by Allegra Gray
She felt a smile playing at her lips. Of course he did, given the number of times he’d managed to unfasten it on the way here. “You are one ugly lady’s maid,” she teased.
He put a hand to his heart. “My lady, you wound me with your cruel words.”
She giggled while he made short work of unfastening her bodice, amazed how he always knew the right thing to put her at ease. The gown slipped down to pool at her feet. The short corset came off next, and finally her shift.
Graeme’s hand skimmed reverentially over her hip. Desire threaded through her at his touch.
Without warning, he scooped her up and plunked her into the tub. She shrieked in surprise.
“If I hadn’t done that,” he growled, “your bath would have grown ice cold before you ever set foot in it.”
Charity sucked in a breath at the intense desire in his eyes.
Graeme stalked over to the soap and washrag. They were not the luxurious scented soaps Charity had at home, but they were of good quality. After all, the inn did specialize in weddings, she remembered.
Graeme plunged the cloth into the hot water, wringing it over her back. She sighed as the hot droplets sluiced over her skin.
“You have no idea what this is costing me,” he muttered.
She started to push up from the tub.
“Don’t you dare.”
“But you just said—”
“I know what I said. And I am painfully hard with the desire to finally, finally make love to you.”
Charity drew a shuddery breath as his blunt declaration fueled her own desire.
“But I also know that I intend to lick every inch of your body, and the taste of your freshly bathed skin is a pleasure worth these minutes of torture.”
“You intend to…” Her nipples hardened at the images his words brought to her mind.
“You have beautiful breasts.” He proceeded to wash them.
Charity squirmed, needing more, and he chuckled knowingly. “Wanton.”
“Wretch,” she retorted.
He continued running the soap over her body, unable to resist leaning in for kisses that left them both breathless. His shirt was soaked. Finally he pulled back. “Can you manage your hair on your own while I undress?”
She nodded, her voice strangled by desire.
She gave her hair the fastest washing of her life, then hopped out of the tub as Graeme stalked toward it, fully naked and sporting a massive erection.
Her knees threatened to give way.
While Charity’s bath had been lengthy, sensual and luxurious, Graeme’s was entirely opposite.
The bath was a delay he deemed necessary, since he’d arrived in his home country smelling quite ripe, and he wanted his wife to enjoy making love. He had no doubt she would, so long as he took care not to handle her too roughly the first time. She’d already proven to be a creature of passion.
“Do you wish me to help you?” she purred.
“No, thank you,” he managed in a strangled voice, looking away lest he be tempted to lick the last droplets of water from her delectable breasts. “I’ll manage. As much as I would welcome your ministrations, the distraction would be…overwhelming.”
She gave him a smirk and sauntered off. He shut the door to the small bathing area and proceeded to scrub himself in the most perfunctory manner possible. Satisfied he would not offend her, he blotted the drying cloth over his body. There.
He couldn’t take another minute of delay. He wrapped the drying cloth around his hips and opened the door.
Charity stood combing out her hair. She’d borrowed his spare shirt, which clung to her still damp body.
She dropped the comb.
Graeme gazed at his newlywed wife, her hair damp and skin still flushed from her bath, and his erection threatened to pry loose the cloth at his hips.
Still, he couldn’t help but subject her to a bit of teasing, after the pleasurable torture of watching her bathe. “So, my wife, what shall we do now? Would you like to go shopping? Or perhaps a game of draughts?”
“You tease.” She giggled. A girlish sound, fresh and natural. And totally belied by her body, which screamed take me. The sweet curve of her breasts was clearly visible through the thin cotton of his shirt, the dusky tint of her nipples pushing temptingly against their covering. The garment hung nearly to her knees, and beneath he could see the outline of her legs, the slight shadow at her cleft where they came together. The place his body clamored to be.
“I, tease? Nay, my sweet. It is you. Your every move has teased and taunted me from the moment we met.”
She gave him a saucy look. “I was not teasing. I was…enticing.”
