Come the Dawn
Page 33
Devlyn scowled. “If you think I’m waiting six months—”
The duchess cut in smoothly. “Of course, that might be a trifle too long. Let me see now.” She picked up a little leather-bound book and frowned down at a crowded page. “Possibly here.” Then she shook her head. “No, I’m afraid that is a Tuesday, which presents a problem for Beach.”
The butler stood impassive.
“After that will be the second week of the month, which will pose problems for Mrs. Harrison with a house full of guests. Of course Albert and his new bride will wish to be here, except that they will not be back from Yorkshire for several more weeks. I sent them up to visit the bride’s family, you know. Which means…”
Thorne watched her, frowning.
“Six weeks hence might be possible.”
“If you think I’m waiting six weeks, then you’re—”
The duchess’s eyes twinkled as she savored Thornwood’s impatience. “No, I supposed you would not. Perhaps five then.”
“Your Grace,” Thorne growled.
India decided it was time to intervene. She slid closer and whispered in her husband’s ear. “Never fear, Dev. If all else fails, I know a certain oak trestle table in the attic, which we might always call into use. If your impatience grows too great, that is.”
Thorne’s eyes darkened. He shifted, fighting a wave of heat.
“Is something the matter, Thornwood?” the duchess demanded.
“It’s my, er, arm. Yes, my wound is paining me,” the Earl of Thornwood lied, watching his wife bite back a laugh.
“Then you certainly must have some more calf’s foot jelly. And some of the duchess’s excellent tea,” Alexis said anxiously.
Thornwood sighed. “Utterly Machiavellian. Soon Alexis and Marianne will be just like you.”
Ian and MacKinnon grinned, while Luc and Silver relished the sight of this new member of the family falling victim to the duchess’s managing ways.
“Now as I was saying, we might just be able to whittle off a few days and plan for one month hence.” The duchess studied her grandson-in-law. “That is assuming that you will be physically competent by then, Thornwood. You are looking rather pale and it would never do for you to be out of sorts on your wedding night.”
Luc chuckled.
Ian cleared his throat.
India flushed crimson.
But the Earl of Thornwood merely laughed lazily as he gazed at India. “Oh, I expect I will manage to bungle through, Your Grace.” Heat filled his eyes as he studied this woman he knew would admonish and irritate and inspire and torment him for the rest of his life.
The woman he loved above all else in the world.
The woman he prayed would soon bear his child.
Ian laughed, but found the duchess’s gaze turned thoughtfully upon him. “And now that I’ve dealt with your impossible sister, I believe it’s your turn, Ian Delamere. Though what female could find any interest in a great hulking figure like you is beyond me.” She frowned and tapped her pale cheek. “Of course there is the Townshende chit. Impeccable bloodlines, and that squint of hers isn’t too noticeable.”
India’s brother held up his hands hastily. “Now, Grandmama…”
~ ~ ~
Three nights later India and Dev finally managed to slip away from a noisy masquerade being held in Swallow Hill’s ballroom to celebrate Marianne’s birthday. The candles had been blown out and the cake consumed, and Marianne was now happily immersed in opening a sea of presents.
By then Thorne deemed it safe to fetch away his wife.
“But what about the rest of the presents, Thorne?”
“She’ll never even notice we’re gone,” Thorne said. “Besides, I have something I want to show you.”
India’s lips curved. “Your set of rare etchings, my lord?” she asked silkily.
“I just might at that,” the earl growled. “It’s been hell being near you for the last three days and not being able to have any privacy. Today I almost locked the door in the library and started shucking your clothes.”
India’s eyes glinted. “You had the same idea I had, I see.”
Thorne took her hand and pulled her to the stables, where his great black gelding stood waiting, already saddled.
“But Thorne, your arm.”
“My arm is fine, wife, except for a few twinges. I only wish the rest of me felt so good.”
India knew exactly what parts he was talking about. She was feeling fairly restless herself. “But where are you taking me, Thorne? Back to the Gypsy perhaps?”
“Reprobate,” he murmured. “No, I want you to see the house where we’re going to raise all those children. Carlisle Hall is not like Swallow Hill, you know,” he said gravely. “The roof is in disrepair and everything is sadly in need of a woman’s touch.” He looked uncertainly at India. “It will be a change for you. Not necessarily a pleasant one.”
