by Scott, Tarah
“I’m not in the mood for this.” She jammed her forced between her breasts pressed and his chest.
He continued to struggle the blanket beneath. “I would suggest, then, keeping your hands to yourself.”
She gave a halfhearted swipe to his chin. “Self-defense,” she mumbled into his neck.
“God help me.” He slipped a hand beneath her buttocks and lifted her enough to free the covers.
Phoebe batted at his arm. “I’m not interested in your attentions tonight.”
“My dear,” he said, laying her back onto crisp linen sheets, “as much as I might like to, I am not in the habit of taking advantage of women who are deep in their cups, even if the woman is my wife.”
Phoebe’s eyes popped open. “Wife,” she said as her hand went to her mouth and she belched.
“Phoebe,” Kiernan said sharply.
“Oh dear,” she said through another belch.
Kiernan whirled and, spying the object he was searching for sitting near the nightstand, scooped it up and faced Phoebe.
“By heavens,” she cried, “not the chamber pot again.”
He dropped to his knees, hoisted her into a sitting position and shoved the pot under her nose.
Phoebe shook her head. “Out of the way, Ashlund.”
Kiernan started to argue, but she scooted to the edge of the bed and shoved to her feet. She dropped to her knees and it was clear her stomach would not be put off any longer. Kiernan once again shoved the chamber pot in front of her. She grasped its edges and vomited.
Laughter abruptly echoed in the hallway outside the door.
“Damnation,” Kiernan cursed as the laughter grew louder. The entire male population of Brahan Seer had decided to congregate outside their room.
Phoebe retched again.
A loud pounding sounded at the door. “Bhalgaire!” said John, a man from the village. “Ye canna’ escape us.” Shouts of agreement went up and more pounding followed. “You may be anxious to see the lassie, but you won't get off so easily.”
“Too late, lads,” Kiernan called.
More laughter. “It’s never too late,” another voice answered in between Phoebe’s gasps. “Now open the door. We won't look.” At this, raucous guffaws abounded and were mingled with more bawdy comments.
Phoebe leaned over, her head nearly touching the chamber pot. Kiernan placed a hand on her head to steady her. She pushed him away, but ceased such efforts in favor of once again gripping the chamber pot and heaving into it. The noise outside the room abruptly stopped.
“What in God’s name are you doing to her?” came the calm voice of his childhood friend David.
“Go on, now, lads,” Kiernan urged. “You’ve done enough damage for one night.”
There was a pause, then, David said, “Sounds to us as if it is you who have done the damage. What’s wrong?”
Kiernan looked down at Phoebe who, though breathing heavily, had ceased retching. “Nothing,” he called.
“There are fifteen of us, at least. We can easily break the door.”
Kiernan sighed. “Will you be all right, Phoebe?”
She shot him a sidelong glance that could only mean she might be all right, but his future good health was uncertain. He rose and went to the door. He unbolted the door, then quickly stepped outside.
Kiernan caught sight of his father at the back of the crowd before saying, “Enough, lads, she’s simply celebrated a little too vigorously.”
The men’s eyes widened and somewhere in the middle of the group someone said, “You don't mean she—”
“Drunk as a skunk?” put in another.
Kiernan didn't miss the twitch at the corner of his father's mouth and was certain the duke was thinking that this was merely the first of many ways in which Phoebe would repay Kiernan for waylaying her coach.
“Never saw a woman who could hold her liquor,” said David.
“Don’t be too sure about that,” Kiernan said. “From what I saw, she drank quite a bit before retiring, and the decanter of brandy in the bedchamber was nearly empty when I arrived.”
John frowned. “Not natural for a woman to drink so much.”
“Well,” Kiernan said, clearing his throat, “Phoebe is a rather unusual woman. Now, if you will excuse me."
For a moment it seemed the men might proceed with the wedding night tradition of forcing their way into the bridal chambers but his father said, "Come along, lads. There's plenty more scotch downstairs for us."