“Ach. Lass, perhaps I am not as schooled in the new forms of flirtation. What, exactly, is an enticement, if not teasing?” He was enjoying this verbal parry with her, even more because he knew it where it would end. In bed, with him deep inside her.
“An enticement is…like a promise,” she decided.
“I see. Then, Lady Charity, I believe it is time for you to make good on your promises.”
He stepped forward, slid his hands beneath the shift and lifted it over her head in one fluid motion. He clasped her to him, skimming his hands over the smooth skin of her back, the sweet curve of her buttocks. Her breasts pressed against his chest. Her hand came between them. He felt a tug, and the cloth at his hips fell away. His erection pressed against her stomach. The feel of skin on skin, head to toe, sent a rush to his head more intoxicating than whisky. He wanted to step back, admire her glorious body, but he couldn’t let go, couldn’t stop his hands from squeezing her bottom, pulling her tighter against him.
He seized her lips in a kiss, his tongue delving into her mouth and finding hers, parrying until they both gasped for breath.
“Bed.” He guided them toward it, scooping her up and onto the mattress. Her legs wrapped around him, pressing her moist center against his hardness. He followed her down, groaning as she bucked her hips against him. He kissed the sensitive flesh at the base of her neck, filling his hands with her breasts, cupping them, brushing the pad of his thumb over her nipple. She cried out, arching into him. He slid further down, capturing her nipple in his mouth and drawing on it tightly. Her head thrashed from side to side.
“Now, Graeme. Please,” she begged him.
Now, definitely. Any more anticipation would only torture them both. He guided the head of his cock to her entrance. God, she was so slick. So ready for him. He pushed into her, straining every muscle in his body to keep from going full force. She sheathed him with impossible tightness. The urge to drive deep, thrust until he was buried to the hilt, nearly overwhelmed him. He gritted his teeth.
“More,” she whispered.
“I don’t—want to hurt you,” he panted.
She gazed up beseechingly, desire darkening those endless pools of blue. “Graeme, I want all of you.”
That did it. He pulled back, then thrust home. She tensed with a sharp little cry. He stilled. “Too much?” He started to withdraw, guilt penetrating the haze of lust.
“No!” Her small hands held him to her. “Just…be still just a minute…there.” The tension left her body. Still holding him, she wiggled beneath him. “Graeme…”
He knew what she wanted. Needed. The same thing he did. He started to move again, slowly, and her eyes darkened with need.
He stroked her, long and deep, until she was thrashing again, reaching for the peak. She wrapped her legs around him again, inviting him deeper. His own limit was growing near, but he held off, needing her to come before him. He brought his fingers between them, rubbing the sensitive nub in front of her entrance, now slick with moisture. Her hips bucked, and he stroked her faster, inside and out. Her eyes closed and her back arched as she came undone, pulsing and throbbing around him.
Just in time. Graeme threw his head back as he found his own release, coming long and hard, before the strength in his arms gave way and he collapsed, gathering her to him and r
olling to the side.
Slowly, their breathing calmed. He buried his face in her still-damp hair, amazed at his own reaction to their lovemaking. Amazed by the deep sense of belonging that filled his chest. He would never grow tired of this woman. Fate had handed him a gem indeed.
Charity fell asleep curled against Graeme’s chest. Secure, she slept dreamlessly, awakening only when the tantalizing smell of roast pork wafted up from the dining room of the inn. Her stomach growled. Or maybe it was Graeme’s. With her body pressed so tightly to his, she couldn’t be sure. They were both famished.
Clothing, however, was a problem. She wasn’t wearing any. The thought of putting on that same blue theater gown…ugh. Fortunately, Graeme peeked outside the door to find two parcels neatly wrapped in brown paper. The good Mrs. Partridge had delivered. One package contained a simple but well-made cotton dress of cheery yellow. A shift accompanied it, along with a lace garment she lifted from the paper. It spilled over her arms, soft as baby’s breath, and sheer as mist. There could be only one purpose for such a thing. When the older woman had suggested a nightshift, Charity had pictured something far more practical. Silly her. Smiling, she tucked it back in the paper.
