Page 26 of A Bride for the Devilish Duke (Marriage by Midnight #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

D amn her! Damn marriage and the ton, and damn them all! Including Harry, and most of all, myself!

“Emma, come back!” Damien groaned as she ran from him.

He made to follow, but his boot caught in a tree root that Emma had skipped over without looking. He fell, sprawling on his face and jarring the barely healed burn on his shoulder. He cried out in pain, dragging himself back to his feet.

Emma was lost to sight, swallowed by the woods. But he could hear her still, the sounds rapidly fading but not completely gone. He began to run towards the sound of flight, the crunch of broken twigs, and the rustle of grass and branches hastily shoved aside.

The air was uncomfortably warm beneath the canopy of trees, and sweat soon appeared on his forehead. It coated his body beneath his stifling shirt, waistcoat, and coat. He called out to Emma again, moderating his tone to not frighten her.

Damn myself to hell! Not her! Never her! I am to blame. My brother and I believed that our plan for revenge should come before everything. It cannot be worth it. I will not crush a pure, delicate heart such as hers for the sake of a heartless vengeance!

But he knew that he could not tell her the truth.

Not the whole truth.

What woman would stand by a husband who admitted to willingly causing havoc and mayhem? To setting fires and destroying property. To basking in the flames and the awe-fuelled adrenaline that surged within him at the nearness to death.

What wife would accept a husband who placed himself outside the law and risked his very being for revenge?

Damien found himself hoping that Emma would be that wife.

Still, he had made a promise to Harry. Sworn an oath on the blood they shared. He could not break that. Would not.

The sound of running water reached him. It had been in the background for a few minutes, he realized—a growing roar like a waterfall. Now, it was louder, almost immediately before him. And there, through the trees, stood Emma. She stood with her back to him, and as he neared her, he realized that she stood on the edge of a precipice. He slowed, coming to a halt when he had come as close as he dared.

“Emma,” he said gently, “come away from the edge.”

Emma shook her head. “I am not given to dramatic displays of emotion. I am not trying to trap you or force you to feel that which you do not. But... I can no longer live a lie for the sake of others.”

Damien swallowed, searching for a way to allow his heart to have its desire and to keep his promise.

“I do not wish to, either,” he placated gently. “Except for the lie that I must maintain for the sake of my promise.”

“To your late brother? Is it worth sacrificing your life for?” Emma demanded, looking at him over her shoulder.

“Without my honor, what am I?” he asked, spreading his hands.

“Is this honor ? To entrap me into marriage, to ensure my father's cooperation with the promise of financial help, and then to tear me into two? In truth, I am pulled between my family and my desire to be a wife to you. I tell myself that I can be happy with the pretense when we are in public. To see myself as others see me, your wife. But I am not, because I know it is a lie.”

“It is not a lie!” Damien exclaimed, “The feelings you have, I share. Have not those moments of intimacy proved that to you?”

“But they are just moments! Instances of weakness followed by weeks of coldness during which you disappear at night, sometimes for more than one night. Even Elsie is beginning to think you may be dealing with mistresses! I do not want to believe that. At first, I told myself I was ambivalent about the idea. Now, I know that I am not.”

“Moments are all that I can allow myself,” Damien replied, “there is a greater purpose at work than love. It has been my purpose since before I became Duke. I cannot let it go now when its fruition is so close.”

Emma looked back and down. Damien inched closer, glancing over the edge. The ground fell away to a pool far below, fed by a waterfall that gnashed over a cluster of rocks at its base. A fall from here would certainly lead to an impact against those rocks. Emma inched closer to the edge, tears staining her cheeks.

“You unlocked the door behind which I had hidden my view of myself as a woman. I wished to keep that part of me locked away forever after what... he did to me. To deny it so that I would spare myself the pain of seeing the disgust I felt at my own body in the eyes of someone I loved. But you unlocked that door and allowed me to believe I could be desired. Then, you took it away. That is unfair. That is unbearable! To taste it and know I will be forever denied it…”

Before Damien could speak, she slipped forward, moving convulsively. Damien leaped and managed to snatch her about the waist. He twisted his body, flinging her back towards safety.

