JOSIE FELT TRIUMPHANT. She’d coupled with Blackthorne, perhaps creating a child, and still managed to keep her identity a secret. She’d resisted when Blackthorne attempted to remove her nightgown, and it had remained on. Nor had he remarked about the additional layer of material she’d sewn into her gown, which had made it difficult—impossible?—for him to feel the raised scars on her back. They were well and truly wed, and her husband had no idea who she really was. She’d managed everything perfectly. So she couldn’t understand why—as she lay there with Blackthorne’s weight pressing her into the feather bed, her heart beating a fast tattoo, her lungs heaving—stupid tears kept welling in her eyes.
Josie still couldn’t quite believe he’d fit inside her, or that so much pleasure would follow the brief pain of penetration. Fear had made her cry out, but by the time she’d spoken, it had been too late. And what had followed…
She’d never imagined anything like the shuddering pleasure she’d found in Blackthorne’s embrace. The rasp of his beard against her flesh. The silky texture of his hair as she grabbed handfuls of it to encourage his mouth to keep on doing magical things to her breasts. The taste of him, as she tried her first shy forays into his mouth with her tongue. The play of muscle and bone, as she wrapped her legs around his naked flanks. And the exquisite pleasure that had caused her to writhe beneath his touch, when he’d caressed a place on her body she hadn’t known existed.
What had happened between them was something inexplicable. Something soul-shattering.
Was it like that for everyone? Her sister Hannah hadn’t seemed in any hurry to repeat her wedding night with Mr. McMurtry. How could her sister have resisted lying with her husband, if this was how it felt?
Josie realized suddenly what might be causing her tears. When she’d agreed to marry the Dastardly Duke, she’d conceded that she would have to consummate the marriage. Therefore, she’d been determined to enjoy the one night of lovemaking she would ever experience. She’d known that making love to Blackthorne after that would be dangerous, because she planned to leave for America with the boys as soon as she could manage it, and she couldn’t afford any emotional ties that might arise and interfere with her plans.
Unfortunately, Josie had loved making love with the duke. She wanted to do it again. And again. But if she did that, pretty soon she’d be making excuses for his behavior. There was no excuse for his neglect of his nephews or his abandonment of her. He had to be punished. The boys had to be saved. Which meant she had to avoid a repetition of the glorious wedding night she’d just experienced.
Since she couldn’t escape to cry alone, Josie settled for turning her face away from the duke, as tears began streaming down her cheeks.
A few moments later, Blackthorne slid off of her onto his back. She immediately turned onto her side away from him, curling herself into a tight ball.
“Are you all right?”
She forced back a sob and rasped, “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“It sounds to me like you’re crying.”
Josie sat up, glowering at him, as she swiped at her eyes. His hair was tousled, his eyes heavy-lidded, and his beard-stubbled face looked more relaxed than she’d ever seen it. “I’ve just been through the most harrowing week of my life. I think that deserves a few tears. Of relief, if nothing else.”
“Harrowing?”
“How would you describe everything that’s happened to us in the short time since we met?”
“Exhilarating.”
“Ha!” she muttered. “That shows what you know.”
He sat up, pulling the sheet across his lap when he caught her staring with curiosity at the part of him that had been recently joined with her. “Granted, the past week has been a whirlwind of activity, but look at everything we’ve accomplished. The dukedom is saved. And you’re a duchess.”
She snorted inelegantly.
He sighed. “We’ll be heading to Blackthorne Abbey early tomorrow morning, so I suggest we both get some sleep.” He plumped the pillows behind his head and began settling the linens more comfortably around him.
Aghast at what his behavior seemed to imply, Josie clutched the bedsheet to her chest and said, “I hope you don’t intend on sleeping here.”
“Is that a problem?”
“You have a bed of your own.”
He arched a suggestive brow. “Would you rather join me there?”
“I’d rather sleep in my own bed by myself,” she retorted. “You said the choice was mine whether—”
“Whether we ever make love again. Yes, that’s true. I didn’t agree to separate accommodations. I expect to spend my nights sleeping in the same bed as my wife.”
“That’s outrageous!” Josie sputtered.
“Believe me, I can resist your charms.”
That statement was even more outrageous, as far as Josie was concerned, but she didn’t bother saying so. If Blackthorne insisted on sleeping in the same bed with her, she wouldn’t be able to discard the uncomfortable camouflage she’d donned to conceal her scarred back. She’d never have a moment’s peace, knowing that he might walk in on her at any moment and discover the truth.
In desperation she said, “Very well. We can share a bed. But not yet. Please. We’re still strangers. We need time to get to know each other first.”
He frowned. “How long is that going to take?”
“I don’t know.”
“Another week? A month? Six weeks?”
None of those sounded like enough time to Josie. But the longer she could put off the inevitable, the better. Grasping at straws she said, “Until we finish the repairs at Blackthorne Abbey.”
He eyed her askance. “That could take months.”
Josie realized she’d accidentally stumbled onto the perfect solution to a completely different problem. If Blackthorne wanted her in his bed, he’d be more inclined to hurry the renovations, which suited her purposes perfectly. The sooner the Abbey was whipped back into shape, the sooner she could bring Spencer and Clay to live with them, and the sooner they could make their escape.
“Very well,” he said. “We’ll sleep separately until the renovations are complete. Or until you invite me back to your bed.”
“That isn’t going to happen.”
“I won’t argue the point.”
He seemed to think she would give in to temptation. He was wrong. He had no idea how determined she could be. She’d survived three years at the Chicago Institute for Orphaned Children. She’d survived a grueling trip across the American prairie in a Conestoga wagon. She’d survived an Indian attack and the torture that followed. And she’d survived two years of exhausting work, assigned by a housekeeper who hated her.
She could survive marriage to the Duke of Blackthorne.
She watched as Blackthorne rolled off the edge of the bed and stood naked, revealing a broad, sculpted back, a narrow waist and hips, muscular buttocks, and long, long legs. He grabbed his robe from the floor and pulled it on, hiding the male beauty she’d been admiring. Once he had the sash tied, he turned to face her again.
“My name is Marcus. I’d like to hear you say it.”
Josie grimaced. She needed to keep the Dastardly Duke at arm’s length. Calling him by his first name seemed to halve that distance. “Your friends call you Blackthorne,” she hedged.
“My family calls me Marcus.”
She would call him “Marcus,” she decided. But every time she did, she would remind herself that he was—and always would be—the Dastardly Duke. “All right, Marcus. I’ve called you by your name. Are you satisfied?”
He dropped his palms onto the bed and leaned over far enough to kiss her on the lips.
Her heart leapt with joy before she could stop it.
He grinned and said, “Very satisfied. Good night, wife.”
He strolled across the room, out the connecting door, and into his own bedroom without another word.
Josie growled, just like the Shetland bitch that roamed Tearlach Castle had, when she’d tried to take away its dirty old bone. Blackthorne could try his best to steal her heart, but he would never succeed. Not when she was guarding it tooth and claw. The Dastardly Duke could kiss her all he wanted. He would never get past her defenses, because she would never give up the fight.