She lifted her chin and fixed her gaze on the crackling fireplace. “The position shall suit me . . . for the time being.”
He snorted and her gaze shot to his. “As though you have so many options, Miss Bell.”
She inhaled sharply. Flinging her helplessness back at her did not endear him to her in the least. He might look like some knight from her girlhood dreams, but he was quite the boor if he had to remind her of her helplessness.
Well, she wouldn’t be helpless forever. Once she put enough money aside, she would have choices. The freedom to go wherever she chose. Independence. This was the modern age. A woman led the realm, for heaven’s sake. She could go wherever she wanted. Be whomever she wanted.
He stood and rang the bell.
Soon the simpering maids returned to clear away the dishes, still casting him beckoning looks as they worked.
Alyse remained in her chair before the fire, unsure what to do with herself as they gathered the dishes. Again, it was quite an unfamiliar experience to be the one waited upon. She would never grow accustomed to such treatment.
He asked, “Would you like me to ring a bath for you?”
Her head snapped around at the offer.
She scrutinized him, resenting the instant urge to say yes. She would adore the luxury of a hot bath but she hated relying on him for anything more. She had taken so much already from this man who wasn’t her husband.
Her feelings were all ajumble. Distrust. Resentment. She didn’t want him to be nice to her. But, of course, she didn’t want him to be cruel and harm her. It was confusing. She needed him to be a good man.
He nodded once as though she had answered. “I’ll assume that’s a yes. I’ll take my leave, so you can have your privacy.”
Before she could find her voice again and decline, he was gone, the door clicking behind him.
She sighed. Just as well. She really did crave that bath . . . as though the sordid events of the day could be washed away and she could be reborn clean and new. Wishful thinking.
Soon the simpering girls returned with kettles of hot water for her bath. They quickly searched the room with hungry gazes. Finding Weatherton absent, they simpered decidedly less and moved about with much more efficiency.
They prepared her bath and helped her out of her clothes as though she were a child. Or someone important.
As though she were not like them. This morning she had woken like them. Perhaps even beneath their station.
As she was freed from her garments, the butter spreader clattered to the wood floorboards. They all stopped and stared.
She cleared her throat and found her voice. “Ah, there it went. I thought I misplaced it at dinner.” She bent and picked it up as though her actions were the most natural thing in the world.
They watched her as though she was a half-wit, but they didn’t do anything as she placed it on the nightstand.
Soon they were pushing her into the fragrant water. They’d sprinkled some kind of floral-smelling concoction into the water and it was heady and wonderful.
“Nae need tae fuss now. We’ll ’ave ye smelling sweet and yer body warm and pink fer that fine man of yers.”
Her face caught fire. Clearly they thought she and Weatherton were in fact married. She opened her mouth to explain and then closed it. She was sharing a room—a bed—with the man. It was easier to let them make their assumptions.
“Och, a man like that must wear ye to the bone,” one of the maids lathering Alyse’s hair mused with a chuckle. “First I couldn’a imagine what ’e saw in a skinny thing like ye, but now I can see.”
“You do?” Alyse looked up at the maid.
“Aye,” the other one replied. “Ye’ve a woman’s body tae be sure. Plump lovely bosom on ye.”
“Aye, men love tae suckle.”
Her face burned even hotter at such bold language. Instantly, she was assailed with the image of her Non Husband’s dark head nestled at her breasts, his mouth at her flesh.
It was scandalous and wrong. She didn’t know him . . . she didn’t trust him, but a deep throb started between her legs. She pressed her thighs together in an attempt to assuage the ache, but that only seemed to make it worse. Oh, she was wicked to have such thoughts.
“And men love tae be suckled in turn,” the other girl reminded with a giggle.
Blast. Would they cease talking?
“Wot man dinna love that?” the other maid agreed as she dunked water over Alyse’s hair, rinsing it free of soap.
Alyse frowned, struggling to imagine such an act. How could a man be—
She gasped. Now it wasn’t only her face burning. Understanding dawned and she felt as though her entire body might combust. She didn’t utter another word, simply listened in stunned silence at the maids’ ribald exchange.
They dried her off and slipped her simple cotton nightgown over her head. She felt like a child as they seated her before the fire, toweling her hair and then setting to work brushing the long, tangled strands.
“Lovely ’air,” one of them remarked.
Alyse blinked drowsy eyes, feeling quite content as they pampered her.
“Ah, ye look ready tae fall over. Let’s tae bed wi’ ye.”
She let them put her to bed, feeling like a child. No one had coddled her this way in years. She knew her mother must have but memories of her were only vague. Papa was more pragmatic. They would read by the fire and she would tuck herself into her own bed at night.
She settled into the comfortable bed, permitting them to pull the down-filled bedding up to her chin. She was more tired than she realized. Yawning deeply, she folded her arms over the coverlet. Her lids drooped.
“Ah, get some sleep, ma’am.”
She heard their footsteps move toward the door and the hinges creak open as they prepared to leave the chamber.
“Ye’ll be needing it wi’ a man as virile as yers.”
Her eyes flew open at that parting remark and the full reminder of her situation asserted into her. Apprehension seized her.
