Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (16 page)

She lowered onto the stool before the vanity table and quickly removed her hairpins, sending the glossy dark mass tumbling to her shoulders. She quickly ran a brush through her tresses, inspecting herself critically.

Perhaps if she looked more like that curvaceous redhead she’d seen weeping in the village, he’d be more inclined to stay awake.

With decided vigor, she slammed the brush on the table. Now she was just being ridiculous. She’d ordered him to leave her be. That’s what he was doing. Even on their wedding night. She wasn’t about to nurse some wounded feelings because he took her request seriously. She wasn’t that fickle.

She moved to the bed, flinging back the covers, her movements agitated and excessive. In the back of her mind she knew she was trying to deliberately gain his attention. Like a child throwing a tantrum, she wanted to rouse him from sleep. She frowned, recognizing the bad behavior in herself. And yet she couldn’t stop.

She glared at the shadowy shape of his broad back peeking out from the covers. Even lying in the middle of the bed, there was plenty of bed left for her to occupy without touching him. She saw that now—and felt a stab of disappointment.

Turning, she beat her pillow loudly, as though getting it in the right condition for her head was of critical importance. At the very least, it was an excellent exercise in frustration.

She flopped back on the pillow with a loud sigh, her hair billowing all around her in a floating dark nimbus. She sent one last baleful look at his back. His shoulder moved the barest amount, a slow rise and fall matching his even breathing. He slept. The cad.

Rolling to her side so she did not have to endure the sight of him, she tucked her hand beneath her cheek. She doubted she would sleep a wink.

This was her last thought before drifting away.

Chapter Twenty-two

L
ogan didn’t move until he heard her breathing shift into that rasping cadence that marked sleep. Only then did he roll over to observe her, admiring the softness of her features relaxed in sleep.

She’d been spitting mad at his seeming indifference to her. It had taken every ounce of will inside him not to do more than unbutton the back of her gown. He’d had to force himself not to strip her gown all the way off and touch her, caress her as he longed to do. She was his wife now . . . and he couldn’t even lay a finger on her. The absurdity of it galled him. It was a situation beyond his imagining a month ago. He had envisioned himself married to a female. Perhaps one he didn’t want or crave with the intensity that he wanted Cleo, but a tolerable wife. Someone he could stomach, who could in turn tolerate him. He’d assumed she’d at least be willing to share his bed. That she would even expect it—desire it.

Cleo had moved about in a huff, clearly offended about something, before she succumbed to sleep. What did she expect of him? To attempt seduction after she’d already laid forth the terms of their marriage? No. He hardened his resolve. He’d wait for her to come to him. She was a passionate creature. He had proof of that—memories that left him aching with need.

He had to believe that she couldn’t spend night after night in this bed with him and not cave, not surrender to even one kiss. One kiss that could open the door to so much more . . .

He intended to make it as difficult as possible for her. Despite what he told her, he could have taken a chamber down the hall. His staff and siblings would have speculated, but he didn’t care. More than likely they would have thought it her English ways . . . a haughty
Sassenach
simply desiring her own chamber. Or they might think he was giving her more time to acclimate to her new role as his wife.

Reaching out, he slid a dark tendril back from her cheek and wrapped it around his finger. Honestly, he didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought. He cared only about making Cleo his wife in the truest sense. And he’d use all his cunning to make that happen.

C
leo’s eyes opened slowly, and she blinked, trying to shake free her groggy thoughts. The cloudy vestiges of a dream pulled on her consciousness like cobwebs clinging to the skin.

She lifted her head, her unfocused gaze staring into a room of flickering shadows and dying light. For a long moment she could recall none of it. Not what had happened. Not where she was.

Her gaze landed on a large window dominating one stone wall. The drapes were cracked, but no light slipped inside, so she knew it was still dead night. Stillness surrounded her, draping the room in its hush. And yet she knew something had woken her.

And then she saw Logan and it all came back in a burst, in an instant of aching awareness.

He bent before the hearth, adding logs into the dwindling fire. He looked like some mythical man, a creature not of earth. Firelight licked over him, gilding his magnificent form, sliding over the ripple of muscle and sinew as he worked. Her palms tingled, itched to follow the trail of firelight over him.

Everything came back to her. Including Marguerite’s lessons. Her breasts tightened beneath her gown and an ache pooled low in her belly.

Determined to gain his notice, she readjusted on the bed in a calculated pose, flinging the covers off her and making certain her nightgown rode higher . . . exposing her legs up to her thighs. Marguerite had convinced her that there were other things to do aside of actual consummation. Pleasurable things. Cleo wanted that. She wanted to experience it for herself . . . and she wanted to please him, too.

Marguerite’s voice rolled through her.
The sight of bare skin always puts a man in an amorous mood.

