Page 41 of The Cornish Bride

Chapter Eighteen

“Where are you going to sleep?” Ysella asked, after the remains of their meal had been cleared away and Oliver had started on the brandy bottle the maid had brought.

Oliver raised his eyes at her. “In the bed, of course.”

Ysella frowned. “Then where shall I sleep?”

He laughed, knocking back the glass of brandy in his hand and pouring another. “In the bed as well.”

What? Ysella knew Kit and Morvoren shared a bed, but she also knew that most married couples had separate rooms. Mama and Papa had done, as far as she could remember. She’d never shared a bed with anyone before, unless she counted the time she’d had to share with Morvoren on their helter-skelter rush down to Cornwall to save Kit. And that had been only for one night, and Morvoren was another girl. Not a man claiming to be her husband, with all that might entail.

Oliver stepped up to the bed, which she was standing looking at. His arms went around her waist, and he pulled her round to face him. “We’re as good as married, Ysella. I see no point in waiting on a brief service carried out by a Scottish laborer. No need to be shy with me. We can consummate our love tonight.”

Ysella swallowed. What was he saying? Was he asking her to do the thing Morvoren had tried to tell her about even before they were married? Should she let him? Did she even possess the power to stop him if he wanted to do it? A small part of her very much wanted to let him, for various reasons. His touch around her waist was exciting her, and curiosity goaded her. Doing this would make her a woman in every sense of the word, and she’d find out what it was that Morvoren seemed to think was so nice about being married. And they were going to be married within the week, so did it really matter if they anticipated it by a few days? Gretna Green couldn’t be that much further. Could it?

“You have no maid with you,” Oliver said, his voice a throaty purr. “Would you like me to act as your maid and undo your gown and stays for you?”

She caught her breath as this enticing thought shimmered through her.

Without waiting for her permission, his hands were already fumbling with the fastenings down the back of her gown, his breath, redolent of the brandy, hot on the back of her neck. Should she let him? She had no one else to perform this service unless she called for one of the inn’s female servants. And the sensation of a man doing her maid’s job was exciting. Another shiver ran down her body. Of anticipation. Of fear of what lay ahead of her if she let him do this. But then again, she could hardly sleep fully dressed, could she?

She stood very still, her hearting beat so loud in her chest, no, in her throat, she was sure he’d be able to hear it. The fastenings came undone, and the front of her gown gaped. He put up his hands and slid her gown from her shoulders, fingers lingering on her bare skin, his touch electric, and let it pool on the floor at her feet. When she’d put this gown on last night for dinner, she’d not for a moment suspected Oliver would be the one who would be taking it off.

She stood before him in her petticoat and stays, head hanging and her face hot with embarrassment. No man had ever seen her in such a state before. He kissed the back of her neck, his mouth moving across her skin leaving a trail of fire. What would Mama say if she could see her now? No. She had to shove that thought away.

“Turn around,” Oliver whispered, bending to kiss her neck. “Let me kiss you again.”

Eyes closed, as though she might shut out the sin she was committing, Ysella turned around.

With one hand, he tilted her chin upwards and his lips found her throat. With the other he caught her by the waist and pulled her closer. A string of kisses roved down her neck to her breasts, warm and gentle, his tongue tickling her skin, making her want him never to stop. She closed her eyes as her stomach contracted with something she’d barely felt in her life. An ache formed itself below her stomach, in that nameless area she’d always deemed the most private.

“Take off your petticoat.” He unhooked the back and pulled it off over her head, leaving her in just her stays and underslip.

Feeling very exposed, Ysella crossed her arms across her breasts as though doing so might delay the fate that awaited her.

He spun her around again, and, still kissing her neck, began to unlace her stays. He was adept and quick at it, his fingers as agile as Martha’s. For a moment, Ysella wondered how he could have gained such skill before the thought drifted away as her stays came off.

She kept her back to him, her hands across her breasts, scarcely hidden now by the thin muslin of her shift. Her breath came in quick pants, and her heart thumped against her hands.

The sound of Oliver kicking his boots off broke into her trancelike state. This was going to happen, and although a part of her wanted it, a large part of her wasn’t so sure. Shouldn’t they wait until they were married? Wasn’t it a sin to do this before being joined in wedlock by the church? But she wasn’t going to be joined in wedlock by a priest. She was going to have a hairy-armed blacksmith declare her legally Oliver’s wife. So perhaps this didn’t count.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Oliver’s coat fly through the air and hit one of the chairs by the table. She couldn’t look. Then his breeches joined it. Oh, oh, oh. He must be nearly naked, just as she was. She hugged herself even tighter, tension keeping her body rigid.

He came up behind her, something hard and insistent jabbing into her back. His hands slipped around her and caught her arms, moving them away from her breasts. She let them fall to her sides, desperate for him not to think her a prude. He seemed so good at this, so experienced, so natural, that she wanted to give the impression she was as well.

His hands came back up and slid inside her slip, down to cup her naked breasts. Skillful fingers worked at her nipples, making them harden under his touch.

“Ha,” he whispered, his breath heavy with the scent of the brandy. “You do want me, you little minx.”

He spun her around. He still wore his long shirt so the thing that had been jabbing her in the back was hidden, although it tented his shirt alarmingly. Was a man’s cock really this big? The only one she’d ever seen had been George’s tiny one when the nursemaid had changed his napkin, and this thing beneath Oliver’s shirt was nothing like it.

“Come to bed,” Oliver said, pulling her towards it. She stumbled, still unsure she should be letting Oliver do this. “If you’re worrying about getting with child, you can’t the first time. And even if you did, we’ll be married shortly so it won’t matter. What’s a few days?”

Beside the bed, she hesitated, but his hands were on her slip. In one movement he pulled it over her head, leaving her naked and vulnerable. He pushed her down onto the bed and climbed on top of her in one swift movement, his mouth descending to take a nipple between his lips.

Even through her fear of what was about to happen, the sensation of having her nipple sucked sent ripples of excitement through Ysella’s body. She wanted this. Yes, she did. It was going to be frightening, but it was what married people did.

His knee forced her legs apart as though he were in a hurry.