With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  Smiling, she lifted the skirt of her wedding dress and went to meet Estelle. She heard Frances’s terrified cry for her to get out of the way almost at the same moment her little sister suddenly stopped and stood openmouthed, Luther yapping in her arms.

  “What…?” Corisande heard the ominous rumbling and whirled in place, her eyes widening in horror as two huge pilchard barrels rolled toward her, the salted fish flying out all over the street.

  She didn’t think of herself. She ran instead toward Estelle, snatching up the stricken child and dodging out of harm’s way with no more than an instant to spare. Her heart slammed in her ears as the heavy barrels thundered past her and crashed into the parsonage wall.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Corie!”

  The cry hadn’t come from Frances but Donovan. Corisande spun to find him running hard toward her, on his heels Henry Gilbert and lastly, half stumbling, her father.

  Yet her eyes weren’t drawn to them but to Donovan, his face taut, his pallor ashen as he reached her and pulled her, Estelle, and a yowling Luther into his arms.

  “Good God, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, yes. We’re fine,” Corisande croaked as Estelle began to wriggle between them.

  “I can’t breathe, Corie, and…and you’re both going to squish Luther!”

  Laughing nervously to herself, giddily in fact, the full force of what had narrowly been avoided hitting her, Corisande met Donovan’s eyes as he seemed to laugh, too, and released them. But he wasn’t smiling, no, not at all, as he glanced grimly at the smashed and splintered staves while Corisande was suddenly surrounded by her family, Henry Gilbert, and wide-eyed onlookers who had witnessed the near disaster.

  “Lord help us, did ‘ee see those hogsheads come a-tumbling?” cried an old Cornish shipwright to no one in particular, everyone clamoring and talking at once.

  “I think they were ones set against John Killigrew’s house ‘cross from the church,” shouted another man, naming a respected Porthleven fisherman. “Stacked an’ waiten to go to market, they were, but no export market to be found for ‘em same as the rest of us, thanks to that bugger Napoleon and his damned blockade!”

  Corisande sighed heavily as the noisy crowd around her grew larger and understandably belligerent. Their comments were now more centered upon the village’s plight of being unable to sell last year’s bumper catch of pilchards than on the accident that could have taken her life, Estelle’s, and poor Luther’s. Donovan must have read her mind, his tone as tense and irritated as his expression as he addressed the villagers.

  “Did anyone see what happened? Anyone at all?”

  A mute chorus of shaking heads and apologetic stares greeted his query, one woman piping up, “We were watching the hubbub in front of the church, milord, if ‘ee don’t mind me saying so, and with Corie looking so lovely today…”

  A sudden flurry of concurring compliments flew around the gathering, so many that Corisande felt her face redden. “The barrels must have tipped,” she concluded with a shrug, eager to be done with the whole unpleasant matter. “Stacked too high, I suppose, perhaps a bit carelessly, an easy enough thing to do.” She looked down at Estelle, who had just planted a kiss on top of Luther’s bedraggled head. “How about a nice carriage ride, sweet? Would you like that?”

  “Oh, yes, but only if I can bring Luther. He’s never ridden in a carriage, and I think he’d like it. May I, Donovan?”

  Somewhat disgruntled by how her little sister had warmed so quickly to Donovan, Corisande was nonetheless grateful when he nodded, which drew from Estelle a high-pitched squeal of delight. Hugging Luther, she slipped through the dense crowd as easily as a minnow and ran toward the shiny black coach as she had only moments before, clearly none the worse for all the excitement.

  Corisande couldn’t say the same for Frances, however, the poor woman still pale and uncommonly silent. “Everything’s all right, Frances, really. You see?” Corisande did a slow twirl for the housekeeper’s benefit. “Even my dress came out without a tear or scratch. Now, is the meal put away?”

  Frances nodded shakily.

  “Good. Take Marguerite and Linette with you to the carriage, and we’ll be on our way, sure to have a lovely time.” Corisande looked round the circle of faces. “Papa?”

