Edith Layton (14 page)

“Thank you, Drum,” he told his groomsman sincerely, clasping his hand. “You’ve been a true friend. I’ll never forget it.”

“Forget it,” Drum laughed. “You’ve better things to think about now.”

“Good luck,” Eric said as he took Rafe’s hand. “I can’t think of a better man for her, and I’m happy for both of you.”

“Now I’ve two sons,” Brenna’s mama told Rafe tearfully.

“And a fine new one at that,” the colonel said gruffly, a hand on his son-in-law’s shoulder.

Brenna had said her good-bye to her family the night before, which was good. Because she was too nervous to remember her name right now.

Then the happy couple and the guests repaired to the bride’s home, where they drank champagne in sweet fruit nectars, dined on eggs and fish, meat, fowl, and fantastical aspics, pastries, cakes, fruits and breads, jams and honey. It was supposed to be a
breakfast reception, but it lasted on through the afternoon. When all the toasts and jokes and promises were made, and made again, the bridal couple at last made their final farewells.

They left the house to discover Rafe’s coach had acquired a blanket of flowers; the four horses that pulled it wore blossoms twined in their manes and tails. Peck, dressed for a state wedding in clothes from the last century, sat up with the coachman, his seamed face further wrinkled in smiles. The bridal couple entered the carriage in a shower of rice and petals. The groom tossed coins and blossoms back at the company. The coachman cracked his whip. The horses started, and the bridal couple were borne away.

“Well, that’s done,” Rafe said when they’d gone down the road and around a corner and so far out of sight of Brenna’s home that all she could wave at were hedgerows. But she was still leaning half out of the window, waving.

She plopped back in her seat, wearing a broad grin. She turned and looked at her new husband, and every one of his reservations—and he’d had some at the last—vanished. They hadn’t spoken a private word since they’d been pronounced man and wife. He didn’t want to breathe one now. There were more important things to do, things that transcended words.

She looked deliciously disheveled. The wind had tossed her hair half out of its pins; it was a glossy, shining mass that lay on her white shoulders—or shoulder. That lovely russet gown had slipped down on one side. Her tiara of roses was listing from its
moorings. Roses spilled from it; crimson petals tumbled in those glorious black tresses. Her cheeks were blushed, that smiling mouth was the color of pomegranates, and her dark, tilted eyes were filled with excitement. He saw camellia skin on that bared shoulder, he saw the rapid rise and fall of pointed, upthrust breasts.

He felt a rising excitement.
His
now. His wife, his bedmate, his chance at last to make the best of their bargain. Whatever he’d gained or lost, whatever lay ahead, they had at least that. He smiled back at her, luxuriant lust suffusing him as he put out a hand to her.

“Sush a wedding!” she said.

He paused.

“I never saw sush. Didn’t my mama do us proud, Rafe, didn’t she?” she caroled.

Now he remembered all the toasts she’d drunk, each one striking her as a little more hilarious than the last. He suspected much. Before he could ask more, the coach jolted, and she fell into his arms in a froth of giggles. She flung her arms about his neck and planted an enthusiastic kiss on his chin, because she missed his mouth. He sighed.

“Bren,” he said, but she stopped his mouth with a more expertly aimed kiss.

It was dark and delicious. She opened her mouth beneath his; she wriggled into his arms. And hiccuped. And giggled. He tasted Brenna, and wine.

He moved away just far enough to take her close but keep her head on his chest. Safe from everything he yearned to do.

“You’ve had a lot to drink,” he said.

“Yesh,” she agreed solemnly. He could feel her head as she nodded agreement against his shirtfront.

“Let me see,” he said thoughtfully. “Drum toasted us, as did your brother and your father. Your neighbor the squire did too, for a long time. Then his son did. And the vicar. And all my friends, of course. Did you refill your cup for each one?”

She giggled. He felt her nose, cold as a pup’s and damp as one too, against his chest as she swung her head back and forth. “I don’ remember. But I confesh I was very, very anxioush, Rafe. Very, very, very…anxioush.” She raised her head and looked him in the eyes, her own dark with sorrow. “I didn’t know if you were coming back. I almost expected to hear you’d married Annabelle. She’s so lovely, Rafe,” she grieved, “so beautiful, and delicate, and—and all. I’m so sorry you had to marry me.”

“I’m not,” he said.

“So you say,” she said wisely, “because you are a true gent, Rafe, an officher and a gent, and so say all. Rafe?” she said oddly, before he could deny it. “I never get carriage-sick. Never, never, never,” she said, swinging her head until a few more roses came tumbling down. “But it’s bumping so! And I had some of that pudding, and some of that turkey and some of that fish…Do you think we could stop the carriage? Please?”

The carriage immediately halted by the side of the road. And Rafe’s new bride showed him she had indeed had some of the turkey, pudding, and fish, and much more.

