"Yes. Do it," she said breathlessly.
She was wet and ready, and he slid just the bare tip of himself into her.
"Oh." She grunted, her limbs tightening against him.
He kissed her mouth, his tongue gliding over hers, learning the inside of her. With his finger he pressed into her, widening her slightly. She was very tight. He did not know how to keep her from the pain of lost virginity.
She pulled her mouth from his. "It's going to hurt, isn't it?"
Her brown eyes were full of fear and trust. He did not know what to tell her that would ease her.
"Tell me the truth," she said.
"Yes," he said.
"Then do not hesitate," she begged. "Let me get beyond it. Help me to be past it."
Yes, he understood her. And he marveled. She was a remarkable woman, as bold and astute as she had appeared. He could only do as she asked, though it pained him more than it would her; he did not want to hurt her, yet delaying the pain she knew was to come was a torture of its own.
Staring down into her eyes, he thrust. She cried out and closed her eyes, thinking it accomplished. He was only halfway there. Waiting for her to soften around him, he thrust again. Home. She choked out a smothered scream and then instantly was still. He looked down at her, at her tense and expectant face, at her eyes pressed shut, and felt her soften around him still more.
Home at last.
"'Tis done, Clarissa. The worst is done," he said, kissing her mouth softly.
"Good," she said. "Is it over now?"
Beau smiled. "No, not yet."
"Oh." She frowned slightly.
"It gets better," he said, poised above her, holding himself still.
"Oh," she said, trying to look hopeful.
Beau smiled and slowly withdrew. He ignored her look of relief and pumped back into her. Again. She was soft and wet. Again.
"Oh!" Clarissa said, her hands clenching against his back.
Beau grinned in male satisfaction and bit her throat gently.
He reached down and fingered, her pleased to hear her gasp at the contact, more pleased when she groaned and strained against his hand.
Again he withdrew, and again he plunged into her, harder now.
She met him, her hips lifting.
Again.
And again.
He wrapped her legs around his hips, opening her further, plunging deeper. He kissed her, stealing her breath, breathing her scent and her cries until he merged with her completely.
His hands roamed her breasts as he thrust into her, holding back his release until desire consumed her.
"Hurry. Harder," she cried, panting. "More."
He gave her more.
With a scream, she shattered and he fell against her, breaking, feeling her release, pulsing against her spasms of fulfilled desire.
Slowly she put her arms around his neck, and her breathing slowed. With a sigh of surprised contentment, she kissed his cheek. It was the sweetest kiss in all his life.
"Thank you," she said into his ear, and then she softly bit him on the lobe.
He chuckled and said, "Did I manage to drive all thoughts of Ireland from you tonight?"
"Stop talking," she said dreamily, still managing to scold. "You'll ruin it."
He laughed and slid out of her and then nestled her into his arms. They lay in a tangled and easy embrace, content. He ran his fingers through her hair, red even in the dim light of the curtained bed.
"We'll go soon." He knew no explanation would be necessary. There was only one place she wanted to go, and all the world knew of it.
"Good," she said. "But I want to see Montwyn Hall first. All of it."
"You shall. Let's spend Christmas Day here-we'll invite your brothers if you like-and then we'll go to Dantry House, which I think should please you, for the turning of the year. It will be a rough crossing, but as eager as you are, I don't think you'll mind it."
"Mind? I would fly there if I could," she said.
"Not necessary. We'll sail, thank you," he said lightly.
"Thank you again," she whispered, squeezing his hand.
"You are most welcome," he replied. "Consider it a Christmas gift. I shall be giving you the first item on your of husbands: a fine Irish estate."
"It's a home you've given me," she said, "and nothing less."
"I think you'll love it," he said softly, feeling her begin to fall asleep in his arms.
"I know I shall," she murmured on a sigh, slipping into sleep, thoughts of Ireland accompanying her into the darkness.
Her skirts were dirty, her shoes muddy, her bonnet hanging down her back held only by the ribbons at her throat. She could feel them pressing against her throat.
She was not supposed to be here. Her father had forbidden it. But she was with Perry. It was all right if she was with Perry.
The smell of burning was strong, and she wanted to press a hand to her nose to keep out the smell.
The sound of gunshots ripped against her ears, and she had to press her hands there to deaden the retort.
Sobs came at her through the air, but she could not see for all the smoke.
She was high in a tree. Perry had pushed her into the tree and he stood at the bottom, crying. Crying surrounded her from all sides.
A cold wind swept by her, making a path through the smoke, and she could see.
She did not want to see, but she did not know how to keep from seeing.
She should not be here.
Red cloth, soldiers' coats, fire, and smoke. Redcoats and fire. A man, an Irishman, his head coated in pitch, was lit on fire by a British soldier. Pitchcapped. He ran, screaming, tearing at his skull. His only salvation was to tear off his own scalp. He tried. He screamed.
She watched.
Where was Perry?
Redcoats came toward her, shouting. One soldier saw her.
Perry was beneath her, pulling at her foot, shouting at her. Shouting something.
She should not be here.
The soldier who'd spotted her shot the Irishman who had been lit like a torch. He fell. He stopped screaming.
The soldier ran toward her. He did not shout. He was quiet. She could not move, even with Perry's pulling.
She should not be here.
The soldier grabbed her and lifted her in his arms. He pulled Perry behind him and then they ran to a stone wall that contained a field. The field was empty. The stones held nothing.
Nothing.
Only the sound of crying.
She awoke with a cry that strangled itself before it was fully born. Beau jerked upright beside her and reached for her. In the firelight, she looked into his eyes, the dream still as real as her last heartbeat.
And when she looked into his eyes, so green and so full of concern, she recognized him.
He was the one.
"You," she squeezed out past lungs still choked by remembered smoke and fire.
"What is it? You were crying," Beau said, folding her into his arms.
"You!" she repeated, jerking away from his touch. "You're the one."
He was the one. The monster from her nightly torture. He'd haunted her for ten years, and now she shared his bed. It could not be.
"Clarissa," he said slowly, not touching her. "Have a sip of wine. Calm yourself."
"It was you; don't deny it. I recognize you now," she said, the tears starting to press at the backs of her eyes. "You were there. You were in the regiment."
"Yes, with Lindley," he said.
"Lindley wasn't there!" she shouted. He would not make Lindley a part of this. Lindley had no part in it. Only she.