by Madelyn Hill
Declan nuzzled the apex of her neck as she tried to dress for the second time in an hour. “Please, let me see to our meal.”
“I could feast on you.”
“Pah, you’d likely starve.”
He caressed her round bottom, loving the soft flesh and her whimper of pleasure. “I think not.”
She swatted his hand away and moved out of his reach. “’Tis lazy you are. All you want to do is lie abed all day.”
He smiled, feeling contentment at how they resolved their problem. “I could get used to it.” Especially if she were in bed, naked—ready for him.
Martine slipped on a pair of slippers, sat before the vanity and brushed her luxuriant hair. He rose and stood behind her, lifting the brush from her hand, and gently ran it over her hair as he inhaled the fresh, musky scent of roses and lovemaking. He lifted the silky waterfall of her locks and nibbled on the back of her neck. She shivered and her reflection in the mirror flushed and her eyes darkened. Passionate. She reached her hand back and held onto his head as he trailed kisses along the length of her neck and onto her shoulders.
“Shall we return to bed?”
A throaty, sexy chuckle trickled from her lips. “You’re insatiable, Declan.”
He smiled against her skin. “Aye, ‘tis the truth of it.”
A knock on the door interrupted their foreplay.
“My lord?” Little called through the oak. “Your mother has arrived.”
She chuckled at Little’s obvious distress at an early house guest and Declan’s look of surprise and uncertainty.
Declan quickly dressed in a pair of breeches and his comfortable leather waistcoat. “Are you ready, my love?”
Martine cocked her brow then rushed from the room before he could capture her and lead her back to bed.
He gave chase and captured her before she descended the stairs. The tinge of pink on her cheeks, the laughter in her eyes, made him smile. He leaned in and suckled on her plump lower lip.
“We’ve a guest,” she weakly protested between kisses.
Declan fingered her loose hair, the silky strands curling around his finger and slipping through his hand. “Aye, ‘tis lovely hair.” He whistled. “You cut a fine strap in that dress.” Another look at her décolletage prompted him to say, “You should have grabbed a shawl.”
She grinned, a sly look narrowing her eyes. “’Tis the fashion.”
“The hell with fashion,” he groused as he tried to pull the dress up.
She slapped his hand away, tightened her grip on his arm, and led him to the parlor.
“Ah, here he is, Gwyneth.” His mother strolled forward and grasped his hands. Her smile filled her face and the hint of tears shimmered in her gaze. “Didn’t I tell you he was handsome?”
Declan tried to pull away, but her grip surprised him with its strength.
Her gaze lit as she took in Martine. “And this is his fiancée.”
Martine flitted her gaze back and forth between Declan and his mother. How was one supposed to act with the mother of the man she was sleeping with?
His mother pulled Martine to her side and slipped her arm around her shoulders. “Tell me, how long have you been engaged to my son?”
Despite her unease, she found Declan’s mother welcoming. “Just before we left Ireland.”
“Excellent,” she said with glee. “We’ll begin introducing you through London, and we must have a ball to celebrate.”
Martine looked over her shoulder at him, hoping her pleading look would stop all discussion about a ball. He shrugged, looking as uncertain as she felt. Hmmm, mayhap the man had spent too much time in Ireland and wasn’t privy to the ways of the ton.
She focused on the other woman in the room. She was sitting quietly near the hearth with her hands folded in her lap. She cocked her brow at Declan when he continued to stare at her. Tension filled the room and clearly vibrated around the woman.
“Oh, I have been remiss,” Declan’s mother said. “Please let me introduce you to Gwyneth.”
Declan bowed slightly as Gwyneth remained silent.
“Gwyneth,” his mother said sharply. “Greet your brother properly.”
Oh, dear.
“I am pleased to meet you, Lord Forrester.” Her voice was clipped, English, and she was obviously vexed. She rose and executed a mocking curtsy.
Lady Wright, her grace—Martine was uncertain of the proper title—strode to Declan and gripped his hands in hers. “I know this is a great shock to you. But I never had the chance to tell your father and . . . so many years have passed.”
He sat and stared at his sister. “She isn’t my half-sister?”
“You heard her,” Gwyneth said. “Please direct your questions to me, if you please.”
Martine sat between Declan and his sister. She touched Gwyneth on the arm, ignoring her flinch. “I’m so pleased to meet you.”
Gwyneth raked her gazed over Martine and remained silent as she stood to leave.
“You promised,” his mother said with tension and tears thick in her voice. Her heart broke at the pain on Lady Wright’s face.
His sister bobbed her head and sat once again, still unyielding and horribly rude.
“We were just about to break our fast, would you care to join us?”
“No,” his sister nearly shouted.
“Excellent,” his mother said as she cast a fierce scowl at Gwyneth. “We’d love to. Robert is at his club.”
“Mother,” Declan said as he offered his arm. “This way.”
‘Twas obvious he was uncomfortable, uncertain. First his mother was alive and now he had a sister. Her heart went out to him as he led his mother toward the dining room. She glanced at Gwyneth and received an icy glare. She held her hand out toward the chamber’s entrance and they followed Declan and his mother.
