Man Of My Dreams: Secrets Of Midnight Part 13

"Like wearing that d.a.m.ned lavender perfume?"

Corisande almost smiled, for he sounded so much like a sulky young boy. But he didn't look like a boy, oh, no, her spending a full day away from him making her all the more aware of just how acutely masculine he was, the room fairly crackling with his presence. Shoving away the disquieting thought, she murmured, "I didn't think you'd noticed."

"Noticed? Ha! You can smell the stuff halfway across the room."

"Yes, I thought you'd like it."

That comment brought another scowl, Donovan's tone accusing as he glared at her. "You're enjoying yourself, aren't you?"

"Actually, I am," she admitted, probably the first time she had said anything to him with such honesty. "I don't know why it should make you so furious, either, but I suppose since you've gotten what you wanted-at least as far as finding someone to marry you-there's no more reason for you to act anything but a callous, ill-tempered boor-"

"Is that what you truly think of me-no, woman, don't even answer that," Donovan just as quickly amended, shoving his fingers through his jet-black hair. "h.e.l.l and d.a.m.nation, I already know."

He sounded so disgruntled, Corisande didn't know what to make of it, but she had no chance to say anything as a loud knock sounded in the room. Immediately Donovan lunged from his chair and went to throw open the door, revealing a rather mussed Ogden, his white gloves muddied and his clothes somewhat askew, yet his dignity still quite intact.

"The horse is in the stable, my lord, and supper is served."

As Ogden turned stiffly to lead the way, Corisande thought Donovan might go ahead without her. But to her surprise, he held out his arm to escort her, clearly resigned to the role she wanted to play although he still didn't look very happy about it. In fact, she doubted that for the brief duration of their marriage, she would ever see him smile again, which made her feel oddly wistful. He had the most handsome smile, and that boyish grin last night . . .

"We're not going to the guillotine, Corie. Just to supper. Unless of course, Grace's roast beef and Yorkshire pudding is overcooked now thanks to you coming home so late. Upon a horse, no less, not inside the carriage that I requested."

"Ah, yes, but you've already forgiven me for that, remember?" she said lightly as they proceeded arm in arm to the dining room, although her mood suddenly didn't feel so light.

She wasn't sure why, either, which was just as strange. Perhaps Donovan's surliness was simply wearing her down. With her luck, she'd probably prattle by herself at one end of that absurdly long table while Donovan swirled his wine at his end and said little . . . which was exactly what happened.

Lord, Ogden must think she was a ridiculous chatterbox to have carried on and on about her day-well, as much of it as she could safely discuss, leaving out her meeting with Captain Oliver Trelawny altogether and the unsettling incident on the heath-but she'd had to do something to fill the silence. Thankfully a gla.s.s of red burgundy had helped, but she'd pointedly been given only one while Donovan's gla.s.s was refilled twice though he had barely touched the last.

Then he'd been given a snifter of brandy after their dessert of b.u.t.termilk cake-a familiar Cornish recipe of Frances's that had given her some comfort, Grace Twickenham thoughtfully doing her best to help Corisande feel at home -while she was served a bracing hot cup of green tea. But she didn't want bracing, she wanted to go to bed. Tomorrow would be as full a day as the one she'd so exhaustively described. Oh, Lord, and she had only to think of that huge mattress she must share with Donovan to start feeling nervous all over again.

She wanted to get to their room first. Oh, yes, she wanted to be safely under the covers with her eyes closed and her back turned before Donovan even came up the stairs. So she began to yawn well before he'd finished his brandy, great, long, exaggerated yawns she did little to hide.

And she ceased talking too. Why continue when she was speaking largely to herself? The only time Donovan had showed any interest was when she'd mentioned Linette crying herself to sleep, and he'd said at once that her sisters were welcome to visit the house as often as they wished. She'd been surprised, warmed by his response actually, and had thanked him, but as for the rest, she might as well have been conversing with a brick wall, Donovan was so brooding and unsociable. At last she could stand the weighty silence no longer, and she rose from her chair.

"Go on up if you'd like," Donovan said gruffly before she could utter a word. "I'll be there shortly."

So at last the man speaks! she fumed, using every bit of her restraint not to lash out at him and thank him for the enlivening pleasure of his company. Instead she said, primarily for Ogden's benefit-the butler had been standing stiff as a statue beyond Donovan's chair and listening to them all night, after all-and quite meaningfully enough to raise a stoic brow, "Don't be too long, Donovan, my darling. I'd be so disappointed to fall asleep before you kiss me good night."