One by one, they turned away. Kiernan backed into the room, keeping a wary eye on them until he had the door closed and bolted again. He turned back to Phoebe. She had crawled back into bed and lay curled up on her side, this time, sleeping quite soundly.
Chapter Nineteen
A heavy weight over Phoebe’s shoulder pinned her to the bed in the darkness. The mass of heat that molded to the curve of her back pressed closer. She stirred and the weight on her shoulder slipped beneath her arm and wrapped itself around her waist. Vague images of people laughing, food, drink, and a dark face, floated through her mind. She concentrated, trying to comprehend their meaning when the unmistakable hard length of a man pressing against her buttocks registered in her brain. The warmth around her waist crept upward and closed with a gentle caress around a breast.
Phoebe gave a small cry of surprise.
“Shh, sweetheart,” came a soft male voice in her ear. “It's me.”
He kissed her ear and warmth rippled through her. He rocked gently against her and her body gave an answering throb that so startled her, it was a moment before she realized his hand was sliding downward. Phoebe wriggled in his grasp. His hand cupped the feminine part of her through her chemise.
He sighed and began inching up the fabric. The material brushed lightly over the stiff curls of her woman’s mound. She was aware the instant the linen exposed her, for his fingers caressed her. He probed, parting the folds with a careful touch until, at last, he slipped a finger inside her wet channel.
Phoebe gripped the sheets as he moved his finger in and out. She was only beginning to adjusting to the sensation when she felt a flick to the sensitive nub that now throbbed with every tiny thrust me made.
“By heavens,” she whispered. “This is something new.”
He chuckled in her ear. “But the beginning of many firsts, my dear.”
Her mind swirled with vague possibilities, all ending with the same exquisite pressure she now experienced. He stopped abruptly, and Phoebe felt as though she teetered on a precipice she longed to jump into. He rolled her onto her back and came down on top of her. His weight pressed her into the bed. The memory of Brandon crushing her beneath him in much the same way flashed before her, but was banished immediately by a rough kiss to her mouth.
Kiernan released her mouth and nipped at her ear. “Only you and I in the wedding bed,” he whispered.
Phoebe gasped. Had she said Brandon’s name aloud?
Kiernan's mouth, hard and insistent, slid down her throat, while he moved his shaft in easy motion against her. He grasped her chemise and tried to tug it down her shoulders, but the linen fit snuggly over her breasts. His hands explored her chest, and his fingers gripped the top of the chemise. Even as she felt his muscles tighten she realized his intent.
Phoebe gasped as he rent the cloth. His mouth closed over a hardened nipple. She sunk her fingers into his hair. The heavy locks slid like satin through her fingers just as she knew they would. Thick and soft like—her breath caught, he must have lifted the cloth of his nightdress, for the velvety hard length of his shaft brushed against her thigh, then probed the nestle of curls. He found quick entrance between her damp folds. A thrill shot through her body, followed by the physical pleasure of his rubbing.
“Don't wait any longer,” she whispered, and she felt his body tighten in the instant before he surged forward—Phoebe bolted upright, a deep wheezing breath bringing her full awake and blinking into the sunlit room.
She blinke
d harder, her breath coming in heavy spurts, and looked at the empty space beside her on the bed. She raised a hand, unable to endure any longer the shaft of sunlight that dove in a relentless stream through the window and directly across her line of sight. Turning her head aside, she groped at her bodice to find the chemise she had worn under her dress was in one piece. She hazarded a glance at the foot of the bed and saw that the nightgown that had been laid out for the wedding night lay crumpled in a corner of the bed.
What had happened last night? The arrival at Brahan Seer, the wedding, the reception, her memory faltered—Kiernan, he had come to the bridal chamber, they drank brandy together. Phoebe scrambled back so that the sunlight no longer fell over her, and she looked about the room. There, on the chair, lay her dress, no doubt a mess that would need ironing, but still intact.