She only hoped the room’s dim lighting hid the flush to her cheeks, and that he wasn’t alerted to the fact that she was awake.

At least until she wanted him to be.

Closing her eyes, she arranged herself in what she hoped was an artless pose. And waited.

She heard his approach. The steady fall of his footsteps. Then nothing. He stopped. Was he looking down at her? She struggled to control her breathing, keep it even and deep as though she were believably asleep.

Then the bed dipped with his weight. He scooted closer but she felt nothing. No brush of him against her. She was sprawled in such a way that, she knew, he had to take special care not to touch her. When positioning herself, she’d assumed he’d want to reclaim his spot in the middle of the bed. The spot she now occupied.

She waited several moments, listening, feeling the air. There was an initial shift of the covers and adjustment of his body as he settled down into bed again, and then all fell still. Not the faintest movement. No rustling sheets. She couldn’t even hear the fall of his breathing.

She waited several minutes, but the worry that he’d perhaps fallen asleep again prompted her to crack open an eye.

He was beside her, on his back, eyes closed. Sleeping already? Disappointment shot through her yet again, but with it she felt a jolt of determination. He couldn’t be sleeping too deeply yet. And what if he was? She knew what would wake him. If Marguerite was to be believed, she knew precisely what might rouse him.

Chapter Twenty-three

H
e felt her move upon the bed and his every muscle tightened in near pain.

It had been hard enough to return from stirring the fire and find her sprawled so delectably across the bed, her bare limbs curled enticingly, inviting him to touch, caress. His palms sweat just thinking about it. The only thing for him to do was lie down and close his eyes and try to forget the image. Try to pretend a mere inch didn’t separate them. That he could stretch out an arm and touch the satiny skin of her thighs. He squeezed his eyes tighter, trying to rid himself of the image. It did nothing, however, to rid him of the memory, the well-remembered sensation of her skin beneath his hands.

Now she was moving. He heard the rustle of fabric, felt the nudge of her body against him. Was she mindlessly moving in her sleep? Was she one of those who tossed and turned? He envisioned countless torturous nights ahead where she rubbed up against him. How long was he to keep his hands to himself in such a scenario?

Her head found his chest. She snuggled against him like he was a pillow to be cuddled. He ground his teeth, but didn’t move as she slid one delicious leg around him. He hardened to aching attention at the feel of her leg draped over him. Skin to skin. Only the merest shift of their bodies, and he’d have her against that part of him that most longed to join with her.

He could imagine her horror if she woke to find herself nuzzling against him in such a manner. It was a tempting notion. Perhaps he should wake her. That would certainly put an end to their proximity—and stop this blissful torment.

But the torment didn’t stop. It continued in full assault. Her hand landed on his stomach, dropped there, fingers lightly curled, the tips resting, light as a moth on his quivering flesh. He tensed. Ceased to breathe. Her fingers flattened and spread wide at his navel, burning him like a brand. If he didn’t know any better, he would have said it was an experienced move. Deliberate. An action intended to seduce a man. Absolutely not something Cleo would do.

Then all sane thinking fled as that hand crept down and found him. Everything he thought about her, about this moment, about them, vanished in an instant.

There was only sensation. Only need.

He gasped and arched on the bed as her small fingers wrapped around him. The sensation of her fingers, soft and gentle, exerting just the barest pressure . . . it was bliss. The exquisite feeling only intensified as she began moving her hand, stroking him, working her hand over him in deft strokes.

He looked down and the sight nearly undid him. She stared up at him with heavy-lidded eyes, her midnight hair pooling over his thighs as her hand worked its wonder on him.

It was too much.

He groaned and reached for her arms, determined to pull her up on top of him . . . to end the agony with one deep thrust inside her. He was blind to anything else. Only hot need pumped through him.

She made a sound of protest and dodged him. He propped himself up on his elbows and growled her name, “Cleo . . . I need you.”

On her knees, she kept herself out of his reach. Shaking her head at him, she warned in a sultry voice, “We’ll do this my way or not at all.”

He studied her, wishing he could refuse her terms, but knowing he was totally at her mercy. He could refuse her nothing.

He dropped his hands at his sides on the bed, palms up. His heart seized as he watched her, stunned when she reached for the hem of her nightgown and pulled it over her head in one liquid-smooth move.

Even in the gloom he could detect the faint stain of color on her cheeks—the only telltale sign that she felt any embarrassment to be stark naked on her knees before him.

Serrated breaths fired from his lips as he watched her lower down to both hands on the bed. She crawled toward him, her hair a dark curtain on either side of her face as she positioned herself above him. She watched him from beneath dark lashes, and the look was wholly seductive, a temptress incarnate as she bowed her head over him.

Still watching him, her eyes never leaving his, she tasted him. Sensation shot through him. He hissed a stinging breath.

