Free Stormswept by Sabrina Jeffries Page A

heavy tears as long / As Juliana sits above / And is not mine to love.’ ”
    “Not quite Huw Morus,” he said. “But it captures how I felt when I feared you might reject me.”
    She clasped the book to her chest. “How could I, when you bring me such wonderful gifts?”
    “So it’s my gifts you married me for, eh? What a greedy little thing you are.”
    As he snatched her to him, she giggled. “I am greedy, you know. For your presence, for your smiles, for—”
    “For this?” He brushed a kiss over her lips.
    She sighed. “Oh yes.”
    “So you like my wedding present,” he said huskily as he reached up to bury his hands in her unbound hair, crushing the strands between his fingers.
    “Aye. ’Tis wonderful.” Remembering the rolled-up parchmentin her bag, she said, “And I have a gift for you, too. I will fetch it.”
    “Later.” He buried his face in her neck, then began to kiss a path along her throat to her ear, making her shiver with excitement. “We’ve all the time in the world for that.”
    True. Later she’d show him the deed to Llynwydd. Later she’d reveal that she, too, could give presents. But now . . .
    He sucked her earlobe, and she moaned. Who’d have thought one’s ears could be so sensitive?
    Then he drew back to shrug off his coat and toss it on a chair, fumbling for the ties of her stomacher. “Are you very tired? Do you wish to sleep?”
    Why was he eyeing her like that? And what did he mean, sleep? Surely he didn’t think they could remain here for hours. “We really don’t have enough time for that,” she said, thinking of the note in her room.
    “Not for sleeping,” he said in a low rumble. “But for other things.”
    “Like what?”
    Without a word, he removed her stomacher. “Has your mother or Lettice ever explained what a man and his wife do in the bedroom after they’re married?”
    She blushed. “Like kissing and . . . and touching? Mama said it was only permitted between married people.”
    “Yes, and we’re married now.” His intense stare frightened her a little. “Did she tell you what kind of touching takes place?”
    “Not exactly.” Thinking of when he’d caressed her between the legs, she turned a bright red. “I imagine it would be like . . . what we did before.”
    “It will. But we shall do much more,” he rasped.
    Oh no, now? What if they missed the coach? What if they were discovered? “We don’t have time to do ‘much more,’ ” she said, unable to hide the panic in her voice.
    He searched her face. “Is that what’s bothering you—our lack of time? Or are you simply scared of what we’re going to do?”
    She hesitated. He looked as if he might eat her alive, and she was reminded that they hadn’t known each other long. “I don’t know.”
    “Tell me this, then. Do you like it when I kiss you?”
    “Yes, I do,” she couldn’t help admitting, afraid to meet his gaze. “I know it shows I’m not well-bred, but I can’t help it and—”
    “Wait, wait.” He lifted her chin. “What do you mean?”
    “Mama explained that men have strong feelings that well-bred women lack. She said only women of impure blood like Lettice feel that way, so since I . . . well . . . get excited when you touch and kiss me, I figured I must have impure blood.”
    He looked stunned.
    She swallowed hard. “You don’t mind that I have impure blood, do you? Mama says all the Welsh and Scottish and Irish have it, and even a few Englishwomen, although well-bred women like me aren’t supposed to.”
    Something flickered in his eyes. “Your mother was wrong. Plenty of Englishwomen, even well-bred ones, have the feelings you speak of, although they pretend otherwise.”
    “Why would they pretend?”
    “Because people like your mother hold them to such animpossible standard that they don’t dare admit the truth.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Believe me, you have the purest blood of any woman around, and your