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Authors: Vanessa Kelly

His Mistletoe Bride (36 page)

BOOK: His Mistletoe Bride
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He closed his eyes and inhaled several deep breaths. When he opened them he appeared calmer, although his grip on her remained firm. “Very well. I can accept that circumstances left you no choice. What did you discuss?”
She cast up a prayer of thanks that Lucas did not insist on a detailed accounting of events, especially since Mr. Weston
had
pointed a gun at her. But still she hesitated. If she told him what they had discussed, she would divulge who was leading the smugglers. And given that her husband did not currently seem in a forgiving mood, that was a bad idea. Especially for poor Sam Weston, whose father would be the first man hauled off to prison.
“Phoebe,” Lucas growled in warning.
“I told them you would not countenance their activities any longer, and that they must give up their ways.”
He snorted. “I bet that went over very well.”
“Some of the men may have listened,” she said with offended dignity.
“I'm sure. How many were there, exactly?”
She made a vague gesture. “It was hard to tell. Most were hidden in the woods.”
He narrowed his gaze. “Why do I have the feeling you're deliberately leaving things out?”
“It all happened very quickly, and I was frightened. It is hard to remember details.”
His grip tightened. “You were frightened? Did they threaten you?”
“Not really,” she hedged, annoyed she had revealed even that bit of information.
He swore under his breath and his grip on her tightened a fraction. “You are such a terrible liar. Did they have guns?”
Desperate, she clutched the lapel of his coat. She could not lie to him again, even knowing how he would likely react. “Yes, but they did me no harm, I swear. Please, Lucas, just let it go. I am sure the smuggling will die out on its own, now that the local men can get jobs on the estate and in the village.”
“Hell, Phoebe! They came onto my property with guns and threatened my wife. Do you really think I'm going to stand by and let that happen?”
His harsh, unforgiving tones lashed at her. “What are you more concerned about? That they threatened me, or dared to violate the sacred boundaries of your kingdom?”
She tried to struggle off his lap, but he held her fast. Taking her face between his hands, he forced her to look at him. “Phoebe, it scares me to death that something might have happened to you,” he grated out. “You have no idea how dangerous those criminals can be. If anything ever happened to you—” He bit off the words and averted his gaze. Anger curved his features into harsh angles, but Phoebe sensed his fear.
“Lucas,” she said softly, turning his face back to look at her. “You saw me right after it happened. You know I was completely unharmed.”
He took her hands and placed them in her lap. “And while we're on that subject, why didn't you tell me about this encounter immediately? Why hide something like this from your husband? Something so vital?”
His eyes had frosted over again, but something else lurked behind the anger. She saw pain, and the fear of trust betrayed. For Lucas, there was no greater sin.
“They had guns,” she explained patiently.
His mouth pulled into something close to a sneer. “Thank you for assuming I would shoot them all on the spot. Your confidence in me is sorely deficient, Madam Wife.”
Her temper flared. “No, you stupid man. I was afraid they would shoot you
.
”
He gave an incredulous snort. “That's ridiculous. You're not supposed to be protecting me.
I'm
supposed to be protecting
you
.”
Angry, she struggled to free herself again. This time he let her go, although he had to lash out a hand to keep her from tumbling to the floor. Once she regained her balance, she wrenched her arm from his grasp. “Excuse me for thinking a man and his wife should try to help and protect
each other
,” she stormed. “I will not make that mistake twice.”
He surged to his feet, eyes blazing with a furious intent. “Please spare me a lecture on domestic philosophy. Just tell me if you recognized any of the men. Now.”
Phoebe propped her hands on her hips and glared up at him. Lucas in a fury made a very intimidating picture, but she knew he would never lift a hand to her—or to any woman—and dark looks alone could not force her to reveal her knowledge, given the actions likely to ensue. He might not think he required her help and protection.
She
knew better.
