“It’s a very big castle, isn’t it?” she said under her breath.
He raised a brow.
“I’m curious, Rand.” She huffed. “Not mercenary.”
“I didn’t say a word.” He grinned, then continued, “It is indeed rather large, although I understand it was not unusually big for the standards of its time, around four hundred years ago. You must remember castles like Worthington housed not just a lord and his family but servants and soldiers, knights and priests and any number of others. It was very much a self-contained community.”
He strolled along the wall lined with the gilded, elaborately framed portraits of an endless number of Worthington ancestors. Jocelyn trailed behind, intrigued by the paintings almost as much as by the man. Rand was casually dressed in breeches and a crisp, loose linen shirt scandalously open at the throat. It was entirely improper yet completely fitting. It suited him and suited their exile. He looked very much like the confident master of the castle. Or master of anything he wanted.
“There used to be a dozen or so outbuildings for tradesmen and the like, all hemmed in by a towered wall. The buildings were torn down in the last few centuries and the wall itself is little more than a memory in some spots and a ruin in others.”
He cast her a significant look. “Castles are exceedingly expensive to keep up.”
“No doubt,” she murmured, ignoring the pointed nature of his comment.
“Two of the towers, and much of the wall between, have survived. They’re on the north side of the castle. One tower is nearly in ruins but the other is in excellent shape. In recent years, or at least before my grandmother died, it was used as guest quarters although it’s closed up at the moment. I was allowed to stay there on my own as a boy. It was quite an adventurous undertaking. I can show it to you if you like.” His manner was offhand as if he didn’t particularly care if she wished to see his boyhood sanctuary or not.
“That would be lovely. But I must admit I am rather confused by all of this. You’ve obviously spent a great deal of time here yet apparently this is not your ancestral home. But your grandmother lived here.” She shook her head. “Just who in your family is whom and what is what?”
“It’s really not all that complicated.” He shrugged and stepped a few paces down the gallery and nodded at a portrait. Jocelyn followed and stood by his side. “This was my grandmother.”
The painting depicted a woman not much older than Jocelyn. With dark hair and darker eyes, Rand’s eyes, and a faint wistful smile.
“She’s lovely,” Jocelyn said.
“She died, oh, nearly twenty years ago now.” Rand studied the painting. “She was really quite remarkable. One of the few truly courageous people I have ever met.”
“Really? How so?”
“She was not British by birth. After her first husband was killed, she was forced to flee her homeland with her infant daughter, my mother, and little more than the clothes on her back and this.” Rand gestured at a small painting hung beside his grandmother’s portrait.
Less than a quarter the size of the painting of his grandmother, the work depicted a handsome man with an air of supreme confidence. The painting was the smallest she’d seen in the gallery thus far, scarcely more than a miniature, not more than nine inches square, but was nonetheless mounted in an overly ornate, baroque frame similar to all the others. “This was my grandfather.”
“He looks very young.” And quite wealthy. “Where were they from?”
“A small kingdom somewhere near Prussia.” He shrugged in dismissal then continued. “He was only a few years older than his wife when he was killed. At any rate, Grandmother made her way to England and the old earl, Nigel’s father, took her in. He was in his fifties at the time and she was no more than three-and-twenty. He married her to keep her safe.”
“Is it a family tradition then?” she teased. “Marrying women to keep them safe?”
“She was a good and dutiful wife to him for all the remaining years of his life,” he said staunchly.
“I see.” And obviously he expected good and dutiful wives to be a tradition as well.
“My mother grew up here. After she married my father, the fifth Viscount Beaumont, Nigel returned to the castle and has lived here ever since.”
Something about his story struck her as odd. As if there was some detail of significance he had failed to mention. It probably wasn’t important, still, its omission was intriguing. Was there something he didn’t want her to know?
“I gather your mother is not here now?”
