The Ruffian and the Rose

by Colleen French

  Once in her bedchamber, Keely managed to get the wedding gown off on her own, and nervously she slipped out of her underthings and into a sleeping gown of the palest green. Going to sit at her dressing table, she lifted a silver-handled hair brush to her head. In the reflection on the mirror, she caught sight of a china doll sitting on a carved shelf on the far wall. She couldn't help smiling. The doll, Roxy, had been a gift from her father on her fourth birthday.

  There were so many memories in the house; only after returning had she realized how much she loved it here. Though the town house in London and Auntie's estate house had been opulent, her bed-chambers had never been this comforting. The houses in England had never welcomed her home like this house her father had built.

  When Brock rapped softly on the door, Keely swallowed against her rising fear. Though there was a part of her that was frightened of the idea of sharing intimate relations with this man who was now her husband, another part of her yearned to see just what this was between a man and a woman that was as ageless as time itself. "Come in," she murmured, turning back to her mirror.

  Brock slipped into the room, surprised to find that he was nervous in Keely's presence. Slowly he came across the room and stood behind her, watching her brush out her long, luxurious tresses. "Beautiful," he whispered, reaching out to lift a handful of auburn hair. He inhaled, his eyes drifting shut. "What is it that makes a woman's hair so magical?" he asked.

  "Magical?" Keely laid down her brush and came to her feet to stand before her husband. "Is it?"

  Brock threaded his fingers through her hair until he reached her scalp and then he leaned in to kiss her tempting mouth. "My father's people say one's hair is sacred, never to be left behind to fall into enemy hands." He laughed softly. "Your lips are so soft, so fragrant." He brushed his thumb against her lips and Keely pursed them, kissing it. "Don't be afraid," he told her quietly, his fingers stroking her collarbone, which peaked from the lace of her gown.

  "I . . . I'm not afraid, just nervous." She smiled.

  Catching her hand in his, Brock planted soft, fleeting kisses the length of her pale throat, steadily making his way to her mouth. When his lips finally met hers, there was an urgency in her breath as she leaned into him, lifting her hands to his shoulders.

  As Brock kissed his virgin bride in her bedchamber, he tried to remember when he'd ever made love to an untried woman. Had there ever been a virgin? Names, blurred faces streaked through his mind. Only Elizabeth, and now Keely. How ironic. It was Elizabeth he had meant to wed and now here in his arms was the most desirable woman he had ever come upon. Instead of being a hindrance, he found her innocence refreshingly arousing. Her body was without knowledge of love and yet she responded unhindered by prudish notions.

  Keely moaned softly as Brock's hand met the soft curve of her breast, his thumb brushing against her nipple. He smiled, burying his face in her tresses. "Come," he whispered, his breath hot and damp in her ear.

  She lifted her languid eyes. "Come? Come where?"

  He bent to slip his arms behind her knees and lifted her until her cheek rested on his chest. "Not here, kikileuotte."

  She smiled at the sound of the foreign word on his tongue, knowing it must be some Indian word of endearment. "Where?" She stared up at him in utter trust.

  "I had a chamber made up for us in the other wing. I'll not make love to my wife in the room where she grew up." He nodded in the direction of the doll seated on the shelf across the room. "Look, she's watching me," he whispered, feigning uneasiness.

  Keely's laughter filled the room, putting them both at ease. Blowing out the candle on her dressing table, Brock carried Keely down the hall and through a closed door to the unoccupied wing. Carrying her into the master bedchamber, he set her gently on the bed.

  The room had been swept and dusted, the bedcurtains aired and fresh, sweet-smelling linens put on the bed. The windows were each open a crack to let in the sounds and smells of a September night. Lighting a candle on a side table near the windows, Brock lifted his shirt from his back and came to her, stretching out beside her on the massive bed.

  "I hadn't realized you were so tall," Keely teased, studying the length of his body compared to her own.

  "My father was a big man, though the Delawares are usually shorter, no more than Lloyd's height." He reached with a finger to toy at the bow on her neckline. "We don't have to do this tonight, you know. We've a lifetime. I'm in no hurry."