He also propped his hands on his hips, his voice going lethally soft. “Phoebe, I insist you tell me if you recognized those men. It is your duty to me, as my wife and countess.”
She pressed her lips firmly together and shook her head. She struggled to remain calm, but inside her emotions roiled and her heart ached with the chasm of mistrust yawning between them. But what other choice did he give her?
“Phoebe, I swear to God—”
Her control finally snapped. “I will not allow violence between thee and these men,” she shouted. “I will not allow it!”
Holly, snoozing in his basket by the fire, came awake with a startled yip. He rushed from his basket and skidded around the desk.
Lucas drew himself up, every inch the soldier. “That's not up to you. I will be master in my house, Phoebe, and that's a lesson you'd best learn right now.”
Holly, upset by the harsh tone of his new master's voice, growled and backed up against Phoebe's skirts. She scooped him up in her arms. “For shame, Lucas,” she scolded. “You are scaring the dog.”
Her husband stared at her in disbelief. “I wasn't the one who started yelling. And why is the blasted dog in here anyway, instead of out in the hall? Isn't there anything or anyone in this damned house who can act normally?”
Since it had been Lucas's suggestion to place Holly's basket in his study, Phoebe could only gape at him. Holly, however, responded with a volley of high-pitched barks. Phoebe tried to shush him, but to no avail.
“Oh, Christ,” Lucas muttered. He took the dog from her arms and marched over to retrieve Holly's basket.
Phoebe started after him. “What are you doing?”
He pointed at her. “You, stay. I'm not done with you.”
“Lucas! Do not talk to me like a dog.”
She peered after him, worrying about Holly. Lucas opened the door to the hall and placed the basket just outside the study. But when he gently deposited the dog back in his cozy nest, he stroked his fuzzy head and, with a soothing murmur, admonished him to go back to sleep. Despite her anger, Phoebe could not hold back a smile.
“What are you smiling about?” Lucas growled as he closed the door behind him.
She wiped her face clean. “Certainly not you.”
He strode back to the desk. “I should think not. I find your defiance most disturbing. Even more so, you lied to me. That is not the behavior I expect of my wife. My
Quaker
wife. That you of all people could act this way defies belief.”
She froze, stunned by his criticism. If she closed her eyes, she might be listening to another one of her half brother's endless series of disapproving lectures.
Shaking off her paralysis, she struggled to bring her emotions under control. But all semblance of control slipped from her grasp, overwhelmed by a wave of hurt and shame. And anger, an anger that prompted her to strike back. “I am sorry to be such a disappointment, but your behavior is hardly exemplary, Lucas. Despite your reconciliation with Silverton, I was most distressed by your conduct at Belfield Abbey.”
He had been starting to look as if he regretted his harsh accusation, but her words had him scowling again. “I already apologized to you for being out of sorts at the abbey.”
“That is not what I was referring to,” she said in a tight voice.
“Then what?”
His eyes glittered with a narrow intensity that should have warned her to hold her peace. But the anger and hurt seemed to push the words from her tongue, whether she wished to speak them or not. “It is thee flirting. I know thee does not love me, but that is no excuse to treat me with such disrespect.”
His eyes opened wide. “Me, flirt?” He sounded mystified.
“Do not try to deny it.”
Silence, then understanding dawned in his stormy gaze. “You think I was flirting with Bathsheba Blackmore?”
“You were!”
He shook his head. “I cannot believe this.” With no warning, he shot out an arm to sweep the piles of journals and papers from his desk, sending them crashing to the floor. Then he grabbed her around the waist, lifted her, and gently plopped her on the polished surface. Gasping, she grabbed the edge of the desk to steady herself.
“Lucas, what are thee—you doing?”
He pointed at her again. “Stay right there.”
“I repeat, I am not a dog,” she huffed.
He strode to the door and locked it. “I know exactly what you are. You're my wife, and I'm going to show you precisely what that means.”
