He wasn’t at his home in London. The room dimensions were all wrong to be his bedchamber. The dimly lit fireplace was on the wrong wall, as was the large balcony window.
The back of his hand mildly stung as though it had collided into something. Rubbing at his knuckles, he glanced down to the floor. Darkness swam there. He could see nothing.
He stretched out his arm and gingerly felt around the rug until his fingers brushed against something hard. His hand closed around it, assessing, measuring. It was a vase. Several sharp-edged porcelain flowers decorated the outside of it. That must be why the back of his hand stung. He’d scraped his knuckles when he knocked it off the nightstand in his sleep.
He recalled it had held actual flowers, too. His hand continued its search over the rug until he met dampness and flowers and stems.
“Marcus?” The side door to his room eased open with a slight creak.
He tensed at the sound of the soft voice and peered into the shadowy dark, almost expecting to see Nancy there, coming into his room to sneak him a biscuit as she often did when he was a child. The young maid had been so kind to him, checking in on him at night. Always ready with a story of her childhood in Kent.
But it wasn’t Nancy from his childhood. He wasn’t a boy at his town house in London. This was now. This was reality and that soft voice belonged to Alyse.
Her voice came again. “Marcus.”
“Alyse,” he whispered, dread filling him. He’d been avoiding her since she woke up for a reason. He really didn’t want her here in his room in the middle of the night. It wasn’t advisable.
“I heard you. Is everything all right?”
He evened his breathing. “It’s nothing. I warned you. I talk in my sleep.”
She approached, her bare feet whispering over the carpet.
“Is the rug wet?” She was near the bed now.
“Er. Yes. I knocked over a vase of flowers. My apologies for waking you.” He sat up, resting his back against the headboard. Bending a knee, he propped his elbow on it, rubbing his face with a hand.
“I don’t mind. I’ve slept enough lately. You’re the one that needs some sleep. Poppy said you spent a lot of time in the chair by my bed. It doesn’t look to be a very comfortable chair.”
Poppy and her big mouth. “I’ll be fine.”
She stood there, unmoving, a shadow looking down at him. Her hair flowed in a nimbus around her. The dim firelight set the brown strands aflame. A few feet separated them, but he could smell the clean scent of her. And something else. Something that was inherently woman . . . and her.
He needed to tell her to go, but his body pulsed with different words. Words he dared not utter.
She took a step forward, sliding closer hesitantly.
Thoughts warred within him. Silent commands, pleas.
Come closer . . .
Go away . . .
He held his breath, watching as she lifted an arm, stretching it toward him. Her hand brushed his face, palm down. Cool fingers curled against his forehead, her thumb grazing the bridge of his nose. “You’re warm.”
“Don’t touch me,” he said under his breath.
“You may be feverish.” Her hand shifted against him as though assessing. He heard the concern in her voice. He knew what she was thinking, what worried her.
“I’m not sick.” He might very well have a fever at this moment . . . but it wasn’t because he was ailing. It would be because of her. It would be because her hand was on him. Because her body was so close. Because the aroma of her filled his nose—her feminine, soapy, floral fragrance intoxicating him. “Go, Alyse. Leave me.”
“How can you be certain you’re not sickening? Perhaps I was contagious and you picked up what afflicted me?” She shifted even closer and it was misery. He closed his eyes in a tight, pained blink. “Perhaps we should send for the physician, to be certain?”
He was definitely in need. But not for a bloody physician. He needed her. Somehow, some way, he had developed a yearning for Alyse.
Her hands on him were like a balm to his soul, and she wasn’t even trying to entice or arouse. That made her all the more dangerous. A woman who didn’t know her power over him. Who had no clue how very attractive she was—to him or any man, for that matter. She was modest and guileless.
He snatched hold of her wrist, circling it with his fingers, stalling her exploration of his face.
She hissed sharply. He wasn’t certain if the sound was from surprise or pain, but he quickly loosened his grip. “I asked you to go.”
Now it was too late. Now he couldn’t let her leave.
Still gripping her by the wrist, he tugged and rocked her off balance. The move brought her sprawling down on top of him. He was awash in the scent of her. A cloud of soft sweet-smelling hair fell over him, curtaining them. He let go of her wrist and took her face in both hands, spearing his fingers through the wild fall of her hair and pulling her face to his.
She released a gaspy breath the moment before he covered her mouth with his own. Her lips melted against him. All of her did. The delicious weight of her sank over him . . . into him.
He settled her over him more snugly, fitting her against him like a warm, well-loved blanket. Her thighs parted and slipped over either side of his hips, straddling him. Her body was pliable and warm but her hands felt so cool, almost chilled against his skin.
Only the sheet pooling around his waist served as any barrier to his nudity. She wore her nightgown of sheer lawn. It slid against his flesh like the most sinuous of material. The two fabrics were insubstantial. A tug to the side. A yank. A rip. He could be directly against that silken core of her. Against her slick heat. A thrust and he’d be inside.
He gripped the curve of her hips in both hands, fingers digging through her nightgown as he rubbed his cock into the cleft between her legs. She moaned and lowered both her hands on either side of his head for leverage.
