The Gallows Bride

by Rebecca King

  “If you like,” Peter replied, knowing she was waiting for him to elaborate when she continued to stare at him. He could almost hear her mentally tut and sigh at him, and fought the urge to smile. “For both of our sakes, we cannot talk to Hugo directly. To do so would immediately connect him to us and put all of us at risk if Scraggan or his men are in the area. I don’t know what was back there, but it was something that Hugo wasn’t comfortable with. We have agreed that he will do certain things to tell me when places are all right for us to approach. If he is visible and turned toward us, he has seen something that could pose a threat. If we have to drive through somewhere, Hugo is going to circle around us and ride ahead, to check out the next few villages before we get there. We are travelling a lot slower than he is, partly because we have to travel by road, and partly because we have one horse pulling the two of us. Hugo can jump fences and ride across country to get where he needs to go, faster.”

  Jemima shook her head, and considered the lengths they were going to. She was about to ask if all the subterfuge was necessary when she remembered the stern look on Hugo’s face as they had passed, and her own fear at the thought that Scraggan or his men were nearby.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Peter asked after several moments of thoughtful, yet tense silence. “It’s not too late to turn back you know.”

  Jemima immediately thought of Eliza and Edward, and her friend alone and at risk still in Padstow, and shook her head. “I have to do this, Peter.”

  Peter sighed and shook his head. “Then onwards it is. I don’t know about you, but if I stay on this seat any longer I may not be able to stand upright again. Let’s hope Hugo has found us somewhere to stay that isn’t too far away.”

  “Amen to that,” Jemima replied fervently. She realised she was still pressed close to Peter, and wondered if she should ease back a little. But he had made no protest at her closeness, and seemed to have forgotten he still had his arm around her.

  Placing a gentle hand on his thigh, she lowered her head to his broad shoulder, smiling slightly when his arm immediately held her near, and he kissed the top of her head.

  “Are you alright?” he murmured gently, knowing how arduous the day had been for himself, let alone Jemima, who was still recovering from her ordeal.

  “I’m fine,” Jemima whispered, kissing his chin. “Just fine.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Would you mind leaving a candle on tonight?” Jemima murmured from beneath the sheets. They had followed the same nightly ritual as the previous night. Peter had just returned from his meeting with Hugo, and his absence had given Jemima a few moments of privacy to see to her ablutions and get into bed.

  “Of course. I got some more candles from the innkeeper earlier,” Peter replied, eyeing the tiny bed in distaste.

  Although they had turned into the yard of the run-down inn with a sigh of relief, their joy had been short-lived as they had studied the shabby, unkempt state of the place. Luckily it hadn’t turned out to be a bawdy house; Peter would certainly have refused to let Jemima stay there, but it was only one very small step above.

  He eyed the sheets warily, unsurprised to find Jemima still in her shift and lying beneath a threadbare blanket. The pillow covers they had taken from the previous night’s inn covered the grime on the pillows they were going to use.

  “If you wake up itching in the morning, it’s probably the fleas on the bed, rather than me,” Peter declared flatly, opting to remove his shirt but leave his breeches on, before climbing beneath the blanket.

  He turned on his side to face her, knowing she was waiting.

  “It seems that Scraggan’s men were in the tavern,” Peter announced, mentally cursing at the shadows that appeared in the depths of her amber eyes. “It appears they are on their way back to Padstow to tell Scraggan you are dead.” He had broken their agreement and sought Hugo out to ask him.

  “How do we know that?” Jemima murmured, wondering if they were a search party out to find them.

  “Because Hugo went in for a quick pint and overheard them discussing the hangings. They were talking about who would get to be the one who broke the news.” Peter yawned and rolled onto his back.

  “That’s macabre,” Jemima grumbled, lifting her head as Peter slid his arm across her shoulders to draw her close.

  “That’s Scraggan for you,” Peter countered, quirking a brow at her and waiting while she found a comfortable spot on his chest. They were already acting like a married couple, he mused silently, staring up at the cracks in the water-stained ceiling with deep masculine satisfaction warming the blood in his veins. Ignoring the aching in his loins, he tried to ignore the dips and curves of her feminine body lying against him, and closed his eyes.

