by Eloisa James
When he nipped her bottom lip, she licked his and then gave it a little bite. And another one, because no man should have such a plump bottom lip. While she was at it, she kissed him along the line of his jaw and then nibbled his earlobe.
He was kissing her neck, but when she bit his earlobe, she felt a pulse go through his body as if it had gone through her own.
“Evie,” he said, his voice strangled.
“Hmmm,” she purred. She’d managed to free his muddy shirt from his breeches. The muscles in his back flexed as her fingers slid over them, which made her shiver and push closer.
“You must answer my question.”
“What question?” Willa slid her hands around to the corded muscle over his belly.
“Will you marry me?” an insistent voice asked in her ear.
She pressed her hands against his stomach and looked up, meeting his eyes. “I will marry you.” A surge of emotion caught her unawares. “And I’ll protect you, Alaric. No one like Prudence will get near you again.”
One of his eyebrows shot up.
She slipped a hand behind his neck. “You need me,” she said smugly. “All those madwomen, lusting after your thighs.”
Willa had the most enchanting giggle Alaric had heard in all his born days. It sounded as if joy took shape and burst into the world in liquid syllables. He kissed her, pushing her gently back on the blankets. He kissed a damp ankle, an ankle that smelled of peat and chamomile soap.
He coaxed her into opening her restless legs so he could kiss her heated flesh. She responded with a husky moan, followed by a honeyed breathless series of commands made incoherent by waves of white-hot pleasure.
He pushed her skirts around her waist and tore open the placket on his breeches.
“Yes,” Willa choked, pulling him down on top of her, his masculine weight and strength the perfect complement to her softness, “yes, now, Alaric, now.”
He understood “now.”
He understood the way his hips drew back. The way his cock fed into a tight, wet place that welcomed him. The way Willa writhed beneath him, pleas falling from her mouth.
He didn’t recognize the deep emotion that spread through him at the sight of her face, glistening with sweat, crying out, arching up to press a final kiss on his lips before flopping backward, limp, sweaty, blissful.
But he was beginning to understand it.
He may not have experienced the emotion before, but he knew it would be his for life.
Chapter Thirty-four
Two hours later, Alaric heard a shout echoing over the bog. Willa had fallen asleep, so he roused his muddy, soon-to-be wife and helped her put most of her garments back on, though not the cork rump. Sweetpea was returned to his pocket.
As the shouts grew nearer, he kissed Willa awake again. She was perfectly agreeable until she understood what he was saying. “I don’t want to cross the bog again,” she said, shaking her head.
“Even if I carry you?”
Her heavy-lidded eyes closed. “Tomorrow.”
He pushed open the door to find an indistinct group, three or four men, moving toward the hut, their outlines lit by flickering torches.
They progressed slowly, a few feet at a time, as the man in front threw down a plank and tested its solidity before the others joined him. When it was clear that the footing was firm, the man at the rear passed the last plank to the front, and the process was repeated.
Alaric realized with some amusement that his deliverers seemed to be playing one of his favorite childhood games, leapfrog, albeit a deadly serious version.
He leaned back against the sod wall and waited as his father and a couple of grooms with coils of rope over their shoulders were distinguishable. Barty was at the front of the group.
“Hullo, Barty,” he said, grinning at the old peat cutter. “My fiancée and I were grateful for the shelter of your hut tonight.”
Barty’s face glowed in the torchlight. “I’d give all the candles I’ve ever had to know your lady was saved from the bog,” he said, smiling in toothless celebration.
The duke stepped off the plank. “Willa is safe?”
“She’s asleep. We’re both unhurt.”
With a stifled noise, his father drew Alaric into a rough embrace. For a moment the two of them stood together, arms around each other’s shoulders, relief and love a silent bond between them.
“In other news,” the duke said, drawing back, “you have a brand-new sister, Artemisia. I promised we would return as soon as I could, so your stepmother needn’t continue to worry.”
“I’m very glad to hear that,” Alaric said. “And I’m doubly grateful that you made the trip into the Moss under those circumstances.” He ducked back into the hut and walked over to his sleeping fiancée.
