Kiss Me, Annabel

by Eloisa James

  Annabel felt as if somehow she ended up doing all the talking. Ewan got out of her, by turns and twists and sympathetic eyes, the truth about her father’s circumstances.

  “So he gambled away all the money in the house?” he said one afternoon, when they were rumbling along the road.

  “It wasn’t like that!” Annabel protested. “Papa never gambled.”

  “Aye, but taking the money from the estate and backing a horse, whether it’s on the track or in your own stable, is gambling.” He eyed her over the cribbage board. “And I’ll tell you, lass, that I don’t like the fact he made you into his bookkeeper either.”

  “I like keeping track of numbers,” Annabel said rather lamely.

  “Then he should have kissed your feet for it,” Ewan said. His eyes were laughing again, and he dropped to the carriage floor between them and started on with some nonsense about kissing her feet.

  But Annabel couldn’t help thinking about it. Ewan would never gamble, not at the track, nor with his own horses. He was a different sort of man from her father.

  They were into the highlands by now. “I’m thinking that perhaps we might ask Father Armailhac to marry us on the very day we arrive,” Ewan said at luncheon. “Would you be agreeable, darling?”

  There was something about the way darling rolled from his tongue in a Scottish burr that made Annabel think that she could never say no to him, not if he called her that. A fact that should be concealed obviously. So she pretended to think about it.

  “Rafe would be happy to hear that you had followed through on your obligations,” she said.

  “Yes, and just imagine. The more time that passes, the more likelihood that I’ll lose interest and run for the hills.”

  She had to smile at the look in his eyes. “ ’Tis a serious consideration,” she agreed.

  “Of course, Uncle Pearce would likely step in and marry you, just to save the family name, and given as you’re such a ruthless cardplayer.”

  “I’ve always thought maturity was an excellent thing in a spouse.”

  “Damn it, Annabel,” he groaned, running his hand through his hair so that it stood straight up. “Will you marry me immediately? Please? I’m dying here.”

  “I thought you didn’t care who you married.”

  “Now I do,” he said flatly.

  “Then I shall,” she said. “And that’s an honest answer.”

  The smile on his face flew straight to her heart. “I’m saving my kisses for tonight,” he said. “And Annabel—I’m giving you warning right here that I’m breaking that foolish rule about no kissing in our bedchamber. You’re mine. I shall consider this the moment I asked you to marry me, and forget entirely that business in London.”

  She swallowed.

  “I’ll ask Mac to send a message to Father Armailhac,” Ewan said. “And then I’ll ride outside this afternoon, because otherwise I won’t be able to keep my kisses until evening.”

  Annabel was startled at how much her heart lightened at the sight of long stretches of dark forest. She liked England’s tidy green fields and neat little thickets. But there was something glorious about looking out of the carriage window at a rolling hill covered with thick fir. Great birds—kites? hawks?—flew in wide circles over the deep green treetops. Ewan rode by her window, his hair blowing back in the wind, looking red-haired and brawny and Scots to the bone.

  Annabel’s heart sung. “You’re turning into a fool,” she muttered to herself. “He’s making you into a fool.”

  But there seemed nothing wrong with foolery, not on a crisp day in May when her near husband had smiled at her in such a way. The problem was that while he rode next to the carriage, all she did was think of questions that she wanted to ask him.

  “This is not a kissing question,” she told him that evening. They were in an inn so old and magnificent that it boasted King James VI once slept there, before he moved down to England. They had eaten like kings, and were finally alone. Bowls of fruit in silver bowls glowed dully in the light from the candles. Annabel regarded Ewan thoughtfully over a tiny glass filled with golden cognac. “How old were you when the flood took your parents?”

  “Seven.”

  “And your siblings?”

  “They were twins and still just babies. I only remember the way they used to cry at night. If one stopped, the other would start. My mother and their nurse would run between their cribs and I would laugh.”

  “So you remember your parents? I have hardly any memories of my mother.”

  His eyes were shaded by the candlelight so that she couldn’t see them clearly. “I remember my mother, but not my father.”

  There was something about the way he said it that told her Ewan hated not remembering his father. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Imogen can’t remember Mama at all, and I know that she wishes dearly that she could. When she was small, she always asked for stories about her.”

  “That’s likely part of your sister’s problem.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Annabel scowled at him.

  “She’s a reckless girl who’ll come to grief if she’s not lucky, and you know it, darling. After all, first she eloped with her poor husband—and I get the feeling she probably forced the man over the border herself—and then she threw herself at me. A dangerous woman.”

  Annabel knew she should defend her sister, but something in her liked the fact that Ewan showed no signs of wishing that Imogen had been the one to marry him. “You’re not one to talk. After all, you invited Imogen to your hotel.”

  “But I asked her to marry me first.”

  Annabel frowned at him. “Did you ask every woman you met to marry you?”

  “Not at all,” Ewan said. “I only asked two…or perhaps three, now I think of it.”

  “But marriage is a serious consideration!” Annabel cried. “How on earth could you treat it so cavalierly?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t find the question earthshaking.”

  “Do you mean,” she said slowly, “that it didn’t make any difference to you whether you brought home myself or my sister as your bride?” She had a queer, empty feeling in her stomach.

