The Earl in My Bed: A Forgotten Princesses Valentine Novella Page 7

  “What are you doing?”

  “Seeing just how wet you are,” he rasped against her neck.

  Then she was falling. His body came down over hers, surrounding her, pinning her to the bed. Instinctively her legs parted wider, allowing him to settle deeper against her.

  His hands cupped her face, held her as if she were the most precious thing in the world. Their mouths fused together, a hot, wet melding of lips and tongues, of nips and long, deep kisses.

  His hands moved, slid over her. She let herself go, reveling in his mouth, his hands on her naked body. He pulled back, and she moaned in disappointment, watching his shadowy form as he shed his clothing. And then he was back. She sighed at the delicious sensation of his skin against hers.

  He took her hand and moved it between them, guiding it to his manhood. An incredible sense of freedom, of power, seized her.

  “Touch me,” he drawled in a voice she hardly recognized, so deep and guttural. Harsh with need.

  Her hand closed around his hard length. Her breath came faster. He was bigger than she had imagined. The skin softer.

  His groan emboldened her. A shudder ran through him and vibrated within her as she pumped her hand over him—slowly, carefully at first, then in long, firm strokes that made him breathe harder. She rubbed her thumb over his tip, delighted at his low groan, at the bead of moisture that rose up to kiss her thumb and coat the head of him.

  Releasing him, she shoved hard at his chest. He fell back on the bed. She hovered over him for a moment, wishing she could see the magnificence of his body. She traced the ridges of muscles along his stomach, the outline of each rib. The overwhelming, scandalous urge to taste him overcame her. Just as he had tasted her breasts, she wanted to taste every inch of his body.

  Tentatively, she dipped her head and tongued his navel . . . before licking her way down a thin line of hair leading to that part of him that made her belly tighten and clench in anticipation.

  She stopped, perched uncertainly over him. The rasp of his breath filled the air, encouraging her. As if he knew what she was contemplating, he pleaded, “Taste me.”

  Taking him in one hand, she placed a soft kiss at the tip of him.

  “Paget,” he choked in a voice she had never heard from him. Vulnerable. Lost. Totally at her mercy. It thrilled and aroused her, emboldening her as nothing else could. Slowly, she dipped her head and licked him.

  His body jerked almost as if in pain.

  She quickly released him. “Did I hurt you?”

  In response, hard hands clamped down on her arms. Before she could draw a breath she was on her back and he was between her thighs, spreading her wide for him.

  “I can’t wait, Paget.”

  “Yes,” she gasped, tilting her hips up for him in an instinctive move.

  Then he was there. Big and hard, easing into her. She panted at the sensation of him stretching her, filling her. He was too much. Her head rolled side to side on the bed. This was too much.

  “Oh,” she squeaked as he lodged himself the final bit, burying himself deeply inside her.

  “Are you . . .” he croaked.

  She nodded, a deep burn building between her legs. “Please, Jamie . . . don’t stop!”

  His mouth slammed over hers as he plunged in and out of her body. It was wild and uninhibited and like nothing she had ever dreamed. He took what he needed, pounding into her ruthlessly and she didn’t care, because she wanted it, too. Needed it. Needed him.

  Her hips rose to meet him and she cried out as he drove harder into her, gripping her hips as if she were a lifeline, the only thing that kept him grounded to earth. Her heart swelled even as she reminded herself that this wasn’t love. Only lust. A broken heart lay in wait if she let herself believe this was more than that.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  * * *

  The instant Jamie felt her body tremble and arch under him in the throes of her climax, he knew that he would stop at nothing to convince this woman to marry him.

  His own climax followed fast and fierce. He reveled in the sensation of himself spilling inside her, knowing nothing would please him more than creating children with her. And that’s when it became blindingly clear. He was in love with Paget Ellsworth. He loved her. He would love only her for all of his days.

  She breathed heavily beneath him, the tips of her breasts pebble-hard and rubbing his chest in the most arousing way, even after he just spent himself inside her.

