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She drew her hand away.
Varian looked up. His eyes still glittered in that troubling way, but darker now. “Will you make me beg, Esme?” he asked, so very softly. He slipped his hands about her waist. “I’ve missed you dreadfully.”
“Don’t.” She didn’t try to push him away. She’d no right to deny him. She was his wife. It was her fault she was. Yet she couldn’t bear to be made drunk and helpless. She was lost, and in his arms, maddened by his lovemaking, she’d never find her way.
“I know,” he said. “I knew long before you did. To take me as a lover was merely dishonor. But to take me as a husband…Ah, well. That is very dangerous.”
She swallowed a gasp. It was not fair that he could read her heart so easily, when his was the darkest mystery to her.
“I know what I am, Esme,” he said. “But you gave yourself to me, and now I need you. Beyond bearing, and so, beyond conscience.” His hands tightened on her waist. “And I shall win you all over again, this night, however I must. Without scruple.”
Esme understood the glitter then, saw the danger in it, but before she could back away, he brought his leg behind hers, pulling her off balance. She stumbled toward him, and he fell back with her onto the bed.
She fought him in blind panic, aware only that he must not win, not this night, not so easily. She needed to find some part of herself that was still truly her, not what he’d made her. She couldn’t surrender, not yet.
But he was too quick, too clever, too strong, and in moments she lay beneath him, gasping and filled with despair because the hard weight upon her was so warm and achingly familiar. She’d not realized until this moment how deeply, terribly lonely she’d been. She hated herself for the loneliness, just as she hated herself for wanting his shelter, though it was a prison.
His hand closed over her breast, and she wanted to weep. “No, Varian,” she begged.
“Yes, Varian,” he returned in soft command. He pressed a warm kiss to her temple and made a path of lingering kisses to her ear and down to her throat. Her pulse was racing, an instant betrayal. He found the throbbing place and lingered there, and she felt his triumph in that long, savoring kiss. She felt it in his touch, lazily kneading her tautened breast, while yearning heat coursed through her, deep, to ache in her womb.
“Yes,” he repeated. “Because you want me. Tell me.”
She bit her lip.
He slid the gown down past her shoulders and down, exposing her tight, aching breasts. “Tell me.” He teased with his hands and with his tongue, and the slow fire built, against her will, against her reason.
“No,” she moaned, stirring helplessly under his caresses. The gown slid lower, to her hips. His mouth and hands followed, lazily, deliberately.
“Yes.” There was laughter in his voice, and though her heart, surely, was breaking, she wanted to laugh, too. Madness.
“No,” she gasped. “I will die first.”
“Then you shall surely die, love…beautifully.”
He moved down over her, and Esme trembled as his head bent. The silken tendrils of his hair brushed her skin, making her shiver. Then soft kisses heated her belly, and she strangled a moan.
She clenched and unclenched her hands, but it was no use. Closing her eyes, she let her fingers slide into his hair. She wanted to crush him to her, but she would not. He knew he was torturing her and reveled in it. But she wouldn’t give in, no, not so easily.
Lightly she combed her fingers through his hair, as though she needed no more, as though her muscles were not thrumming with tension. As though she weren’t desperate to have him inside her.
Then his mouth moved lower, and a rapturous shock vibrated through her, wrenching a cry from deep within. In that hammering moment, her will swept away in a stream of delirium. “Varian. No…oh, no.” She dug her nails into his scalp and cursed in every tongue she knew. It was not her own voice but a demon’s, low and harsh. His wicked mouth and tongue set demons dancing within her. They answered to his will, not hers. She had none.
“Varian...no...no...oh, please. “
He lifted his head and laughed.
His fingers glided up and down her inner thighs, and she felt his rigid flesh throb hot against her skin. She wanted to scream.
“Say yes,” he commanded. “Tell me.”
“Yes. Yes. I want you.”
“Yes,” he repeated. “I want you.” And he drove himself into her at last.
Varian had been dimly aware of the rain beginning, hours before. He’d heard the soft pattering in the world beyond while he had caressed his bride and roused her again. It had been again, and again, because she made him hungry, fearfully so. He’d been miserable without her these last infernal weeks, and utterly wretched when he’d found her weeping and understood he was the cause. She’d come to her senses at last, poor darling. Too late.