“Time to go home,” he said, bending down to take Willa into his arms.
“What are you doing?” she murmured, her cheek falling against his chest as he came to his feet.
Alaric took a deep breath of his sweet-smelling lady. Even under the odor of mud and moss and dank water, he could still make out Willa’s own fragrance. “I’m taking you to the castle.” She was asleep again, long lashes motionless on alabaster cheeks.
It took them nearly an hour to get home, even with Barty’s knowledge of every tuft of sturdy ground between his hut and the castle wall. Alaric tramped on, his most precious possession in his arms, listening to the sleepy peeps of golden plovers settling into their nests.
He would teach his children to know the bog as well as he did. It was their inheritance, this deceptively beautiful, dangerous land that stretched on every side.
The castle wall loomed larger as they approached. Light blazed in every window, evidence of the fact that the duke’s family had been unable to sleep. Finally their makeshift path joined up with the line of planks that crossed the bog, which meant Alaric could walk more quickly, knowing he was on solid ground.
A groom ran ahead, torch bouncing, to tell the household all was well.
Finally, Alaric walked through the door of the castle. Willa opened her eyes, and he set her on her feet.
The entry was crowded with people. Betsy ran to them with a cry of happiness, and the rest of his siblings followed, crowding close with shrieks of welcome.
“Good evening, everyone,” Alaric said, grinning at all of them. “We are here, safe and sound, with much thanks for your good wishes and prayers.”
“Thank the good lord you are found,” Lady Knowe cried, folding Willa into her embrace. “We must have champagne, Prism!”
Now that they were in the brightly lit entry, Alaric realized that his father wore no wig. His hair was cut short but streaked silver in places. His face was unexpectedly lined, his eyes dark. “Was it close?” the duke asked, handing over his coat to a footman.
“Closer than I would like,” Alaric admitted.
“Hell and damnation,” His Grace said gruffly. “I’ve lost one son to the bog, and if we’d lost the two of you … I always told myself that you were as safe in Africa as you would be here.” He rubbed a hand over his face.
“I was never in danger,” Alaric reassured him. “All the hours in childhood when we broke your edicts and chased each other around the Moss proved useful. For her part, Willa was wearing a fashionable piece of cork on her bottom that kept her afloat.”
Sparky was the first to burst out laughing.
“She was saved by her rump,” Alaric said, grinning.
Once the party retired to the drawing room, Willa didn’t pull away from him, or otherwise try to restore propriety. She leaned against him, snug in the circle of his arms. His shoulders ached—every part of him ached—but for the best of reasons.
After glasses of champagne were handed to everyone, including Barty and the grooms, Willa turned to the butler and raised her glass. “I owe you much thanks, Prism. I am safe and well thanks in no small part to your instructions about the dangers of the bog.”
The castle butler was
overcome, and merely bowed as everyone from Lady Knowe to the duke applauded him.
“To my newest sister, Artemisia,” Alaric proclaimed, and everyone chimed in.
After that, they celebrated Willa for her bravery, Alaric for his courage, Barty for his hut.
“Finally, to Sweetpea, for her apt use of a personal weapon,” Alaric said, bringing the little animal from his pocket. “This remarkably intrepid creature saved Miss Ffynche’s life today.”
Sweetpea’s unique odor spread instantly through the room, and Lady Knowe made a choking sound.
“I would be grateful if someone could give this animal a bath, Prism,” Alaric said. “Perhaps two.”
“Warm water, with chamomile soap only, please,” Willa said. “Afterwards, she may come to my room; Hannibal must be beside himself with worry.”
Prism nodded to a footman, who bore Sweetpea away, his nose wrinkling.
“It’s time for bed,” Lady Knowe said. “I, for one, feel that eau de Sweetpea has brought this impromptu celebration to a close.”
“I’d like supper, if you please,” Alaric said to Prism. “Where is Prudence?” he asked, turning to his father.
