The Ruffian and the Rose

by Colleen French

  Brock was painfully aware of Keely's movements as she washed her face and hands in the china bowl and ran a brush through her thick, shining hair. Taking a seat in a rocking chair near the window, he slipped off his stockings, watching her movement from the corner of his eye.

  She was beautiful, this wife of his, and she had courage to go along with it. That was something he hadn't expected from his English cousin, something he hadn't prepared for. He had thought her a mouse of a child, something to be petted and teased, but of no substance. This courage of hers was admirable, but at the same time, he knew it could be dangerous.

  "Keely," Brock called.

  She turned to him. She had removed her gown and was standing barefoot in a thin shift. "Yes?" Her face was still dewy from the cool water of the pitcher, the curls that framed her face damp and springy. She was a picture of innocence . . . of promised sensuality.

  "Come here," he beckoned, his voice barely audible.

  She came to him without hesitation, the light of the scattered bedlamps filtering through her hairs to frame her face in a fiery aura. "What is it, Brock?"

  He smiled, enjoying the sound of her voice as she spoke his name. "So much has happened since you left your England. Have I been unfair?"

  She came down on one knee, eye level to him. "It was stupid of me to think you would do such a terrible thing. It's true I don't know you well, but Uncle Lloyd and Aunt Gwen would never have married me off to a murderer."

  He tugged at one of her damp curls. "There's no reason we can't live together in peace."

  "No reason except that you say I'm English and you're not."

  "Loyalties are a funny thing, Keely."

  "I didn't ask to be married to a colonial; I know where I belong," she defended.

  "You belong here with your husband. Where I can keep an eye on you." He reached to catch another fiery curl and she pulled away, getting up.

  Keely crossed the room to retrieve the pitcher and bowl. A minute later she was removing his shirt to get a better look at the wound on his arm. "So what you're telling me is that I'm not to be trusted and that I can't go home."

  He inhaled her soft, feminine scent, wishing he hadn't gotten into this conversation. Against his will he could feel the heat of desire rising within him. "I'm being honest with you. I'm telling you there's too much at stake. This is your home now. Ouch!" He looked up at her. You're taking off the skin!"

  "It's only a flesh wound and it's got to be cleaned or it'll get infected and your arm will fall off. What kind of pirate could you be with one arm?"

  "I'm no pirate."

  "Let me go home to England when Aunt Gwen goes and I'll never be any trouble to you again," she said softly, washing the encrusted blood from his muscular arm.

  "We could go round and round like this until we were too old to chew meat, Keely." He caught her arm, pulling her down on his lap. "I say I want you here where I can keep my eye on you."

  His lips brushed hers and her eyes closed of their own accord. "Why are you doing this?" she whispered.

  "Doing what?" He nibbled at her lower lip.

  "You know, this . . . . You don't care about me, you don't love me."

  "You take me to be a greater beast than I am. I do care, and I desire you, isn't that enough?" His tongue darted out to trace the outline of her lips. "I know you desire me, Keely."

  "It's not right," she answered breathlessly, wanting to pull away but not having the willpower. He made her feel so alive . . . .

  "That a man and a woman should desire each other?" He kissed her furrowed brow. "That's as ancient as time itself."

  Before she could reply, Brock crushed Keely in his arms. His kiss was long and deep. Breathless, she pulled back, staring into his dark eyes, her hand lingering at the nape of his neck. "Your hair," she whispered, surprising them both.

  He cocked his head, smiling. "What?"

  "Let me see your hair." She stroked the crown of his head, feeling wickedly bold. So what if he didn't love her—she didn't love him. After all; they were married. Why shouldn't she enjoy the same pleasures he did? "I've never seen your hair. You wake before sunrise, and by the time I see you at breakfast, you've brushed and braided it again." Her hazel eyes danced inquisitively. "I just want to see what it looks like."

  Brock laughed, lifting her to her feet so that he could stand. "Only if you'll let me make love to you," he said softly.

  Keely's eyes narrowed. "It's my wifely duty, isn't it?"

