Martha struggled to keep pace with his wit-scattering kisses, but sensation swamped her, overwhelming her body and mind.
When he finally pulled away, his breathing was as labored as hers and his eyes burned. “I’ve wanted to touch you for so long.” His wicked lips quirked in a way that always presaged something outrageous or teasing. “Well, maybe not that first night, when you were so cruel to me, but—”
“Cruel to you? I wasn’t—”
“—I thought of you even more over the days that followed.” He made a clucking sound with his tongue. “Good thoughts, for the most part—even though you made me clean chamber pots.”
She opened her mouth and he laid one elegant finger across her lips. “Shhhh,” he whispered, stroking lightly from her jaw to her throat, where he paused, his long-fingered hand easily spanning her and lightly and squeezing. His eyes had gone vague—as if he were somewhere else—while his fingers stroked the fabric of her high-necked gown, the rough pads snagging on the worn cotton, scritch scritch scritch.
The sound appeared to shake him from his reverie, and he lifted his hand and looked at his palm, a wry smile on his mouth as he raised his eyes to hers. “My hands are not so soft and white now, are they?”
Martha took his hand in hers and traced the soft blisters and hardening calluses. “No, but they are still beautiful.”
His lips flexed slightly at her compliment. “May I untie your cloak—before it throttles you?”
“I can do it.” She reached for the worn tie with a shaking hand.
“No, let me. It will be a novelty for me to remove your cloak while you get to do it every day.”
A choked laugh broke out of her at his foolish words, his whimsical answer somehow soothing her raw nerves.
“That’s better,” he said, deftly opening the knot that was indeed pressing against her throat. “Kissing and touching and exploring each other’s bodies is not serious business, Martha, it should be savored and celebrated.” He tucked a lock of loose hair behind her ear, his fingers never ceasing their soothing yet inciting caressing. “You have lovely hair, so glossy and thick, not unlike Lily’s silky texture.”
Again, she laughed. “Did you just compare me to an otter? The same creatures you call rats?”
He grinned. “I’m terrible, aren’t I?” This close to him she could see his pupils were swollen. “You’ll have to think of some way to punish me.”
His words were innocent, but she sensed there was some other meaning behind them. And she burned to discover it, to explore this complex and confusing man. But she was so wretchedly ignorant that she couldn’t even think how to go about beginning such an exploration.
“I was so well-behaved that night in the Gloup, wasn’t I?” he asked, the question breaking into her thoughts. “I wanted to touch you so badly.”
“Er, you did?”
“I can’t recall a time when I’ve denied myself what I wanted—especially when I wanted you so very much.”
His words were like something out of a dream. He’d wanted her? Martha opened her mouth.
“I restrained myself, but every man has his limit, Martha.” He eyes dropped to her mouth and his pupils flared. And then he jerked his gaze back up. “And I think you came here tonight to push me past mine”
Once again, she began to speak, but he pulled away, until they weren’t touching.
“I’m giving you the opportunity to leave … now. You don’t have to go back to Clark. You don’t have to marry him or anyone else. I will make sure you are taken care of—that is a favor to your father, not to you, so you needn’t feel beholden to me. I owe him that much, at least.” He paused, and then added, “You don’t need to give yourself to me, Martha.”
Her addled brain clumsily sorted through what he’d just said. He was offering to take care of her, not to marry her or spend the rest of his life with her. He felt obligated to help her—because of her father.
What he’d left unsaid, but what Martha had heard, nonetheless, was that wanting her physically—both now and that night in the Gloup—had nothing to do with love or marriage. If she wanted either of those things from him, she should leave. Now.
If she gave herself to him, it should be for reasons of her own.
Because if she stayed—if she succumbed to her desire for him—she would be a soiled dove in the eyes of decent men. Men like Robert.
But whether she gave herself to Hugo or not, Martha knew—without a doubt—that she would never want to marry anyone else: she loved him. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—stop loving him just because he didn’t feel the same.
So, she could either take this much of him and be ruined, or she could take nothing at all.
The decision was surprisingly easy.
Martha grabbed his head and yanked him down.
For a moment—a moment that lasted years—Hugo’s body didn’t yield to her; he remained rigid and unresponsive. And then he muttered something vulgar and claimed her mouth, thrusting his warm, silky tongue between her lips.
◆◆◆
Hugo knew that only a few words from him—the truth about who and what he was—would drive her away forever. If he really cared for her then he should speak up and save her.
But he was covetous and lustful and selfish—why should that surprise him?
Hugo didn’t just want her; he wanted to make sure that nobody else could have her. He wanted to ruin her chances with Clark or any other decent man. He wanted to leave her with only one choice: Hugo.
And so he lowered his mouth over hers.
She opened beneath him, soft and willing and sweet, and he plunged into her deep and rough, wanting her to know just what kind of beast she was giving herself to: not a kind, gentle