The door clicked shut. She lay there for some moments, curled on her side, tense and queasy as she considered her Non Husband returning soon. His big body climbing into bed with her. Lying so close. Radiating heat. All night. And he no longer smelled foul enough to make her retch. Indeed not. He smelled of soap and virile male.
Seized with sudden impulse, she sat up and reached for the butter spreader where she’d dropped it on the nightstand. She immediately felt better as her fingers wrapped around it. She didn’t have anywhere to hide it on her body, so she slid it beneath her pillow, still clasping it in her grip. Sighing, she willed the tension to leave her body.
The day had very nearly melted away. The curtains were drawn on their second-floor room, but murky light crept in around the lacy edges. She lay there, rigid, ears straining for any little sound signaling his possible return.
Even as tired as she was, there was no way she could relax enough to fall asleep. It was impossible.
That was her last thought before her eyes drifted shut.
Chapter 9
The wolf’s father taught him how to hunt.
Because, as he had explained, that’s what wolves do.
Hunt prey.
He stayed downstairs longer than he intended.
The innkeeper invited him to use the private parlor and he sat in front of the fireplace, drinking a damn fine glass of whisky as he contemplated his situation.
Life was strange, to be certain. Not long ago he had very nearly died from an injury to the head. He had succumbed to a false sleep for days. The physician had warned his family that he may never wake. His temper had gotten the best of him the day of his mishap. He’d come face to face with his father’s by-blow and harsh words had been exchanged. Then blows.
It was strange to consider that had he not survived, had he never woken from a false sleep, he would not have been passing through Collie-Ben in the exact moment Alyse Bell stood on that auction block bef
ore that hungry mob.
One might say it was destiny. If one believed in such things. Marcus did not.
Life was made of choices. His choices had led to this moment and his choices would lead him out of this situation.
She was his now . . . his responsibility. An uncomfortable fact. He’d never had such a burden before. True, he had two sisters, but after his father died his stepmother had stepped to the helm in all matters concerning them.
He felt as though he’d arrived at a reasonable solution—one he could live with. He’d offered her the role of housekeeper. By all standards, it was a boon for someone of her background. She could be fairly independent in such a role, collect a decent wage and live in a fine residence with her own bedchamber. It was far better than her previous prospect as wife to the tanner. She’d be safe and that was something she couldn’t have said before.
So why did he still feel uneasy? The bill of sale burned a hole inside his jacket pocket. He felt it there like a brand against his chest. It was simply parchment and ink. Except it claimed the woman upstairs was his wife.
Downing the rest of his drink, he set it down with a clack on the side table. Enough. It was done. He’d freed her and given her employment. He’d let it trouble him no further.
He wanted a bed and to see the backs of his eyelids so badly he could taste it. She’d had ample time to finish her bath.
He made his way upstairs, knocking lightly and waiting several moments before entering the chamber. Just as he suspected, she was already in bed—a lump beneath the covers. The fire crackled, casting the room in a red-gold haze.
He closed the door behind him, locking it. After a night spent sleeping in a barn stall, the bed beckoned.
He settled into a wingback chair and removed his boots. Standing, he followed with his shirt. His hands hesitated at his trousers. Naturally he didn’t sleep in his breeches. He usually didn’t sleep in anything at all.
He eyed the enticing bed, craving the sensation of clean sheets on his skin.
The girl was asleep with her back to him, facing the window, hugging the far side of the bed. He wasn’t a wild sleeper. He didn’t thrash about. At least he had never been accused of that. They need never come into contact.
Bloody hell. He shook his head. He never slept in his trousers. He wasn’t going to start now. He yanked his trousers down.
She was safe from him. He would not touch her. He didn’t want this woman for a wife. Hell, he didn’t want a wife at all. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. He wouldn’t dare consummate their union and he refused to take advantage of her. Alyse Bell was safe from him.
He slid beneath the cool sheets and groaned as the bed sank beneath his weight. His tired muscles cheered at the comfort cocooning him.
He studied the back of her beneath heavy lids. She hadn’t even stirred. He doubted she would. The day had been long and exhausting for both of them. She could be naked, too, and launch herself at him and he doubted he would even react. He just wanted sleep.
Alyse’s eyes fluttered open to sunlight streaming on the air, tiny motes of dust and particles suspended in its beams.
It was an alien sensation. Waking to sunlight. She was always awake before the sun came up. Before anyone else in the house had roused, she was up, starting the fire and fetching the milk and getting breakfast underway.
She’d never slept so late before. The realization froze her to the bed. She clutched the pillow against her head, her senses on high alert, prodding the air around her.
A sigh stirred somewhere behind her, confirming that she wasn’t alone. He’d come to bed. While she slumbered this man, this stranger, had slipped into bed beside her and she had slept on, blissfully, totally unaware, totally vulnerable. She shuddered at this horrible realization. It shouldn’t come as such a surprise, but it was no less shocking.
She held herself motionless, waiting to see if that sigh meant he was awake. Her hand brushed something beneath the pillow and she was reminded of the butter spreader she had tucked away the night before. It was still there. She gripped it tightly, at once feeling somewhat more secure. It might not be the most ideal weapon but it was better than nothing.
