His Wedding-Night Heir (Wedlocked!) Read online

  She stood, silent and motionless, helplessly trapped by the long hard length of his thighs. Aware of the warmth of him through her thin dress. Still unable to meet his gaze.

  Behind her ribcage she could feel the frantic flutter of her heart like a caged bird throwing itself against its bars.

  He said softly, ‘Darling, look at me.’

  Her lashes felt weighted over her unhappy eyes, but she made herself obey.

  ‘Nick—please,’ she whispered. ‘Not here—not like this…’

  His voice roughened. ‘What the hell do you think I want?’

  ‘I—I don’t know.’

  ‘You talk about gratitude,’ he said slowly, ‘but you don’t show it. Is one kiss really so much to ask—from a wife to her husband?’

  He released her hands, touching her shoulders instead. Letting his fingers slide down her back to her hips and rest there.

  ‘At our wedding you kissed me,’ he told her quietly. ‘All these months I’ve remembered the sweetness of your mouth. Kiss me again, Cally, just as you did that morning. And don’t pretend you’ve forgotten.’

  Forget? She wanted to cry aloud, as agony wrenched her. How could she possibly forget, when every detail of that day had been tormenting her—scarring her mind—ever since? Especially that moment when their lips had met to seal their vows.

  Her innocence, she thought, offered freely and gladly to his passion. A girl anticipating with eagerness and trust the moment when the glorious alchemy of sex would transform her into a woman.

  But only for a few brief hours—and then the dream had died.

  She said coolly, ‘We all remember things in different ways. Perhaps to me it was no big deal, and that’s when I realised that gratitude was never going to be enough and decided to get out.’

  He said harshly, ‘Then I’ll just have to take what little there is.’

  His mouth was hard and sudden on hers, imposing a bleak sensuality that found her totally unprepared. She tried to struggle, but there was no evading the ruthless mastery with which he parted her lips, his tongue flickering like a flame against hers.

  He turned her slightly, so that she was supported by his arm while one hand closed on the swell of her breast, his fingers stroking her nipple with almost casual expertise and, in spite of the barriers of cloth and her instant shocked recoil, bringing it to aching, irresistible life.

  She tried to say no, but the word was stifled in her throat—lost against the pressure of his lips.

  His kiss deepened relentlessly, exploring the inner contours of her mouth with the intensity of a connoisseur. Drained and dizzy, she could hardly breathe. She couldn’t think any more, or muster any kind of emotional defence against the plundering lips, or the long, slow sweep of his hand down every curve and plane of her body.

  And realised in some drowning corner of her mind that he would know that all too well.

  That the battle was over, and he’d won…

  At last he raised his head and looked down at her as she lay slumped and panting against him. The grey eyes were almost silver, heavy with desire, as, without haste, his fingers penetrated the jagged rip in her skirt, tearing it even further. As they caressed the silken flesh of her thigh, then softly teased their way along the lace edge of her underwear.

  The breath caught painfully in her throat as Cally, tantalised to the edge of endurance, felt the sudden unequivocal surge of her body’s response. The searing, incalculable need she had believed she’d overcome.

  Deep inside her, a fist seemed to clench painfully, releasing the first scalding rush of passion. Demanding that the hunger he’d awoken should be appeased. And soon.

  Imploringly, her lips tried to shape his name, and her hand went up to grip the front of his shirt, to draw him down to her again—to her waiting, trembling mouth. And then—and then to the molten eager heat of her first surrender.

  But instead, his slow, intimate incitement was deliberately stilled, then withdrawn. And Cally found herself being lifted back on her feet and carefully steadied as Nick looked down at her flushed, strained face and shook his head slowly.

  ‘Much as it grieves me, my sweet, I have to let you go.’

  He didn’t sound grief-stricken, she thought suddenly. In fact, his voice was cool and even. Almost containing a note of faint amusement.

  She stared at him in confused disbelief as a small agony of shame began to uncurl inside her, commingled with anger, the spell which had enslaved her broken at last. And, if she was honest, only just in time.