The second package was much smaller, but brought Charity just as much relief as had the sight of fresh clothing. She turned away from Graeme as she unwrapped the paper, hating herself for needing it, hating herself for lying to Mrs. Partridge about having cramps, yet terrified of ruining her chance to hold onto Graeme’s love. Even though he hadn’t spoken the words, she’d felt it in his touch. The paper fell away and she released a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. The shameful answer to her secret prayers. How ironic that, months after her rescue from that dark cellar with a single vial of poison as her only companion, the relief from such memories came in a similarly-shaped vial.
Chapter 10:
In which Charity learns that the honeymoon is sometimes the first true test of strength in a marriage.
Hiding in plain sight. It was so deceptively simple. Jasper Morton was proud of himself for thinking of it.
Escaping to faraway lands, like André Denis had done, might have been safer. But that required the ability to ease smoothly between cultures. Jasper didn’t have that. He was a two-bit thief and he knew it. A common thug.
So he’d headed north.
Jasper didn’t especially like life on the run. He hadn’t really liked being a spy, either. But the problem with being a petty criminal was, sometimes you fell in with folks even worse than yourself. He’d done a few odd jobs for André Denis, and before he’d known it, he’d been sucked in. He had little understanding of the world of politics and intrigue. But he understood orders. And Jasper had a talent for making things, and sometimes even people, disappear.
When their little group of informants had been compromised last year, they’d split and run. He’d heard about the ones that got captured. Not too hard to get the news when every inn across the country was abuzz with it. He hadn’t even considered trying to follow Denis. For one, Denis held an “every man for himself” kind of philosophy when it came to taking risks. He’d have sold out Jasper in a heartbeat if he thought it would save his sorry butt. It would have been only too easy, because Jasper knew he’d stick out like a sore thumb anywhere outside the British Isles.
North, though still risky, was his best option. Smaller towns, where everyone knew everyone. But there was also a certain stoic acceptance among the locals. If a man kept to himself, earned his keep, and didn’t bother anyone, he was unlikely to be bothered in return. Jasper was counting on that. Most people who moved north had some kind of story. Bad debts, family trouble, you name it. It wasn’t too hard to come up with one of his own. He barely even had to lie. He just had to focus on the rough upbringing rather than the string of crimes that followed it.
There was plenty of work to be had, even if it came mostly in the form of odd jobs. For the first time in years, it was honest work. There were no quiet knocks on the door in the middle of the night.
Jasper had almost grown comfortable. He could forget the past, and the past would forget him.
On the way from Gretna Green to Leventhal House, the Maxwell family seat, Charity and Graeme took a more leisurely pace. They stayed an extra day at The Dog and Anvil, allowing Charity to shop for a few additional provisions. She needed stockings, a sturdier pair of shoes, and a few other things, knowing that her trunks might be weeks in arriving.
Once on the road, they stopped often to stretch their legs and take in the countryside.
Charity peppered him with questions, and Graeme told her all about his lands and the people of his home.
“Many of the crofters are related. Have been for generations.”
“A clan?”
“At one time, yes. Most of the clans have broken up now, what with the crofters heading south and to the coastal towns for work. I can’t compete with the railroads and the coal mines, but my family and our lands have fared better than most. Many of the families date back to the clan days.”
She could sense his pride in this.
“We have excellent weavers, and the wool from the Leventhal sheep is always in demand. Add in a bit of mining and stone masonry, and we manage to find steady work for all who wish to stay.”
It was so odd to hear a noble speaking in such terms. In Charity’s experience, noblemen spent their time on leisurely pursuits. Gaming and spirits, and occasionally horses. She knew of a few who’d invested in shipping ventures, but hardly any who were directly involved in how their people made a living. It sounded almost like a feudal system, but in a good way.
