"Not in my experience," he said. "For the truth is… they have nothing to say. Demure silence is their only recourse when nothing intelligible comes forth."

"Perhaps they are overawed by you," she said, succeeding with one boot.

"Undereducated and lacking spirit, rather," he argued, succeeding with his second boot.

He should have looked rather harmless sitting in a chair in his stockinged feet. He did not. Beau Wakefield was not the least bit harmless, sitting or standing, naked or clothed. Naked… they were almost naked.

Clarissa shot to her feet and stood by the fire, logic deserting her.

"You, my wife," he said, rising to stand near her, "never lacked for spirit."

"I may disappoint you," she said on a whisper. His mouth was just above hers, his body massive and pulsing with heat. He would kiss her, she knew, and it would be a kiss nothing like their winter garden kiss. There was no anger in Beau now, only desire.

She was more comfortable with his anger.

"You will never disappoint me," he said softly as his mouth took hers.

He was gentle when she had expected raw passion. She was grateful, for bold he might call her, but she was afraid. His arms wrapped around her and held her tenderly, warmly, welcoming her into his embrace. She sighed away her tension and her fear as his kiss lifted her up to meet his desire.

With ease, he held her in his arms, kissing her face, her throat, her mouth, murmuring words she could not understand beyond his intent; he wished to soothe her, to arouse her. He was succeeding.

And with that thought, she realized that she wanted him to succeed. His success would be hers. She wanted his arousal; had she not realized that before? She wanted him to want her, and he did, and in wanting her, he fed her own desire for him. For she did desire him.

Bold as she was, she let him know it.

"I want you," she said against his throat, her arms wrapping themselves around him, her mouth hot against his skin.

He could feel her nipples pushing against the thin lawn of her undergarment, feel the tension of fear leave her to be replaced by the tense demands of passion. She wanted him. The words settled upon him like golden netting. She wanted him for more than his Irish lands, and her decision to wed him had been grounded in more than hard practicality. In his heart he had known it. But how sweet the words.

"Good," he said to her, laying her upon the bed and lying atop her. She was soft and firm and willing; praise God for a willing virgin on the bridal bed. But he had not expected less from Clarissa. Fear and timidity would never rule her.

He cupped her through her gown and she spread her legs wide for him, moaning her willingness. She was already wet, but he would not rush her. Her skin was white as cream and as smooth, her eyes dark and full in the flickering light, her mouth open and panting.

"Bare yourself to me, Clarissa," he commanded, sitting back from her.

For a moment she paused, and then she smiled. "If you'll do me the same courtesy, my lord."

With quick hands they slid off their remaining clothing. Naked on the bed, they studied each other. He was darkness to her fire and light, and they wished only to combine and consume each other.

"Beautiful," he said softly. His eyes scoured her and she shivered in response. He reached for her, pulling her to him by the back of her exposed and slender neck, and then urged her down at the foot of the bed.

"Do it quickly," she whispered.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said, looking into her eyes.

"Don't hurt me," she said, "but do it now. I cannot bear the waiting."

No, that would little suit her. Bold action was her way.

Hands on her breasts, he touched her, arousing her, pleasuring her, thinking only of bringing her to such need that his taking of her would be a release and not a fear-filled memory to cloud their future together. His mouth moved everywhere upon her. Her skin was hot and soft, her limbs twitching with flares of passion as they surged through her. She was a most willing bride, trusting him to protect her and please her. He would. He would do nothing less.

He spread her and she sighed. When he touched her, she groaned and pulled him to her breast. His mouth found her nipple and he teased her to the next level of desire.

"Please. Hurry," she said in a moan, thrashing beneath him.

"A truth I was most anxious to hear," he murmured against her skin. "It will be uncomfortable at first," he said. "I will do all I can to keep you from pain."

"Yes. Do it," she said breathlessly.

She was wet and ready, and he slid just the bare tip of himself into her.

"Oh." She grunted, her limbs tightening against him.

He kissed her mouth, his tongue gliding over hers, learning the inside of her. With his finger he pressed into her, widening her slightly. She was very tight. He did not know how to keep her from the pain of lost virginity.