His hands curled into fists, strangling handfuls of nightgown. She moaned and tossed back her head. Slapping one hand on the headboard, she ground down on his cock until they both groaned. Moisture rushed between her legs as she started rocking against him, working her hips and sliding up and down the hard length of his erection.
One thing was certain. There was too much damn fabric between them.
He dove his hand into her hair, fingers sinking and tangling in the mass, the strands soft as silk against his palm. “You should go,” he growled, fingers delving deeper, cupping her skull.
She released a soft whimper. “I . . . I don’t think I can.”
Just like that, something snapped in him. The last invisible thread that had been holding him together.
“Your choice,” he growled, thrusting his hips, letting her feel him, rock hard against her, letting her know exactly what was going to happen if she didn’t leave.
He tugged lightly on her hair and another one of those little sounds escaped her as she arched her throat. He pressed his open mouth to the flushed skin at the side of her neck, directly beneath her ear.
She moaned in response, rocking into his hardness.
She might come to regret it, but she was still here. Still here and his restraint was gone.
She started to shake. “It’s happening . . . like before . . .”
The material between them was damp with both their desire, slicking all their movements. They slid and rocked desperately together. His balls swelled tight. He slid his hands up her back to grip her shoulders and bring her harder down on him.
“What are you doing to me?” he growled, loving how she quivered, how she was so responsive, so close . . .
She shook her head. “I—I don’t know. This isn’t . . . I don’t know . . . what is . . .”
He felt her trembling against him as she moved on him like an animal, desperate for her own pleasure, seeking her release.
He spoke into her ear as his own release twisted up and rose in him. “I said I wouldn’t do this . . .” But here he was,
lost in her, drowning.
A shudder racked her and vibrated into the length of him.
Her hair fell into her face and he swiped it back, so he could see her in the shadows, her contorting expression as she shattered over him. It was enough. The sight of her undone. Knowing she did this because of him. Because of what he did for her.
He kissed her, swallowing her shriek even as he moved under her, grinding into her yielding heat until he joined her in release, shattering as completely as she did.
She lowered her face until their foreheads were pressed together. Their ragged breaths merged, mingling. He relaxed his grip, his hands smoothing over the nightgown covering her hips.
She pulled back slightly, blinking wide, glittering eyes at him. He stared back, his chest tightening. Her breath fell hard on his lips and he had to resist another taste.
He’d thought her artless. Unworldly. Now he wasn’t so certain.
She’d had a lover. The man who abandoned her. Perhaps she knew precisely what she was doing—snaring herself a husband.
He tightened his hands and moved her off him, seating her at the edge of the bed. Her gaze turned wary as she hastily tugged her nightgown down over her legs.
“You’re looking at me that way again,” she murmured.
“What way is that?”
“Like I might pounce on you . . . but then I suppose I’ve already done that, no?” Her voice broke a little, shook between them like a wobbly, drifting feather.
He flung back the covers and rose from the bed, walking naked across the room to the washstand. He heard her suck in a breath, but didn’t bother to cover himself. It seemed a little late to adopt an air of modesty.
He used a linen and washed himself off, his back to her. He felt her stare boring into him, thorough, scouring as a heated blade. He looked over his shoulder at her. “We’ve done nothing irreparable here.”
“Irreparable?” The eyes that gazed at him looked rather haunted. “What does that even mean?”
He turned to face her. Again, she sucked in a breath.
“You’re a clever girl.” He braced a hand on the table behind him. “I’m not saying you manipulated this into happening.” He waved between them.
She made a choking sound. “Oh, that’s generous of you to allow . . . seeing as I only came in here because I heard you cry out. Because I thought you might have fallen ill and be in need.”
He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Perhaps . . . but put a bed near us and this is where we always end up.”
“Is it so wrong? If we both want each other, if we both—”
“I warned you not to want more from me. Don’t expect more than an offer of employment.”
She laughed bitterly. “Don’t flatter yourself. This was only a tryst. It happens between people from time to time. I’m not so naïve I don’t know that. I did not mistake it for more.”
He studied her profile. The clean line of her nose. The slightly pouty push of her bottom lip. They really were luscious lips. Her mouth brought forth all manner of carnal ideas. Staring at it, at her sitting on the edge of his bed, he wanted to cross the distance and claim that mouth again. He wanted to spend hours on it, tasting and exploring and committing it to memory.
“You should return to your room and get some rest. We resume our journey in the morning. This won’t happen again, Miss Bell.”
She stood from the bed, brushing at her nightgown as though smoothing out wrinkles in the fine lawn. She took several steps toward her door, appearing unsteady on her feet. Her voice came out jagged as broken glass, sharp enough to cut. “You really are a coldhearted bastard.”
Then she fled into her room.
He blew out a breath and dragged a hand through his hair. Better that. He could live with being cold.
It would get easier. Once he had her at Kilmarkie House and she was set up properly as the housekeeper it would be easier. He might not even stay very long, after all. He might just leave her there and keep going. Keep riding.
