The Gallows Bride

by Rebecca King

  “Where are you going?” Peter gasped, trying to talk around the stiffness in his jaw.

  Jemima stopped the horse enough to glare down at them. “If you think I am going to stand in the middle of a muddy field, in the middle of a raging storm, risking being struck by lightning while you two grapple on the ground like stupid school-boys, then both of you have another think coming,” Jemima declared flatly. “If you want to stay here and pound each other until morning, get on with it, but I am going to find myself somewhere dry and warm for the night. Preferably somewhere that can also provide me with a meal because, right now, I am cold, soaking wet and so hungry that even this horse is starting to look appetising. Sort yourselves out, for God’s sake.” With that, she clucked the grateful horse onward and made her way toward the village, leaving the two shocked men in her wake.

  Peter and Hugo watched her go in stunned silence.

  “She’s taken my horse,” Hugo mumbled, swiping blood from his chin, or was it rain? It was hard to tell. “She’s right, you know, we could still be here in the morning.”

  “You wish,” Peter snarled, shooting him a filthy glare at him on his way past. Without bothering to check that Hugo was following, he began to stalk down the lane after Jemima.

  “Where is the cart?” Hugo asked having spent several minutes stalking silently beside Peter.

  Peter shot him a dirty look. “As if you don’t know.”

  Hugo glared at him, frustration mounting. “If I knew, I wouldn’t bloody ask now would I? The horse you had pulling your cart turned up in the village before the storm him, but nobody knew where it came from. As soon as I saw it, I knew something had gone wrong, and came to check on you.” He glared up at the storm clouds accusingly. “Then the bloody storm hit.”

  Peter drew to a halt and turned to face the other man. “The wheel was tampered with and fell off in the middle of the road about three miles back there,” he pointed into the inky blackness behind them. “Damned near killed Jemima, but that is what you wanted, wasn’t it?” he replied snidely.

  “Why would I want Jemima dead? I need her help with the witch,” Hugo argued, wondering if he had missed something.

  “Someone has tried to kill her tonight. Are you seriously expecting me to believe it isn’t you?” Peter snapped, shaking his head at the other man’s duplicity. He didn’t care if the man was going to lung at his back; frustration and anger were still riding high, rendering him ready and able to strike back.

  “Wait a minute!” Hugo snapped, his own temper beginning to fray. “What the hell do you mean, someone has tried to kill her? I think you had better tell me everything, Peter, and quickly.”

  The urgency in Hugo’s tone broke through some of Peter’s anger, making him stop and stare. He saw the concern on Hugo’s face and it was enough to make him pause. Something warned Peter that he was wrong and Hugo didn’t pose a threat to Jemima.

  Quickly he explained what had happened to the cart, and the bolt being loosened.

  Hugo swore fiercely and took off after Jemima at a flat-out run.

  Without hesitation, Peter took off after him.

  Jemima rode through the driving rain, the lights of the village looming steadily closer. She was on the outskirts of the village by the time Peter and Hugo ran up behind her, panting heavily from their exertions. She shot them a filthy glare but made no attempt to stop Peter grasping hold of the horse’s bridle.

  “Get down, Jemima, we need to talk,” Peter demanded quietly.

  Something about his quiet tone, and the worry in his eyes, made her pause. She quickly flicked a glance at Hugo and frowned at the concern she saw reflected there.

  Doing as she was told, Jemima dismounted and watched as both men moved to stand shoulder to shoulder before her. Her brows rose at their strange behaviour. Minutes earlier they had been fighting like arch enemies. Now they were working together?

  “I haven’t set you up, Jemima,” Hugo assured her. “I promise you I mean you no harm whatsoever. Getting you into Padstow and back to Willowbrook to resume your life is of paramount importance to me. Whatever happened to the cart wasn’t done by me.”

  “You can’t ride into the village like this, Jemima, it’s too risky,” Peter added, swiping a hand down his face and wincing at the assembled bruises that were forming beneath his battered flesh.

  “So what now? I am not staying out in this all night,” Jemima snapped, still put out with their childish behaviour.

