Angel's Guardian

by Scottie Barrett

  But then where was he? The Stanburys had delivered her home hours ago. She’d made the mistake of glancing back at Turley who lay in a puddle of his own blood and keeled over in a faint. She’d opened her eyes to find Draxford settling her on the soft hay lining the wagon bed.

  The ride home had been torturous. Constance, seated beside her cousin atop the box, had begun the familiar refrain about how Angeline would be the ruination of Major Draxford. And how tonight’s descent into hell was proof of it.

  According to both Stanburys the only way to save the major was to elope...with Hugh. Angeline realized they’d taken her silence for assent when she disembarked and Constance rattled off instructions for meeting Hugh in the morning. She’d lost her temper then and told them both that she’d rather be Draxford’s whore than Stanbury’s wife. Even that outrageous statement had not shut Constance up. She’d continued to harangue Angeline up the walkway, into the house, and all the way down the hallway to her bedroom. “If you are so devoted to Hugh, why the devil don’t you marry him?” Angeline had said before slamming the bedroom door in her face.

  Rain began pinging at the windows. By the time horse and rider finally appeared on the drive, the rain was coming down in sheets. She stood up abruptly spilling the book from her lap.

  She watched as Draxford pulled the saddle from the horse. Wick, his hair mussed from sleep, limped out from the stables. Draxford hefted the saddle onto his shoulder and disappeared into the stables. Wick followed with the horse in tow. Angeline quickly put on her wrap, took a quick glance in the mirror meeting her tear mottled face with a frown, then hurried down the stairs.

  He strode through the entrance hall, his black hair wet from the rain, his long black coat flapping open exposing his blood-stained waistcoat. His gaze shot in her direction as she stepped onto the landing. She was ready to plead her case if he insisted she go to bed. Instead he took pity on her and extended his hand. He’d been riding without gloves and his big hand was icy. Disappointment soon took hold, as he led her back the way she’d come. His hand tightened around hers as they climbed the stairs. Her heart beat erratically as they reached the second floor and he turned unexpectedly toward the west wing of the manor in the direction of his chambers.

  Glowing light edged the bottom of the bedroom door. Inviting warmth met them as he led her inside. A fire had been kept burning in the hearth and the room was far warmer than the hallway. He shut the door and walked straight to the decanter set atop a shelf in the corner of the vast room. He’d kept most of Silas’s heavy furnishings, but the brocaded curtains had been replaced with a burgundy velvet and the jumble of paintings had been winnowed down to a couple of landscapes. Had Constance had a hand in the changes? Had she been allowed in his private lair? He filled a glass and drank it down, before shrugging out of his coat and tossing it over a chair. His heavy-lidded eyes considered her as he yanked off his neckcloth and draped it atop the coat.

  “Where are your chaperones? Don’t you fear being alone with me?”

  Speechless, she stood unmoving, unable to pull her gaze away as he removed his waistcoat and shirt. The cut on his bicep looked like a scratch compared to the one across his ribs. That wound, a slash about the length of her forefinger, was dark with dried blood.

  He wadded up the blood-soaked clothing as he crossed to the hearth and shoved them into the flames with a poker. Clad only in his breeches and top boots, he grabbed the decanter again and moved to the ewer stand. He poured water into the bowl. The intimacy of watching him wash made her drop her gaze, but she cheated and continued to peek at him through her lowered lashes.

  When he poured the alcohol into his cupped hand and splashed his wounds, she winced as though she’d experienced the sting.

  He removed the towel dangling from a hook on the side of the stand and dried his hair. “Were you waiting up for me because you wanted me to tuck you into bed and give you a fatherly peck on the cheek?”

  “I wanted to say I was sorry.” Her voice, still hoarse from crying and screaming, cracked as she spoke. “This was all my fault.”

  Her eyes followed the towel as he dried his upper torso.

  “And how is that?” he asked.

  “I saw the man…Turley, outside the Twining Ivy earlier this month.”