He laughed. “My mother is off conquering the capitals of Europe. My father died shortly after I returned home, four years ago, and my mother has seen fit to travel the world since then.” He shook his head in tolerant amusement. “I can’t fault her for it. She too was—”
“Yes, yes, a good and dutiful wife. You’ve mentioned that already.” And if he mentioned it once more Jocelyn would be compelled to try to smack him again.
“I thought it bore repeating.” He laughed. “Now then, if you’ve had quite enough tales of my ancestry, it’s time you meet my uncle. He was quite a rake in his younger days and still has an overly flirtatious manner. He’s a bit eccentric now with a tendency to say whatever comes into his mind but I expect you’ll like him. Shall we go?”
“Not yet. You’ve talked about history, but beyond a few comments about your childhood and the acknowledgment of countless women who have seen you naked, you’ve mentioned very little of your own past. If I am to be a good and dutiful wife I should know all there is to know about you.” She folded her arms and leaned against the wall under the forbidding stare of a grim matron dressed in Elizabethan garb. “Marianne says you were a spy.”
Rand glanced at her with an amused smile. “You are curious, aren’t you?”
“Would you prefer mercenary?” she asked. “Now tell me.”
“I scarcely know what to say.” His voice was thoughtful. “Spy is a rather nebulous term, don’t you think?”
“I think it’s quite specific.”
“No, not at all.” He shook his head. “I think a term like officer or better yet, general, now that’s specific.”
“Rand.”
“I suppose prime minister or king is also quite specific. As are tailor, baker, gardener—”
“Rand!” She glared with irritation. “You are such an annoying man.” Obviously he was not about to answer her question. “No wonder you make me want to slap you. Or scream with frustration.”
“I wouldn’t advise trying to hit me. Again. That’s not been overly successful for you thus far. As for screaming ...” He rested his hand on the wall beside her head and leaned closer. She couldn’t help but note that he was just the right height, taller than she but by no more than six inches. “I shouldn’t be at all averse to your trying.”
“Why?” she asked even though she knew the answer. Her gaze slipped from his eyes to his lips and back, and her heart thudded in her chest.
“Why?” He placed two fingers under her chin and bent forward. “So that I can shut you up of course.”
His lips met hers softly at first, no more than a whisper. Without thinking, she rested her palms on his chest. She could feel the heat of his body and the beat of his heart through the fine fabric and noted an answering echo in her veins. His lips pressed harder against hers and she opened her mouth slightly in response. His arms wrapped around her and he pulled her closer, and an urgent sense of need swept through her.
She slid her hands higher, over his hard shoulders and to the back of his neck. His tongue met hers in a shocking intimacy, and warmth spread from his touch through her body to curl her toes. Her fingers tangled in his hair. His hands splayed across her back. She pressed harder against him, reveling in the feel of his body close to hers, her breasts against his chest, her hips against his. She wanted to ... what? Devour him? Yes, that was it. And wanted him to devour her. And wanted ... more.
He drew his head back and gaspe
d, staring into her eyes with a look that could only be desire. A desire she realized she shared.
“This is probably not the place,” he said slowly.
“No, of course not.” She struggled to catch her breath. “Still...” She drew his lips back to hers. “I am certain I feel a scream coming on.”
Again his lips crushed hers and all thoughts of place and time vanished. Her hands explored the warm flesh of his neck and ran across the tensed muscles of his back. He pulled his mouth from hers to trail kisses along the line of her jaw to her neck just below her ear. His hands slipped to the small of her back and lower still to caress her derriere.
She moaned with pleasure and jerked her head back to give him greater access.
And promptly smacked her skull hard against the stone wall.
“Jocelyn!” Rand pulled away and stared at her with concern. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Of course.” His face swam before her and she shook her head to clear her vision. “I’m fine.” She tentatively felt the back of her head and winced. “Except for this.”
“Let me see.” He gently turned her around and ran his fingers carefully over her head. “There’s no blood.”
“That’s something,” she murmured. It certainly did hurt enough to be bleeding.
