My Scandalous Bride

by Christina Dodd

  Did she have the nerve to seduce him coldly, for her own purposes? The plan seemed excellent, but the execution was proving difficult. She'd just learned the rudiments of arousal earlier that night, and she had yet to lose the shyness of innocence. Yet she had to concentrate on titillating him rather than on her scheme to escape, for her acting couldn't stand up under his scrutiny. She had to lose sight of the lie and want him again.

  After all, that shouldn't be difficult. She did want him again. She'd always wanted him. She recognized

  the tiger in him, because it corresponded to the tiger inside her. Even if he were the Seamaster and had sent Ronald to his death, even if he were Jean and ordered Ronald's murder, still she wanted him. She'd let him have his way with her and told herself she had no choice because deep inside herself she acknowledged her mate.

  The revelation horrified her.

  "What?" Leighton asked.

  She found herself sitting back on his lap, staring at him.

  "Laura, what is it?" He held her as if he thought she would tumble down without his support. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

  "I want you." Her voice sounded little and far away, even to her own ears.

  Now he looked as stunned as she felt. "I want you, too. I want... all of you. I want to talk to you and ... make love to you and just... be with you." The words seemed to struggle from him, from this composed, restrained, thoughtful man, and one of his hands rose to stroke her face. His fingers were trembling. "It's too early, I've done it all backward, but I want... I have to ask ..."

  She grasped his penis with her hand and from his grimace, she thought she'd hurt him. Instead he picked her up and rearranged her so her legs parted over the top of his. He put her back down, and the sensation of her bare bottom against his bare legs shocked her back into good sense. He wanted to do this here, now, and if they did she'd have failed. She had to get him back to the bed, and she pushed against his shoulders. "No!"

  "What?"

  His eyes were glazed with desire, and her denial didn't break through his daze.

  "On the bed. Please." She scooted back and he grappled to keep her close. "Please. Leighton. Keefe.

  The bed. I want to try something . .. exciting."

  "This'll be exciting," he said.

  "I can't. Not here." He let her slide off the end of his knees, and the pressure made her aware of her

  own arousal, of how easily she could succumb to his persuasion. "Please." She stood and tugged at his hand. "Come on."

  He stood, too, and looked down at her. "I shouldn't," he muttered.

  "This won't take long."

  He half-laughed. "No, I don't suppose it will."

  He stumbled over the edge of the rug as she led him to the bed, and that reassured her. He was still off-balance and at her mercy. As she walked, she untied the belt of her robe and placed it beside the pillows when they reached their goal. His hands encircled her waist to boost her onto the bed, but she twisted quickly away. "No, you get on first," she said.

  Tilting his head, he studied her. "You're bold for a fledgling."

  "A cub," she corrected. Pushing his greatcoat off, she held it in one fist and promised, "You won't need that." She patted the mattress.

  Still bemused, he climbed up and stretched out, a broad, large, handsome piece of male flesh that made her mouth water.

  "When you look at me like that. .."

  It was obvious what happened when she looked at him like that. It was obvious he expected her to cure him, too. He held out his hand just as she found the end of his coat's belt. She dropped the coat to the floor and let the weight of the wool free the leather strap for her use. Then she placed it beside her robe's belt and took his hand.

  "You're trembling," he said. "Come up here and let me warm you."

  Of course she was trembling. She was scared. Climbing on the bed, she said, "Let me warm you."

  Her voice shook, too, but he smiled at her, all sensuous encouragement. "Have your way with me."

  Sprawling on top of him, she threaded her hands through his hair and lowered her lips to his. She pecked at him, then kissed him, then penetrated him with a desperate relish. This would be, after all, the last time he'd want her. If he realized what she plotted, it wouldn't matter whether he were Jean or the Seamaster, he'd extract a terrible revenge. And if she succeeded ... if she succeeded, she'd have made a fool of him, and no man could bear that.

  He responded with quite satisfactory enthusiasm, and she wondered if she might not have a talent for

  this. Only with Leighton, of course. Leighton was her mate. She ran her hands over his chest, down to

  his waist, then stroked him as intimately as she knew how. She loved the feel of his skin, the coarse hair over it, the strength of the muscles below it. His arms encircled her, tightened, and he made to roll over

  to place her beneath him.

  "No!" She sat up and pressed her palm into his breastbone. "I want to stay on top."

  "Dear heart, I shouldn't even be here on the bed with you. A Leighton never neglects his duty."

  "You're not neglecting it, you're postponing it, and besides, haven't you a duty to... your wife?" She almost choked on the last two words, and added hastily, "Shut your eyes."

  "What?"

  "Shut your eyes." Leaning over him, she brushed his eyelids with her lips until they stayed down.

  "Raise your arms."

  His eyes opened again and he directed blue amazement at her. "What?"