  But Ewan grinned at her as cheerfully as ever. “Actually, as I recall, I thought your sister would be a better bride than you.”

  She scowled at him.

  “You’re a woman to drive a man insane with desire. And I didn’t want that.” He didn’t even move, but there was something in his eyes that gave her the hot, melting feeling she felt when he kissed her.

  “Why not?” she managed.

  “I’m not the sort to run after my wife like a tame lapdog. As a rational man, I have no fear that I couldn’t make myself compatible with almost anyone. But you…”

  “You thought I was shrewish and would beat you about the head?” she said, smiling.

  His gaze was like a caress. “I thought I ran the risk of making a fool of myself over you,” he said. “Prescience on my part, I have no doubt.”

  “But you wouldn’t have made a fool of yourself over Imogen?” Annabel persisted, wanting to hear it said aloud.

  “I thought your sister would make a handy wife because she was Scottish, she was miserable and I could give her the heart’s ease that she needed. But no, she certainly wouldn’t drive me to distraction. I have no doubt we would have become comfortable together, after she’d had time to grieve.”

  “You thought of Imogen as some sort of charity case!” she said, staring at him in fascination.

  He raised an eyebrow. “And isn’t she, then? The poor lass was threatening to sleep with the Earl of Mayne. He isn’t a man to be toyed with. He’s clearly had many a lover, and I didn’t think she should be indulging in such antics with Mayne.”

  “So you asked her to marry you—”

  “Which didn’t work because the girl was set on debauchery.”

  “So you invited Imogen to your room,” Annabel said with a scowl.

  “That was just to dissuade her.�
�

  She snorted. “A kind of dissuasion that every rake understands, then.”

  “I was as coarse to her as I could be, thinking I’d scare her off. I did my best to give her a fear of debauchery. And my plan worked like a charm.”

  “How did you do it?”

  “I suppose these are all relevant points, in the long run,” he said. There was a sinful glint in his eye. “I told her that she would have to sleep with me naked. That there’d be no nightgowns between us. Of course,” he added, “I wasn’t thinking about scraps of silk.”

  A surge of desire swept over Annabel’s body at the look in his eyes. No nightgowns! “You mean adulterous women don’t—”

  “Never,” he said, shaking his head. “Didn’t you know that, lass?”

  “No, in fact, now that I—”

  “Never. No more than do man and wife wear clothing in bed together. And then I told her that I hoped she knew how to pleasure a man.”

  Annabel frowned at him. “That wasn’t a very nice thing to say!”

  “I didn’t want to be nice,” he said painstakingly. “I wanted that silly girl to reject the idea of forgetting her husband and risking her soul in the bargain. And then I said something else, and I do think that the last was what changed her mind.”

  “What was it?” Annabel demanded.

  He looked at her.

  “Oh, all right, it’s a question,” she said.

  “I told her that I was particularly fond of a coney’s kiss.”

  She blinked at him. “A what?”

  He shook his head. “So much to learn…and only a lifetime to do it in.” He was laughing at her again, but Annabel was possessed by curiosity.

  “Imogen knew what this kiss was? I can’t believe it!” Annabel was the one who had talked to women in the village, since she did all their bargaining. Imogen had stayed at home, mooning over Draven. How could she know what this kiss was, if Annabel had never hear do fit?

  “Have we done this kiss already?” she demanded.

  He laughed even louder. “No. I’m sorry to tell you, Annabel, that you didn’t learn quite everything there was to learn from the gossips in your village. And now I believe you owe me any number of kisses.” He was beside her seat so fast that she hadn’t even seen him move.

  At the end of his kiss, she felt mad, maddened by desire for him. “Was that a coney’s kiss?” she asked, falling back into her chair.

  He just grinned. “No.” He pulled a pack of cards from the mantelpiece. “Do you want to play? I’ll teach you speculation, so that Uncle Pearce can fleece you without feeling guilty. Not that he ever shows signs of such a worthy emotion.”

  “I know how to play speculation,” Annabel said, thinking that they should stay away from talk that led to kisses. “It’s Josie’s favorite game.”

  “In that case,” Ewan said with a wicked gleam in his eye, “we’ll play for a forfeit.”

  Annabel smiled. “Best of five hands?”

  He won the first game; she won the second. He won the third game; she won the fourth. “If I didn’t know better,” Ewan grumbled as he laid down the cards, “I’d swear you were cheating, my girl. I had that game.”

  “Shall it be pistols at dawn?” she asked, giggling.

  “I shall win this hand,” Ewan said, looking at his cards. “You see”—he looked up at her and there was a wild look about him that made the blood suddenly thunder in her veins—“I want your forfeit.”

  Annabel looked down at her cards, but he’d destroyed her composure. When he looked at her with that light in his eyes, it was as if a different Ewan had stepped forth. One that made her think of bedchambers and private things. She put down a card at random.

  He reached out and drew a finger down her cheek. She shivered, and put down another card without thinking of the consequences.

  “I seem to have lost a forfeit,” she noted, a few minutes later. “What will you ask for?” He smiled slowly, and she felt suddenly scorched by his heavy-lidded gaze. “You’re so different like this,” she said suddenly.