  Keely rolled back onto the pillow in laughter and he lifted himself on one elbow to study her dancing hazel eyes. "What's so funny?" he asked, her laughter contagious.

  "I was just wondering if I had married the right man. I don't know you. The man I crossed the ocean with was arrogant, impolite, aggravating, but you, here . . ." She laughed again, letting her voice trail into silence.

  "Don't worry, I'm still those things too." His arm went around her waist and he kissed the lace of her neckline. "I'm just on my good behavior; have no fear, it will pass."

  She lifted her dark eyelashes to gaze into obsidian eyes. "I want to know, Brock. You are my husband and I am no longer a girl. Show me what it is to love." She took his hand, laying it gently on her breast. "I think I've wanted to know since that first night I met you on the ship."

  Brock nuzzled her neck, his lips seeking hers as he molded his body to hers. Her words had brought an aching desire to his limbs that only she could put to rest. When his mouth met hers, she parted her lips, her tongue meeting his halfway in a timeless dance of lovers united. His hand swept the curves of her lithe body, bringing him soft moans of encouragement.

  Every nerve in Keely's body called out with wanting as he stroked her gently, exploring her pliant flesh through the thin gown. As if under their own command, her hands lifted to stroke the thick cords of his back. In awe, she moved her fingers over the broad expanse of his bronze skin, feeling the wonder of a man's whipcord muscles and taut flesh.

  Keely's innocent exploration sent Brock's unhurried patience spiraling. His heart beat hard beneath his breast; his hands trembled as he stroked her flat stomach. Taking care not to frighten her, he lifted the gown slowly over her head, to reveal a perfect feminine form of pale curves and sleek limbs.

  Drunk with sensation, Keely made no protest when Brock lowered his mouth to take her nipple, but she nearly sat up in surprise at the first rise of intense pleasure. She had never realized how glorious this would be! Threading her fingers through the wisps of raven hair that framed Brock's face, she arched her back in encouragement. Aching, searing want flowed from the center of her being to bring every nerve in her limbs alive with wanting as Brock stroked one breast and then the other, his tongue teasing her throbbing nipples until she thought she would go mad with burning frustration.

  Brock's fingers fumbled with the tie of his breeches as Keely clung to him. Pressing soft kisses to her cheeks and closed eyelids, he lifted his body over hers, reveling in the feel of flesh against flesh as she moved beneath him. Unable to hold back another instant, he separated her legs with his knee and in one quick motion he entered the core of her womanhood.

  Keely arched her back in expectation of pain, but felt none. Her eyes flickered open for a moment, but then closed in relief. The lack of her own pain seemed to go unnoticed as Brock began to move slowly within her. Relieved that he wouldn't accuse her of coming to his wedding bed tainted, Keely relaxed against the pillow, lifting her knees slightly to cradle his body.

  Slowly Brock moved, stroking her with the evidence of his desire as he fueled his own flames of long-awaited fulfillment. His head swam with joy at the thought that he had married a woman so receptive to pleasures of the flesh. Though they might not ever agree over matters at the dining table, here in the privacy of their bedchamber, he knew they would always meld until they were one.

  Catching on to the rhythm of Brock's movement, Keely lifted herself in reception of each stroke, exploring each sensation as his body rose and fell above her. All too soon he mov
ed rapidly and then groaned, collapsing at her side.

  For a long moment he rested beside her, his eyes closed, then finally he lifted his dark lashes to meet her gaze. He laughed, drawing her into his arms. "It seems the groom was a little anxious," he told her, making light of his own performance. "It's always a man's dream to satisfy his wife on their wedding night."

  "Satisfy!" Keely's cheeks burned bright. "It was wonderful!"

  He laughed again, pulling her against him so that he might kiss the top of her perspiration-beaded forehead. "Ah God, girl, you were made for love," he said hoarsely.

  At the sound of breaking glass, Keely sat up in the bed, drawing the covers modestly over her breasts. "What was that? It sounded like it came from downstairs. I thought you said no one was to be here tonight."

