He washed her gently, carefully, wiping away the evidence of her innocence and their lovemaking with a tender efficiency that stole her breath and had the hollow yearning sinking deep into her abdomen. Her thighs trembled, the renewed pulse of desire impossible to disguise. He touched his thumb to the reddened skin on her hip where he had gripped her in the heat of passion.
‘I have bruised you, ma petite,’ he murmured, sounding genuinely contrite.
‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t hurt.’
To her surprise, despite her denial, he leant forward and placed a kiss on the spot. ‘You must accept my apologies,’ he murmured, his eyes shadowed.
She nodded.
Dumping the flannel in the sink, he pressed her knees back together and smoothed the robe over her nakedness before meeting her eyes. The rueful smile which twisted his lips made her heart beat in an erratic tattoo.
‘As much as I would enjoy taking you back to bed, I do not wish to hurt you again.’
‘You didn’t hurt...’
He touched his finger to her lips, halting her denial. ‘Don’t lie, Cara, there are enough lies between us already.’
She stared at her hands clasped in her lap, and nodded. ‘I know.’
What was wrong with her? One act of tenderness and she was ready to throw herself at him again, even though she knew it was wrong. Exactly how desperate for affection was she?
Tucking a knuckle under her chin, he raised her gaze back to his. ‘Now you must tell me why you were untouched.’
‘I...’ She let out a tense breath. ‘Pierre and I didn’t have that kind of marriage,’ she managed.
He straightened from his crouched position and let out a harsh laugh, the look in his golden eyes not so much suspicious as unconvinced.
‘There is only one kind of marriage, Cara. One where a husband takes his wife to his bed.’ His gaze roamed over her. ‘If you were mine I would not let you out of my bed for a week after we were wed.’
The blush burned her neck and spread across her collarbone, the hunger in his words so compelling it made the hot spot between her thighs throb.
She scrubbed her hand over her cheeks, hoping to calm the colour as she looked away. The sight of his naked chest and the red score marks on his shoulder—which she must have made with her nails—was not helping with her breathing difficulties.
‘Pierre was an old man,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t capable of...’ Her throat seized. ‘Even if I had been willing,’ she continued. ‘We were just friends. He wanted to marry me so he could
give me some security when he was gone, that was what he said.’ She didn’t tell Durand about the wages Pierre owed her because it would just make her feel more pathetic and expose her marriage to even more of this man’s contempt. ‘It was never a sexual relationship.’
Maxim stared at the riot of blonde curls, fighting against the desire still pulsing in his groin and the strange wave of elation.
Even if I had been willing.
So she hadn’t ever contemplated sleeping with his father. That was good to know.
But then his disgust with the man returned.
He wished Pierre de la Mare wasn’t dead, so he could murder the bastard himself.
De la Mare had used Cara Evans to get his revenge against him. But Maxim very much doubted his father’s decision to marry this girl had just been about the vineyard, as she clearly believed. The bastard had always had an eye for women, claiming this young beautiful woman as his wife had probably given him some kind of sick ego boost—even if he had never been capable of consummating the relationship.
A sick ego boost that left Maxim with a problem.
He had always planned to raze La Maison to the ground as soon as he purchased the property. It was what he had told de la Mare he would do, all part of the promise he had made to the boy he’d been—an important part of his final revenge for the cruel slights that child had endured.
But how could he in all conscience kick this girl out of her home? Wouldn’t that make him as much of a bastard as his father? Especially after he had just taken her innocence?
Not only that, but he hadn’t used protection. Something he’d become brutally aware of as he’d cleaned her up.
He frowned. What the hell had possessed him? He hadn’t even thought about it. He’d never been that impulsive or reckless before in his life, even as a teenager. Not only did he have no desire to become an accidental parent, but he knew precisely what it was like to be that accidental child. Unwanted, unloved, unimportant. Even now a child could be growing inside her because of his thoughtless behaviour.