The Wedding Bed (The Sun Never Sets, Book One) Page 12

  The rounded head of his shaft brushed up against her sex, swollen and moist now, guarded by enticing chestnut curls.

  Yes. By all that was holy, yes.

  With a toss of her head, Calla brushed her damp mane of hair over her shoulder and began a slow yet steady descent. Derek let out a husky moan as she clutched him gently by his shaft and guided him inside her. Her nether lips slid downward, gently parting to slip over the swollen head of his erection and slide down his cock, sheathing him in her wet, silky warmth. He could have found his release that instant, but he gritted his teeth and willed himself to hold back.

  She lifted herself up, then down, taking him more deeply inside her, slipping and sliding over his length, teasing him with the hot, wet friction of her cunny. He felt her inner walls stretch to accommodate him, tightly clutching his cock. An expression of feminine confidence came over her delicate features. Her lips curved in a smile of wicked delight as she balanced herself atop him. She arched her back and drew her slim, elegant hands up her torso, cupping her breasts and teasing her nipples.

  Derek groaned and reached for her, but Calla remained firmly in control.

  Abruptly shifting positions, she pressed her palms flat against his chest, restraining his movements. Soon she began to lift and thrust her hips with increasing speed and certainty, swallowing him completely, establishing a rhythm that drove him wild. Her soft, perfect breasts bobbed up and down with her exertions. Her sweet, soft ass brushed against his hips. Her nipples came to tight, hard points. Her eyes glassed over and her breathing grew shallow.

  Madness. It was mad how much he wanted her. Madness he never wanted to end.

  “Yes,” he murmured, gripping her hips, arching his pelvis in time to her motions. “That’s it, jaanu. That’s it.”

  Her breath fell against his neck, hot and shallow. He met her fervent pace, driving deep and hard into her. Suddenly Calla stiffened above him. She let out a cry of release as a shudder tore through her body.

  Derek allowed himself the unparalleled gratification of watching his new wife as she found her satisfaction. Her eyes fluttered shut; her lips were swollen and parted. Her dark hair swirled over her shoulders in wild disarray. A flush spread across her chest; her nipples were drawn tight and hard. A silky sheen of perspiration glistened on her skin, coating her body with a fine mist that sparkled in the amber light.

  Pleasure swelled within him, pleasure so intense it was almost pain. Unable to hold back any longer, Derek drove forward once again. Two hard, sharp thrusts were all he needed to reach his own climax. He poured into her with an explosion that rocked him to his very toes, leaving him physically drained.

  Calla collapsed on top of him. His strength depleted, he cradled her body against his while they both fought to regain control. He traced his hand over the lush curve of her hip, her buttocks, and her breasts in a relaxed, unthinking motion. Like breaking free of a raging fever, he slowly regained his senses. His ragged breathing became almost level. Rational thought returned. He was once again aware of the chill of the night air, of an owl hooting outside the bedroom window, a carriage passing in the street.

  Calla shifted against him.

  "Are you all right?" he asked.

  She snuggled against his chest. "I didn't think it would be so . . ." She paused abruptly and peered up at him from beneath a veil of thick, sooty lashes. A look of wonder transformed her face. “Could we have made a child?” she asked, pressing a hand against the soft, flat expanse of her belly.

  “Perhaps. We won’t know for weeks.”

  At the reminder of the potential consequences of their union, a wisp of tension coiled through Derek’s chest. Loath as he was to address it, the issue would have to be dealt with eventually. Since she brought it up, he might as well face the problem straight-away.

  “If we do,” he said, “in the eyes of Society, the babe will be of mixed heritage.”

  Calla was silent for a long moment. Derek had done nothing but state the obvious, but perhaps in her haste to see her mother and siblings provided for, she hadn’t considered the full ramifications of their marriage. The dark blood of India would run through their children’s veins—there was no way to hide it or prevent it. They would never be accepted in proper Society. He glanced down, watching her face as she mulled over his words.

  Finally she released a deep, almost dreamy sigh. “Yes,” she said, “our children will have that gift.”

  Gift.