After a moment of continued quiet, she pushed back the covers and eased away from the body at her back that was radiating heat in a strangely welcoming manner. Welcoming, she would guess, because it was so cold outside of the bed and for no other reason. The fire had burned itself out sometime during the night and when she expelled a great breath she could see it like fog on the air.
“Awake, are you?”
Her feet hit the floor and she whirled around at the deep voice, her long plait of hair flying like a rope and landing with a soft thud over her shoulder.
He was all casualness, lying flat on his back with one hand tucked behind his head. Her gaze crawled over him. All over his naked chest. He was unclothed. Her breath caught. At least what she could see of him was unclothed. The bedding was bunched and gathered around his narrow waist.
She gawked again at that chest. She couldn’t help herself. It was nicely formed with ridges of muscle along his stomach. Not an ounce of fat detectable. Unusual for a privileged gentleman. He had the means for indulgence. Food. Wine. Ale. She’d seen enough of the gentry in her life to know that a good many of them were on the portly side. Not him, though. Her gaze skittered along the shape of him hidden beneath the counterpane. Surely he was wearing something beneath.
“What have you there?” he asked.
She followed his eyes to the butter spreader clenched in her hand. In her scrutiny of him she had forgotten she had it.
It was rather ridiculous. Warmth flushed her face and yet she did not lower her arm. It felt the thing to do—brandish a weapon with this man so near and in such an obvious state of undress. She wasn’t exactly attired modestly either. The entire scenario felt . . . precarious and ripe for tragedy. Her tragedy, if she were not careful.
A corner of his mouth curled and he added, “Is that for protection?”
She gave a stiff nod.
“From me?”
She nodded again. “It seems . . . advisable. One can never be too safe.”
His smile faded and for a moment she thought she had offended him. Until he replied, “Indeed not.”
Of course, he would agree. Trust no one. Was that not his sound advice?
Abruptly, he moved, launching himself from the bed, flinging back the counterpane and revealing that he was, indeed, naked.
He marched across the chamber. Her mouth dropped open with a croak as she gazed at his bare buttocks.
“You slept beside me without a stitch on!”
He stopped beside the chair where he had draped his clothing. Turning, he sent her a quick glance, arching a dark eyebrow as he reached for a garment. “I always sleep naked.”
She jabbed her butter spreader in the air toward him, careful to keep her gaze trained above his waist. A tricky task. “Not with me you don’t!”
“As this was the first time we slept together, I did not realize we had established protocol.”
He was maddening! “It is common sense . . . common decency! I may have agreed to be your employee but I did not agree to such—” She waved her butter spreader madly, sputtering, “To such intimacy!”
“You agreed to share a bed with me,” he replied with utter equanimity. “That amounts to intimacy.”
“I might have agreed to that on this one occasion, but I did not expect you to disrobe. This is wholly unacceptable!” Even as the words spit from her lips like arrows, her gaze swept over him. Over all of him. Including south of his waist.
Good heavens. Her face erupted in fire.
He wasn’t the first nude male she had ever seen. Stepping in to play mother to young boys, she had, of course, observed the male body. And yet none had looked as he did. So large and very virile. Her gaze locked on his manhood. So very . . . very.
He shrugged as he riffled through his garments, searching for something. “So
rry,” he announced without the slightest apology to his voice. “It’s my custom. Should the occasion ever occur again you shall just have to close your eyes.”
He moved toward her then, his strides easy, but all of him was still very much naked and very much distracting.
“Would you please dress yourself?” she snapped with a small stomp of her foot.
His arm stretched out to her, offering something for her to take. She frowned, flashing a quick glance down, too wary to take her gaze off his face for long—as though his expression determined everything, specifically whether or not his intent toward her was ill-disposed or not.
“Here. Take this. As long as you are going to arm yourself you might as well do so with something that could actually draw blood.”
She inched closer to peer at what he was holding in his hand. It was a sheathed dagger. The hilt looked interesting. Gem-studded? No. Leather with colorful threading.
“You’re giving me a . . . weapon?”
“Yes, I am. An effective one.”
A long beat of silence passed between them before she reached out to accept the dagger.
He released it to her and then turned away. “Now if the occasion should arise again where we share a bed, you will be properly armed. Just be certain not to stab me in your sleep.”
She watched mutely as he dressed himself, trying not to appreciate the way his muscles and sinew flexed with his movements. It was rather hypnotic. She told herself she could admire him rather clinically. It didn’t mean anything.
Dressed, he faced her fully again. “I’ll go downstairs and see about getting us some food for the journey. We’re getting a later start than I intended. Ready yourself while I’m gone.”
She nodded wordlessly.
Then he was gone.
She stood unmoving for a moment, staring at the door and then down to the dagger in her hand. She’d never seen such fine craftsmanship. It was a costly piece. She pulled it free of the sheath, assessing the blade. It looked sharp enough, glinting in the light. He was correct. It would serve as a much better weapon.
The Duke Buys a Bride Page 8