She pulled her mouth from his. "It's going to hurt, isn't it?"

Her brown eyes were full of fear and trust. He did not know what to tell her that would ease her.

"Tell me the truth," she said.

"Yes," he said.

"Then do not hesitate," she begged. "Let me get beyond it. Help me to be past it."

Yes, he understood her. And he marveled. She was a remarkable woman, as bold and astute as she had appeared. He could only do as she asked, though it pained him more than it would her; he did not want to hurt her, yet delaying the pain she knew was to come was a torture of its own.

Staring down into her eyes, he thrust. She cried out and closed her eyes, thinking it accomplished. He was only halfway there. Waiting for her to soften around him, he thrust again. Home. She choked out a smothered scream and then instantly was still. He looked down at her, at her tense and expectant face, at her eyes pressed shut, and felt her soften around him still more.

Home at last.

"'Tis done, Clarissa. The worst is done," he said, kissing her mouth softly.

"Good," she said. "Is it over now?"

Beau smiled. "No, not yet."

"Oh." She frowned slightly.

"It gets better," he said, poised above her, holding himself still.

"Oh," she said, trying to look hopeful.

Beau smiled and slowly withdrew. He ignored her look of relief and pumped back into her. Again. She was soft and wet. Again.

"Oh!" Clarissa said, her hands clenching against his back.

Beau grinned in male satisfaction and bit her throat gently.

He reached down and fingered, her pleased to hear her gasp at the contact, more pleased when she groaned and strained against his hand.

Again he withdrew, and again he plunged into her, harder now.

She met him, her hips lifting.

Again.

And again.

He wrapped her legs around his hips, opening her further, plunging deeper. He kissed her, stealing her breath, breathing her scent and her cries until he merged with her completely.

His hands roamed her breasts as he thrust into her, holding back his release until desire consumed her.

"Hurry. Harder," she cried, panting. "More."

He gave her more.

With a scream, she shattered and he fell against her, breaking, feeling her release, pulsing against her spasms of fulfilled desire.

Slowly she put her arms around his neck, and her breathing slowed. With a sigh of surprised contentment, she kissed his cheek. It was the sweetest kiss in all his life.

"Thank you," she said into his ear, and then she softly bit him on the lobe.

He chuckled and said, "Did I manage to drive all thoughts of Ireland from you tonight?"

"Stop talking," she said dreamily, still managing to scold. "You'll ruin it."

He laughed and slid out of her and then nestled her into his arms. They lay in a tangled and easy embrace, content. He ran his fingers through her hair, red even in the dim light of the curtained bed.

"We'll go soon." He knew no explanation would be necessary. There was only one place she wanted to go, and all the world knew of it.

"Good," she said. "But I want to see Montwyn Hall first. All of it."

"You shall. Let's spend Christmas Day here-we'll invite your brothers if you like-and then we'll go to Dantry House, which I think should please you, for the turning of the year. It will be a rough crossing, but as eager as you are, I don't think you'll mind it."

"Mind? I would fly there if I could," she said.

"Not necessary. We'll sail, thank you," he said lightly.

"Thank you again," she whispered, squeezing his hand.

"You are most welcome," he replied. "Consider it a Christmas gift. I shall be giving you the first item on your of husbands: a fine Irish estate."

"It's a home you've given me," she said, "and nothing less."

"I think you'll love it," he said softly, feeling her begin to fall asleep in his arms.

"I know I shall," she murmured on a sigh, slipping into sleep, thoughts of Ireland accompanying her into the darkness.


Her skirts were dirty, her shoes muddy, her bonnet hanging down her back held only by the ribbons at her throat. She could feel them pressing against her throat.

She was not supposed to be here. Her father had forbidden it. But she was with Perry. It was all right if she was with Perry.

The smell of burning was strong, and she wanted to press a hand to her nose to keep out the smell.

The sound of gunshots ripped against her ears, and she had to press her hands there to deaden the retort.

Sobs came at her through the air, but she could not see for all the smoke.

She was high in a tree. Perry had pushed her into the tree and he stood at the bottom, crying. Crying surrounded her from all sides.