Annette Blair - Scandalous Brides

It was the most glorious experience of his life, Hawk thought, as Alexandra worked his hair in soft soothing strokes, with lots of rich lather, turning the process into a seductive dance.

With her talented soapy fingers, she stroked his neck, his shoulders, a way down his back, a longer way down his front, her slow, creamy, circling strokes teasing his senses and bringing him pleasure with just her touch.

Almost as good as sex, Hawk mused, though after a year and a half, he had about forgotten what that was like. Almost.

When he became aroused, Hawk waited with bated breath, to see if his erection would last, but it diminished, or he nodded off; it was difficult to tell which happened first.

Ultimately, he must really have slept, because he awoke to the sound of clipping, except that he was still in the tub, afraid to move, lest he lose an ear. “Are you cutting my hair?”

“I think so.”

“I would rather you were certain,” he said. “How did you go from washing to trimming in one step?”

“You must be exhausted, because you slept as if you had not slept in ages. I rinsed your hair and trimmed your beard a bit, but you never woke.”

“I did not get much sleep last night.”

“True. Bryceson?”

He was almost afraid to respond. Her very tone made him skittish. “Alexandra?”

“I rather prefer your hair like a lion’s mane, albeit a tamer lion. Would you mind if I only just trimmed that as well?”

Hawk released the breath he had been holding. “Fine.”

“The longer length fits with your beard, I think, and makes you look wickedly piratical. I expect you are too sleepy to plunder and pillage?”

Hawk bit back a new flurry of mirth. “I am sleepy. I do not think I have felt this comfortable or this relaxed since— Very.”

“Come, let me help you step from the tub, so I can help dry—”

“No, I will step out and dry myself off, after you return to your bedchamber.”

“But Bryce—”

Hawk pointed toward the door. “Out.”

“But we were children together. We swam together. Your scars cannot be that bad.”

“They are.”

Like a heartbroken pup, Alexandra turned away.

Hawk caught her hand to stop her as she passed. “Lexy, you have seen enough of my ugliness. Leave me some dignity. Please.”

Alex sighed and grudgingly recovered her spirits. “Well, if you express it that way, what choice do I have?” She shut the door quietly as she left, and Hawk breathed a heavy sigh.

Never having owned a nightshirt in his life, he prudently donned his dressing gown, thinking that medieval armor might prove worthless with the tenacious Alexandra. He grabbed his cane, snuffed the candles, and made his toe-stubbing way to the bed, cursing as he went.

“Serves you right,” Alex said, from somewhere across the room. “Am I to bathe in the dark, then?”

Hawk climbed into the far side of the bed and arranged the covers. “I humbly beg your forgiveness. Relight the candles, if you wish. The light will not disturb my sleep.”

He heard her exasperated huff, and when the candles were lit, she, too, wore only a dressing gown, and that, not well fastened. Hawk both raged and salivated as he watched her delightful breasts, better fit to spring free than in her seductive night rail the night before. And as she stepped into her dressing room, she gave him an amazing glimpse of one long and shapely leg, ankle to thigh, almost by accident.

Despite himself, Hawk imagined her dropping her dressing gown and stepping naked, about then, into the tub in which he had just bathed. If he had not vowed to set her free, he would go and join her, bedamned to his scars, her modesty, or anything else.

But he did not have the right, and no matter his bride’s reassurances, seeing each other through the gauze of wet garments at the age of ten, and seeing each other naked now, were nothing like.

Her innocence might remain intact, despite her denial to the contrary, but his certainly did not.

“I think you should come and wash my hair,” she called. “I washed yours.”

Hawksworth mentally applauded her tenacity and considered the tower room daybed with longing.

Accidentally, indeed.

He had been right, he mused, as he closed his eyes and drifted toward sleep, living again just might kill him. Then again, for the first time since the battle of Waterloo, living again felt rather… hopeful.

Hawk yawned. For a dead man, he had had a tiring day.

Alex was thoroughly disgruntled by the time she climbed into bed beside her husband. She was no expert, but she did not think that marriage beds were supposed to be tedious or dull as ditchwater. Neither did she believe that any of Hawk’s former mistresses had found him unconscious when they climbed into bed with him.

Though she was very much tempted to slip the bedcovers off and examine him at her leisure, she supposed that in fairness to his dignity, she should wait until she was invited, if the blasted day ever arrived.

She must, also, face the fact that Hawksworth had not chosen her as his bride in the truest sense, which might mean that he did not care to touch her, or could not bear to, which made her want to smack him as he slept, the paper-skulled jackanapes.

To be fair, however, ’twas only a little more than a year ago that he had been so badly wounded, he was taken for dead, and he could still be recovering his strength. She had caught the pain in his eyes too often to count, today, though he tried to hide it.

She had not seen the damage to his leg, not yet, at any rate, but the limb might very well be festering still. Leg wounds often did.

When all was said and done, however, even though she was not his choice, Hawksworth was her first and only choice. In addition, they were already married—till death do them part. But life could seem a very long time, if one was feeling neglected and… needy.

If Hawksworth did not plan to seduce her, then, perhaps, she should try and seduce him.

If only she knew how.

She supposed there were worse schemes than to seduce one’s own husband. Though seduction seemed too good for him, considering his reason for marrying her, and the fact that he waited so blasted long to let her know he lived. Punishment seemed a better choice.

Just thinking about his offenses made her angry all over again. And sad, and hurt, and… devil it, she wanted him to know how much he hurt her. She wanted him to feel her pain.

What she should do, Alex thought, turning yet again in her formerly comfortable bed, was make him worship her, as she had always worshipped him, to the point that she might pay him back in kind.

Let him ache to have her and see her walk away.

To do that, she would have to make him think she wanted him, until he wanted her as desperately. Then, when she was certain of his adoration, she could tell him of her cold-hearted plan to even the score between them. Better yet, she would get one of her friends, or his, to do the telling.

Let him see how that felt.

Then she could walk away.

NINE

ALEX SAT UP IN THE BED, for it seemed, at once, obvious and clear, that only after Hawk understood how much he had hurt her would they be free to go forward with their marriage on an equal footing. In which case, seducing him just might turn out to be the smartest plan she had ever hatched… and she had hatched several noteworthy schemes in her time.

She would do it, she thought, as she lay back against her pillows. As soon as she figured out how one went about conducting a seduction, she would begin a captivating campaign.

Alex smiled in the darkness, wishing she knew who she could ask about seductions in general.

When Chesterfield had embraced and kissed her, sometimes at length, he would tremble and close his eyes, as if against pain, and tell her he wanted her. When she questioned him, he promised after their wedding, he would teach her everything about married love, to set her as afire for him as he was for her.