“I’m a duke. They’ll excuse my rudeness,” he replied arrogantly. “You’ll learn that soon, if you haven’t already. You’ve certainly learned the role of duchess quickly enough.”
“You would prefer I remain barefoot and ignorant?” Fiona asked with what she hoped was an arrogance akin to his.
“I would prefer you remain just plain bare and in my bed,” he replied in a gruff tone and with a look that quaked Fiona to her toes, “but I can see my preferences have little enough to do with anything.”
Caught on the broadsword of his gaze, Fiona didn’t answer. The heat of Neville’s palm burned through the frail silk of her gown. He held her closer than the dance required, and his thighs brushed hers as he spun her around the floor. His expressive eyebrows had pulled together in a frown, but she didn’t think it was an entirely disapproving frown so much as one of indecision. Her heart pounded while his powerful mind worked through all the alternatives. She knew the moment he gave up the task and surrendered to the flames already eating her alive.
“I think it’s time we bade our farewells,” she suggested.
He didn’t do any such thing. As the music swelled to its end, Neville spun her off the dance floor, caught her waist, and half carried her past the crowd to the ballroom entrance. Fiona had a glimpse of Lady Effingham’s startled gaze as they swept by, but one look at Neville’s face apparently convinced her not to intrude.
Since the men had decided it would be simpler to guard their wives if they were all in one establishment, Fiona and Neville had rooms upstairs in Effingham’s town house. Neville steered her up those stairs now.
“Neville, this is abominably rude,” Fiona whispered as she realized where they were going. “Blanche will worry—”
“No, she won’t. She has better things to do. If she worried about you at all, she would have halted your performance.” Neville threw open their bedchamber door and pushed her through.
Fiona resisted, but not hard enough. He slammed the door behind them and turned the key in the lock.
Hands on hips, she whirled to face him. “If you brought me here only to scold, you’ve wasted your time.”
“Scolding is the very last thing on my mind.” Without warning, Neville dragged her fully against him and captured her mouth with his, preventing any further argument.
Hot coals and summer breezes whirled inside her. Fiona hated how easily he turned her into quivering blanc mange. She tried fighting it by pushing at Neville’s chest, but her fingers curled in his shirt instead. Closing her mouth against his kiss never occurred to her. Her mind defiantly resisted as he cupped her hips in both hands and pulled her toward him, but the rest of her didn’t cooperate. She pressed against him and desire spiraled through her at the evidence of his arousal.
He pushed her against the wall until their hips ground together and their clothing was all that prevented their melding there and then. Fiona moaned as Neville thrust his tongue deeper, claiming her in this way instead. She had no idea when he’d unfastened her gown, but it fell off her shoulders under his marauding hands. They could fight some other time. She needed him now. It had been too damned long.
She tore at his waistcoat and cravat to get at his shirt fastenings. She needed to feel his flesh. He wouldn’t release her long enough to succeed. He had her half undressed and she couldn’t touch him.
Furious with frustration, Fiona caught his hands where they plundered her breasts and shoved him away. Startled, Neville stepped back a fraction, and Fiona grabbed the opportunity to wriggle out of her gown. His eyes lit with the heat of admiration as she stripped naked, but still he didn’t understand. Fiona tugged on his cravat until he nearly choked. He pulled it off then.
He pulled off his coat and waistcoat too, his gaze never once straying from hers. She shivered at the determination she read there, but she wanted to be the focus of his attention for a change. It was her turn. She had earned this.
She slid her hand over his muscled torso as he jerked his shirt over his head. Heat scorched her palms. His bare arms pulled her against him, until flesh met flesh, and heat wrapped around them. Tilting her head, she accepted his kiss again, and gave herself up to the explorations of his tongue and hands. They might never agree on anything else, but they would always be together in this.
Fiona didn’t waste time wondering if lovemaking was enough. She’d chosen her path, made her bed, and now she would make the best of it. She reached for the fastenings of Neville’s trousers.
