The Bad Luck Wedding Night, Bad Luck Wedding series #5 (Bad Luck Abroad trilogy)

by Geralyn Dawson

  Nick immediately jumped to her defense. "She's high-spirited."

  "That, too. Make no mistake, I love her like she's my own, but the girl has suffered from not having a father around. Not that her mother didn't do her best, but Sarah was a willful child and my sister never learned how to say no. Take an old man's advice, young Nick, and teach her the meaning of the word from the git-go. Otherwise, you'll pay for it for the rest of your life."

  Nick relaxed a bit with the unexpected direction the conversation had taken. It turned out he relaxed too soon.

  Banks blew a puff of ratafia-scented smoke his way, then abruptly demanded. "Who are your people?"

  Now Nick gave in to the urge to pull at his collar. "My people, sir?"

  "Your family. The Rosses. My sister says you claim to be a Scot, but she mentioned some confusion about English parents, too. While I don't hold a man's character hostage to his family background, I do consider it something important to know. So, tell me about your family, Mr. Ross. Who is your father?"

  Nick bristled at the older man's words. He refused to ruin this happy day with talk of his sire. "I'd rather not."

  After two more puffs on the cigar, Banks asked, "What are you hiding?"

  "Not a blessed thing. Sarah knows of my past. She has a right to know." Left unsaid was the charge that her uncle didn't share that right.

  It didn't deter Michael Banks. "I understand you purchased the Seven-F Ranch just last month. You have family money?"

  Nick sidestepped the question and attempted to guide the conversation in another direction. "I promised Sarah we'd live within a half day's ride from her mother. Since it's been just her and Mrs. Simpson for so long, Sarah is worried about leaving her mother alone in the house. In fact, we asked if she'd want to move out to the ranch with us, but she declined. Mrs. Simpson has worked hard to establish her private school, and she loves teaching. Although, after the way those McBride children acted at the wedding today, I am inclined to wonder why. Now I know why townspeople refer to them as the McBride Menaces."

  Sarah's uncle didn't take the bait. "I understand there's no mortgage on your land. What did you do, Ross, rob a stage or two?"

  Nick smiled grimly. "I have my own money."

  "From what source?"

  Nosy old fellow. Nick wanted to tell him to go to the devil. But because he understood the man's need to protect Sarah, Nick sighed heavily and surrendered. "All right, Mr. Banks. I'll speak of my family skeletons once, then never again. Two years ago, I discovered my parents had lied about the circumstances of my birth. I learned I wasn't their son, but the third son of an English marquess and his wife. It seems I was conceived during a time Lord and Lady Weston were experiencing trouble in their marriage."

  "Oh," commented Banks. "You're a bastard."

  "No, apparently not. Lady Weston swore I was her husband's get, though he believed she lied and hated me because of that. He knew she'd had a lover during the significant time. When within months of my birth it became clear he wouldn't accept me, and since Weston already had an heir and a spare, she sent me to Scotland to be reared by distant cousins of her husband, thinking it was better for a child to live in a home where he was loved by both parents than in a home where he was hated by his father."

  "And was this a good choice?"

  Nick hesitated as he once again felt the absence of the Ross family on his wedding day. Quietly he said, "An excellent choice. My greatest regret is that I forgot that for a time."

  "My niece mentioned you recently learned your family was killed in an accident. Was this your English family, your birth parents and brothers?"

  Nick didn't respond. Instead, he focused on the amusing sight of the older two McBride Menaces. They had abandoned all regard for the state of their clothing and lay flat on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, using their miniature rose bouquets to guide a trio of doodlebugs in the direction they desired. His bride's uncle shifted his gaze from Nick to the girls, then back to Nick again. "You inherited money from your father?" he pressed.

  "Tis my Scots family who died." Frustration flared like a match. "Is there no question you winna ask? Lord Weston pays me a remittance to stay away from England. I dinna use it if I can help it, so it has added up over time. I bought the ranch with those funds." He made a show of checking his pocket watch, then added, "You'll have to excuse me, sir. My bride is waiting and I'm anxious to join her. It is, after all, our wedding night."

