The Heir - Catherine Coulter [73]
He eased his weight off her, kissed her moist lips lightly, and rolled on his side next to her. The smell of him filled her nostrils. She thought she’d gag. She felt leaden, her body wet and prickly as the cool air settled upon the thin sheen of sweat left by his body.
“I adore you, ma petite cousine,” her said, knowing it his duty as her conqueror, as her lover, as the man she worshiped, to reassure her with binding words that cost him so very little. Certainly it had heightened his vanity to seduce his shy cousin, yet, too, he had guessed that to ensure her absolute compliance, he had also to possess her body. Her furtive virginity had pleased him.
“And I you, Gervaise,” Elsbeth whispered, her body already stilled to its outrage, her memory already hazy from the pain and humiliation of it. She thought how very blessed among women she was, to be loved by one so very handsome as he, with his dark eyes, almond-shaped as were hers, and his flashing white teeth. He was more handsome than the earl, whose very size terrified her, particularly now that she knew what men demanded of women. Her soaring spirit dimmed. If only she could feel her own pleasure, glory in but a moment’s passion. Surely it wasn’t too much to ask. But perhaps it was. Perhaps it was only men who grunted and heaved and yelled when their lust overtook them. She tried to turn her mind away from her selfishness. If there was a lack, it was in her. She must believe that to have him, to let him delight in her body, was enough for her.
“You know, Elsbeth,” he said after a moment, “I spoke to Lady Ann about your mother, Magdalaine. She knew far less than I had expected her to about your mother’s circumstances and her life here in England.”
Elsbeth pulled the edge of his cloak over her and turned on her side to face him. “What do you mean, her circumstances?” Why was he speaking of her long-dead mother? Why didn’t he want to talk about their future together?
He quickly patted her cheek and let his fingers rove over her breast. He had moved too quickly, caught her unawares. Women were strange little creatures. They had to have constant reassurance. He shrugged indifferently and yawned. “Oh, it’s nothing, really,” he said. She smiled, lulled, again satisfied that his attention was focused upon her.
But he couldn’t let it go, not now. Time was growing short. He sensed that the earl wanted him gone, no, the damned earl wanted to kill him. How could he have found out about Elsbeth? Why hadn’t he said anything to him? Why, in God’s name did he even care? But he did; Gervaise saw the anger, the banked rage in his eyes.
He had to hurry. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have said circumstances. My father merely told me some rather unusual stories about your mother. Are you not interested in your mother, Elsbeth?” There was gentle reproach in his voice. Like a trained dog, she heeded it immediately.
“Certainly, it is just that she died so very long ago, when I was but a baby. I have no memory of her at all. As to any stories about her, I should, naturally, be delighted to hear them.”
“Perhaps then sometime soon.” How very easily he could divert her thoughts, to call forth the insecure lonely child, striving so desperately to please. Though he was certain that he had bound her to him, he wondered if her loyalties to Lady Ann and to Arabella might render her incapable of doing what he wished.
He appeared to grow bored with the subject. It was enough for the moment that he had planted seeds of curiosity in her mind. He let his gaze wander up and down her body. He said nothing. In his experience, the woman believed he was thinking only of her body and praying that he believed her beautiful. He