He worshipped her so damned much.
He kissed her until she fell apart beneath him, her body rising from the bed with almost enough force to push him away. She grabbed his head with frantic fingers, clamped her legs around him like a vise.
She held him there until she was through with him, and he loved every moment. When she finally went limp, he moved above her, propping himself on his elbows as he gazed down upon her. Her eyes were closed, and she shivered in the morning air.
“Are you cold?” he whispered. She made a tiny nod, and he covered her sweat-sheened body with his own.
Her head lolled back at the contact, as if the weight of him had been the final pleasure before oblivion. He kissed along the taut column of her neck, down to the indentation of her collarbone. She tasted like desire.
Her desire.
His, too.
He reached between them to unfasten his undergarments. It seemed a sacrilege to have anything between them, even a thin layer of linen. Within seconds it joined her nightgown on the side of the bed, and he settled back down into the warm cradle of her body.
He poised at her entrance, held himself there, and then pressed forward until he was home.
He forgot everything. Nothing existed except this moment, in this bed. He moved without thought, acted with nothing but instinct. She moved to his rhythm, her hips meeting his with each thrust. The pleasure built inside, so sharp and deep it could almost be pain, and then suddenly she flinched, and with panic in her eyes she said, “Wait!”
He jerked back, and something like fear raced through his heart. “Did I hurt you?”
She shook her head. “No, but we have to stop. I—I can’t be pregnant.”
He stared at her, trying to make sense of her words.
“Remember?” She swallowed miserably. “We talked about it.”
He remembered. It had meant something completely different before, though. She’d said she didn’t want to be pregnant on the journey back to England. And she didn’t want to have a baby in New York.
What she’d really meant was she couldn’t have a baby. Couldn’t allow herself to have one. Not without a marriage license.
For a moment he thought about denying her plea. He could finish inside of her, try to create a new life.
That would make this marriage real.
But then she whispered, “Please.”
He pulled out. It went against every instinct in his body, but he did it. He rolled onto his side, away from her, and focused all of his energy on simply remembering how to breathe.
“Edward?” She touched his shoulder.
He shook her off. “I need—I need a moment.”
“Yes, of course.” She edged away from him, her nervous movements rocking the mattress until he heard her feet land on the floor.
“Is . . . Is there something I can do?” she asked hesitantly. Her eyes fell on his manhood, still jutting ruthlessly out from his body. “To help?”
He thought about that.
“Edward?”
Her breath whispered through the silence, and he was amazed that he could hear her over the pounding of his own heart.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t apologize,” he snapped. He didn’t want to hear it. He rolled on his back and took a deep breath. He was still hard as a rock. He’d been so close to spilling inside of her, and now . . .
He swore.
“Maybe I should go,” she said hastily.
“That would probably be a wise idea.” His tone was not gentle, but it was the best he could manage. He might have to finish himself with his hand, and he was quite certain this would not suit her tender sensibilities.
He couldn’t believe he still cared about her tender sensibilities.
She dressed quickly and shot out of the room like a bolt, but by then the urgency of his situation had diminished, and there seemed no point in trying to see to himself.
Honestly, it would have felt pathetic.
He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, leaning his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. His entire life, he’d known what to do. He wasn’t perfect, not by any means. But the path between right and wrong had always been clearly defined.
He put his country before family.
His family before self.
And where had that got him? In love with a mirage.
Married to a ghost.
No, not married. He needed to remember that. He was not married to Cecilia Harcourt. What had just happened . . .
She was right about one thing. It couldn’t happen again. At least not until they wed for real.
He would marry her. He had to, or so he told himself. He didn’t particularly wish to examine the corner of his heart that wanted to marry her. It was the same corner that had been so desperately glad to be married to her.
That little corner of his heart . . . It was gullible, far too trusting. He didn’t have particular faith in its judgment, especially when another little voice was telling him to wait, take his time.
Let her squirm for a few days.
A frustrated shout tore from his throat, and he jammed his fingers into his hair, pulling hard. This was not his finest hour.
With another groan, he heaved himself up and off the bed, stalking forward to the wardrobe to fetch his clothing. Unlike Cecilia, he did have things to do today.
First on the agenda: a visit to Colonel Stubbs. Edward did not think he had learned much of use about the Connecticut seaports, but he was a soldier to his bones, and it was his duty to report what he had discovered. Not to mention he needed to tell the colonel where he’d been for so long. Tied up in a barn with a cat for company wasn’t particularly heroic, but it was a far cry from treason.
Plus, there was the matter of Thomas’s belongings. His trunk had been stored alongside Edward’s when they’d both left for Connecticut. Now that he had been officially declared dead, his things should be turned over to Cecilia.
Edward wondered if the miniature would be there.
His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in nearly a day. Cecilia had probably ordered breakfast. With luck, it would be hot and waiting for him when he went down to the dining room.
Food first, then Colonel Stubbs. This was good, having some structure to the day. He felt a bit more like himself when he knew what he needed to do.
For today, at least.
Chapter 19
We are finally seeing the first signs of spring, and I am thankful. Please give Captain Rokesby one of these crocuses. I hope I pressed them correctly. I thought you both would enjoy a small piece of England.
—from Cecilia Harcourt to her brother Thomas