Oh, Lord, had she really purred that ridiculous nonsense? Was she mad? Seeing that Donovan had stopped swirling his brandy, his midnight eyes full upon her as she hastened from the room, Corisande wanted to kick herself, but instead she fled up the stairs.

It was the nervousness taking over, she was certain of it. Making her tongue rash. Making her foolish. Last night at least she'd had sherry and champagne to dull her senses, but tonight she had nothing to calm her racing heart. Yet she remembered her heart pounding last night too-oh, b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, she didn't want to think about it!

Corisande saw that her bed was turned down again the moment she entered her chamber, and wishing in vain that she might sleep there alone by herself, she quickly shed her clothes and groped inside the wardrobe for her flannel nightgown . . . but it wasn't there. Groaning to herself, she found instead a gossamer bit of muslin trimmed with delicate pink lace, and she knew at once that Rose Polkinghorne must have come to call.

There were two new dresses, too, but she didn't waste time looking at them. She slipped the muslin nightgown over her head-for heaven's sake, there was nothing to it!-and felt her face grow red with embarra.s.sment. The fabric was nearly transparent, and it wasn't voluminous either, like her flannel, but hugged the curves of her body like nothing she had ever worn before.

Corisande groaned aloud this time, wishing she had thought to bring her cloak with her. She would have liked nothing more in that moment than to douse herself from head to toe with lavender perfume. But the d.a.m.ned cloak was in the drawing room while she was here, and with Donovan no doubt on his way upstairs . . .

She didn't tarry any longer, pulling the pins from her hair and dropping them onto the floor as she raced through the sitting room. Thank G.o.d she didn't need the water closet tonight. She could just dive into bed and b.l.o.o.d.y hide, that thought making her bolt into Donovan's room all the faster- "Good G.o.d, woman, are you trying to run me down?"

Chapter 19.

Corisande gasped and veered to avoid careening into Donovan as he sidestepped to avoid her too. Spinning around, she gaped at him, loose strands of hair half covering her face, but she wasn't so blinded as not to see that his shirt was hanging open-oh, dear Lord, he was already undressing!

At least, he had been undressing. Now he was simply staring at her, his gaze sweeping over her from head to foot. With a shriek she crossed her arms over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, demanding in a hoa.r.s.e croak, "Turn around this very instant! d.a.m.n you, Donovan Trent, turn around!"

But Donovan didn't want to turn around. G.o.d help him, he wanted to stare and stare, the hissing fire burning brightly enough that he could see nearly every tantalizing inch of Corisande just as G.o.d had made her. And her nipples weren't pink as he'd thought they might be last night, but a dusky brown he could plainly see through her nightgown even as she desperately tried to cover herself. A dusky brown like the muslin-veiled triangle at the heart of her thighs.

"What are you doing here? I-I only left the dining room a few moments ago. What are you doing here?"

She sounded nearly beside herself, her voice having become a high-pitched squeak. It was enough to make Donovan cease his staring, barely, and look at her stricken face.

"What do you think I'm doing here, woman? You told me not to be too long, and I do sleep here."

She opened her mouth to speak, but this time no words came at all. Instead she turned and fled toward the bed and tore back the covers, leaping beneath them and pulling them up to the bridge of her nose.

In fact, she looked like a tousle-haired mouse peeping out at him, and thank G.o.d, too, that Corisande had covered herself, giving him much-needed respite to calm his thundering senses. He'd almost gone after her, the sight of her trim, heart-shaped bottom all the temptation any man should be made to stand in one lifetime. Ten lifetimes! He doubted he'd ever seen any woman fashioned more seductively, lithe and long-limbed and yet curved and round Groaning to himself, Donovan went to the washbasin and filled it with water, then bent over and splashed himself full in the face. He did so, not once but several times, wishing that it wasn't tepid but ice-cold. Ice-cold to stop this infernal burning inside him, this madness he seemed scarcely able to control.

By the time he stopped splashing himself he was drenched, his chest matted and soaking, his shirt dripping wet, as well as his breeches and boots. And yet he felt like hanging his head in the water, doubting the dunking had done him any good.