  She had seen him among the villagers, keeping to the back, which for him wasn’t at all strange. He’d been pale as a ghost, too, which had made her heart go out to him, but now he was nowhere to be seen.

  “Papa?”

  “I believe I saw the Reverend Easton enter the parsonage, Lady Donovan.”

  That from Henry Gilbert, whose large Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed as if he’d summoned all of his courage just to speak to her. Meanwhile, she had to summon all her will not to frown.

  Lady Donovan. No, she didn’t like the sound of that lofty title at all, but let her not forget her resolve…

  “Thank you, Henry.” She intended to tell Donovan that she’d fetch her father if he wanted to wait for her by the church, but he took her hand firmly before she could speak. He began to lead her through the crowd to the parsonage, Corisande gaping at him in some surprise. “I could have gotten Papa by myself—”

  “If it’s all the same to you, my love, I’d prefer to see you safely there and then back to the carriage.”

  Astonished at the sudden warmth flooding her face, Corisande just as quickly reminded herself that her temporary husband was anything but altruistic.

  Oh, he’d done a magnificent job already of looking concerned and outraged as any proper groom would do, surprising her with the intensity he had displayed. Yet now was not the time to commend him, although she certainly planned to do so when they were alone…

  “It doesn’t look as if the wall is damaged.” Donovan had paused near the front door, his gaze raking the site where the barrels had crashed against the sturdy gray stone of the parsonage, now splattered with bits of salted fish. “I’ll send Henry Gilbert back later to clean up the mess.”

  Oh, he’ll love that, Corisande thought to herself as Donovan proceeded into the house, still gripping her hand tightly and leading the way. They had no sooner entered the front passage than he suddenly stopped and pushed her none too gently against the wall, holding her by the shoulders, the fierceness of his action making her breath catch. And her heart, she’d never felt it pounding so hard when he leaned toward her, the buttons on his coat grazing her breasts, his eyes searching hers.

  “You are sure you’re all right, Corie?”

  She’d never heard such a deep huskiness in his voice. For a moment she could only stare up at him, wondering at this man whose moods could change so drastically from one day to the next. Yesterday he’d wanted nothing to do with her, calling her a shrew, and now she could almost swear he was truly concerned.

  But, of course, that couldn’t be. He must be toying with her again, even when he’d said yesterday he wouldn’t, the lout! He’d said as much in a holy church, too, which proved he was as trustworthy as a snake and, oh, she was feeling infuriated again and quite, quite shrewish and to hell with playing the rapturous bride!

  “Of course I’m bloody well fine,” she said, keeping her voice very low so her father wouldn’t hear. “Just because we’re married now, my lord husband, don’t you dare think for a moment that anything has changed between us. No, not even in your dreams!”

  Stunned, Donovan wasn’t sure for an instant whether to smile or frown. He was stunned at himself, too, not wholly certain why he’d pinned her against the wall.

  Something had come over him—good God, just thinking about those huge barrels crashing toward her…

  “You…you insufferable oaf! Are you going to release me so I can find my father, or not?”

  Now Donovan smiled, much to Corisande’s indignation as her face grew a rosy pink, but he couldn’t help himself. It appeared to his relief that the woman he knew was back, and with a vengeance, but what was this latest accusation—<
br />
  “So I was right, you bloody lecher! You are thinking—”

  “Thinking what, woman?”

  “Shh, my father might hear you! Must you shout?”

  “Must you call me preposterous names?” Donovan countered, any humor he’d found in the situation gone altogether as vexation gripped him. “Hell and damnation, I am not a lecher.”

  “Oh, no? What was all that in the church, then?”

  “All what?”

  His question was rewarded with a sigh of pure exasperation, Corisande staring at him as if he were a complete idiot.

  “If you’ve something to say…” he prompted, knowing full well what she’d meant, but nonetheless finding a bit of perverse pleasure in baiting her. The woman had called him a lecher—she deserved it! “All what, Lady Donovan?”