  He propped himself on his elbows and stayed just so, buried in her, never wanting to leave.

  “Paget,” he began, determined to hear her agree to become his wife. The need burned within him. He simply knew that he had to marry this woman, to wake up beside her every morning for the rest of his life.

  “You should go.” She pushed at his shoulder.

  “I’ll leave. Once I hear you say you will marry me.”

  A long pause fell, the only sound their rasping breaths and the rush of his blood in his ears. She had to agree. “As wonderful as this was . . . it’s not enough, Jamie.”

  With a curse, he stood. He still wasn’t enough. That’s what she meant.

  He paced in front of her bed, dragging a hand through his hair, desperation rising hot and ragged inside him. He wasn’t his father. He wasn’t Brand or Owen.

  She slid to the edge of the bed, clutching the counterpane to her nakedness.

  “I wonder,” he began, “if your father would agree. Things have moved farther than a kiss, wouldn’t you say? Will he still think you need more time to decide or would he take one look at you and think you’ve already made your decision?”

  “You wouldn’t do that,” she whispered, staring up at him with her dark eyes, enormous and horrified.

  He held her gaze for a long moment before moving for the door, desperation driving him.

  “No!” She launched off the bed and jumped between him and the door. “Very well! Fine! I’ll marry you,” she hissed, the fury in her eyes killing something inside him.

  He couldn’t do this. He didn’t want it be like this. He didn’t want her this way. Shaking his head, he turned from her and snatched up his clothes. “Forget it. Never mind.”

  She tugged at his arm, urging him to face her. “Never mind?” she echoed, her voice incredulous . . . and furious. Her body fairly hummed with energy and he suspected she wanted to strike him. “I accepted your proposal, Jamie. What do you want from me?”

  He flung his clothes to the floor and hauled her against him. “I want you to love me like I love you!”

  If possible her dark eyes widened further. She trembled in his arms, her mouth falling into a small o.

  With a curse, he released her, feeling like the worst sort of fool. He’d done it. Uttered the words that would be sure to drive her from him. Just like anyone else he had ever tried to love, she couldn’t possibly want him in return.

  Then she was in front of him, her hands seizing his face, dragging his mouth down to hers. She kissed him fiercely, whispering feverishly against his lips, “I do love you. I love you, Jamie.”

  Something broke loose inside him. He wrapped his arms around her, lifting her off her feet.

  “Oh, Jamie, I do love you . . .” A shudder racked him as her lips spoke the sweet words against his mouth.

  “When I first saw you outside the manor . . . I think I knew then.” He chuckled against her lips. “Or perhaps it was the slap. That might have woken me to the fact that I’ve always been a little bit in love with you. Even before India. When we were children.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me how you felt?” She lifted her head to demand, the indignant light returning to her dark eyes. “We could have saved ourselves time.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he countered, his lips lifting in a smile.

  She shook her head, her pale hair a floating nimbus around her. She looked like an angel. His angel. His salvation. “Because I’m a fool.”

  “Well, I’m a fool, too,” he said. “I
didn’t think I had a right to love you.”

  She smiled deeply. “Then we really are perfect for each other, aren’t we? Because I didn’t think you could love me.”

  “How could I not love you?” He nuzzled her neck, reveling in the sweet softness of her skin just below her ear. “I adore you, Paget Ellsworth.”

  She trailed her fingers through his hair. “Owen is a good person,” she replied rather breathlessly as he placed an open-mouthed kiss right beside her ear. “He won’t begrudge us. He’ll understand.”

  He knew the words stemmed from her worry that Owen very well might begrudge them. That he might not ever understand. A great sigh eased from him as love for her flowed through him, free and fearless. “He’ll have to. Because I love you, and nothing on this earth will ever make me sorry for that.”

  She smiled deeply. “That makes two of us.”

  EPILOGUE

  * * *

  One year later . . .