“But there will be one hell of a lump in a minute.” He turned her to face him. He frowned and stared into her eyes. “Look at me.”
“Gladly.” She raised her lips to his.
“No, I just want to look into your eyes. To make certain you’re all right.” He held her face between his hands and his gaze searched hers. He might well be looking for signs of injury, but she was far more interested in studying those mysterious eyes of his. They were brown. No, darker. Nearly black. She’d thought they were dangerous before. Now she knew.
She wasn’t sure exactly what he’d seen but abruptly he released her and stepped back. As if he’d seen something he didn’t expect. Or something he didn’t want. Surely this man of experience had no reason to fear anything he saw in her eyes? “I think you’re fine.”
“I’m sure I am.” Were they talking about her head now or something else?
“It might throb a bit for a while.”
“Oh, I’m certain it will.” At least she was no longer talking about her head.
“We should probably do something to relieve the ache.”
“Oh, we should,” she said a shade too eagerly. “We most definitely should do ... something.”
“Come along then.” He grabbed her hand and started off, practically dragging her along behind him. “Flora will know what to do.”
“Flora?” She hurried to keep pace with him. “I don’t want Flora. I want...” At once she realized they had indeed been talking at cross-purposes. Well, it was probably for the best. In spite of the amazing passion of their kiss and the startling but wonderful sensations she found in his arms, she doubted she was ready for anything more. At least not yet. And in truth her head did hurt quite a bit.
What would have happened if she hadn’t hit her head? Would he have carried her back to their room? Or would he have taken her right here on the stone floor of the gallery? Or would she have taken him? She choked back a laugh at the thought and winced.
“Rand?” One would have thought the man was running for his very life.
“Yes?” he said over his shoulder.
“First, would you slow down?”
“Sorry.” He came to an abrupt halt and she nearly skidded into him.
“Thank you,” she muttered. “And secondly, the next time you wish to stop me from screaming, do you think it can be done without flattening me against a wall?”
———
Jocelyn’s laughter echoed in the breakfast room. Uncle Nigel grinned with unfettered delight. And Rand kept a close eye on his wife.
He watched Jocelyn as surreptitiously as possible. He didn’t want her to think he was at all worried, and she did appear to have recovered. But she had cracked her head rather hard. He’d seen blows to the head before and knew they were tricky devils. Still, her eyes had been clear and her pupils looked normal and he doubted she had any injury of consequence. Even so, he preferred not to take chances. It was his charge to keep her safe from whatever harm might befall her.
“Didn’t think I’d ever see the boy wed. He’s two-and-thirty now, you know,” Nigel said with a nod.
“As old as that?” Jocelyn cast Rand a look of feigned astonishment. “Why, I’m surprised he can still feed himself.”
She was obviously recovered.
“I’d say he’s got some life left in him.” Nigel chuckled. “Takes after his uncle. Feared he’d take after me too much though.” He leaned toward her as if about to impart a great secret. “I never married myself.”
“Of course not, my lord, how could you possibly have wed?”
Nigel’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What do you mean by that, girl?”
“Why, only that, from what I’ve heard, of course ...” She glanced from side to side and lowered her voice in a confidential manner. “Your marriage would have broken the hearts of half the women in England.”
Nigel stared at her for a moment, then cackled with laughter. “Very good, my girl. Very good indeed.” He wagged his finger at his nephew. “She’s a prize, boy. Good head on her shoulders and a sharp wit. Brains in a woman is just as good as beauty. Better even.”
Jocelyn beamed at the compliment.
“Not hard to look at either. Not at all.” He settled back and assessed her with a wicked gleam in his eye. Rand was too young to know firsthand of his uncle’s rakish days, yet right now he could clearly see the rogue the elderly gentleman had once been.
“Pretty hair. Good skin and she’s tall enough.” He glanced at his nephew. “I always liked them tall. Long legs, you know. Shapely. Are her legs—”
“Excellent, Uncle,” Rand said quickly. “She has extraordinary legs.”
