Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  Robbie drunkenly patted James’s shoulder. “Listen to Charles, James. He’s smart. War hero like yourself. If he says steer clear of Charlotte, do it. It ain’t as if she’s the only female who’ll have you. All the unmarried girls—and half the married ones—would leap at the chance to be the next Duchess of Alvord.”

  “I doubt that.” James raised his hand as Robbie and Charles both protested. “No, I’ve seen all the girls on the Marriage Mart. God, I’ve been hunted by them since my father died. I’m sick of it. Charlotte will do. She’s been out a few years—she’s not some young girl in her first Season. She’s a duke’s daughter, so she’ll know how to run my household.” He looked pointedly at Robbie. “And I’m sure she’s quite capable of carrying out her other wifely duties.”

  “Well, she is female, I’ll grant you that, so she must be capable of giving you your heir,” Robbie said, “but don’t you want to enjoy the process?”

  James felt himself flush. “I’m sure Charlotte and I can rub along quite well.”

  “But what’s the rush?” Charles asked. “Blast it, man, you’re only twenty-eight! I’m thirty and I’m not scrambling to get myself leg-shackled.” He leaned closer. “You made it through the war. What’s the hurry to get an heir now?”

  “We’ve just been discussing the hurry, Charles—my ambitious cousin, Richard. He’s just a shade too anxious to become the next Duke of Alvord.”

  Later, James deposited his drunken friends in their rooms and turned to his own door. Unfortunately he was still much too sober. No amount of brandy was capable of drowning the thoughts churning in his mind.

  The room was dark, with the only light coming from the embers in the fireplace. He yanked off his boots and stockings, and then shrugged out of his shirt, dropping it on the floor. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to asking the Duke of Rothingham for his daughter’s hand in marriage. Not that Rothingham would be surprised or displeased. The man had certainly dropped enough hints the last time they’d run into each other at White’s. James was confident he’d get a positive response.

  He shed his breeches and drawers. Wedding Charlotte wouldn’t be the tragedy Charles and Robbie made it out to be—he’d never expected to find love at Almack’s. He had to marry sometime. Charlotte would do. He just hoped Richard would concede defeat once the knot was tied.

  He padded naked over to the wash basin. The water was tepid, but he was used to few comforts after the Peninsula. He closed his eyes, picturing Charlotte Wickford. Blond hair, blue eyes—or were they green? Brown? He wasn’t sure. Petite. Her head came about to his mid-chest. He had a lovely view of her coiffure when they waltzed. Her lips—well, she never said much of interest. He had not quite gotten around to seeing how they tasted.

  He swiped at his face with a towel. He didn’t want to marry Charlotte. He’d rather marry a girl he liked, but he hadn’t found one yet and he couldn’t see that he would anytime soon. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. God, he felt trapped. Time was definitely running out. That carriage wheel in Richard’s last attempt on his life had come within a hairsbreadth of splitting his skull.

  “Hmpzm.”

  James spun around. Bloody hell! There was someone in the room with him. How could he have been so damn careless? He hadn’t expected trouble at the Green Man, so of course that made it the perfect place to lay a trap. He lunged to grab the iron poker by the fire and saw the laundry spread out there. He paused. Stockings, shift, dress. A woman’s laundry? Now he knew why Robbie had been sniggering. He’d smuggled a whore into his room.

  He left the poker by the fire and cautiously approached the bed. The girl was asleep, a blanket pulled up to her chin. James lit a candle. She muttered and moved, the blanket slipping slightly to uncover her neck and shoulders.

  She was beautiful. Her long hair was unbound, spread across the pillow in a fiery ribbon. Her features were as fine as her clothing was coarse. James studied the high cheekbones, long eyelashes, and elegant neck. In the gentle glow of the candle she looked young and innocent.

  “Come on, love, time to get up.” He touched her shoulder. Her skin was smooth and warm. His eyes followed the line of her collarbone to the hollow at the base of her throat. He imagined tracing that line with his lips.