“It can’t be undone,” Varian had told her. But not until after they’d made delirious love, when he’d given and taken pleasure, showing her how it was, how it would be, for both of them. “I won’t let you go. I won’t let you draw away from me. In this, I’ll always win, Esme. Believe you’ve sold your soul to the Devil, if you like, because in this I shall be the very Devil.”
“Only wait,” she’d warned, stubborn as ever. “Only wait until I become accustomed.”
He’d laughed. “I shall see you never become ‘accustomed,’ my lady.” Then he’d taken her again, happily. He’d been wickedly happy from the moment the clergyman had united them. When Varian yearned for her, Esme would be there, his, and it was right and proper, the bargain solemnly sealed before God and two score mortal witnesses.
Now he looked toward the window, where the gloomy morning loomed. His hand glided over her smooth shoulders and along her arm, pausing briefly to stroke the scar more tenderly yet. She was oblivious. She slept trustingly in his arms.
“Dear God, how I love you,” he murmured. “And damn me if I know what I’m to do.”
He’d ten pounds left to his name, nowhere to find more on this wretched island, and they had the house only for a week. He’d heard nothing from Sir Gerald, though the letter had gone more than a fortnight ago. Percival must be taken back, but where? Otranto? Venice? Where was his blasted father?
And Esme—where would he take her? They could live in Italy, perhaps. For a while at least. One could get by on so little, and Varian did have ways. But no, not those ways, not any more, not with a wife. He’d not drag her through that sordid existence.
Nonetheless, they must go somewhere. He couldn’t keep her on this curst rock forever—not even a week, not with Ismal so perilously near. Corfu’s governor was not at all easy about Albania. The populace was being armed. Some ships had been seized, but who knew how many others had reached their destinations? Esme must be got away, far away. That much was clear.
There was only a week in which to do it. Varian had heard the pielago had been repaired and was on its way to Corfu. It could arrive any day now, if reports were to be believed. He wasn’t sure he could believe them. He had left the captain more than enough money for repairs and paid a high price in the first place. Furthermore, most of his and Percival’s belongings were still aboard. These factors might weigh for something. On the other hand, he’d engaged the vessel for just a fortnight, not two months, and its owner might easily decide the contract was fulfilled and return to Italy.
Then what?
Esme stirred and mumbled, as though she felt his agitation. Varian kissed her ear. “Sleep, love,” he whispered. “Just sleep.”
She snuggled closer, her small backside warm against him. He looked at her, then to the window again.
It was just the sort of damp, dreary morning meant to be slept away. The girl who’d driven him mad these two months and more lay safely in his arms, as sweet and passionate a lover as any man could wish. This was no time to brood on the future, Varian told himself. It was time to savor the present, to lie at peace for once and enjoy his rare happin
ess. He kissed her shoulder, then closed his eyes.
The Fates allowed him one hour of semi-dozing tranquility. Then there was the thumping of hurried footsteps and a louder thumping on the door.
“Drat you, Percival. Can’t a man—”
“Oh, please, sir, I’m so very sorry.” The boy’s voice was abnormally high-pitched.
“You’ll be a deal sorrier when I—”
“Please, sir. He’s come. It’s Papa!”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Fifteen frantic minutes later, washed, haphazardly shaven, and dressed, Varian escorted his bride to the parlor and presented her to her uncle. Esme was very tense, Varian knew, though the inexperienced eye would have detected no more than aristocratic reserve. Three weeks in Mrs. Enquith’s company had simply given polish to a young woman possessing sufficient natural pride for an empress.
As he politely accepted Sir Gerald’s terse, rigidly polite congratulations, Varian thought the business might pass smoothly enough, so long as Esme kept her temper. This would not be easy. She couldn’t be pleased with the cool glance her uncle treated her to before dismissing her from his mind as he returned his attention to Varian.
Yet Esme contained her indignation, just as she held her tongue, and Varian silently vowed to kiss her from the top of her head to the tip of her toes when this cursed moment was over. Her future hinged on the interview. Sir Gerald must be handled delicately, and that would require all Varian’s presence of mind.
Sir Gerald, unfortunately, had no idea of delicacy. When he’d got through the social niceties, he barged to the point. “I can’t stay long. Press of business. You understand, Edenmont, I’m sure. I only came to take the boy off your hands.” He bent a black look upon his son. “Pack up your belongings, Percival—and be quick about it.”
“N-now, P-papa?”