  The word was so contrary to Derek’s expectation of what she would say it rendered him speechless. The taunts that had followed him through his childhood echoed through his mind. Half-caste, chee-chee, dirt.

  Rather than be appalled by that, his new bride could only smile. Gift, she said.

  As though it were a blessing, rather than a curse.

  Chapter Eleven

  Calla leaned against the plush velvet seat of the carriage, turning her face to the passing streetscape. She couldn’t remember ever having seen a more somber day. Thick grey clouds hovered overhead and frosty gusts of wind whipped through the alleyways. Pedestrians, huddled deep within their coats with their heads tucked low, scurried to their destinations. Even vendors who normally crowded the streets were largely absent, having surrendered to the foul nature of the day.

  The unrelenting gloom seemed to be affecting her as well. She felt restless and anxious, more than a little worried about Ram. Three days had passed since she and Derek had made their trek to the East End to inquire after the boy. Surely Ram should have heard by now that she was looking for him, yet she’d received no word back. The long stretches of silence were wearing on her nerves.

  After a moment, she noted that their carriage was carrying them away from the Thames, rather than toward it. “I thought we were going to the docks,” she said.

  “Not today. Madame LeReau is expecting you.”

  “Madame LeReau?”

  “A modiste. Her shop is just off Hillary Lane.”

  Gowns. Again. Calla thought they had dismissed that tiresome topic days ago. Apparently Derek had made the appointment without consulting her. The thought of spending her morning engaged in the frivolous pastime of selecting gowns, while Ram might be lying somewhere hurt or in danger, struck her as unconscionable. She said as much to Derek.

  He shook his head. “If Ram is still in London, we can assume by now he has heard we’re looking for him. Obviously he feels there is greater safety in hiding or he would have made his whereabouts known to you.”

  “But what if—”

  “Calla,” he interrupted, “be reasonable. One does not put out a fire by fanning the flames. Inspector Nevins will continue to make his inquiries, we will continue to make ours. I suggest we do so tomorrow evening at Lady Williston’s gala, where the gentlemen from the Custom House will be in attendance.”

  Calla blinked in surprise. It wasn’t Derek’s suggestion that caught her off-guard, but his use of her given name. Until that moment, her name had been reserved as a whispered endearment, nothing more than a silky breath against her ear while he stroked her body and turned her limbs to liquid fire. This was the first time he’d spoken it outside of her bedroom.

  Surely that should register as a sign of some monumental shift between them, but she couldn’t begin to fathom what it might mean. All she knew was that her sense of balance had been thoroughly thrown off-kilter. In India she’d been so sure and confident, but she hadn’t been able to establish a secure footing in London.

  A large part of that, obviously, was her relationship with Derek. How was it possible they could enjoy such steaming physical intimacy at night, only to revert to cool politeness during the day? The juxtaposition was entirely unnerving. But worst of all was her inability to make sense of her own feelings. Theirs was not a love match, she reminded herself. From a logical point of view, she should have been delighted at the marital routine they’d established. She should have been thrilled that they’d managed to maintain a state of emotional independenc
e. But victory sat uneasily on her shoulders.

  She didn’t want to need more from Derek Arindam Keating than he appeared willing to give.

  But she did.

  Oh, she did.

  Calla clenched her fists in her lap in silent frustration. How to change her course? How could she stop dreading the moment when Derek left her bed at night after their lovemaking? How could she stop herself from longing for his touch in the early morning hours when she woke, feeling drowsy and achingly alone, only to hear him stirring about his room? Although she’d successfully resisted the impulse to call him back to her bed, the temptation had nearly overwhelmed her.

  She bit back a sigh, reining in her wayward thoughts as their carriage rumbled around a corner. “This is very kind of you,” she said, “but it isn’t necessary. I’m sure one of the gowns I brought from India will suffice.”

  “Hardly,” he returned, his gaze sweeping over the tired navy blue cloak she wore. “This will be your first introduction to society as Lady Keating. I suspect you would like to be presented wearing something other than your missionary’s costume.”

  Irritation flashed through her. “Forgive me for lacking the proper vanity. Obviously I should take better care with my appearance.”

