Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman (22 page)

But like Mercy, most of the nurses had been mesmerized by his easy charms.

She watched as he wrapped a hand around a bottle of wine, a hand he would soon wrap around her. After pouring the dark red liquid into two stemmed glasses, he ambled back over, offered her one, and sat on the other end of the sofa. He stretched out his trouser-clad legs and lazily extended his arm along the curved back until his fingers could toy with the ends of her hair.

“What was it like between us the first time?” he asked, and she nearly choked on her wine.

She set the glass in her lap and ran her finger around the rim. “What does it matter?”

“For me, tonight, it will be like having you for the first time. I’m not sure what you expect.”

She dared to peer over at him. “I’m not expecting anything. Besides, it’s not always the same, is it?”

“I like variety, so seldom is it ever the same. Still, I feel at a disadvantage.” He skimmed his finger along her cheek. “Was there anything you didn’t particularly like?”

“No, not as I recall.”

A mocking smile twisted his lips. “And here I was arrogant enough to believe every moment spent with me was unforgettable.”

Drat it! Here he was, a man she’d dreamed of and fantasized about. Her husband. To take her to bed. Perhaps to even get
her
with child, and she was slashing at his pride.

She scooted toward him until her knees touched his hip and his hand slid around to the back of her head. “The night we were together, I mostly remember the wonderful sensation of you holding me near. Your comfort and your strength. You always send the monsters to perdition. Why don’t we simply pretend that it’s our first time together—for both of us? I can lock the memories of our previous encounter away, and not even think about them tonight.”

“Can you?”

“Yes.” With ease. With relief. Let him think her upcoming clumsiness was her pretense not to remember. Let him not wonder why she had no idea how to touch him to bring him pleasure.

Jeanette had provided her with some information, some suggestions for what she might do, how she might touch him, but she couldn’t see herself kissing anything beyond his lips. His neck maybe. Perhaps his chest. But what his trousers hid? Touching it with her tongue? Tasting it? No. And he’d not require that of her, she was certain.

But had he not done something similar for her before? Had he not used his mouth to bring her to unheralded heights of pleasure? Was Jeanette’s suggestion so very different?

“If you love him, there is nothing you will not do for him,” she’d said with her French accent. But her husband had loved her. What did Stephen feel for Mercy?

But did it truly matter? What she felt for him was enough.

He downed what remained of his wine and finished off hers as well. Setting both goblets aside, he turned to her and pulled loose the blanket surrounding her until it fell to her hips. She felt a strange urge to cover herself, even knowing he’d seen her the night of nightmares. But she’d been in the dark then, protected by shadows. He skimmed his knuckles over the cloth behind which her nipples puckered and strained. His eyes darkened as he leaned forward and took one in his mouth. The cloth served as no shield against the heat as his tongue swirled and dampened it. His lips closed securely around it, tugged. She moaned as the molten heat flowed lower, to settle between her thighs.

“Did I touch you like this before?” he asked.

This time she groaned. “Please don’t talk of the past. Please.” She cupped his strong jaw, held his gaze as though her life depended on it. “I don’t care that you don’t remember it. I see no need for you to remember. We shall make love so many times in the coming years that surely we will not remember them all.”

A wicked glint entered the stormy blue. “How many times, do you think?”

“A hundred. A thousand. I don’t know. More than we can possibly count.”

He grinned. “I like the possibility of that. You’re right. No more harping on the past. And no more wearing of a nightdress.”

“Or a dressing gown,” she said, laughing as he pulled her to her feet.

His velvet hit the floor only a few seconds before her silk. He drew her near, kissing her deeply, while his hands roamed over her body.

“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?” he asked.

She’d never considered herself as such. She’d never thought herself hideous, but beautiful was reserved for women like Sarah or Jeanette. Women men noticed immediately.

“Especially your legs,” he said, lifting her into his arms. “I want them wrapped tightly around my waist.”

“Right now?”

He laughed. “No. When I’m buried deeply inside you.”

She pressed her blushing face into the curve of his neck so he wouldn’t see how his frank remarks brought her blood to the surface. She had to appear as though she was accustomed to him speaking so bluntly about lovemaking, when in truth it shocked but titillated her.

He laid her on the bed as one might a gift that was being presented. Then slowly, tauntingly, standing there, his gaze daring hers, he began to unfasten his trousers. She’d never seen him fully, completely aroused, but what she had seen was enough to let her know that he was larger than many men she’d tended to. Her mouth went dry with the thought and it took every ounce of strength she possessed not to lower her lashes.

“No need for worries,” he said. “Westcliffe told me that after having a babe, you’re likely to be as tight as a virgin. He’s had some experience in that regard.”

His words brought her a measure of relief. As far as she was concerned, even though she no longer was in possession of her maidenhead, she was a virgin.

“But you’ll be ready for me by the time we get to that part.”

He lowered his trousers . . . and doubts assailed her. He was not as most men. She wasn’t certain how she’d ever be ready. But he thought she’d once been, so by God, she couldn’t let her insecurities show.

The bed dipped as he stretched out beside her. He skimmed his hand from her shoulder to just below her knee, as far as he could reach, as though branding all that belonged to him.

“How the devil I ever forgot this—”

She slapped her hand over his mouth, cutting off the ravaged words. “No more talk of the past.”