  Brock turned his head to listen and was rewarded by the sound of crashing furniture. Jumping up out of bed, he reached into the drawer of the table next to the bed and extracted a loaded pistol. "You stay here," he commanded.

  Keely grabbed her green nightgown from the floor and pulled it over her head. By the time Brock reached the hallway, she was already behind him.

  "I thought I told you to stay put."

  Keely kept behind the huge frame of the man who was now her husband. "That's what this new country of yours is to be about, isn't it? Freedom to come and go as one likes?"

  Brock scowled, entering the main hallway that led downstairs. "Just stay back, all right?"

  She placed her hand on his bare back, nodding in the darkness. As the two came down the steps, Keely was amazed at how quietly Brock could move. Each time she took a step, the stairs creaked beneath her feet, but he moved as if gliding on air, soundlessly. Another crash echoed from the parlor and Brock turned, lifting a finger to his lips. "Stay here. Whoever the intruder is, he's come to the wrong house."

  Keely watched Brock turn in the front hallway and then she scurried after him. Pressing his back to the wall, Brock held the pistol in front of him, poised to shoot. Taking a deep breath, he whipped around the corner of the parlor and then dropped the pistol to his side with a groan.

  "What is it?" Keely stepped into the parlor and bit back a chuckle, covering her mouth with the palm of her hand. She looked from Aunt Gwenevere's spaniels seated on the horsehair settee to her nude husband, pistol drawn, and back to the dogs again. Unable to control herself, she burst into laughter. "My patriot hero." She giggled, bending over to pick up the bottom half of a broken vase. "Well, if you're going to shoot them, now's the time to do it!"

  Feeling like a fool, Brock set the weapon on the spinet near the door and leaned to right the tea table. "How the hell did they get in here? I thought Mother said she locked them in her room."

  Keely piled the shards of broken vase on the table, trying not to laugh. "We were supposed to take them out for their evening walk and then they were to have their tea and cakes before retiring." She scooped up wildflowers that were strewn across the Persian carpet. "You probably didn't remember to give Rupert his hot brick for his bed either. You know how easily he catches a cold."

  "Goddamned dogs! Promise me, wife, you'll never bring dogs into the house."

  "Not even a small lapdog to keep me company when you're at sea defending your liberties?" Keely baited.

  "No dogs! I hate dogs!" He pushed Rupert onto the floor and the spaniel fled. "Filthy flea mounds! Get down, whatever your name is!"

  "Annabelle."

  "What?"

  Keely bit down on her lower lip. "Annabelle. You have to call her by her name if you want her to do something."

  Brock glanced up at his wife. "This isn't funny. I brought that vase from China!" He grabbed Annabelle by her silk collar and pulled her to the floor, giving her a push out the door.

  Keely turned her back on Brock to keep from further aggravating him, still chuckling as she searched for the rim of the broken vase.

  Brock turned to study his wife in the dim moonlight that poured through the window. Her sleeping gown was hitched beguiling over one knee to fall gracefully over her round bottom. The thought of her tempting lips pressed to his brought a stirring to his loins, making him smile. Giving an animal-like growl, he swept Keely into his arms, forcing a squeak out of her as she dropped the retrieved bit of vase.

  Keely's arms snaked around Brock's neck and she lifted her chin to let him nuzzle her throat. "What of the pups?" she whispered.

  Brock carried her out of the parlor and up the grand staircase toward their haven in the far wing. "Let them find their own beds tonight," he murmured against her lips.

  Chapter Nine

  "Damnation!" Lloyd slammed his fist on the dining table in response to Brock's words. "Defeated?"

  "I'm afraid so, sir," Brock took his seat beside Keely at the breakfast table and signaled for Lucy to bring him the plate of sliced ham and dish of baked egg and cheese. "Apparently it was quite a mess," Brock went on. "General Washington assumed that the main point of attack was to be at Polly Buckwater's Lane, when actually that was just a diversion— a Tory command. When the general learned that the main thrust of the army was to come from Scanneltown, out of Osborne's Woods, it was nearly too late for John Sullivan and his men on the Brandywine River." Brock paused to lean back long enough to allow Lucy to pour his herbal tea.