  “This has nothing to do with vanity. This is London. As your husband, it is my duty to offer you protection.”

  “Protection? What has that to do with buying new frocks?”

  “The fine lords of England no longer attire themselves in steel and chain mail when they go into battle. Now the preferred garb is silk and satin, and the armaments of choice are rumors, backbiting, and innuendo. If you are to be presented to Society as my wife, you will need all the protection you can get.”

  “Really? Are you so very awful?”

  “Not awful,” he replied carefully, evidently giving her question more weight than she’d intended. “Merely an outsider.”

  She eyed him thoughtfully. “That explains it.”

  “Explains what?”

  “Some men use money as a tool. You seem to use it as a weapon.”

  “It happens to be a very effective weapon. Particularly in my case.”

  “But you’re a lord of the realm.”

  He let out a sharp breath and turned away from her, looking out the carriage window. “Yes. A lord of the realm.”

  It was impossible to miss the mocking disdain in his voice. And with good reason, she supposed, for the title didn’t entirely suit him. The Tiger of the Thames. Now that was fitting title. Neither British nor Indian, but a nation entirely unto himself. Large, sleek, exotic, powerful, cruel. No, not cruel, she amended silently. Just…fierce.

  The half-caste lord pushed to the fringes of polite society, treated with the barest, brittle veneer of civility. A man who’d accustomed himself to the scorn of others. A man who built an English fortress in which to live, but remained as untouchable as the Dalit. A small corner of her heart ached for him.

  “Is that why you didn’t wear your kurta at our wedding?”

  “A kurta?” He made no effort to hide his disdain for the garment. “I think not. Standards must be kept—even by someone like me.”

  “I see.” Calla licked her suddenly dry lips. Was the insult directed against her, himself, or their arranged marriage? She couldn’t decide. In any event, it didn’t bode well. At a loss for words, she drew her hand to the window, causing the cluster of silver bangles she wore at her wrist to jingle like bells.

  “Speaking of standards,” he said, “you’ll need jewelry. Real jewelry—not cheap Delhi trinkets.”

  “I beg your pardon,” she bristled. “They may appear to be nothing but trinkets to you, but they are very dear to me. They were a gift. I couldn’t bear to part with them.”

  “I see.” A look of possessive heat flashed in his stormy gray eyes. “You’re wearing another man’s jewelry.”

  “What?” she blinked. “No. Of course not.” Her hand moved automatically to the thin silver bangles that encircled her wrists. “Do you see the tiny stones on each one? They’re birthstones. I’m wearing one bracelet for each of my sisters, and one for my mother. They gave them to me before I left Calcutta. That way I would always have my family with me.”

  “My apologies. I didn’t understand their significance.” He paused, studying her intently, then arched one dark brow upward. “And the bracelets you wear about your ankles?”

  “Oh, those.” Calla’s cheeks heated. She hesitated for a moment, debating the depths of her honesty. At length she replied, “I once saw a beautiful woman dancing in a bazaar. She wore similar bracelets about her ankles. I thought they were so…” She paused, searching for the right word. She had been entranced by the woman’s seductive power, by the beauty in her movements, her confidence and grace. Normally she was frugal with the household budget, spending money on her mother and sisters rather than herself. But in a rare indulgent splurge, she bought a set of ankle bracelets and wore them hidden beneath her gowns. “Enticing,” she finished, at a loss to adequately describe the feelings of wonder that had swept through her when she’d watched the woman dance.

  “Indeed,” Derek returned. He shifted slightly, brushing his thigh lightly against hers. “Particularly when they’re the only thing you’re wearing.”

  A shiver ran through her that had nothing to do with the weather. A heady mixture of pride and pleasure swelled within her, making her nearly light-headed. Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. Not just his words, but the way he spoke. It shouldn’t be possible for a man to set her pulse racing with so light a touch, so few words. Yet he did. It seemed the only defenses Calla needed were ones to protect her heart from him.