  Oh, God, she thought in shocked horror. What have I done? I couldn’t have made it any easier for him if I’d tried.

  He’s totally sure of me now—and of himself…

  But I should have stopped him—pushed him away, not waited for him to do it. What was I thinking of?

  Except that she hadn’t been thinking at all. Her reaction had been completely physical, born from the long months of deliberate starvation.

  Nick, she realised, was glancing at his watch.

  ‘In ten minutes I have an appointment with one of the tenants—Ted Radstock,’ he went on, almost casually. ‘And I’m sure you wouldn’t want him to walk in and find us—together.’

  By some superhuman effort she kept her own voice level. ‘Knowing that, I’m surprised you—chose to detain me.’

  ‘I’m not sure I did choose,’ he said quietly. ‘Kisses can be dangerous, Cally. With your mouth under mine, I—almost forgot everything else.’

  ‘In any case,’ she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken, ‘there was no way that I’d have allowed—things to go any further. A moment longer and I’d have been—out of here.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘I had a very different impression.’

  ‘You think I’d have let you go on—mauling me like that—degrading me?’ She gave a small scornful laugh. ‘You flatter yourself. You—took me by surprise, that’s all.’

  ‘A marked improvement on never taking you at all.’ His voice took on a new and dangerous softness.

  As Cally turned to leave his hand shot out, clasping her wrist without gentleness. Stopping her in her tracks.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ She tried unavailingly to pull free.

  ‘You seem to be running away again.’ He picked up the phone from the desk, one-handed deftly punching in a number. ‘I’m stopping you.’

  ‘My major mistake,’ Cally said huskily, trying to conceal her sudden trepidation. ‘I should have kept running while I had the chance.’

  ‘Probably.’ He turned his attention to the phone, his voice charming. His grip on her arm like steel. ‘Mrs Radstock? Good afternoon, it’s Nick Tempest. Has Ted left yet, or could we possibly postpone our meeting until tomorrow? There’s a matter here that requires my urgent attention.’ He listened, smiling. ‘That’s fine, then. Tell him I’ll call him.’

  He put down the phone and looked back at her, the smiling charm wiped away, to be replaced by a stark purpose which terrified her.

  Cally began to struggle in real earnest. ‘Leave me alone,’ she said, her voice high and breathless. ‘You—you’re hurting me. Let me go, damn you.’

  ‘When I’m good and ready,’ Nick said. ‘And only when you’ve given me everything I want. Starting now. And how much it hurts is entirely up to you, darling.’

  He reached for her, sweeping her up inexorably into his arms, and started with her towards the door.

  ‘No.’ She was desperate now, twisting in his unyielding hold as he carried her across the hall to the stairs. Then upwards. ‘Nick—please—you’re scaring me…’

  His mouth was hard, his eyes like flint as he glanced down at her agonised face. ‘Why? The incidence of virgins dying of shock during sex must be pretty low.’

  They reached the bedroom and he shouldered his way in, striding across to the bed and dropping her almost contemptuously on to its yielding surface. Cally landed, winded and gasping, staring up at him as he discarded his shoes and socks, then pulled off
his shirt and tossed it to one side, his hands going to the belt of his pants.

  His voice was silk and ice. ‘Take off your clothes, too, darling. Unless you want me to do it.’

  No, she thought, in some paralysed corner of her mind. Not like this.

  She struggled up on to her knees and paused, her hand going up to shield her suddenly dazzled eyes from the blaze of the early-evening sun as it streamed in through the long windows.

  He noticed. ‘Wait,’ he said, swiftly and harshly. ‘I’ll draw the curtains.’

  He crossed the room, outlined against the golden glare. Cally saw him reach up to drag the drapes together. Just as she’d watched him do a year ago, as she’d hidden in the shadows, her heart cracking open. Just as it was doing now…

  She clasped her hands over her mouth to stifle the scream rising in her throat.

  He came back to the bed, his footsteps slowing as he took in the rigid, kneeling figure, her eyes dilating in fright as she stared back at him over her locked hands.

