by Kim Bowman
From the corner of his vision, he caught the movement as the feline jumped from the railing and scampered in the opposite direction with a swish of her thick furry tail. Jon eased out a breath and picked up the pace, praying they’d reach his suite without any incidents. Thankfully, Gran’s pets didn’t tend to stray far from her wing of Blackmoor Hall unless they were following her.
He stole a glance at Annabella as they entered the suite, surprised to find her customary mutinous expression replaced with weariness etched in fine lines around her eyes. Perhaps he should have asked her whether she wanted nourishment or rest. He wasn’t used to taking the needs of another into consideration.
Sage green draperies had been left open, allowing diffuse morning light to spill across the plush blue carpet. Jon glanced around the room, appreciating the sharp differences from Wyndham Green, particularly when he recalled the state of the cottage Annabella had hidden in for days before his arrival.
“Beg pardon, m’lord,” murmured a soft voice from behind him.
He glanced back and gestured for the young maid to enter.
“I was instructed to bring chocolate and pastries for you and Lady Seabrook.” She crossed the room and placed the heavily laden tray on the side table. With deft movements, she set about arranging plates and cups. Her hand hovered over the pot. “Shall I pour the chocolate, m’lord?”
“Please,” he responded absently. “And then you may take your leave.”
Moments later, they were alone. At the soft click of the door closing behind the maid, Annabella gave a frightful start.
“You should eat something,” Jon motioned toward the table where their meal had been laid out on a cloth of pale cream linen.
But she seemed to be disposed to continue standing in the center of the room. Where was his spirited wife with her sharp tongue?
“Blackberry tarts here.” His lips tugged into a smile, as he pictured once more how that bit of blackberry jam had clung to her bottom lip back at the cottage.
She didn’t move.
“Or scones and Devonshire cream?”
Just as he considered he might have to physically carry her to the table, she whirled about. Her eyes flashed with fury worthy of a vengeful angel. “When did you decide to bring me here?”
Jon stared at the white silk wall covering, fighting the urge to massage his temples. Showing any weakness wouldn’t do. “Yesterday,” he replied, keeping his voice even. “About five minutes after we were wed.”
She narrowed her eyes until they were mere slits of dark, seething rage. “How sporting of you to have informed your wife of your decision,” she spat. “How was it your grandmother knew we would arrive? Did you come to Wyndham Green with the intent of carrying me off?”
Laughter burst from his lips at the ridiculous thought. “Madam, I can assure you, that thought was the very furthest from my mind.” He had no intention of explaining his grandmother’s uncanny abilities. “And I don’t believe anyone mentioned that you were expected at all.”
She blinked and seemed to consider his words. “Then why bring me here? I told you I wanted to go to London.”
Jon sighed and took his seat as Annabella stomped across the room. Likely the chandelier in the drawing room below was rocking back and forth. She unclasped her cloak and let it slide from her shoulders. The whisper of the fabric as it fell and her lithe movements as she caught the garment and tossed it across the gold brocade chair near the window evoked sensual thoughts that almost made Jon wish something had occurred between them.
Tell her the truth, whispered his conscience.
“I had business to tend to here so I came here. You are my wife, so I brought you with me.” He snagged a blackberry pastry between thumb and forefinger and laid it on his plate. “And we didn’t immediately rush off to London because I need time to consider how to break the news to Grey that I’ve, er…” He lifted a shoulder. “…married you.”
Annabella stalked across the Turkish carpet and settled in the seat opposite him, placing that ever-present valise on the floor next to her feet. Leaning forward, she curled her lip in scorn. “No one forced you to marry me.”
“Now, there you are quite wrong, Lady Seabrook.” Jon leaned over the table so their faces were inches apart. “My sense of decency would have been offended had I not done so.” Particularly when he’d considered her alternative might be Vicar Hamilton.
She seemed frozen in place. Her warm breath fanned across his cheek. She was so close, so delectably within range to brush her mouth with his… The tip of her tongue peeked out briefly before she rolled her bottom lip inward.