  He hoped the girl didn’t awaken now. Whore though she undoubtedly was, she still might be taken aback by the unmistakable evidence of his interest in her. Standing there naked, he had no way of hiding his admiration.

  The girl twitched her shoulder and burrowed deeper into the pillows. Who was she? Could Robbie have imported her from London? James didn’t think so, but she obviously was wasted at a backwater inn like the Green Man. She looked fine enough to be some rich man’s mistress. His mistress? He tested the idea and was surprised to find that he was tempted.

  He would decide in the morning. It was clear that the girl was exhausted. He’d never really thought about it, but he supposed simple whores didn’t get a lot of sleep. They had to work on their feet during the day and on their backs at night. He’d let her sleep and see how things stood in the morning.

  He climbed into the other side of the bed. He could feel the heat from her body and hear the steady tempo of her breathing. He smiled as he closed his eyes and tried to find a comfortable position. He was definitely looking forward to the morning.

  James noticed the sweet scent first. Delicate, clean, feminine. He drew a deeper breath and felt a soft weight on his chest. And a delicious warmth along his side. And something round and smooth on his upper arm. The warmth nestled closer and a slight exhalation tickled across his neck.

  The girl. She was still in bed with him. He swallowed, trying to tame the blood surging through his head and another part of his anatomy. Don’t jump on her like a hungry animal, he told himself. Savor the moment.

  He opened his eyes slowly. The covers had blessedly slipped down to his waist during the night. The girl’s slender arm rested across his chest. He followed the delicate curve of her wrist and forearm, the tender angle of her elbow. A curtain of long, reddish hair hid her face and the small breast he felt resting against his side and arm. He wanted to see them, too. He wanted to see all of her.

  He raised his free hand carefully—he didn’t want to waken her just yet—and touched her hair. It was soft, shot through with threads of gold. He tangled his fingers in the silky strands, lifting them so he could study the girl’s face. Her skin was peach-tinted, not freckled like the skin of some redheads. Her nose was a little blunt and her lips a little thin. Perhaps once she opened her eyes—and her mouth—the illusion would be broken, but for now she looked like a fairy tale princess. Certainly the most beautiful whore he had ever seen.

  He let his eyes wander down to the soft, pale weight resting on his arm with its slightly darker tip just peeking out against his side. Exquisite.

  He didn’t know where Robbie had found the girl, but at the moment, he didn’t care. He had much more interesting subjects to occupy his mind.

  He smiled as he put his lips against the girl’s mouth.

  Sarah was caught up in the most amazing dream she had ever had. She was in a large, soft bed and somehow her warm flannel nightgown had vanished. But she wasn’t cold. No, she was actually warm. Very warm. There was something large and hot next to her. She was pressed up against it. It felt sinfully wonderful. She breathed in the warm scent of brandy and linen.

  She felt a delicious pressure on her lips. Firm yet soft. Like velvet. Seductive. Her mouth moved to explore the new sensation and was rewarded with a moist heat.

  Wake up, a small voice said. Something this good cannot be right.

  Sarah silenced the voice.

  She heard a funny little growl and the pressure left her lips. She whimpered, wanting it to come back, and it did, but on her neck this time, just under her ear. She raised her chin to give the lovely pressure more room. It moved down her neck in small nips and licks, stopping just short of her aching breasts.

  Something w
arm and strong kneaded the back of her neck, then followed her spine down to her hips, skirting the parts that most burned for its touch. Her body was on fire. She twisted, panting.

  “God, you’re good, sweetheart.”

  A male voice.

  Her eyes flew open. She looked up into warm amber eyes, golden hair, and sculpted lips…now heading down to sample the tip of her breast.

  She screamed and shoved against a very naked chest. She screamed again, pulling back her hands as if burned.

  “What the…”

  The man sat up, frowning. Sarah took the opportunity to grab the pillow under her head and swing it at him.

  “Get back, you, you—lecher!”

  “Lecher?”

  The man ducked. Sarah swung again and hit him solidly on the ear.

  “That’s what I said. Get out of my bed. Get out of my room or I’ll scream the place down.”