“A wonderful change. With a wonderful man and three wonderful children,” India said firmly, sliding her hands around his waist. When they were both mounted, she snuggled closer, catching up her satin skirts before her. “Well, what are we waiting for?”
Thorne swallowed as one long white leg was thrust against his hip. “For me to regain some fragment of my sanity, I think.” Shaking his head, he guided their mount out over dark fields lit by the warm silver glow of a full moon.
They rode slowly, each acutely conscious of the brush of the other’s body. They shared slow, lazy kisses, their fingers taking any excuse to twine and mingle. Their soft, intimate laughter drifted through the still, warm air when Thorne finally reined in his mount on a hill overlooking the gabled roofs of Carlisle Hall.
Moonlight melted through the tall windows and painted the stone walks of the garden a ghostly white. What Thorne had said was true, India saw. The grand old Tudor house was in need of care, but immediately she envisioned a thousand projects that would keep them busy for the next fifty years or so, while they raised a dozen unruly children.
She sighed happily and raised her hand to Thorne’s neck, well pleased at the thought.
“Do you — dislike it too much? After Swallow Hill, it’s very small, I know, but—”
“I love it,” she said firmly.
“You do? In spite of the leaking roofs? But you haven’t even seen the bedrooms.”
“I’ve slept in far worse while on caravan with my father, I assure you.” India turned, sliding her hand down her husband’s broad chest. Beneath them the great gelding neighed softly, then bent to nibble at a clump of tender grass. “The house will be fine, my love. I only hope that a certain treacherous French pirate will come to visit once in a while,” she said wistfully.
Thorne’s eyes darkened with desire. “Perhaps he is closer than you imagine, my lady.”
“Do you think so?” India reached lower and found the hard length of male muscle rising hungrily to meet her. Her eyes took on a heated gleam. “Permission to come aboard, Captain?” she murmured as she closed around her goal.
“Sweet God.” Thorne groaned, his face a mask of pain. Without another word he caught her tight and slid from the horse. There, beside a bank of flowers, he stared at India’s creamy skin molded by her satin gown, at the auburn curls spilling loose around her shoulders. “This pirate is a dangerous man, you know. He takes whatever he wants.”
India’s tongue slid over her parted lips. “So do I.”
Thorne closed his eyes, fighting for the control that was fast slipping past him. When he opened them again, India was pulling the first button free at his neck. “Exactly who is the pirate here, madam?”
“Shall we draw lots?” India purred.
“God help me,” Thorne said in a vain prayer.
“Actually, I think we both are.” The white linen pulled free and India bared her husband’s powerful shoulders. Her lips moved over the rippling muscles. “I’m in the mood to do some very dangerous things tonight, I warn you.”
Thorne muttered sof
tly. His hands closed over her hips as he brought their bodies together.
India’s fingers lingered slowly over the hot, throbbing skin captive in her hand. She smiled at his response, which was instant and fierce. “Amazing. Far better than I remembered, actually.” She smiled up at her husband. “Almost as good as that notorious river pirate who once tried to seduce me.”
“Almost?” Thorne slid one satin sleeve from her shoulder. “You’ll murder me, woman. I swear, you’re more dangerous than any pirate I ever had to fight.” He found one tight coral crest peeping between the ruffled white lace at her bodice. “I’m most certainly close to dying. Still,” he said appreciatively as he heard her breathless sigh, “I suppose there are worse ways to die…”
~ ~ ~
The next week passed in a glorious blaze of early fall color.
Ian recuperated, Thorne grumbled incessantly, and Alexis seemed to be everywhere at once, tending to everyone’s needs.
At last the duchess pronounced Thornwood fit to be out of bed for a whole day, and immediately he swept India off to Swallow Hill’s rose gardens.