He turned, his eyes blazing with a harsh, blatant desire that stole the breath from her body. The air seemed to vibrate around him, parting in waves as he stalked back to her. Even as her breath caught with trepidation, her limbs grew heavy and weak, already craving his touch. When he pushed her skirts up to her thighs and stepped in close, crowding her, she did nothing to resist. Her body was obviously no longer under her control, since she widened her legs to accommodate him and clutched his broad shoulders in a desperate grip.
“What is thee doing?” she whispered.
“I am showing
thee
that Phoebe Stanton is the only woman I will ever want. And by the time I'm through, you'll never doubt it again.”
Chapter 33
Phoebe might have pushed Lucas too far. But his rebuke had stung, and her buried insecurities had burst forth in a shocking display of jealousy. She should feel ashamed of her childish outburst, but her husband's eyes blazed with such passionate hunger that any apology died on her tongue.
His big hands reached around and slipped under her bottom. When he slid her to the edge of the desk and then molded his rock-hard body to her most sensitive part, she let out a squeak of protest. Through the fabric of his breeches, she could feel the aggressive thrust of his erection. Her precarious position forced her to clasp her knees around his lean hips for support.
Despite their battle of words, there was no mistaking what Lucas wanted from her right now.
He swooped down and took her mouth in a punishing kiss, ravaging her with a hot, delicious slide of lips and tongue. She moaned, clutching at his arms as she tried to deny the fierce longing surging through her veins. But just as suddenly as he claimed possession, he broke away. He glanced at her flushed face, then down at her mouth, his expression brooding.
“I . . . I do not understand,” she stammered. “How can you want to do this when we have been fighting?”
His laugh sounded more like a groan. “Ask me later.”
There was likely no explaining it, she decided, since she wanted him as badly as he wanted her, and her anger had not abated one whit.
Even as his hands stroked the inside of her thighs, brushing so close to her sex that it made her shiver, she saw bitterness in his dark gaze and in the sternly cut angles of his face. Sadness and regret twisted within her, knowing he saw her lies not as a means to protect him, but as a betrayal of his trust. His first love had betrayed him those long years ago, and Phoebe worried that his heart might now be damaged beyond repair.
His hands moved in sensual patterns over the sensitive skin of her thighs, moving ever closer to her dampening flesh. Phoebe cupped his cheek, bringing his attention back up. His eyes blazed with a need so starkly evident it clawed away the lingering remnants of her own pain.
“I am truly sorry, Lucas,” she whispered.
His gaze narrowed with suspicion, even as his long, clever fingers brushed through her curls and across her sex with a light, teasing motion. She bit her lower lip, forcing back a moan.
“For disobeying me?” he growled.
She shook her head, stroking the hard line of his jaw, now rough with the bristle of his night beard. “No. I am sorry you had to marry a woman you do not love. It was selfish of me to allow you to do so.”
His anger seemed to bleed away. He pressed an affectionate kiss to her brow, then a tender one across her lips. She swallowed hard, her throat growing tight with the taste of his regret.
“Phoebe,” he sighed. “None of this is your fault. Well, lying to me was your fault, but at least I understand why you did it. But the other—” He fell silent for a moment, although his hands continued their gentle play, stroking her with a soothing caress.
“I'm a soldier,” he finally said. “Words don't come easily to me. I wish—”
She grabbed the edges of his waistcoat and pulled him closer, silencing him with her mouth. She did not want to hear about his regrets and unfulfilled desires, or the loving part of him that Esme Newton had destroyed forever. If she could not have his heart, then she would take what he could offer, praying with every corner of her soul it would be enough.
Her impulsive gesture unleashed a fire in him. Lucas may not ever come to love her, but he clearly wanted her with a warrior's fierce passion, and with a hunger that left her breathless and aching with a need only he could assuage.
