He wanted to lick her breasts, but the angle was too difficult, and getting inside her was more important. After the first hard, fast fuck he could take his time with her, explore her, treasure her sweet body. But right now he had to shove inside her or he’d die.
He unfastened his breeches and released himself, and she was wet and slick beneath his questing fingers, ready for him, wanting him, thank God, and he rubbed the head of his cock against her, spreading his dampness and hers, and she let out a little moan of anticipation. He held his cock and began to push inside, into her glorious sweetness, trying so damned hard not to slam inside and hurt her, when he suddenly froze.
He stared down at her, the beauty of her imperfect face, her gorgeous mouth, the pale, aroused body waiting for him, ready for him, and he wanted to ignore everything but the roaring need inside him.
He couldn’t do it. He pulled back out, groaning, and shoved his damned cock back in his breeches, not caring if he hurt himself. Her eyes had flown open in surprise, and she rose on her elbows, staring at him.
From somewhere inside he found the ability to smile at her. “You little liar,” he said softly. “Didn’t you know I can tell you’re still a virgin?”
“You can?” she sounded slightly dazed. “It doesn’t matter. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop!”
But that was exactly what he was doing. “Hush, love,” he said, pulling her torn nightdress around her. He only wished he had a blanket as well, the more layers between her body and his, the better. “You don’t take a woman on the kitchen table for her first time. You take her to a bed with fine linen sheets and you do it slowly, carefully, so it doesn’t hurt, and she feels like the treasure she is.” He pulled her forward and picked her up, cradling her against him. She was shivering, and he didn’t know if it was cold or reaction. He damned well wanted to shiver and cry as well.
“You’ve had that many virgins?” she said in a small voice, not denying the truth.
He shook his head. “I’d rather not take a woman’s innocence when I can’t offer her anything in return except pleasure. A man knows certain things by instinct, and I’m not deflowering you when you’ve had too much cognac.”
“I didn’t!” she protested. “And I want it. I want pleasure. I want someone to love my body despite my face.”
Someone. Anyone? It wasn’t going to be him. Not tonight. “Hush,” he said again, cradling her slender body in his arms. “Hush, sweet love.” And he headed for the stairs.
She was asleep by the second floor. He hesitated about taking her up to the servants’ attics—the last thing he needed to do was run into one of the inquisitive maids—and there were a number of smaller rooms on the third floor that would do. But that was far too close for comfort. He’d managed, just barely, to stop himself from taking her, one of the few decent gestures in his life. If he went back on it now he would have gone through all that pain for nothing.
The attics were still and silent as he carried her upstairs, just barely managing in the darkness of the unlit hall. He’d need to install gas lighting up here as well, he thought absently. Assuming he was going to stay here for much longer and not find himself on trial for his wife’s murder.
She looked so peaceful as he laid her down on the narrow, sagging mattress. They needed better beds up here as well. At least the maids didn’t have to share beds, as they did in most other houses, but one could hardly manage a decent night’s sleep on ticking like this. Bryony’s torn nightdress fell open, and he sucked in his breath. The moon was bright that night, shining in her window, illuminating her far too well, and he gave himself a mental kick in the arse. If he didn’t take her when she was drunk and awake he was hardly going to deflower her while she was sleeping so heavily. He wasn’t sure how much she’d had to drink before he’d found her, but it had hit her hard, and she was almost passed out. With luck she wouldn’t even remember what had happened down on the kitchen table—he’d go back down and clean up the mess and try to forget it himself.
He slipped off her clothes, tossing the torn nightdress out the open door before going in search of another one. She made soft, unintelligible noises as he dressed her, and at one point she simply curled up against him, breathing in deeply as she fell back into sleep, and he wanted to groan. She wasn’t making this any easier on him.
Lifting her up, he tucked her beneath the covers, and did just what he’d sworn he wouldn’t do. He kissed her on the forehead, and then on her soft, sweet, dreaming mouth.
“Sleep well, darling one. Dream of the good man who’ll take you with love, and forget about a right bastard like me.”
He stepped back, before he could think better of it, and left the room, closing the door behind him.
He picked up her ripped nightdress and headed back to his makeshift room. He was still hard, and at this point he decided he’d probably stay that way until he damned well died of it. He started to strip off his clothes, then paused, staring down at his white shirt. He must have brushed against something as he searched through Cecily’s room. There was dried blood on the sleeve.
Had it really been the daughter of Eustace Russell, cleaning and scrubbing and trying to disguise his possible guilt? It could have been Collins, of course. The man was clearly loyal, and he’d be the first to cover up any misdeed. At times like these the Irish stood together, be they manservant or lord of the manor.
But he didn’t think it was Collins. It had to have been Bryony in there, scrubbing on her knees, straightening the chaos, hiding the truth of what had happened. Thank God.
Because when a wife went missing, and turned up dead, there was usually one man the gentlemen of Scotland Yard looked at: the husband. And while some of society was under the impression that he and Cecily were happily married, there were enough people who knew the truth.
He shoved the telltale shirt and Bryony’s nightdress in the pile in the back of his closet, hidden with the other blood-soaked clothes. He’d burn them later when he had a chance, that or simply get Taggart to get rid of them. Taggart would do anything he asked without question.
Or he could take Bryony’s torn nightdress to bed with him and take care of his current condition in a few moments, he was so damned hard.
But he wasn’t going to. He was going to be the saint he’d suddenly decided he was, and go to sleep.
And with a bed-shaking punch of his pillow, he did just that.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE CRUSHING PAIN in Bryony’s head woke her, that and the raucous cries of the birds. She tried to open her eyes, but it felt as if there were lead weights on her eyelids, and she rolled over, burying her face in the soft pillow, trying to shut out the incessant noise. Her entire body hurt, her skin was on fire, her teeth itched—everything was wrong. And if the birds were singing it was past time to get up and face whatever fresh disaster the day would bring.
Slowly, carefully, she rolled over again. She wasn’t certain what part of her body hurt the most, and she had no idea why. The last thing she could remember was going down to the basement after hearing Kilmartyn’s muffled curses.
And then she remembered the cognac! Good God, what had she done? She tried to scour her brain for details of the night before, but it simply made it ache more, and she put her hands to her head with a groan. She didn’t want to think about it, refused to think about it. If drinking spirits did this to you then she was never touching the foul stuff again.