His mother waved at them. “Please excuse your sister’s behavior. Such a shame she chooses to pout on a grand occasion such as this.”
Gwyneth rolled her eyes and scoffed. “I am certain my brother does not care for my problems.” Though her tone sound bored, as if she were merely tolerating their presence, there was a sadness hidden in her cautious gaze.
Martine gave a sympathetic smile and said, “But of course we care. Don’t we, Declan?”
Again Gwyneth’s hawk like gaze narrowed in on her. “Where are you from?”
“’Tis enough,” Declan said with authority. “My betrothed is English.”
His sister ignored him and narrowed her gaze. “Your accent is rather queer. In fact, there is something strange about this entire situation.”
“Gwyneth,” Lillian hissed. “Mind your manners.”
“I hardly think that I should be chastised for asking a question.” Anger straightened her shoulders as she challenged them with a hard look. “You are not English. Certainly Martine is not an English name.”
All blood left her face. How did she answer?
His mother went to speak, yet Declan stopped her with a raised hand. He regarded his sister coolly, feeling the rising wave of his anger that she should so disgrace his wife. ’Twas more to the matter than he knew, ‘twas obvious. However, her cold exterior was cracking and he witnessed the flash of fury that tinged her cheeks red. Despite her fair skin, she had the look of him. Dark as pitch hair, neatly coiffed in what he assumed was the latest fashion, and her eyes were blue. Not the dark blue of his, more like a clear day when the sun illuminated the sky and it reflected back on the earth.
No one, not even his new-found sibling would be allowed to speak rudely to his wife to be.
Declan leaned his elbows on the table, earning a furrowed grimace from Little. He steepled his fingers and rested his chin upon them. “Never,” he said while gazing ahead, “speak to Ma
rtine in such a manner again.” He left no room for discussion in his steel-edged tone and he intended for her to obey. Why was he not surprised that she didn’t?
Gwyneth threw her napkin onto the table and rose, shoving the chair to the ground as she brushed by with her full skirt. She raced out the room in a most unladylike pace, knocking past a surprised Finn Randolph as she did so.
“I apologize, Lady—Martine.” Lillian wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “She has not been the same since her betrothed was killed in a carriage accident.”
Martine clutched her chest. “How horrid for her.”
“Yes. I am afraid she blames herself. God knows why, yet she will not speak to me about it.”
As Declan’s sister left, Finn walked into the dining room.
Barely paying attention to the conversation between Martine and his mother, Declan watched Randolph rakishly gaze at his sister as she rushed past him in the corridor. When Finn turned his attention back to his mother and wife, worry etched across his features. Curious, Declan called to him. “Join us, Finn.”
He held out his hands and looked down at his clothing. “I’m not dressed, to be sure.”
Indeed, his friend had the look of a man who’d just enjoyed the many pleasures of a pub.
“Pah. You’re always welcome,” Martine said with a smile.
Finn executed a bow. “Thank you, my fair Martine.”
She blushed beneath Finn’s attention. Vexed, Declan cleared his throat. “Did you have something to tell me?”
Chuckling, Finn reached for a napkin and deliberately draped it on his lap. “I met with your friend Captain Brooks.”
This should prove interesting. “Aye?”
Finn shrugged. “I’ll be sailing with him when he leaves port.”
He was surprised speechless. He stood, then raked his fingers through his hair. With his hand resting at his waist, he looked down the long table at his lifelong friend. He’d be sailing with the Captain Brooks. Aye, there were times when he didn’t see Finn for several weeks, but he always knew he was covering his back.
Randolph bit into a biscuit. “I’ll keep an eye on the old bird and maybe even create an adventure for myself.”
Declan forced a smile. Bollocks, he was being selfish. “’Tis a sound plan.” He hated the hollow sound of his voice. “Brooks can be a tricky ticket.”
He felt Martine’s scrutiny. If he looked at her, he knew the hard veneer he masked his emotions with would shatter. His wife knew his attachment to Finn. And now he was leaving. “When do you go?”
“On the morrow.”
“Time for a brandy, my friend.” He nodded to his mother, then kissed Martine on the cheek. “Please excuse us.”
“A bit early for a brandy, my son.”
He glanced at her and tipped his head. “’Tis a salute to a dear friend. I pray you excuse us.”
“I’ll meet you in your study.” Finn bowed and left the room.
“You have remained friends for a very long time,” his mother observed.
“Aye.” Declan had relied on Finn for more than friendship. He was like a brother to him. Family when he had none. It would be as if he were losing a limb.
Sympathy welled in Martine’s eyes. Those clear, windows he couldn’t get lost in or else he may shatter. Too much had happened. While it was necessary to come to London, Declan wondered if he’d have been better off remaining in Ireland with Martine and his past be damned. “I must see to Finn.”