They never quite reached the bed.
Thirty-five
As the first rays of dawn lightened the draperies, Neville bent over his beautiful, sleeping wife and pressed a kiss against her forehead. Deeply shaken by the prior night, he needed time to think. Quietly, he slipped from the bed.
He held his breath as Fiona stirred at his departure. She needed her sleep. He had kept her awake far longer than was good for either of them, but worse for her. Circles shadowed her brilliant eyes, even in sleep. Shards of pain rendered his insides. No matter how much courage Fiona possessed, no matter how strong she pretended to be, she couldn’t do everything.
He wanted to take care of her and keep her safe forever.
Slipping into his clothes, hardening his heart against the need to crawl back in that bed and love her once again, Neville gathered up the things he needed, unlocked the door from the inside, stepped out, and with determination, locked the door again from the outside.
***
“She’s gone!” Dillian, Lady Effingham, exclaimed, running up as her husband and his brother entered the townhouse later that afternoon, still celebrating their triumph.
“Who’s gone?” Effingham asked with a frown as he dropped his gloves on the table and looked around for their usually hovering butler. “And are our bags packed and ready?”
“We sent your bags to the yacht, as you requested. And who do you think has gone?” Blanche asked sarcastically. She glared at her insouciant husband who twirled his hat on the tip of his finger and leaned against the wall without bothering to remove his outer garments. “Locking Fiona in her room is not the best way to acknowledge how she helped you win that bill.”
Finally noticing the Irish earl’s suspicious behavior, Dillian also focused her glare on him. “Why isn’t Neville with you?”
Michael shrugged, popped his tall hat back on his head, and pushed away from the wall. “Don’t know. I’ll find out, shall I?”
“Where’s that damned butler?” Effingham grumbled, reaching for his hat again.
“Out looking for you. We heard the bill passed hours ago and you didn’t come home! We fretted all afternoon.” Dillian glared at her husband. “Fiona refused to wait any longer. You have to find her.”
Wearily, the marquess glanced at his adopted brother. “The docks?” he inquired.
Michael shrugged. “Where else?”
Without further explanation to their worried wives, they retraced their path out the door.
***
“I take it since you’re here, that you didn’t go directly to Fiona after the vote,” Michael said idly, tucking his hat under his arm, out of the river breeze. He scanned the yacht’s deck almost with disinterest.
Neville ran his hand through his hair, shoving loose strands out of his eyes as he glared at his cousin-in-law. “We couldn’t have won today if Fiona hadn’t twisted arms last night. She only did it so we can hurry back to Aberdare. I had to make certain the yacht was stocked for our journey before I fetched her. Fiona isn’t exactly a seafaring man.”
“No?” Michael’s gaze caught on the figure of a cabin boy scurrying up a rope ladder to the top mast. “Tell that to Fiona, then. She’s not in her room, you realize.”
Neville felt himself pale. “What do you mean, she’s not in her room? I locked her in there myself. Don’t say things like that. I’m a wreck enough as it is.”
Michael grinned into the fading sun. “I see that. She’s got you bound and gagged, hasn’t she? I wis
h you well of her.” He headed toward the companionway.
Neville grabbed the earl’s coat collar and hauled him back. “Where is she?” he shouted against the brisk wind.
Michael turned him a shrewd look. “Where do you think she would go?”
“Nowhere! She wouldn’t leave without me. She knows I’m only protecting her.”
Having satisfied himself that sufficient stores were aboard, Effingham returned to the deck, took instant stock of the situation, and removed Neville’s grip from Michael’s collar. “You should never have locked Fiona in. You may as well have dared her to escape.”
“We can’t leave until we find her!” Neville turned to signal the captain.
Michael caught his arm. “The tide’s turning. It’s time we’re off. I have a village under siege, your bloody worship. We’ve fulfilled our part of the bargain, now it’s time you fulfill yours. The damned ship leaves as scheduled. Fiona can take care of herself.”
