“You made me this way.” She cupped her hand over his, kneading her breast with his hand, bearing down on his rigid cock with her hips. “Roll me over,” she urged, her voice husky with want. “Fuck me deeply. Let me hold you.”

It was the last that moved him. He yanked free of her with a curse, pulling her onto her back so he could loom over her. Elizabeth spread her legs wide in welcome and moaned aloud when he sank to the hilt inside of her.

He stilled then, staring down at her in the faint light from the banked fire. Backlit as he was, she couldn’t see his features, but his eyes glittered with an unmistakable hunger.

Her heart ached with longing. Marcus Ashford belonged to her, and yet he would never truly be hers.

At least she had this. His passion, his desire. It would have to be enough since it was all he would give her. The feeling of his cock stroking in deep inner caresses, the clenching of his hard, muscular buttocks as he propelled himself into her, the scent of his skin, heated and damp with sweat, the sound of his guttural cries of pleasure.

She wrapped her arms around him and held him as if she would never let go, absorbing what she could of him, until finally, with silent tears, she sank into blissful relief with him.

Flat on his back, Marcus stared up through the darkness to the canopy above. Against his side Elizabeth curled, her thigh atop his, her arm across his waist. The warm, soft feel of her curves was heaven after the loneliness of their wedding night. Dawn had arrived without him sleeping a wink. He’d paced for hours, fighting the urge to return to her, to hold her, as he had during the nights of their affair. He’d thought the physical distance would help him find objectivity, but when he awoke to find her gone, he’d realized how hopeless that endeavor was.

Their row, and the gulf it created, had shown him the folly in pushing her away. Damn it, she was his wife! He’d waited all these years to have her, only to turn away from her once she was his.

Elizabeth stirred, and then sat up. Heedless of her nakedness, she settled back on her heels. She presented such a vision of loveliness Marcus almost forgot to breathe. Wanting to see her in all her glory, he slid from the bed to light the bedside taper.

“If you walk out that door, don’t visit me again,” she said coldly.

He stilled, fighting the urge to snap back. While her threat to bar him from her bed was not one he would accept, ever, he understood it was his own churlish behavior that prompted her to throw down the gauntlet.

“I simply wish to throw some light on the situation.”

She made no sound, but he could sense her sudden relief and closed his eyes. He had every right to protect her, and his goal had been worthy, but the execution had been a terrible mistake. How much damage had he inflicted? She said nothing of St. John to him … she didn’t trust him …

“Are you still angry?” she asked hesitantly.

He sighed aloud. “I haven’t yet decided. What happened today? Tell me everything.”

Behind him, she shifted uncomfortably and his hackles rose. “St. John approached me. H-he claims to want to help me. I believe he—”

“In what way did he offer to help?”

“He didn’t say. Your mother arrived. He was unable to finish speaking.”

“Dear God,” he exclaimed, horrified at the thought of St. John in such close proximity to his wife and his mother.

“He knows who desires Hawthorne’s journal.”

“Of course he does.” His voice was gritty with renewed anger. He should have killed the pirate.

Leaving the bed, Marcus took a moment to stoke the fire and relight the extinguished taper. Then he returned to Elizabeth and eyed her suspiciously. “You are not the type of woman who succumbs to fits of vapors. You forget I have seen you shoot a man without a qualm. You are hiding something from me.” He arched a brow in silent query.

Her gaze met his.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier, Elizabeth?”

“I was feeling cross.”

Marcus narrowed his gaze. He knew she could be spiteful when angered, but she was not stupid. Anger alone would not prevent her from protecting herself. Something was amiss, he could feel it. She was attempting to conceal information and he considered all possibilities. Perhaps the pirate had threatened her in some manner. If so, he intended to discern the cause and attend to it directly. More than he already had.

“Where did you go?” she asked when the silence stretched out.

“To locate St. John, of course.”

Her eyes widened and then dropped to his torso. She gaped. “Look at you! You’ve been hurt.”