  “Your…your looking at me and leering, what else could I possibly be talking about?” she finally spouted in an outraged whisper. Her cheeks reddened even more as she struggled to free herself but Donovan held her tight, determined that they would have this matter out.

  “Not leering, Corie, ‘admiring’ is more the word. Perhaps more intently than I should have, given the situation—”

  “That’s an understatement!”

  True, Donovan thought to himself, “admiration” was hardly the word to describe what he’d felt in the church. Now wasn’t, either, for that matter, which didn’t please him. Doing his best to ignore the indignant rise and fall of her breasts as she began to struggle again, he continued gruffly, “You look very lovely today, Corie, and I am a man inclined to notice beautiful things.”

  Corisande froze, more aware in that moment of Donovan’s overwhelming masculinity than she wanted to be.

  He was simply standing too close and holding her too tightly, the strength in his hands alone proving altogether disconcerting, his clean, virile scent invading her senses, Donovan so tall, his body so massive, that she felt nearly smothered against the wall. Not an unpleasant sensation at all, but something wholly exciting—oh, Lord, whatever was coming over her?

  “Please, we should talk of this later,” she said, feeling no small amount of desperation. “I want to find my father, and—and I’m not bloody beautiful! Lindsay is beautiful, and Marguerite is very nearly so, and…and why is it that a wedding dress and veil make people say the most ridiculous things when they know—”

  “Corie.”

  She started, meeting his eyes. Dark midnight eyes held an understanding of her now that she didn’t want to see. Furious with herself, she dropped her gaze to stare blindly at her feet.

  “Once again, you haven’t allowed me to finish. Nothing is any different than what we discussed yesterday. But as you said, we can talk later if you wish—”

  “I do wish! I wish for you to kindly release me so I can look for my father—oh!” Corisande nearly toppled forward when Donovan abruptly let go of her shoulders, but of course he was right there to catch her, which only made her angrier. With an agile twist she was free of him, half storming through the parlor and down the hall to her father’s study.

  “Papa?”

  Grateful at least that they had been so far to the front of the house that he couldn’t possibly have heard them, Corisande was even more relieved when she found that his door was closed. Yet he wasn’t inside his study, she soon discovered, which made her gaze jump at once to the windows. They were securely shut, not like a few days ago when she’d spied him out in the garden. Of course, the garden!

  Corisande hurried from the darkened room, her eyes widening as she entered the kitchen, which still smelled fragrantly of Frances’s cooking. Donovan stood next to the high-backed settle where her father was sitting as eerily silent as a stone. Joseph Easton gave neither of them any notice as he stared with unblinking eyes at the glowing red embers Frances had carefully banked in the center of the hearth.

  “Reverend Easton—”

  “Please, Donovan, let me talk to him.” Ignoring his raised brow, which no doubt indicated he was more surprised she’d called him by his Christian name than that she’d interrupted him, Corisande sat down next to her father and placed her hand gently on his arm. “Papa, please, you mustn’t be distressed about those silly barrels. It could have happened to anyone—”

  “No!”

  Corisande sat back stunned, her father’s vehement outburst the last thing she would have expected from him. The tears now streaking his drawn, ashen face were another matter. Corisande felt her own eyes grow wet at the shock he must have suffered when he thought she and Estelle were in danger. Thank God they were both fine, her father had surely seen that…

  “What am I to do? What am I to do?”

  The despair in her father’s voice was heartrending, and Corisande looked at him in confusion. “Do about what, Papa? Has something else happened? If so, you must tell me—Papa?”

  She’d felt him stiffen an instant before he lurched to his feet and headed for the door, but he turned abruptly, his eyes moving from her face to Donovan’s.

  Desperate eyes that held a fervent pleading while he stood there for the longest moment, looking as if he wanted to speak but saying nothing. Then he was through the door and gone, walking stiffly into the garden.

  At once Corisande flew to follow him, but she didn’t get far as Donovan caught her arm. She turned upon him, incensed.

  “Let me go, damn you! I’ve never seen him like this—”

  “Leave him, Corie. It’s clear that he wants to be alone. Give him some time.”