  “You’re not going to,” Hugo replied nodding toward the tavern behind her. “We are all going in, together.” He shot a glance toward Peter, before checking his gun. “I take it you are armed too?”

  Peter nodded briskly, motioning beneath his muddy cloak.

  “Your priority is getting Jemima out of there if anything untoward happens. I’ll keep them back, and meet you at the next meeting place but one,” he said the last two words with emphasis, watching as Peter nodded.

  “Is there someone inside I should know about?” Jemima asked hesitantly, picking up on the tension.

  “That’s just it, we don’t know,” Peter replied honestly. “Stay close, darling, and we will get you out of this infernal storm.”

  Jemima lapsed into silence and didn’t object when Peter drew her before him, directly behind Hugo. Together they walked to the inn, the sodden horse following them dolefully.

  Their entrance, although quiet, drew the eye of everyone within the half-empty tap room. Only when they were inside did Jemima realise what a sight they must look. All three of them were filthy, soaking wet and Peter still had dark streaks of boot polish on his face. The men were battered and bruised; Hugo bleeding from a split on his lip; Peter’s eye swelling shut as it grew steadily darker.

  Despite the earlier warning from Peter, Jemima took it upon herself to explain about their carriage accident, hoping it would go some way to easing the ripple of disquiet at the extent of some of Peter and Hugo’s cuts and bruises.

  It didn’t.

  Immediately the tavern erupted. Men came forward, offering to help remove the cart, only for Peter to wave them back down. Given the poor condition of the road, it was unlikely that anyone would be travelling in such weather, and the cart would be fine where it was for the night. Someone offered to fetch the doctor, only for Hugo to protest that it wasn’t necessary as there was no damage that some water wouldn’t fix. At that, the innkeeper hastily arranged trays of food and warm water to be sent up to their rooms.

  Within minutes they were ushered upstairs, leaving the tap room abuzz with gossip about the three battered and bloody travellers who appeared out of nowhere in the middle of one of the worst storms of the year.

  “Well that should ensure we are safe from any further threat, at least overnight,” Jemima murmured as she climbed the stairs.

  “What do you mean?” Hugo asked, wincing as his battered muscles protested against the strain of climbing anywhere.

  “Nobody would dare harm us now, with half of the village aware we are here and sympathetic to our plight,” Jemima replied. “They also know there are three of us travelling together. Anyone who turns up asking questions about us will do nothing but raise suspicion.”

  Peter nodded, impressed by her logic and reasoning.

  “I suggest we all get some rest, and we will decide what we are going to do in the morning. We aren’t that far from Padstow now,” Hugo sighed, glad to see the door of his room before him. “I don’t know about you two, but I am going to get cleaned up, have some food and a good night’s sleep,” he said with a yawn.

  Bidding them a quick goodnight, he closed the door and sighed deeply. There was one thing for certain, Hugo mused, easing his boots off with a deep sigh. If anything good came out of the past hour, it was the knowledge that at least he was going into Padstow with the right man at his back.

  Downstairs, in the far corner of the tap room, a solitary gentleman was thoughtfully drinking his pint. He had watched the commotion carefully, his eyes goi
ng again and again to the beautiful woman accompanying Peter Carpenter. So that was Jemima Trevelisk, he thought to himself, finally realising why Scraggan and Peter were so determined to get her.

  There was only one small problem that ensured neither of their plans were going to work.

  Him.

  Luckily he had arrived before the rain had started, waiting for the moment when he could go back down the road. He cursed at having his plans thwarted once again.

  With a sigh, he settled back against the wall and began to adjust his plans.

  Once inside their own room, Jemima removed her sodden cloak and boots, and went to stand before the roaring fire, grateful for its heat. The rain had long since drenched her clothing right through to the skin, leaving her flesh chilled and rippled with goose bumps.

  “You need to get out of those clothes,” Peter muttered, pulling his own sodden shirt over his head and dropping it on to the floor. He sat tentatively on the chair before the fire and tugged off his boots, pausing only briefly to open the door to allow the maids to enter.

