Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Strike went the reed, that same old pain surging through me.
I cried out, twisting, trying to get away from him. I wouldn’t let him strike me this time. Why was he here? I was married now. Alexander would protect me.
“Alexander,” I tried to call out, struggling to escape my father, but my voice ceased to work. I couldn’t seem to make a sound, no matter how hard I tried.
My father’s fury only grew. He swung the reed harder, striking my wrist.
“No!” Hands were on me now, seizing me, gripping hard.
Pain streaked through me. He was angrier, his eyes blazing with fury. I had to escape. I had to—
“Maddie, it’s me.” The grasp was gentle, tender. Not like my father’s.
I awoke with a jolt, aware of the darkness surrounding me, the faint ethereal glow of the moon on the ceiling. The heat and strength of a comforting, familiar body.
“Alexander,” I murmured, my voice returning to me along with wakefulness.
“Hush, my darling.” He pulled me into his protective embrace, tucking me against him and kissing my crown. “You’re not in danger. You’re here with me. You were having another dream.”
It hadn’t been real. Relief washed over me. I wasn’t with my father. I was forever beyond his reach. I was safe. Alexander had me in his arms, the steady and reassuring thud of his heart beating against my ear.
His hands traveled in smooth, steady caresses up and down my spine, soothing the panic from me with each pass. My own pounding heart slowed. The fear was gone. My father couldn’t hurt me here. I was the Marchioness of Wheaton. The title, though it belonged to me, still felt somehow as if it would have better served another. There was only one title of import to me, and that was being this man’s wife.
I shivered, but it had naught to do with being cold.
“Are you chilled?” Alexander asked, his tone solicitous. “I can fetch another counterpane.”
I shook my head. “I am perfectly well. Don’t go. Please.”
I couldn’t bear the thought of him leaving me alone in the bed, of returning to those bad dreams. Already, I had come to rely on Alexander, but this sensation inside me was different now, twisting, almost desperate. He couldn’t leave my side. I needed him here.
“You needn’t worry, darling. I’ll stay with you.” His voice was soothing.
My frantic heartbeats calmed. Gratitude filled me. How many cold, dark nights had I risen in my little attic garret at Cliffwood, wishing myself somewhere else, starved for compassion, for someone who cared? More times than I could count. But never could I have imagined someone like Alexander.
His familiar scent curled around me, shaving soap and lemon with a hint of leather. I burrowed closer into his chest, seeking the comfort I knew I’d find there. He held me. He had me. The tension filling my body ebbed. I was safe. I was in his arms.
“Thank you,” I murmured through the thick silence hanging between us as the air began to shift.
I became intensely aware of our bodies intertwined. Although he was wearing a banyan and I had on my night rail, there was an intimacy in the way my softness melded into his hard, stern angles and planes. He made me feel more than safe and protected. He made me feel cared for.
But he made me feel other things too. He made me aware of my breasts crushing into him, the way one of his long legs had come to tangle with mine. The differences between us. The warmth.
A liquid jolt of yearning flared to life deep within me, blossoming outward. A new but not unfamiliar desire.
I wanted this man, my husband. I wanted him to claim me as his wife. Not just in word, in vows we had recited on our wedding day, but in deed as well.
Slowly, gathering my courage, I tilted my head back to drink in the sight of him, his cheekbones bathed in silver moonlight, his dark hair unbound and falling freely around his face. The light played over his stern nose and compressed lips, lips I had felt against mine and very much wanted to feel again.
“You saved me from him,” I whispered, running my foot along his calf beneath the smooth weight of his banyan.
I heard his sharp inhalation of breath and felt the way his body stiffened against mine. Was it shock? Had I been too forward, touching his limb with my foot? I was yet new to being married. To yearning for a man’s touch, to the marriage bed. I hoped I wasn’t shocking or displeasing my husband.
“I woke you from a bad dream,” he countered softly, still sweeping his palms up and down my spine, from the small of my back to the place between my shoulders where I carried so much tautness from years of laboring. Without saying a word, his knowing fingers found those sore muscles, massaging them and helping to quell the lingering strain. “That was all.”