Page 65 of Her Dark Seduction
I continued to move, not answering.
“Who did this to you, Lisetta? Who made you so afraid to speak of your feelings that you have built a fortress around yourself? What happened to you? I am no fool—I see your loving nature but it has been driven deep within you. You are terrified to show it.”
I smoothed my face into indifference.
“You speak nonsense. I am merely tired and wish to rest.”
He slumped his shoulders and sighed. “As you wish. But I am your friend, Lisetta. I hope one day you will see me as such. Go and rest. I will ensure you are not disturbed, but as a friend I would ask you to do one thing.”
“What is that?”
“Give him a chance. Trust him. He married you for a reason.”
Unable to reply, I left the room.
I was unusually tired that day, and I ached everywhere. The child moved and my body began to stretch around him, tightening into spasms. It seemed as if he shared my discomfort and distress, and I stroked my belly shushing him with soft words of love.
Perhaps in time I could trust Jack. When he asked me to give Vane a chance his eyes pleaded for a brother whose heart had been broken. If I told Vane I loved him, might Jack help him to grow to feel something for me—for our child? Lily clearly loved Vane; if I could convince her of my love for him she might help me, too.
What would it be like to have a loving family around me? Was it possible? Even at Mortlock I had seen occasional glimpses of something akin to tenderness in Vane’s eyes. Jack’s words wove through my mind as I lay, drifting in and out of sleep, on the bed. Perhaps I could tend to the wounds of Vane’s heart as I had healed the wounds of his body. Perhaps those glimpses of empathy I had seen in his eyes were the small sparks of a flame I could nurture.
The pains in my body woke me later that night. Vane’s muscular form lay against mine. A rush of fear overcame me as another spasm fluttered across my belly. My confinement was drawing closer, and I had been denying the fear of childbirth; the possibility I might not survive it. I wanted desperately to feel safe in his arms, to have him comfort me with his strength—the strength I did not possess.
The soft candlelight illuminated his face. Asleep, his features displayed none of the harshness he turned on me when awake. Jack was right; my husband wore a similar disguise to mine. Vane had just as much reason as I to conceal his feelings.
His chest rose and fell with each breath. Where had he been during the day? Had he thought of me at all? Jealousy surged inside me at the thought of this woman Elizabeth who he’d loved so deeply. I ran my fingers along the stubble on his chin, tracing the line of his scar. He sighed, and the ghost of a smile played across his lips as he whispered one word.
“Cherie.”
I brushed my lips against the scar. He murmured in his sleep and reached toward me. I took his hand and held his knuckles to my lips. A single tear ran down my face and splashed onto his hand. I wiped it across his palm before kissing a trail where the tear had fallen. Holding his palm against my cheek I closed my eyes, whispering of my love for him.
His body stiffened before I heard his voice; harsh and cold.
“What do you want?”
I opened my eyes to see him staring at me, eyes the color of ice.
I had reached the point of no return and shattered the road leading back.
“You, husband.” I kissed the tips of his fingers. “I want you.”
I lowered myself over him and placed a soft kiss on his lips.
With a low growl, he rolled me onto my back and pinned me to the bed, thrusting his tongue inside my mouth savagely. He grasped my hair in one hand, forcing my head back against the bed. Ignoring my cry he fisted the top of my chemise with his other hand and tore it from me. The rush of cold air sent ripples of shock down my spine, tightening my chest. I gave a groan, part agony, part desire, as the need for him surpassed all else. His lips burned as he kissed my neck, drawing his lips together and sucking hard against my tender skin until I cried out again.
“Do you want me, woman?” his voice was rough and hoarse as he rubbed his hand across my breasts, pinching the nipples between his finger and thumb until I writhed against him, overcome by the twin sensation of pleasure and pain. He released my hair and sat back, his eyes hooded and dark.
“Oh, I wish to God it were so,” he whispered, his voice loaded with pain. He ran his hands across my stomach where the skin stretched over the child. His hands faltered as my muscles contracted before resuming their path to my thighs. A flame burned through my veins where his fingers touched me, and my core pulsed softly with longing. His hot, wet mouth claimed my breast the same time he brushed his fingers against my flesh. It was exquisite—my sensitized body wept at his touch. He moved his fingers lightly, too lightly, against me. My body screamed for release, and I parted my legs, willing him to give me what I craved, what I knew his expert touch could do. He withdrew his hand and I whimpered at the loss.
“Tell me what you want,” he growled.
“I want you,” I cried, aching for him to touch me again, lifting my hips toward him. He started to caress me again, and my whole body tightened.
“Tell me again,” he said, moving his fingers; teasing, probing, keeping me on the brink of shattering, withholding the satisfaction I craved.
“I want you inside me,” I begged. Hot tears of shame welled in my eyes as I clutched the sheets on the bed and sobbed, “Oh, Vane!”
He withdrew his hand, unmoved by my sharp cry of frustration and loss which deepened as he moved off the bed.
