Loves Victory

T he wedding banquet was a jovial affair, interrupted by toast after toast offered for the happiness of the bride and groom. Rowan had purposely arranged for the servants to begin serving the meal after five o'clock. As the shadows lengthened and the time came for the speeches, his father's complimentary, rambling speech was welcome. He began to worry when Niven's remarks were witty but brief. Did his best man not realize he was counting on it being dark when he took Daisy to his bedchamber?

He chewed his bottom lip in the face of a dilemma. His aching cock urged him to whisk Daisy upstairs once the pleasantries were over and the food eaten, but fear held him in its thrall.

When Niven leaned close to his ear, he gritted his teeth, knowing what the canny Scot was about to say. "Most newly-married men canna wait to take their brides to bed. Folk are getting curious about the delay. "

"Won't there be dancing?" Rowan offered in reply. "I was waiting for you to start playing the fiddle," he lied.

"Get a grip, man," Niven replied. "Ye've nay intention o' dancin'. Daisy is gettin' impatient. Ye're embarrassin' yer bride. Remember what Anglesey said."

One glance at the disappointment on Daisy's pale face proved Niven correct. The guests would think he didn't want to bed his wife when in fact he was aching to be inside her. "Come, my love," he said, taking hold of her hand. "Time to go."

More convinced than ever of Rowan's reluctance to let her see what was left of his amputated leg, Daisy decided to take the lead once they reached his bedchamber. The bold move would require courage. She'd openly flirted with men in the past but knew nothing about pleasing a man in bed. However, she desired Rowan physically, something she'd never experienced before. The important thing was to make him realize it.

The lone candle flickering on the mantelpiece did little to relieve the gloom. Moonlight streamed in through the window of the bedchamber. She thought it romantic but her hopes were dashed when Rowan limped across and tugged the heavy drapes closed, plunging them into almost total darkness. "I made it clear to Rapp I wanted the curtains closed," he said testily.

This development called for desperate measures. " Can we light more candles?" she asked, glad he couldn't see the heat in her face. "You've talked about wanting to see me naked."

"No," he replied. "That is…er…you're right. I do want to see you naked."

"Then you can understand my craving to see you naked as well."

"It's not the same," he sighed. "You're beautiful, and I'm not."

That was the last straw. She marched over to the window, threw back the draperies and faced her gaping husband, hands on hips. "Listen to me, Rowan Halstead. In my volunteer work with homeless veterans of Waterloo, I've helped men with clothes so ragged—often the filthy uniform they wore during the battle—the fabric barely covered what was left of arms and legs. You and I are going to be married a long time. Sooner or later I am going to see you naked. Whether it's now or later, I won't be shocked, so it might as well be now."

The fear she'd gone too far fled when he smiled the crooked smile that never failed to make her nipples tingle. "Help me undress then," he said softly, unfastening the buttons of his topcoat.

Emboldened when he shrugged off the coat, she stepped forward, loosened his cravat and tossed it away. The braces easily slipped off his shoulders, then he held onto her while she undid the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt. She helped him keep his balance while she freed one arm then the other. Awed by the masculine beauty of his torso, she sifted her fingers through the light dusting of golden hair on his chiseled chest, curious about the wide band stretched across his body.

"Attached to the top of the leg," he explained. "Helps keep it on."

The humor in his voice banished what was left of her modesty. "Trousers next," she declared.

Dizzied by conflicting emotions, Rowan nodded. His clumsy hands fiddled with the falls of his trousers, but his cock egged him on. However, his spitfire wife apparently wasn't willing to wait. By the time he realized what she was about, she'd pushed him gently to sit on the edge of the bed and pulled his trousers down to his ankles.

Two things suddenly struck him as hysterically funny. Firstly, her frown indicated she realized she had a problem. If she didn't remove his footwear, the trousers weren't coming off. Trouble was, the left shoe was permanently fixed to his artificial leg.

Secondly, could a bridegroom look more ridiculous? He was clad in nothing but tented silk drawers and a mechanical leg, his trousers around his ankles. Not exactly impressive.

Laughter bubbled up in his throat, but he suddenly realized Daisy's gaze was fixed on the bulge at his groin, not his leg. Strands had come loose from her sophisticated hair arrangement. He'd never seen her look so disheveled, and he'd never wanted her more. His fear flew away like a startled bird. "You'll need to unfasten the strap," he said. "Then you can pull off my leg."

For all her brave words, Daisy dreaded what she would see when she removed Rowan's Anglesey leg. At all costs, she must not exhibit any signs of the horror she'd often experienced in her volunteer work with amputees. How could a woman not be moved by such suffering?

"Light more candles," Rowan whispered.

Her spirits rose. He was willing to let her see his stump.

Hands trembling, she took the meager candle from the mantelpiece and touched the flame to the wicks of the candelabra on the dresser.

The glow illuminated Rowan's face. Hungry desire had replaced nervous fear.

"Ease the leg off slowly," he said softly as she knelt at his feet. "It tends to chafe."

The hint of teasing in his voice and the laughter in his eyes could only mean he trusted her at last. He'd finally realized she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

Heart racing, she slipped the shoe from his right foot, took hold of the wooden leg and pulled gently. Gripping the counterpane, he lay back on the bed as the artificial leg and his trousers slid from his body.

What was left of his thigh protruded from his drawers. She'd seen the results of enough hasty battlefield amputations to know the depth of his suffering. Chafing was the least of the agonies he'd endured.

Without a second thought, she raised up on her knees, pressed her breasts to his stump and kissed the angry scars.

A grown man shouldn't cry on his wedding night, but tears welled in Rowan's eyes. The nagging fear that had kept him and Daisy apart for months and months had been unfounded. Her kisses and the warmth of her breasts banished any pain lingering in his stump. However, the brush of her head against his rampant cock was torture.

"Daisy," he rasped as he sat up. "I need to be naked and inside you."

When she sat back, he quickly divested himself of his drawers and tossed them away.

She stared hungrily at his swollen manhood. Perhaps Anglesey was right about what women were more interested in. However, Mother Nature had been generous with his male equipment and Daisy must be nervous and worried. Before he could reassure her, she'd lifted her skirts, scrambled atop him, and eased herself down on his cock.

"Oh, God, Rowan," she groaned.

"Oh, God, indeed," he rasped as the agony of his shattered knee vanished and ecstasy took hold.

Their gazes locked when he felt her maidenhead tear.

He could have told her the pain would be fleeting, explained that he knew of ways to prepare her, but the ecstasy of riding inside her gloriously wet sheath was too…too…

As his seed bathed her womb, he abandoned rational thought and surrendered to rapture.