An Unexpected Gentleman (29 page)

“It’s not like pulling out a thorn,” Connor explained.

Relief vanished. She knew it was too much to hope that he meant it wouldn’t hurt. “It’s not done quickly, is it?”

His mouth curved. “Not when it’s done well.”

“Let’s do it poorly,” she suggested.

“You won’t like it done poorly.”

She was afraid she wasn’t going to like it done any way. “Couldn’t we try?”

Connor sighed. “You’re afraid now.”

“Well, I wasn’t when I thought it would all be done in a rush,” she muttered.

“There will be a rush.”

“I don’t understand—”

“Never mind.” He brushed the hair back from her face. “Do you trust me, Adelaide?”

Oh, dear, not this again. “If you’re asking if I trust you to make a fair job of . . .” She waved her hand in the direction of the chambers. “. . .
that
, then I suppose I really haven’t a choice.”

There was a pause before he said, in a very dry tone, “You make me feel like a king.”

“Would you prefer I be dishonest?”

“Let’s try this again,” he suggested, a heartbeat before he slipped a hand behind her neck and brought his mouth down on hers.

Instinctively, she wedged her hands up between them. They fluttered indecisively, then settled on his coat lapels as his lips moved over hers with gentle, coaxing pressure. For a moment, she was reminded of their first kiss in the garden when he’d tempted and teased her into a willing submission. But it took only another brush of his lips, another careful sweep of his tongue, for the comparison to fade away. This kiss was nothing like any that had come before. There was no demand, no maneuvering. He kissed her not with determined patience, but with a tenderness that seemed infinite.

A heavy warmth settled over her tingling skin and seeped inside, stealing the strength from her limbs. She let herself lean against him, and his arm slid around her waist, pulling her closer so he could take her weight. His mouth left hers to trail feather-soft kisses across her cheek. He pressed his lips to her temple and tasted the sensitive skin along her jaw.

She shivered when he reached the delicate lobe of her ear, then gasped when he tugged gently with his teeth.

Connor whispered against her skin, “You like this part, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

He toyed with her now, finding the spots along her neck that made her tremble. “The rest is just like it . . . Only more . . . Let me.”

She felt herself give a shaky nod, and in a single, fluid motion, he swept her into his arms.

Dimly, she was aware of being brought into the bedchamber, of more glowing candlelight and the faint crackle of fire. Her world dissolved into a languid series of sensations—the slide of her feet to the floor, the pressure of his mouth on her neck, the thick silk of his hair in her fingers. As the warmth progressed to heat, she grew restless, anxious for the next touch, the next shivering pleasure. But Connor remained relentlessly, maddeningly slow in his seduction. He undressed her leisurely, stopping to taste and touch every inch of newly exposed flesh. Gently, he drew her trembling hands away when she tried to help, tried to make him hurry.

“This way,” he whispered and swallowed her whimpering protest with his mouth. “My way.”

Despite the warm air in the room, she knew a moment’s chill when he slipped her chemise over her head. Connor laid her on the bed, and the chill was banished by the hard heat of his body settling over hers. The feel and scent of him enveloped her . . . The faint aroma of sandalwood, the soft bristle of the hair on his chest, the heat of his hands as they glided over her skin.

He brushed her thigh and sought the heat between her legs. She squirmed beneath him, caught between desire and embarrassment.

“Connor . . .”

“Shh, love . . . let me.”

She stopped struggling and gasped at the first smooth glide of his fingers. Deftly, he stroked and teased until the pleasure turned into a delicious ache, and the ache became a desperate need. She moaned and strained beneath him, grabbing at his shoulders, his hair, any part of him she could reach. Connor dipped his head to draw a nipple into his mouth, and suddenly the need was pleasure once more—a great solid wave of it that drew every muscle of her body tight as it crashed over her and left her dizzy and panting in its wake.

On a shuddering sigh, she lifted her lids and found herself staring into Connor’s hooded green eyes. They were dark with passion, glittering with triumph, and filled with warmth.

His hands slid under her knees. “Put your legs around . . . that’s it.”

He shifted his weight and pressed into her slowly. There was pain, but it was slight. It did nothing to diminish the extraordinary feeling of Connor’s body moving over hers or her desire to rush headlong into the next sensation, the next wave of pleasure. Until he muttered something against her hair and pushed himself inside her with a long, determined thrust of his hips.

Suddenly, the moment was no longer quite so enchanting.

She dug her nails into his shoulder and cried out. “Oh! Ouch!”

Connor went perfectly still but for the heavy rise and fall of his chest. “I’m sorry. Darling, I’m sorry. It had to be done.”

Done
was exactly what she wanted to hear, and exactly what she intended to be. She shoved at him. He wouldn’t budge.

“Connor—”

“Lie easy, sweetheart.” He bent his head and brushed his lips across hers. “Lie easy and wait. It will get better. I promise.”

He kissed her again, slow and deep, and the pain ebbed into mild discomfort. His hands skimmed over her skin, reigniting fires that had been doused. They were flickering sparks at first, then little flames that licked and teased and finally burst into life. Cautious, she ran her hands up the hard bands of muscles in his arms, and down the smooth plane of his back. She heard the rough catch and release of his breath, and she felt the violent beat of his heart against her palms.

Connor trailed kisses up her neck, across her jaw. “Better?”

“Yes.” The discomfort was all but gone, replaced by the inexplicable need to move. “I think . . . I want . . .”

“I know.” Carefully, he withdrew partway, then slid inside again.

“Oh.”

His lips curved in a wicked smile. “Better?”