  Their carriage rumbled to a stop before their destination. She glanced out at an attractive brick storefront that was set apart from the other shops on the street by lacy wrought-iron scrollwork flanking the window and doorway. Derek exited the conveyance, then turned to assist Calla. Taking her elbow, he guided her up the wide brick steps to the shop’s front door. “Madame LeReau is expecting you.”

  “You’re not coming in?”

  “To a modiste’s shop? Hardly.” A wry smile curved his lips. “The English have a saying about that. Something to do with teats on a bull.”

  She tried to form a smile in return, but it felt false on her lips. She tilted back her head and searched his eyes. “What about you?” she asked. “Where will you go?”

  “I have business to attend aboard the Makara. I’ll send the carriage back for you.”

  With a polite bow, he released her arm and turned. Calla watched him walk away, feeling absurdly bereft at the loss of his company. Moreover, she had hoped for his guidance in navigating current London fashion.

  “Wait!” she called after him. “What would you have me buy?”

  “Anything you like, so long as it is both expensive and exquisite.” He stepped inside the carriage and pulled the door shut behind him.

  Apparently he was not pining for her company the way she pined for his. Teats on a bull. Ha. Very well. Neither was she a lovesick cow. She was a young, independent woman, fully capable of making her own choices. Let him go.

  Giving herself a mental shake, she stiffened her spine, squared her shoulders, and moved resolutely into the welcoming warmth of Madame LeReau’s shop.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Towering red brick walls surrounded the vast complex of wharves, piers, and warehouses that made up the East India Docks. Centuries ago the walls had been erected to protect the docked vessels from theft and piracy. As Derek’s carriage carried him through the heavy wooden gates that regulated the flow of traffic, the irony was not lost on him that the thieves who currently preyed on the ships came from within.

  There were newer docks, of course. Other places where his money would have been happily received in exchange for a wide berth in which to unload his cargo. Most notably the West India Docks, London Docks, and even the St. Katharine docks—though the latter was a poor choice for deep-bo
ttomed, seafaring vessels like the Makara.

  But habit and complacency kept him from taking his business elsewhere. For years he’d harbored a vague notion that he felt an allegiance to the East India Docks, for it was there that he’d first gained his footing in trade. From those docks he had built both his fortune and his reputation. It was a sentimental pull that brought him back month after month.

  At least that was the lie he told himself. The lie he had been content to believe for so long. Now he shrugged it off like a jacket that no longer fit, one that pinched and pulled uncomfortably at the seams. He faced the truth. From the very start, he’d done business at the East India Docks because he’d wanted to be seen. The greater the fortune he amassed, the less inclined he was to take his business elsewhere. He wanted to rub his success in the faces of the men who ruled the East India Company. It had been vanity that had brought him there, and nothing else. Pure, utter conceit.

  He tapped the missive he’d received from Nathan Bedsford against his thigh. It was rare for the Makara’s captain to contact him directly, and rarer still for him to request Derek’s assistance in resolving a matter relating to the ship’s cargo. It did not bode well.

  He cast a glance through his carriage window. The tidal fog, normally dissipated by mid-morning, hung heavier than usual. It shrouded the masts and sails of the docked vessels in an icy mist, giving the normally bustling docks a bleak, sinister appearance. Or perhaps it was just his mood that painted such a grim picture.

  His carriage rolled past a group of lascars huddled together beneath the meager shelter of a warehouse awning, begging for work. They were dressed in typical native attire: thin cotton pants and jacket, cloth shoes, their heads bare. A few wrapped blankets around their shoulders for warmth. Their clothing might have sufficed in Calcutta, but was of little defense against the unseasonably frigid London air.

  He scanned the lascar’s faces, looking for one who might answer to Ram Daas’s description. No green, frightened, sixteen year old boy there. Just worn-out men, their shoulders stooped and their legs bowed, their faces pinched with cold. Men who’d grown old sailing the trade routes, bringing Indian goods to the shores of England, where they had the misfortune to outlive their usefulness. It was nothing he hadn’t seen before—perhaps even hundreds of times before. Abandoned seamen resorting to begging, thievery, and random menial tasks just to survive. A scene so commonplace it was rendered nearly invisible to him.