  “Get some sleep, because it’s going to be another long day tomorrow.” He smiled when Jemima groaned.

  Sometime during the night, Peter was woken by the sound of mumbling. Jemima had moved to lie on her back and was now thrashing her head against the pillow, whispering incoherently.

  “Jemima?” He rose up on one elbow and leaned over her to try to shake her awake.

  He didn’t expect her eyes to pop open and for her to stare at him, having seemingly brought herself out of her nightmare.

  “Peter? What is it?” Jemima whispered, staring deeply into his tired eyes. She knew from the look on his face that she had been having another dream, and turned her eyes to the candle stub on the table beside them. Although it hadn’t burned out completely, the solitary flame was so tiny that it did little to erase the darkness within the room.

  “I’ll light another one,” Peter growled, fighting the urge to kiss her. He studied her eyes carefully but could see no signs of fear, or anxiety. The clear depths of her amber eyes shone brightly in the darkness, free of shadows for once. He knew it was folly; that to kiss her would bring more problems for them; but it had been so long since he had touched her, he needed some reward for his forbearance in keeping his hands off her so far.

  He lowered his head slowly to give her the opportunity to stop him, and was unsurprised when she made no attempt to evade the gentle kiss he placed on her lips. He captured her gasp and kissed her the way he really wanted to.

  “Stop me,” he gasped several moments later, his body rock hard and aching desperately.

  Her only response was to draw his head closer, and open her mouth beneath the persistent pressure of his. At that moment, he was lost. His love for her; the frustration of the months of endless searching; the grief of losing her; together with the new easy companionship they had discovered all drew together until they formed one solid entity.

  He shifted, lowering his chest to the soft, thin material of her undergarment. The dark hairs on his chest crinkled as they met the soft material. Peter eased back and tugged the neckline down, revealing her breasts to his hungry gaze.

  Jemima watched his head dip and felt the wondrous sensations streak through her as she lay under his marauding mouth. She watched as his lips caressed the swollen crest of her breast.

  While his mouth was busy, Peter eased his hands to the delicious smoothness of her thighs, sliding beneath the hem of her shift and drawing it upwards as his hands traversed each dip and hollow before coming to rest just beneath her breasts. Holding them still under the tender ministrations of his mouth, he suckled deeply and was rewarded by Jemima’s soft cry as she arched off the bed.

  Releasing his prize for a brief moment, he tugged the shift over her head and dropped it over the side of the bed, leaning back to let his eyes roam over her bare flesh.

  “You are so beautiful, Jemima,” he groaned, sliding his hands over the dip of her waist and the flare of her hips. He quickly divested himself of his breeches, dropping those onto Jemima’s shift, and resumed his position beside her, relieved that she had made no attempt to stop what was about to happen.

  He captured her lips as his hands set to work to learn each loving curve, moulding and shaping her breasts, teasing the
budding peaks mercilessly until Jemima began to squirm, searching for the completion only he could give.

  Jemima arched her back, lost in the warmth of his mouth on the aching peaks of her breasts. She slid a hand into the thick hair, holding his head still, demanding his attention. Reassured she had his complete devotion, she allowed her hands to wander over the smooth skin of his broad shoulders, down over his heavily muscled arms, and back up again. His muscles rippled as her hands swept over them, easing down his sides to his lean hips.

  He could stand no more: releasing her nipple, he blew on it gently as he eased Jemima’s questing hands away from his loins. Wrapping his arms around her, he drew her hips upwards in his hands and positioned himself between her widespread thighs.

  She clutched at his shoulders, eyes glinting at him through the darkness as she waited. Her skin was pearlescent in the moonlight and he took a moment to absorb the delectable sight of her lying wantonly open to him, without fear, without hesitation. Every instinct screamed with hunger: the desire to capture, to plunder was so strong he could deny it no longer. Easing her thighs high on his hips, he slowly eased forward, impaling her on his rigid length. He paused only briefly to allow her to adjust to his invasion, before searing need took over and he began to rock inside her.