“She remains upstairs, under guard,” the duke replied.
“She has a pistol!” Willa cried with alarm.
“I relieved her of it when she threatened to shoot the sheriff upon his arrival tomorrow,” His Grace said laconically. “She’s in her bedchamber with instructions to pack up her things. I don’t know what an attempted murderess is allowed to take to jail these days.”
The Duke of Lindow wore all the frills and furbelows that the rank both demanded and conferred. But he was a Wilde at heart. His eyes were icy.
“If she hadn’t threatened your life, Miss Ffynche, I would have let her free. But now she must be confined.”
Alaric expected Willa to request mercy, but she just nodded. “It has occurred to me that our children would be at risk.”
Children. Children with Willa. It gave him a peculiar feeling that he had no difficulty identifying as joy.
“Thank you,” Alaric said. His father wasn’t the sort of Englishman who lavished affection or praise. But ever since he was a child, he’d known that his father was always there, a man to be counted on.
“Hopefully, the news of this night’s adventures won’t spread,” the duke said, his voice returning to its usual dry cadence. “You are famous enough as it is. A bloodthirsty missionary’s daughter would make you legendary.”
“What about Diana?” Willa asked. “Prudence told me that she’d left the castle.”
“North followed her to London,” the duke said. “He will make certain that she returns safely to her mother’s care.”
Prism bowed. “Baths are being prepared, Miss Ffynche, Lord Alaric. I will deliver a light repast to your chambers.”
“I shall escort Miss Ffynche to her chamber,” Alaric said. In truth, he had no intention of leaving her, but he might as well preserve appearances. He took Willa’s arm and they made their way slowly upstairs, trailing bits of peat. “It’s been a long day,” she said unnecessarily, stopping at her door.
He put an arm against the door, over her head, and smiled down at her with voluptuous pleasure. His wife-to-be was disheveled and dirty. He thought she’d never been more beautiful.
“I’m joining you,” he informed her. “I mean to make love to you on a bed for the first time, though we may have to sleep first.”
For a moment, he thought she was going to refuse. They were back in the castle, after all. Someone might find out. She might be ruined.
“Oh, and I’m marrying you as soon as I can get a special license,” he added. “No waiting for banns.”
“No one is making love to me before I’ve had a bath,” Willa announced. “Perhaps you can pay me a visit later.”
Alaric brought his lady’s small, muddy hand to his lips. “An excellent idea,” he said, as smoothly as if they were discussing cups of tea. “Except I cannot let you out of my sight. I—”
He dropped her hand.
Impossibly, Prudence—Prudence, who was supposed to be under guard in her bedchamber—was making her way down the corridor toward them. Even more impossibly, a pistol was gripped in her right hand.
Alaric’s eyes met hers as he gathered himself to lunge.
“Don’t move,” she snapped. “This pistol is cocked and aimed at your concubine. The duke took one of my pistols from me, but they come in pairs—or at least, mine did.” Her eyes burned with a nameless macabre light, but her hand was steady. At this range, she couldn’t miss.
At his side, Willa stood frozen, scarcely breathing.
“I wrote that play for you, Alaric, from pure love,” Prudence said, in throbbing accents. “That was before I knew you were a misguided sinner, one who will writhe in the pitchy smoke of darkest hell, unless you repent.”
“Prudence,” Alaric began.
“I love you too much to leave your soul in the care of a trollop,” she remarked, as casually as if she were discussing laundry—and Alaric’s instincts told him it was a declaration of intent.
At once, he threw himself in front of Willa while pushing her to the floor. The pistol cracked with a deafening report and a flash of light, and the corridor filled with the acrid, sulfurous smell of gunpowder.
For some moments, chaos reigned. Doors slammed open, and Willa heard cries and pounding feet. Alaric lay, face down, on top of her. To her horror, she realized that the warmth she felt was blood. His blood.
“Alaric!” she cried, trying to extricate herself without injuring him further.
His face was colorless. “Sorry, darling,” he whispered.
