Auctioned Virgin to Seduced Bride Page 2

  Patrick told her she was bloody stupid to trust people. Well, she would start to learn with him. ‘Let me go!’ She twisted away and her shift tore in his grip. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she shouted at him, her hands frantic on the few scraps of fabric that still shielded her body. ‘You came here with your disgusting needs and—’

  ‘Damn it, woman—I kept my disgusting needs in check for three days while you trotted round that village like an innocent, helpful kitten with those big violet eyes and that mass of hair I ached to unpin and the scent of you like apricots. Why didn’t you say you wanted to travel to Falmouth? Why were you so pig-headedly stupid not to tell me?’

  ‘What? Ask you to take me with you? What would you have assumed from that, pray?’ What does he mean, he wanted to unpin my hair? If he wanted me, why didn’t he say something? Show me? Or am I just too inexperienced to read the signals?

  ‘That you needed help? That you trusted me to escort you? I could have taken a letter to your friend, if you drew the line at my company on a common stage.’

  ‘I didn’t. It wasn’t that. I didn’t understand how you made me feel. I didn’t… You didn’t…’ Laurel’s voice trailed away as she realised what she had said.

  ‘How I made you feel?’ Patrick repeated. ‘How the hell do you think I feel? You accuse me of being a perverted libertine and all the time I was with you, I kept a bridle on perfectly natural, perfectly normal desires—’

  ‘Normal?’ Her voice rose in an undignified squeak. ‘I’m a virgin! You shouldn’t have any desires as far as I’m concerned.’ I’m a virgin and I want you so much I’m ashamed of myself. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself!’ she flung at him, knowing as she spoke how unjust she was being.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Patrick snarled. ‘I’m a perfectly normal man. Of course I’ve got desires. I’m a gentleman—I just don’t show them to unmarried girls.’

  ‘Really?’ Some shocking instinct drew her gaze to his thin silk evening breeches and the unmistakeable, flagrant bulge that betrayed just what he wanted. ‘I don’t think you are a gentleman at all.’

  ‘In that case, you ungrateful little cat,’ Patrick said, ‘allow me to demonstrate what I have been bottling up in a gentlemanly manner ever since I met you.’

  He flung his coat to one side, reached out and yanked her toward him. The tatters of her shift flew apart as she lost her grip on them and the full length of her naked body thudded into contact with the heat of his. Shirt, waistcoat, breeches might as well not have existed.

  Furious, Laurel wrenched one hand free and slapped him hard across the cheek. He made no move to avoid the blow, but his eyes, stormy grey, darkened in the moment before he caught her wrist in one hand and fisted his other into the tumbling mass of her hair, tugging back her head for his kiss.

  She had never been kissed on the mouth before. He captured hers with contemptuous ease. His tongue pushed between her lips and possessed her mouth, and the shock snatched the air from her lungs and the strength from her struggling limbs.

  Patrick smelt hot and angry, he smelt of musk and man and his mouth tasted of coffee and brandy and of him. His teeth nipped at her lower lip and she shuddered as the pull on her hair bowed her back so he could drag his teeth down the tendons of her throat, a low, possessive growl vibrating against her skin.

  Her anger built and burned and then, as he came back to her mouth, sucking her tongue into his, it flared up into pure heat, aching desire. Oh, lord, he knows what he is doing and he is so good at it…. Shocked out of shyness, every inhibition unshackled by rage, Laurel pressed against the hard body that had captured her, pressed against the thrust of Patrick’s erection. He froze.

  ‘Laurel?’ He lifted his head and looked down at her, his eyes questioning. She had the impression that women did not often leave Patrick Jago confused.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered with reckless courage. She wanted this man, needed him. She was afraid, although not of him. Of herself, perhaps. The fear itself was arousing, as though they were about to embark on a dangerous adventure together.

  Patrick let his hand trail down her breast, and the nipple peaked and hardened under his palm. He pulled her to him with his other hand, cupping the soft weight, fretting the tight bud with the ball of his thumb.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered again. ‘Patrick…yes.’ The touch of his hands tormented her breasts. They felt heavy, swollen. His touch was almost pain, almost unbearable, sending shafts of sensation down into her belly where there was heat and a strange aching desire. ‘It feels so…strange.’