  Taking his muscled forearm in both of her hands, she tugged until his hand was in the vicinity of the headboard. Then she wrapped it around one of the rails. "I want to touch you freely. I want to make

  you want as fiercely as you made me want." She lifted his other arm and he let her, although he clearly wondered at her. "Is that so strange?"

  "I don't understand it," he admitted. "Why would a woman—"

  "Give as much as she takes?" Laura lifted a mocking eyebrow at him. "Be generous with her gifts?

  Seek a sweet revenge?"

  His massive arms wrapped around her, hugging her to him, and he held her head while he kissed her fiercely. Letting her go, he raised his hands and grasped a rail in each hand. "Do your worst."

  If only he knew!

  She didn't demand that he close his eyes again, but instead concentrated on touching him in ways he had touched her. Usually affectionate, occasionally intimate, each caress seemed to affect him more intensely. He waited, almost breathless, for each new contact, and his anticipation built her own. Her body seemed synchronized with his; her muscles tightened when his did, her breath caught with each of his stifled groans.

  This was fun. This was fabulous. This was everything she'd promised him, and she had to finish what she'd started. His eyes had closed once in sensual overload, then fluttered open as he struggled to maintain control. She knew she could make him close his eyes. She could make him lose his mind, if

  only for a moment. She was the female tiger, after all.

  She'd used her hands so far, but they formed only part of her arsenal. Now she kissed his body, smoothing the skin of his chest with her lips, then daring to taste his nipple when it came within reach.

  He groaned now, right out loud. "Laura." His body shuddered, too, and he twisted on the bed, his eyes tightly shut.

  She had him. She'd trapped him. All she had to do was close the trap, but first, she wanted.. . Her mouth wandered to the other side of him while her hands wandered below, and she realized she enjoyed watching him squirm. She liked the power, and she badly wanted to finish the moment.

  Not now. Blindly, she reached for the cord of her robe and wrapped it around the rail above his wrists. Not ever. With a quick motion, she used an embroidery knot to secure Leighton to the bed. She was

  done with love now. She'd never be the Countess of Hamilton again, not in truth or even in her imagination. She wouldn't even dare dream of this.

  "Laura?"

  His eyes
were open now, and he tugged at the knot. She watched the knot tighten, the material stretch, and whipped his leather belt around the other direction to reinforce the restraint. The rail would hold him, even secured as he was to only one. The oak was old and solid, and had no doubt taken greater strains.

  "Laura?" He was fully aware now, his gaze shifting from bewilderment to concern. "What are you doing?"

  She slid off the bed and looked at him, stretched naked before her. "I'm leaving you."

  CHAPTER 5

  No woman could tie an effective knot. Leighton knew it, and he jerked on the restraint that held him. Nothing gave, and he twisted to look above his head. The knot, complex and unknown, alarmed him. "Laura, this isn't funny."

  "Believe me"—Laura picked her clothing off the floor and began to dress rapidly—"I'm not laughing."

  He watched hungrily as she lifted her arms to pull the shift over her head, then jerked his attention away. That was the kind of nonsense that had got him into this dilemma, and his body still spoke to him louder than his common sense. She glanced at him, running her gaze down his form, then looked away, and he guessed the constant changes in his body spoke to her, too. Pleased that he had at least that much influence and still convinced he could persuade her to free him, he asked, "Why would you even want

  to do this?"

  From the corner of his eye, he could see as she pulled on petticoats. "Perhaps you are Jean, the leader

  of the smugglers, as I first suspected."

  Damn the woman! She was a tiny thing, her waist so small he almost spanned it in his hands, with direct blue eyes and curly brown hair, and she was as stubborn and opinionated as his grandmother in one of her matriarchal moods. How could Laura not believe him? Pulling himself up the bed by his wrists, he glared at her. "I am the Seamaster!"

  Laura nodded without a smile and pulled her dress over her head. "If you are, as you claim, the Seamaster, you sent my brother after these smugglers when you knew the danger he courted.

  Regardless, you are responsible for his death, and I intend to make you pay."

  "Pay? How? By humiliating me?"

  She had that stubborn thrust to her chin that he'd learned to recognize. "That, if you're the Seamaster.

  Or by turning you over to the proper authorities if you're Jean."

  The lawlessness of her plan left him speechless with admiration. Admiration, and fury, and an unquenched desire that made him determined to teach her a lesson—when he got untied. He tugged at

  the knots again and frowned when he saw that the strain only tightened them. Perhaps he could have ripped free from the wool band, but she'd been smart enough to use the leather strap from his coat, and that wouldn't fail. "Now, dear." He kept his voice low and soothing. "This isn't a good idea. If you'd just think about it, you'd realize that. You don't really believe I'm Jean, the man who killed your brother.

