Married At Midnight (18 page)

And she was his wife.

No matter that it was for convenience sake alone, his body wasn't aware of the distinction. And his brain had quit working some time ago, besides. Christ, but he'd wanted this too long . . . needed too much . . .

had waited a bloody lifetime . . .

She couldn't possibly know how much he yearned to take . .. how much he needed to give . . . how very much he craved

to kiss her . . .

Reaching out slowly for fear that he would startle her, he slid his fingers across the velvety softness of her neck. He felt her shudder and sucked in a breath. His heart hammered against his ribs. Cupping her nape and drawing her close, he anticipated the taste of her lips with a hunger that belied the gentleness of his touch.

She made some sound deep in the back of her throat, a soft, whimpering sigh that heated the blood in his veins to a feverish pitch and hardened him fully. His nostrils flared. More than anything, he longed to taste her soft, beautiful body .. . every inch

of it... inhale the scent of her into his long-deprived lungs. He growled, a fierce sound of unrepentant triumph, as he allowed

his lips to descend at last to the lips he'd only dreamed about for so long. And Christ, he was lost the very instant he tasted

her upon his tongue.

He couldn't possibly have known how very sweet she'd be ... how very supple her lips would feel beneath the play of his own. Nothing could have prepared him for the silky warmth of her mouth, and the glorious mysteries held within.

He didn't think he could stop with a single kiss.

No more could he do so ... than he'd been able to forget those bewitching eyes ... or her brilliant smile ...

or her laughter ... or even the impertinent tilt of her head ... and the stubborn lift of her chin.

God, but he wanted to make her laugh again, wanted to cherish and protect her always . . . wanted to draw her within his

very soul.

So easily was she undone.

Victoria moaned softly as his lips pressed upon hers—velvet steel against her lips, insistent and sleek, coaxing her to open

for him.

She slid her hands about his neck, entwined her arms there, and he groaned savagely, sending shivers down her spine. He swept her up into his arms, lifting her as though she weighed no more than a child of three—no time for protests, no time

even to think. She found herself seated scandalously within his lap, his arms bracing her for the onslaught of his mouth.

"You cannot know," he whispered fiercely against her mouth, "how very much I have wanted this. From the instant I first laid eyes upon you, Victoria . . . open for me," he demanded, and slid his tongue across her lips, persuading with masterful strokes.

Victoria swallowed and did as he bade her, her body thrilling to his declaration. Her heart leapt within her breast. Hardly did she dare imagine he should want her at all. His tongue slid within to drink of her mouth, liquid heat between her lips, exploring . . .

Whimpering softly, she allowed her head to loll backward while his hands held her face in an intimate lover's embrace that made her heart cry out and her soul weep. Never had she been held so tenderly.

Never had she known a mere touch could be so exhilarating.

Nor had she imagined she would yearn to give her soul to the first man who should hold her so ardently

—but heaven help her, she did.

"Give me your tongue, Victoria," he whispered into her mouth, and she could do nothing but obey, offering it tentatively at first, and then more boldly. He could have asked her for anything in that instant, and she would have given it gladly. He made some sound, part groan, part chuckle, when she thrust it at him awkwardly, and then ever so gently suckled it... until Victoria thought she would die with the soul-stirring sensations that spiraled through her body. "That's it," he coaxed her, leaving her tongue only to suckle next at her lips. Shiver upon shiver rushed down her spine. He nibbled at them gently, nipping and tugging with his teeth, and then suckling once more to soothe the erotic sting.

Victoria clung to him, afraid she might tumble backward into the undiscovered abyss of her own desire.

Wrapping his arms about her waist and folding his hands at the small of her back, Thorn attempted to reign in his lust... for Victoria's sake. His heart pounded like cannon fire against his ribs. God, but she was making this entirely too easy for him.

Not that he wouldn't normally appreciate such enthusiasm, he acknowledged to himself, but he wanted no regrets. He should stop now, he knew. He should drag her away and set her neatly upon her own seat, safely out of his reach, away from harm, but he couldn't seem to make himself obey. The delicate fingers that were curled about his nape clutched at him a little too desperately . . . and the fingers combing through his hair . . . teased a bit too unmercifully, if unknowingly.

Bloody hell, he didn't want to stop.

Remaining reason began to fade.