Chapter 19
When the dove looked out from her cage it wasn’t just her wolf out there anymore.
There were wolves everywhere.
He wanted to get rid of her mule. She glared at Marcus. He stared back steadily, looking quite unperturbed by the announcement or her obvious distress over it.
Alyse wasn’t quite certain when she began to think of the animal as hers, but she did, and the thought of giving him up was intolerable.
“We’re not leaving Little Bit,” she announced, staring at the lovely doe-eyed mare that stood placidly beside Bucky, ready to take the place of her mule. Rare sunshine peeped out from the clouds, highlighting the red in the beast’s mahogany coat.
She crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot, much in the manner she had done when being firm with any one of the Beard children.
Marcus stopped and stared at her, his expression full of exasperation. “Alyse, he’s much too slow. I would like to reach Kilmarkie House this decade if possible.”
She resisted reminding him that they were back to formalities. He had called her Miss Bell last night. “We cannot leave him behind. He has tried his best—”
“He simply is what he is. An old mule.”
Just as she was what she was. Unwanted. Without family. Homeless. Constantly reminded by him that she wasn’t worthy to be his wife. What if he deemed her worthless as a housekeeper, too? Would he cast her aside?
“He. Is. Coming.” She propped both hands on her waist, determined to stand her ground. Which was odd. She hadn’t particularly enjoyed riding the mule. She didn’t know why she was so stubborn on this point.
He stared at her for several moments before releasing a frustrated growl. “Very well. We don’t have time to stand here and argue.” Turning, he barked at one of the servants, “Fetch the mule please. Take this one back.”
She couldn’t help herself. The mule was going with them. She smiled widely. When he turned back to face her, she was still smiling. He paused as if the sight took him aback.
“What?” Her hand lightly drifted toward her face.
He shook his head. “Nothing.” But he continued to gaze at her as though he had never seen her before.
“Is there something on my face?”
“You look happy. You’re smiling.”
Her smile slipped. She shrugged awkwardly. “Sorry?”
“Don’t be sorry.” Now it seemed it was his turn to look awkward. “You’re happy. No apology necessary for that.” He winced and watched as a groom led out the mule. The beast looked resentful and took several nips at the lad as he tugged it forward. “Even if it is because of a stupid mule.”
She forced down a laugh. He looked aggrieved as he stared at the sulky animal.
They mounted without another word on the matter of the mule and her state of happiness (or lack thereof). She sent a look over her shoulder where Poppy Mackenzie stood before the threshold of her massive home, waving them off from the courtyard. They had already exchanged very proper and polite farewells.
Alyse waved back, deciding that Poppy Mackenzie might be one of the nicest women she had ever met. She couldn’t help hoping that she would someday see her again although that seemed unlikely. “Your sister-in-law is very lovely. Very kind.”
“She is that,” he agreed as they trotted out of the courtyard.
“You seem to know Poppy well. I’d almost say better than your brother.” When they departed the two men had behaved rather stiffly toward each other. Gruffly. Almost not like brothers. At least not brothers who were close. She had noticed. Poppy had watched, too, frowning at the pair of them and bidding them to say farewell to each other like two ill-mannered boys.
He shrugged atop his mount. “I don’t know if I’d say I know her well.”
She stared at him thoughtfully, prompting him to continue.
“But yes, I suppose I know her better than Mackenzie.”
He called his brother by his surname?
“It’s a long and complicated story.”
She snorted. “Considering I am bound to this mule for the better part of the day . . . I have all the time in the world.”
“We were engaged for a brief time.”
All of her froze, went cold inside. He had been affianced to that paragon of womanhood. That lovely and kind lady . . . but somehow she had married his half brother instead.
The information didn’t settle well with Alyse. In fact, the information sank like rocks in her stomach. The awful sensation was unfamiliar . . . but suddenly she didn’t feel so kindly disposed toward the other female. It was uncharitable of her. Inexplicable. She owed the woman a debt for taking such good care of her during her illness.
“As I said, it’s a long and complicated story,” he began. “Struan is my father’s illegitimate son.” He cleared his throat as though it were difficult to admit that. She could imagine how such a thing might be complicated . . . how that might bring a whole host of issues. “It took me some time to accept that. To even recognize it as truth.” He grunted. “I believe I was the last one in my family to accept it. I suppose that makes me a stubborn ass.”
“You think?” she managed to tease.
He cast her an uncomfortable glance. “Yes, we have a history of . . . tension. I suppose I proposed to Poppy because I knew he wanted her. It was spiteful. I did it to nettle him.”
“Oh,” she replied, rather surprised he would resort to such a low thing. “You would have married her out of . . . vindictiveness?”
“Yes. I suppose I would have. I was led by different emotions then. And once I offered for her, I was bound to honor the proposal. Thankfully, she broke it off with me.”
“For Mackenzie?”
“Of course. Her heart was as bound to him as his was to her. It was inevitable. They were inevitable.”
Inevitable. She marveled at that and felt a twinge of jealousy. What must it be like? Feel like? To be inevitable with another person? For your love to be that unavoidable?
The Duke Buys a Bride Page 16