would point out the stupidity of my ways.”

She shifted, lifting her chin to flash him a smile. “And that only pushed you into greater excesses.”

He shrugged, his lips curving a bit in memory. “Yes. As I said, he was very French.”

“I doubt all Frenchmen are pompous, but go on. He must have tormented you mercilessly.”

Grant shrugged. In truth, he didn’t remember much of the real Claymonte. “Then that summer,” he continued, “I had an illness. A brain fever. I was sick for a month. My mother said I hallucinated things when the fever was at its worst.”

“Things?”

He shrugged. “I don’t remember it.” He paused, shifting his hold so that she wouldn’t look at him. He didn’t want to see her face when he told her the next part. “What I remember most is that I heard Master Claymonte’s voice in my head. Always before I was about to do something stupid. Or later, when the work at the mill got too hard. Always, I heard his voice telling me to do something different.”

She shifted, trying to pull back, probably so she could look at his face. He fought her at first, but in the end, surrendered to the inevitability. She wouldn’t understand any other way. So he released her, and she sat up to look at him. They still touched. He made sure of it. Knee to knee, fingers intertwined. He distracted himself by holding onto these sensations, as well as the sight of her lush black hair curling about her shoulder and over one breast.

“What do you mean, you heard his voice? While you were sick?”

“No,” he whispered. “At least, not that I remember. Afterward. After the brain fever passed, after Master Claymonte had long since gone on to teach others. I could still hear his voice.”

“Like a reminder? Don’t forget to milk the cows. Don’t forget to write a letter to Aunt Someone.”

He shook his head slowly. “Like a voice. In my head. Usually calling me a damn fool.”

She was silent, looking at him with her brows drawn together in confusion.

“It’s a madness, Irene,” he said softly. “It doesn’t make sense. At first, I thought my dog had talked to me. Or that the tutor was hiding to trick me. But over time, it became clear that the voice was only in my head. No one else could hear it.”

“A voice. Calling you a fool?”

“Sometimes it was more specific. Often it told me—just like Master Claymonte used to—what would happen if I continued. It warned me that blowing fire in the barn would burn it down.”

“You blew fire inside a barn?”

He waved that away. “I had a reason,” he said. “Not a very good one, I’ll admit, but that’s not important.”

“But the… the voice told you to burn down the barn.”

“No!” he huffed out a breath. “The voice warned me if I blew fire there, the place would burn down. And it was right.”

She nodded. “I would think that was obvious.”

He shrugged. “As I said, I had a reason. Mostly having to do with a bet that I would win. And I would use the winnings to pay for my sister’s wedding.”

She nodded slowly. “So you bet on whether you could blow fire in a barn.”

“I… yes. The point is that the voice told me not to.”

She bit her lip, thinking hard about that. “So it’s like the voice of your conscience. Your smarter self, maybe?”

He frowned, trying to remember. “I suppose. But you have to understand, Irene, it’s a voice. Words, tone—a sound only I can hear. Or at least, it was.”

She straightened slightly. “Was?”

He nodded. “I can’t hear it anymore.” He couldn’t believe that his belly quivered when he said that. At least he thought his hands had remained still, but that was only because he was gripping her so tightly.

“But that is all to the good, is it not?”

He nodded slowly. “I suppose.” Then he caught himself, damning how tentative he sounded. “No, of course it’s good,” he said firmly. “It’s just that I have been hearing that voice for so long. There were times when it was my only companion.”

“You… you got used to it.”

“Yes.”

“But it’s gone now?”

He nodded, closing his eyes against a wave of misery. “I haven’t heard it for a month now.” Then he frowned, counting backward and lining up the time in his thoughts. “It stopped soon after we met.”

She nodded. “Perhaps it’s because you don’t need a childish tutor telling you what to do anymore.”

“I haven’t needed that for more than a decade,” he said dryly.

“Then perhaps it’s because you have friends now. A family again, now that you’re reunited with Will and your mother.”

He thought about that, feeling a whirl of confusion and self-doubt. Then she squeezed his hand, leaning forward to press a light kiss on his lips.

“Or perhaps, it has merely taken this long for the brain fever to pass. But the voice is gone now. You don’t hear it anymore.” She only stumbled a bit over the word
voice
—a short hesitation that could be anything. Except that he knew it was fear. She was not nearly as sanguine about it as she appeared.

“It is madness,” he said quietly. “And I have had it for most of my life.”

“But it is gone now,” she said firmly. “And I would think you would celebrate.”

He nodded and tried to flash a smile, but it was weak. “Of course I’m happy,” he lied. Mostly, he was confused and at a loss. “But you see, it’s like losing a friend. A pompous, sarcastic, always right friend. I… I’d come to rely upon it.”

She swallowed. “For advice?”

He nodded.

“I thought you always ignored what the voice said.”

He grimaced. “Most of the time. But sometimes I listened.” He released one of her hands to gesture vaguely. “And sometimes it was wrong. Sometimes I won the bets, or sometimes I needed to work longer hours at the mill. Sometimes I knew what I was doing without benefit of an imaginary tutor.”

“So it was your imagination?” she said, obviously latching onto the sanest option.

He sighed. “It was a voice that spoke to me, clear as day. And now, it is gone, and I feel…” He swallowed and forced himself to continue. “I feel alone.”

Then her expression did soften. All the worry and anxiety slipped from her face as she touched his cheek and stroked a finger over his mouth. “But you are not alone. I am here. Lord Redhill and your brother are here. You have friends now. Confidantes and brothers-in-arms.”