  Cally heard him sigh, the sound low and bitter as he sat down beside her, carefully maintaining, she realised, a small distance between them.

  He said quietly, ‘In God’s name, don’t look at me like that. I swear I didn’t mean this to happen. But you get to me, Cally, like no other woman ever has or ever could.’

  He reached out and gently took her hands from her mouth. ‘Relax, darling. Lie down and let me hold you. I promise I won’t hurt you. I won’t do anything you don’t want.’

  Couldn’t he see that she was hurting already—that she was falling apart, torn by jealousy and misery? she wondered wildly. Didn’t he realise that this—kindness—this borrowed tenderness was almost harder to endure than anything that had gone before?

  ‘Please—no.’ She flung herself away from him. ‘Don’t you understand? I can’t—I can’t bear it.’ The words were hers, but she didn’t recognise the harsh strained voice that spoke them.

  There was a silence, then he said evenly, ‘How can you do this? How can you go from the brink of surrender to this—neurotic bloody resistance—in the space of a few minutes? And why issue the challenge in the first place if you can’t live with the consequences?’

  She didn’t look at him. ‘I—I thought I could. And I knew I had to try—for the sake of Gunners Wharf—for the people there. Because I was afraid that you’d cancel the agreement.’

  The small hoarse whisper died away into another silence, more profound than the last.

  Then Nick said softly, ‘Ah, dear God.’

  Cally felt him move—lift himself off the bed. Was aware of him collecting up the clothing he’d discarded.

  When he spoke again, his tone was weary. ‘Understand this, Cally. You’re my wife, and I still have no intention of letting you go, until you’ve fulfilled the terms of our bargain. But I won’t have my bed turned into a war zone either. Come to me when you’re ready to make peace.’

  ‘And if it never happens?’ The breath caught in her throat.

  ‘Ah, but it will,’ he said. ‘Out of sheer female curiosity, my sweet, if nothing else. And that’s as good a starting point as any, I suppose.’ He strolled to the door that led to his own room, and turned. ‘And Gunners Wharf is still safe. You have my word.’ His parting smile did not reach his eyes. ‘I’ll see you at dinner.’

  Cally stayed where she was, unmoving. She wanted to cry, but she was beyond tears, her eyes and throat aching—burning.

  Her grandfather had been so right, she thought wretchedly. She should have seen the danger for herself, and shunned Nick’s company from the first. Instead, she’d allowed herself to be beguiled into falling in love with him. And he’d known. Known and been disconcerted by her naïve reaction to his casual befriending of a lonely girl.

  He must have been, she thought stonily, because why else would he have distanced himself so deliberately in those weeks before she made herself go to London to look for work?

  Yes, she’d needed a job, but one word, one sign from him, and she’d have stayed.

  But not to be pitied by him, she thought with sudden fierceness. Nor to run the gamut of Adele’s mocking looks and snide remarks.

  She’d realised just in time that she was crying for the moon, and that she had to change her life. To accept that Nick was not just unattainable, but frankly embarrassed by the sheer transparency of her feelings for him.

  And then her grandfather’s illness had forced her premature return, and her chance of falling out of love with Nick had been lost for ever.

  Looking down at the golden gleam of her new wedding ring, she wondered, as so many times before, at what point Nick had begun to seriously consider her for the role of his wife. She’d had a lot going for her, she thought bitterly. Young, gullible, and too besotted to realise he’d never actually said he loved her.

  But then he hadn’t needed to say very much at all. The devastating aftermath of her grandfather’s death had delivered her to him, gift-wrapped. She’d only had to say yes, believing that her love had worked some kind of miracle. That he was her paladin. Her saviour. Until, of course, she had discovered the reality of their marriage.

  And she risked suffering the same kind of humiliation all over again, if she allowed Nick to guess the truth about her headlong flight from him.

  I went, she thought, because I couldn’t bear to stay—to know that I would never be all in all to him, as he was to me. And that I would always have to share him.

  And nothing—nothing has changed.