  ‘Trust me,’ Patrick murmured, even as the torture made her moan and writhe. ‘Can you trust me?’ Their eyes met and she saw the heat that simmered behind his. Laurel nodded.

  He put her from him and she lifted her hands to her aching breasts in a futile gesture of shyness, shamefully wanting to rub, to stroke, to ignite those feelings again as Patrick untied his neck cloth and began to unbutton his shirt.

  ‘Help me,’ he said, his voice harsh with an urgency that she did not mistake now for anger. Laurel put up her hands to push the shirt from his shoulders. They wanted to linger, to cling to him as she leaned into the protection of his body, yet she also wanted to touch all of him. She slid her palms down his chest, imitating what he had done to her, and his eyes darkened and clouded as she flicked at his nipples, catching her breath as they tightened in reaction. So much to learn…

  She had never been so close to an unclothed man before. She had not expected such well-defined muscles. What, she wondered, biting her lip as she took in the elegant power of his torso tapering to slim hips and the slide of muscle under his skin, did he do to be so fit?

  Clothed in his good, plain, unobtrusive coat and breeches, he looked gentlemanly but not dominating—no doubt that was part of his investigator’s cover. But now, so close and so male, she began to realise why she had been so drawn to him in Martinsdene. Was that all it was, a basic feminine recognition of masculine sexuality and strength? Laurel swallowed. All? That was not the word for the way he drove the breath from her lungs.

  His hands went to the fall of his trousers and her eyes followed his hands. There was no disguising his erection, the press of hard flesh straining against the thin evening breeches.

  I should close my eyes, she told herself as she stared, wide-eyed as he stripped off the garment. She knew her anatomy, the facts of life; she thought she knew what to expect, but it was still a revelation to see the living body. Close your eyes, she told herself, forcing them up, but all that achieved was the discovery that she could not keep them from descending again to follow the hair on his chest tapering down to the thick curls around his manhood.

  His very erect manhood. Laurel swallowed, not knowing whether it was apprehension or desire. Both, she realised. I want to touch him, feel him. I want to kiss him…there. I shouldn’t want this, but I do. I want it to be Patrick.

  She knew she was blushing, knew she was trembling, but there was no doubt in her mind that this is where she wanted to be, with this man.

  ‘Come here,’ Patrick said, a hint of amusement in his voice. ‘Probably best not to look.’

  He drew her in close, his body hot and hard against her softness. The hair on his chest tickled her breasts, rubbing the already tight nipples into impossibly sensitive knots. Against her belly she felt him stir in the tangle of coarse hair, the hard length of flesh alive and blatant with its heat and its threat…its promise.

  He was so aroused. Just as I am, she thought, shaken by the realisation that she could feel like this.

  ‘Oh, God. You’re killing me,’ he muttered.

  He must be able to feel her excitement, she was sure. He was no innocent and her body was trying to mould itself to his. As she rubbed her breasts wantonly against his chest, she could not help rocking into the hardness of his straining erection.

  He caught her up suddenly, whirled her round and dropped her so that she landed face down on the bed.

  He followe
d her, his weight pressing into her thighs, his legs straddling hers. She felt him seize the hem of the tattered shift, tear it away, and cooler air swept over the hot skin of her back. Something brushed her buttocks and she realised it was his erection.

  She arched upward, brushing against him and he groaned and fell forward so that her buttocks ground into his groin. His weight was thrilling, arousing. She had thought it would be frightening to be trapped beneath the weight of a man when he made love, but it was not. At least, it was not when the man was Patrick.

  He bit her shoulder, a nip that sent sensation coursing through her, and she gasped, struggling under him, trying to part her legs, wanting to be able to turn and hold him, kiss his mouth, have him soothe the ache that was building inside her, transforming her body into something that was urgent, slick with moisture, tight with impossible demands.

  At last, oh, please… His knee was pressing between her legs, forcing them apart, and she yielded instantly, trembling beneath him. But then he went still, his body over hers, for what seemed an age. ‘Patrick?’ she whispered.