  He stood back and watched as the bath was set up before the fire and filled with buckets of steaming hot water.

  “Bath or food first?” he asked Jemima. The need to warm his chilled flesh warred with the need to fill his empty stomach.

  Jemima’s stomach rumbled loudly at the same time as a huge shiver racked her. “Bath first, then food, then bed.”

  She watched, astonished, as Peter quickly divested himself of his breeches, clearly intending to climb in. Quickly turning her back, she stared blankly at the wall for a moment, wondering how she was going to get out of the room while he had a bath.

  “You can’t get a bath in your dress,” Peter whispered, directly in her ear, making her jump. She turned and was about to ask him what he meant when he began to draw her dress down off her shoulders. He paused only briefly, his eyes met and held hers.

  “I am not going to try to make love to you, no matter how much you want me to. We could wait for each other to have a bath, at which point the food would be cold. But, given that I have already seen your body before, then I think it would be quicker if we had a bath together, and then went to bed with the food, so we don’t have to get up again.”

  Jemima felt a tiny thrill of feminine pleasure at his suggestion, which was quickly followed by uncertainty. She had never been completely naked before anyone before, and she wasn’t certain she liked the idea of being revealing everything to Peter so blatantly.

  She was so busy contemplating the wisdom of his suggestion when the cooler air of the room swept over her bare chest. Her brows shot skyward and she quickly looked down as her dress pooled at her feet. Any protest she was going to voice was locked in her throat as Peter drew her over to the small tub.

  He stepped in and encouraged her to stand in the tub in front of him, where they sat down together. It all happened so quickly, so naturally, that Jemima still wasn’t sure whether it was a good idea, even while she was sitting with Peter’s legs on either side of her while her back was being tickled by his chest hair.

  Soon the warmth of the water began to chase away the chill and ease her aching limbs. She stifled a yawn as Peter began to wash her hair, cupping water in his palms and soaking her hair with warm bath water before soaping it. She had never had anyone other than Eliza help wash her hair before. It felt strange to have a man carry out such a personal task: strange, but right.

  “Arch your back,” Peter ordered softly, almost groaning aloud when Jemima did just that. The sight of the lush mounds of her breasts protruding from the silken water was the most erotic thing he had ever seen. The teasing glide of her hair in the water as it floated over his rigid length built the flames of desire building within him. He knew he must look a sight, still half covered in mud and boot polish, his face and body covered in darkening bruises, but Jemima hadn’t shown any revulsion toward him. He rinsed her hair repeatedly until all the suds had been removed.

  Placing his large hands beneath her arms, he slid her back against him, making no attempt to hide the growing length resting against her back. He knew she could feel it, and could see for himself the evidence of her own desire.

  Gently cupping her breasts which were jutting out of the water, Peter tenderly caressed the silky flesh, moaning as it slipped and slithered beneath his fingers. His fingers caught and held the tight nubbins of dark flesh practically begging for attention. Jemima’s soft moan caught his ears, as she tipped her head back against his shoulder, lost to everything but the sensual torment his clever fingers were creating within her.

  Jemima wondered how he was going to manage it, and lay heavily against him as his hands moulded her breasts over and over, before slowly dipping beneath the water. She gasped, and clung to his knees when his hands eased her legs apart, drawing them higher and higher until the hot water touched the inner flesh of her femininity as her legs were draped over the side of the tub, rendering her helpless to the relentless searching of his fingers.

  “Peter,” she moaned, turning her head toward him only for her lips to be caught by his, the hot spear of his tongue delving deep into her mouth at the same time as one long finger sought and found her heat. He swallowed her cry of surprise and continued to probe, demanding her total surrender.

  Reassured that he wasn’t going to allow her to slip beneath the water, Jemima released her hold on his thigh and lifted her arm upwards to slide a hand behind his head. It was the only hold she could get on him, and Peter immediately took advantage by palming the upturned breast, tweaking the aching peak. It was more than her battered senses could stand, and all too soon Jemima felt her body tighten at the delicious sensations he created inside.

