Chapter Thirty

Marianne

Glasgow— March 1878, six weeks later

W e had the simplest of ceremonies, in the simplest of churches in Govan, where Rory's parents lay buried in the churchyard outside. We made no announcements, though we sent a telegram to Lord Westville and received three words in return.

At Last. Congratulations.

‘We are married,' I said to Rory as we stood together at the window of our flat in Park Circus, looking out at the driving rain. ‘I can't quite believe it.'

‘Nor I. These last few weeks have seemed like an eternity.'

‘I know.' It had been Rory who insisted we wait. Rory who asked me at least once a day, whether I was certain this was what I wanted. Rory who assured me each day that he could wait as long as was necessary. I told him that with every passing day I was more sure, and less inclined to wait. But now the moment was here, now the gold band on my finger proclaimed me his wife, now that we were alone in this place that would become our home, I was besieged by nerves.

‘Don't fret,' he said, taking my hands in his.

‘What if I don't...?'

He kissed the rest of my words away. A gentle, tender kiss, the same kind of kiss he had bestowed on me every day for the last six weeks. Reassuring. Pledging his love. ‘You are everything to me,' he said. ‘My only worry is that after all this time, I'll be the one who won't—who will lose control too early.'

His words gave me confidence. My nerves turned into anticipation. ‘I want you to lose control.'

He inhaled sharply. He gave me one last, assessing look. Then he pulled me into his arms, and our mouths locked. Heat seared through me. At last, our kisses were without restraint. Deep kisses that lit flames inside me, made me molten, made me raw with desire. Kisses that had no trace of gentleness, but that roused and demanded a response, that made every bit of my body throb with wanting more.

It was the middle of the afternoon, but we were in our own flat, on our own. We neither of us made any attempt to reach a bedroom. Rory let me go only to pull the long, elegant curtains over the windows before he returned to my waiting arms, to my eager body. His fingers shook as he undid the fastenings of my gown. My own shook as I undid the buttons of his waistcoat.

We shed clothes equally this time, not like the last time, shared kisses equally, hands smoothing, caressing each newly exposed piece of skin. My petticoats. His shirt. My boots, then his. My stockings, then his. I kissed the scar on his abdomen. He teased my nipples into aching, hard peaks. And all the time we communed.

Rory.

Marianne.

I love you.

I love you.

I want...

This?

Yes.

This?

Yes. Oh, yes.

And this?

Yes!

I thought I would melt with desire. His breathing was ragged. So too was mine. He undid the string of my drawers. I was naked before him. He gazed at me for a moment and I relished his gaze, the hunger in him reflecting my own, the colour slashing his cheeks. The pinpoints of his pupils.

So lovely.

He dipped his head to take one of my nipples into his mouth. I groaned aloud, arching backwards. His hand slid between my legs, slid inside me, and I clenched around him. Melting. Desire building and building as I clutched desperately to maintain an element of self-control.

Let go.

Not yet. Not yet.

I tugged at the waistband of his trousers. He released me to finish undressing himself. When he made to pull me back into his arms, I shook my head. I drank my fill of him as he had me. His hard-muscled body. The smattering of hair on his chest leading my eyes down, past the scar, past the dip of his belly, to his aroused member. I wanted to touch him. I had never before—so I wanted to touch him. He took my hand, wrapped my fingers around him. I felt him throb at my touch. Heard him moan at my touch. My name, a soft exhalation of desire. I stroked him, relishing his moaning response, but then his hand stayed me.

‘No more.' He spoke as if through gritted teeth. ‘Can't wait.'

‘Don't.'

Kisses again, as we sank on to our knees. More kisses as we fell on to the floor. His member was pressing into my belly. His fingers easing inside me. I was losing control. Wave after wave of desire gripping me as he kissed me and stroked me, but still I clung on, wanting, wanting, wanting, restless with wanting, until he pulled me astride him, and I let go of all control as he entered me, his own hoarse cry echoing mine as he bucked under me, going deeper.

Wave after wave engulfed me. I heard myself crying out my pleasure, felt him inside me, barely moving, saw his desperate attempt to control himself etched on his face, and then he thrust, thrust again, and I moved with him, taking him inside deeper, faster, until he too lost control, and I toppled on to him, clinging for dear life, sweat-slicked, sated, floating.

‘I love you.'

A slow, delicious, sweet kiss.

‘I love you.'

He held me close. And later, after we made love in our bed, he held me close again. And when I woke to my first morning as his wife, he was still holding me and I knew not only where I was, but that it was exactly where I needed to be.