“He revealed even less information than you, dear wife. But I’m certain he now understands the foolishness of approaching you again.”

“What did you do?” Her fingertips drifted with heartening concern to the spreading bruise that marred his ribs.

He shrugged, completely unaffected by her horrified gaze. “St. John and I simply engaged in casual discourse.”

She poked brutally into the swelling and he winced. “That does not come from talking,” she argued. “And look at your hand.” She examined his swollen knuckles and shot him a chastising glance.

Marcus grinned. “Better you should look at St. John’s face.”

“Ridiculous. I want you to stay away from him, Marcus.”

“I will,” he agreed, “If he stays away from you.”

“Aren’t you curious as to what manner of help he’s offering?”

Marcus grunted. “He made no offer of assistance to me. He is deceiving you, love. Attempting to win your trust so you will give the book to him.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to argue further, then thought better of it. It was best if Marcus didn’t dig too far into Christopher St. John. It was miraculous that nothing more than blows were exchanged. She marveled at her husband’s restraint. That the pirate continued his activities chafed Marcus, she had no doubt, but he forced himself to wait. For what, she was not certain. There must be something Eldridge wanted with St. John, or they would have disposed of him long ago.

She was startled when Marcus reached for her hand and tugged her face-first onto the bed. He rolled over her, caging her to the mattress. It was then she noted his erection, the tip of it pressing into the curve of her derriere.

“You are my wife,” he growled in her ear. “I expect you to tell me of the things that happen in your life, to share things with me, even if they seem inconsequential, but most especially when the matter is so dire. I will not tolerate your lying to me or withholding things from me. Do I make myself clear?”

She pursed her lips. The brute.

He thrust his hips forward and his cock glided through the valley between her buttocks, his path eased by the weeping head. “I will not have you putting your life in danger. You should never leave the house without me. Can you understand how worried I was? Wondering if you were in danger … wondering if you needed me.”

“You are aroused,” she replied, surprised.

“You are naked,” he said simply, as if only that was enough. “You must learn to trust me, Elizabeth.” His lips moved against her shoulder as he stroked himself with her prone body. “I will try to be worthy of it.”

Elizabeth’s hands fisted in the sheets and she hid her sudden tears. “I’m sorry I made you angry.”

Marcus nuzzled her throat. “I apologize to you, as well.”

“I accept, on the condition you share my bed.” Elizabeth moaned as he thrust again, a slow deliberate glide that left a damp trail behind. Heat blossomed instantly. With a forlorn sigh, she closed her eyes. She should have told him the truth when she had the chance. Now he would always wonder why she hid it from him.

“My bed is bigger,” he drawled, slightly breathless.

Her heart swelled with tenderness. The urge to tell him about her kinship with St. John was nearly overwhelming. But now was not the time.

She arched her hips upward impatiently. “If we switched locations, would you hurry?”

Lifting enough to allow her to her knees, he entered her from behind with a single powerful stroke.

“Sweet Elizabeth,” he groaned, his cheek to her back. “We can switch rooms tomorrow.”

Elizabeth waited in the far reaches of the garden. Pacing with impatience, she spun about quickly as she heard approaching footsteps.

“Mr. James! Thank God, you’ve come.”

Avery stopped before her, frowning. “Why have you sent for me?” He glanced around. “Where is Lord Westfield?”

She took his arm and tugged him behind a tree. “I require your assistance and Westfield must not know of it.”

“I beg your pardon? Your husband is the agent assigned to assist you.”

She gripped his arm tighter to convey her urgency. “Christopher St. John approached me yesterday. He claims to be brother to Hawthorne. I must know the truth.”

Avery was stunned into silence.

Looking over his shoulder, she watched the path behind him. “Westfield was furious when he learned of the meeting. He left the house to search for St. John.” She lowered her voice. “They exchanged blows.”

Avery’s mouth quirked with a rare smile. “Well, then. All was well.”

“How can you say that?” she cried.

“Lord Westfield was merely making a point. And releasing some steam in the process.”