“I’m sorry,” she moaned as he helped her into the carriage again.

“Don’t be. I’m not, except for your sake,” he said as she settled back in the coach. “Your stomach must hurt. I imagine you feel like the devil. It will pass. Lord knows everything else did,” he chuckled. “Lie back and close your eyes.”

She tried, then bobbed up like a cork in water, her eyes enormous and frightened. “That makes things spin more!”

“Let them spin—they’ll stop. Close your eyes.”

“If I do,” she said fervently, “I’ll surely die.”

You’ll live,” he assured her. “You won’t want to, but you will.”

“I’m so embarrassed,” she sniffled. “What you must think of me.”

“I think you drank too much, too early, and too fast.”

She groaned. “But if I close my eyes, I’ll get sick again.”

“No,” he said, gathering her up in his arms and holding her against his heart, “there’s nothing more to lose. Rest.”

And so there is nothing more to lose,
he thought as the carriage moved on and he heard her breathing become slower and more regular. The interior of the coach smelled like the back alley of a bad wineshop on a late night. His bride was tearstained, and her gown was otherwise stained too; it was a good thing he’d seen and scented many worse things in his life. He pulled back his head and peered down at her. Disheveled was enticing. Unkempt was not. He set
tled her against his chest, and lay back against the leather squabs of the coach. His sigh made her head rise and fall on his chest.

He’d made up his mind and acted upon it, and one of the things he’d used to convince himself was anticipation of the pleasures of his wedding night. Clearly that would have to wait. But he was used to waiting, and disappointment. It hardly mattered. There was time. All the time in the world now. It was done.

He closed his eyes to hide their expression even from the coming twilight. It was done.

B
renna woke. And groaned. Not from the stab of pain she felt when the sunlight hit her eyes, or the residual nausea when she raised her head to try to squint at it. But because everything came back to her as relentlessly clear as the morning sunlight that drenched the room.

She sat up—and cowered down beneath the coverlets again. She was naked! Her eyes darted around the room. She was alone. She groaned again, drew her knees up, and put her head on her arms, curling up on herself like a cooked prawn. Alone, on her wedding morning. After having been left alone on her wedding night.

She didn’t blame him. She’d been sick, drunken, and outrageous. She dimly remembered being abjectly sorry, and telling him so. She clearly remembered his kindness, his tucking her under the covers,
his amused but sympathetic voice assuring her the room wasn’t rocking, and if it was, it would stop, and that she wasn’t likely to perish from one bout of drinking, no matter what she thought. But she might die of embarrassment, she thought glumly now.

She looked around the room again. She hadn’t seen it too well last night. She hadn’t seen anything too well then. It was obviously an old inn she was in, with a gently sloping roof and a tilted wooden floor. A many-paned window, thick as bottle glass and crazed with age, magnified the brilliant morning sunlight. She could hear doves cooing. The curtains were white, the counterpane on the bed printed with a charming pink and white floral pattern to match. Her bed was high, overstuffed with soft feathers, the linens smooth and clean. A snug private room, a rural retreat, it would have been perfect for lovers.

She wondered where he was. And where the convenience was.

There was no sign of life except for the murmuring of the doves; the walls were too thick to let in any sounds from the inn itself. A pitcher and basin stood on the dresser by the bed. Brenna licked her lips, and could swear she felt her tongue clack. She poured a glass and gratefully drank it down. She grimaced at the taste and hastily used another glass to gargle and wash out her mouth. Then she poked one long leg out from the covers and, guilty as a sneak thief, slowly inched out of bed in search of her clothing, and the convenience, in whatever order they appeared. She refused to think about how she’d gotten out of her fine gown. She might be innocent of
the actual act, but knew that drunk as she’d been, she’d have known if they’d done anything remotely approaching that…or at least, so she hoped.

She’d reached the wardrobe at the side of the room when the door swung open. She gasped. She thought Rafe did too. He stood in the doorway, his blue eyes blazed with sudden light as he looked at her. He was fully dressed, neat as a pin in russet and gold, his bronze hair damp from a morning bath. She smelled soap even from where she stood—or rather, crouched. She didn’t have enough hands to cover everything, even though she bent double. He pulled the door closed behind him without taking his eyes from her. They stared at each other.

He was at her side a moment later. She was covered from his view a second after. Because he took her in his arms and held her close. She could feel his heartbeat against her own breast.

But she is magnificent!
Rafe thought in amazed shock and delight. Her hair was as tousled as a black haystack, full of witch-knots. Her face was pale, her eyes even more tilted because they were still swollen with sleep and the aftereffects of her indulgence. But he thought she looked enchanting, literally. Because he was bewitched to silent, sudden, overwhelming lust at the sight of her naked body. Now he was brought beyond that by the feel of her in his arms.