He left the women in his life and headed toward the study—one of them he couldn’t live without, the other was a part of his past he thought gone. Now his mother had miraculously re-appeared. He needed steady; he needed predictable. Having the rug pulled out from beneath him every day was getting tiresome.
And now Finn would be leaving. He raked his fingers through his hair, then pushed open the study door.
Another change. Another upheaval.
“Ah, the lord himself.” Finn handed him a brandy and held his up in toast. “Here’s to women, money, and sailing on the high seas.”
“Who is the woman?”
Declan pointed to the doors that led to the gardens. “She’s my mother.”
Finn rolled his eyes. “Not her, ye eejit, the lovely one. Not that yer mother isn’t lovely,” he said quickly. “I just meant the younger one.”
Laughing, Declan slapped Finn on the back. “She’s my sister.”
Finn stopped in his tracks. “I didn’t know ye had a sister.”
“Neither did I.” The stern countenance of his friend’s face was clear in the early morning light. “Quite a nasty girl from the looks of it.” He cocked a brow at his friend. “Why do you ask?”
They continued to the rear of the property, the ewe trees shielding them from intrusive eyes and the busy London streets.
“She was the one,” Finn said with a puzzled look on his face. He shook his head and his rakish demeanor returned.
Declan’s cocked his brow.
“The lass being snatched into the carriage.”
Declan stopped and faced him. “The Wright carriage?”
Finn looked into his brandy and scowled. He set the drink on the base of a statue. “There was fear, Declan. I’d bet my life on it.”
More to worry about. He shook his head, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why would she be running?”
His friend shrugged. “She’s yer sister, not mine. Ask her yourself.”
Declan thought for a moment. He’d have to ask his mother questions, questions he didn’t think he wanted the answers to. Would she share the Wright family secrets with him? He clapped his hand on his friend’s back. “Are you certain you wish to sail with Brooks?”
“As certain as I can be.” Finn set his hands at his waist and looked up at the sky.
“You’ll send word if you need me?”
“’Tis I who looks out for you, lad,” Finn said as he lightly punched his friend. He opened his mouth, then shut it.
Aye, he felt the same. “Ha. You’re older, to be sure, and quite a bit uglier.”
Finn pulled a face. “That’s not what the ladies in Dublin say. Remember that buxom redhead who—”
“Not so loud. My mother’s in the house.”
Laughing, they moved toward the house. Before they entered, Finn stopped. “I’m leaving now, Declan. Nate will be talking to you about the other men.”
He sighed and shook his hand. His stomach clenched as if in warning. It would be a long time before he saw his friend again—if ever. “Aye.”
Finn pulled him into a hug and roughly patted his back. “Marry her soon. She’s a treasure.”
“Aye, to be sure.”
They awkwardly parted, many words left unsaid, but known regardless. Declan went inside as Finn went to the stables.
Now to join Martine and his mother. They were most likely discussing wedding details that he wanted no part of.
He just wanted to wed her, not partake in the lengthy rituals of the ton.
A smile quirked his mouth. He was certain his bride to be would feel the same.
Chapter 27
Martine woke to shouting. Angry voices with fierce tones emanated into her chamber. She stumbled out of bed and into the hallway.
“Stop,” she yelled. “Leave him alone.”
Two strangers wrestled with Declan as another man stood aside. He cast a look her way, then resumed watching the fight before him.
Lillian’s husband?
“Cease, Forrester. You have no choice but to return.”
Martine struggled down the stairs. “Return?”
“Go back to your room, Martine. I’ll handle this,” Declan yelled. He forced one man from him, but the other held tight.
Lord Wright stood at the bottom of the stairs. His demeanor was terse and frightening. He removed his gloves and slapped them against his palm. “Do as he said and leave.”
“Little,” Declan growled. “Bring her to her room.”
Martine shoved Little aside. Panic ruled her actions as she tried to reach Declan. “Why aren’t you helping him?”
The old man paled as he looked about the room. She hoped he was looking for a weapon. “I’ve tried, but I’m no match for their brawn.”
“I’ll go.” Declan shook off the men and straightened. “Leave her alone. I’ll go with you.”
A satisfied smirk tilted Wright’s mouth.
Martine rushed over to Declan. Her body shook with fear. “What is happening?”
He held her and whispered into her hair. “’Tis nothing but a misunderstanding.”
“He is to go back to prison,” Lord Wright decreed.
Martine turned to Wright and went to push him. “No. He’s done nothing.”
He nodded to one of his men who pulled her away.
“Hurt her and you’re a dead man,” Declan said with lethal calm.
Wright merely smirked, smoothed his jacket, and adjusted his cravat. “There seems to be some discussion as to the legality of Forrester’s earlier release.”
‘Twasn’t possible. “You vile man. Let Declan go.”
Declan pulled Martine back into his arms. “I’ll be fine.” He kissed her and said in a low voice, “Send Little to my mother.”
She nodded. Aye, his mother would be able to help. She may be able to find his men as well, but she had no idea where they were.
“Time to go, Forrester,” Wright said with too much enthusiasm. “You have people to answer to.”