Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,375

hips, pressing herself even more firmly against him.

He began to move within her, each stroke bringing a new wave of sensation that spread and burned through her body. She said his name, and then she could not speak, could do nothing but gasp for air as their movements grew more frenzied and desperate.

And then it came upon her, in a lightning wave of pleasure. Her body exploded, and she cried out, unable to contain the intensity of the experience. Michael thrust into her harder, and then again, and again. He called out as he climaxed, her name a prayer and a benediction on his lips, and then he collapsed atop her.

“I’m too heavy,” he said, making a halfhearted attempt to move off of her.

“Don’t,” she said, stilling him with her hand. She didn’t want him to move, not yet. Soon it would be hard to breathe, and he’d have to adjust, but for now there was something elemental in their position, something to which she wasn’t ready to bid farewell.

“No,” he said, and she could hear a smile in his voice, “I’ll crush you.” He slid off of her, but he didn’t relinquish their closeness, and she found herself curled next to him like a nested spoon, her back warmed by his skin, her body held snugly in place by his arm under her breasts.

He murmured something against her neck, and she couldn’t really understand the words, but that didn’t matter; she knew what he’d said.

He nodded off soon after, his breath a slow and steady lullaby at her ear. But Francesca did not sleep. She was tired, she was drowsy, and she was sated, but she did not sleep.

It had been different tonight.

And she was left wondering why.

Chapter 23

. . . I am sure that Michael will be penning a letter as well, but as I count you as a dear, dear friend, I wanted to write to you myself to inform you that we have married. Are you surprised? I must confess that I was.

—from the Countess of Kilmartin

to Helen Stirling,

three days after her marriage

to the Earl of Kilmartin

“You look terrible.”

Michael turned to Francesca with a somewhat dry expression. “And good morning to you, too,” he remarked, turning his attention back to his eggs and toast.

Francesca slid into place across the breakfast table from him. It was two weeks into their marriage; Michael had risen early that morning, and when she’d awakened, his side of the bed had been cold.

“I’m not joking,” she said, feeling her concern knit her brows into a wrinkled line. “You look quite pasty, and you’re not even sitting up straight. You should go back to bed and get some rest.”

He coughed, then coughed again, the second spasm wracking his body. “I’m fine,” he said, although the words came out rather like a gasp.

“You’re not fine.”

He rolled his eyes. “Married a fortnight, and already—”

“If you didn’t wish for a nagging wife, you shouldn’t have married me,” Francesca said, judging the distance across the table and deciding that she couldn’t reach far enough to touch his forehead to check for fever.

“I’m fine,” he said firmly, and this time he picked up his copy of The London Times—several days old but as current as they could expect in the Scottish border counties—and proceeded to ignore her.

Two could play at that game, Francesca decided, and she devoted her attention to the always challenging task of spreading jam on her muffin.

Except he coughed.

She shifted in her seat, trying not to say anything.

He coughed again, this time turning away from the table so that he could bend over a bit.

“M—”

He gave her a look of such ferocity that she shut her mouth.

She narrowed her eyes.

He inclined his head in an annoyingly condescending manner, then had the effect ruined when his body convulsed with another spasm.

“That’s it,” Francesca announced, rising to her feet. “You are going back to bed. Now.”

“I’m fine,” he grunted.

“You’re not fine.”

“I’m—”

“Sick,” she interrupted. “You’re sick, Michael. Diseased, ill, plague-ridden, you’re sick. As a dog. I don’t see how I could possibly make it any more clear.”

“I haven’t got the plague,” he muttered.

“No,” she said, coming around the table to grasp his arm, “but you do have malaria, and—”

“It’s not malaria,” he said, whacking his chest as he coughed again.

She pulled him to his feet, a task she couldn’t have completed without at least a bit of assistance on his part. “How do you know that?” she asked.

“I just do.”

She pursed her lips. “And you speak with