Like a guardian angel’s, Lady Knowe’s face appeared above hers. “Good, there’s an exit wound,” she said. In one smooth movement, she lifted Alaric and laid him gently on his back.
Willa came to her knees. Her hand instinctively went to the wound in Alaric’s shoulder to try to stop the flow of blood gushing from it. She discovered that she was praying, praying harder than she ever had in her life, pleading for Alaric’s life with every sobbing breath.
Lady Knowe kindly but firmly pushed her away. As a footman leaned close, holding a lantern, Alaric’s aunt ripped open his shirt and examined the wound. She put her weight behind wads of cloth applied above and below.
The duke was standing to the side, holding Prudence’s arms clamped to her sides. She was staring at Alaric, crying something.
It wasn’t until she repeated it three times that Willa understood. “He saved her. He sacrificed himself for her.”
“We need a litter,” the duke commanded. His voice was as quietly authoritative as ever.
“It’s just a shoulder wound,” Lady Knowe said calmly. “No vital parts.”
At this point, Prudence became hysterical, sobbing and shrieking.
“Prism, take a footman and search her luggage to make sure she wasn’t carrying the contents of an armory along with her,” His Grace instructed. “And find out how in the bloody hell she escaped the room in the first place!”
Prism hauled Prudence away down the corridor, surrounded by three footmen.
That was a good thing, because Willa—who had never had an impulse to physical violence that she remembered—was close to lunging at her and ripping hair from her scalp. Instead, she watched closely as Alaric’s aunt lifted the pad covering the bullet’s entrance wound. Blood still oozed, but the flow had subsided.
Lady Knowe made a satisfied sound and pressed the pad down again. “Alaric’s always been lucky.”
“ ‘Lucky’?” Willa cried, trying to reconcile the notion with what had just happened.
“The bullet’s not inside, and he won’t lose use of the arm, unless I miss my guess.”
Footmen arrived with a litter, and Willa scrambled to her feet. She looked down at herself helplessly. The mud of the bog was now mixed with blood, so much blood.
As footmen lifted Alaric onto the litter, he o
pened his eyes. “Someone get a special license,” he muttered.
“No need—I have one,” his father said calmly. “It was acquired for North, but it will do.”
Alaric’s eyelids were heavy but he made an obvious effort. “It will be in his name,” he said in a harsh whisper.
His Grace shook his head, his lips twisted in a rueful line. “In fact, it isn’t. You can thank Horatius for that—North wasn’t sure whether he had to marry under Horatius’s courtesy title, which he has refused to take, so the archbishop left the license blank.”
“Up,” Lady Knowe commanded the footmen, ignoring the conversation.
“If I’m delirious, I suppose we could wait a few days,” Alaric said, his eyes closing.
“I don’t allow my patients to get fevers,” Lady Knowe announced. She strode after the footmen, shouting orders to do with boiling water and comfrey-root poultices.
Alaric didn’t open his eyes again for well over twenty-four hours. Willa had bathed, washed her hair three times, and eaten something. She was sitting by his bed, having chased off any number of retainers and family members, including Lady Knowe, Alaric’s valet, his brother Spartacus, and the duke.
Alaric’s father put up the most resistance, and Willa knew he’d be back in a matter of a few hours, no matter what she said. But at least there was some peace in the chamber now.
If she’d been torn open by a hot lead ball, she’d want quiet in which to heal.
When Alaric opened his eyes, she started and put a hand on his forehead. “Hello, darling,” she whispered.
“Did Aunt Knowe take care of me?” he murmured.
Willa nodded. “She sewed you up herself with all sorts of fussing.” She dropped a kiss on his forehead.
He smiled faintly. “My aunt’s had practice, with all the hunting and archery done on the estate.”
Willa hadn’t given much thought to the dangers of hunting. “Our sons will never hunt,” she told him. It was terrifying to see Alaric lying so still, his face ashen, his shoulder bound up in muslin.
“Let’s conceive the sons before we make rules for them.” Alaric was looking at her from beneath heavy-lidded eyes, his mouth curled in a smile.