  Paget turned the page of her book and smiled as her husband’s hand idly caressed the slight swell to her belly. A log popped in the great hearth, crumbling with a spray of sparks. The wind howled against the windows. Inside the warm library, curled upon the soft fur rug with the man she loved, she had never felt so safe and content. Every day was this—as though nothing could touch the perfection of her world.

  Jamie sat with his back propped against the couch, long legs stretched out before him. She rested her head on his lap and tried to focus on the page before her and not on the distracting man that filled her head with all manner of thoughts . . . thoughts far more appealing than the book of poetry in her hands.

  Her gaze slid up from the page she was reading to glance at Jamie. As though he felt her gaze, his gaze drifted from the newspaper he was reading to look down at her.

  “Is your leg numb yet?” she inquired.

  “No, I like you here.”

  She covered his hand where it curved around her belly, around their child. She smiled up at him invitingly, turning her cheek against his thigh. “You know . . . I can think of something else for us to do on a cold winter afternoon.”

  His sea-blue eyes darkened and he bent his head, taking her lips in a hot kiss.

  A knock at the door brought his head back up with a growl.

  “Come in,” he called.

  Mr. Jarvis stepped inside the room, his stiff form bearing a tray. “I thought you might wish to read the day’s post, my lord.”

  His joints creaked as he moved forward, proffering the tray. Jamie accepted the several envelopes. Jarvis slipped from the room, the door clicking softly behind him.

  “Now,” Paget purred. “Where were we?” Her hand circled around her husband’s neck to pull him back down, but something in his expression stopped her. “What is it?”

  She followed his gaze to the letter sitting on top of the small pile of correspondence.

  “It’s from Owen.”

  Her smile slipped. They had not heard from Owen since Jamie returned home. There had been no response when they sent him news of their marriage. They had begun to fear the worst. She watched as her husband quickly ripped it open, not bothering to rise for a letter opener.

  She waited, heart racing as he scanned the words. When he finished, he dropped the parchment to his lap. “Well?” she prompted unable to read his expression.

  “Owen’s coming home.”

  Ready to find out what happened to Owen,

  the mysterious Earl of McDowell?

  Here’s a sneak peek at his story,

  HOW TO LOSE A BRIDE IN ONE NIGHT,

  available August 2013 from Avon Books.

  An Excerpt from

  HOW TO LOSE A BRIDE IN ONE NIGHT

  Consciousness pulled at her. Eyes still closed, Annalise floated, flying, arms suspended at her sides.

  A heavy, pulling throb in her head and a sharp sting in her ribs pawed at her —urging her to dive back into the comfort of oblivion. But something else nagged at her, urging her to wake up. A memory. Something she should not forget. It sank its teeth through the fog of her thoughts, hunting her.

  Everything came back in a rush then. She stopped herself just short of opening her eyes. She tensed and then quickly forced the tension back out . . . purging it from every limb as she concentrated on lying perfectly still. On not opening her eyes.

  A soft breeze swam over her. The hem of her nightgown fluttered at her calves and she knew she was outside. Still close to the water. She could hear it lapping the sides of the barge.

  Cool hands held her. He was taking her somewhere. She knew without opening her eyes that it was Bloodsworth. Her husband. Her murderer. He thought he had killed her back in their cabin. Smothered her with a pillow. So where was he taking her now?

  It was safe to assume he would finish his gruesome task once he realized she was still alive. She hung limply in his arms, not daring to so much as lift her chest to breathe. Her life depended on his belief that he held a corpse.

  He came to a halt. It felt windier, standing in one place—wherever that was—no longer swaying with his movements. He adjusted her in his arms with the barest grunt. The moments stretched. The silence deafening. It took everything in her to play dead, to feign that she wasn’t aware of his body holding her so closely, of the hands gripping her—the same ones that held a pillow down over her face just moments ago.

  Then she was lowered unceremoniously, dropped to the hard deck. Her head hit with a hard thump, her neck snapping back sharply, but she schooled her features into a blank mask and bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out. The wind buffeted her, playing with the hem of her night rail.