Driving his free arm sharply backward, Neville aimed for Michael’s ribs.
Aberdare dodged the blow but released Neville as the sails unfurled. Neville swore under his breath. He raised his hand to signal the captain to halt, but ran afoul of Gavin’s powerful grasp.
“We’re sailing now and not twelve hours from now. You won’t find Fiona unless she wants to be found. You’re wasting time,” the marquess admonished.
“You know where she’s going, your noble worship,” Michael added wryly. “You may as well arrive ahead of her.”
They spoke sense, Neville knew, but terror still reigned. He could jump. The Thames was so thick with foulness at this point, he could likely walk across.
But Michael’s words gradually took root in his fear-addled brain. Fiona would head straight for home. He couldn’t find her in London, but he could find her in Ireland. Surely, now that the reform bill was law, Townsend would have no further use for her. It was just the normal dangers of travel she faced. She would seek a ship...
A ship. Slowly, Neville swung his gaze to observe his immediate surroundings. She would seek a ship. At the docks.
No wonder the damned earl was so casual about leaving his female cousin loose in London. Neville swore a litany of curses and began a systematic search of his own damned ship.
He started with the traditional hiding places for stowaways. Torn equally between fear and fury, he rampaged from hold to cabins to galley, sending grown men fleeing from his wrath. He’d known an occasional brief anger, but nothing to the extent of this. He thought he might strangle Michael in Fiona’s place if he did not find her.
Neville burst up the companionway onto the deck. They were reaching the mouth of the Thames already, and the captain had ordered full sail. With the tide and the wind in their favor, the yacht skimmed over the water, aborting any hope of returning to London. Despair washed over him as land dwindled from view.
He had meant to take Fiona with him. He just wanted her safe while he was otherwise occupied. He’d hoped she would sleep until he returned. He’d kept her awake most of the night. Surely she understood what he hadn’t said.
Stupid. Women needed words. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Neville fought the unfamiliar burning behind his eyes and tried not to worry.
But the whitecaps on the water reminded him of the orchids Fiona had worn in her hair last night. The tiny flowers weren’t half so delicate as his wife, nor nearly as beautiful. The sun lowering in the western sky couldn’t compare with Fiona’s magnificent hair, the hair he’d buried his hands in last night as he’d kissed her senseless. And she’d kissed him back, with passion and desire and all the things he’d craved in a wife.
He would do well to practice indifference with Fiona if she insisted on behaving like a common hoyden. Let her come and go as she pleased. What difference could it make to him?
But it did. He’d hoped that she would be pleased if he expressed his gratitude for her aid by setting sail immediately for her home. He’d thought of making love to her in the gently rocking berth below. He’d planned on marching into Aberdare like a knight with sword drawn, freeing the village from the dragon in exchange for her love and laughter. He was a damned arrogant fool.
He didn’t have to do it all himself. Fiona wanted to march with him.
His gaze drifted upward to the ghostly sails billowing against the evening sky. The yacht was built for pleasure and the platform on the mainmast was mostly decorative, with a polished brass rail. It had no purpose. But he could see a dark figure sitting there cross-legged, leaning against the timber. None of the men had any reason to be up there. Perhaps Michael...
That wasn’t Michael. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Neville willed that stubborn figure to look at him. Surely even Fiona would have sense enough not to risk their child like that. Terror for her safety warred with elation at finding her. He would wring her neck.
As if his thoughts had truly winged upward, the slight figure rested, elbows on knees, and leaned forward.
Even through the dusk, Neville could see Fiona’s laughing eyes. His spirits soared to insane heights at the realization that she was safe and here with him, even as his temper turned murderous. He would kill her as soon as he got his hands on her.
Wrapping his hands around the prickly hemp of the rigging, Neville hauled himself upward, occasionally glancing ahead for the reward of Fiona’s laughing gaze turning to one of alarm.