His gaze fastened on the sight of that tongue as it descended for another taste. He couldn’t stop himself. He lifted one hand and ran it through her hair. The need to touch her, feel her, overwhelmed him. His fingers sifted through the dark strands. Her mouth grew more assertive, her tongue more thorough, more sure. He moaned, his hips lifting up as she took all of him in her mouth.

“Cleo,” he gasped, choking out, “stop!”

He clasped her shoulders and tried to lift her away.

With her hands braced on each side of his waist, she looked up at him with a thoroughly satisfied grin. “You want me to stop?” she asked in a throaty voice he’d never heard from her.

She trailed a fingertip down the center of his chest. “You see, I’ve been considering what you said about there being other ways we can satisfy each other . . . without consummation. You gave me a sample of that the other night.” Her finger stopped on the hard tip of him. “Now it’s my turn.” Her eyes looked liquid dark staring up at him. “Let me pleasure you, Logan.”

His head dropped back in defeat as she lowered her lips to him again and he let her have her way with him. “As long as you understand, fair is fair. It will be my turn next to pleasure you.”

She came up, her hair falling in a seductive inky-dark curtain against his stomach. Her voice purred in a rumble that vibrated along his nerve endings. “Oh, I’m counting on that.”

Chapter Twenty-four

C
leo raised the teacup to her lips and took a savoring sip of the warm brew, letting the flavor of bergamot flood her mouth and revive her. Considering how very little she’d slept, she could use a little revitalizing.

“Don’t you look satiated,” Marguerite murmured for Cleo’s ears alone.

Heat crawled up her cheeks as last night replayed in her mind. A quick darting glance around the table revealed that no one else seemed aware of the illicit nature of her thoughts. Her father chatted amiably with Annalise and Logan’s sister Abigail.

Logan and his brothers had left at dawn to call upon surrounding farmers and crofters. Ash had opted to join them, too. Cleo couldn’t help feeling impatient and itchy at Logan’s absence. Especially after last night. She doubted the feeling would go away until she saw him again.

Marguerite watched her expectantly, and she realized she hadn’t answered her yet. She set her teacup back down with a soft click. “I slept well, thank you.”

Marguerite smiled knowingly. “I didn’t say you looked rested. On the contrary. You look rather weary.”

Cleo fidgeted with her napkin.

Marguerite continued, “I take it you took my advice.”

Cleo’s cheeks burned hotter.

Marguerite chuckled. “You needn’t say anything. The bright red of your face is answer enough.” She leaned in closer, her words hushed. “I must confess my curiosity, however. Did your plan work?”

“My plan?”

“To keep a certain . . . distance?”

“Oh.” She cleared her throat lightly, understanding her meaning. She wanted to know if the marriage had been consummated. “Y-yes. It worked.”

“Oh.” Marguerite looked almost disappointed.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just imagined that . . .”

“Yes?” Cleo prodded.

Marguerite hesitated, taking a sip of her tea before she explained, “Once intimacy begins and is enjoyed . . . well, it’s almost impossible to resist following through.”

Cleo stared at her unblinkingly for a long moment, letting that information sink in. It made perfect sense actually. It explained the longing, the itchy impatience thrumming through her. Her desperate need to see him again, touch him . . . and that ache deep in the core of her that begged for satisfaction.

“Oh dear,” she murmured, her hand shaking as she toyed with the handle of her teacup.

Marguerite sent her a sympathetic smile and cut into her kipper.

“Why did you not warn me?” Cleo looked at her rather reproachfully.

Marguerite chewed thoughtfully, tilting her head. “You only asked if there were things you could do without . . . you know.” She waved her fork, implying the rest of their conversation with the gesture. “And I told you.”

“But you know why I wanted to know. What I was hoping to avoid . . .” Hot desperation choked up her throat.

Her voice must have given something away. Jack glanced down the table at her. Cleo took a deep breath and tried to look normal, unaffected.

Marguerite suddenly looked solemn. “I knew that. Yes. I just don’t think you truly want that.”

“I do,” she insisted in a whisper. “I don’t wish to consummate my marriage.” She suddenly felt trapped, like a lioness caged—her fate out of her hands.

“Cleo.” Marguerite reached for her hand.

She stood abruptly, stopping herself just short of running from the dining room. She didn’t want her father to think anything was wrong—or Annalise to think she was some flighty, temperamental creature. Even if she did feel overwrought with emotion at this particular moment.

Marguerite had tricked her—or at least omitted certain facts.
It’s almost impossible to resist following through.
The words rumbled through her head like ominous thunder.

She roamed the castle, relieved to be alone, not sure where she was going, and not really caring, only trying to make sense of what it was she wanted from her marriage to Logan. Because Marguerite was correct. She had begun something last night with him . . . and she wanted more.