  Jemima felt him deep inside her. Her thighs slipped over the outside of his as she gripped his buttocks, urging him on. The hot moisture of his mouth on her breast drove her onward relentlessly. She met him thrust for thrust, her head thrashing wildly on the pillow as she was barraged with sensation.

  The primitive side of him gloried at the sight of her long hair spread out beneath her as she thrashed, her breasts rising and falling as her body jerked beneath the force of his thrusts. He groaned as she began to tighten around him. He increased his driving rhythm as his mouth captured hers, his tongue plunging as deeply into her as his shaft.

  Jemima gasped. She couldn’t think, could barely breathe as he drove her body relentlessly toward the edge. His searching fingers found her soft folds, teasing the sensitive flesh as she gasped and arched beneath him. His weight held her down as the fiery tension coiled tight inside her. With a small scream she shattered, her senses imploding as she gave herself over to the shower of stars.

  Peter paused only briefly to allow her last tremors to ease, before teasing a pebble-hard nipple and driving into her once more. She moaned and began to meet his thrusts, and he was lost to everything but the driving need to possess, to brand her as his, and leave his mark upon her.

  He could feel her begin to tighten around him again. Her clever fingers found his buttocks, pulling them tighter against her as he impaled her, over and over until neither of them was certain where he ended and she began.

  Jemima moved beneath him as the raging need within his body built to unbearable heights. Her keening cry was the last thing he remembered before he succumbed to the demands of his own desire. With one final thrust, he felt her body clamp tight around him, and he shattered.

  Sunlight was streaming through the window when Jemima woke up the following morning. Although she had slept soundly - when she did sleep - she was still tired. Despite her exhaustion, she felt at peace with the world. She glanced around the room, disappointed to find that Peter had left, probably to speak to Hugo. She didn’t need to try the door to know he had locked her in. Although she should balk at such confinement after her ordeal in Derby, she found it reassuring that there was a lock on the door that would help to prevent would-be attackers from gaining entry.

  Easing out of bed she winced at the slight soreness between her legs and groaned at the thought of having to spend another day sitting on the hard bench of the cart again.

  She had just finished her ablutions and was busy packing their things when Peter reappeared, shooting her a hesitant smile as he entered.

  “Good morning,” he murmured softly, wondering if she was upset with him for not being here when she woke up. He had wanted to be, but he had woken later than he had intended. The need to meet Hugo at their pre-arranged time warred strongly with the need to remain in bed with Jemima until she woke up. Knowing Hugo would probably have half the Star Elite behind him if he had to come and get them, Peter had reluctantly eased out of bed and quietly left.

  In the cold light of day, although he didn’t exactly regret making love to her, he wished he had summoned the strength to keep his hands off her for just a few more days; at least until they got out of Padstow, with her friend and back to Willowbrook Hall. With a sigh he watched her close the bag, and frowned.

  “Wait a minute.” He moved to the bed and picked up two of the small pillows, rolling them up and shoving them into the top of the bag that held their personal effects; his razorblade, soap, her hairbrush, and a change of clothing.

  “We can’t take those!” Jemima gasped, trying to open the bag to drag them back out, only for Peter to smile conspiratorially at her, swipe the bag off the bed and head toward the door.

  “Call it added protection.” He held the door open for her and waved the bag, shooing her through the door. “We have to make up for lost time,” he added as he passed, causing her to pause and look back at him enquiringly. “Hugo’s waiting,” he reminded her, ushering her toward the stairs.

  Jemima frowned, wondering if she had missed something or if he had decided to spend today speaking in code in an attempt to keep her on her toes. Added protection? Making up for lost time?

  Jemima was still lost in thought as she stood beside the old cart. A fresh horse was already strapped to the traces, waiting patiently. She almost groaned only for her curious gaze to be caught by Peter who appeared at the other side of the cart. He opened the bag, picked out the two pillows, unrolled them and put them on the bench seat, shooting her a smug smile at his cleverness.