His vision hazed. His mouth grew parched and he sipped urgently of her mouth to quench his ungodly thirst. His hands took

on a will of their own, unlocking at her back, and sliding to her waist. .. such a deliriously tiny waist. He tested the width with

his hands, and slid his hands up along her ribs, discovering them each by turn, as well. He stopped only when his thumbs touched the curve of her breasts.

He envisioned himself bending low, ripping her bodice with his teeth, and tasting her flesh . . . lower to her belly . .. until she

lay unclothed . . . and was wholly undone.

Burying his face against her throat, he groaned and commanded himself to stop.

She sighed and curled up like a kitten within his lap, entirely unaware of his lascivious intent. Damn, but she trusted him to

keep his word, to kiss her and do no more. The thought made him smile. He held her, stroked her cheek with his thumb.

He cleared his throat. "Sleepy?" he asked her, after a moment.

"A
little," she murmured, sounding quite contented.

Christ, he was anything but. And he sorely needed something to take his mind off of his baser thoughts.

He couldn't help but wonder what she was thinking.

He gave himself a mental shake. "How about we play a little game?" he asked her, recalling a particular contest they used to play together. Perhaps it would jog her memory.

She didn't stir. "Game?" she asked with another breathy sigh. "What sort of game?" She yawned daintily and started to rise,

but he held her firmly in place.

"No need," he told her. "Rest. It's been a long night, and we've yet a ways to travel before we return.

Now . .. how about...

I shall say a word, and you tell me the first thing that comes to mind," he directed her.

She settled back and peered up at him from between thick, dark lashes, scrutinizing him. "I remember that game!" she said

after a moment. "I used to play it as a girl!"

Thom had to resist the temptation to answer, I
know.
"Really?" he said. "Then you know exactly what to do."

"I always did like to play that," she confessed.

Again he had to resist the urge to answer,
I know.

"Good," he said. "Laughter," he began.

"Children," she answered at once. "That one was easy." He smiled when she nuzzled him, making herself more comfortable.

"My turn!" He smiled at her enthusiasm. "Blue," she said.

"Sky," he answered. "Play," he countered.

"Work."

Thom frowned at her reply.

"Books," she said.

"Boring," he answered, and chuckled.

She chuckled as well. "They're not so very boring," she demurred.

"1 rather suppose it depends upon what you're reading. The books I read are quite tedious," he maintained. "Kisses," he offered.

"Nice," she whispered, without pause.

"Regrets?"

"None." She sighed softly, and cuddled deeper within his embrace.

"You?" she asked.

"What do you think?" he asked her, and tickled her ribs playfully with a finger.

She giggled softly. "Stop! Stop! You're not playing right! You cannot answer a question with a question!

Nor was that one word, it was four. Answer properly!"

"No."

"Was that no, you will not answer properly? Or no, you have no regrets?"

"No, I have no regrets."

"Did you see the look upon the parson's face when you refused to kiss me?" She laughed softly. "I rather think he was

addled. He didn't know what to make of us."

"I'm sure," Thorn said, and smiled.

She giggled, and then quieted. For an instant, the two of them simply sat together in silence, lulled into a languor by the

rocking coach and the soothing darkness. They sat together with the comfort of two lovers used to sharing the same breath.

But he wanted more than to simply be her lover. He wanted to recapture what they'd shared so long ago.

"Friend," Thom said, after a long moment.

She remained silent.

"Friend?" he said again.

She didn't respond.

"Victoria?"

Still she didn't respond, and Thom glanced down to see that her eyes were closed. She didn't move, nor did she even seem

to be breathing. She'd fallen asleep. Damn. He was rather enjoying her answers.

"Brat," he whispered, and settled back within the carriage with his sleeping wife cuddled within his lap.

Gad, but she was his wife . .. after all these years ... he smiled at that, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes to savor

the feel of her within his arms.

Victoria awoke within her own bed the next morn, with only vague memories of how she'd arrived there.

She'd fallen asleep within her husband's arms, it seemed, while playing that silly game. Well, she hadn't precisely fallen asleep
during,
she'd only pretended to, unable to respond to the word
friend.
In truth, she'd only had one true friend in all of her life, and he happened to share the same name with her husband. Her response, at once, had been
Thomas,
but she'd caught herself before speaking it. And then he'd called her brat, and she'd suddenly found herself lost in memories, and had drifted to sleep.