As he ravished her mouth, he pulled her close, nudging the ridge of his erection into the cradle of her thighs. She melted in his arms, pulling her knees back to open herself to the seductive thrust of his hips. He groaned against her lips and started to pull back, but she curled her hands around the back of his neck, holding fast as she eagerly tasted his mouth. She poured all her tangled, treacherous emotions into her kiss, possessing him with a silken glide of lips and tongues that tasted both forbidden and sweet. Desire curled low in her belly, and she could not help rocking against the shaft that pressed against her.
Lucas surrounded her, looming tall as his hands roamed her body. His kisses teased away her pain, igniting a heat that rolled through her body like flaming brandy. When he nudged once more into the vee of her thighs, his shaft against her aching flesh, she broke away from his mouth with a strangled cry.
“Christ, Phoebe,” Lucas panted.
She clutched his arms and slid her trembling legs down to dangle over the edge of the desk. “We should go upstairs,” she managed in a strangled voice.
“The hell with that,” he muttered as he attacked the fastenings of her bodice. “I might not make it up to the bedroom.”
Her eyes widened as he yanked her dress down past her shoulders, trapping her arms. “We cannot do this in the study. The servants might come in.”
His clever fingers were already busy with the lacings at her back. “Why do you think I locked the door?” Under the bronze of his tan, his cheekbones were flushed, and his eyes were heavy with a sensuality that set off a quiver low in her belly. It frightened her to think how vulnerable he made her, even knowing he would never feel for her as she felt for him.
He hummed with satisfaction as her stays loosened around her breasts. “Don't worry,” he added. “The servants are busy with their own pleasure.” He glanced up, mischief gleaming in his eyes. “As you already discovered.”
She blushed at the reminder of what Maggie and Philip had been doing in the pantry.
“And I'm certainly not one to be outdone by the servants, my love,” he said with a grin. Carefully, he worked her stays and chemise down to her waist, exposing her breasts to the air. Without the warmth of her garments, her nipples, already half stiff with desire, contracted into tight points.
Lucas took a small step back to look at her. “God, Phoebe,” he said in a reverent voice. “You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.”
She looked down at herself and felt the heat rise up her throat to her face. She was naked to the waist, her breasts gleaming white in the candlelight, the tips hard and flushed pink. Her arms still trapped in the lowered sleeves of her gown, she gripped the edge of the desk for support. Her legs were spread wide, skirts tumbled around her thighs, but that apparently did not satisfy her husband. He pushed the fabric up to her hips, uncovering her completely. The silky nest of curls between her thighs glistened with moisture, and she wanted to squirm, both embarrassed and excited by her wanton position.
“That's perfect,” Lucas said with a deep rumble.
“Oh, really?” she muttered, feigning offended dignity. “I cannot even move.”
“Yes, I have you right where I want you.”
He reached out to palm her breasts, his thumbs scraping lightly over the nipples. Sensation darted from their tips to settle with a quiver between her thighs. Biting back a moan, she let her eyelids begin to fall.
Lucas let out a soft laugh. “Oh, no you don't, sweet wife. I want you to watch what I do to you.”
The dark promise in his words brought a soft rush of moisture from the depths of her body. “You are very wicked,” she whispered.
He murmured deep in his throat as he teased and gently rolled the stiff points between his fingertips. “I'm about to get a lot more wicked.”
She gasped as he tugged and tormented her nipples into tight, burning peaks. And torment was the only word, a delicious torment that had her writhing with frustration. Just when she was about to beg, he bent his head and fastened his mouth to first one nipple, then the next. She choked back a strangled cry, wobbling on the edge of the desk as a luxurious spasm rippled deep in her womb. His hands settled low on her spine, holding her steady as he rimmed her nipple with his tongue.
Phoebe was devastated by the sight of his head at her breast, and by the sensations storming her body. The rasp of his tongue across her nipple, the feel of his hard body between her thighs was too much. Her head swam with a dizzy passion. “Lucas,” she panted. “Please . . . please . . .”