  “You’re already screaming, sweetheart.”

  “Well, I’ll scream louder.” She sat up, lifting the pillow high in both hands, ready to knock him onto the floor if he wouldn’t climb out on his own.

  His eyes got an odd, intent expression. He was not looking at her face. She dropped her eyes to see where he was looking.

  “Ack!” She slammed her pillow down to cover her chest.

  That was when the door banged open and another woman screamed.

  “James!”

  “Damn,” the man muttered. “Aunt Gladys. Why the hell is she here?”

  Chapter 2

  Sarah stared in horror at the crowd of faces at the door.

  The nasty innkeeper, alternately sneering and wringing his hands. A pair of sniggering footmen. The drunken lord from last night trying unsuccessfully to muffle his laughter. And two elderly women, one tall, one short, their wrinkled faces and bright, inquisitive eyes framed in stylish bonnets.

  “James,” the taller one said again, this time without screaming. She and her companion stared at Sarah’s pillow; it was all that stood between her and complete exposure. She flushed and slid lower in the bed, pulling the thin blanket up to her chin.

  “Aunt, how delightful to see you. Pardon me if I don’t get up.” James could feel a hot blush surge over his face. He wouldn’t be surprised if his entire body was red, including the unruly part that was making an unseemly tent in the thin blanket. He shifted position.

  “James…” His aunt appeared lost for words.

  He smiled slightly as he surveyed the people at his door. Lady Gladys Runyon, his father’s older sister, tall and angular with over seventy years in her dish, stared at him, her deep flush echoing his own. Lady Amanda Wallen-Smyth, her constant companion, was beside her. Lady Amanda, who was in her mid sixties, was small and delicate looking. An illusion only. Let the slightest scent of gossip waft her way and she was after the details like a ferret down a rat hole. Now her shrewd brown eyes darted around the room, taking careful note of everything—the girl’s clothes by the fire, his breeches on the floor. Finally they latched onto the girl herself. He swore he saw the old Ferret’s nose twitch. The girl crept even lower under the blanket.

  Robbie had finally mastered his laughter. Now his face bobbed up above Aunt Gladys’s head. His mouth moved like that of a beached fish, but no sounds came out. He was making slashing movements with his hand across his throat. James wasn’t sure what he was trying to convey, but cutting someone’s throat, preferably Robbie’s, seemed like a very good idea.

  “Robbie, kindly show Aunt Gladys and Lady Amanda downstairs. And close the door when you leave.”

  “James…”

  “Yes, Aunt. I’ll be down directly. Now please go along with Robbie.”

  James sighed with relief as the door finally shut. He turned to the girl. She was still clutching the blankets to her chest, eyeing him warily. She certainly was a very odd whore.

  “Please don’t scream again,” he said. “My poor ears have suffered enough.”

  “Then don’t do anything to make me scream.” Her eyes strayed down to his chest and then skittered back to his face. “Do you have any clothes on?”

  He grinned. “No, do you?”

  All the skin he could see turned as red as her hair. He wished he could see if her blush extended as far as his had, but there was no time. Aunt Gladys would not be waiting patiently. If he wasn’t downstairs quickly, she would be back upstairs hauling him out of bed, naked or not.

  He frowned slightly. Now that he didn’t have a pillow attacking his ears, he could focus on the girl’s voice. It was very nice, soft and educated. She certainly didn’t sound like a local whore or even a higher-priced London demi-rep.

  “You sound American.”

  “I am American.” The girl was being very careful to keep her eyes on his face. For a whore, she was amazingly embarrassed by his bare chest. “From Philadelphia.”

  “That’s a long way to come to visit the Green Man, sweetheart. We’re quite proud of the place, but I’m shocked that its fame has spread across the Atlantic.”

  “I did not come here to stay at the Green Man,” she snapped, “and I can’t say I’m much impressed with an inn that lacks locks on its doors.”

  James chuckled. “True, so if you didn’t come to enjoy the questionable hospitality of the Green Man, why are you here?”