“I surrender! I’ll come down. Just get off that rope, Neville, please!” she cried.
“I think I’ll cut the rigging and keep you up there,” he snarled in return.
“You’ll kill yourself! I’m coming down. Watch. I promise.” Fiona firmly secured the rope as she anxiously watched him.
Good. Let her suffer some portion of the torments he’d suffered these last hours. Unrepentant, Neville continued climbing. “Don’t you dare climb down,” he yelled at her.
Ignoring his warning as usual, she threw her breeches-clad leg over the railing, caught her foot in the knot, and began her descent.
Heart slamming against his chest in fear as he watched her scurry down , Neville cursed and slid down his rope as fast as he could go. The burning pain in his hands couldn’t compare with the terror in his heart as her rope swung wildly in the evening breeze.
“Fey-onah MacDevil Perceval, I’ll kill you for this!” he shouted against the rising wind, just before his feet hit the deck and his legs almost buckled under him.
“Aye, and I’ll be murtherin’ you in your sleep should you lock me behind closed doors again!” she screamed back.
Before Neville could reach for her, Fiona darted across the deck and down the hatch, out of sight.
Without caring about his abused dignity, Neville raced across the deck after her.
Behind him, the crew snickered.
Thirty-six
Neville found Fiona without much trouble. Hiding places were few and far between on a yacht, and she hadn’t bothered looking for one. She sat cross-legged on the berth he’d hoped to use for much more pleasurable purposes than a confrontation. Her defiant posture with arms crossed and chin tilted warned him this would definitely be a confrontation.
“Don’t you ever dare lock me in again,” she growled the moment he entered.
Neville slammed the door behind him and leaned against it, crossing his arms as he did so. “I can throw commands around too,” he said calmly. “Don’t you ever run away from me again.”
Her eyes lit like emerald fires. “I did not run away from you. I ran to you, your noble worship. You’re just not after havin’ the sense to see it.”
Neville sighed at this roundaboutation. They would never see eye to eye because they were never on the same level of the whirlwind she spun around him. Maybe if he stayed fixed in one spot, she might eventually bounce to his level once in a while. He fought the urge to smile at the image. She’d damned well terrified him. She would pay for that.
“You endangered our child as well as yourself while
running around the streets of London alone, then climbing into the tops. Will you ever grow up?”
Wounded, she flinched as if he’d struck her. But her tongue wouldn’t surrender. Straightening, she glared. “No, I think I won’t. It’s exceedingly boring having two stuffed shirts in the house. Our child must know there is some fun in this life, that it’s not all duty and responsibility and propriety.”
Neville slammed his head backward against the door and stared at the bulkhead, wishing he could knock himself silly without need of finding someone to cudgel his brains out. “Fine then, we shall raise a herd of heirs to believe it’s all right to dangle from the chimneys and slide down the roofs instead of paying attention to their studies and learning how to run the estate. I’ll be the dull bore who does that.”
“The ones who would dangle from chimneys will dangle regardless of your opinions,” she informed him. “And the ones who would study will do so despite whatever influence I might have. And you may as well prepare yourself. The one who dangles from chimneys could be your heir and the one who studies could be your daughter. Do you think you can personally rearrange your children to your liking?”
His entire world had descended into chaos from the moment Fiona stepped into it. He might as well acknowledge that he would never achieve any level of order ever again. At that acceptance, the tight, terrified knot inside him sprang free.
Neville returned his gaze to his willful wife. If he was perfectly honest, he would admit Fiona wasn’t truly beautiful. Her features were much too strong and sharp, her eyes far too knowing, her magnificent mane of hair much too unruly. But it was just that combination of imperfections that made his blood race.
His gaze drifted lower to the bosom straining against her boy’s shirt. For the first time in his life, he undressed a woman with his mind, and from that point on, his mind had little to do with anything.
“Well then, our studious heiress may run the estate for our feckless heir,” he proposed, advancing toward the berth.
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