He tumbled to the ground, his wounded shoulder slamming into a protruding rock. He cried out, the pain enough to black out his vision for a moment. When he could see again, Emma was lying on the ground, staring at him with wide eyes, reaching for him.

Then he felt the ground beneath him begin to give way.

Damien rolled as the soil collapsed into the roaring cataract below. The pain was intense in his shoulder, and he blacked out.

“Father… I won't let you… Not ever again. Harry…” Damien mumbled.

Emma knelt beside him, not understanding what had hurt Damien so much that he had collapsed into unconsciousness. She grabbed his upper body and pulled with all her strength to draw him further from the edge. Her will for self-destruction had evaporated in the face of Damien's imminent danger.

I knew how unstable that bank was—it always had been. How many times did Mama warn us about playing near the waterfall? I went there hoping that nature would make the choice for me—to end the burden, to ease the weight. But I will not place Damien in jeopardy!

When she was satisfied they were both safe, she ran her hands over his body, searching for the source of his pain. When she touched his right shoulder, he moaned, writhing away, trying to contort his body to protect it. Soothing him, she undid the laces of his shirt and gently put her hand beneath. A dressing was in place, and she could see the blistering around it.

A… burn? How did he come by that?

Touching him, she could feel the fine lines of scars she had seen that day in the Black Lion. Again, she wondered at the misadventures of his past that had caused them. Or were they in the past at all? Damien's eyelids fluttered, and Emma stared into sapphire pupils.

“You're safe,” he whispered, “I thought I was going to lose you,”

“Would it not have solved all of your problems?” Emma grimaced, almost bitterly.

Damien touched her face, caressing her cheek.

“No. I have never been more afraid. Not even when I believed my father...” his voice trailed off, his eyes fixed on hers.

Lifting his head heavily, he kissed her.

It lasted long enough to leave Emma breathless. As Damien lay back down, she came with him, supporting herself with her hands. When her body came into contact with his shoulder, he groaned once more.

“Don’t do that again,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry…” she winced, pushing away from his wounded limb.

“No, blast ! I could care less about that—the damned ledge I mean…”

Emma gently settled her head against the crook of his bicep. “I am sorry, it was childish of me. Sometimes, with it all, the noose gets too thick, and I can’t think. I am ashamed to say it has happened before during my sabbatical, and it was Elsie who came to my rescue. But… why do you—”

“Just don’t do it again,” Damien grunted, making a visceral effort to look at her.

His gaze met hers. Emma felt as though a veil had been lifted from behind his eyes. Suddenly, those eyes, the color of pure sea ice, were no longer opaque. She saw emotion shining through them, into the heart of the man she had despaired of ever being allowed to know.

Damien opened his mouth to speak—but Emma silenced him with a kiss. She devoured him with lips parted and breath shallow, claiming the words before they could form. And when he kissed her back, groaning low in his throat, she felt her body melt against him. His hands tangled in her hair, tugging gently, then more fiercely as he drew her closer until her breasts were crushed against his chest.

His hands found her waist, strong fingers curling beneath the fabric of her dress, caressing up her spine and then down her ribs. She shivered beneath his touch, and still, he went on, letting his palms glide along her sides—knowing, she realized, exactly where her scars lay hidden...

When his hand came to rest on the mark she still flinched from, she froze, breath caught halfway in her throat.

But Damien didn’t recoil. He didn’t pause or avert his touch. His fingers lingered, warm and firm, and his voice found her ear like a benediction.

“You are perfect,” he murmured. “Let me show you.”

The panic passed.

Her smile was slow and sure as she leaned into him again, her kisses deepening, devouring. She could feel the unmistakable pressure of his manhood growing between them, hard and insistent beneath layers of cloth. Her hips moved against it instinctively, drawing a guttural sound from his throat that made her shiver.

“ Emma…”

It felt so delicious to hear her name on his lips in such a moment. Such an intimacy. It gave her a feeling of ownership over him.

He rolled her dress, agonizingly slowly down her shoulders as he kissed a line down her throat, fingers fumbling now with need, not nerves. He was too slow for Emma's growing desire.