  “Different how?”

  “Normally, you look at me as if I amused you. In fact, you seem to view the entire world as an amusing spectacle.”

  “You don’t amuse me,” he said, a wry smile curling his lips.

  She could feel herself turning pink. “Not when…”

  “Not when I want you as much as I do now,” he said. Then he added conversationally, “I can hardly think of anything else, you know.”

  She turned even pinker.

  “There you sit, wearing a dusky blue dress—a color rather unsuitable for traveling, but it looks quite dramatic with your hair—and I can recite every detail of your clothing, from the brocade around the sleeve to that affecting little tassel at the shoulder.”

  “Imogen gave the gown to me,” Annabel said, trying to turn the subject. She felt instinctively it was going beyond her control.

  But his smile just got deeper, somehow. “All I can think about is taking it off.” There was such a tone of husky conviction in his voice that Annabel gasped.

  “It’s time to retire,” she said hastily, standing up.

  He stood up too, his eyes on hers. “As you wish.”

  “With the bolster between us,” she said, frowning at him. Then she froze. “Are you—are you going to ask for your forfeit tonight?”

  He tipped up her chin. “Do you wish me to do so?”

  “No,” she breathed, seeing his lips come to hers. “No.” There was a plea in her voice.

  And there was a groan in his throat, but he lost it in kissing her. It was a long time before she pulled back. He turned away, running a hand through his hair. “Damn.”

  “What?”

  “I’m on the verge of losing control,” he said, and the amusement was back in his voice. “I pride myself on never losing control.”

  “You know what they say about a fall,” Annabel observed. “The truth is, there isn’t much in your life that would make you lose control, is there?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “It’s so easy,” she said, watching him gather the cards into a neat pile and replace them in the precise spot from which he’d taken them. “Mac takes care of everything. That’s why you’re always amused.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Mac is a treasure.”

  “So you never lose your temper because there’s no call to,” she finished.

  He smiled at her wryly. “You must be good for me.”

  But Annabel was suddenly cross that she’d lost the forfeit. She should have concentrated and kept her mind on the game. Now he’d make her undress in the outdoors or some such scandalous action. “ ’Tis easy to curb one’s temper when there’s nothing to disturb it,” she said sharply.

  “Except you,” he said, standing just before her, but not touching her. “You disturb me.”

  She had to smile at that.

  They had a routine now, like any married couple. Annabel undressed with the help of her maid, and then tucked herself into bed. Some time later, Ewan came in, all sluiced down from washing at the pump, and took off most of his clothes and slid into bed. Then he usually got out of bed and found some sort of pillow and put it between them, because he was still adamant that it would be a disaster if he woke with her in his arms.

  “A man,” he had told her one night, “would be happy to make love morning, noon or night. But in the morning he’s primed for the exercise, if you take my meaning.”

  She had. All those hours spent listening to the women in the village complain about their marriages were truly paying off.

  Tonight didn’t feel like the other nights, though. Somehow the stiffness Annabel usually felt after sitting in a coach all day long had melted away, replaced by a racing excitement and trepidation. For one thing, she couldn’t figure out what Ewan meant to ask for his forfeit.

  He walked in and Annabel tried to look at him objectively, the way she had back at Lady Feddrington’s ball when she didn
’t know him from Adam. He was tall, and powerfully built…but checking off those characteristics didn’t work anymore. Because glancing at his chest made her think about their picnic. And—

  “Ewan!” she said. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m not wearing this shirt to bed,” he said calmly. “I’ll keep on my smalls, to protect us both. But you’ve seen my chest before, lass, and after we’re married, you’ll see it many a time.”

  Annabel swallowed. Ewan pulled his shirt over his head, and his shoulders and arms bunched with muscle. Rather than making her embarrassed, it gave her a peculiar melting feeling in her stomach. His chest tapered to narrow hips, to which his white smalls clung as if they were about to fall down…Annabel closed her eyes. Her body felt suddenly all curves and softness, a natural match to his.

  That night their bed was a great carved monstrosity that looked to have been built in the Middle Ages. He got in and the mattress listed to that side with a mighty creak.

  “It’s a good thing we’re not married yet, because this bed couldn’t survive a bout of shaking sheets,” he muttered, pulling the covers over himself.

  There was no bolster in the bed.

  “Didn’t you ask me what a coney is, Annabel, my love?” Ewan asked softly.

  She bit her lip, looking at him in the hazy light of the candles on the bedstand. His eyes were very, very green.

  “A coney’s a rabbit,” he whispered, moving closer to her. “A soft, velvety rabbit.”

  Annabel tried to think about rabbits and kisses, but his body was just next to hers, and the only thing between them was her nightgown. She felt as if she could feel the heat of his chest although he wasn’t yet touching her.

  Ewan looked at his bride-to-be and told himself for the hundredth time that he would be able to control himself. She was breathing in a shallow way, and earlier he’d seen her looking at him with a stealthy pleasure that suggested she wasn’t thinking of kicking him out of bed. Except—

  “Annabel?” he inquired. “Why have you closed your eyes? You’re not afraid of me, are you?”