She had desired no groom, the memory of Adam’s death still too recent, the horror of his blood on her hands, too fresh to want the touch of a man. Yet, she had managed, nonetheless, to give herself over far more gladly than was seemly, and no groom had been needed! Heat flooded her cheeks. The memory of Kiernan’s grasp tightening as he gave her the kiss that made them man and wife came to mind. No! She had not wanted him. Yet, again, came the recollection of his tall frame, blue eyes stark against swarthy skin, and black hair that had gone uncut. The muscled flesh of his legs visible between his kilt and boots. Phoebe balled a hand into a fist and hit the pillow on the side of the bed as hard as she could.
“Oh, Adam,” she cried, “I am no friend. To the bitter end, I am no friend.”
She threw herself on the pillow and cried.
It was ten o’clock before Phoebe made an appearance downstairs. She had considered staying in bed—the pounding in her head caused by the overindulgence of brandy last night enough to keep her buried beneath the covers—but she realized waiting would only make facing her husband and his family all the more difficult. To her relief, none of the MacGregors she wished to avoid were in the great hall.
“Marcus has gone to the village,” Winnie told her as she directed her in a chair at the kitchen table. “Anabele,” Winnie called to one of the maids, “fetch a cup of tea for Lady Ashlund.”
Phoebe placed a hand over the housekeeper's, “You're an angel, Winnie, and, please, Phoebe will do.”
The housekeeper grinned. “Aye,” she said and seated herself at the table. “Elise is about somewhere in the keep.”
Phoebe nodded.
Winnie hesitated. “Your husband, well,” she gave Phoebe a sheepish look, “he isn't here.”
A rush of relief flooded Phoebe, then she wondered where he was “Where is he?”
“Up north is all I know. He doesn't confide in me.”
Neither does he confide in his wife, Phoebe thought. Then her heart sank. So here she was, married to a man who was quite possibly a traitor. Was this how her mother had felt?
Phoebe had noticed the interested looks she'd gotten from the women as she sat with Winnie, but the girl who just left had stared unabashedly.
"Have I done something?" Phoebe asked Winnie.
The housekeeper laughed. "They're curious."
She should have known. "Curious as to how the marquess kidnapped me?"
"Aye. His antics surprised even Marcus this time. Kiernan is an unusual man."
Phoebe had to agree.
"He's the most English of the MacGregors, which makes him too proper at times."
"Too proper?" A tremor rippled through her stomach at recollection of the night Kiernan had caught her in his bedchambers. He'd been anything but proper.
"Aye," Winnie said. "But he loves a good joke and just can't help getting himself into trouble." She grinned. "You're proof of that."
Phoebe had to admit to being more than a little curious. "Am I the worst trouble he's gotten into?"
"I would say so, but he doesn't seem to mind one bit." Phoebe's cheeks warmed and Winnie laughed again. "I imagine you gave him a dose of his own medicine."
If that were true, she wouldn't be in the Highlands married to him.
"But ye needn't worry," Winnie went on. "I'm sure he will settle down now that he's married."
Settle down? Wasn't that what he expected of her? He said she would have the freedom to do as she pleased, but he also wanted children. Kiernan's sons would be magnificent. The face of a dark haired, blue-eyed boy arose in her mind.
"And he's a Highlander through and through," Winnie said. "He understands his duty."
"Duty?" Phoebe repeated.
"Aye, he learned first hand as a young boy when they watched Marcus' cousin hang for attempted murder."
The vision evaporated. "The duke has a cousin who was hanged for murder?" Phoebe blurted.
Winnie nodded. "The son of his laird raped a girl in the village and David demanded he be brought before the magistrate. The earl denied his son was guilty, so David tried forcing him to go. Of course, the earl then called in the magistrate and accused David of trying to kill the viscount. Marcus was ready to lead a revolt, but his father forbade it. There was enough blood being shed by the feud between us and the Campbells. Cameron knew the king wasn't in the mood for another MacGregor war."
"If he was innocent, surely something could have been done," Phoebe said.
"He may not have been innocent by their standards."
Phoebe recalled Kiernan's words the day they rode into Brahan Seer. “This is untamed country, far outside the reach of traditional law. The nineteenth century won’t ride to our rescue any quicker than the Queen's men will.”