  She wrenched her mouth from his and cried out when the pleasure continued to build. Her hips arched beneath his questing fingers, demanding his possession, drawing him to give her the release she so desperately craved. The room receded to a white-hot haze of passion, as her stomach coiled tighter and tighter as her hips bucked and writhed beneath his hand.

  Peter grasped a fistful of her hair and eased her head around so he could capture her lips with his. He slid her tight against his aching erection, moaning as the soft flesh of her buttocks captured his length. One finger, then two laid claim to the place his rigid shaft ached to be, making her scream beneath his lips as she shattered. Her spasms had no sooner started to fade than his fingers began to probe again. Jemima gasped as the sensations began to build once more. She was stunned; amazed that he could draw so much out of her with so little effort, while taking so little for himself.

  “Enough,” Peter growled in her ear, abruptly withdrawing his fingers.

  Jemima gasped and was about to protest when he dragged her legs off the sides of the bath and slid an arm under her knees. She hung on to the side of the tub while he slid her around until she faced him. She didn’t object as he lowered her legs over the side of the bath again and drew her hips toward him. Her eyes popped wide as she felt him probe her. She gasped as she was swiftly impaled. Peter’s legs, bent at the knee, behind her gave her the support she needed to prevent her sliding about.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Peter gasped, holding her hips as he rocked her against him. He opened one eye and caught sight of her bared breasts, the dark tips peeking out from beneath a foamy mound of bubbles. With a moan he thrust hard into her, driving her toward her own release. Her keening cry, together with the rhythmic tightening around him, was all it took, and within seconds he followed her over the edge, his own hoarse shout echoing through the silence of the room as he spent himself inside her.

  “I can’t believe we just did that,” Jemima gasped, refusing to consider the inelegant way she was now lying. Completely open to him, there wasn’t a part of her he couldn’t see. She wasn’t sure if the colour in her cheeks was the result of the warm water, sensual completion or embarrassment at her brazenness. She knew she should feel embarrassed, and took some comfort in knowing that Peter was as naked as she was.
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br />   Peter grinned at her, and waited for his heartbeat to slow and his legs to gain some strength before lifting her off him and easing her further down the tub. Quickly rising to his feet, he was aware of her curious glance at his manhood and fought a smile, as he helped her to her feet and escorted her to bed. The sight of her milky-white skin bathed in the soft glow of candlelight stirred him again, and he clenched his teeth.

  “I’m starving,” Jemima murmured, watching as he collected the trays and deposited them on tables he drew closer to the bed. She began to eat as he settled down beside her and helped himself to the vast array of foods the innkeeper had sent them.

  Jemima was just finishing the last of her bread when Peter dropped some pie. It landed squarely on her stomach. She jumped and instinctively went to wipe it off, only for her hand to be captured by Peter’s larger one. His warning look was all he gave her before his head dipped and he relieved her of all traces of the pie. He shot her an amused wink, and ‘accidentally’ dropped another piece of pie, this time on her breast. Her eyes widened and she watched his head dip toward her again.

  “Oh my,” she gasped several moments later.

  With that, she lay back and allowed him to feast.

  CHAPTER NINE

  They were on the outskirts of Padstow far too soon - as far as Jemima was concerned. She closed the door to the small room they had taken in the tavern nestled beside the stream in the small hamlet of Little Petherick, and watched Hugo and Peter rearrange two chairs beside the bed.

  Peter had become increasingly tense as they approached their destination. His face was almost forbidding as he scoured the area around them for a threat. He had kept the horse at a steady trot for the last few miles, not wanting to leave them a sitting target if any of Scraggan’s men saw them.

  Jemima wanted the old, teasing Peter back, and missed the easygoing camaraderie they had shared at the beginning of the journey. Last night, instead of making love, he had lain beside her so tense and thoughtful that Jemima had been forced to ask if she had done something to offend him. She was perturbed by the distant, hardened look in his eyes even as he had reassured her that everything was fine.