Dammit, why had he raced up here? Corisande hadn't meant those b.l.o.o.d.y words, he knew that, which was nothing new to him.

He'd been called darling countless times before, my love, my heart-by elegant, beautiful women who uttered such endearments as easily as they changed lovers. Even Nina hadn't meant them, lovely ebony-haired Nina with her sultry dark eyes and scarlet lips, his mistress for a time and the mother of his child. And it had suited him fine, always had. He'd never been bothered at all, no, never given it a second thought or yearned for even a moment that those words might be heartfelt.

Until now.

Something was gnawing at him, eating at him, and he didn't like it. He didn't want it! He'd never before considered the possibility . . . G.o.d, it was ridiculous! This . . . this whole insane attraction for a woman he b.l.o.o.d.y well intended to leave, to annul, to forget! With a low growl, he splashed his face again, but there was more water on himself and the floor than in the basin.

"Do . . . do you always make such a mess when you bathe?"

Donovan fell still, snorting wryly to himself as he held his face in his hands although he felt not a whit of humor.

Bathing? Was that what the chit thought he was doing? h.e.l.l and d.a.m.nation, Corisande was more a raw innocent than he had ever imagined. That realization couldn't have proved more grounding either; at least she had no idea what havoc she'd just caused inside him. Thinking it was time he got hold of himself and saw to what else needed to be done, Donovan straightened and grabbed for a towel.

"I . . . well, surely you know that I didn't mean what I said in the dining room. It was only for Ogden-to make things look convincing. I really didn't mean it at all."

Donovan glanced over at the bed, Corisande apparently having calmed herself enough to drop the covers to her chin. "No?"

His tone was so heavy with sarcasm that Corisande bristled, but she made herself relax, imagining he was simply offended that she'd commented about him making a mess.

And he had made a mess! She had never seen anything like it, water splashing all around him, hitting the wall, cascading onto the floor and soaking the carpet. She hated to think what he would do with a whole tubful of water . . . but, of course, she had no intention of ever seeing him sitting in a tub or watching Donovan dry himself for that matter. She averted her eyes as he stripped off his sodden shirt and began to towel his chest and under his arms, Corisande even going so far as to roll over so she was facing the other way.

"That's probably a good idea. I wouldn't want to offend you while I undress."

Stiffening again at his sarcasm, Corisande rolled back over, a retort ready to fly-and then wished she'd stayed put facing the opposite wall. Donovan was standing with his back to her, a back so broad and powerful and incredibly contoured with sinewy muscles that she couldn't help looking at him, although she told herself that she should turn away at once.

She stared almost transfixed as he bent over to tug off his riding boots, his muscles flexing, his arms looking strong and powerful, too, and she certainly knew that to be true. She'd felt them around her more than once; why, even tonight when he'd pulled her against him in the drawing room, Donovan's body lean and so hard- "Perhaps I should stand behind the screen if you're going to ogle me."

She gasped to find Donovan studying her, his expression as dry as his tone although his eyes held a disturbing hint of what she had seen in them before when he'd been staring at her. "I-I wasn't ogling you. I was looking at the mess you made, is all. I can just imagine what Ellen Biddle is going to think tomorrow morning-"

"That's not the only mess she'll find." He cut her off cryptically, his hands moving to his breeches. "I sleep naked, in case you'd like to know. So you might want to-"

"Naked?" Corisande half screeched, forgetting her resolve to play the happy bride altogether as she clutched the covers against her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "You mean . . . last night, you . . . no sleeping wear at all?"

"None. Never worn the stuff. Too confining."

"Too confining?" Her voice had again become a high-pitched squeak, but that was the last of Corisande's worries as she rolled over so fast that she nearly tumbled from the bed. Clutching the edge of the mattress, she tugged the bedclothes well over her ears, but that didn't prevent her from hearing Donovan's every slightest movement, an intense flush of heat racing from her scalp to her toes as he pulled off his breeches and tossed them to the floor.

She squeezed her eyes shut as he walked about the room, first dousing lamps and then stoking the fire, her heart beginning to pound.

And when he came toward the bed, his side of the bed, and yanked back the covers, she thought she might choke, her breath strangled so in her throat. Oh, Lord, what she would give for a gla.s.s of sherry now-no, the whole decanter! She remembered nothing of this last night; she doubted she would have even considered coming out from behind that screen if she'd known he had stripped down to his skin.