Passing a series of long stained-glass windows that looked generations old, she saw a flash of lightning through the colorful panes. Seconds later, the sound of thunder rumbled in the far distance.

Her heart thumped hard against her chest. She immediately thought of Logan and the others out there in the rain. Would he return now? Her skin warmed at the prospect.

She walked faster, eagerness tripping through her at the prospect of seeing him again and continuing where they’d left off last night. And then panic rose up inside her, warring with the euphoria.

Everything was slipping away. Her long-held fears, everything she’d always believed—everything she’d always told herself she wanted. For the first time since Jack sent for her, she wasn’t sure what she wanted anymore.

Slowing her pace, she continued her stroll through endless corridors, taking turn after turn until she knew she was well lost. She snorted at this irony. It was exactly how she felt.

She peered inside various rooms, entering what appeared to be a music room. Several instruments filled the space. None of which was collecting dust. Either Logan and his siblings made good use of them or the staff did an excellent job cleaning in here.

Her eyes alighted upon floor-to-ceiling double doors leading outside. Snatching an afghan off a nearby sofa, she wrapped it around herself and stepped outdoors. The wet cold of the paving stones immediately seeped through the soles of her slippers as she stepped out into the gray morning. She suspected she would be wearing her boots more often in this climate.

She looked skyward. Dark, almost black clouds rolled in from the west, and she wondered what direction Logan had ventured for the day. Shaking her head, she commanded herself to stop thinking about him. That would be the first step toward avoiding Marguerite’s prediction that there was only one inevitable conclusion for the two of them.

Lowering her gaze, she stared out at a well-tended garden. One side appeared to be flowery shrubs and rows of juniper trees. The other section was devoted to plants and herbs.

Maids busied themselves, pruning, clipping, edging. They worked quickly, with one eye to the sky. One maid worked amid the herbs. She wore a heavy wool apron and sat on her knees, clipping snippets of herbs for her basket. Cleo’s gaze fastened on her, narrowing on the thick plait of red hair snaking out from the wool kerchief covering her head. Cleo admired the glorious red hair for a moment before her gaze drifted to the girl’s profile. The creamy complexion. The full, bow-shaped mouth. The lovely, slightly upturned nose. Sudden recognition seized her.

She must have made a sound. The girl swung around on her knees. At the sight of Cleo, she almost lost her balance. One hand came down on the dark soil to balance herself. Her face paled for a moment as she eyed Cleo up and down. Then a fetching shade of red flooded her cheeks.

“My lady,” she murmured in a lilting brogue, dipping her head in deference.

“Hello,” Cleo returned, feeling suddenly awkward, more aware than ever that she was a stranger in her new home. This girl’s place and position here were more natural than her own.

The notion mortified her—especially when she recalled the tears in the girl’s eyes on her wedding day . . . and what they perhaps signified about her relationship with Logan.

Were they lovers once? Still?

Her fingers tightened around her blanket. And yet she couldn’t move. They simply stared at each other.

“What’s your name?” Cleo asked. She had to know—had to know the name of the girl who may or may not have a place in Logan’s heart. Perhaps he would even have married her if she’d possessed the requisite dowry.

Cleo’s gaze traveled over her lush figure, resting on her chapped, work-roughened hands. Not too long ago her own hands had resembled those. She was peasant stock—just like Cleo. Only fate and fortune had shone on her.

“Mary,” she answered to Cleo’s question. “Can I get you anything, my lady?” She clearly wondered why Cleo was lingering out in the chill and wanted her to be gone if the anxious glitter in her blue eyes indicated anything.

“No. Thank you. Just exploring. Don’t let me keep you from your task.”

With a considering look, Mary nodded and returned to her work, lowering back to the ground. Her movements were stilted though, measured, and Cleo knew she wouldn’t relax as long as Cleo stood there . . . pretending not to watch her. Pretending not to care.

Whatever solace she had hoped to find in the garden vanished. Turning, she slipped back inside the music room. Discarding the afghan, she resumed her exploration, eventually stumbling upon a library.

Unlike the music room, this room appeared long neglected. Logan’s family’s fondness for music evidently didn’t translate to reading. As she walked the length of one vast wall of shelves, she swiped a finger along a dusty spine. She browsed the books, noting that the selections were quite dated. She would have to see about acquiring some current titles. No doubt the family tutor would appreciate some of the more current titles to introduce to Logan’s siblings.

She found a volume of
Jane Eyre
and settled herself before the fire that someone had started in the room. The rain was falling steadily now, an occasional burst of thunder breaking the patter. For all that, it was a lulling cadence and she snuggled beneath the pashmina blanket draped on the back of the sofa. Soon the words grew blurry and unfocused and she surrendered to the heaviness of her eyelids.