Page 74 of An Imperfect Scoundrel

“No, but I understand the situation from a logical view, and you are emotionally—”

“I am not.” Her eyes flashed.

“You’re angry I killed a man you never met because you think the action harmed your brother—”

“It did!”

“Have you asked him?”

She paused, chewing her lower lip, and glanced at the window.

“I’ve never spoken with Patrick about it.”

“Perhaps you should. His view on the situation is different from yours.” Cedric drew her chin back.

“I shall ask him the next time I speak with him,”—Alana flicked her eyes to his—“whenever that may be.”

He ignored her implied question. “Would he travel to America?”

“No.” She snorted. “Patrick won’t leave the coast, but I’ll call on him prior to returning to Wiltshire with my new husband.”

The thought of her with another man annoyed him. His grip on her wrists tightened, squeezing until she cried out. He yanked her body against him, his mouth finding hers.

“The next word out of your mouth will be my name,” he growled against her lips, sliding to the edge of the bed.

With his free hand, he shoved his trousers down over his hips, exposing his erection, then dragged her onto his lap, splitting her legs apart as she straddled him. He positioned her over him and eased into her, seating her on top of him with a moan.

Guiding her into a rocking motion, he kept her arms locked behind her with one hand. The other hand gripped her butt, controlling the depth of his thrusts. Each time she rocked forward, he pressed deeper, driving harder into her, as though the very action would force the idea of another man from her mind.

Writhing against him, she cried out in frustration, struggling to free her arms, but his grasp was too strong. He increased their pace, jerking her hips against him, and she flung back her head, begging for release, her voice growing in volume as she trembled against him.

When the orgasm ripped through her, he flipped her onto her back and thrust himself into her again and again, drawing out her release as he sped toward his. Her hands finally freed, she wrapped them around his hips, digging them into his skin, and screamed. Vibrating beneath him as she exploded a second time, his name echoed in the cabin.

His body went rigid, and he slammed forward one last time, yelling as he buried himself inside her. Panting, he dropped to her side, landing on the mattress, and gathered her into his chest, drawing a blanket over both of them.

They lay, limbs entwined. The only sounds in the cabin were their harsh breathing and the lapping of the ocean waves against the ship.

“This may be the best voyage I’ve ever had,” Cedric murmured, his lips moving against the top of her head. “Although, there is something that confuses me. Why would you go to America to find a husband? Surely England hasn’t exhausted itself of eligible bachelors.”

“I doubt it has.”

“But you specifically want to marry an American?”

“No.” She pushed up and stared at him, a grimace pulling the corner of her mouth. “That’s not the only reason I left.”

“A scandal?” He grinned. “You seem the type.”

“I am, but that isn’t the cause either.” She drew her finger across the hollow in his throat.

“Then, why did you leave England?” he asked, thinking perhaps she was pregnant.

“To escape a killer.”

He choked. “You’re on a ship filled with them.”

“That wasn’t the original plan.” She offered him a tiny smile.

“What was?”