Page 99 of Come the Morning

“Aye, and I’ve only just begun.”

He carried her back to the main stairway to the second floor apartments, and down the corridor to their rooms.

He laid her down upon the bed, and was with her, over her. Firelight played in the room, catching the ice in his eyes, and it seemed that they gleamed red, and gold, a demon’s eyes, eyes of fury, relentless. She started to speak, to protest, to fight; but once again, his mouth covered and consumed hers, and the taste of him seemed to fill her, even as she felt as if he raided her soul with his kiss, the force of his lips and tongue sweeping thought and reason, protest and strength away from her. Her robe was split open she realized, as was his, and she felt his nakedness pressed to her. Her linen gown was shoved high to her waist; she felt his hand on her flesh, fingers brushing her nakedness, touching, probing. She couldn’t breathe; she was pressed deeper and deeper into the bed, she wanted to jump, to scream, to leap atop the walls as she felt him probing, and then shifting, and then …

She did scream, into his throat, against his lips. Her nails dug into him. Conflicting sensations tore into her, warmth, unbearable warmth, filling her, blood seeping into bone, overwhelming. She wanted to cling to him, she wanted to throw him away. Something seemed wonderful, touching, feeling, breathing him … his lips, still so close to hers, his scent, still so subtly sensual, compelling, tantalizing, even while …

The pain seemed to knife right through her. She wouldn’t cry, she thought, wouldn’t whimper. Would never falter, allow him to see, to know, how he had hurt her …

But he would see, he would know, because he was dead still, and even in the shadows and darkness he was staring down at her.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice was harsh.

“Oh, you idiot, I did tell you, you didn’t want to listen, you didn’t want to believe! I swore on my father, and—”

She broke off. He’d made some sniffing sound of impatience and begun to move again, and she gasped, fingers clinging into his fur-clad shoulders and a cry escaping her no matter what her promise to herself. “Quit, quit, quit …” she pleaded, eyes locked on his in serious entreaty, but his mouth covered hers, and something … began to change. His lips moved with such subtle persuasion, his tongue caressed, beckoning as much as plundering, his fingers moved down the length of her, tips stroking her flesh …

The pain faded slowly … and she was numb. No … not numb. She could feel him, the taut constriction of his muscles, the increasing fever of his movements, the heat that threatened to overwhelm her. His breathing came like a north wind, his heart beat like thunder. Enveloped in his arms, she suddenly felt as if he impaled her to the bone, and she twisted in his arms, amazed at the shuddering force it awakened within her. He moved again, and again, and she was still just clinging, feeling broken and split … and amazed, and strangely gratified by the feel of wet, steaming heat that seemed to fill her, permeate her body, and her being …

He withdrew slowly, and lay on his back. She was cold, and instantly sore once again, keenly aware of what had taken place. Of course, she had known what it was to be married, expected what had come, and yet …

She’d never expected to feel a strangely awakened hunger. With him. When she still hurt, yet felt a need to touch his flesh, lie against him, bury herself within him. Be held by him, and soothed by him, caressed, and …

Wanted.

It was one thing to accept all this.

It was another to long for it, for him …

She turned away, curling to a ball at his side, tangled in her gown and robe.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment.

“You should be.”

“Well, milady, it’s really your fault—”

“My fault!”

“You liked the game you were playing. You played it well, you taunted me, and enjoyed my discomfort.”

“I never!” she bed. “I told you the truth, and you chose not to believe me.”

“I was wrong.”

His answer surprised her so much that she lay silent for a long moment, then whispered, “What?”

“Obviously, I was wrong.”

“Obviously,” she said, surprised at the tears that stung her eyes and glad that her back was to him.

“Glad, too, of course. I really do like Ewan.”

She swung around at that. He wasn’t looking at her, but up at the ceiling, and he seemed annoyingly complacent. “You’re glad because you like Ewan?” she said.

“Aye.”

She rose up in her tangle of clothing, raising both hands to pummel him at that, but he caught her wrists, surprised. “Now, what, madam—”