For Love of the Earl by Jessie Clever Page A

really didn't know any other response.   His brain was thawing and with each movement of his hands, he was becoming more and more aware of just how naked his wife was.   So he had laughed some more.   Laughed at the irony.   It was finally possible for him to show his wife exactly how he felt in the way he touched her, the way he caressed her, the way he kissed her.   But the only thing his poor head was capable of doing was responding to the physical nature of the situation he found himself in.  
    The woman he loved wanted him.  
    That was all that was running through his mind, and he couldn't summon the energy to think of what to do to show her that he wanted her back.   He simply reacted.  
    That was when she touched him.  
    The pleasure was so intense it was painful.   Her soft palm cradled him, skimmed along the length of him.   The breath rushed out of him, and the only thought left in his head was how the hell his trousers had become undone and how did he thank God that they were undone.  
    After that, all he remembered was pleasure.
    And that's why he had dirt in his mouth and didn't care.  
    And if he lifted his head, he would have to look at Sarah.   He would have to see reality in her face, and the harshness of that reality would gouge out his eyeballs when Sarah spoke and undoubtedly released her eternal wrath on him.  
    So he left his head on the ground.  
    Until he heard it.
    Until he heard the twist in it as she tried to muffle the sound.  
    Until he felt the unmistakable catch in Sarah's body beneath his.
    She was crying.  
    He was out of her and off of her in an instant.   But he didn't look at her.   He looked at the fastenings of his trousers as he scrambled to get them done up.   He shoved at his shirt to get it tucked back in.   The blood roared in his ears, and he didn't know whether or not to be grateful that he couldn't hear her, couldn't know if she was still crying.
    His trousers were fastened faster than he would have liked them to be and then he didn't have anything more to look at or do.   So slowly, reluctantly he raised his eyes.  
    Oh.   God.
    His wife was beautiful.  
    Through the gloomy, watery light that leaked into the hut through the single, muddy windowpanes along the front wall he took in the sight of her spread before him.   Her skin was pale and smooth, and his fingers itched to touch.   Her full breasts, her slightly rounded stomach, the curve of her shoulders.   He wanted to run his fingers over all of it.   Hell, he wanted to run his mouth over all of it.  
    And then one of those delicate shoulders shook with a sob, and Alec forced his eyes higher.  
    His stomach dropped.  
    A layer of mud caked her neck and one cheek.   More mud soaked the part of her hair that rested against the mud caked cheek.   She had her eyelids shut so tightly it made his head hurt.   And blood oozed from her lower lip.   Alec's heart sped up, and he thought he was going to be sick.   He swallowed hard and drew deep breaths.   But a single thought kept ricocheting around in his head.  
    He had just taken advantage of his wife.
    He reached for her before the thought could truly solidify, before it became something that he'd actually done.   He gathered her in his arms, and she didn't even fight him.   If she had resisted even a little bit, he would have felt a whole lot better about it.   But she didn't fight, she didn't tense, she didn't even squirm.   She fell against him, lifeless.   Alec felt his own tears coming on and swallowed harder.  
    He rubbed her shoulders and noticed for the first time that her skin was rough with cold.   God, what was he thinking?   She was naked and caked with mud, which meant at some point she had been wet, so really she was naked and wet and he was being such an arse by kneeling there staring at her breasts.  
    That thought bounced around again in his head.  
    He had forced himself on his wife.
    But he shoved it away and