Four Nights With the Duke(36)

"I enjoy carrying you," he told her.

"I'd rather walk."

"I neglected to carry you over the threshold yesterday," he told her,  enjoying the stern tone in her voice, "so I might as well do it now."                       
       
           



       

She attempted to twist free. "I'm not a toy, Duke."

Her jaw set. Damn, but she had the prettiest face he'd ever seen. It  wasn't angular and stern the way some women's were. At the same time, he  could see strength in every contour.

"I don't understand why you are acting this way," she said in a chilly voice.

"Carrying you?"

They were coming up to the wall of the house now. It had been  constructed of blocks hewn by some distant ancestor (or, more likely,  his serfs); just looking at the stonework was calming.

His father and mother were gone, and with them, all the pain and turmoil  of their lives. He was married to the pocket Venus he had in his arms,  and someday they would have babies, one of whom would be his heir.

Given the way Mia calmed Jafeer, their children would have the same  tingle in their hands and bones that he had: a tingle that told him a  particular yearling would race to win, whereas another colt was innately  indolent and would do better pulling a dog cart.

He pushed open the swinging door to the deserted kitchens and walked in,  belatedly realizing that Mia was still talking and that her voice was  rising. "I'll put you down as soon as we are upstairs," he told her. For  the first time in days, Vander felt happy.

He liked Mia's softness, her curves, her perfume . . . everything about  her. He backed through the door to his bedchamber, which fortunately was  empty.

Mia was getting red in the face and thrashing about, so he finally put her down. She whipped around, hands on her hips.

"Just what do you think you're doing, manhandling me like that?" she demanded.

Vander grinned. "Carrying my wife up the stairs." He moved nearer to  her, wondering how a disheveled woman wearing a grain sack with a  ruffled neck could make his entire body taut with lust. "I think we  should pretend this is our wedding night."

She backed away. "Our marriage will remain unconsummated until I beg for  one of my allotted nights, don't you remember? You decreed that. And  you made me sign a contract to that effect."

"I've decided to break the contract," he said, entirely at ease with the  decision. He had Mia, and he was going to keep her. That asinine rule  about four nights had to go.

"That is not in your purview. I am not requesting a night. In fact, I  will never beg for a night with you." She darted to the door leading to  their shared bathing chamber. "If you'll excuse me." She tugged on it in  vain.

Vander strolled over. "It must be hooked from the inside."

"That's absurd!"

"So is the idea of keeping your husband out of the chamber when you're  in the bath." If he hadn't already had an erection, he would at the  thought of Mia's creamy skin slick with water.

She apparently decided there was no point to further discussion, because she headed for the door to the corridor.

Vander caught her by the waist and spun her about until their bodies  were aligned. Instantly she stilled, her eyes caught by his. A deep  certainty swelled in his chest, even as his body throbbed with desire.  It was a certainty that felt as right as spring rain, as momentous as  when the first horse he trained won a race.

They were married, and Mia was his, and that was significant. It wasn't just a matter of papers and negotiation.

There was something about it. Chuffy's song tumbled through his head:  Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty . . . Youth's a stuff will not  endure.

Vander brought his mouth down to hers, and it was just like the last  time they kissed: passion flared so high and fast that it felt tangible.  Actually, it was tangible, in the hard length that pressed against her  softness.

His mouth demanded . . . hers opened. Threaded into the rough, sensual joy of it was his hunger and desire.

His hands slid down her back and pulled her closer. He was shaking with  lust, but he had enough sense to realize that Mia was no longer trying  to escape, or caviling about those four nights. She was kissing him  back, her tongue curling around his in a way that sent fire through his  blood.

Voluptuous curves melted against his body. His hands slid further down  her body and he hoisted her up, swinging around until her back was  against the wall, supporting her weight so he could ravage her mouth  without bending his head.

She made a soft sound. He felt like a madman, overwhelmed by desire. Her  eyes opened . . . they were heavy-lidded, sensual, desirous. A shudder  went through him.

"Will you please request one of those nights?" he whispered. Before she  could answer, he bent his head to kiss her neck. He wanted to lick her  all over, drive her to writhe under him, make her gasp and call his  name.                       
       
           



       

The thought of her open lips as cries broke from her throat drove him an  inch further toward insanity. "Every time I touch you, I feel like a  madman," he muttered. Had there ever been such a beautiful pair of eyes?  They were the color of green water. They made a man imagine that her  eyes saw things no one else did.

"Did you really stop writing poetry?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied, the first word she'd uttered since they began  kissing. Her husky voice ignited his body and he took her mouth again,  silently commanding her to ask for him. To ask for his services. To  demand that he service her . . .

However she wanted to put it.

He would do anything, especially when her fingers curled in his hair and  she pressed close to him. He would throw her on the bed and devour her,  and the hell with promises and contracts, four nights or three hundred  nights. Three hundred and sixty nights might not be enough.

"God, I want you." The words jumped from his mouth, as brutal and simple a sentence as a dockworker might say to a streetwalker.

"I think it would be better-" Mia said, with a gasp, stopping because he  took her mouth before she could finish. Her sentence wasn't going in  the right direction.

Without allowing her to speak, he pivoted, walked to his bed, and laid her there, his heavy body following hers.

It occurred to him that for the first time, he wasn't entirely sure that  he could wait for a woman's permission. Shocked, he reared back and  rolled to the side.

"Mia," he murmured, putting a finger on her plump lips. Should he demand a night? Hell, she was his wife. She was-

"All right," she whispered, pink coming up in her cheeks. "If you . . . if you really want to."

Vander stared at her with incredulity. "‘If I really want to?'" His cock  was against her leg, so he rolled forward slightly. "Does that feel as  if I'm of two minds on the issue?"

Mia blinked and looked down at his breeches. They were strained over an  erection so ferocious that his smalls had given up the fight and slipped  down. Which was damned uncomfortable, by the way.

There was one question he should ask, though he already knew the answer.  Mia's response to him spoke for itself. She had surely slept with that  imbecile of a fiancé.

"Have you ever been with a man?" he asked, schooling his tone to be neutral.

He knew instantly that he'd made a mistake. "I haven't had that  opportunity," she replied, her voice stilted. Before he could stop her,  she sat up and slid toward the edge of the bed. "This has been  remarkably educational, Your Grace, but I think we shouldn't . . .  shouldn't overtax our ability to spend time in the same room."

He sat up and caught her waist just as she got to her feet. "Stay with me."

"I would prefer not to."

"I had to ask that question."

She turned her head and looked at him. "Why? Because I am a blackmailer, you think I am generous with my favors?"

"No! It had nothing to do with that. A man treats a woman differently if  she has experience, that's all. Many a couple anticipates their vows."

Mia's lips tightened. "Edward and I did not," she stated.

The feeling sweeping Vander's chest was primitive and uncivilized . . .  powerful. "I'm glad," he said, before he could catch the words.

"If you will forgive me, Your Grace, I'd like to retire to my chamber. I think that clearer minds should prevail."

"No." He tightened his fingers, holding her in place. "We must talk,  Mia. We can't keep snapping things at each other. We're married now. We  share responsibility for Charlie."

"You have no responsibility for Charlie," she said instantly.

"Yes, I have," he said. "There are few people who could meet Charlie and  not be both charmed by him and happy to take responsibility for him.  You know that."