“Brothers-in-arms?” he asked, a little startled.

“What would you call men who take shifts watching me without pay? Tell me that Will or Lord Redhill or even Mr. Morrison have asked for coin in return for their services.”

He shook his head. “Of course not. They are doing it out of fear for you.”

“And love for you.”

He flinched slightly, uncomfortable with the term when applied to his friends. Except, even as he recoiled from the word, warmth entered him. Those men were his friends. And Will was his brother.

“Comrades-in-arms,” he said softly. “I like that.” Then he looked at her, grabbing onto a different topic because this one had become too painful. “Did I tell you that Robert has a new investment he wishes me to look over? I shall need more funds if I am to restore Crowle Castle to anything habitable.”

She smiled, obviously more at ease. “No, you hadn’t. What is it?”

He expounded on what Robert had in mind. They chatted easily then, dressing slowly, exchanging lingering kisses. It was a normal conversation, or at least, as normal as it ever was with Irene. After all, he couldn’t think of any other woman who would understand business the way she did.

But the topic of his madness lingered like a pall over it all. Was she afraid of him now? Did she think less of him? Would she leave him? That thought struck a lance of pain through him, such that before they left this tiny nursery, he had to know what she thought.

“Irene,” he called when they were fully dressed and heading for the door. “You said before that you loved me.” He swallowed, dreading to ask the question, but needing to know. “Do you still?”

She hesitated. She was across the room, and he watched her tuck her hands together. “I said I very much feared I was in love with you.”

He nodded. After what he had just told her, she had reason to fear. Any woman would. “And now?”

She grimaced, looking to the floor. “Why did you bring me to this house? Why did you choose now to tell me about… about…”

“About my madness? This is the home that I want to buy. This is the home where I want to have a wife and children. I have never thought about that before. Not seriously. But I am now, and any woman who…”

He stopped speaking. He didn’t want to say this from across the room, so he crossed to stand before her. He wanted to take her hands, but she had them gripped tightly together. He touched her arms instead, stroking them lightly up and down.

“Any woman who talks about love should see this home. See this room.” He took a deep breath. “And she should know that my madness might pass on to our children.”

She gasped at that, her hands going to her belly. He had a moment’s panic then. Was she pregnant? But no, she couldn’t be. They had been using prevention. Except, of course, for that first time. But surely she would know by now if she were pregnant. Surely, she would have told him.

Eventually, he realized that she’d made an instinctive gesture. Every woman did that, even great-grandmothers. When anyone spoke of babies, they touched their own bellies. The gesture meant nothing.

“Your madness came from a fever,” she said.

“Yes.” Then honesty forced him tell all. “I spoke with a doctor once. He said the fever could have triggered something—a weakness of some kind. The same could happen to any child of mine.”

She swallowed and looked at him. “Did he recommend a treatment?”

Grant snorted. “He wanted to lock me up and experiment with any number of medicines. He had an asylum with plenty of patients, he said, who were just like me.”

“Just like you?”

“They heard voices, spoke to unseen people. They had delusions about who and what they were. One claimed to be Jesus. Another claimed to be a woman trapped in the body of a man. They were all lunatics,” he said softly. “Or so the doctor said.”

“And he said you were one of them?” She pressed her hand against her mouth.

“He did. He said I would grow worse. The madness would take root, and I would soon become just like them. Raving.” He swallowed. “Violent.”

“But…” She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and then opened them to search his face. “But the voice is gone now.”

He nodded. “And I never became violent,” he said. “I never did anything but hear a voice—sometimes—telling me I was a damned fool.”

“But this doctor said you would get worse.”

“If I wasn’t treated… if I didn’t take his medicines.”

“And did you?”

He shook his head. “I ran as fast and as far as I could. Ended up in a gypsy camp learning how to blow fire.”

“Oh,” she whispered. “I suppose burning down a barn makes a little more sense then.”

He smiled, though the gesture was hard. “No, it doesn’t,” he corrected softly. “It was foolish and stupid, but it was the only way I could win enough money to pay for the wedding. And from there, I ended up at the mill.”

She frowned, obviously thinking hard. “Most of your life then,” she whispered.

He had told her that already, but this was not something a person absorbed quickly. So he nodded and remained silent. He wanted to tell her he loved her. He wanted to imprint it upon her skin and her body so that she would never leave him. And he wanted her to say it back with all the strength and conviction that he felt.

But that was too much to ask, so soon after telling her all this. He could not add the burden of his love now. Not yet. So he said nothing. And, in the end, she changed the topic. She gestured toward the late afternoon sun.

“We need to leave soon. Mama will wonder where I am.”

He nodded, lifting his arm to escort her out. He was terrified that she wouldn’t take it. That she would be too afraid to touch him even through his coat and her gloves. But there was no hesitation as she set her fingertips lightly on his arm. They walked out of the nursery and down the steps to the front. He was in the process of opening the door when she squeezed his arm to stop him.

“Grant,” she whispered.

“Yes?”

“It’s a beautiful house. Any woman would be happy to live here.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if she meant herself. Would
she
be happy to live here? But again, that was too much to ask. And so, he simply dipped his head in a nod.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Thank you for asking,” she returned.

They walked in silence to the carriage. Ten minutes later, he escorted her to her front door. He did not stay for tea. He had no interest in doing the pretty with her Mama just then. Besides, he had to finalize the purchase of the house. So he simply touched her hand, holding it for as long as he dared.