Fortune's Bride (Heiress, Book Four) Read online

  “God help me! God help me!” Esmeralda whimpered.

  Her hands scratched blindly at the bedclothes, pressed Robert’s head tighter against her, then pulled it away. The teasing was driving her mad, but she was totally ignorant of what was necessary to satisfy her.

  “Help,” she gasped, “help.”

  Because he was drunker than he realized, Robert’s body had not responded with its usual speed to sexual stimuli. Had he been ready, he might not have extended his foreplay so long. However, the prolonged caressing of Esmeralda’s body had a cumulative effect. When readiness came upon Robert, it came in a red, blinding rush that would not be long denied. He heard Esmeralda whimper, “God help me,” and then gasp, as if she were dying, “help.” By then it was too late for consideration or thinking about what Esmeralda meant. He heard the words, but they mingled with his own feelings and had no associations for him outside of passion.

  He mounted her swiftly then, passing a hand between her thighs to position himself. The head of his shaft slipped easily between the lips he had so thoroughly lubricated. Robert groaned softly with pleasure, removed his hand, and thrust gently, expecting to slide home. However, nothing much happened. He thrust harder. Esmeralda gasped. Robert slid in an inch or two and met a barrier. This was outside his experience. He opened his eyes, which he had closed in the expectation of total bliss when he first entered, and gazed with gentle reproach at Esmeralda.

  The lamp still burned high, and at first glance Robert realized that whatever was obstructing his path, it was no deliberate act of Esmeralda’s. She looked both surprised and frightened. And then he realized what was wrong. Of course, Merry was a virgin. Robert hesitated for just a moment, torn between his urgent need and a qualm of doubt. But passion and the destruction of inhibitions caused by the alcohol in his blood urged him on, and below those physical pressures was another desire, deep and hidden, to make Merry his own forever.

  He bent his head and kissed her lips and her throat, murmuring between the caresses, “This once, just this once, I must hurt you, love.” Then he slid a hand down her side, brought it back up, moving his fingertips in gentle circles along her hips and ribs and on up to her breast, rubbing the nipple gently. Esmeralda’s breath shuddered in, and he took that for acceptance; but he had closed his eyes again so he could not see her face. She would fight him, he told himself, if she were unwilling, or cry out, but he hardly gave her time to respond, drawing and thrusting again with the greatest force he could bring to bear. She did cry out then, a muted whimper, for Robert’s mouth was on hers, but it was too late for second thoughts. Robert was lodged, and Esmeralda was no longer a virgin.

  His purpose achieved, Robert lay still, kissing and caressing and murmuring love words. The tight grip on his shaft was heavenly, and there seemed to be an infinitesimal quivering inside Esmeralda that sent chills of pleasure up and down his spine. For the moment he was content not to move, and he concentrated on trying to arouse Esmeralda again.

  His efforts were rewarded. After a minute or two, she moved against him in a way that was unmistakable, and he took the chance of drawing out a little way and pushing in again. The sensation was too exquisite to resist, and he continued moving, slowly at first but then faster and harder as all consciousness beyond that of his own intense pleasure was blotted out.

  Esmeralda felt his growing rapture, and it increased the excitement generated by his hands and lips. There was a swelling thrill in her own body, a deeper, stronger echo of the pleasure Robert’s mouth had wakened in her earlier. It was too mixed with pain to come to fruition, although as Robert finally cried out and convulsed in his climax, Esmeralda gasped with an empathic reaction that was very near fulfillment.

  “Wife,” Robert murmured as he subsided swiftly into a sleep demanded by the exertions of the day, the wine he had absorbed, and this last effort. “Lovely wife.”

  His voice was blurred again, and Esmeralda’s eyes filled with tears. He had called her beautiful when she took off his boots and now, lovely. Was it only the wine and the sexual need that had elevated her plainness to beauty? Was it at all possible that Robert’s growing affection for her had illuminated her ordinary face in his eyes? And affection added to desire—was that not love?