Jon suppressed a groan and sat back down. “And now, you can either make the best of it or… not.” He bit his pastry and took his time savoring the sticky tart-sweetness of the berries.
Scowling, Annabella flopped into her seat and plucked a scone from the platter.
Jon pushed the pots of cream and blackberry jam toward her. “Here you go. I remember how much you… enjoy your fruit and cream.”
“At least one of us remembers something,” she muttered, dipping her knife into the pot of cream.
His conscience stung him again, but this time he brushed it off as he would a honeybee. “Pity you don’t recall our night together.” He made a show of examining his tart. “It was quite the memorable experience for me.”
~~~~
Annabella’s face flamed. The bite of scone in her mouth might have been coated with mud for all she could taste the thing. How dare that intolerable ruffian mention their wicked night together as casually as an observation regarding the weather?
Smiling, he allowed his gaze to roam freely over her body. Everywhere his eyes lingered heated as though he’d reached out and stroked her. “I was rather looking forward to repeating the experience.”
“Repeating the experience?” she burst out, struggling to push away from the table. Her chair caught on the thick rug. “Have you gone completely mad?”
He popped the last bite of his tart into his mouth and chewed. “No-o-o… I don’t believe I’m the one who’s gone mad.”
Annabella shoved her plate aside, her scone only half eaten. “You have if you think I’ll ever let you touch me that way again.”
A predatory smile crept over his face. “Which way would you be referring to, my darling wife?”
“I’m your wife because you forced me to be.”
“I beg your pardon. No one forced you into the marriage, either. Had you protested with any conviction, the matter would have been settled.” He sipped his chocolate. “Now, what ways will you not let me touch you?”
Rage bubbled along her veins. He was right, of course. She’d been so afraid of involving her mother that she’d gone along with the scheme. “You know very well to which way I am referring, sir.”
“So I shouldn’t take you in my arms?”
“No!” she snapped. “You should not.”
“I shouldn’t hold you close and lay my lips against yours?”
Annabella’s lips tingled. Was that what he’d done? “No.”
He took another sip and set the cup back on the saucer. “I shouldn’t nuzzle your neck and tickle your ears with my warm breath?”
Annabella pushed a strand of hair from her face, grazing her ear as she did. Fiery wisps danced along the outer shell, and she quickly lowered her hand. “No.”
A satisfied heat ignited in Seabrook’s eyes as he bent forward over the table again. “And I suppose I shouldn’t unfasten your gown and move it aside so I can taste your delectable neck and draw my fingers along the curve of your… shoulder.”
She squirmed in her seat as her blood simmered.
He lowered his voice. “And I shouldn’t let your gown fall to the floor and encircle your waist with my hands. Shouldn’t caress you in all your most delicate places…”
Annabella shook her head. Her blood pulsed in her ears. Her skin quivered and warmed in all those delicate places. It was positively wanton the
way her breath came in short gasps. What was wrong with her? She simply couldn’t fill her lungs.
Then he leaned even closer. “And if I shouldn’t do those things, then I suppose I shouldn’t lay you across my bed… shouldn’t join you there and…” He dropped his voice and murmured a shocking, unspeakable suggestion.
Flames burst free in her middle, swelled, and then surged through her body like an outgoing tide of molten lava. “Please…” she whispered, unsure what she was pleading for, certain the thrumming in her veins meant her ultimate destiny would be met in the devil’s lair.
Seabrook stood, his movements measured, purposeful. He was going to walk over to her and take her in his arms. He’d carry her to his bed and do everything he’d just mentioned and more. And — heaven’s angels help her — she’d enjoy it.
Annabella tensed as he drew near. His eyes glittered like black diamonds as they drifted from her face, wandered lower, then lower still. Never had she experienced such willful disregard for decency. She’d become a harlot… after one night she scarcely remembered. And now, she wanted him to—
“I have some estate business to conduct,” he said, his voice suddenly chilled. “I thought you might do well to have a bit of a rest.” He nodded toward the bedchamber. Without waiting for her reply, he turned on his heel and strode across the room. He didn’t so much as spare her a glance before he opened the door and stepped into the hallway.