  “Did he touch you?” he said, his temper igniting. She’d assumed, wrongly it appeared, that even a seasoned soldier could not kill without some remorse. But he was not suffering a touch of regret.

  “It isn’t as if you can kill him again,” she said with exasperation.

  “Pity, that,” he replied.

  “I was w-wedged safely beside Miss Firkins in the carriage when I noticed him.” She tripped over her tongue in her hurry to explain. “Vicar Firkins realized he was up to no good and intended—”

  “Intended what? To sermonize the man to death?” He thumped his chest. “It’s me you should have told.”

  Her temper flared to life as well. On the staircase, he’d taken her hand and she’d instantly expected tenderness and comfort. But that would have meant a miraculous shift of temperament. His unyielding masculinity excited her, but it certainly made him a difficult man to deal with.

  “I did not tell you because I worried you would finish what you started in the boxing ring.”

  He threw aside the towel. “Do you know how Benjamin got those scars?”

  She shook her head.

  “Turley had a whore, a camp follower, who paid too much attention to Benjamin. So Turley preloaded Benjamin’s musket with extra charge. In the midst of battle, Benjamin double loaded and failed to notice that his ramrod was not seated correctly. The musket exploded. The bastard never even faced a court-martial. He scared the spine right out of the soldier who’d witnessed him tampering with the weapon and the coward recanted.”

  “Turley nearly killed a friend and I wanted him to pay, but I was willing to bide my time. Today when he laid his hands on you, I wanted to rip his heart out and shove it down his throat.”

  Draxford poured himself another drink. He watched her steadily over the rim of the glass as he took a sip. “If you hadn’t been tethered to the bastard I would have picked up that knife and finished him earlier.” He tossed back the remainder, half a glass worth of whiskey, baring his clenched teeth for a moment as he swallowed the strong drink. He set the glass down hard.

  Angeline knew it was the truth. She’d felt the unappeased fury vibrating off him after the fight. “I’m sorry,” she muttered again and headed toward the door.

  She only got the door open a crack before he reached over her head and slammed it shut.

  She turned to face him. With his hand still braced on the door, he stared down at her, his thick black lashes shadowing the gray of his eyes.

  She swallowed hard. Flustered by his nearness, she drew her dressing gown tighter around her.

  “Such a virginal look for a heartbreaker. For Christ’s sake, marriage to Stanbury?”

  “Well, why not? It’s what I’d been trained for.”

  He dropped his hold on the door and crossed his arms over his chest and glared at her.

  “I spent weeks in that freezing nursery poring over hand drawn maps and diagrams. I could find my way through Stanbury’s manor with a blindfold, I know what dishes he likes, that he despises aspic and cannot abide fish,” she could feel her anger increasing as she detailed her curriculum, “how he takes his tea—cream no sugar in the morning, liberally spiked with whiskey in the afternoon, what hour he rises, his favorite books and where he prefers to read, when the household accounts are balanced, when orders are placed. I even know what positions he prefers—” She clamped her lips shut.

  The storm clouds gathered in his gray eyes. “Hell, sweeting, you will have to explain that last one.”

  “I was given an erotic pamphlet sandwiched between some
improving literature. Stanbury had scribbled notes in the margin.”

  His body went rigid with anger. “Bloody, fucking hell.”

  “You allowed it. And now I know why. I was simply chattel. To be exchanged for a cargo road.” She reached behind her and yanked on the knob, but his hand shot out again, holding the door shut.

  “I’d be the first to admit that I’m a mercenary bastard. And to my shame, I did entertain the idea for a moment. But there never was any deal.”

  “Then why the lessons?”

  “Because Silas let you grow up too wild. I thought the attainment of a few social skills was warranted.” He clenched his eyes shut as if in pain. “Suddenly, you were willing to marry any goddamn bastard who offered. Anybody but me.”

  “Do not dare accuse me of being a disloyal creature!” Hot tears spilled down her cheeks. “I was told every day that I was a burden to you. That you wanted rid of me.” Her shoulders heaved with a sob. “And why wouldn’t I believe it? You would not touch me.”