Alexis sat happily on the other side of a wall of blooms and watched Thorne bend down and kiss India. “He’s very handsome, isn’t he, Josephine? Of course, you’ve missed a great deal of activity since Uncle Ian’s had you off to finish your repairs. Now let’s see.” She frowned. “First, there is the duchess. She has been so kind. She is even going to give me my very own gown of real silk. Of course, Marianne will have a finer one, because she is older, but I don’t mind. She will look lovely in pink with her dark curls. And then there is Cook. She has promised to teach me to make plum tarts. Then I will be very happy.”
Alexis gave a contented sigh as she smoothed the doll’s silk floss hair. She studied India and Thorne’s shadowed figures through the greenery. “They are so happy together. It is almost as if every good dream I’ve ever had has come true.” She hugged Josephine and smiled a secretive little smile. “Of course, there is one dream that they don’t know about yet.” She looked over her shoulder, where a beam of sunlight spilled over the grassy bank. “This is Ryan. I thought you might like to meet him, Josephine.” Her eyes widened. “And he’s brought someone else with him this time. A new friend. She is going to be his baby sister, you see.” Alexis turned and studied the laughing couple beyond the hedge. “Yes, they are going to be very happy. We are going to be very happy,” she added softly.
She moved away toward the house, old doll in tow. “And if you are very good, Josephine, I’ll let you go with me to Uncle Ian’s workshop. Do you know, he can whittle frogs and all kinds of wonderful things out of wood…?”
~ ~ ~
In the rose garden in the shadow of a pergola dark with damask roses, Thornwood pulled his smiling wife against him. “And now, my sauvage…”
“But, Dev, you’re sure your arm isn’t too sore?” India looked anxiously at Thorne. “You really shouldn’t exert yourself so much.”
“It must be the duchess’s restorative jelly,” the earl murmured huskily, tugging at her sash.
“And, Dev, about the child. About Ryan, I mean. Sometimes I can feel him close by. I almost hear him laughing. I know it’s silly, but—”
“No.” His finger touched her lips. “It’s not silly. And I’m very glad you do, my heart. But maybe it’s time we gave him a brother.”
India smiled slowly. “Or a sister.”
Dev looked skyward and rolled his eyes. “God help the rest of us poor, benighted males then.”
But he didn’t look at all unhappy when his wife pulled him down beside her beneath a lush bank of roses and climbing lilies. In their urgent intensity, neither seemed to notice the wind rustling through the great, sweeping willow tree, nor the whisper of the flowers.
The sound was almost like the soft laughter of a very young child.
Did you miss Book 1 of The Dangerous Delameres’ adventures, Come the Night? It’s available now. Find it and other of Christina’s books at:
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About the Author
Christina Skye is the New York Times bestselling author of thirty-three books. She is a pushover for Harris tweed, Scottish cashmere, Chinese dumplings, French macarons and dark chocolate.
Not necessarily in that order.
A classically trained China scholar with over two million books in print, she has appeared on national television programs including ABC Worldwide News, Travel News Network, the Arthur Frommer show, Geraldo, Voice of America, Looking East, and Good Morning, Arizona.
Christina loves being a writer and savors quirky historical research. Most of her first drafts are written by hand, while her white Siamese helps with the “editing.” While she writes, she usually has her knitting right beside her. But don’t expect speed. “The sheer pleasure of colors and texture running through my fingers helps me concentrate on the mystery of my characters taking shape before my eyes. Researching a period draws me into a sense of place, and then knitting pulls me to a quiet place where a story can unfold at its deepest level. It’s my best writing tool.”
Visit her online at christinaskye.com for a glimpse into new books, strange research tidbits, great recipes and some of her all-time favorite knitting patterns.
~ ~ ~
If you enjoyed this work, please leave a review to help other readers decide if it’s a story they too would like to read. A couple of sentences are all you need to write. Thank you!
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Ebooks by Christina Skye available now or coming soon to Amazon (from Steel Magnolia Press)
Regency Romances
Come the Night, Book 1 of The Dangerous Delameres
Come the Dawn, Book 2 of The Dangerous Delameres
Defiant Captive
The Black Rose
East of Forever
Victorian Romance
The Ruby
Paranormal Romances
(Draycott Abbey Series)
Hour of the Rose
Bride of the Mist
Key to Forever
The Perfect Gift
Fallen
Christmas at Draycott Abbey
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Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
About the Author
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
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br /> CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
About the Author