Her face enthralled him, her body dazzled him. Long, lean, with subtle curves at waist and hip, her bottom round and high, breasts arced high over her narrow waist, her pubic thatch a sable triangle bla
zoned on her creamy skin. Everything about her was smooth and sleek, and looked delicious.

He lowered his head to her glossy hair. It felt like satin against his lips, and was still scented faintly of patchouli. He disregarded the other scents she’d added during their wild ride last night. His mouth traveled along her cheek, tasting the flushed warmth of her face. He splayed his hands over that silken, heart-shaped bottom and drew her closer. The feeling was electric. He caught his breath and brought his mouth to hers.

She drew back and looked up at him with a troubled gaze. “I taste terrible, even to myself!” she protested.

“Do you?” he muttered, as one hand traveled up, following the swelling lines of her body. “Do you?” he whispered, as he felt himself rise hard against her flat belly. “Do you think I care?” he asked roughly as he felt her nipple pucker and point into the palm of his questing hand.

She opened her mouth against his. If there was any bad taste left, it was lost in the shock of the harsh taste of devastating need, of intense liquid heat, of deep and dark yearning. She gasped against his mouth, she sighed as his tongue answered her, she pressed herself against him and shivered.

A step would take them back to the bed. It did. She lay looking up at him, her eyes wide with surprise, dark with desire. He laughed softly as he gazed at her hungrily. Leaning his weight on one hand, he tried to unwind his high, binding neckcloth with the
other as he bent to her. But the linen was wound too tightly; Peck, damn him, had done his job too well. He abandoned the effort as he tried to shrug out of his jacket. The tight fit of it threatened to make a satire of his desire as he struggled to free himself. But the fall on his breeches was easy enough, he thought in triumph as he hastily undid it and rose over her as she lay looking at him with amazement and…

…And he was about to take his new bride like a back-street whore in the streets of Seville at a quarter past midnight on a rainy night, quickly, carelessly, and for his own immediate release.

He reared back. He turned from her and sat on the bed beside her, breathing hard, collecting his wits. No matter how eager she was, this was a thing he wanted done right, slowly, luxuriously, with time to play and learn. This first time between them couldn’t be a hasty tup. And, too, he’d arranged to travel on within the hour. Take her from a quick coupling and parade her under the eyes of Peck, the coachmen and outriders? She deserved more courtesy. And he, who never thought he deserved anything, found he wanted more. He wanted time to savor this new treasure he’d found—and to be sure she did too.

“Lord, Bren, but you bewitch me,” he said gruffly, “but we have to go.” He rose from the bed and began to put his clothes in order.

She lay back and watched him, hardly comprehending why the fire he’d kindled in her had been so quickly doused. She was still dazed. It had been an intense moment. She’d wanted to hide, then wanted to go to him, then wanted so much more, she’d
astonished herself. Her stomach began to clench and ache from unrequited desire. She felt cold with fear and shame. Again, a man she’d wanted had turned from her at the last.

She sat up, holding the coverlet to her neck. “How did I get undressed last night?” she whispered. She’d been very tipsy. She had the sudden horrible notion that more had happened after all; perhaps he was repulsed by something she’d done then?

He glanced at her and laughed. “It wasn’t me, if that’s what you’re thinking. I wouldn’t do anything while you were so besotted. I have my faults, but I have standards. You decided you were too warm. The only thing I did was make sure you didn’t take off your gown on the way up to the room.”

He came back to the bed and laid a hand on her cheek, his voice gentled. He stroked a thumb along her high cheekbone, “I went to get you some water, and as I did you shucked yourself out of the gown and burrowed under the covers quick as a wink. I never saw a thing. I never heard such an apologetic sot either,” he added. “You couldn’t stop saying you were sorry. There’s no need. I didn’t do anything, but neither did you. Wine’s the culprit.”

“But just now,” she said, her eyes searching his, “why didn’t—I mean, you stopped. Was it anything I did?”

“Yes. You made me forget my manners. When we love, I want it to be better than that,” he said, wishing he knew how to explain it better, because she looked hurt. Probably because he’d been such a boor, he thought savagely. She might have experience, but not
with a man who forgot all delicacy. “Damme, what you must think of me! Poor girl,” he said sincerely. “I haven’t turned into a swine simply because you married me, I promise you that.

“So,” he said abruptly, because the look in her eyes was too tempting and the way her hair fell on her naked shoulders made his palms itch. “Best get dressed. You may not feel like eating now, but I’ll wager a sniff of the biscuits they’re baking downstairs will change your mind. The Jericho is out back, down the path at the foot of the garden. A deuced inconvenient place for a convenience, if you ask me. But it’s a fine morning and they keep the place clean and sweet smelling. I’ll have them send up some hot water for you. I’ve spoken for a private dining parlor for our breakfast. It’s to the right of the stair. See you there when you’re ready then.

