Marriage Under Siege. Anne O'Brien

found its mark.

      ‘No.’ The ghost of a laugh shook him. ‘I am not unable. But it would definitely not be better to finish it quickly! When I do take you, when I make you truly my wife and you bear my weight, you will not be exhausted and terrified and as responsive as a January icicle.’

      ‘And if I cannot?’ He detected the breath of hysteria once more. ‘What if Edward was right? What if I did cause his failure?’

      His response was to take her face in his two hands and force her to look at him ‘Look at me, Honoria. And listen well. You did not cause Edward’s inability to complete the marriage. How could you? You are lovely. He must have been sick indeed not to respond to you. You are very feminine. A man would dream of holding and … and loving a woman like you. You did not exactly encourage me, did you, but I would have had no difficulty in taking you, in spite of it.’ No difficulty at all, he thought, still aware of his hard arousal. It promised to be a long night! ‘Indeed, the difficulty was in leaving you. Do you understand?’

      She looked at him for a long moment, considering his words carefully, and then nodded.

      ‘Well, then.’ He tucked her against his side, taking one of her hands in his, arranging the pillows and covers for their comfort. ‘Are you comfortable?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Then go to sleep. You are quite safe. And Edward, may he rot in Hell, cannot touch you ever again.’

      Her body gradually relaxed, minute by minute, against his as the warmth and release from fear slowly spread through her veins, her breathing softening, her muscles loosening. Her hand finally rested on his chest, fingers curled and open. He felt her slide into sleep.

      What a terrible burden she had carried with no one to help her. He rested his chin against her hair. Only a crisis had forced her into confiding in him. Otherwise, he knew with a certainty, she would have remained silent, disguising her fears behind a wall of competency and self-possession. He wondered fleetingly if she had spoken to Mary about it—and decided not. She would find it difficult to open her thoughts to anyone on such a short acquaintance. He hoped indeed that Edward would suffer the torments of the abyss for his cruel, thoughtless treatment of her. He moved his arm slightly and cushioned her head more securely on his shoulder. She did not stir.

      It would take considerable care and patience on his part to build a relationship with her, to repair the damage so wilfully caused. He turned his face against the soft curls. So soft, so vibrant now that it was no longer confined. He would care for her. With tenderness and sympathetic handling they would find a way together. It surprised him how much he wanted to soothe and comfort. After all, he had little experience of either with an unwilling woman.

      He stayed awake a long time, watching the flickering shadows as the fire finally died, assailed by doubts over the momentous step he had taken that day and the responsibilities that it thrust at him. And yet, whatever the future might hold, he could not be sorry that he had taken her as his wife.

      It was still very early when he woke. The dull grey of March daylight was hardly touching the sky or chasing the shadows in the room. The fire had died to ash long since so the air was chill.

      Mansell had not intended to remain in her bed through the night, but only until Honoria had fallen deeply asleep. Then he would return to his own bedchamber. But he had fallen asleep himself, holding her within the protection of his arms, hopefully reassuring her that his proximity was not to be the horror she feared. And when he had stirred in the night he had been far too comfortable to disturb himself or his sleeping wife. He had shared more than one bed over the years, before and even after his marriage to Katherine, when the demands of his body and the hideous desolation of loss had driven him to find comfort in soft and willing arms. But it was the first time, he mused, that he had ever spent such a night so chastely. He grinned wryly in the dark. His reputation would indeed suffer if it were known that his wife remained a virgin still. But, after all, the circumstances had been exceptional.

      The bed was warm and comfortable, the pillows soft, keeping the cool air at bay. He found that he had no desire to leave it. He turned on his side towards Honoria. She too was more than enticing. In sleep she had curled against him, stripped of the anxieties and sharp fear that had reduced her to such a storm of emotions on the previous night. Her skin was now warm under his fingertips, cheeks and lips flushed with pink, her breathing easy, her face in sleep relaxed and calm, her hair tumbled on the pillow.

      He looked at her in the pearling light. Such soft lips, curving gently at the corners as if her dreams were full of delight. What was she dreaming? He would like those lips to curve in just that manner for him, he decided, as a breath of jealous possession brushed his skin, jolting him in its intensity. He leaned over to brush those tempting lips with his own. It was impossible to resist.

      She sighed a little, between dreaming and waking, curling her fingers against his chest.

      What better time? Her defences were down, easy to breach, her muscles lax and her skin warm and pliant. What better opportunity to show her a range of pleasures at the hands of an experienced lover and undo the terrible damage of Edward’s actions and words? It would please him to allay her fears for good. He was already urgently hard, surprised by the sudden desire to bury himself in her. Or perhaps not surprised at all. She was so very appealing.

      Honoria surfaced from the depths of sleep to an overwhelming sensation of well-being. She had slept through the night, waking to a quiet contentment, for the first time since the day of her disastrous marriage to Lord Edward. And then there was that exquisitely gentle touch on her face, her lips, her hair. Light as the fluttering of a moth seeking a flame. She sighed, frowned a little at the unexpected sensation. And instantly remembered.

      Mansell.

      Everything flooded back. Her eyes opened, wide in consternation. Her body would have tensed as her tortured mind again took control, her hands raised to push against him, to resist, but yet she felt so warm and relaxed. She listened to the words being whispered against her ear and found herself accepting them.

      ‘Lie still. You are in no danger.’

      It was true.

      ‘Let me kiss you. Touch you.’

      She found her lips opening of their own accord under the pressure of his. And when his hands smoothed along her shoulders and down to cup her breasts she shivered, but not with fear.

      She sighed against him. Responding shyly, hesitantly at first, when his tongue traced the outline of her lips before pushing between them. Nerve endings tingled as she allowed him entry, eyes flickering open again in astonished pleasure. Skin warming, she stretched her body under his hands, unaware of the overt invitation to him, gasping with the shock of arousal when her nipples tightened under the light caress of his fingers. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. When he raised his head to look at her in the growing light she lifted her arms to wind them around his neck and twist her fingers into the weight of his hair. She smiled at him, a delightful curve of her lips as welcoming as any he could have wished for.