  “Climb aboard,” he ordered softly, clambering up onto the narrow strip of wood and purloining one of the cushions for himself. He sighed aloud at the blissful comfort and waited for Jemima to climb up beside him. He wanted to go around and assist her, as any gentleman would, but knew that people of their class wouldn’t do that, and ladies were more often than not expected to climb aboard conveyances by themselves.

  Jemima sighed as she sat on the luxurious comfort of the pillow, wincing as her bruised flesh protested at being sat on again. She briefly wondered if she should just stand up in the back but knew that, if anything did, that would certainly draw attention. Although she couldn’t countenance theft of any kind, she knew he had left enough coins to cover the cost of replacing the pillows, and the benefits far outweighed the risks. Suddenly the day before them didn’t seem so bad.

  While Hugo had proven to be exceedingly efficient, Peter knew they couldn’t be lulled into a false sense of security. He had seen enough of Scraggan’s men chasing Eliza to know just how determined, and ruthless they could be, and he had no intention of being caught out, alone, with Jemima’s life at stake.

  Jemima lapsed into silence, and frowned when she picked up on his tension. She wondered what he wasn’t telling her. If Scraggan was nearby, surely she had the right to know, didn’t she? Clearly, whatever Hugo had seen had been enough of a threat for him to feel she and Peter would be safer elsewhere.

  Despite their proximity on the thin wooden bench, Jemima felt a distance form between them, and wasn’t sure what to do about it. She wanted to push him further, but something kept her quiet. Lost in her thoughts, she eased back against the seat and lapsed into silence.

  They remained that way for the majority of the day, until Peter wondered if he should pull the cart over to the side of the road and give her a shake. His attempts at conversation had been rebuffed, allowing a stilted and slightly awkward silence to grow between them. He noted this time that she made no attempt to snuggle against him as she had done the previous day, and felt a pang of loss for their easy camaraderie.

  “Tired?” he asked her, when he couldn’t stand the silence any more.

  Jemima shook her head, stu
dying the road ahead. Over the past few miles the road had become increasingly rough, with most of the cart track covered in potholes. She had taken to holding on to the edge of the seat beneath her to keep herself from bouncing off the cart altogether. It made their progress incredibly slow and, with no other passing vehicles, boredom had begun to set in.

  The wind had increased over the course of the day, doing its best to snatch the last vestiges of warmth from her flesh. Turning around, she retrieved her cloak from the back of the cart, tucking it around her carefully and snuggling into its warmth. Luckily, it was an old cloak of Isobel’s and was thick and warm, rather than a cheap, thinner version a servant would be more likely to wear.

  Although it was only early evening, the sun had already given way to dark clouds, which hung over them menacingly, threatening a deluge at any moment.

  Jemima studied the clouds and turned to ask Peter how long it would be before they got to the next village, when a loud crack broke the silence.

  The wheel next to her abruptly broke away from the cart which promptly began to tip over.

  The horse squealed as the traces tugged painfully against him. Immediately he began to panic.

  Peter struggled to keep control of the reins and, despite his anxiety, murmured soothingly to the startled beast, to little effect. Instead, the horse began to gallop, trying to free himself from the cause of the pain the only way he could.

  The cart, minus a wheel, lurched and jolted against the ruts in the road as it ploughed its way down the track, digging deeper into the soil until it could go no further and flipped over, throwing both Peter and Jemima into the air.

  Jemima screamed as she was pitched out of her seat. Pain shot up her shoulder as she landed heavily on the unforgiving ground.

  She had no sooner hit the ground than she rolled over, screaming again at the sight of the wooden planks of the back of the cart heading straight for her. Frantically clambering forward, she slipped and slid toward the safety of the hedgerow, gasping in fright at Peter’s frantic shout from the other side of the cart. Cowering under the thick foliage of the thorn bush, she watched the cart crash to the ground, upside down, the three remaining wheels whirling wildly far too close for comfort.