She reached up to caress his cheek.
His eyes closed. “Beatrice. Beatrice.”
He bent and kissed her wildly, uncontrolled and desperate, and she returned the kiss, awed that she’d brought him to this extreme.
And suddenly he arched and shuddered, his big body convulsing. He buried his head in her breasts and muffled a shout, trembling all over.
Then the room was silent. She felt his heavy weight on her and listened to the patter of the rain hitting her window. She should move—make him move—get up and deal with tragedy and loss and her life.
Instead, she fell asleep.
HE WOKE TO the sound of thunder outside and the soft breath of a woman against his side. Every muscle in his body, every bone and sinew, was completely and utterly relaxed, and he smiled before he even opened his eyes. For the first time in seven long years, he felt… at peace. He turned his head to look at the woman beside him. The woman who had brought him such overwhelming contentment.
Beatrice lay sleeping. Her wheat-colored hair was tangled about her face. Her sweet lips were slightly parted, her lovely brows drawn together as if even in sleep she mourned her friend. He wanted to smooth that small indent between her eyebrows, wanted to take her pain from her, but that was impossible. He couldn’t heal her grief, but he could make sure she was never harmed again. She was too important to him now. She made him feel whole. Sane and calm. He knew he’d have to work quickly to consolidate his position.
Quietly he drew back the coverlet and climbed from the bed. He stretched, feeling the pop of his spine, and then bent to retrieve his smallclothes from the floor. He must not’ve been as stealthy as he thought, for when he straightened, clear gray eyes met his own.
He dropped the smallclothes and went to her. “Are you all right?”
She blinked sleepily and then blushed enchantingly. “I’m… rather sore.”
“I’m sorry.” He sat on the bed and brushed the hair from her eyes. “Stay here and I’ll send the maid up with a hot bath.”
A corner of her mouth curved down sadly. “That would be nice.”
“You can spend the rest of the day abed,” he said softly.
Her eyes slid away from his. “But Jeremy . . .”
“I’ll find out what arrangements his family made—where they buried him.” He bent to kiss her gently on the cheek.
She caught his hand. “Thank you.”
He nodded and straightened, picking up his smallclothes again. He drew them on and buttoned the flap.
Her brows knit. “What time is it? How long have you been closeted here with me?”
He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “A little over an hour and a half.”
“Oh, my God!” She struggled to sit up in the bed. The sheets slid down to her lap, baring her sweet breasts. She snatched them up again. “What will Quick think—or my uncle?”
He stilled in the act of buttoning his breeches and looked at her. She seemed so young, lying against the white linens, her hair all about her, her wide gray eyes watching him seriously. She’d just lost her childhood friend. Perhaps she hadn’t thought ahead as he had. “They’ll think I’ve bedded you.”
Her mouth fell open. “You must leave at once.”
He set his jaw and picked up his shirt. “Beatrice—”
“Hurry! Quick and I can make something up if you just leave at once. I’m sure we can find a way around this. It can be as if it never happened.”
Reynaud scowled, not liking the sound of that at all. Frankly, he didn’t give a damn what anyone thought, including her uncle, but her cheeks had gone pale. Dammit, he didn’t want to distress her.
He leaned over her, placing his hands on either side of her hips. “I’ll leave, but I’m not a callow youth to be dismissed from your bed, madam.”
And he kissed her before she could retort. Hard and hot, thrusting his tongue into her mouth without preamble. This woman was his, and damned if he was going to let her doubt it for even one second after he’d already laid claim.
He straightened and looked into her dazed gray eyes. “This matter is far from settled.”
And scooping up the rest of his clothes, he left the room.
Chapter Eleven
From the castle gates poured one hundred fierce warriors. They were clad in armor so black it reflected no light, and they shouted their war cries so loudly the very air trembled. They charged at Longsword. You might think such a show of force would send a mere mortal running, but not he. Longsword stood firm and true and swung his heavy sword. His blade glinted in the sun, the sweat streamed from his broad brow, and the heads of the magical army fell like leaves in autumn. For an hour he fought, and at the end of that hour, not a black warrior still lived….
—from Longsword
“And he actually threatened to bed you again?” Lottie asked the next afternoon, looking more animated than she had for some days now.
“Not in so many words,” Beatrice said slowly. “But the implication was there, certainly.”
Both ladies were in Lottie’s carriage, riding toward a salon at Mrs. Postlethwaite’s residence.
“How very thrilling!” Lottie exclaimed. “It’s like an awful play.”
“But it isn’t an awful play,” Beatrice replied morosely. “It’s my life. Oh, what am I to do, Lottie? I gave myself to him.”
“Oh, gave! How can one give oneself to a man, I ask you?”
Beatrice knit her brows. “I don’t know what else to call it. I’m no longer a virgin.”
“And what of it?” Lottie asked spiritedly. “It’s only a bit of blood and an act of five minutes or so—”
“Rather more than five minutes,” Beatrice muttered, blushing.
Lottie waved aside her friend’s comment. “In any case, I don’t think it ought to decide your entire life.”
“But what if I’m pregnant?”
“Highly unlikely after just the one time.”
“Yes, but—”
“And besides, he definitely took advantage of you. I mean, right after you’d learned about poor Jeremy! It wasn’t at all sporting. I don’t think it ought to count, really.”
Beatrice frowned, unsure what Lottie meant by “count.”
“See here,” Lottie continued, oblivious. “It’ll be at least a couple of months until you’re certain. Although, I have heard of ladies who never knew until the moment they were holding a squirming baby in their arms.”