Love Be Mine (The Louisiana Ladies Series, Book 3) (34 page)

"Oh,
monsieur
! Forgive me!" she cried in deeply mortified accents as she glanced back at him. "Would you like for me to ring for a servant to bring you some refreshment or to show you to your rooms? If you like, you may rest and refresh yourself before we dine at seven o'clock."

"Oh, that will not be necessary," John said. "You run along with Hugh." He sent Hugh a mocking look. "I completely understand that your husband's health is of the utmost importance to you at this moment. I think, however, if you have no objections, that I shall wait here for the return of
Madame
Dupree. Perhaps you could arrange it so that she could give me a brief tour of the place before I see my rooms and change for dinner?"

Micaela studied him for a moment, beguiled by his smile and the tiny twinkle in the depths of his handsome eyes.
Dieu! Maman
was going to kill her! She dimpled at him and said, "Of course,
monsieur!
I shall send a servant to find her immediately."

"Thank you. Thank you very much," John replied gravely.

* * *

Hugh managed to maintain his air of suffering all the way up the stairs and into their rooms. He had left the choice of their bedchambers to Micaela, and he was pleased with the suite she had selected. It consisted of two large rooms, each with its own separate entrance from the main, broad hallway and each with its own private sitting area. A pair of spacious dressing rooms separated the two bedrooms, and there was a wide interior hallway which gave private access to the sleeping chambers.

Beyond an enormous high-poster bed with a faded canopy of blue-and-white printed linen there was only one other piece of furniture in his bedroom—a huge rosewood armoire which sat against one wall. Curtains in the same faded blue-and-white linen draped the many windows, blocking out the hot sunlight, and the room was dim and cool. There was a pair of wide French doors which opened onto the upper gallery, and a faded painted canvas rug of various shades of blue lay upon the yellow-pine floor.

In anticipation of his arrival, Micaela had had the bed freshly made up that very morning, and, closing his eyes as he sank down onto the sunshine-scented sheets, Hugh sighed with bliss. He was, he realized with amusement and despair, precisely where he most wanted to be—in his own bed, in his home, and with his lovely wife hovering attentively nearby. What more could a man ask for? He carefully opened one eye a crack. Micaela's sweet face filled his gaze as she stood uncertainly by the door to the main hallway. His wife. That was what he wanted. His wife, in his bed, lying right by his side.

"Will you be all right if I leave for a little while?" Micaela asked softly. "I really should go and see that all is well in the kitchen and that
Maman
is entertaining your step
-papa
properly."

Hugh groaned with heartrending realism. "Must you?" he asked weakly.

Micaela sped to his side.
"Merci!
Are you all right? Where does it hurt? What can I do to make you more comfortable?"

A particularly vivid and explicitly erotic image floated across his mind. A rush of heat charged through his body, and he was conscious of the sweet biting ache of desire churning low in his belly. If Micaela's eyes happened to fall on a certain part of his anatomy, she would have no trouble, he thought ruefully, guessing what would make him comfortable.

Half propping himself up with his good arm, he murmured pathetically, "Perhaps you could help me out of my shirt and pull off my boots for me?"

It never occurred to her that a servant could do all that as well. "Oh,
oui,
of course!" Micaela replied as she set to work to accomplish his request.

His boots were easily discarded, but she seemed to have an inordinate amount of trouble getting his shirt off of him; his arms kept sliding around her, his hands, accidentally she was sure, kept brushing against her hips, the back of her neck, and the sides of her breasts. He seemed to have trouble controlling his head, too, his lips nuzzling her temples and hair. By the time his shirt was finally laid on the end of the bed, Micaela was flushed and flustered.

The occasional scrape of his warm face against her cheek as they struggled to remove the offending garment, the musky intoxicating scent of his body, and the accidental brush of his lips on her skin were stunningly arousing, and she was mortified by her response to his nearness. He was wounded. He had been shot! And she was determined to hold herself politely aloof from him, wasn't she? It was all well and good to remind herself of those things, but she was very conscious of the half-naked man on the bed, tinglingly aware of every muscle, every sinew that lay bare to her gaze. It seemed like an eternity since she had lain in his arms. She was embarrassingly conscious of the slow, sweet ache that was building between her thighs and the throbbing swell of her nipples.

Averting her gaze from his all-too-appealing charms, she said breathlessly, "I must go. I shall send a servant with some broth and some wine and bread for you."

His voice warm and husky, Hugh reached out a hand and caught one of hers. "Do not," he murmured. He pressed a gentle kiss to the back of her hand. "Stay with me... please?"

Their eyes met, and what she saw in the depths of those intent gray eyes made her knees go weak. He did not love her, she reminded herself. He had married her simply because of the business. And had abandoned her in the country, while he, no doubt, caroused and womanized in New Orleans. She was angry with him, hurt by him. It did no good. Her heart was not listening to her brain. Her body did not wish to listen to cold, hard reasoning either.

As she stood there hesitating, heart and body locked in a powerful struggle with what she was certain was clear-thinking logic, Hugh gave a tug to her hand. "Please?" he said again, so softly she almost did not hear him. But her heart did. Her body did.

She did not pretend to misunderstand him. Heart thudding, excitement welling deep inside of her, she managed to ask, "Your wound?"

Hugh smiled, such a tender, knowing smile that every nerve in Micaela's body rejoiced. "My wound," he said thickly, as he effortlessly pulled her onto the bed and into his embrace, "will do just fine."

Their lips met, and the kiss was everything each had dreamed it would be. Each was conscious that there was a new element between them, but the warmth and utter sweetness of that kiss drove coherent thought from their minds.

