Lady Adalyn (The Saga Of Wolfbridge Manor Book 1) by Sahara Kelly (latest ebook reader TXT) 📕

Adalyn found he was helping her turn on her side as well, away from him, so that his front was tucked up against her back. His thighs moved and touched hers, almost as if she was sitting on them, but lying down.

“It’s known as spooning.” He slipped an arm around her. “We fit together like two spoons in a kitchen drawer.”

“I haven’t heard of it,” she whispered.

“Started in northern Europe, I believe. Warmth up there is important.”

And it was warm. She found the heat of his body against her back was soothing, comforting and blissful. His chest seared her spine and his thighs and shins toasted the rest of her.

“Are you comfortable like this?” His voice was gentle and soft as he ran a hand over the sleeve of her nightgown to her shoulder and back down again. She wanted to purr.

“Yes,” she murmured. “So good, Jeremy.”

“I’m glad.” His breath tickled her ear.

“I shouldn’t like this as much as I do.” She snuggled backward, fitting her bottom into his groin. And becoming aware of the very male hardness pressing against her. She stilled.

“I like it very much too, as you can tell.” He shifted, nesting himself against the softness between her legs. “But I’m here to hold you safe in my arms, and to see that you sleep. That’s all.”

Drowsy now, Adalyn nodded. “Thank you, Jeremy…thank you…”

She spared a moment to wonder what had happened to him that would send him here, to her, and to her bed. Sleep claimed her before she could ask.

And when she awoke in the morning, he was gone.

Dear Diary,

The sun has barely risen, and I find myself here at my desk already, eager to write down some of the astounding events of last evening.

I will begin with dinner, another of Evan’s masterpieces with my favourite mint sauce to complement a lovely leg of lamb. I indulged my appetite, but managed to not overeat, although I confess it was no easy task.

It was delightful to be permitted my first taste of brandy afterward, when we adjourned to the parlour. I could not possibly be missish enough to demand tea, when my companions were sipping the wondrous liquor. Giles, as always, conceded to my request, and brought me a lovely crystal glass with a small serving.

Honesty compels me to confess that it is burning, strong, and made my eyes water after the very first sip. But then…oh the delight of the spreading warmth throughout one’s body. I finished my allotted dram and now can claim to understand the appeal of such a beverage. Giles has promised to let me taste what he refers to as a ‘drop of Highland magic’, in other words Scotch whisky. I’m hoping I might find that palatable as well.

But now I must speak of things that occurred during our evening. Things that are both shocking, embarrassing, and yet liberating, all at the same time.

Although I have written about the healing taking place on my body, I suppose I was too forward in thinking that the bruises would vanish without my ever having to acknowledge that they existed. Last night proved otherwise.

Since this is the first time I have maintained a diary, I must include mention of the night I received some of these marks—the night of my wedding to Sir Ridley Wilkerson.

It was an unpleasant introduction into the details of the marriage bed. And that is the best I can say about it.

As an untried woman, I had hoped for some gentleness, some consideration of my innocent state. But his Lordship thought otherwise and had me remove my clothing in front of him while he watched. As if I were some kind of slave, he would poke, pinch, stroke and slap those portions of my body he found to be of interest.

I cannot remember if he ever looked me in the eyes, but I steeled myself to accept his unwelcome touches..

I had to turn around, suffer the indignity of him prodding my behind, stretching the cheeks apart to the point of pain. When I gasped, he laughed. It was, unfortunately, the sound he had awaited.

I learned in the next hours that my new husband only became aroused when he inflicted pain. I was forced to bend over the bed while he lashed my nakedness with his riding crop. I sobbed, of course, because it hurt, but I managed to muffle my sounds in the linens.

After he had administered sufficient punishment, he made me turn over, spread my legs and accept his intrusion. It was unimaginably painful and this time I cried out when he forced that male part of himself into me. The sound made him smile and thrust himself quite violently, as his hands grabbed and squeezed my breasts until I wanted to scream in agony.

Those bruises, still visible after all these weeks, play a pivotal role in what happened this evening.

I shall not go on talking about that man’s treatment of me. My marriage was a terrible mistake and my husband a brute. I know this now, and may God forgive me for being thankful the man is dead. He will never hurt me again, physically, and I refuse to allow these memories linger unspoken, lest they continue to damage me in other ways.

I had hoped, in my naiveté, to keep such things to myself and let time eventually heal both body and spirit. But I underestimated the damage that had been done to my person.

The night before his death, my husband decided I should be lashed beneath my breasts. He tied my hands to the bedposts and proceeded to do just that, with his riding crop. When I refused to cry out, being so angry that I could hold my tongue for a little while, he put down the crop and picked up his cane. The atrocities he committed around my ribs defy description. In truth, I believed my bones to be broken, it