She was barely conscious of what she pleaded for, but he knew. He always knew. With a last, tender nuzzle, he lifted his head. His features were stark, but his heavy-lidded, passionate gaze held tenderness, too. He cradled her gently as he finished undressing her. In a moment, she sat open before him, clad only in her stockings and garters, and one shoe—the other having fallen to the floor.
He smiled a distinctly masculine, evil grin. “Just when I thought it couldn't get any better.”
She was about to scold him when he interrupted her. “No, wait. I know.”
Her eyes popped wide when he pushed her thighs apart, exposing her completely to his roving gaze.
“There. That's better,” he purred.
She choked, caught between disbelief and laughter. “You are truly most wicked, Husband.”
He simply shrugged his shoulders. “Guilty as charged, Wife.”
Then he was on his knees before her and those wide shoulders were pushing her thighs even farther apart. Before she could utter a word his hands snaked under her naked bottom, tilting her up. With a hot rush, his mouth fastened on that most sensitive part of her with a masterful kiss. This time she did cry out, falling back on her elbows as sensation pulsed in a hot, heavy throb.
Phoebe's breath came in shattered sobs, her emotional control unraveling under his sensual assault. They had made love many times, but never like this. If he had told her of this first, asked her permission, she would have refused. But he'd taken her by surprise and breeched her defenses.
Her body asserted its desires. She rested on her elbows and spread her thighs wide, inviting Lucas to pleasure her.
And pleasure her, he did. His fingers gently parted her drenched folds so he could reach everything. He sucked and kissed, slicking his tongue over aching flesh again and again, as sensation gathered in her womb, first as tight little contractions, but then in long pulses of pleasure that built and built. She was spread out before him—naked, vulnerable, and open. He controlled her, dominated her—big, handsome, utterly masculine, and . . . fully clothed.
Phoebe blinked several times. Suddenly, it was too much. She needed him inside her.
Part
of her, not
apart
from her, made too vulnerable by this unfamiliar act.
Not when he controlled so much and she so little. She struggled up and grabbed his shoulders. “Lucas, st . . . stop.”
His head came up right away and she trembled at his hard expression, his features tight with lust. His voice came out in a dark rasp. “What is it?”
“I want . . . I want . . .” She could not find the words. She only managed to run her shaking fingers through his thick tumble of hair.
His gaze grew tender. “What do you want, my love?”
She took a deep, steadying breath. “I want you. Only you.”
He surged to his feet, his fingers pulling at the fall of his breeches. She reached out to help him, and in a moment he was free. Lucas stepped close between her thighs, fitting the broad tip of his staff to the snug opening of her body. He nudged gently inside, then took her in a slow but relentless slide. She clutched at his back, digging her fingers into the fabric of his coat as she sobbed with relief when he was lodged deep within her.
“You have me, Phoebe,” he said in a voice heavy with emotion. “You will always have me.”
She tilted her head back to look at him. “Do you promise?”
He smiled gently as he stroked the damp hair back from her brow. “I promise.”
She pulled his head down, feathering a kiss across his lips. “I love you,” she whispered. It was reckless and foolish to admit it, but her heart refused to be silenced.
Lucas murmured his satisfaction, kissing her as he began to move. She gasped as he gave a hard nudge, kindling an erotic burn in the deepest part of her. Her heart raced with excitement and she arched her back, grinding her pelvis into him. Then she exploded, the spasms rippling out from her womb with a power that wrenched a cry from her throat. He rode her through her climax until he shuddered and convulsed inside her.
Clutching her within the shelter of his embrace, he kept her safe while her senses returned and the world began to right itself. When her breathing had returned to normal, Lucas carefully pulled out. Then he cradled her against his chest and silence fell around them, thick and peaceful, broken only by the crackling of the fire.
Phoebe rested against him, listening to the steady thump of his heart. Once again, she had told her husband she loved him. And once again, she had been met with silence.
BOOK: His Mistletoe Bride
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