  Robert’s weight atop her was making it difficult for Esmeralda to breathe, but instead of pushing him off, she embraced him, the first time she had dared to do so aside from throwing her arms around him in excitement when he first came in. He made a soft sound, and Esmeralda tensed, not knowing whether it was satisfaction or a protest, but he did not move away, and she lay holding him, the tears that had formed trickling gently down her temples.

  She would not let him hate her, she vowed. She would not let it come to that. If he showed anger, seemed to feel trapped, she would let him go. And then, the thought of her great wealth came into her mind. That would help. No man would object to a wife with more than half a million pounds as a dowry. Surely the money in addition to the real liking she knew Robert felt for her would reconcile him to the bargain he had so unintentionally made. But if he accepted her only for the money, could she bear that? Not only for the money, she thought. Robert’s family was wealthy, and he seemed to have plenty of money of his own. If he loathed her, the money would not matter, and she knew he did not loathe her.

  Then another specter that had haunted her from the beginning rose again. Would Robert consider himself heart-free even if he accepted the legal bond? Would he give that free heart to another woman? But there were no other women with the army, except camp followers and soldiers’ wives, and they were not likely to be a danger. It was a stupid thing to worry about just now. The first question remained. Was it only wine that had brought Robert to consummate their marriage, or had he had some desire—no matter how small—to do so anyway?

  The question was unanswerable at this time, Esmeralda knew, but the morning might give the answer. New tears formed in her eyes, and she bit her lip. She did not want the answer, she wanted to cling to hope as long as she could. She needed more time to demonstrate how perfect a wife she could be to a military man.

  Robert made a slight movement, and his softened shaft slipped completely from between Esmeralda’s legs. He stirred again, started to slide sideways off her body. She uttered a very faint sob, helplessly devastated by the feeling that he was retreating from her totally and forever. Robert stretched his neck and kissed her cheek, mumbling almost indistinguishably except for two words that Esmeralda made out—sleep, which could have been expected, and love.

  That last word spread like a balm over Esmeralda. She did not allow herself to think of the many, many reasons Robert could have had for using the word, all of which had nothing to do with her at all. She only repeated it over and over to herself until the mingled remains of her fatigue, anxiety, and reaction from excitement pushed her into a sleep that was deep and, as far as she ever remembered, dreamless.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Although Molly’s personal anxiety was greatly relieved by the information that her husband was safe, her sleep was not easy. It was not physical discomfort that kept her tossing and turning. She had slept soundly in far worse conditions than the soft hay of the stable loft. It was her conscience that invaded her dreams, waking her with nightmares of guilt and fear. Each time she woke, she told herself that there was nothing she could have done to protect her mistress. In fact, it was most likely that Mrs. Moreton would have been furious if she had tried to intervene. Most women, at least in the beginning, preferred to take their beating instead of having the fact of their husbands’ brutality exposed.

  Still, Molly felt vaguely guilty. Mrs. Moreton loved the captain so much. It was a shame to have her dream broken. The guilt and the regret continued to permeate her restless sleep, and it was with relief that she saw the lightening of the sky, which presaged dawn. Molly knew that Robert had returned to duty each morning, and she had been a soldier’s wife long enough to know the seriousness of absence from one’s
post. Anyway, whatever had happened was now long over. The captain had been very drunk. He must have slept soon after he went into his wife’s room, and he would have a most unpleasant awakening. That thought gave Molly a little satisfaction.

  She hurried to the house, dressed, and tapped softly at Esmeralda’s door. After a moment, she tapped again and called. She was just about to open the door and go in, although she did not wish to enter without giving her mistress a chance to cover her bruises, when she heard the latch click.

  “’Tis near dawn, ma’am,” she said into the opening.

  Esmeralda stuck her head out. She looked sleepy and startled. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “’Tis near dawn,” Molly repeated. “Will th’ captain no be goin’ bick t’ his post?”

  “Oh, heavens!” Esmeralda exclaimed. “I’ll have to wake him.”