With astonishing speed, Micaela's garments as well as Hugh's disappeared, and the next instant they were laying side by side, Micaela's breasts crushed against his chest, her fingers buried in his hair, and their legs locked in an erotic tangle. His kiss deepened, became hungry and ravening, his lips hard and greedy against hers, his tongue claiming the moist depths of her mouth. Joyously, she gave herself up to the desire that flooded through her. He was her husband.
She loved him!
And, oh,
Dieu!
She wanted him.

Helplessly she pressed closer, and Hugh groaned with delight. Her nipples burned into his chest, her roving hands caressed his shoulders and his back, and her thighs rubbed against his, making his entire body clench with need.

He shifted, mindful of his wound, and dropped his head to her breast, his mouth closing hotly around her nipple. Ah, dear heaven! Nothing had ever tasted so sweet, so intoxicating.

Despite the urge to take her swiftly, Hugh tried to slow down, tried to tamp down his desperate need to join them, to sink his heavy, swollen manhood deep inside of her. But recklessly driven by the urge to mate, the incessant urge to reclaim her, he could not slow the demands of his body. He sought the thick thatch of curls between her legs, excited and unbearably aroused to find that she was already wet and slick and ready for him. Holding his own devils at bay, he toyed with her there, exploring and teasing her, tearing a soft, shaken sigh from her.

Trying to remember why she was to be docile in his arms, trying to remember why she was not to respond too wildly to his touch, Micaela trembled under the onslaught of his mouth and hand. The taste of Hugh on her lips, the frankly carnal movements of his hand between her thighs burned away any thought of lying passive beneath him. She could not.

Uncontrollably she arched up, her legs half-splayed open for him, for the first time ever, actively seeking his possession, and Hugh's frail leash on his own hungers snapped. He reared up, intending to mount her, but his wounded arm failed him, crumpling painfully under him. With something between a curse and a heartfelt groan, he fell back to the bed.

Micaela jerked upright. "Your wound! I forgot. Oh, what have I done? Did I hurt you? This is madness, we must stop!"

With his good arm, Hugh pulled her across his chest. Kissing her urgently, he muttered, "It will hurt me far more if we do not finish what we have started—and I assure you that I shall go quite, quite mad if I do not have you—now!"

"But, but your arm—You cannot—"

A sensual smile crossed his face. "There are ways, sweetheart. There are ways...."

She gasped in surprise as Hugh positioned her over the top of him, her thighs on either side of his lean hips. Her eyes widened in astonished pleasure when a second later he shifted again and fully impaled her on his broad shaft. She marveled at the wonderful sensation, fascinated by this new dimension to their lovemaking. She wiggled experimentally, the jolt of pleasure that shot up through her making her moan helplessly.

Her face flushed with passion, she asked breathlessly, "Your wound? This will not hurt you?"

His breathing uneven, those temptingly generous breasts inches from his hungry mouth and the feel of her hot, silken flesh clinging tightly to his aching shaft, made it woefully difficult for Hugh to concentrate on anything but the sheer pleasure coursing through him. "Wound?" he asked fuzzily. "What wound?"

Micaela giggled and wiggled again. Hugh's eyes darkened and then he touched her between her legs, stroking her, and her amusement fled. Despite the pain in his arm, he managed to grip her hips with both hands and began to guide her, teaching her the rhythm. She was a joyous and willing pupil.

Taking as much pleasure from the dazed expression on her face as the sweetly punishing movement of her body sliding up and down on his near-to-bursting member, Hugh was certain he had never experienced anything quite so exquisitely divine.

During the time since their wedding night, Micaela had thought that she had learned all there was to know about lovemaking, but she was discovering that she had been wrong. Oh, so very wrong. It was exciting, so very erotic to feel him beneath her, to feel his solid shaft fitted snugly inside of her and to feel his lean hips between her thighs. When Hugh pulled her head toward him and kissed her hungrily, the burning coil in her belly tightened unbearably. When he touched her, when his hand left her head and slid down past her breasts, skimming her flat stomach, traveling ever lower and he finally stroked and fondled her there where they were joined together, she almost screamed with pleasure. Panting, moaning aloud, she rode him harder, increasingly frantic to assuage the demands of her body. He touched her again and she seemed to explode inside, quaking and crying softly as ecstasy, intense and emphatic, swept over her. Limply she sank down on his chest, her body quivering, spent.

The muted sounds of her pleasure were music to Hugh's ears, the convulsive clasp of her flesh around him sending a sharp spiraling delight through him and pushing him over the edge. He gave one powerful lunge upward, driving himself deeply into her, then shuddered and groaned as he, too, found that same elemental ecstasy.

They lay locked together for several moments, each too sated to move. Eventually Micaela slid reluctantly from him. With his good arm, Hugh pulled her next him, brushing a warm kiss against her cheek. Snuggled by his side, Micaela thought giddily, Hugh had been right—there were ways... and then there were ways....

Chapter 16

Lisette almost ignored Micaela's plea to entertain John Lancaster while she tended her husband. She had been shocked to learn of Hugh's wounding, but she was more dismayed to learn that it would be up to her to act as hostess for a few hours. She considered ignoring the message, but then she put on her most polite expression and strode determinedly from the kitchen where Michel, with Micaela's request, had found her.

John Lancaster meant nothing to her, she told herself firmly. She was
not
a young girl, easily enthralled by a dark, exciting stranger. She was a grown woman. A widow. She had borne two children. John Lancaster did not intimidate her!