“But—”
“Hush.” He kissed her again, and then he stood, scooping her into his arms and lifting her as he did so. “Let me take care of you, my sweet.”
She clung to his neck while he carried her to a chair not far from the fireplace and then settled her gingerly upon it. “I am perfectly capable of seeing to myself,” her pride compelled her to protest.
“You are more than capable, as you have proven again and again.” He smiled at her as he dropped to his knees on the floor before her, and then kissed the tip of her nose. “Allow me.”
Perhaps it was the gesture, so tender and so unlike him, perhaps it was the underlying affection in his tone, she could not be certain. But she sat still and permitted him to play lady’s maid. He unbuttoned her and whisked away the outer layer of her soaked garments. She shivered as his touch skimmed over her bare arms, sending a bolt of want straight to her core.
The flesh between her legs was slick and pulsing, and she pressed her thighs together in an effort to stay the almost unbearable need. This dusty cottage, abandoned for years, in the midst of a violent thunderstorm, was not the place for lovemaking. As if nature had heard her thoughts, a large crack of thunder rent the silence between them.
“It is fortunate we found this shelter,” he murmured before dipping his face into the crook of her neck and kissing her.
She could not suppress the weak sigh that slid from her lips. Nor could she resist tilting her head to grant him greater access to her sensitive skin. “Fortunate indeed.”
He trailed a path of open-mouthed kisses over her throat, making his way to the hollow at the base where her pulse galloped. Her heart hammered with such insistence she was amazed the sound of it did not ring through the air, loud as the thunder. His hands cupped her breasts through the linen of her chemise.
“So responsive,” he murmured. “So beautiful. Are you cold, darling?”
She was on fire. Indeed, she did not think she could ever be cold again. Not with this man as her husband. “No. I could never be anything other than warm with you near.”
“Good. It is my duty to keep you…” he paused and kissed along the protrusion of her collarbone…“safe…” He nipped her skin. “And warm.”
Her breaths were ragged, her heart beating even faster. She clutched his broad shoulders, marveling at the strength and muscle of him. She could not resist burying her face in the dark, tousled waves of his hair and kissing the top of his head. It hardly seemed possible to have fallen in love with him so deeply and thoroughly, to feel as strongly for him as she did.
“You are doing an excellent job, my lord,” she said, her words ending on a helpless moan when his lips closed over one hardened nipple, sucking the peak into his mouth.
He released her nipple and moved to her other breast. “I could do better,” he said, his voice gruff and even deeper than ordinary, before his lips closed over this stiffened bud, too.
She arched into his relentless suction, unable to resist. “Morgan,” she whispered. “I love you.”
The confession sprung from her, as naturally as her next breath and every bit as true. And this time, she did not mind. She felt neither embarrassment nor anxiety, but instead a deep sense of release mingled with rightness. Why withhold her feelings from him? Why contain her love for him within herself? He was her husband, in word and deed, and she would be his wife for the rest of her life. Where a fortnight ago, she had possessed little hope they would ever share more than a physical attraction, she could not help but to feel differently now.
They locked gazes as he kissed a path down her stomach. What she saw reflected in his glittering eyes made her go weak. “I am not worthy of your love,” he said, kissing the curve of her belly, caressing her with his big, strong hands. “But I am a greedy bastard when it comes to you, Leonie, for I cannot get enough of your love or you. I want it all, and I want it forever.”
She did not know why he insisted he did not deserve her or was somehow unworthy, though she suspected it related to the dark days he had spent in captivity. He had yet to share even the slightest crumb of information about that part of his past with her, but she would not press. She would be patient and wait for him to unburden himself, in his own time, in his own manner.
“You have it,” she promised him, her heart breaking for him. He was so proud and stoic, and she knew now why he had seemed so dangerous to her before she had grown to know him. He was always a solitary figure, forever seeming so alone, so harsh, all rigidity and angles and bleakness. But he was so much more than she had ever supposed. “You have me and my love forever.”
“Nothing is forever.” An indefinable emotion flitted across his face, but it was gone before she could study it. His countenance was once more unreadable, his jaw hard.
How beautiful he was, soaked to the skin, on his knees before her, handsome and fervent and hers. One month ago, she had been a maiden. How quickly everything had changed. How quickly she had changed. And she was grateful for those changes, grateful for this man. Grateful to be his.
“My love is forever,” she promised him, and she meant those words. She meant them with everything in her. “I do not give it lightly. And I have not ever given it to another before you.”
He did not respond in kind, and neither did she expect him to. This was a man who had made it painfully obvious to her that all he wanted was her body. But she longed for his love. Her feelings for him did not require reciprocation, though her heart certainly hoped for it. She would wait for him, give him all the patience he required.
“Thank you, darling,” he told her solemnly.
His hands had lowered to her calves, and he caressed the silk of her stockings, his touch gliding maddeningly upward, beneath her chemise and petticoats, over her knees, past her garters until his bare flesh met hers. A breath hissed from her at the contact, the raw sensation. He had touched her so many times before, but each time felt more potent than the last.
Wordlessly, he guided her legs apart, and she let him. His thumbs traced slow, wicked circles on her inner thighs. And still, he pushed her skirts higher, all the way to her waist. Until she was nothing but riding boots, stockings, and splayed limbs. Until she was open to him, on display for him, his for the taking.
“Ah, Leonie.” He trailed his kisses lower, his hands moving over her bare skin, soothing, inciting. His head dipped.
Her boots skidded over the uneven floorboards. Her thighs fell completely open, and cool air kissed her cunny in the moment before her husband did. His tongue traced her first, licking over her seam, parting her folds, finding the aching bud at her center, and sucking. Her hips bucked. White-hot pleasure seared her.
“Morgan.” His name left her lips. This time, her fingers found purchase in his thick, wavy locks, sinking into them.
