Lord Deverill's Heir by Catherine Coulter (books to read for 13 year olds .txt) 📕

“Justin,” she whispered, “no.” Her body bowed with pain, her soul empty of anything she knew or understood.

He growled deep in his throat, released her hands and dug his fingers into her hips, jerking her upward. He tore through her maidenhead and drove hard to her womb.

It was over quickly. He was panting hard over her until suddenly he froze and she felt his seed deep inside her. A man’s release. He was over her, his head bowed, his strong arms trembling as he held himself above her. A man was inside her. Justin was inside her. Her husband had forced her, had hurt her, because he believed she and the comte were lovers.

Arabella was drained of fight, of courage. She’d told him it wasn’t true, but he hadn’t believed her. The pain lessened a bit as he pulled slowly out of her, for his seed eased his way. Still, it hurt and she moaned, hating herself for it, but unable to hold it close in her throat.

He wondered if he could stand, but he managed to. His fury was exhausted.

She was staring up at him. She looked devastated. No, surely that wasn’t right. Had she expected to fool him? Well, she had, damn her. She’d been a virgin. He’d not expected that. He met her eyes, saw the pain in them, the awful awareness of what he’d done to her, and for an instant, he doubted.

She had been a virgin. She’d told him she and the comte weren’t lovers.

But then, clearly in his mind’s eye, he saw the comte coming out of the barn, his swaggering stride as meaningful as a man’s crow of victory. And then she had come out of the barn, disheveled, tumbled, yes, tumbled, the look of a woman who had been made love to, thoroughly and with great enjoyment. It hardened his soul against her. She was perfidious. She had betrayed him, then lied to him. He began to turn away from her, still not saying a word, but then looked down at her. Her legs were sprawled. Her virgin’s blood and his seed mixed with the white cream were on her thighs and on the bedcovers. He didn’t like himself at that moment. He had never hurt a woman in his life, never. He’d been an animal. But no, no. He’d been justified. He hadn’t hurt her overly, he’d merely taken her as a man had to take a woman to consummate the marriage. He’d been fast, gotten it over with quickly. He’d used cream. He hadn’t raped her. He would have been justified had he raped her, but he hadn’t, no, he’d merely gotten it done with.

She’d lied to him.

He grabbed a towel from the washbasin and tossed it to her. She made no move to catch it. It fell over her belly. “Clean yourself. You are a mess.”

Arabella still didn’t move. She only stared at him, not really seeing him, not wanting to see him, for that would burn into her soul what he had done. He believed her capable of such deceit. It made no sense to her, but he believed it. It had made him cruel, brutal.

He said to her with empty bitterness, “Don’t look at me like that. It isn’t any of my doing. I merely did what I had to do to secure my inheritance. I did not rape you. I used cream.” He plowed his fingers through his hair, standing it on end. “Damnation, so I was wrong about your virginity. That came as a big surprise. How very nobel of the damned comte to leave you intact for your wedding night, to grant me the honor of deflowering you. Did you convince him to leave you intact? Did you tell him that I wasn’t that big a fool? Or perhaps he was the one who didn’t want me to guess that I wasn’t your first man? He was afraid I’d kill him outright?”

His gray eyes narrowed. His voice continued bleak. “I want to kill the little bastard. I am thinking hard about what I shall to do him. Of course, there are certainly other ways. You have fooled me yet again, but now I understand. There are so many other ways, are there not? Did he sodomize you? Yes, very probably. And, of course you pleased him with your lovely mouth. A man—a Frenchman in particular—enjoys that as much as coming inside a woman.”

What was he talking about? What did sodomize mean? What did he mean about her mouth? She was shaking her head. Words still seemed beyond her. She felt so very cold, so very empty.

He laughed. A raw laugh that turned back on himself. “Well, now that your husband has claimed your maidenhead, you can take your lover in more conventional ways. My thanks, dear Arabella, for this mockery of a marriage.”

She felt his deadly fury, winced at his damning words. Yet, they were meaningless sounds to her. How could he believe that she had a lover?

She’d made her decision to wed him; with that decision, she’d given herself to him, only him. This made no sense. Nothing made sense, nothing except the pulling soreness inside her body. She felt curiously numb, blessedly detached from the pitiful woman who lay there, naked, legs sprawled, listening to this man who hated her.

Her silence was a confession of guilt to him. Infuriated he grabbed up his dressing gown, flung it on. “That you betrayed me makes me want to kill both you and him. But I can’t kill you, can I? If I did, I would lose everything. You have made me pay dearly for my inheritance, an inheritance that you wanted for yourself. I only ask, dear wife, that in future you conduct your affairs with more discretion. I filled you with my seed this time. I will not do it in the future. You will have no child by me. If you do become pregnant, I will not claim the