“I can do it,” she whispered, breathless. She took over, rising to straddle him, her thighs bracketing his as she yanked open her gown with more urgency than finesse. Her stays and petticoat soon followed. Her breasts spilled beneath only the fabric of her chemise, nipples already peaked and aching to be touched.

“God, Emma.” His hands were on them at once—hot, possessive, reverent.

“Yes,” she gasped. “Touch me… everywhere please...”

Seizing the neck of her chemise, he pulled in two different directions with barely an effort. The fabric ripped asunder, and he let it fall, baring her completely. His gaze raked over her body—her flushed breasts, the dip of her waist, the shadow between her thighs—and the look in his eyes was nothing short of worship.

Immediately, he captured one of her nipples in his mouth. He licked and sucked with unrelenting precision, one hand massaging the other breast until she squirmed against him, her thighs tightening at his hips. She cried out, arching into him, her hands flying to his hair.

She bit his shoulder through his shirt, seeking some kind of release from the unbearable pleasure he was drawing from her body. He growled, low and sharp, and took her mouth again. His fingers splayed over her back, digging in, then slid downward to clutch her hips and grind her against the firm, growing pressure beneath his breeches.

She reached for the front of his shirt, tugging it open to reveal the planes of his chest—smooth, hard muscle dusted with fine hair, and the scattered scars she had once only glimpsed.

Truly, he was carved like a god.

She kissed each scar in turn, reverently, claiming him as he had claimed her. Lips met tight, steely skin, and each feather-light caress sent a thrum of pleasure through her own body.

Before she could reach the scars below his slab-like abdomen, a curled finger beneath her chin raised her lips to his again.

Then, she felt deft fingers touching her beneath her navel.

Already, that part of her was responding to the relentless pressure of Damien's manhood against her. Now, Damien stroked and explored, and Emma's pleasure reached a new glorious plateau. She threw back her head, grinding her hips against him, one hand clamped over cries that would have shaken the birds from the trees had she let them out aloud.

“Damien,” she gasped, “please—don’t stop—”

He laid her back on the mossy ground, stripping off his coat and cravat, never taking his eyes off her. His mouth followed next, trailing heat down her body, over her breasts, her navel, the soft flesh of her hips.

And then—lower.

When his tongue touched her most intimate area, Emma forgot her own name.

She gasped, loud and utterly unrestrained, her hips rising as his mouth settled between her thighs. He licked her slowly at first, tasting her like fine honey, then faster, firmer, his hands pressing her thighs wide. His tongue circled her most sensitive spot in lazy, devastating sweeps, then flicked with unrelenting precision until her breath came in whimpers.

“Damien—” she pleaded, half-sobbing. “Please—”

She tangled her fingers in his hair, holding him to her, needing more, more , until the pleasure shattered through her like a summer storm.

She climaxed with a sharp, broken cry, thighs clenching around his head, her body writhing beneath the expert torment of his tongue. And still, he did not stop—not until she had come apart twice, body boneless and trembling.

His hands caressed up the length of her thighs, as if to soothe the aftershocks. Then he rose slowly, almost reverently, and looked down at her.

Her hair was tangled. Her chest still heaved. Her skin glowed with exertion, damp and flushed, and yet she had never felt more powerful. Or more bare.

She reached up, tracing her fingers along his jaw. “I need you,” she whispered.

His eyes darkened, and for a beat, he only stared at her—his restraint visible in the tight line of his jawbone, the twitch of a muscle in his cheek.

“Are you certain?” he asked hoarsely.

Emma pulled herself up and pressed her lips to his, the kiss deep and sure. “Yes.”

Damien surged forward, kissing her as though he might lose her again. His hands found her waist, her ribs, her breasts—he cupped them fully, then brought his mouth to one nipple, sucking hard, then licking, then biting just enough to make her back arch.

Emma moaned loudly, hips rising instinctively to meet the firm heat pressing through his breeches. He shifted his attention to her other breast, lavishing it with just as much ruthless devotion, his tongue circling the taut peak before taking it deep into his mouth.

Her nails dug into his back as he worshipped her. The friction of his tongue and teeth, the tight seal of his lips around each nipple—it sent sparks pulsing deep down to her core.