“We’re got hard traveling ahead if we want to reach the next inn by nightfall,” he added, looking back at her as he paused in the doorway. “We could stop earlier on, but if we pick up the pace, we can stop at the Swan. It’s a fine place, good food and an excellent reputation. I think you’ll like it—it was always a favorite of mine. Then we’ll be close enough to my parents’ so that we can sleep late and still get there before night falls again.”

“Fine,” she said to his back as he went out the door. Though it wasn’t. She didn’t care about inns. Now she worried about this marriage and her own perceptions. Could she have been wrong? Could the circumstances have affected her more than she’d admitted? She’d painted him as a patient, courteous
lover. So he’d seemed to her all through their brief courtship. But just now he’d almost completed the act of love in a moment, with only a moment’s notice. He hadn’t seduced her, courting in slow stages, luring her with many kisses and caresses, as Thomas had. He’d been eager and uncomplicated in his desire, his wooing as hard and elemental as he was. He’d almost taken her in a rush, not even bothering to undress.

And she’d wanted him anyway.

She didn’t understand herself. Or him. Because at the last minute he hadn’t wanted her, after all.

Rafe dismounted from Blaze and helped Brenna from the coach when they stopped, near noon. He’d ridden beside it, to give her privacy and time to recover from her doubtless aching head. His gaze traveled over her. He was worried; she was pale.

“We can stop here,” he offered. “The inn looks comfortable. You can sleep the afternoon away. We’ll go on in the morning.”

“No, I can nap in the coach. I feel fine,” she assured him. “Even if I didn’t—I confess I don’t like traveling. Maybe it’s because I had to do so much when I went to India. I’d rather do it the way I take bad-tasting medicine, fast—to get it over with. Don’t you agree?”

His cheeks heated. Was she making a sly reference to his lovemaking? He deserved it. “Fine,” he said. “Luncheon, and then onward.”

They made a good lunch, and drove on.

He rode outside, wondering if she’d forgive him, and how soon he could get her undressed again after they reached the Swan.

She sat in the coach and wondered if he’d come to her bed again. And how quickly he’d consummate their marriage, and if she could find the nerve to tell him to linger. And if he could.

But that wasn’t why she could find nothing to say when she got to their bedchamber at the Swan. They arrived there as twilight fell over the moors they’d traveled. Even the darkness couldn’t conceal the state of the room.

Rafe picked up a lamp from a table and held it high. His head went up. “Faugh!” he said. “This place is a sty!”

Brenna didn’t disagree. Though a pig wouldn’t tolerate the place.

It smelled stale, of mildew and old clothes left in the rain. The floor was stained and unswept, the rag rug on it simply a rag, the windows cloudy with ancient grime. The wavering light showed a mousehole in the wall at floor level. There were thready cobwebs on the sooty reaches of the low, timbered ceiling. She touched the bedcoverings with one gloved finger.

“Don’t!” Rafe said. “Who knows what will jump out! No wonder there was no one in the common room,” he snarled, “and Peck and the coachman had to stable the team themselves!”

He took her hand and led her down the creaking steps to the front hall, and banged a fist on the reception desk.

“Where’s the owner? Send Jenkins to me!” Rafe demanded when the innkeeper slouched out of the taproom.

“Jenkins? Ha! That villain, he sold out to me three years past,” the landlord complained. “I been running the place ever since. He never told me about the new road coming, did he? The new road gets all the coaches now.”

Three years?
Brenna thought, looking at Rafe in surprise. It had been three years since he’d been home?

Rafe checked. “New road?” he asked.

“Aye, fifteen miles to the east, it lies. Straight as a ribbon, and paved a treat. Well, you’re free to go as you see fit, my lord,” the landlord went on with a sly grin. “The next inn you’ll come to is the White Rabbit—only three hours east from here, if you’re lucky.”

“Damn!” Rafe growled. “It’s already dark! We can go on,” he said, turning to Brenna, “but if the road from here to there is as potted and rutted as the one we just came from, I can’t like taking the horses over it in the dark.”

“And a west wind be blowing,” the landlord said, smirking. “Rain be coming on afore midnight, or sooner.”

“I leave it to you,” Rafe asked Brenna. “Shall we stay or chance the night?”

“Whatever you think best,” she said simply.
But if we stay, do I dare take off my clothes tonight?
she wondered.

She needn’t have. Rafe forbade it.

“God knows what you could catch if you took off so much as a stocking! As it is…” He stared at the
bed with loathing. “Good thing I’ve slept in worse places. Not many. But some.”

In the end he produced a horse blanket from the carriage and spread it over the bed, laid his greatcoat over that, and cautioning Brenna to leave every scrap of her clothing on, saw to it that she lay down on top of his coat. He took off his jacket and lay beside her.