Only once did Charity slip up. The second night after leaving Gretna Green, they stayed the night at a well-traveled inn—one very accommodating, but less luxurious than the others they’d stopped at.
From their room, the occasional murmur of voices could be heard, and outside, the arrival and departure of riders. Charity made sure to take her medicine before bed, attending to that and other necessary matters in privacy. But it wasn’t enough. In the dark of night, a rider pulled up in front of the inn—someone the staff at the inn must have recognized and deemed unwelcome. A man shouted. Another angry voice responded. Argument ensued.
Charity snapped from slumber to panicked action. “They’re coming! Hurry, hide.”
The only window looked down on the yard, where two dark figures gesticulated angrily. Too dark to make out their features. Not too dark to know they were angry. Angry was bad. Scary. No escape that way. She would have to hide.
“What is this place?” she worried aloud.
Her body moved sluggishly, her limbs and mind still woozy from laudanum. Her head swung wildly as she searched for a hiding place. How had she forgotten to make a plan? She always had a plan.
She crawled under the bed, squeezing as small as she could, hugging herself, unable to distinguish whether she shivered more from chill or terror. Maybe they wouldn’t find her. Maybe.
Only when Graeme’s head poked over the side of the bed did reason penetrate the haze of fear. “Charity?”
Graeme. Husband. Traveling.
Flaming hot embarrassment erased the chill. She was naked and shivering under a bed in an inn in Scotland.
“I—I thought someone was robbing the inn. I heard men arguing.”
“My sweet, come back to bed. You are safe here. I don’t know what the argument was, but it seems to have ended.”
She listened. It was true. The night outside had fallen still again. If she strained her ears, she just make out hoof beats in the distance as the unwelcome rider retreated.
She wedged herself back out from under the bed, painfully aware of each inch she had to scoot until she could climb back under the covers like a normal person.
Her eyes welled with tears. Her husband must think her such a fool. He pulled her over to rest her head on his chest. The tears spilled over.
“Don’t cry, love.”
“I—I’m sorry. I o
verreacted.”
He stroked her hair. “Maybe a little, lass.”
“I was frightened.”
“This is a strange bed, and you have had a tumultuous few days.” He made the excuse for her. Made it sound almost reasonable. “You must have just been too tired to think straight.”
Too tired to think straight. Yes, that was it. If only that were all of it.
“You needn’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
She nodded against his chest. Oh, how she wanted that to be true. He didn’t seem too worried about her irrational behavior. She didn’t deserve such a good man for a husband.
Graeme’s breathing soon returned to the even rhythm of slumber, but Charity stayed awake in his arms. He’d excused her this once, but what would happen the next time? Or the time after that?
She would have to do better. Try harder. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.
They continued on toward Leventhal House the next morning, and the strange episode was not mentioned again.
Charity knew when they finally got close to Graeme’s homeland, because his whole body shifted to alertness. He kept an eye on the window, drinking in the sight of his lands.
Curious, she knelt on the opposite bench, her nose pressed to the glass. The sky had grown steadily darker since they’d set out that morning. Thunder rumbled in the distance. The shrubs and trees growing at the edges of the road were foreign to her. Wild, stalky plants with odd-shaped pods, dotted here and there with pale blooms. The hills rising in the distance, covered in moss and rock, seemed to impose their greatness over anything humans might try to construct. Charity shivered, hoping the people would prove friendlier than the land.
To Graeme’s eyes, his homeland had a wild, primitive sort of beauty. Untamed. He observed his new bride. The place suited her perfectly, though her scrunched-up nose and distinctly unhappy pout suggested Charity might not agree with his assessment. He reminded himself to give her time. She’d already adjusted from a dream of a long engagement and large wedding to an engagement that lasted only long enough for their coach to carry them over the border, and a wedding with a single, near-stranger as the only guest. She’d come through with remarkable good grace. He could afford to give her more time on the many other adjustments their marriage would require of her.