“How can you condone such rash behavior?”

“I do not condone it, Lady Westfield, but I can understand his motivation. Your husband is an excellent agent. I am certain he did not go into the encounter without careful planning. He would never have allowed emotion to rule his actions.”

Elizabeth snorted. “I assure you, he was highly strung when he departed.”

Avery tried to look reassuring. “I believe Lord Westfield is more than capable of handling this matter, if you will just trust him to do so.”

“I cannot go to him with conjecture.” She clasped her hands together imploringly.

“What is it you would ask of me that you would not ask of your husband?”

“I need you to research St. John’s story. If what he says is true, we must wonder at the irony of two brothers working on opposite sides of the law. Hawthorne was killed and my brother wounded while investigating St. John. That cannot be a coincidence.” She clutched his hand. “And Lord Eldridge must remain ignorant of this development.”

“Why?”

“Because he would certainly tell Westfield. I’m not certain how my husband will take the news. I need some time to sort this out.”

“You sound as if you believe.”

Elizabeth nodded miserably. “I have no reason not to. The resemblance between St. John and Hawthorne is startling, and the tale is so fantastic how can it not be true?”

“I fear you may be doing a disservice to his lordship.”

“A little more time,” she begged. “It’s all I ask. I promise to tell him everything you discover.”

He released a long-suffering sigh. “Very well. I will investigate, and keep my silence in the interval.”

Elizabeth’s heart gave a tiny leap of grateful relief. “Thank you, Mr. James. You have always been a dear friend to me.”

Flushing a dull red, he said, “Don’t thank me just yet. We may both end up regretting that I agreed to this business.”

Over the next few weeks, Elizabeth accustomed herself to married life with Marcus. The Ashfords remained in residence at his insistence. He rested easier knowing she was not alone and Elizabeth appreciated the company while he attended to his affairs.

At Eldridge’s insistence, they attended the occasional Society event, ones most likely to attract St. John. The pirate had managed to throw off the agents tracking his whereabouts and hadn’t been seen in London since the afternoon he’d spoken with her. His sudden departure was a mystery that set them all on edge.

The threat to her was always on Marcus’s mind. Guards were stationed in and around the house, dressed in Westfield livery to avoid arousing the suspicions of his family. The endless waiting made her husband as restless as a caged animal. She’d known from their very first dance together that he was a man who held a tight rein on his passions. He unleashed them fully on her.

He held nothing back. When he was angry, he yelled. When he was pleased, he laughed. When he was aroused, he made love to her, regardless of what time of day it was or where they were at the moment. Twice he left the Lords in the middle of the afternoon to seduce her. She had never felt so important to someone, so necessary. Blatantly possessive, he showed no hesitation in speaking harshly to any man who acted too familiarly with her.

For her own part, Elizabeth found that her jealousy did not ease with her new ownership. It was a miserable personality flaw to be cursed with in a society where dalliance was not only widespread, but expected. Marriage only increased Marcus’s appeal to other women. His vibrant energy was now mellowed to the slow, languid grace of a man who was well-loved often by a passionate woman. It made him irresistible.

One evening, during a masked ball, Elizabeth’s jealousy finally got the better of her. As Marcus moved toward the beverage tables, she noticed several women choosing the same moment to replenish their own glasses. Looking away in disgust, Elizabeth spied the Dowager Duchess of Ravensend coming toward her.

“Do you see the way women follow my husband?” she complained, rising from a quick curtsy.

Her Grace shrugged. “Masked events give license to cast off what little restraint Society clings to. Note the shaking palm tree in the far right corner? Lady Grenville and Lord Sackton have abandoned their spouses in favor of some exhibitionist sport. And Claire Milton returned from the garden with twigs in her hair. You should not be surprised they sniff after Westfield like mongrel bitches.”

“I’m not,” she announced curtly. “But I won’t tolerate it. Excuse me, Your Grace.” With rapid strides, she moved into the next room to find her husband.