The muted thud of the heavy door latching echoed in the thumping of Annabella’s heart. Trembling, she lifted her cup and took a sip of chocolate. It had grown as cold as her husband’s voice. She dropped the cup back on the saucer with a clatter.
Why would he express such intent and then leave her? She fanned her face with one hand, trying to put out the flames as she stared at the door. Had she affected a misstep? Had she not done something she ought? Her heart raced, striking like a blacksmith’s hammer in her chest. Was something wrong with him? With her?
Annabella shook her head and allowed rage to blossom. “That twisted, immoral, depraved, black-hearted, rutting beast!” She had allowed him to speak to her, to look at her… to make her feel things only a strumpet would feel.
“Oh!” she shrieked, picking up her cup and hurling it at the door through which he’d just vacated. “There’s what you can do with your refreshment, my lord!” The cup splintered, its pieces raining to the floor. The last of her chocolate rolled downward, staining the dark wood, reminding her of blond tears. The half-eaten scone on her plate came to hand next.
“Bring me here to your blooming castle and fill my head with your filthy words, your implications, your promises of… of…” She flung the flattened cake after the chocolate.
The door pushed inward. “My lady? Lord Seabrook sent me to— Oh!”
The scone smashed into the crisp black uniform worn by the soft-spoken maid. With deft motions, she captured it before it dropped to the floor and wiped at the smear of cream from the front of her dress.
Remorse filled Annabella, but it wasn’t enough to temper her fury. “What is it?” she snapped.
“B-beggin’ your pardon, m’lady. Lord Seabrook instructed me to help you lie down so you can… rest.”
Annabella narrowed her eyes. “Oh, did he?” She swept her hand around, indicating the suite. “If he thinks he can bring me here and lock me in a tower—”
The maid paled. “Oh, ’tisn’t a tower you’re in, m’lady. The towers are closed off except for—”
Her words abruptly ceased under Annabella’s quelling stare.
“I’m sorry to disappoint his lordship, but I shan’t be lying down.” Annabella shot a glance at the luggage sitting discreetly just inside the door to the bedchamber. “In fact, I think I shall change into fresh clothing and then set about exploring my new home.” She marched across the cornflower blue carpet and picked up her small valise.
“But, my lady…” protested the maid amid a flutter of hands. “Lord Seabrook instructed—”
Annabella released an inpatient sigh. “My husband labors under the misapprehension that I require rest after traveling. I do not.” She paused in the doorway to the bedchamber. “So if you will please help me change gowns, I shall find my way around and save him the trouble of showing me.”
Chapter Fourteen
Stones scattered under Jon’s feet as he half walked, half slid down the hill. When he reached the bottom of the little vale, he widened his stride to make it over the stream that trickled through the woods. More stones crunched as he scrambled up the slope on the other side. When he reached the top, he followed the track to the right and stomped up the next hill.
How far had he come? The burn in his muscles suggested it had been quite a distance. The molten fire coursing through his veins told him it hadn’t been nearly far enough. Jon pressed on, down one hill, up the next.
Whatever had possessed him to torment Annabella with such indecent talk? Oh, she hadn’t been unaffected. The way her eyes had widened and then swirled with glints of gold in their depths, those short gasps for breath. The deep shade of rose that had blossomed in her cheeks and spread to cover her entire face.
How she had fidgeted in her seat.
Oh yes, his words had touched her deeply. Trouble was, they’d had a similar effect on him. It had been all he could do not to lock them in the suite and follow up on those bawdy suggestions. She’s your wife, his dishonorable self whispered.
Jon shook his head. A wife he hadn’t exactly acquired in an honorable fashion. Removing himself from her presence had seemed the only alternative. But that left him with far too much unsettled energy.