  “Because, I knew I would not be able to stop once I started.”

  She glanced up into his fierce gaze as he moved in closer, his big body caging her. She could feel the pounding of his heart against her breast.

  “It’s criminal how badly I want you.” His deep voice resonated through her. He made her senses reel. Her eyes took in the muscular tension in his arms as he braced himself against the wall, the black hair in the hollows of his underarms, the shadow of a beard on his square jaw. Her skin felt flushed from the warmth of his intense regard. And the masculine scent of his skin made her dizzy.

  His head dipped and he pressed his lips to hers. She hooked her hands around the outsides of his large biceps to keep herself upright. He tasted of whiskey and heat. It was a tame kiss, and far more gentle than she’d been expecting, but she could sense the strain in his muscles, how he held himself back.

  He lifted his head, his brows furrowed in a frown. “Forgive me. I’ve lost all sense where you are concerned. After today, I’ve no right to press my own needs.” His body trembled with the effort as he pushed himself upright.

  She clung tighter to his biceps and attempted to pull him close again. “Nicholas, please.” She swept her tongue along the seam of his lips and then teased his bottom lip with her teeth. That little seduction was all it took to break through his self-administered restraints. He crushed his mouth to hers, his kiss so hungry that she dug her fingers into his arms. His tongue played with hers, stroking and swirling. It felt thick and excitingly foreign. His big hands cradled her bottom, lifting her to her toes to meet his driving kiss. She clung to his neck and moaned softly. His kiss deepened, becoming more possessive and her pulse beat erratically. From the haze of lust, her conscious mind attempted to reassert itself. He was too much man for her to handle. But her fingers, greedy to touch all of him, smoothed over the muscles of his massive shoulders, clung to his neck, and tangled in his silky black hair. With a groan, his tongue began thrusting into her mouth with an erotic rhythm that made her pussy clench in want of a similar plundering.

  He lifted his head, a lock of hair falling over his forehead. She ducked his searching gaze and moved into his arms, molding against the hard length of him.

  Nicholas looked down at the top of her shining hair, at her sweet, crooked part. The faint rope burns on her slender wrists made him relive the terror of seeing her bound and at the mercy of Turley.

  God, she was so small, so fragile. And not his. Not yet. Because of her stubbornness, there was no marriage to consummate.

  She nuzzled against him, her soft breath driving him insane. Her fingers swirled lightly through the hair on his chest. “I’m sorry I was so horrid to you today.” Her voice was endearingly hoarse. If she was always this soft and kittenish and completely submissive when they were intimate, he could certainly live with her obstinate nature outside the bedchamber. He conveniently dismissed her combative tone of a few moments before.

  He groaned as she swirled her fingers around one of his nipples. “Hattie, Mrs. Foxall, said you were strong enough to withstand society’s censure.”

  He had a hard time focusing his thoughts as she caressed his chest. “What exactly would society condemn me for?”

  She tried to squirm out of his arms. “Never mind.”

  He tightened his embrace.

  She buried her face in his chest. “For marrying someone like me.” He could feel her lips moving against his skin.

  His heart pumped hard. This was a change of fortune he had not anticipated. A willing bride. He couldn’t help a crooked smile.

  “Ask me again.” She stroked his arm with a featherlight touch. “Not that you actually asked the first time.”

  “Was I meant to?” he teased. “After the trouble you caused me today, I gave up on the notion of getting you to Gretna Green.”

  She let out a frustrated cry and tried again to wriggle away from him. He scooped her into his arms and carried her across the room.

  “I shall forget how to walk if you insist on carrying me everywhere.”

  He chuckled. Still cradling her in his arms he removed a paper from the pocket of his jacket. “I paid a visit to the parish Bishop. And, no, not to repent my sins.”

  She grabbed for the paper and he moved it out of reach.

  “Not certain I completely trust you yet.”

  She squinted to see the license better.

