Although Grace was not completely bird-witted when it came to matters of the flesh, neither was she entirely sure of the fundamental actions resulting in the production of a baby. Did a man conduct himself differently when he was not looking to produce a child? Did a woman? She frowned, reaching for her wine glass, only to find it disappointingly empty.
“I think perhaps it is time you retired Grace. Should you drink another glass of wine, I may have to put you to bed myself.” Nicholas’ voice was unaccustomedly soft, a lazy smile taking the sting out of his words.
Grace coloured up, wondering if her husband could read her thoughts. Dear God, he was handsome when he smiled. Her pulse quickened as she stared at him helplessly, no quick retort springing to her lips. She wondered what it would be like to be kissed by those lips. Was that a necessary part of creating a child?
She recalled hearing Blackmore’s scullery maid talk about kissing her stable boy. The chamber maid with whom she was confiding in was shocked to the core and had threatened to tell Mrs Higgins. Grace hadn’t remained to eavesdrop on the rest of the conversation. Instead she'd sent a missive to her father asking for his assistance in facilitating the course of true love by ensuring the stable boy did the proper thing!
She became aware that Nicholas had risen from the table and was now standing at her elbow. Frowning she looked up at him. Did he think her unable to make her own way to her chamber? Nevertheless, she took his proffered hand and made to rise. The room began to tilt alarmingly, and panicking slightly, she clutched her husband’s arm. Without further ado, he lifted her as though she was a mere child, seemingly with no effort at all. “Nicholas, your injuries,” Grace protested while trying to make sense of the room spinning.
“Hush, wife, you are as light as a feather. I’ll not worsen my wounds.” For some reason his voice was gruff, and she peered curiously into his eyes which oddly appeared to be glittering. Sighing, she surrendered to the wondrous feeling of security his embrace provoked and rested her head upon his chest as he carried her up the private staircase to their rooms. Once outside her door, he gently set her back onto her feet, keeping hold of her hands to steady her.
“Do you still feel out of sorts?” he asked evenly. She wondered if he was angry with her and looked up in trepidation, only to be surprised by his laughing blue eyes. What would he say if she asked him to help her get into her night attire? Would he kiss her? Grace stared into his eyes as the laughter slowly leached from them, leaving the same disconcerting glitter. Mesmerised, she lifted her hand and lightly brushed her fingers over his full lips, feeling his sudden indrawn breath in response. Slowly, she rose onto her tiptoes and lifted her face to his, leaving no doubt as to her wish.
With a low groan, Nicholas obliged, wrapping her in a crushing embrace, his mouth opening over hers in a fierce, wildly arousing kiss. Distantly Grace recognised that this was nothing like the scullery maid’s description, and as an unaccustomed heat began racing through her, she pressed herself against the intimate hardness of her husband’s body, wanting, she knew not what. He responded by cupping her bottom, pressing her against his rigid arousal until she moaned in pure instinctive primitive desire.
After what seemed like an age, Nicholas lifted his head and stared down at her eyes, deep pools of languorous wonder. For him. Groaning, he set her from him. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done. But he couldn’t take advantage of her intoxication, even if he was her husband.
“Grace,” he breathed raggedly, “if we continue, I fear I will be unable to stop, and this is not the introduction you deserve to the pleasures of the marriage bed.”
Grace looked up at him confused. She wanted to take his hand, pull him with her into her bedchamber, but the seductive invitation that had blazed from his eyes earlier was gone. Her heart sank and she looked back to the floor, humiliated she’d appeared so wanton in his arms. Nicholas pushed her gently towards her room. She didn’t look back as she meekly entered the chamber and shut the door.
Chapter Twelve
“No!”
Grace bolted upright as she heard the cry in her dreams, her attention immediately going to the connecting door between their two rooms. Nicholas was having another nightmare.
Her heart in her throat, Grace pushed the hair out of her face as she waited to see if the cry came again.
She had no idea what to do. Malcolm was not with them having journeyed to the Sinclair London townhouse a day earlier to prepare for their arrival.
“Don’t… please don’t…. look at me John, concentrate on me…”
This time his words were shouted, the anguish palpable and Grace feared they would be heard by other residents of the inn. She couldn’t leave Nicholas to deal with this alone.
Silently she climbed out of bed and pulled on her robe. Taking a candle, she opened the door between their two bedchambers and spied the thrashing man asleep on the bed. Placing the candle on a small table to the side of the bed, she leaned forward and touched her husband’s damp forehead. He moaned low in his throat and she wished she could take the pain away. Instead she