  But she did not look frightened, as Molly had expected. Instead, she blushed so deeply that Molly could see it even in the very dim light of the hallway. At first Molly was surprised, but then she barely stopped herself from laughing. It seemed that Captain Moreton had not mistreated his wife. Quite the opposite, he apparently had provided better than usual entertainment and then had fallen asleep in Mrs. Moreton’s bed.

  It seemed strange to Molly that that should embarrass her mistress, but she knew the gentry were odd that way. They slept in separate rooms and acted as if babies were generated by magic. Amused and relieved, Molly ran down to start up the fire and heat water.

  Molly’s rapid departure left Esmeralda in a dreadful quandary. What was she to say to Robert? More horrifying yet, what would he say to her? Perhaps it would be best to call Molly and tell her to wake him, hide herself away, and pretend nothing had happened. He might have been drunk enough not to remember.

  This cowardly idea was so attractive that Esmeralda turned back toward the door and was actually reaching to open it when she remembered why she had only stuck her head out in the first place. She was stark naked. She hurried to pick up her shift from the floor, but the act reminded her of the way Robert had looked at her, and inadvertently she cast her eyes down at her own body—and gasped. Her thighs were all streaked with the brown stains of dried blood.

  For a moment she stood paralyzed, but not because she was afraid she had suffered an injury, she remembered immediately the sharp, tearing pain when Robert had penetrated her and the color of the stains was proof enough that the bleeding had stopped hours ago. Her escape route was closed. Robert, too, must be covered with bloodstains. It was impossible for him not to wonder where they had come from and then to remember.

  Instinctively Esmeralda began to pull on her clothing, delaying the inevitable for just a few minutes more. Her mind scurried about seeking another escape route, but none presented itself and she did not dare spend any extra time thinking about it, for she could see the sky was growing lighter It would only make things worse if Robert were late and Sir Arthur reprimanded him. Drawing a deep breath to steady herself, she leaned over the bed and shook his shoulder gently.

  “Robert. Robert. It’s dawn. You must get up.”

  His first response was a heartrending groan. Esmeralda bit her lip and fought back tears, thinking the sound to be an expression of regret. Nonetheless, she persisted, shaking him again, a little less gently, and repeating, somewhat louder, that he had to get back to camp. As she said it she realized that she had no idea what had happened in the battle. Had Robert been drinking to drown the sorrow of a defeat?

  “My head,” he moaned. “Don’t. Oh God, my head.”

  Esmeralda bit her lip again, but this time to stifle a giggle. How foolish she was. She had forgotten the morning punishment for drinking too much the night before. Her father had very rarely drunk to excess, but occasionally he had done so. Robert’s plaint recalled the results of that overindulgence to her mind. And then a brilliant thought occurred to her. Perhaps Molly knew of a remedy. At least, she could say she was going to ask for one. Then she could allow Robert to remember what had happened on his own. She would not have to see his first, unguarded reaction.

  “You must get up,” she repeated. “Sir Arthur will expect to see you at six o’clock. I am going down to find out whether Molly knows of something that will help your head.”

  She fled the room as Robert rolled over toward the edge of the bed, groaning pitifully and reaching blindly for the chamber pot. As she closed the door, she wondered whether she was being unkind. If he was going to be sick, should she have stayed to hold his head? She would not have minded doing so but thought that it might embarrass Robert. Somehow being sick seemed a rather unromantic first contact with one’s bride, even on a delayed wedding morning.

  Esmeralda’s spirits had risen mercurially. She was delighted with the excuse she had found to leave the room, which had permitted her to act just exactly as a good, loving wife should act and still would allow Robert to remember in her absence that he had consummated their marriage. Even if he were appalled at what he had done, he would be far too kind to show it once he had mastered his first shock of realization. And if he showed no open rejection of the situation, that would provide time—time for her to show what a good wife she could be in every sense, since it would be ridiculous now that she was no longer a virgin for them to continue to live apart, and time for him to grow accustomed to the idea that she was a permanent acquisition rather than a temporary one.