  "No." He reached back and pulled his braid of hair forward, untying the strip of leather that bound it. "I'm not talking about duties." He unwound his thick black hair as Keely watched in fascination. "I'm talking about what should be between a man and a woman," he said. "What we were made for."

  Hesitantly Keely reached out to fan the long, raven locks over his bronze sculptured shoulders. "It's beautiful," she breathed.

  He smiled, lifting her in his arms to carry her to their bed, his face nestled in the sweet crook of her neck. "Beautiful? Let me show you beautiful," he whispered.

  Chapter Twelve

  Keely looped her arms around Brock's neck, staring up into the depths of his velvet-black eyes. She brushed his broad cheek with her hand, smiling when he pressed a kiss to her palm.

  Brock gently lay her down crosswise on the bed, then stripped off his breeches before sliding in beside her. "You have the most perfect mouth," he whispered, tracing her trembling lips with his finger. "How was I so lucky to find wealth and beautiful lips in a wife?"

  Keely erupted into soft laughter. "And is it luck that you've married a woman who thinks you a murderer?" She wove her fingers through his thick hair, glorying in the feel of its silky texture.

  " 'Tis all done and forgotten, cousin," he murmured, lowering his face until it was only inches from hers.

  Keely's eyes drifted shut as his lips touched her lips, igniting a spark of incandescent desire deep within her. His tongue was hot and wet and probing. His kiss robbed her of all reason, pushing all thoughts aside save of him, here . . . now.

  Again and again he took her breath away, his fingers teasing lightly at the bodice of her shift as he rained a gentle onslaught on her mouth. "God, Keely, you taste of the heavens," he whispered huskily in her ear.

  Slowly he made his way down to the neckline of her thin shift, sprinkling her pale flesh with a smattering of light, teasing kisses. With his tongue he traced the line of cotton lace, leaving a trail of damp, tingling sensation behind. Caressing a rounded breast with his hand, he lowered his mouth to the nub of her nipple, straining against the thin cloth.

  Keely arched her back, moaning softly as his mouth closed over the bud of her breast, wetting the cotton material as he sent shiver after shiver of deep, resounding pleasure through her limbs.

  Running a hand down the length of her thigh, Brock lifted the shift above her waist and Keely sat up, allowing him to tug it over her head and send it floating to the floor. Resting on her back again, she ran a hand over his broad chest, noting his sigh as her fingers brushed a male nipple. Smiling secretly, she touched the tiny dark nub again, surprised to find it stiffening. Fascinated by her discovery, Keely lifted her head to brush her lips against the bud, her tongue darting out to taste the salt of his flesh.

  Brock groaned, running a hand through her thick, auburn hair. "And who taught you such things, witch?" he asked softly.

  Keely smiled up at her husband. "Taught?" She laughed huskily. "I just thought that what was good for me must be good for you."

  He nodded, his eyes drifting shut as she sucked hesitantly on his nipple. "Good rule to follow," he managed.

  Smiling in the semidarkness, Keely pushed Brock over onto his back, bent on exploring this unknown entity of a man's body. Inquisitively, she moved her hands over his chest, down his long, muscular arms, and over the whipcord muscles of his thighs, taking in the soft sighs of pleasure that came from her husband's lips.

  A wonderful thing this male body was—so different
from her own. Where she had soft curves, his skin was stretched taut over sculptured muscles. Where her pale skin was smooth and unblemished, his body was peppered with the scars of life, his suntanned flesh sprinkled with dark, crisp hair.

  Brock lay still beneath Keely's innocent exploration, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. How was it that this English girl could evoke such stirrings within him? It was not the physical excitement that had him so puzzled but the emotional. Even when he'd been furiously angry with her this evening when she appeared at the tavern, a secret part of him was glad to see her. Each time he laid eyes on the little chit, against his will he felt his chest tighten, his heart skip to an unsteady beat. He prayed that he was not falling in love with her . . . .

  "Enough! Enough of this," Brock said aloud, catching Keely's hand. He saw her face fall.

  "You don't want me to touch you?" She knew her exploration excited him . . . that was startlingly obvious. What had she done wrong?

