A Night with the Bride(15)

“Nicely done.” His tone dripped with sarcasm. “No one will discover us here.” He flicked something off her shoulder. “Except the ants, perhaps.”

When she laughed, his gaze turned serious, contemplative. He brushed a finger down her cheek, as though he were just seeing her for the very first time. “I have the oddest feeling when I’m with you,” he said. “As though I could climb mountains, conquer cities…or even perhaps build a normal life.” His gaze met hers. “Have a family of my own.”

Her heart squeezed at his gently spoken words, and she found herself wanting more than just a kiss. She wanted him in a profound and inexplicable way. She wanted to help him build a normal life, wanted to give him the family he so desperately longed for.

She wanted it for herself, too.

There were leaves in her hair, twigs poking places they had no right to poke, but none of it mattered. Not now. With Nicholas, the world seemed to fade away. Even Sarah and Beth were a distant, nagging memory.

“It appears I have you as my captive,” he said.

She licked her bottom lip. “What do you plan to do with me?”

“To you, my dear.” He leaned down and nipped her chin, then the sensitive flesh of her neck. “The question should be, what is it I plan to do to you, with you, inside you.”

“Oh.” Tingles swept through her as she imagined his large hands on her, exploring her body, bringing her to climax.

With a wicked grin, he ran a finger across her jaw, down the length of her neck. She titled her head back, giving him free rein. It felt so good, so right, to be here with him, with nature surrounding them.

Smoothing her hands up his chest, she could feel the ripple of muscles concealed by his coat. So strong, powerful, every female cell in her body purred with approval.

Dipping his head, he bit her just below the ear, his blunt teeth sending exquisite pain spiraling through her. She gripped his jacket with both hands, bunching the thick wool in her fists.

Abruptly, he hissed and pulled away, glancing down at his coat. The fine wool was crumpled, just slightly, and he immediately brushed his hands over it to smooth the wrinkle away, then again, and again, more forcefully with every brush of his hands.

Brows furrowed, he focused completely on his coat, on swiping his hands over the (now nonexistent) wrinkle in the same, precise manner each time. Her chest constricted, and she swallowed past the tightness in her throat. Seeing him this way, the powerful, intelligent man she knew was…heartbreaking.

She reached out and placed a hand on his arm. Muscles bunched and flexed beneath her fingertips as he continued with his odd ritual. “The wrinkles are gone,” she said softly.

He didn’t hear her. Or rather, he wasn’t listening. Everything had become focused on that blasted wrinkle.

She grabbed his wrist to get his attention, to draw his thoughts away from the imperfection, which was, perhaps, the absolute worst thing for her to do. He ripped his wrist free and glared at her, his lips drawn tight, a tick pulsing in his jaw.

Good heavens, he looked like a penned animal, cornered and angry.

“Nicholas.” She reached out and attempted to brush her hand over the spot that troubled him. Perhaps if she did it…

He growled, an actual growl that vibrated all the way through her, and caused her to snatch her hand away. “Don’t,” he snapped.

Then he stood and strode back up the path that led to the house. He hadn’t stopped brushing at his coat, and probably wouldn’t for quite some time. Uncle John had done the same. It would take hours, sometimes days, for him to snap out of it. Exhaustion and frustration would eventually overtake him, which made him prone to violent outbursts.

But that was before he’d been seen by a young doctor, who’d taught him how to manage his condition. And if Uncle John could be nearly cured, it meant there was hope for Nicholas yet.





              Chapter Six



Nicholas paced in his room for hours, all through the night, until the first orange-pink hues of sunlight seeped in through the crack in his thick brocade curtains. He’d refused to allow anyone inside the room, including Larson, for fear of triggering another outburst. There was no fire lit, no candles burning. He’d been alone in the darkness, alone and pacing.

For hours, his thoughts swirled around Gabriella—her scent, her luminescent smile, the gentle lilt of her voice. Just the thought of her soothed his overwrought nerves and allowed him to focus.

He needed her. More than anything, he wanted to possess her, to slide into her body and taste heaven. Just once. Then he could resign himself to his fate, whatever it was, a happy man.