LOVE AT MIDNIGHT
The doorway to the bedchamber was lit ruddily with the firelight.
Amabel turned to face her husband and parted her lips. He probed the entrance to her mouth with his tongue. It slipped inside, exploring her mouth. She felt it lap gently against her own and she moaned. He tasted sweet, like the last course at dinner, and she felt his arms, warm around her.
She pressed her body against his, amazed by how hard his body was. She had never been held so close by a man, and she had not thought anyone had such a hard, lean body. She moaned as he crushed her to him, and she heard him gasp. His lips had changed focus, and now they gently nibbled at hers, lapping in little hungry nips.
She moaned again. She could feel that touch in the oddest places, as if his mouth on hers lit fires all over her.
She pressed closer and was surprised to discover a strange hardness against her. It was close to the region of her belly, which meant it was somewhere in the region of his. She suddenly realized what the hardness might be and felt herself flush pinkly.
He felt her tense.
“What?” he whispered. His fingers ran through the fire of her hair, gently pushing back the veil.
“Nothing.”
He put his arms around her, burying his head in her neck. Then, slowly, they walked into the bedroom.
The bedroom was strewn with rushes. Walking on them, Broderick could smell their fresh, piercing scent. In that instant, he recalled the wedding night with Aisling. Harshly, he pushed the memory away.
Then Amabel moaned, and he was back in the present.
He turned to her and lifted the veil. Her hair glowed like copper. He smelled it. Washed and combed, it smelled of lanolin and water and herbs. It was a lovely smell – a clean smell. He ran his hands through the fiery satin and let his senses ignite.
“Amabel...”
She made a little sound, kittenish, that set his loins aflame. He wrapped his arms around her, and her slender body pressed to his.
“Amabel. Amabel. Sweet Amabel.”
He was shaking, he realized, his whole body lightly trembling as if with heat. He let his hands move and before he had realized what he was doing, he realized he was unfastening her gown. The dress slid slowly down, one side falling.
He stared.
The falling linen showed one round shoulder, pearl white. The skin was traced with blue and then the dress fell more.
He stared at her breast.
It was, indeed, full and slightly pointed, the nipple a pale ruby, stiffening in the cooler air.
He leaned forward and gently traced a finger down her breastbone. He heard her whimper, and he looked into her eyes. She did not look scared, and so he gently moved his hand. He cupped her breast. She gasped. Her eyes were wide with shock. He leaned forward and planted a kiss on those red lips.
Her breast was firm and full in his hand. Warm, plump satin, like a plush pillow from the Orient. He squeezed it and heard her gasp, then gently drew the nipple out between his fingers.
She gasped again, and her nipple contracted in his hand. He smiled.
“May I undress you, my lady?”
She looked up at him, gray eyes level.
“Yes.”
It was a whisper but it was a wondrous sound. He let the word ignite his passion and, with awe and tenderness, he peeled the dress back. It fell to her hips, exposing both breasts. They were round and firm and full in the light, and he had to restrain himself from burying his head in their fragrance.
He slid the gown lower, and then lower.
It pooled at her feet.
He could not take his eyes off her.
“My lady.”
She smiled.
That did it.
He bent and, feeling his whole body shivering, knowing he was dangerously close to spending his seed, he bent and lifted her to the bed.
His hands stroked her, and he heard her gasp.
Then all restraint was gone. Feeling his whole body catch fire, he stood and disrobed faster than he would have thought possible. Then, naked, he joined her on the bed.
That was when he saw her looking at him, frightened.
Hold yourself. Go gently. The lass is terrified.
It was not, after all, his first wedding night.
As he thought it, he wished he hadn't. The thought made him hate himself, hate what he was doing, how he felt. And yet he could no more stop it than he could will himself death.
Amabel looked at the man beside her on the bed.
All she could see was muscle. His chest was rippling, his arms corded, his thighs firm. His belly was a board, his calves rounded, his hands knotty with muscle.
She stared, eyes wide.
Then she looked down.
She had to bite her lip not to cry out. That was what the stories were about! The mysterious thing to which the cryptic references referred. That was “manhood.” She blinked at it. She felt a sudden shudder of fear. If that was what it was, surely, he would hurt her?
She tensed. He reached over and stroked her body.
“Whist, lass,” he whispered gently.
“Broderick?”
“It is well, lass. I'll no' hurt ye.”
She felt herself melt, then, under his hands. His lips moved over hers. She felt her body mold itself to his, her warm skin pressing against his cooler skin, her arms moving to hold him tighter against her. His mouth explored hers and then he moved lower, moving his lips to her throat.
She felt herself smile. The warm, clinging mouth exploring her neck so was almost the best feeling she had ever felt. She gasped as his hands moved over her hips and lower still.
Her eyes flew open in shock as he touched her in a place no one ever had. His knee moved between hers. She closed her eyes.
He moved lower, so that his body was positioned over hers, the throbbing manhood pressing down on her. His body was a weight on hers – a weight she was pleased was resting on her.
He looked into her eyes.
“Amabel,” he said gently. “Amabel.”
She closed her eyes as he kissed her. She felt her body press against his, her thighs parted by his own.
He stroked her hair. When he spoke, his voice was trembling. Higher than she remembered. Tense.
“Lass?”
“Broderick?”
He sighed. “Lass. I cannae do it. I'm sorry.”
Amabel frowned at him. “Do what?”
“I cannae... take you. It's not you. It's me. I cannae forget Aisling, and what she would say if she could see me now.”
His face was racked, and Amabel understood.
“You can lie here if you like,” she said gently. She stroked his hair. “Hush. Lie down. I will nae hurt you.”
He looked into her eyes. His own were damp with tears.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you, my lady.”
She stroked his head. “Don't be daft, Broderick MacConnaway. Get some sleep.”
She lay down in his arms and pressed against him, and his breathing soon slowed.
She was more upset than she realized. But she was also relieved to be spared what looked painful. And, more than anything, she was pleased, more than she could say, to lie here beside him. Thinking that, she soon fell into a deep, contented sleep. She would have a lot to think about in the morning, but for now, she was content to simply sleep beside her new man.
In the morning, when she woke alone, she felt a sudden pain stab through her heart. Her husband had left their bed on her wedding night and, much as she could forgive him, she wished she could release the thought that he did not want her as his truly wedded wife.