She waited and waited, feeling as if she were turning blue while Donovan had yet to climb into bed. Then she heard a sharp intake of breath and a low curse, and her eyes flared wide. What in heaven's name . . . ?

She rolled over onto her back despite the sudden compression of the mattress, crying out and sitting bolt upright as a knife blade flashed in the firelight. "Donovan! Dear G.o.d, what-"

"Shh, woman, I'm not trying to murder you, if that's what you're thinking . . . just making things look as if you've been properly bedded-d.a.m.n! I cut too deep."

Corisande heard another sharp intake of pain, understanding flooding her as Donovan leaned on one knee over the center of the bed, the room not so dark that she couldn't see blood dripping onto the clean white sheet from where he'd slit the inside of his forearm. Oh G.o.d, she'd seen such a pool before when she'd gone with Oliver's wife, Rebecca, to help tend to their daughter Sophie after her wedding night. But then there had been so much more blood and ugly purple bruises and tears, so many tears- "Get me a towel, Corie, before I make this look more a pig slaughter than a deflowering-dammit, quick! I'm bleeding all over the place."

Corisande was already scrambling from the bed, nearly tripping in her haste to reach the washbasin.

"Careful, woman! I don't want you b.u.mping your head again. Then we'll really have a mess on our hands."

She grabbed a sodden towel since she couldn't find a dry one, and rushed back to the bed, Donovan sitting at the edge with his hand clamped over the wound. "Here, let me," she commanded urgently, sitting down beside him and pressing the towel to his flesh when he removed his fingers. "Turn your arm upright-that's it. That should help the bleeding to stop."

She sat there for long moments as neither one of them spoke, Donovan wincing as she gradually released the pressure. At last she decided she could lift the towel, the wound still oozing but not bleeding as profusely as before. She pressed gingerly around the area with her fingertips, marveling at the muscular strength she felt in the slightest flex of his arm.

"I doubt you'll need a bandage. Does it hurt very much?" She glanced up when Donovan didn't answer to find him staring at her, their faces only inches apart. She gulped, suddenly feeling quite woozy inside, her gaze falling from his eyes to his lips, sensual, masculine lips so close to hers she could feel the heat of his breath upon her. "I . . . said does it hurt-"

"Not anymore. You've a very gentle touch, Lady Donovan. Where did you learn to nurse so capably?"

His low, husky voice brought chills to her spine, strange, wonderful chills that made her shiver and yet feel quite warm all at the same time. "F-Frances, I suppose. She's seen to all our sc.r.a.pes and b.u.mps, and I've helped at birthings too. We've only one doctor in the parish, and the tinners could rarely pay . . ." She gave a tiny shrug, inhaling softly when her shoulder rubbed against Donovan's. "It's common sense, really."

"Not at all. Birthings, helping your father, helping out at the church, the poorhouse, the schoolhouse, watching after your sisters, hollering down mine shafts-"

"Mine shafts? Who told-?"

"Henry Gilbert, for one." Donovan's voice grew even huskier as he brought his face closer, causing Corisande's breath to snag in her throat. "You're quite amazing, Corie. b.l.o.o.d.y amazing. Is there anything you can't do?"

Corisande had no voice to answer, Donovan's mouth so near to touching hers that she found herself closing her eyes and tilting her head, every part of her suddenly aching to believe that she had truly heard sincerity in his voice. But she no sooner felt the stirring pressure of his lips upon hers than she started as if stung- Dear Lord, what was she doing? What was she thinking? With Donovan's gift for sarcasm? He was mocking her, not praising her. Mocking her! Oh, she could already hear his taunting voice . . . "You said you wanted a good-night kiss, didn't you?"

"No, don't you dare kiss me!" Her hoa.r.s.e cry sounded like a thunderclap in the room as she pushed away from him, Corisande just as horrified that she could have been sitting there nearly atop Donovan's lap, and he was naked-wholly naked-while she was practically naked too!

"Corie?"

"No, I don't want to hear any more! You're mean and cruel and-and I hate you!" Feeling stupid and so ridiculously nave, she lurched to her feet only to jump in surprise when something hard clattered to the floor, barely missing her toes. She looked down but then backed away, saying brokenly through the tears swimming in her eyes, "I-I don't like knives. You'll have to pick up the d.a.m.ned thing yourself!" Then she spun and ran around to the other side of the bed, never more grateful that it was so huge. She climbed in and pulled the covers tightly over her head, biting her clenched hand and feeling a total fool that she could be crying.