  “To see my uncle. The stagecoach got in too late for me to go directly to his home last night.”

  James thought he knew all the people in the neighborhood very well, but he hadn’t heard of a villager who had an American niece. “Your uncle? Who’s your uncle?”

  “The Earl of Westbrooke.”

  James felt his jaw drop. “Westbrooke’s your uncle?”

  “Yes.”

  James swore he saw golden flecks of fire flash in the girl’s hazel eyes.

  “My name is Sarah Hamilton, and my father was the earl’s younger brother.”

  “David. He did go to America.” James nodded. “So you are here to see the Earl of Westbrooke.” He smiled. Then he grinned. Then he collapsed back on the pillow and howled with laughter.

  “Oh, God,” he gasped. “The Earl of Westbrooke! I can’t believe it!”

  Sarah clutched the blanket tightly to her chest and stared at the man convulsed with laughter on the bed. This morning could not get any more bizarre. Was the man a lunatic? Naked or not, she should have thrown herself on those ladies’ mercy while she’d had the chance.

  “I don’t see what’s so funny.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.” The man sat up and grinned. “In fact, I should be crying, not laughing. But I’m not unhappy. This unusual incident may prove to be the best thing to happen to me in a long time.”

  Sarah tried to keep her eyes on his face. It would have helped if he would show the least embarrassment about his naked state, but now that the older ladies were gone, he seemed quite comfortable in his skin. It was very nice skin. The blanket had slipped down to pool at his hips, revealing a fine dusting of golden hair, slightly darker than that on his head. She felt the shocking urge to use her fingers to trace its path from his collarbone to his navel, over the planes of his chest and the muscles of his flat belly. She flushed, looking up to find his eyes on hers.

  “Sweetheart, I would love to let you do whatever it is you’re thinking of, but if I don’t get dressed and downstairs promptly, Aunt Gladys will be storming back in here to help me.”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “No? Well, perhaps it’s just my dirty mind that’s imagining all the lovely things we could be doing if I didn’t have to be downstairs—and if you weren’t a lady, of course.”

  He turned to swing his legs off the bed. Sarah admired the ripple of muscles in his broad back before she dove under the covers. She heard him laugh, then move around the room.

  “Coast is clear,” he said. “I’ll be right outside the door when you’re ready.”

  Once she heard the latch click, she pulled the blankets off her head and took a
deep breath. Well, at least now she knew who the mysterious James was. That is, she knew what he looked like. She burst into a hot blush. She knew what quite a lot of him looked like.

  Still, she didn’t know his surname. What was she to call him? Not James. She had never addressed a man by his Christian name. But then, she had never slept with a naked man before. Naked with a naked man! If her face got any hotter, she would set the bed aflame. She slid out from between the covers and darted over to the fireplace to retrieve her clothing.

  If she had to find a man in her bed, she had certainly found an excellent specimen. She knew the Abington sisters would tell her that she shouldn’t notice such things, but she wasn’t blind, and only a blind woman would not have found this man wonderful with his dark blond hair, broad shoulders, and amber eyes. And his voice! It made her think of warm honey. Mellow and deep and magical. It had certainly cast a spell over her.

  She pulled her dress over her head and dug a comb out of her reticule. She surveyed her hair in the mirror. She should have braided it last night, but then it wouldn’t have dried. Well, she had paid the price. Now it was a mare’s nest—a red mare’s nest. She started to tug her comb through the mess, remembering how the Abington sisters had bemoaned its unfortunate hue.

  “Maybe it will darken as you get older,” Clarissa Abington had said when Sarah was thirteen, “and look more like your father’s.”

  “Just keep your bonnet on, dear, and no one will notice,” Abigail whispered.

  “Sometimes, Sarah, men think girls with red hair are fast, so you must be especially careful.” Clarissa waggled her stumpy index finger under Sarah’s nose. “Red hair is a curse—it’s that simple. Men will assume you are a whore.”

  Sarah’s hand stilled. Had the man in her bed this morning thought she was a whore? Heart pounding, she leaned against the wall for support. Exactly what had happened last night?