  He chuckled, rolling her over to kiss her rosy lips. "Not unless you wish an all-too-quick finish to the whole matter, ki-ti-hi." His voice was soft and husky, a caress to her ears.

  Keely furrowed her wispy brows in confusion, her eyes suddenly lighting up with understanding. "Oh!" She withdrew her hand from his thigh, a pale blush of color creeping across her cheeks. "Sorry . . ."

  "No. Never be sorry." Brock kissed the valley between her breasts and Keely giggled. "What?" He lifted his head, a thin trace of a smile on his lips.

  "Your hair, it tickles!"

  "Tickles?" He smiled wickedly, dropping his head to let his long tresses brush the peaks of her breasts.

  Keely laughed again, but this time softly, sensually. "Mmmm, I like that." She tilted her head back, letting her hands fall to her sides on the bed.

  Moving exquisitely slowly, Brock brushed the length of her naked body with his mane of ebony hair, sending shivers of molten longing through her limbs. Nearly paralyzed with intense pleasure, Keely writhed beneath his magical assault, calling his name.

  Lowering his head, Brock kissed the flat hollow of her stomach and she lifted her hips with an inherent instinct. Her mind swam with the sensations of the flesh, her body crying out to be satiated.

  When Brock's lips first made contact with the web of tight curls, she cried out, shrinking back. But the soft sounds of encouragement he whispered made her relax, trusting him as he beckoned. At first, the sensations that pulsed through her were soft and flowing, but then he began to move to an ancient rhythm and she lifted her hips in response. The waves of gentle pleasure grew in strength until they became an all-consuming bittersweet pain of longing.

  "Please, Brock," she cried, her voice raspy.

  "Shhh," he hushed. "Lie back, it's all right."

  Breathing deeply as she relaxed into the bedcovers, she felt herself being drawn up with the tide. Uncontrolled, she was being hurled higher and higher until suddenly there was a surge of ecstatic release, filling her to capacity with a joy she'd never known.

  Looming over her prone body, Brock slipped into her with a single stroke, catching her as she drifted slowly to the shores of peace. Then Keely felt herself moving again, lifting her hips in reception of each thrust, struggling to catch another glimpse of that indescribable peak of pleasure.

  Brock's breath was hot in her ear as he moved faster, calling her name, urging her forward. In unison, they rose and fell until they both cried out in fulfillment.

  When Brock rolled onto his side to relieve her of his weight, Keely lay motionless, her feathery lashes a dark smudge on her pale face. Gently, Brock brushed a lock of damp hair from her forehead. "Do you live?" he whispered.

  Keely forced her eyes to open, her mouth turning up in a lazy smile. "I'm not sure . . ."

  "So now you really are a woman, wife." He kissed the tip of her nose, his hand brushing over her belly.

  "It was . . . it was . . ." She looked up at him, studying his bronze face in the dim light.

  "I know. There are no words. Not Shakespeare, not Milton, not even Cicero could describe what love is, what it feels like."

  Love, Keely thought. What did he mean? Who was he to speak of love? He'd told her there was nothing more between them than physical desire. But she said nothing, not wanting to spoil the moment.

  Kissing Keely softly on the lips, Brock slid up, tossing his pillow to the floor. He never slept with a pillow. "Come here," he called, holding his arms out for her.

  Crawling across the bed, Keely slipped beneath the light coverlet, snuggling down in the crook of Brock's arm. Refusing to allow herself to dwell on what she thought of her husband or her desire for him, she drifted to sleep.

  The instant Keely lifted her head from the pillow, the bile rose in her throat and she moaned aloud. "Oh God, not again."

  Brock pushed up out of the bed and crossed the room naked to retrieve the water bowl from the mahogany side table. Without a word he kneeled beside the bed, holding Keely as she was sick into the basin. Lifting her head she took the damp towel he offered her, pressing it to her lips. Flinging back into the pillows, she squeezed her eyes shut to force back the tears. She was so embarrassed; this made the third time this week she'd been sick.

  Feeling Brock's presence bending over her, she lifted her eyelashes to see his grinning face. "What are you so happy about?" she asked irritably. "Found another British brig to pillage?"