  Presented with a most moving description of the sufferer’s anguish, Molly laughed. “Ah, weel,” she said indulgently, “he’s no doin’ it often, ‘nd he’s no mean with it, is he?”

  The last two words were a trifle pointed, but Esmeralda only looked puzzled. “Mean?” she repeated.

  “Theer’s men as git to foightin’ or hittin’ theer woives whin they drink,” Molly remarked.

  “M’Guire?” Esmeralda asked, shocked.

  Molly laughed again, for it was plain that her mistress could not even associate such an idea with her husband. “No, niver M’Guire,” she assured Esmeralda, “nor me first man, but me da wuzn’t above it, though no often. He’s dead, God rest him, ‘nd God forgive him, too. Now, whut the captain’ll be needin’ is a hair o’ th’ dog wit a wee boite to it. Jist let me gi’ a thought to whut’s heer.”

  “Yes, and you had better show me,” Esmeralda said. “It’s just luck that you are here this morning instead of in camp with M’Guire. If it should happen again, I want to know what to do right away.”

  Upstairs, Robert had indeed been sick, although it was mostly dry heaves that shook him. After the first spasms were over, he opened his eyes cautiously. The dimness of the predawn light seeping into the room was helpful. A stronger light would have intensified the lances of pain that stabbed through his head and made him sick again. The half dark permitted him to look straight ahead without any new disaster overtaking him, although he was sure that if he moved his head or his eyes, he would expire at once.

  What he saw was so startling, however, that he temporarily ceased to feel his physical symptoms. There were his boots, neatly side by side, but in the middle of the floor. On the other hand, his coat, shirt, and breeches were strewn about in untidy heaps here and there. His smalls were nowhere to be seen at all. Robert stared around the room. He knew he had been very, very drunk, but he had been very, very drunk many times before. Occasionally he had slept in his clothing, but never had he thrown it hither and thither. Nearly ten years of military service had ingrained in him certain habits. One of them was to fold his clothing neatly when he took it off, particularly when he had been drinking heavily. That way he could find his things and get them on no matter how sick or blind with pain he was, and he would look tidy outside no matter what the wreckage inside.

  Surprise still holding back pain and nausea, Robert bent his head to look closer to the bedside for his smalls, and in sweeping from the foot toward the head of the bed, his gaze passed over his own naked thighs. He gasped with shock at the brown stains on his skin and the clot
ted blood that matted the golden curls of his pubic hair.

  “Oh, my God,” he whispered. “Merry.”

  But there was no regret in his voice, and a definite feeling of triumph swept over him. Perhaps he should not have done it, but she was his now, for good. As the thought came and he remembered more clearly the events of the previous night, his shaft stirred and began to rise. Robert laughed shakily. He wished he were not on duty so he could get Merry back into bed. The notion lingered pleasantly for a moment or two, Robert even toying with the idea of sending Carlos to headquarters with a note to say…

  He grinned at the thought of requesting a day’s leave to continue making love to his wife. He could imagine Sir Arthur’s face as he read the note. It was never a serious intention. Robert would not really consider sending a young boy unfamiliar with the area alone through a countryside where a battle had been fought. Then the grin froze on his face as it occurred to him for the first time that Merry might not be willing.

  There was evidence that he had not been very gentle with her. He got up, wincing at the renewed pain in his head, and walked unsteadily to the stand that held a basin and pitcher of water for washing. What the devil was he to say to Merry? he wondered, as he poured water into the basin and washed away the dried blood. When he stooped to pour the soiled water into the slop pail, he almost fell, shuddering as he fought a renewed desire to retch.

  Better leave the bowl. He shoved it onto the stand and staggered back to the bed. His smalls must be under the bed, he thought, shuddering again at the notion of bending down to retrieve them. However, before he could put this hazardous enterprise into motion, there was a brief tap and the door opened. Robert barely had time to sit down and pull part of the tumbled blanket across his lap when Merry was in the room.

  “Here is a horrible concoction that Molly says will put you to rights,” she said.