  Banks scowled. "Oh, I remember, all right, and there is something I hope you remember, too." He tossed his cigar to the ground, then mashed it under the toe of his boot. "Hurt Sarah and I'll kill you."

  Finally the message he'd expected. "Your niece is safe with me, sir. You have my word on it I'll treat her like a queen."

  * * *

  Sarah felt like a sacrificial lamb all gussied up and ready for the slaughter. She'd been bathed and brushed, powdered and perfumed, and left alone with her teary-eyed mother's words of wisdom ringing in her ears. "Remember, dear, marital relations are like menstrual cramps. Sometimes a swallow or two of brandy makes all the difference."

  The words ran around and around in her mind as her finger idly traced the pattern of sharp edges and valleys cut in the crystal brandy decanter. She wished now that she'd asked her mother some of the questions that continued to plague her as time for the bedding approached. But Sarah's aunt had accompanied her mother and stayed in the room until the very end. She'd been too embarrassed to ask in front of Aunt Lena. Now she was left to figure it out for herself.

  Or wait for Nick to show her.

  Sarah shut her eyes and groaned. Why had she compared it to menstrual cramps? Sarah knew her mother had loved her father, and one time when she'd talked to her daughter about the private side of marriage, she'd even admitted she liked to be kissed.

  Sarah liked to be kissed, too. She liked it very much. And hadn't she always been a lot like her mother? Didn't they have the same tastes in everything, from food to fashion to furniture? Hadn't they agreed on the choices for the wedding arrangements, from the flowers to the music to the gown and everything in between? The only time they'd differed in their opinion was when the time came to choose her nightgown for tonight. Sarah had pictured flowing white that bared one shoulder, the design right out of Greek mythology. Her mother recommended high-necked, long-sleeved, floral-sprigged flannel. They'd settled on emerald satin and lace and lots of it.

  Could it be a physical thing? Sarah wondered. Were some women physically more suited to it than others? Maybe that's why her mother never remarried after her father's death. Heaven knows, it wasn't for lack of admirers. Maybe her mother wasn't built to bed a man comfortably.

  If so, the usual similarities between mother and daughter didn't bode well for the night's upcoming event.

  Her mother's voice floated through her mind. A woman's lot. Rod of Steel. Like menstrual cramps.

  Sarah shuddered, yanked out the stopper, and took a swig of brandy straight from the decanter.

  Fire scorched down her throat to her stomach. Her eyes widened and watered. She coughed, then gasped a breath. "Mama thinks this will help?"

  Heavens. Sexual intercourse must really be awful.

  As that thought flashed through her mind, a knock sounded at the door. Nick's voice called, "Sarah?"

  Panic rose like a tidal wave within her. Sarah literally bit her tongue. Pain. Blood. A ramming Rod of Steel.

  "Sarah? May I come in?"

  She took a deep breath and shouted, "No!"

  Sharp, pointed objects bring bad luck to brides.

  Chapter 2

  Nick thought he must have misheard her. He rapped on the door again. "Lass?"

  "You can't come in, Nick."

  His mouth lifted in a slow, crooked smile, and he checked the corridor to confirm their privacy before answering, "Don't rush to get dressed on my account."

  He heard a gurgling sound and he frowned. Was she choking? He tried the door. Locked. He fished in his p
ocket and removed the brass room key he'd obtained from the desk downstairs, then slipped it into the lock and twisted. Metal clicked. Nick turned the knob and stepped inside the honeymoon suite.

  He saw a streak of emerald green disappear into the second room. "Sarah, are you all right?"

  "Y-y-yes."

  She didn't sound all right.

  "Did you eat something that went down the wrong way?"

  "N-n-n-o. I'm fine."

  Nick's mouth settled in a grim line. Judging by the quaver to her voice, he had his doubts about that. He glanced around the simple suite's sitting room, spied the open brandy decanter, and mentally cursed. He should have resisted this silly tradition of having mothers and aunts and best friends—that silly Abigail Reese was an agitator—help prepare a bride for her wedding night. Now Sarah was all worked up and nervous. Better that he and she had come upstairs together and let the passion of the moment carry them away.

