Page 43 of The Pirate and the Pagan
She wondered if he was warning her. “Ruark, were you born at Helford?” she asked.
“No, I was born up the north coast at a place named High Tor. A wild and barren place where the whip of the wind never ceases. A place too stark and craggy for anything but stunted trees and screaming gulls and flying spume.”
“That accounts for your dark side, your moods,” she said lightly. “I, on the other hand, was born at my mother’s home on the Roseland Peninsula. A place filled with bloom and beauty which runs up the sheltered valley cleft from the sea.”
He smiled at her indulgently. “That’s why your home was named Roseland and you were named Summer.”
“Of course,” she said lightly. She couldn’t bear to tell Ruark the truth about her unhappy origins—she almost wanted to believe her lies herself. She, too, had been born on the bleak north coast, where her mother had been temporarily abandoned by her brutal father. Rumor had it that winter had been the longest in memory, and when her child was finally born, she had called her Summer in defiance.
“Well, Lady Summer Helford, you are extremely beautiful today. I would hazard a guess that marriage agrees with you.” He began to make love to her with his eyes.
“You know, Ruark, I never ever thought that it would. I quite hated and detested men until I met you.”
“I, too, dreaded marriage, but the truth is, sweetheart, there’s nowhere on earth I’d rather be than in this damned uncomfortable coach with you in my lap.” He lifted her from the opposite seat onto his knee. He could not keep his hands from her shining black tresses, and as he lifted a silken curl from her shoulder it twined possessively about his fingers.
She was so close he could see the delicate blue veins in her eyelids and see the golden tips on the ends of her feathery black lashes. She reached up a finger to trace the faint blue-black shadow which remained even when he had shaved closely, and when she touched him, he jumped as if he had been burned.
He kissed her temples, her eyelids, and finally took possession of her mouth, needing the taste of her as if he were starving. She felt his arousal begin against her buttocks and the memories of their first night together came flooding over her. His avid fingers undid the buttons on the jacket of her riding dress and he reached inside to cup and fondle a soft round breast through the thin material of her lacy shift.
It was obvious to him from her little cries of pleasure that no man had ever played with her before. His manhood, prompted by a virile hunger, strained to be free from the constraints of his garments and he shifted her a little so his swollen organ nestled in the cleavage between her bottom cheeks. Each time his thumb brushed across her nipple, she squirmed and sighed. Each time she squirmed she squeezed the tip of his upstanding shaft with her buttocks until he was almost mindless.
Finally he knew he must divert attention from the hot center of his pleasure or he would disgrace himself. He laid her back against the seat cushion and reached a strong, brown hand beneath her skirts. He caressed her leg, going ever higher to that delicious bare space on her thigh above her stocking. Very slowly he slipped off a garter, then peeled down the stocking and removed it. Then his bold hand began its journey up the other leg.
“Ruark,” she protested, “you can’t undress me here.”
“Can I not, my little innocent?” he challenged.
She gasped as he drew off the second garter and stocking and waved them in triumph. His questing hand again found its way beneath her skirts and her heart quickened its pace. His caresses continued following the soft inside of her thigh, then his fingers became bolder, intruding into the private center of her woman’s flesh. He half lifted her against him and her low moan was taken from her by his deep kiss. The slow, strong, strokes of his fingers set her whole body ashiver and it was pointless for her to try to deny that she wanted it, loved it!
Suddenly a small wave of panic swept over her as she felt the carriage slow and turn into a private drive. She struggled against Ruark’s insistent fingers, but he persisted, murmuring, “Almost there.” His words, purposely, had two meanings, she realized as a shivering shudder went through her and she curled against his hand.
It was indeed fortunate the sycamore-lined driveway was a long one, for they had already passed the gatehouse and she barely had time to button her bodice, pull down her skirts, and find her shoes. She had no time whatsoever to compose herself. The coach came to a halt before a massive house and the coachman was opening the carriage door before Ruark tucked her stockings and garters into his pocket with a wicked grin.
Sir John Grenvile, newly created Earl of Bath by His Majesty, strode from the iron-studded front door to greet his old friend. His eyes widened as he saw the beautiful vision in primrose and a familiar voice said, “Jack, I decided to take you up on your invitation. Stowe will be a perfect setting for our honeymoon.”
Summer was almost panting, as if she had run down the driveway, and Jack Grenvile took possession of both her hands and took the liberty of a kiss upon her cheek. My God, Helford married was more than a mild shock. However, he had no need to look to the lady’s waistline to see if it was a marriage of necessity, for it was clear the beauty had only just been introduced to amour and the insatiable demands of a bridegroom by her blushes and gasps.
Ruark winked at his friend over his bride’s shoulder. “We were wed only last night. Jack, this is my wife, Summer.”
She tried to curtsy, for she knew he was an earl, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember how to correctly address an earl. It was definitely not “Your Earlship.” Jack held her hands firmly and would not let her curtsy. “You dog, wait till Bunny sees her. Come in, nearly everyone’s here but the King.”
They followed their host into the great hall and Summer pinched Ruark to get his attention and whispered, “Is Bunny his wife?”
Ruark’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “No, love, Bunny is his brother, Bernard Grenvile.”
She was mortified to see the great gathering of cavaliers and fashionable ladies in the great hall, especially with her stockings and garters in Ruark’s pocket. She cast him a look of outrage, but his grin only widened.
Then suddenly she became the center of attention as the introductions were made and the news spread that she was a brand-new bride. The magnificently dressed cavaliers swept off their wide-brimmed hats, sweeping the carpet with their plumes as if she were a queen. Each declared, “Your servant, madame” or “My services, madame” with gallantry and appraising eyes.
The respectable wives present received her warmly because she was wife rather than mistress and the fashionable women of the court who had slept with most of the men who had endured exile in France with Charles came to speak with her because she was beautiful and obviously competition.
It was impossible for her to remember names or titles, so she gave up trying to take it all in at once. She did absorb some of it. Lord Buckhurst was the youngest male present. The Grenvile brothers had auburn hair, and the good-looking man of about fifty was George Digby, the Earl of Bristol.
She was introduced to Sir Charles Berkeley, Harry Killigrew, and Henry Jermyn, but she couldn’t tell one from the other. Summer had a much easier time with the Cornwall families, probably because of their accents and because their clothes weren’t as flamboyant as the Londoners’.
She met the Arundells, who owned Pendennis Castle, Richard and John Carew from Antony, and Sir Richard Robartes, an extremely wealthy merchant and banker who made his money in the tin trade. These were the old, noble families of Cornwall, whom she had never in a million years dreamed she would ever meet.
She was fascinated by Sir John St. Aubyn, who had bought St. Michael’s Mount, a place in her mind akin to Mount Olympus. He told her how at high tide it became an island and had originally been a monastery which had stood there for over five hundred years.