Her dreams had been a melange of old memories and new; of sweet child's play, and lusty, heart-stirring kisses.

Good Lord, but she'd been a wanton last night, practically throwing herself into her husband's arms after begging him to kiss her! Whatever had she been thinking?

And yet, she had shamelessly revelled in every instant of his embrace, every sweet caress of his lips.

She sighed as she glanced at the closed door between her suite and that of her husband's. She couldn't help but wonder if

he'd found his way there last night. Was he there even now? or perchance down in the dining room taking his breakfast?

And did he think her a bloody goose?

Something about Thorn Parker made her good sense scatter to the winds. With little more than a glance from those compelling blue eyes, he made her head swirl with perfectly wicked thoughts and her body behave altogether strangely. It was a good

thing he'd had the sense about him to stop before she'd had the opportunity to do something entirely

foolish.

Having determined so much, she descended to breakfast, ready to face him. And if her cheeks were pink with chagrin, she admonished herself, well and good! It would serve as a reminder next time not to abandon herself so shamelessly to

temptation. But she prepared herself all for nought.

She entered the dining room only to find herself quite alone, and exhaled the breath she'd not realized she'd held. Her arms dropped at her sides, and a strange heaviness entered her breast.

Certainly it was not disappointment that made her feel so?

Was it?

The table was set, a steaming breakfast arranged upon the buffet, the servants only waiting to serve. And yet she lingered in

the doorway, frowning at the emptiness of the room.

It was certainly the same as it had always been.

So why had she expected it should be different this morn?

A certificate of marriage did not a family make.

Nor were kisses promises.

So what had she expected to find this morn?

A husband who greeted her with a hearty
good morn
and a kiss, or two?

A somewhat repentant rogue with deep-set blue eyes and a smile that made her knees weak?

She lingered a moment longer, contemplating the answer to that question, and then suddenly didn't feel like breakfast at all.

Oblivious to the confounded looks the servants gave one another, she turned and made her way to the rose arbor.

* * *

It had taken him the better part of the morn to find himself a pasteboard, but with the child's toy in hand, Thom was ready at last to face Victoria. In his other hand he carried a horsewhip, both of them gifts for his lovely new bride. It took some searching, but he discovered her within the garden, kneeling over a particularly unsightly bush, her back to him. The sight of her there upon her knees, pruning shears within her hand, took him slightly aback. So, too, did the appearance

of the rose garden. Gad, but it wasn't at all the way he recalled it. His brow furrowed as he surveyed the garden in which he and Victoria had spent so many hours as children.

It was the most pitiful excuse for a rose garden that Thorn had ever had the misfortune of setting eyes upon in his life. In his father's day, the bushes had been lush and vivid, every color of rose peeping out from leaves so plush they deceived the eye. How many times had he forgotten the thorns behind their

shining facades and leapt into the midst of them to hide from Victoria, only to leap back out howling in surprise?

The memory made him smile, for then as now, he suspected Victoria had more to do with his embarrassing lack of judgement than did the deceptive rose bushes. She'd always had a way of turning his thoughts inside out.

Armed with props, and with a singleness of purpose, he made his way toward her, sidestepping overgrown, leafless, thorn-filled vines that sprawled across his path like wicked writhing garden snakes.

The rose arbor had always been Victoria's pride and joy.

Ever since she'd been a mere child, anytime she'd felt herself a little unhinged, this was the place she'd come. With over fifty species of roses in bloom, it was loveliest in the waning summer. The most delightful fragrances filled the air, soothed her troubled soul.

She surveyed the garden with a critical eye.

Of course, it wasn't precisely what it had once been, and her brow furrowed, for she had certainly done the best she knew

how to do. She could get the roses to bloom, but she just couldn't seem to get the leaves to stay on the infernal stems. She glowered down at the bush she was currently pruning. Drat thing! No matter that she gave it her time and her attention, it

didn't seem to wish to thrive.

She sighed wistfully. No one had been able to get the roses to flourish like Thomas's father had. Her shoulders slumped as she stared at the naked, thorny limbs, trying to remember them when they'd worn more verdant attire. They'd never been the same since Thomas's father had abandoned them. It was, she thought wistfully, as though they were grieving. They'd gone through a procession of gardeners since, and not a one had been able to resurrect them. Victoria had finally taken them into hand four years ago, after dismissing the last gardener her father had hired.