Jocelyn lifted a brow and Rand shrugged apologetically in response. He had no desire to let his uncle, or anyone else in the household, know he was not overly acquainted with Jocelyn’s legs. Although he had seen them when he’d taken off her clothes and could honestly say they were, in truth, extraordinary.
“Yes, indeed. Always did love long legs,” Nigel mused, obviously no longer considering Jocelyn’s legs in particular but long legs in general. Or long legs he had known. “Legs that could wrap themselves around a man’s—”
“Uncle!” Rand snapped.
Jocelyn stared in stunned fascination.
“Come now, boy. You can’t tell me she hasn’t wrapped her legs—”
“That’s quite enough,” Rand said quickly.
An odd, strangled sound came from Jocelyn. Tears welled in her eyes and she sniffed hard.
“Pardon me,” she choked out the words. Was she upset by Nigel’s bawdy commentary? “I have something in my”—she pressed her lips tight together but her eyes simmered with laughter—“throat.” No, she was definitely amused. Rand’s estimation of her notched upward. Again.
“Uncle, you really shouldn’t—”
“Now, now, Rand.” Nigel scoffed. “She’s a grown woman and married to boot. Married to you, no less.” He nodded at Jocelyn. “I’d wager there were any number of broken hearts when you snared him.”
Rand groaned.
“I’m sure women are even now throwing themselves off bridges in despair,” Jocelyn said with mock solemnity.
“You’re bloody well right about that.” Nigel nodded smugly. “I said he takes after me. Damned proud of that. Of him.” He lowered his voice. “The man’s a prince, you know.”
“Uncle.” A warning note sounded in Rand’s voice. He’d really rather not bring up the subject of princes. They hadn’t spoken of Alexei once since their arrival. Rand knew at some point they would, although this was not the right moment.
“He speaks highly of you as well,” she said with a smile.
Nigel igno
red her. “I’d wager you never thought you’d be married to a prince.”
“A prince of a man,” Rand said quickly.
“Well, there was a moment or two, maybe a decade ...” Jocelyn murmured.
“I believe that’s enough talk of princes,” Rand said firmly.
“That would make you Princess Jocelyn.” Nigel’s forehead furrowed with thought. He shook his head. “Sounds silly. Doesn’t suit you. Lady Beaumont suits you much better.”
“Perhaps,” she said lightly and met Rand’s gaze.
In that moment, the oddest sensation swept through him. The same feeling he’d had this morning when he’d looked into her eyes to check her injury. It was at once uncomfortable and rather, well, remarkable. He’d known seducing the fair lady would not be a chore but wondered if he could grow to care for her as well. Or if perhaps he already did.
A look of surprise flashed across her face. Did she feel the same?
She pulled her gaze from his and turned back to his uncle. “Lord Worthington, I must confess I don’t know a great deal about my husband’s past. However, I imagine you have any number of embarrassing stories to tell.”
“I daresay I can come up with one or two.” The elderly man chuckled and launched into a recitation of Rand’s misdeeds stretching over the past thirty years.
Jocelyn murmured appreciative comments and laughed more often than not. Rand paid only cursory attention to his uncle’s tales. He was far more interested in observing the woman he’d married. Scrutiny that had nothing to do with the lump on her head.
She was rather more than he’d expected. He wasn’t entirely sure what he had expected from Jocelyn but it wasn’t this. Blast it all, the woman was, well, nice. She treated Nigel as if he were a suitor and worthy of her attention, rather than an old man. She flirted easily with the elderly gentleman and it was apparent Nigel was becoming quite charmed by her.
As, admittedly, was his nephew.
Since their marriage he had wondered more and more if he had misjudged her. Based his conclusions on little more than her reputation in society, which, in truth, never hinged on significantly more than a lady’s charms and her behavior in public.
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