The Stranger I Married

Forgive me the pain.”

“Rhys.” She clung to him, grateful for him, knowing the trust she had in him was a rare, precious gift. Why this man, this stranger, should affect her the way he did, Abby could not collect. She was simply glad to have him for the little time he would be hers.

He held her, soothed her with praise. How soft she felt, how perfectly she fit him, how touched he was by the moment. She doubted a husband could have appreciated her more.

When she calmed, Rhys began to move, a torturously slow glide of his rock hard flesh from her swollen sex and then a sleek return. What pain there was faded and pleasure blossomed, unfurling like a flower so that she did not realize how she arched up to meet his downward thrusts until he spoke.

“Just like that,” he growled, his skin dripping sweat. “Move with me.”

Following his urgently voiced commands, she wrapped his pumping hips with her legs and felt him slide impossibly deeper. Now every perfect stroke struck a place inside her that made her toes curl, made her writhe and claw at his back.

“Thank God,” he grunted when she dissolved into blissful release with a startled gasp.

Then he shuddered brutally and flooded her with liquid heat. Clutching her so tightly it was hard to breathe, he gasped, “Abby!”

She held him to her heart and smiled a woman’s smile.

No, it was not at all how she had dreamed of losing her virginity.

It was so much better.

Rhys woke to a softly muttered curse and opened his eyes. Turning his head, he could barely discern Abby hopping on one foot while holding the other.

“What the devil are you doing stumbling about in the dark?” he whispered. “Come back to bed.”

“I should go.” With the poor light provided by the banked fire, he noted that she was dressed as she had been when he’d opened the door to her.

“No, you should not. Come here.” He pulled the counterpane and linens back invitingly.

“I shall fall asleep again and never make it back to my room.”

“I will wake you,” he promised, already missing her slight body against his.

“It’s simply not practical for me to fall asleep again, only to be woken up in a few hours to move to my room where I shall fall asleep again and be woken up again by my abigail.”

“Love.” He sighed. “Why be practical alone when we can be impractical together?”

He barely made out the shaking of her head. “My lord-”

“Rhys.”

“Rhys.”

Ah, that was better. That softly dreamy quality that entered her voice when she said his name.

“I want to hold you a little longer, Abby,” he coaxed, patting the bed beside him.

“I must go.” She moved to the door and Rhys lay stunned, feeling bereft and put out by her ease in leaving him when he so desperately wished she would stay.

“Abby.”

She paused. “Yes?”

“I want you.” His voice was sleep-husky, which he hoped hid the tightness of his throat. “Can I have you again?”

The pause that stretched out made him grind his teeth. Finally she replied in a tone one would use to accept an invitation to tea. “I would like that.”

Then she was gone, as any sensible light-o-love would go. Without a lingering kiss or longing touch.

And Rhys, a man who had always been sensible about his affairs, found himself insensibly piqued.

“This is not at all what I envisioned when you asked me to accompany you,” Spencer grunted, hefting a boulder into place.

Gerard smiled and stepped back to note the progress they were making on the low stone wall. His intention had not been to labor, but when they’d come across a large number of his tenants working on the endeavor, he appreciated the opportunity. Hard work and aching muscles had taught him a great deal about looking inward for satisfaction and relishing the simple things, like a job well done. It was a lesson he was determined to pass on to his brother.

“Long after you and I are gone, Spence, this wall will remain. You are a part of something lasting. If you consider your past, can you think of anything else you have done that leaves a mark on this world?”

Straightening, his brother frowned. With their shirtsleeves rolled up, and dusty, scuffed hessians, they looked very little like the peer and family they were. “Please don’t tell me you have become philosophical as well. ’Tis bad enough you are doting on your own wife.”

“I suppose doting on someone else’s wife would be better?” Gerard said dryly.

“Damned if it wouldn’t be. That way, when you have had your fill, she becomes another man’s teary puddle and not your own.”

“What faith you have in me, little brother, considering my wife’s ability to bring men to tears.”

“Ah yes, messy, that. I don’t envy you.” He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand and then burst into a grin. “However, when Pel’s crushed you beneath her heel like an annoying bug, I will be at the ready to help you recover. A little wine, a little women, and you shall be good as new.”

Shaking his head, Gerard looked away with a laugh and found his attention caught by a scuffle between two young men just a short distance down the grassy hill. Concerned, he left his spot.

“No need to worry, my lord,” came a gruff voice beside him. He turned to find the largest of the men standing at his side. “’Tis only my boy Billy and his friend.”

Gerard returned his attention to the scene and found the boys racing each other off the hill to the flat land below. “Ah, I remember days like that in my youth.”

“I think we all do, my lord. See the young girl sitting on the fence?”

Following the pointing finger, Gerard’s heart stilled at the sight of the pretty blonde who laughed at the two boys running toward her. Silvery hair caught the sunlight, competing in brilliance with her smile.

She was lovely.

And very much like Emily in appearance.

“The two of them ’ave been competing for her affections for years. She ’as ’erself a soft spot for my boy, but in truth, I ’ope she’s wise enough to pick the other.”

Gerard tore his riveted gaze away from the young beauty, and arched both brows. “Why?”

“Because Billy only thinks ’e fancies ’er. ’E’s got to compete with everyone, be better than everyone, and even though ’e knows she’s not the one for ’im, ’e just cannot bear to lose ’er adoration. ’Tis purely selfish. But the other boy, ’e really loves ’er. ’E’s always ’elping ’er with ’er chores, walking with ’er to the village. Caring for ’er.”

“I see.” And Gerard did, in a way he never had before.

Emily.

He had not thought of her at all on his Grand Tour. Not once. Too busy whoring to think of the adoring girl back home. Only upon his return and discovery of her marriage did he make any effort. Had he been like Billy? Simply jealous of attentions he hadn’t appreciated until they were given to another?

You have always wanted women who belong to someone else.

Dear God.

Gerard turned, moved to the finished portion of the low wall, and sat, his gaze sightless as he looked inside instead of outward.

Women. He suddenly thought of them all, all the ones who had crossed his path.

Was it only competition with Hargreaves that had driven him to want Pel so desperately?

Warmth built in his chest and spread outward as he thought of his wife. I want you. The way those words had made him feel had nothing to do with Hargreaves. It had nothing to do with anyone but Isabel. And now that a mirror had been set before him, he realized that she was the only woman who had ever made him feel that way.

“Are we done?”