Oh, Lord, she prayed, I’m so afraid. Please let him like me . . . please let him be kind. . .. I’m afraid . . . so afraid . . .
Wordlessly, he stepped into the room. She had forgotten how tall and broad he was. The sound of the door closing behind him sounded unusually loud in the stillness.
He crossed the floor on silent feet and extinguished the candles, plunging the room into utter darkness. “Get into bed.”
His voice was low and rough, almost a growl. Just hearing it made her throat ache, causing her to wonder if it was painful for him to speak.
“Now!”
The tone of his voice propelled her into bed. She scrambled under the covers, clutching them to her breast, watching, wide-eyed, as he moved toward her, a tall black shadow gliding soundlessly through the darkness. She willed her stiff muscles to relax, told herself this man was her husband. It was her duty to submit to him.
There was a whisper of cloth as he removed his cloak and tossed it aside. He tossed the blankets to the floor. The bed sagged as, fully clothed, he straddled her hips.
She fought the urge to scream as his weight pinned her to the mattress. Fear rose within her, making her heart pound frantically as his hands slid under her gown. Apprehension skittered down her spine as she realized he still wore the glove on his left hand. Effortlessly, he positioned her beneath him.
She shifted her weight, and her hand brushed against his chest.
“Don’t!”
“My lord?”
“Don’t touch me.”
“My lord?” she repeated, certain she had not heard him correctly.
“Don’t touch me.” His voice was deep, yet she thought she detected a note of pain in the harshly spoken words, a pain of the spirit rather than the flesh.
She blinked against the quick rush of tears that welled in her eyes. She had not wanted this marriage, but she had vowed to make the best of it, had promised herself she would do everything possible to please the husband whose face she still had not seen.
“Are you a virgin?” His voice, gravel-rough, broke on the last word.
She nodded, too stunned to speak, ashamed that he had felt the need to ask.
“Answer me.”
“Y . . . yes, my lord.”
She felt his body grow taut, heard him swear under his breath.
“It . . . it displeases you?”
“No. It’s just . . . inconvenient.”
“I’m sorry, my lord,” she whispered.
“You needn’t be sorry,” he said gruffly.
The tears came then, running quietly down her cheeks. She had been a fool to think he would cherish her, a fool to hope she might come to love him, that he would learn to love her in return. She had thought her husband would be pleased with her innocence, happy to instruct her in the intimacy of the marriage bed.
His hand brushed her shoulder, and she recoiled from his touch.
“You needn’t be afraid of me,” he muttered. “I want nothing from you, nothing but a child.”
His hands moved over her body, one rough and calloused, the other sheathed in fine leather. His naked hand slid between her thighs, readying her to receive him. And then he took hold of both her wrists in his gloved hand. To make sure she did not touch him, she mused. What kind of man was he, to be so afraid of her touch?
She heard him swear again as he unfastened his trousers, then positioned his big body between her thighs. She gasped at his weight, cried out as he breached her maidenhead with one quick thrust. He waited for the space of a heartbeat, then moved even more deeply within her, his thrusts becoming faster, harder. His urgency frightened her, and then she heard him swear again, felt him shudder violently.
For a moment, he collapsed on top of her. She felt the silk of his hair against her cheek, the warm whisper of his breath across her bare breast.
And then, as if he had never been there, he was gone, and she was alone in the bed.
Chapter Three
Back in his own room, Trevayne paced the floor, his body aching with the need to sheathe himself within his bride’s warmth once more, to feel her velvet heat surround him, to inhale the warm, womanly fragrance of her skin. He cursed himself for using her so roughly, for taking her without the loving words and gentleness a bride deserved when her maidenhead was taken. But he had no gentleness left within him, no kindness for himself or anyone else. He had loved once, and it had ended tragically. He would never love again. Nor would he allow anyone to care for him.
It had been more than four years since a woman had willingly shared his bed. Four long years since he had given pleasure and received it in return.
But he could not help imagining what it would have been like to feel his bride’s small, soft hands sliding over his skin, to taste her lips, to dip into her mouth and savor the honeyed sweetness within. He regretted not taking the time to explore the enticingly slim body hidden beneath the silken gown. It was his right, after all. She was his now, to do with as he pleased.