  He took the cloth from her hand and dipped it into the pitcher of cool water, wringing it out before he placed it gently over her forehead. "Are you addlepated, cousin? You're pregnant." He broke into a grin again.

  Keely groaned, closing her eyes as she drew the counterpane to her chin. "Don't say that! I can't be!"

  Getting to his feet, Brock moved to the mirror to brush and braid his hair. "It's November, let's see . . ." He counted comically on his fingers. "You must be quite fertile."

  Keely pulled the counterpane over her head. "I don't want to be fertile. I don't want to be sick. I don't want to have a hundred screaming children and sagging breasts!"

  Brock laughed, his fingers moving nimbly through his hair. "You should have thought of that before you bewitched me into your bed."

  "Bewitched! Hah! They said I had to marry you. I was given no choice!"

  Fastening a bit of ribbon on the end of his braid, Brock went to the bed, easing down beside Keely to lift the covers from her face. "You never told me you didn't want children," he said quietly.

  Keely looked up at Brock, sighing. "It's not that I didn't want children, just not now. Not when everything is such a mess. I wanted time to get used to being married, to running the house, and now with Aunt Gwen leaving . . ." She looked away.

  "How could you have been so silly to think you wouldn't get with child eventually?" Brock couldn't help feeling angry. Why didn't she want his child? Was it because she thought she was better than he was? Did she think she lowered herself to sleep with him, a colonial? She certainly had no trouble relating to Micah. . . .

  "Eventually, yes, but . . ." She looked up at Brock, "I'm sorry. You're right, I was playing with fire. I deserve what I get."

  "You're my wife, damn it!" he shouted. "You make it sound as if it was something dirty and despicable. I have a right to make love to my own wife."

  Keely dropped her gaze to the patterned counterpane. "And have I ever denied your right, husband?"

  Brock jerked his linen shirt off the bedpost and stuffed his balled fists into the sleeves. "Don't play that game with me, cousin. You make it sound as if I forced you. I seem to recall you coming to me on more than one occasion, begging for your own rights."

  Keely's cheeks colored. He was right. Though she and Brock moved cautiously through their marriage by day, more like strangers than husband and wife, by night they abandoned caution, making love and enjoying each other fully. Though Keely still did not care for her husband or his politics, she couldn't honestly deny her desire for him. Brock had awakened her sensuality and he knew it. He played her like a
n ancient stringed lute, teaching her the pleasures of the flesh, teaching her how to enjoy what had been bestowed upon them.

  Brock sat down to roll up his hose. "I'll be late tonight, so don't expect me."

  "That's fine because Micah asked me to go to the Parkers' with him; they're having a reception for their daughter and her new husband." She didn't know why she said it like that, she just did.

  "I told you I don't like you seeing so much of Micah Lawrence."

  "You're never here to take me anywhere, what do you care? He and Jenna are the only friends of yours who have offered any kindness. They're the only friends I have here!"

  "It's not seemly. You're a married woman now."

  She slid down in the bed, pulling up the covers. "Are you telling me I can't go?"

  Brock forced his feet into his boots and retrieved his bayberry-colored coat from the chair. "I'm telling you it's not a good idea."

  "Are you jealous, husband?"

  "Have I need to be?" he asked. "It was my dear friend Micah who tried to marry you to save you from me."

  "I'm not that stupid!" Keely didn't know why she was behaving so cruelly. She felt trapped. She was just so mad with him. What did he care if she was pregnant? It wasn't he who would suffer through childbirth.

  "No, I don't think you are." He turned to her, his dark eyes piercing hers. "Because I swear to you, I would kill you both! I was cuckolded once; there will be no second time."

  Tears welled in Keely's eyes at the sound of the slamming door. Brock Bartholomew had no heart, she was sure of it now. When this child is born, she vowed silently, I will leave him and go home. "Home to England," she whispered.

  "What did you say, dear?" came Aunt Gwenevere's voice from behind the door.

  "No . . . nothing!" Keely called, dashing at her tears with the back of her hand.