Of course he had no estate business. The estate was so effortlessly run by his father and older brother, it seemed to conduct its own business. So he’d left, just walked through the solarium and out the back door and strolled into the field adjacent to the forest. And then he’d spotted one of the trails he and Nicholas had run along when they were boys.
He was breathing heavily from exertion as he exited the woods onto a narrow lane sheltered by trees. Barely wide enough for a gig and mostly overgrown, the road had fallen into disuse long ago. Pausing, Jon squinted up the lane then down, seeking any sign of familiar landmarks. Once, the whole of the forest had been familiar territory for him and Nicholas. No nook or cranny hadn’t been poked into by him and his brother. No log unturned, no hill too high. But even then, Nicholas had approached their play with a sense of ownership.
Turning left, Jon topped the next rise and stopped beside an ancient stone cairn, probably the remnants of some boundary marker. Plenty of those remained scattered about the countryside, falling down, largely meaningless except to those who cared about the land’s history. He pulled in several deep breaths and blew them out with force, trying to ease his body’s starvation for air. Sweat beaded on his brow. The fire in his muscles became a dull ache. Perhaps the next time he decided to punish himself, he’d simply run into a stone wall instead.
When he glanced around, laughter burst forth as he recognized where he’d ended up. A magpie scolded from the lowest branch of a nearby elm. Ignoring the noisy thing, Jon widened his stance and settled his hands on his hips as he looked out over the valley below. Hedgerows and stone fences formed an intricate pattern of lines that broke up the meadows into smaller bits of land.
“Halt!” Nicholas sprang up from behind a rather large gray boulder and pointed a long stick that had been cut to resemble a sword at Jon’s chest. “What business have you in Blackmoor?”
Jon grinned. “I’m the Tenth Earl of Seabrook. I’ve come to warn the Duke of Blackmoor that the enemy approaches from the south.”
The stick sword wavered and began to drop. “You’re not supposed to laugh about it.” Narrowing one eye, Nicholas raised the stick again. “What proof do you offer?”
Jon held out a round, flat stone with a curious gouge across the middle. “I have a talisman given to me by the Duke of Blackmoor himself, when last we met.” A giggle freed i
tself.
“How do I know you didn’t steal the talisman?” Nicholas leaned closer. Brilliant sunlight reflected like an orange candle flame off his hair. “You look like one of those barbarous southerners with your black hair and black eyes.”
Gales of laughter nearly rocked Jon off his feet. “Better a barbarian than a ginger-haired buffoon.” He pulled a short stick from beneath his coat and jabbed it at his brother like a dagger, touching him on the chest. Had it truly been a weapon he’d have struck a killing blow.
Nicholas fell forward, thrusting his stick toward Jon’s middle.
“Aieee…” shrieked Jon, falling to the side and rolling onto his back. “You’ve killed me.”
Nicholas dropped next to him with a low moan.
The clearing fell silent save for the titter of some finches in the gorse bushes.
“When I’m the Duke of Blackmoor, I plan to expand the Seabrook land.” Nicholas pushed himself up on one elbow and gazed over at Jon. “It’s not fair that I inherit everything, and you get such a small amount of land because I was born two years ahead of you.”
Jon rolled to a sitting position and shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me. Blackmoor can keep all the land.” He stared out over the valley, taking in the green hills dotted with black-faced sheep. “I’m not meant for here.” Ever since he’d returned from a trip south with their father, Jon had wanted to go back there. One day… one day.
The hills blurred… the sheep disappeared as Jon blinked away the memory. Yes, indeed. One day. And mayhap that day had arrived. With the fulfillment of his inheritance terms, he would have the ability at long last to pursue his dream of starting a shipping company. The notion of journeying to distant lands fascinated him. And if Annabella truly found him objectionable, his time spent away from her when he traveled might make their marriage tolerable.
But until then, he’d have to make certain their marriage remained intact. And that meant conversing with the woman who had probably cursed his name to the devil and back for the past couple of hours. He turned around and started for Blackmoor Hall at a slightly less punishing pace.