She wondered if Thomas's father had gotten her letter—wondered, too, if he'd consider returning were she to beg.

She didn't dare wonder about Thomas.

Never dared wonder about Thomas any longer.

Lord-a-mighty, he likely had long since forgotten her—likely had a brood of children, too—and a hearth that was surrounded by love. He surely had a wife to whom he chirped
good morn
to, and a daughter who clung to his neck, exclaiming, I
love

you daddy
at his back.

And she .. . well, she had her own Thom to contend with now ... a man who eschewed breakfast with his wife.

A man whose mere voice could melt the stars from the sky. A man with lips that drove her to madness, and eyes that. . .

Thomas had had blue eyes, she suddenly recalled. And he'd called her brat. "Victoria?"

Startled from her musings, Victoria turned to spy her husband standing behind her, and gasped in surprise at the bedraggled sight of him. She grimaced. At least she thought it was her husband. Her brows drew

together in dismay. The man standing before her certainly didn't appear at all the man she recalled from last night. Were it not for those singular blue eyes gleaming out at her, she would never have believed it to be him, a'tall.

He had mud streaked upon his face—an overabundance of it, in fact—as though he'd either fallen flat upon his face, or

washed his cheeks in a mud puddle. And his trousers—Good Lord, his trousers—they were shredded at the knees and too short besides! She looked closely and saw that the hems had been rent, until they were much too short to wear. She wrinkled her nose, and lifted her gaze to his shirt to find the sleeves, too, had been shorn— grass and dirt stains adorned the front of it. And those wickedly gentle hands that had roamed her body so knowingly last eve were caked with dirt, as well.

"Good gracious!" she exclaimed in horror at his appearance. "What in heaven's name has happened to you?" She thought

he must surely have been assaulted by bandits. Though even then She wasn't entirely certain why he should look so... draggle-tailed.

"Thom?"

He chuckled softly. " 'Tis only me," he assured her.

"You look ghastly!"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Then I should make a perfect addition to this garden," he told her. "It is a rather nasty piece of work, I should say." He drew his muddy brows together into a frown, and it was all Victoria could do not to giggle as dry

mud sprinkled from them. "What in damnation has happened here?"

Victoria tipped up her chin in indignation. " 'Tis quite an enchanting garden, I'll have you know," she proclaimed, affronted that he could not see it, as well. She waved a hand, indicating the roses, and then noticed for the first time that he'd come bearing gadgets within his hands. Her gaze, curious and perhaps a little wary, settled upon the whip in his left hand, and remained focused there. "They are . . . rather glorious in bloom," she disclosed somewhat distractedly.

"And when are they in bloom?" Thom asked, nonplussed.

Good God, he thought she must be utterly blind!

Most of the garden was nought more than distorted, rambling vines, overgrown and fragile in appearance

... as though no

hand had bothered in years to turn their soil. His father would weep to see them looking so abused.

Victoria seemed not to notice. "Why now, of course. Do you not see?"

Not at all, though he humored her and looked about once more. Naked limbs waved back at him with the soft afternoon breeze. He grimaced in disgust.

"Over there," she said pointing to the most hardy of them all, and then shading her eyes. "Is quite an interesting specimen.

It is the
Rosa Gallica Officinalis.
Do you see it?"

The Apothecary Rose. Thom knew it well. The damned bush had but a single puny flower and sparse foliage. It was one

of the hardiest roses to be found, ancient as the devil. And Victoria had somehow managed to strangle

the bugger.

"Interesting story it bears," Victoria elucidated. "Reputedly brought to France from Damascus by a weary crusader for his lover. 'Tis believed to cure many diverse ailments," she told him.

"Really?" Thom remarked, trying to appear engaged by something other than her beautiful mouth. He could scarce seem to forget the way it'd felt against his lips.

"And that one," she said, pointing to a singularly unattractive bush, "is the Rosa
Mundi.
Legend has it that it was named for Henry the Second's mistress, the Fair Rosamund." Her gaze returned to him, and her cheeks began to bloom. "I'm afraid

I cannot seem to make it produce much."

He smiled wanly.
Much
was an incredible understatement. More like not at all. Gad, he could scarce believe his eyes.