  He slipped the bottle of sweet wine he'd thought his bride would prefer into the waiting ice bucket, then poured himself two fingers of the brandy she'd left out. He tossed it back like the worst rotgut whisky before turning to face the bedroom.

  "Sarah, I'm coming in," he called as he approached the doorway between the sitting room and the bedroom. He was two steps away when she slammed the door between them shut.

  Nick raked his fingers through his hair. "She's a virgin, remember," he muttered. An obviously reluctant virgin.

  And he had no experience with virgins.

  He dragged his hand along his jaw-line. He'd known she might be skittish, but he hadn't expected slamming doors. Maybe he should have seen it coming. Sarah was an intriguing, appealing combination of innocence and passion, a rosebud on the brink of first bloom.

  Considering her youth, it probably would have been better not to rush toward a wedding as quickly as they had. As much as Nick wanted her in his bed, he could have waited. Indeed, he wasn't exactly certain how he'd ended up engaged. Back in January, Sarah and her mother had been helping Trace McBride oversee the birthday party arrangements for one of his daughters. Sarah had asked Nick to entertain the children with Scottish folktales, and before the night was over, the conversation had gone from fairy spells to wedding bells.

  From the beginning, Sarah had had her heart set on a May wedding, and as hungry as he was for her, he hadn't seen how hurrying things along would hurt. Now, though, he had a better view of the troubles that lay ahead.

  Starting with the paneled oak door in front of his face.

  As Nick reached for the brass doorknob, it turned and the door inched open. He all but swallowed his tongue at the sight that met his eyes.

  Sarah's unbound hair cascaded like a golden waterfall upon a field of emerald green. Her dressing gown hid everything, promised everything, and set Nick's heart beating faster. She licked her full, Cupid's-bow lips before gazing up at him through thick, curling lashes that framed solemn eyes the color of the finest Highland malt.

  "Would you like to play a game of chess, Nicholas?"

  He wanted to throw back his head and howl.

  Instead, he cleared his throat. "Chess?"

  "We haven't played a game in two weeks."

  To his mind, all they'd been doing was playing games. He decided to speak to her honestly. "Sarah, it's our wedding night. Couples don't ordinarily play chess on their wedding night."

  "But we're not an ordinary couple, are we?" she asked hopefully.

  He had to laugh at that. "Come here, lass."

  Nick took her hand and stepped past her into the bedroom, forcing himself to ignore the fact that she'd planted her feet like roots in a pecan orchard as he dragged her toward the bed.

  "I'm not sleepy, Nick. If chess doesn't appeal, we could play something else. Cards, maybe?"

  "Five-card strip poker would work."

  "Pardon me?"

  "Sarah, sit down, please." He guided her up against the bed, then gave her a gentle push. She sat on the edge of the mattress and gripped it hard. He hunkered down in front of her so that their eyes were level. "At first I thought it was simply embarrassment, but now I suspect it's more than that. Are you afraid of me?"

  She blinked once. "No."

  "But you're afraid of something."

  "Yes."

  "What is it?"

  She nibbled at her lower lip. "It..."

  He waited for her to complete her sentence, but it soon became apparent that she had already finished. "It?"

  She shut her eyes and sighed. "It's the idea of steel that bothers me. I've always thought more along the lines of a noodle, so you can see how this takes some adjustment."

  Nick rocked back on his heels. She'd lost him entirely. "Sarah, I don't understand."

  "I'm not being rational, am I?" She opened her eyes and looked at him then, her gaze both wary and pleading. "Be patient with me, Nick. I think I was so involved with the wedding and all the arrangements that I didn't take time to consider what is supposed to happen afterward. Now that the time is upon me, I'm a little bit... no, I'm a lot concerned. You see, I've always been a baby where pain is concerned."

  Pain. Ah hah. It's the virginity problem.

  Nick slowly stood, then took a seat beside her. He wished he knew just what to say to reassure her, but he'd never been with a virgin before, so he wasn't entirely certain what to expect. He linked his fingers through hers and tried to distract her. "It was a nice wedding."

