Page 80 of The Accidental Wedding
Fourteen
He was silent. Rain hammered on the windows in a steady drumming. His silhouette against the dancing flames of the fire was motionless. Tension thickened in the air.
“I know nothing can come of it,” Maddy said. “I know you’re leaving in the morning. I want nothing from you . . . nothing but this one night.”
“And afterward?”
“I will return with the children to Leicestershire.”
“But—”
“This isn’t adiscussion!” She was unable to stand the suspense, unwilling to think about the future. “If you don’t want me, then—”
“I want you.” His deep voice cut her off, sure and strong, leaving her breathless.“I want you,” he repeated. “So are you sure about this? Because once I’m in your bed, there’s no going back.”
“I’m sure,” she half whispered, and she was, despite her doubts and fears. The fear that she would live the rest of her life in regret for not making love with Nash banished all lesser anxieties.
She heard the rustle of fabric as he pushed aside the bedclothes on the makeshift bed and braced herself for his arrival in her bed. He surprised her.
“I’ll build up the fire. You won’t go short—I’ll send a man over with a load of firewood in a few days.”
It was an unconscious reminder of his new lord of the manor status. Such a gesture, well meant as it was, would only confirm her status as his mistress. “That would be lovely,” she told him. He could burn all her wood—she didn’t care. She would be leaving soon.
Burning her wood, burning her bridges, it was all the same.
This one night was hers, her own private, particular blaze of glory to keep her warm throughout the long, lonely nights ahead.
She lay quietly, almost breathlessly, watching him move around her cottage, his limp only slightly in evidence. The vicar’s nightshirt was too tight across his shoulders, too loose in the middle, and too short for his long, rangy body. The hem ended at midthigh.
A coil of excitement unraveled deep within her at the thought of running her hands over his body—and not because of fever. Well, it was, but a different kind of fever.
He built the fire to a bright blaze, dousing the shadows of the night, burning away her anxieties. Next, he lit a handful of candles, stuffed them, manlike, into various incongruous containers and placed them around the bed.
“Do you mind?” he asked, pausing in the act of lighting a candle. “If this is our one night together, I want to remember everything, including how beautiful you look as God made you.”
“No, it’s lovely.” She wanted to remember the sight of him, too, golden skinned, very male, and . . . utterly irresistible.
As God made you.That meant naked. Her nightgown was old and patched. She wished she had something pretty to wear for him. Should she remove her nightgown now?
But she was too shy to take it off while he was still wearing his.
He hurried to the bed, his limp still in evidence. “Brrr, that stone floor is freezing. We must get you some rugs.”
She could see how his mind was working, providing her with all the comforts, assuming he would have the right to take care of her.
It wasn’t going to happen. She would not live like that, as his dependent, with the whole village knowing. Watching. Whispering. And taking it out on the children.
Still, it was a kind thought.
A draft of cool air driftered over her skin as he lifted the bedclothes and slid in beside her. She jumped as his large, cold feet brushed against her calves. “Your turn to warm my feet, I think,” he murmured. He lay on his side beside her and smoothed a strand of hair back from her face. “You have the most beautiful eyes.”
She gazed back in silence, unable to think of a thing to say. She just wanted to kiss him and get started. She wasn’t quite sure what to do, but she’d invited him to her bed, so she should take the initiative . . .
She leaned forward and kissed him. It was a bit rushed and clumsy—their teeth clunked—but he steadied her with one hand on her shoulder. His other hand cupped the nape of her neck and his lips closed over hers as he took control, and her nerves—and bones—dissolved.
Maddy ran her hands over his shoulders, over the clean linen of his nightshirt that smelled of sunshine and soap, and freshly shaven man. Beneath the fabric, his shoulders were warm and hard, and he smiled lazily, like a big tawny cat, enjoying her appreciation as she smoothed her hands over him.
She dipped her fingers into the half-unbuttoned neckline of his nightshirt, caressing the strong column of his throat, slipping lightly over the upper planes of his chest.