  Because no matter how hard I’ve tried, I’ve never managed to grind him out of my heart. Never given myself the chance to heal. Not yet, anyway.

  But there’ll be plenty of years ahead of me for that. A whole lifetime to learn to stop loving him. When all this is over…

  She sat up slowly, pushing her hair back from her face.

  All Nick required from her was the use of her body, she thought flatly, and in return maybe she could hope for his kindness, if nothing else.

  Forget emotion, she told herself. Look on it as he does—just another business transaction. And do what you’ve been asked without argument.

  Give him what he wants, even down to wearing your wedding dress at dinner tonight. And after dinner give him whatever else he wants…

  And, bowing her head, Cally began at last to weep.

  Cally fastened the last of the little silk-covered buttons and stepped back to examine her reflection in the long mirror. The dress seemed to have survived being discarded on the floor of the flat, but that was about as much as she could say.

  I look like my own ghost, she thought, her mouth twisting. But that could be because of the bad memories.

  She was almost tempted to change. Almost, but not quite.

  For one thing, she couldn’t afford to annoy Nick by contravening his express wish. For another, he had to be made to see that it didn’t matter, she told herself, swallowing. That, as a garment, it held no particular meaning for her. And that nothing he could say or do to her during their time together could affect her. Whether that was true or not.

  There were much bigger battles ahead of her, and she needed to save her strength for those. Unless she could persuade Nick to be reasonable, she might even find she was fighting for the upbringing—the future—of her own child…

  She turned away, sinking her teeth into her lower lip. She wouldn’t think about that now. It was pointless to torment herself over something that hadn’t happened yet. That might never happen, she corrected herself. After all, there were no guarantees.

  But, in that case, how long would it be before Nick accepted the inevitable and sent her on her way?

  Nick…

  He was dressing for dinner too. She’d heard him earlier, moving around in the other bedroom, and felt tension coil in her stomach. And that had to stop.

  His presence—his absence—she had to learn to treat them both with equal indifference. But no one had said it would be easy.

  She’d manage
d to bathe away the telltale signs of that terrible storm of tears. She still looked pale, but that was only natural under these impossible circumstances.

  Now, she brushed her hair loose and shining on her shoulders, and applied a pale rose lustre to her lips. She’d even found a bottle of her favourite scent waiting for her on the dressing table.

  He didn’t forget much, she thought, with a sudden pang, as she sprayed a little on her skin.

  She left it to the last minute to go downstairs. Nick was in the drawing room, standing by the open French windows, staring out into the darkness. As he turned to look at her Cally saw him stiffen, his whole attention arrested as if in shock.

  Cally felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck in response to the sudden dangerous tension in the room.

  Then, as if a cord had snapped, the moment passed. He said evenly, almost politely, ‘You look very lovely.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Her tone was constricted. He looked a million dollars himself, she thought, in dinner jacket and black tie. The last time she’d seen him so formally dressed had been at the local hunt ball, when she’d waited hungrily, and in vain, for him to ask her to dance, and then gone home to cry bewildered tears into her pillow.

  ‘There’s champagne waiting for us,’ he went on. ‘The Thurstons have clearly decided this is an occasion.’ He walked to the drinks table and lifted a bottle from its nest of ice, filling two flutes.

  He handed her one, and lifted the other in salute. ‘To life,’ he said, and drank.

  ‘To life,’ Cally repeated nervously, as she raised the flute to her lips.

  Dinner was special indeed—consommé, followed by a delicate fish mousse. Then roast duck in a sharp black cherry sauce, and Floating Islands pudding to complete the meal. Frank Thurston, a quiet, thin-faced man, waited at table, and his unobtrusive presence meant that conversation was limited to general subjects.

  ‘Please tell Margaret that was magnificent.’ Nick rose. ‘If you’ll bring the coffee to the drawing room, Frank, we won’t need you again this evening.’

  ‘Of course, sir. Thank you.’ Frank Thurston was too well trained to look either knowing or indulgent, but Cally guessed he must have been sorely tempted.