Rising up with a courage that had accompanied her to Scutari, she rolled into him, kissed him, took her turn at skimming her hand along his side. Uneven flesh greeted her perusal, and she had to force herself to follow her own command—she wouldn’t think about how each scar had come to be, how he might have suffered. He’d gained several since she’d treated his wounds at the Barrack Hospital. But that was the past. They were in a peaceful area. No gunfire would roar in the distance. No cannons would shake the earth. No men would cry for mercy.

His manhood, hard velvet, burned against her belly. Guilt surged through her because she’d not had the courage to tell him the truth, that she’d feared losing him, losing John . . . and in a way she’d led him to believe she’d been more to him than she had been.

Silly girl, as long as he never regains his memory, he’ll always live in blissful ignorance.
Could she wish that on him? Based on the horrors of her own memories, it was a mercy for him not to recall a single moment of what surely must have been a hell far worse than hers.

She kissed his neck, his chest. Flicked her tongue over his turgid nipple, felt him jerk against her. She understood Jeanette’s urgings now, her promises. She could see herself easing lower. In the heat of passion, nothing was forbidden.

Suddenly she was on her back, and he was again in control. Oh, the things he did with his hands, his mouth, his teeth. A stroke here, a lick there, a nip. He was young, and in spite of all he’d suffered, in fine shape. He moved over her with a powerful grace, leaving nothing untouched, nothing wanting. Passion burned hotter than any flame.

She adored this man, wanted to give him everything. Her heart, her body, her soul. He’d been the light in a dismal world. He’d been her knight. War could bring out the worst and the best in men. For the first time, she regretted that he didn’t know, deep in his soul, that he had been the best.

He could be told. Over and over. But the broken linchpin of memory could not allow him to
know
it, to feel it. Yet, she knew. She had experienced it, witnessed it. She would hold the knowledge dear for him. It would be enough. It had to be.

“I love your breasts,” he rasped near her ear. “They fit my palm perfectly.” Bending his head, he suckled one nipple, this time with no cloth to separate her flesh from his questing tongue, and she turned her body into him, needing to ease the awful ache between her thighs.

His hand traveled a circuitous path over her body, finally reaching its destination, settling with surety and purpose between her thighs. She gasped with the first intimate touch, the sharp spark of pleasure, the slow stroke of his thumb over her nubbin.

“You’re like tinder,” he whispered provocatively, “so easy to burn. You can’t believe how badly I want you.”

“Then why do you not take me?”

“Because when I do, it’ll be over all too soon. Touch me, Mercy.”

She placed her hand on his shoulder. His eyes, smoldering with desire, lightened with silent laughter, as he took her hand and guided it down until she was able to wrap her fingers around him. His groan was low, guttural. She might have thought she’d hurt him if not for the triumph that sparked his eyes.

He taught her movements that she feared he might later question her not already knowing, but she was fascinated by the feel of him, steel encased in silk. Smooth and not. Hard. She felt the dampness, the first spill of his seed. She didn’t want to lose any of it. She wanted his child to grow in her womb. She wanted to give him another son, a daughter, two daughters. She wanted to be irrevocably connected to him.

Just as she’d once feared losing John, now she feared losing Stephen.

When had she become such a worrier, such a fearful soul? After watching so much taken away from so many others.

But she was safe here, safe in his arms, safe in his bed. Just as she’d been that night outside the Barrack Hospital. He was still the courageous, determined man she’d known then. What were memories when the core of who he was remained intact?

She grew bolder with her strokes, and he growled, low in his throat, a rumble in his chest that tickled the breast flattened against him.

He slid his finger into her. “My God, but you’re wet and hot . . . and tight. How can you be so damnably tight after giving birth?”

She almost said because the babe was so small, but she’d never lied to him. Not one false word. She’d simply not told him everything. She’d never said she’d given birth to John. Only that she was his mother, and in her heart she was.

“I might hurt you yet,” he rasped, and she saw the torment on his face with the thought. “Is that why you’re as shy as a virgin? Because there was pain before?”

It was not his way to hurt women. She’d learned that much about him in the short time she knew him. But, yes, with her fingers wrapped around him, she thought he very well might hurt her.

“The memory of pain dwindles with time,” she reassured him. “I only remember how much it meant to me to be with you. I want you.”

“Then you shall have me.”

With a smooth movement, he was suddenly wedged between her thighs, his body pressed to hers as he kissed her deeply. The musky scent of sex wafted between them. She ran her hands up into his thick curling hair. She skimmed her thumb along his scar. He was a man of such confidence that a physical imperfection bothered him not at all. But losing two years of his life was another sort of imperfection altogether. She wanted to relieve him of all doubts.

She opened herself up to him—heart, body, and soul.

He rose above her, his face a mask of dark pleasures, as he guided himself into her. Yes, she was tight. Yes, there was discomfort. But she fought to ignore it, fought instead to relax, to make the way easier for him.

He pushed. Coated her throat in kisses. Pushed again.

“Wrap your legs around my waist.” His voice was strained, his arms taut as he held himself aloft.

She did as he wanted, and he slid farther, farther, until he filled her completely.

“God, I’ve dreamed of this,” he murmured. “Of you. Of those lovely long legs.”