  What was he waiting for? Had she done something wrong? The apprehension that had been drowned in passion and sensation began to creep back. He was large and heavy and male and now she was remembering all the whispered gossip about lovemaking, all the tales the wide-eyed village girls told. Did she really want to do this? Only it was Patrick…

  Chapter Three

  ‘Patrick?’

  His muscles locked, cramped with the effort of holding himself off her soft body, keeping himself from thrusting into her. The whisper sounded frightened, as well it might. What had he done?

  ‘Shh.’ He rolled to the side, away from her. He’d get up, pull the covers over her, let her sleep until the early hours when they could creep out. His groin ached with unsatisfied desire, his head ached with the aftermath of his fear for her and that blistering row. She must be exhausted and frightened and confused by the sensual shock of his furious lovemaking.

  As he landed on the mattress Laurel moved, coming onto her side, her eyes wide. ‘What did I do wrong?’

  ‘Nothing!’ Her head jerked back at the sharpness of his response. ‘You did nothing wrong,’ Patrick said, more gently. ‘I came to my senses, that is all.’

  ‘I thought you wanted me.’ Laurel sat up, curling her legs under her, her body milky-pale against the rumpled dark blue silk coverlet.

  ‘I did.’ Where are my breeches? I must find her a robe…

  ‘You still do.’ She was looking at him in frank appraisal and his erection tightened as though the glance had caressed him intimately. ‘In Martinsdene, I dreamt of you.’ She dropped her eyes from his, blushing. ‘I tried to imagine what it would be like with you.’

  ‘And now you know. It must have been an unpleasant shock, not the sweet romantic idyll virgins dream of.’

  ‘What do you know of virgins?’ she asked, the faintest hint of a smile on the soft mouth his kisses had bruised. Still she did not meet his eyes as she sat there, curled like a sea nymph in her pool of blue.

  ‘Very little,’ Patrick admitted. ‘I steer clear of innocent women.’

  ‘Then perhaps you are not as observant as you think you are,’ she added, looking up. ‘That was not an unpleasant shock. It was overwhelming and surprising and wonderful and frightening—but not unpleasant. But you stopped.’

  ‘I remembered that you are a virgin, which, given the way you came here, I was very remiss to have lost sight of.’ He shifted, trying to ease the torment of his arousal and she looked down.

  ‘Does that hurt?’

  ‘It is not comfortable,’ he admitted. ‘It will subside in time if I pay it no attention.’

  ‘But that is not fair,’ she murmured, shifting so fast he was taken unawares. One moment he was leaning back, changing his position to climb off the high bed, the next his arms were full of warm woman, her arms curling around his neck as she pressed herself to him, bringing them both down amidst the pillows.

  ‘Laurel—stop it.’ The soft swell of her belly was pressed against his erection. Her breasts were crushed to his chest. He could hear her panting breaths, feel them stir his hair. She was clumsy in her innocence, rocking against him instinctively, sending shocks of sensation through him. With a groan he surrendered to the need for release: if he could just keep her safe from his own desires.

  ‘Yes,’ Laurel murmured, nuzzling her face into his neck, smelling the musk of arousal, feeling the gloss of sweat on his taut muscles. When it was him, those things were powerfully exciting. His body rocked against hers, the hard flesh pressing into her stomach, the thrust of his hips bringing pressure down on the mound between her thighs. The strange ache, a thousand times stronger than the feeling that had haunted her yearning dreams, built and built.

  She should open her legs, she thought, then understood that he was not going to take her, only his own release. The sensation of Patrick’s body moving over hers was almost overwhelming. He was hard and urgent as he thrust, his breathing was tortured. Laurel tried to keep still, not to rock with him: the hard swollen erection must hurt, she thought, listening to his stifled groans.

  I’m so ignorant, can’t I help him? Something snapped inside her and she abandoned the last shreds of shyness: she let her body go with his, wriggled one hand free, slid it between her own stomach and the flat, taut plane of his and curled her hand around him, tight. It felt wonderful, silken soft, hard as iron. Her shyness vanished in a wave of triumph that was purely feminine: for this moment Patrick was hers.