She couldn’t answer. He moved again, beginning a steady rhythm of gentle invasion and retreat that robbed her of speech. The ache and need returned, different this time. Tentatively, she arched up to meet him and was rewarded with a low masculine groan. Connor dropped his head, burying his face in her hair. His movements grew faster, more forceful, and still they weren’t fast enough, or slow enough, or something. She needed
something
.

“I need . . . Connor, I need . . .”

“Shh. I know.”

He reached down to stroke her where their bodies were joined. Pleasure broke over her, wave after astonishing wave of it. And just as she began to surface, Connor gathered her close, thrust deep, and shuddered in her arms.

A
delaide opened her eyes and squinted against the early morning light that snuck around the edges of the drapes. Not quite half awake, she rolled onto her back to escape the glare and stretched the aching muscles in her legs. The softness of new linen caressed her bare skin. She nearly moaned with appreciation . . . Until she remembered
why
she was bare-legged in a bed covered with soft linen and not tangled up in her scratchy wool blanket and perfectly ancient night rail.

She was married. She was a wife.

She rolled her head on the pillow and found Connor fast asleep beside her.

Good God, she had a husband.

A bubble of laughter formed in her throat, the sort that came when one teetered between outrageous delight and outright panic. She swallowed the laughter and the panic. The first because she didn’t wish to wake Connor, and the latter because she recognized it as illogical and useless.

The next step, that was what she needed to think of now.

Only she ran into a spot of difficulty concentrating on the next step. It was far more interesting to focus on the step she’d taken last night.

Her wedding night had been a whirlwind of discovery. What they’d done . . . What
she
had done . . . Wanton did not begin to describe her behavior. Probably, she should be ashamed. At the very least, she should feel embarrassed. She didn’t. She felt deliciously wicked, enormously pleased with herself, and wildly curious about the man sleeping next to her.

Connor was her husband. She’d married him and shared a bed with him. And yet she knew so little about him.

Her gaze trailed over his prone form, searching for details. He slept on his stomach, his arms under the pillow and legs sprawled out—taking up far more than half the bed, she noted. Dark blond lashes, thick and long enough to ignite a silly spark of envy in her, rested on skin pale by heritage and lightly tanned by the sun. He had a tiny scar at the hairline, and a large one that started at the base of his left shoulder blade and formed a two-inch, jagged trail down his back before disappearing under the sheet. She frowned at it, wondering what sort of injury had caused it, and how terribly the wound must have hurt. It was a stark reminder to her that he’d not always had soft sheets to sleep on, that his life had been bleak for a time.

Dark images filled her mind. There were an infinite number of ways the injury may have occurred. Connor had been little more than a boy when he’d been impressed. And while her knowledge of maritime life was limited in the extreme, she’d heard a tale or two of the awful things that could occur aboard a warship.

The scar might be from a captain’s whip or a shipmate’s knife. Connor might have been wounded in battle, or—

“Guarding my sleep, love?”

Connor’s voice, gruff from sleep, banished the disturbing thoughts. Her gaze snapped to his face, and she found his hooded green eyes studying her as closely as she’d been studying him.

Suddenly embarrassed, she cleared her throat and picked a spot on the wall behind him to stare at. “Certainly not.”

“Relieved to hear it, as that’s my duty.” He rolled over and absently dragged a hand through his hair before crossing his arms behind his head. “What were you thinking just now? I could hear the wheels and cogs turning in your head.”

“I was wondering how you’d been hurt,” she replied, seeing no need to lie. How was she to learn more about him if she never asked? She shrugged when his eyebrows winged up. “You’ve a scar on your back.”

“Ah. A fall from a horse in my youth. I took a tumble down a rocky slope.”

“Oh.” That . . . was not what she had envisioned.

Connor laughed, reached up, and pulled her down on top of him. “You were expecting a different story.”

“I thought . . .” She twisted to keep from elbowing him in the ribs. “You were impressed.”

“I was.” He settled her against his side, his arms wrapped loosely around her shoulders. “There’s more than one sort of injury, sweet.”

And more than one kind of scar, Adelaide thought. She squirmed a little, trying to find a position that would allow her to see his face, but it wasn’t possible to do without either throwing his arms off or acquiring a kink in her neck. Giving up, she rested her cheek against his hard chest.

She wanted to ask him about the sort of scars he had but thought it might be a topic better suited for another time. Perhaps when they were more accustomed to one another.

“How did you go from being impressed to having all this?” she asked instead.

His arms tightened around her. “Well, I saw it, decided I should have it, compromised it in a garden, and that was—”

“That is not what I meant.” She laughed. She lifted a hand and gestured at the room. “I mean,
all this
.”

“Yes, I know.” She felt him shrug. “I’ve a head for the shipping business.”

“But how did you go from impressed to shipping?”

“Luck, hard work, determination. Mostly luck.”

She stifled a sigh at his evasiveness. Connor was not the sort of man one could press. Which was unfortunate, because she was the sort of woman who couldn’t refrain from pressing.

“Might you be a bit more specific?”

“Another time.” In a quick, sure move, he rolled her onto her back and ranged himself over her. Sharp green eyes searched her face. “How do you feel this morning?”

“Oh, quite well.” She liked the feel of him pressing her into the mattress, his legs tangled with hers, and his strong arms bracketed on either side of her like a protective cage. Suddenly, she felt better than well. She felt . . . interested. With a shy smile, she put her arms around him and let her fingers drift over the warm skin and taut muscles of his back.

Connor made a low hum of appreciation, and she watched, fascinated, as his eyes darkened with desire. Lowering his head, he took her mouth in a long, languid kiss.