  His voice rolled over her, his tones as crisp and familiar as ever. “Well, we can’t forget this, can we?”

  He seized her hand, grabbing her ring finger tightly. His fingers pulled on the wedding band he had slid on only hours before. His grip was hard and merciless, twisting her finger in an unnatural direction in his effort to reclaim his family heirloom. “Don’t want to give it up, do you, wife?”

  She prayed the ring would just slide free and rid her of this agony. At last it slid off her finger.

  The soles of Bloodsworth’s boots scraped over the deck. She sensed him standing above her. His voice rang out in satisfaction. “There we go. Saved you from that nasty bit of rubbish.”

  She envisioned him standing over her and addressing his precious family ring. She was “that nasty bit of rubbish.” How could she have ever thought he cared for her? She should have known her bridal settlement was the only thing that attracted his suit. And perhaps she had known that, but she thought he at least liked her. Enough to keep her around. Enough not to kill her.

  His arms came around her again. He hefted her up with a grunt. “Little cow, I’m thinking you’ll sink straight to the bottom. Farewell, wife.” The last word was uttered with such scathing scorn she marveled that he had stomached marrying her at all. The entire ceremony must have revolted him.

  And then she was falling through air.

  Plunging deep into the abyss. Water rushed up all around her, enveloping her. She gasped at the sudden cold, swallowing a mouthful of briny water for the effort.

  She swam to the surface, breaking free with a ragged gasp. She dragged a deep breath into her aching lungs and tossed her head left and right against the swiftly moving waters, trying to clear the tangle of hair from her eyes.

  The view had been deceptive from her window. The river had looked calm. Peaceful. But now that she was a captive of its freezing depths, the current sucked at her, carrying her away from her wedding barge.

  She squinted against the night, marking the dark looming shape of the barge, a hulking beast hunched over the waters that crept slowly away from her.

  She detected Bloodsworth’s figure at the railing, his face a shadowy smudge on the night. She watched as he turned and disappeared back into the bowels of the barge, free of a wife. Free of her.

  Swallowing back her terror, she k
icked, grateful at least that she could swim. The shore didn’t look too far. Struggling to ignore the incessant ache in her ribs where Bloodsworth had struck her, she started swimming, working her arms and legs, only to discover that the shore was much farther than it looked, and the current was determined to keep her from it.

  Choking, she strained to keep her head above the slapping waves. Her strong leg worked three times as hard and yet it wasn’t enough. Her exhaustion grew, dragging her down. The current slapped at her face, continuing to pull at her, tugging her along. She went under again and again, popping back up only to suck in a wet breath.

  Jagged shapes emerged in the water, first only a few and then more, increasing in frequency. Rocks. She jerked to avoid them, but there were too many. Her right foot scraped something sharp. She cried out and choked on water.

  Suddenly pain slammed into her lame leg, spinning her. Suddenly she was confused, no longer sure what direction was up. Lancing pain shot up her limb, settling deep into her bone, reverberating to every nerve in her body.

  She tried to kick her way to the surface. Agony screamed through her right leg, telling her something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong. She couldn’t force it to move.

  Gray edged at her vision, closing in. She couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t fight. Bloodsworth had succeeded after all.

  She wasn’t going to make it out of this river alive.

  Owen squinted against the afternoon’s gray sky, swaying loosely in his saddle as his mount meandered along the road. Never mind that it was overcast. The day was too bright for him. The effects of last night’s binge with a bottle of brandy still bore its effects. Thousands of tiny hammers beat inside his head.

  He scratched at his bristly jaw, unable to recall the last time he had shaved. Perhaps a week ago. He didn’t care enough to correct the matter. He hadn’t even cared enough to shave before arriving home into the loving embrace of his family. Not that he had stayed longer than a day. It took him all of five minutes in the company of Jamie and Paget to realize he couldn’t stomach another day with either one of them.