  He shuddered, thrusting into her grip. ‘Laurel, no! Oh, yes. Oh, yes… Now.’

  He moved again, violently, once, twice, then gave a shout of triumph and collapsed onto her.

  Against her breast his heart thudded, against her belly she could feel sticky heat and the tremors that ran through his body as he lay crushing her. Her own body cried out in protest. I need you. I need something… Patrick, don’t stop… Her body calmed a little as she lay there holding him. Who would have guessed there was so much emotion, so much feeling in this act? She had understood that she desired Patrick Jago, almost as soon as she had seen him, but she had no idea that to lie with him would unleash this storm of sensation and complicated emotion.

  She felt a little weepy, very happy, very confused. She felt tender toward him and yet awed by his strength and his mastery. She ached for him and she felt brazen and passionate and yet strangely shy, all at once.

  ‘Laurel.’ He stirred and then rolled away to sit on the edge of the bed as far from her as possible, his back turned. ‘I’m sorry.’

  She sat up, too, blinking back the tears that had not fallen. Instinct told her to cover herself a little and she dragged the cool satin around her shoulders, clasping it to her breasts.

  ‘Patrick. Don’t be sorry. You saved me.’

  He shook his head, and she kept her hands tight in the satin so as not to reach out and touch the paler nape of his neck. ‘I have ruined you.’

  ‘No, you haven’t,’ she contradicted. ‘No one knows.’

  ‘There is that mercy.’ He sounded hoarse. ‘There’s water behind that screen, I expect. You’ll want to wash. I’ll find a robe.’ Still not looking at her, he plucked a heavy silk robe from the chair and shrugged it on, then padded over to an armoire and opened the door.

  How quiet the room is, Laurel thought. Heavy hangings, thick carpet. We might be in the depths of the country.

  He brought her back a flimsy piece of nonsense in deep amethyst silk, and she realised he had found one that matched her eyes. Was that intentional? He did not look at her as she slipped it on and went to the screen.

  She washed, willing her hands to steadiness, and listened to the muffled footsteps as Patrick paced. ‘I’m sorry, but we can’t get out yet,’ he said. ‘This place won’t quieten down until almost dawn, I imagine. I might have purchased your virginity, but they aren’t going to take kindly to me walking out of here with their beautiful new addition to
the staff on my arm. I might enjoy the fight and breaking a few noses, but I can’t risk you.’

  Beautiful. She put the word away to think about later. The clock struck one: there were at least three hours to wait before they could venture out, she supposed.

  ‘I’ll get dressed.’

  ‘Patrick.’ She came out from behind the screen, belting the robe loosely.

  ‘Hmm?’ He found his shirt and shook it out. It felt curiously domestic and comfortable, standing here with him dressing, despite the tingle of tension that ran between them.

  ‘Come back to bed. Hold me.’

  Patrick’s head snapped round to stare at the slender, pale figure in the whore’s robe. In her innocence she made the robe seem chaste.

  ‘I… Laurel, I do not think I can control myself if I am back skin to skin with you.’ He made himself smile. Of course she needed comfort, reassurance after that performance just now. She had been in his head for days, hours when he had fought the aching desire for her and tried to fathom the mysterious happiness when he was with her. But this was not how he’d imagined their first night together.

  ‘I do not want you to control yourself, Patrick.’ Laurel was looking at him steadily, her violet eyes wide and still sparkling with what he feared were tears. But there was something else. Desire.

  ‘Here? You want to make love here?’

  ‘I do not care where it is as long as it is with you, Patrick.’ She smiled, a little daring, a little nervous, all female. ‘That was so strange and new. So wonderful. I want to experience it all.’

  ‘You’ll be ruined,’ he protested. ‘I told you.’

  ‘I am ruined. I was ruined the moment they took me. And how much more ruined can a girl be than spending a night in a room in a brothel with a man?’

  He could explain how much more, but then he realised that he did not want to. Here, now, this all seemed very simple: they wanted each other and he would deal with the consequences in the morning.