  Immediately her face brightened. "Wasn't it? Almost everything turned out like I planned. Except for the cake. I know Mr. Spooner did his best, but I do wish Fort Worth had a more skilled professional baker. I know our guests had a good time. Did you see those McBride girls dancing with their daddy, all three at once? I know that folks here in town don't consider Mr. McBride respectable since he owns a saloon in Hell's Half Acre, but no one can deny that he's a wonderful father to those girls. Not even Wilhemina Peters. Did you notice that hat she was wearing? What would possess a woman to—"

  Nick kissed her. It was the best way he knew to hush her babbling, and when she melted in his arms, he realized this might be the best way to get past the first-time jitters. Experience had taught him that once he managed to breach her defenses, Sarah caught fire faster than tinder. The trick was not to give her time to think.

  So Nick put his best effort into the kiss, which in return stoked the fires of his own hunger. He kissed her deeply, his tongue seeking, exploring, demanding. She tasted of brandy and promise, and the sweetness of it exploded through his senses. The taste combined with the heady, intoxicating scent of arousal that permeated the air and interfered with reason, leaving him vulnerable to the driving force of his own instincts.

  She was his wife. Legally and morally. Nothing stood in the way of making her his mate. Nothing but the thin barrier of flesh that was her final defense.

  Nick knew a fierce, primal urge to conquer, to claim, and he had to fight for the will to slow down.

  He lay her back against the mattress, and the whispered sound of his name on her lips shuddered through him. A haze of desire surrounded him, thicker and hungrier than any he'd known before. He tugged at the belt of her dressing gown until the knot slipped free and emerald lace slid away to reveal a neckline that plunged to a deep vee between the perfect mounds of her breasts.

  Nick gritted his teeth against a groan. Slow down. Don't scare her. Get control of yourself. Slow down before you go off like a virgin yourself.

  He swallowed hard, then reached for the trailing edge of a silver satin ribbon. With one slow tug, the bow disappeared, fabric parted, and skin was revealed.

  "Sarah," he said hoarsely. Her breasts were exquisite: high and gently rounded and crested by nipples that were pert and pink and perfect. Without stopping to think, he lowered his head and licked first one proud tip, then the other.

  Her quick gasp filled her lungs with air and lifted her toward him. Nick took it as an invitation, whether she meant it as one or not. He knew he had to taste her o
r die.

  He took her in his mouth and began to suckle, stroking his rough tongue across the downy texture of her nipple. Hazy heat gathered force within him, spiraling downward, filling his loins to near bursting.

  Even as he realized she'd gone stiff in his arms.

  "What are you doing?" she demanded, her voice a reedy squeak as she pushed against his shoulders. "Nick, stop it!"

  Silently groaning, Nick released her and looked up. Her eyes were wide and stormy, her color high. He struggled to ignore the pounding of his heart and the twisting ache in his loins as he forced a smile and soothed her. "Relax, lass. 'Tis all right. All is well. I'll slow down. It may kill me, but I'll slow down."

  She flattened her palms against his chest and shoved. "I didn't say slow down. I said stop."

  "Stop?"

  "Yes, stop!"

  Damnation. Grimacing, Nick rolled over onto his back and counted to ten as he tried to catch his breath. The lass was work. He bent one knee, then reached down and adjusted his trousers, which at the moment felt at least ten sizes too small. At that, his bride let out another affronted gasp, and this time he rolled his eyes before flinging his arm up to cover them.

  He heard her scramble and assumed she was setting her nightgown to rights. His main concern at the moment, however, was wrestling his raging body back under control.

  A full minute passed while the only sound in the room was the ragged noise of his breathing and the nervous scratch of Sarah's nails against the bed coverings. Then she surprised him by asking, "That was wrong of me, wasn't it?"

  He cocked one eye open and peered out from beneath his arm.

  She held her arms crossed over her chest and wore both a sickly smile and an apple blush. "Mama told me that might happen, but it took me by surprise. I guess I didn't really believe..."

  When her voice trailed off, Nick sighed. Maybe he should give her more time. "Are you still ready for a chess match?"