  "Go on," Lloyd urged. "What happened?"

  "General Washington sent Nathaniel Greene and his Virginians and they held the British off until dusk." Brock smoothed his weary brow. "Our army retreated to Chester and then moved on to Philadelphia to defend her. Howe's hot on their trail. Congress has moved north to higher ground."

  Unable to contain herself another instant, Keely laid down her fork. "And you were there?" she demanded. "That's why you left the day after we were wed? You could have been killed!"

  Brock scowled, sampling a slice of ham. "I was safe enough," he told Keely, then returned his attention to Lloyd. "Howe and the bulk of the British army are settled in Chester right now but no one knows how long they'll sit."

  "Why didn't you tell me that's where you were going? I have ears," Keely broke in. "I knew the King's army was nearby. I'm your wife! I should have known."

  Brock sighed heavily, turning to his new wife. "Can this wait? Lloyd and I have business to attend to. Why not go with Mother to visit the Marshes? I think Devon's wife Cassie's going to be there. You'd like her, she's one of the few females in Dover who's got a head on her shoulders."

  "Visiting? I think not. You and I have some talking to do." She threw down her napkin. She was mad enough when Brock had left the day after they'd been married, but then to discover that he was off playing men's warring games! It was too much!

  Lloyd cleared his throat, getting slowly to his feet. "I think I'm through here. Why not have breakfast with your wife? Get cleaned up and come to my office. We can talk there." He dismissed Lucy with a wave of his hand. "That'll be enough, girl. Go about your business."

  "Yes, sir," Lucy answered, taking her time to exit the room.

  Keely waited until her uncle and the maidservant were gone and then she turned on Brock. "You said you had to speak with Micah and that you'd be back in two hours. It's been two days, husband!" she said, using the endearment none too fondly.

  Brock poured himself another cup of tea, wincing at the sound of her raised voice. His head was pounding at the temples and he was sore from riding horseback all night. "I suppose this means the honeymoon is over," he said dryly.

  "I am your wife! I have a right to know!"

  "I did not intend to have this conversation now, but if you insist . . ." He put down his teacup, settling a dark glower upon her. "You are my wife, but you are my English wife. I no longer consider myself a British subject; however, you are surely one. Are you following the conversation so far?"

  Keely leaped to her feet. "Don't you treat me like some sullen child, Brock Bartholomew. I won't stand for it!"

  "Then sit and listen, because I will say this once and only once." He pointe
d to the chair and she did his bidding. "My business with the cause is just that, my business. But you have married me and now you must abide by my rules. There will be no more English goods brought into this household, and you will not betray me in word or deed. This so-called business I'm involved in could get me hanged and I do not want to have to be cautious of every word I speak in my house before my wife."

  "This isn't your house—it's Uncle Lloyd's house! It's my house—my father built it."

  "Lloyd turned the deed over to me." His hand snaked across the linen tablecloth to catch Keely's before she could escape. "Now give me your word as my wife and a Bartholomew that you will keep your English thoughts to yourself and that you will not reveal to anyone anything what is said within these walls."

  Tears stung Keely's eyes. For what did she deserve this distrust? What had she done to make him think she would ever betray him? Her lower lip trembled as she forced herself to speak in a clear, true voice. "I will not! You have no right to say these things to me."

  "Swear it!" Brock insisted angrily.

  She twisted her hand, snatching it from his. "You have no right to say what I can and cannot speak of! I know none of your dark secrets!" Without another word she got up from the table and left the room.

  When Brock entered Lloyd's office and closed the door behind him an hour later, Lloyd was waiting for him. "I had a fire started," the elder man said, nodding toward the small fireplace, "Just to take the chill off the air."

  Brock nodded, taking a seat in one of the high-backed chairs. "I apologize for the outburst at breakfast; that should have been taken care of in the privacy of our bedchamber. I meant to wait a few days and then discuss our political differences."

  Lloyd sucked on his clay pipe thoughtfully. "Don't you think you were a little harsh on her?"