Damien moved quickly then, yanking at his breeches until they were shoved halfway down his thighs. His manhood finally sprang free—thick, flushed, heavy with need. Emma reached for it instinctively, wrapping her hand around the base, watching his eyes flare with pure, unfiltered desire.

He hissed. “ Christ, woman. ”

She smiled up at him with something wicked and proud. The reaction she elicited from such a simple act was intoxicating. The control she felt… Slowly, she began rubbing, biting her lip at the naked desire surging across his visage as his head tipped back, revealing the column of his masculine throat.

But then, without warning, he pushed her back onto the soft moss, caught her thighs in his hands, and pulled her to the edge of his reach. She let out a startled gasp at the suddenness of it—until he bent over her, kissed her hard, and whispered against her lips, “I’m going to take you now. Properly.”

“Yes,” she breathed. “ Please .”

He lined himself up. A shiver of anticipation thrummed through her. Their bodies melded into each other in a celestial union.

Emma cried out, clinging to him, the sudden stretch making her gasp—but the pain was fleeting, overtaken by the glory of him inside her. He stilled, breathing hard against her throat, his hands braced on either side of her face.

“God, you are perfect,” he ground out. “So warm. You feel like you were made for me.”

She moaned, arching beneath him, her legs wrapping around his waist as he began to move. The rhythm he set was gentle, deep, claiming—his body driving into hers with the smoothest motions, and yet every thrust was measured. He kissed her through it all—her neck, her jaw, her mouth, her breasts—his mouth never far from her skin.

“Mine,” he murmured between kisses. “You are mine, Emma. Say it.”

“Yours,” she gasped. “ Only yours .”

He gripped her thighs tighter and angled his hips, driving into her deeper. Each thrust sent a cry tumbling from her lips. She met him move for move, rising to meet his every stroke, the tension inside her building again—faster this time, hotter.

Just when she teetered on the edge, Damien slowed, withdrawing almost completely. Emma whimpered in protest, but he didn’t let her go far. Instead, he caught her hips and shifted her.

She didn’t resist. She let him guide her down, breasts to the mossy earth, her cheek resting on her forearm, legs parted just enough. He followed her down, his pectorals brushing her back, one arm sliding beneath her to cradle her ribcage as though she were something precious even now.

His lips brushed the shell of her ear. “Stay like this for me. I want to feel all of you. Every inch.”

Emma swallowed, her heart swelling at the sound of his voice. This was no longer just pleasure—it was devotion .

She nodded, the motion small but sure.

He kissed her spine once, then entered her again, this time with a slow, devastating slide that made her entire body go taut. In this position, he was impossibly deep, impossibly close. His pelvis met her hips with each thrust, his chest blanketing her back.

He kissed her shoulder, her neck, the place behind her ear that made her shiver. One hand found her breast, cupping it with gentle reverence. She cried out, grabbing at the moss-covered ground. She felt him everywhere. Around her, inside her, with her.

“I love the sounds you make,” he breathed, nuzzling her hairline. “I want to hear all of them.”

Each stroke struck some devastating, perfect place inside her. He reached around with one hand, fingers finding her pearl and rubbing in tight, insistent circles.

Emma turned her head to the side, catching his gaze in the periphery, his perfectly handsome face, that audacious bulge of his throat.

“Let go for me,” he whispered. “Let me have you like this.”

And she did.

Her climax overtook her with the slow, glorious intensity of a sunrise, brilliant and burning and boundless. Her entire body tensed, her back arching slightly beneath him, her lips parting in a soundless cry. Tears sprang to her eyes—not from pain, but from the overwhelming rightness of it all. Of him. Of being held like this. Taken like this. Loved like this.

She sobbed his name, trembling, her release pulsing around him.

He collapsed forward, covering her with his body, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her shoulder, her spine, her hair. Their breaths mingled, ragged and warm. He didn’t pull out. Didn’t move.

He only held her.

And in that tangled, breathless silence, Emma felt it—the stunning weight of everything they had shared. The trust, the desire, the wild, aching love that had always burned between them but had never had words.

Now it had been spoken.

In sweat, in moans, in skin and sinew and the raw pounding of hearts.

He nuzzled her neck. “You are everything,” he whispered.

She turned her head and kissed him, soft and slow and full of promise.

“And you,” she breathed, “are mine.”