"And then, of course, there is this one," she said, indicating an ambling vine that seemed to have the meandering will of a

garden snake, and the viciousness of an adder. Somehow, in the short time he had been standing there listening to her

speak it had managed to wrap about his pant leg, and when he tried to shake it off, it sank its thorny teeth into his flesh. "Bloody damn!" he exclaimed.

"Oh! Let me get that for you!" Before he could stop her, she was at his feet. Thom stood there, trying like the devil not to

allow his mind to wander. Against his will, visions of her loving him from her knees assaulted him, heating his blood, making

him shudder with desire anew. He stared down at the pate of her head, and lapped at lips gone dry.

"This one is my particular favorite," she confessed somewhat sheepishly, leaving off with his pantleg and attending the

wayward rose. She lifted the frail limb and clipped it in twain. "It is
La Seduisante.
Also known as
Incarnata, La

Virginale, Cuisse de Nymphc,
or—"

"The Great Maiden's Blush," Thom supplied.

Her head popped up. "You know roses?" she asked, peering up at him, sounding surprised.

"Not much," Thom admitted, "but a little. I know this one,"

"Really?" She turned her attention to the rose once more. "I'm not at all certain what's wrong with it," she admitted. "It

simply does not wish to bloom. I thought perhaps a little pruning would do it good." She snipped a sickly looking blossom

and studied it.

Thom thought perhaps it needed to be put out of its misery, once and for all, jerked up by its roots and tossed into the dung heap.

"Perhaps," he agreed, smiling down at her. His gaze focused upon the pruning shears. "So you've been tending this garden yourself?" he asked her, with no small measure of surprise.

"I'm afraid I have," she admitted. "I cannot seem to find anyone able to tend it well enough."

His brows collided. God only knew, she hardly could find anyone who could tend it worse. He refrained from saying so, however, and came to his haunches beside her.

"This garden is quite special, you see," she revealed, and began to pluck the rose petals one by one.

A feeling like fluttering birds launched within his gut. "Is it?" he asked her, trying to remain calm, as a memory suddenly

surfaced ... of the two of them seated before this very rose, plucking petals from the blossoms. His heart hammered.

"Why so?"

She seemed to lose herself in thought for an instant, and he wondered ... hoped . .. she was remembering, too . ..

"She hates me so, she hates me not, she hates me so, she hates me not
..."

"1 do not hate you, Thomas!" she had exclaimed, frowning, as he'd tossed the discarded petals
into her lap.

"I just do not particularly relish slimy, croaking frogs upon my head!"

"Very well," he'd yielded easily enough. "I shall never do it again, Toria."

"Good!" she'd shouted, "because if you do..." She'd held her skirt between her two hands, lifting
her skirt slightly so that all the petals gathered into a small pile in the center. "1 shall have to put
snakes down your pants!" And she'd thrust up her skirts as she'd surged to her feet, tossing rose
petals into his face. He spat them out of his mouth as she ran away, giving Thomas his first
tantalizing peek of lean stockinged legs . . . perfect ankles that had vanished within the blink of an
eye, leaving him to stare in open-mouthed wonder over his first glimpse at the glorious difference
between boys and girls.

It had set his heart to pounding and turned his brain to something close to mush.

Even now, all these years later, his reaction was the same. Her hair was swept up today into an artful arrangement that displayed the back of her neck to particular advantage. It was all he could do not to bend and nibble at her nape. He

sucked in a breath, and recalled to mind his purpose in seeking her out today.

She continued to pluck petals, blissfully unaware that his eyes were crossing with lust at her back, and he murmured softly,

"She hates me so, she hates me not..."

Her head snapped up, and she peered over her shoulder at him in surprise. "What.. . what did you say?"

He smiled softly at her. "You're plucking petals ... just something I used to say as a child."

She blinked, and stared at him for the longest instant, looking bemused, and then returned her attention to the blossom in her hand. "I used to know," she began, and his heart raced. "Well, I spent some of my happiest days within this garden," she revealed, sounding wistful suddenly. His gaze moved to the pruning shears she held within her hand. She set them down at

her feet and took a frail vine between her fingers, examining it.

God, so had he ... spent some of his finest hours here ... with her . ..

"Alone?" he dared to ask, trying to sound casual.

"No . .. with my dearest friend." She turned to look at him then, her green eyes flashing, and he knew.

The friend she

referred to was none other than a certain randy little boy who had cast frogs into her hair and called her brat.

She was tending this garden in memory of him.