Donovan sat at the edge of the bed for a long, long time, shaking his head and wondering what the h.e.l.l had just happened. He could hear muted sniffles under the bedclothes, but eventually they quieted, Corisande, he imagined, having fallen asleep.

Eventually he lay down, too, after returning the knife to the bottom wardrobe drawer where he kept his pistol. But he couldn't sleep, instead listening to the mounting wind whistle and howl outside and glancing from time to time at the still, shrouded figure on the opposite side of the bed. She looked more like an Egyptian mummy underneath all those bedclothes than his temporary wife.

h.e.l.l and d.a.m.nation.

Women.

Chapter 20.

Men!

If it wasn't enough that Donovan continually occupied Corisande's mind, this past interminable week had proved a trial like nothing else she'd known, now that Oliver Trelawny's whereabouts plagued her, too, and she was growing more worried by the hour.

Staring out the window into the pitch-dark night, Corisande hugged her arms to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s as she looked for the signal that she'd been awaiting for three days now. It wasn't ten o'clock yet, though she still couldn't help looking.

Corisande sighed and glanced over her shoulder at the small gilt clock above the mantel. No, only quarter to ten. Fifteen minutes yet to wonder and worry if Oliver and the twenty-man crew of the Fair Betty were back safe and sound from France. Lord, what could have kept them?

Oliver hadn't sailed out early last Wednesday morning as he'd planned, the gale he'd so welcomed becoming a fierce spring storm that had churned up the sea and slashed the Cornish coast with torrential rain, delaying his departure until Friday before dawn. Those two days for Corisande had been the worst, when she'd been cooped up in the house with Donovan because the weather was simply too foul to venture out.

Oh, he'd left her alone. He'd left her alone all week, in fact, those first several rainy days by staying in his library much of the time and saying he had work to do. So she'd played the agreeable wife and left him alone, too, spending her time reading dusty old novels and exploring the house with Ellen Biddle.

It hadn't been her idea, but the housekeeper had seemed eager to get started on what yet needed to be done around the place, and she wanted Corisande's opinions. Of course, Corisande knew nothing about the latest styles in drapery and upholstery fabric and the best ways of arranging furniture, but she tried to show suitable interest. Yet all the while she couldn't help thinking again of how within weeks every room would be shuttered and closed, the house settling once more into dust and disuse.

Oddly enough, the thought had bothered her. Everything seemed to be bothering her, so she tried to keep such troublesome musings out of her head.

Like the fact that Donovan rarely spoke to her. No, not even in front of the servants, which had made her task of appearing content all the more difficult. He was especially silent at night when that dreaded time came for them to adjourn to bed, but thankfully much of the awkwardness had been eased straightaway when he'd gruffly said it made no difference in whose room she was found sleeping in the morning now that she had been "properly bedded." Since then, he had made no other reference to that disconcerting night, clearly not wishing to discuss it further, and neither had she.

That bothered her too. Not that he wouldn't discuss what had happened but that it had happened at all.

Oh, Lord, she still couldn't believe she'd come so close to allowing Donovan to kiss her. He might have done so before, but this time had been different, disturbingly different. She didn't like to admit it, but she'd wanted him to kiss her. At least for a split second before she'd come to her senses.

It was all so ridiculous. What a stupid fool! To think she had believed for even an instant that Donovan might have spoken sincerely-that sarcastic, self-centered cad! Then her getting so upset, crying even. b.l.o.o.d.y ridiculous!

Her face blazing at the memory, Corisande looked outside again, but she saw nothing, only inky blackness. Sighing more heavily this time, she began to pace although she didn't stray very far from the windows.

When the storm had finally pa.s.sed and she'd been able to go about her business, she had felt as if she'd been released from prison. But not before Donovan had insisted on Friday morning that she first see the doc.u.ment he had drafted saying the tinners would continue to be paid fairly no matter the state of his personal affairs or his whereabouts, which had bothered her too.

And it bothered her that she should be bothered! So Donovan could think of nothing but annulling their marriage and returning to Spain. Good riddance! And where was Oliver, that grizzled rogue? The Fair Betty should have been sighted late Sat.u.r.day, and here it was Tuesday night . . .