Had England failed her Scottish subjects in this case?
"Either way," Winnie said, "by the time Cameron got wind of it, David was all but hung. Marcus took Kiernan with him and they said goodbye to David."
Phoebe started. "The duke forced his son to watch?"
"Kiernan was young, but you can rest assured he won't forget the price MacGregors pay."
"No," Phoebe murmured. "He won’t forget."
What better reason to commit treason than knowing that one's country won't defend you? Wasn't that what had happened to her father? He had given his life in service of his country, and had been betrayed by the very people who appointed him protector. Phoebe was startled by the unexpected memory of the duke's words when Kiernan came to the library the day she had told him of her father. “Your future wife was just telling me of her father's involvement with Arthur Thistlewood. You wouldn't remember, you were a boy then, but Thistlewood was found guilty of high treason and hanged in 1820."
Was it so strange that he remembered Arthur Thistlewood with such clarity after all these years? Perhaps not. The days after the Cato Street Conspiracy, the populace had demanded Arthur Thistlewood and his cohorts' heads—and had gotten them. The duke had shown surprise when Kiernan commented that Phoebe knew something of assassinations—that, she thought, should have given the duke pause, but he hadn't missed a beat, damn him. Neither had Kiernan, she realized. She'd forgotten, but when Kiernan asked what her father had to do with Arthur Thistlewood, and she answered that he was one of the men accused of taking part in the assassination attempt, recognition had flickered in his eyes.
Had he made the connection between Phoebe Wallington and Mason Wallington? If so, why not say something? But the answer was too obvious. Her heart beat faster. Kiernan recognized the name. Just as the duke did, she realized with a start. When Phoebe told him her name, he'd been surprised. He'd passed his surprise off as having known a murderer with the name Wallington, but that had been a lie. Both father and son knew who her father was.
"Forgive me, Winnie," Phoebe said, "but would you mind terribly if I excused myself? I’m rather tired.”
“I'm not surprised,” she clucked. “Go on up to your room and I’ll have Anabele bring some lunch.”
“Cold chicken and perhaps some bread would be nice, or anything of that sort.” Anything that would withstand a long ride.
The housekeeper smiled. “She’ll be up directly.�
�
Phoebe went first to the library. As hoped, she quickly located a map of the Highlands. She shoved the map under her arm and checked the corridor. Seeing it was empty, she hurried to the room she'd shared with Kiernan last night. She had only just arrived when a knock sounded at the door.
Phoebe put the map into the armoire, then called, “Come in.” The door opened and Anabele entered carrying a tray of food. “Good morning, Anabele. Set the tray there, please.”
The girl deposited the tray on the secretary.
“Thank you,” Phoebe said.
The girl turned to leave, but halted and said, "What's this?"
Phoebe turned as she scooped up something off the floor.
Anabele turned, a sheath of folded paper in hand. "It has your name on it, my lady." The maid hurried to Phoebe and gave her the note.
"Thank you," Phoebe said, and she left.
Phoebe unfolded the note and caught sight of Kiernan's signature at the bottom.
Phoebe,
Forgive me for leaving the day after our wedding. Unfortunately, I have business that can't wait. I will return in two or three days. I promise to make this up to you.
Your husband,
Kiernan
Phoebe stared at the words your husband and cursed the flutter in her stomach. In five years as a spy, she hadn't gotten into one speck of trouble. Inside of a fortnight of meeting Kiernan MacGregor, she'd become entangled with traitors and murderers, and was married to a man who was likely the ringleader. A sudden desire to cry rushed to the surface. She swiped at the moisture in the corner of one eye. Kiernan was off taking care of his business. She intended to do the same.
Phoebe refolded the note, crossed to the door and quietly bolted the door, then retrieved the map from the armoire and sat back down at the desk. The map had no index She began searching for the Dornoth Firth, the port John Stafford had referenced in his journal, the port Alistair preferred when he left Scotland for France.