  “Time? How could you possibly know what my father needs? You don’t even know him!”

  “No, but I saw his face. I’ve seen that look a thousand times on the battlefield when the cannon smoke has cleared and the ground is slippery with blood. When an infantryman wipes the burning sweat from his eyes to find his comrades lying wounded and dead around him—”

  “Oh, forgive me, I almost forgot that you’re a veteran of the war in Spain,” Corisande broke in, Donovan’s face hardening at her biting tone.

  “Not a veteran. I’ll be going back as soon as my business here is done.”

  Corisande felt a stab; he had said the word “business” so coldly, and of course he’d meant their temporary marriage and—and bloody hell, what did she care if he planned to return to Spain? Thinking mutinously that she, too, couldn’t wait until their arrangement was done, she tried to yank her arm free.

  “Infantrymen, battlefields, I don’t see what any of this has to do with my father!”

  “He’s been badly shaken, Corie. You saw him. He’s probably never come so close to losing you, or even thinking that he might have lost one of his daughters.”

  “Or else he overheard everything from the front entryway, and for that I blame you! If you hadn’t grabbed me—”

  “Corie! Lord Donovan?”

  Corisande gave a small gasp as Frances came bustling down the hall toward the kitchen, while Donovan at once released Corisande’s arm and swept her into an embrace—an embrace! She felt like wrenching away, but she forced herself to nestle her head against his chest and throw her arms around his waist instead, making it look, quite convincingly, as if she were hugging him back.

  “Oh! Oh, my, ‘ee two! Here I thought there might be some trouble with the good parson an’ I came to see if I could lend a hand but—where is the Reverend Easton?”

  “He’s gone out to the garden, Frances.” Donovan felt Corisande tense in his arms, but he held her firmly, smoothing the delicate veil that covered her hair. “I’m afraid my new bride is quite distressed about her father. He’s upset, too—those damned barrels…”

  “Ais, so I was right. Nearly scared the life from me, the accursed things!” Frances went to the kitchen window, clucking her tongue in dismay. “I’ll stay here with the parson, Lord Donovan. You an’ Corie go on your way—ah, such a thing to spoil a lovely wedden an’ the girls being so excited too.”

  “No, no, Frances, I’m sure Papa will be fine.” Corisande li
fted her head, doing her best to gather together the shreds of her resolve and trying not to glare at Donovan. “My husband believes Papa just needs some time to collect himself, and I can’t but agree, so there’s no need for you to stay. And you’re just as excited to see the house as my sisters. It wouldn’t be fair if you didn’t come with us too.”

  That said, Corisande pulled herself free of Donovan’s arms. With a last look at her father, who was sitting on the bench staring out across the vast sunlit heath, she led a still reluctant Frances from the kitchen.

  “Ah, me, look at your poor flowers,” the housekeeper bemoaned a few moments later as they walked past the spot where Corisande’s bouquet of purple veronica lay crushed into a paste upon the street. “Lord help us, I don’t even want to think—”

  “So we won’t, Frances.” Corisande’s voice was firm. “It’s a lovely warm spring day, and we’ve a fine carriage ride ahead of us. That’s what we’ll think about, nothing more.”

  Much easier said than done, Corisande thought to herself, glancing over her shoulder at Donovan, who was following close behind them, his dark eyes meeting hers as he looked up from what was left of her bouquet. At once she turned back around, her face heating most uncomfortably at the memory of how he’d grabbed her in the entryway and told her nothing had changed between them.

  Somehow she felt as if something had changed and she didn’t like it, no, not at all.

  Donovan didn’t like it either. Dammit, he didn’t like the way those crushed flowers made him feel and certainly not the memory of Joseph Easton’s pleading eyes, as if the man had been trying to tell him something.

  Those barrels, an accident? Somehow Donovan doubted it, but he couldn’t attend to the troubling matter now.

  He had a bride to take home, a spitting, irritating, altogether perplexing termagant of a temporary bride who no doubt intended to make his life most interesting for the next few weeks.