  “It only took the promise of a new altar to get this into my hands tonight. And a steeple to get it backdated to expedite the seven day wait. And a stained glass window to get the man to officiate tomorrow in the estate chapel. Unfortunately, bribery only got me so far. I could not convince him to perform the ceremony this evening. No doubt my blood splattered clothing made him fear traveling with me.” He set the license carefully on the bedside stand and placed his pocket watch atop it. “Rail at me, brat. Tell me what a high-handed bastard I am.” Instead she wrapped her hands around his neck and tugged his face down and kissed him, her small tongue flicking inside his mouth.

  He dropped her to her feet. “Go to bed.”

  She pushed her dressing gown off her shoulders and let it slide to the floor and then headed toward his bed, her adorable bottom sashaying as she walked. She pulled back the sheets.

  “You must be my wife to sleep there.”

  She swiveled on her heels. “I wasn’t planning on sleeping.”

  Christ, he was bewitched. Never had he’d seen a more beautiful creature. With her mass of glossy curls, her nipples puckering beneath the clinging nightrail, and her stubborn pouting lips she was the most delicious thing he’d ever seen.

  His hand was shaking when he picked up her wrap. “Dammit, go.” Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment as she fled the room.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Nicholas stepped out of the bath, toweled off and then assembled his shaving gear. He preferred shaving after his bath, it was easier to tackle his heavy stubble after it had been softened by water. He was stropping the razor when his valet scratched at the door.

  He spoke to Luff’s reflection in the mirror. “I won’t require your assistance this morning.” Luff nodded and removed himself at once. The perfect valet. He kept his mouth shut and never questioned anything.

  Nicholas had to occupy himself with something this morning or go mad waiting.

  The lamplight proved inadequate and he yanked the curtains wide. The morning’s bleak sky offered little illumination. Rain flew against the window. Did rain portend good or bad luck? He noticed movement on the drive and squinted to get a better look. Through the blur of rain he could just make out a lone person leading a horse toward the courtyard.

  Dammit. Wick had better not be returning complaining of the roads being impassable. He’d told him to abandon the carriage if it mired down and unharness one of the
horses and ride to the bishop. He didn’t give a damn if the bishop had to ride pillion or slung over Wick’s lap as long as he bloody well got here.

  He wiped the soap off his face and yanked on some clothes. Leaving his shirttails untucked, he pounded down the steps. A footman looking rather flustered was just answering the door as Draxford hit the landing. Benjamin stood in the open doorway, hatless, his rain-soaked hair plastered to his scalp.

  He stepped inside and struggled out of his wet coat. “He’s gone and done it.”

  The footman took the coat and made a great fuss of brushing the rain from it. Nicholas shot the servant an annoyed glance, which sent the man hurrying away, and ushered Benjamin into the only parlor which had a fire at such an early hour.

  “Who’s gone and done what?” he asked shutting the door behind them.

  The whites of Benjamin’s eyes were threaded with broken blood vessels from yesterday’s near strangling. “There’s still a chance of catching him.”

  “Who?”

  “My brother. He’s eloping with your ward.”

  “Impossible. She’s home. In bed.”

  “You’re certain? Because your pretty sorrel mare is parked in one of our stalls.”

  “Completely.” But if he was so damn sure, why was his heart thundering. He tamped down the instinct to shout down the house just for a glimpse of her face, and made himself walk with deliberation to the side table. Though the day had barely begun, he decanted two glasses of brandy.

  “Now I feel a right idiot, splashing through the mud to warn you.” Benjamin chuckled uneasily and swirled the brandy in his glass. “My blasted throat was too swollen to sleep. I saw the carriage pull out. I couldn’t see the woman’s face what with the cloak she wore and the heavy rain. Kresswell, our stable master, who is so tight-lipped he might as well have his lips sewn shut for as much as he uses them, would tell me nothing.” He took a swallow of brandy. “And your groom hadn’t even realized your damn horse was gone until I mentioned it.”