  You wouldn't have turned to flame in my arms if you believed that."

  She glanced up from her buttons to cast him a look composed of equal parts of alarm and disgust.

  "You did, you know. This night has been a rogue's fantasy." That wasn't what he'd meant to say. He didn't mean to dwell on the pleasure of the dark, but the memory of her sweet passion still enfolded him. She'd trapped him by recalling that gratification and promising more, but he should have guessed no woman as inexperienced as she had proved to be would be bold enough to attempt a seduction. Indeed,

  as he looked at her, she folded her generous mouth tightly and her color rose, and he realized he had embarrassed her. He didn't want to embarrass her now; he desperately needed her to stay so he could convince her to free him. Hastily, he steered back toward the logic he hoped would sway her. "If I'm the Seamaster, as you know I am, then Jean is still loose, still capable of murdering more people as he murdered Ronald. Surely there's more satisfaction to catching him than in gaining a petty revenge on me."

  "I'm finding there is a great deal of satisfaction in petty revenge." Pulling up her stockings, she tied her garters around her knee, and he strained to see the turn of her ankle. She lowered her skirts with enough haste to tell him she'd noticed, and she said, "You yourself told me you don't think it's possible to catch Jean tonight, that he's escaped from this area."

  He'd told her too damned much. He'd been overconfident, treating her like a woman who would be

  swept away by the scope of his passion. She was completely dressed now, shoving her extra clothes into the carpetbag she'd hauled from under the desk, and he scowled at her. She should have been swept away by the scope of his passion, damn it. Instead, he'd been swept away by hers. He'd never failed to get his way with a woman before; of course, he'd never neglected his duty for a woman before, either, and that made him uneasy. "Surely you know I'm not a man to falter in anything he sets out to do, don't you? I'm determined to capture Jean, and I will. I'm determined to keep you safe, and I will."

  "Probably that's why you remained here with me, wasn't it? To keep me safe while your men hunted

  this infamous Jean."

  It was a indication of his perturbation that he wanted to snatch onto the shameful excuse and agree with her. Only her sarcastic tone kept him sane enough to say dryly, "Oh, yes, I'm that noble. Laura, surely you don't imagine I'm going to keep quiet? I know Ernest. He's been the innkeeper at the Bull and Eagle for years. I'll shout and he'll come to my rescue before you've walked across the taproom."

  She grinned at him smugly. "I don't think so. We're married, remember? Ernest won't interfere regardless of what he hears."

  The phrase sounded familiar. Then he recognized it. He'd said just that to her when she'd threatened to scream. If he hadn't been in such desperate straits, he would have laughed, but damn the woman! She couldn't leave him here. "When I call Ernest, he'll come."

  She nodded thoughtfully. "You're probably right."

  As she walked toward the bed, Leighton's heart leapt with triumph. "That's a good, reasonable girl," he said. "You'll see. You're doing the right thing."

  Stopping short of the dais, she leaned down out of his sight, and when she rose, she had his clothes gathered in her arms. "Yes, I think I'm doing the right thing, too." Walking to the window, she opened it and threw his clothes out.

  "Hey!" His incredulous shout came a moment too late. "How could you?"

  She shrugged. "I had to do something. Lack of clothing should slow you down even if you do yell for Ernest."

  "Of course I'm going to yell for Ernest." As loudly as he could, he bellowed, "Ernest! Ern—where the

  hell did you get that?"

  She'd taken a pistol out of the desk drawer and was checking it in a manner that proclaimed her competence. "From my father. He taught me how to use it. I thought it best if I brought it, for I feared

  I would meet a villain." Her gaze surveyed him coolly. "I did, but I didn't shoot him."

  For the first time, Leighton faced an ugly truth. He wasn't going to get his way. She wasn't going to free him. She was going out into the dark and rain to escape him. And Jean was still free and no doubt bent

  on mischief. Smuggling was a serious crime, but one the government more often than not turned its back on.

  Espionage was something else again. England was at war with France, and secrets leaked from this coast to the French command and into the ears of Napoleon himself.

  Leighton knew all about it, because Leighton was the man in charge of maintaining security in the government.

  Ronald Haver had worked for Leighton, not as a secretary as his sister originally believed, but to ferret out the source of the leaked information. The son of a career soldier killed serving in India, Ronald had been totally competent, daring, and courageous—a family trait, Leighton had discovered later—and it

  was Ronald who'd discovered where the information exchange was made.

  Leighton hadn't believed it at first. The smugglers landed on the very beaches of his own manor? Did Jean know his identity and mock him by using h
is home? Or was it simply serendipity, the fact that his beaches had always been and would always be the best place to land with smuggled goods, with caves in the cliffs above to stash the contraband? Ronald's diary had given him the answer he sought, as well as posing a question—who was Jean's accomplice?