Blackthorne's Bride

by Joan Johnston

  Josie’s joyful smile faded as Blackthorne slowly lowered his mouth to hers. The heat of the sun, the scratchiness of the straw, the weight of his body on hers, with his hips cradled between her thighs, all combined to make the soft touch of his lips on hers the most sensual experience she’d ever had in her life.

  The kiss went on. And on. Josie could feel the hard length of Blackthorne’s manhood and realized that in a moment he would be making love to her.

  She turned her face away to break their kiss and said, “Marcus. We have to stop.”

  “Why?” He kissed her throat. “No one will disturb us here.”

  Unfortunately, he was right. But it was the very worst time of the month for her to be doing this, and she didn’t want to take the chance of becoming pregnant. That would only complicate everything. “We need to leave soon, if we’re going to retrieve Harriet’s sisters today.”

  He was nibbling on her ear and stopped long enough to say, “This won’t take long.”

  She shoved at his shoulders. “I don’t want to do this now.”

  He lifted his head and looked at her with eyes that promised her pleasure. “Does that mean you’ll want to do it later?”

  She avoided the question, because what she wanted and what she was willing to allow herself were two different things. Besides, she was confused again. Blackthorne’s willingness to help the housekeeper’s sisters didn’t jibe with his unwillingness to have his nephews living close by. Who was this man? Where was the ogre she knew him to be?

  “Please, Marcus. Not now.”

  He levered himself off of her and stood, then reached down to help her to her feet.

  She ducked when he reached a hand toward her head, until she realized he was merely picking straw from her hair. “Oh. Thank you.” She stood still while he removed several more pieces, taking the opportunity to brush some straw from his shoulder.

  “I will need to bathe and dress before we can leave,” he said, “but I presume you still want to make the trip to visit Lady Gertrude today?”

  “I do. I’m going now to tell Harriet the good news. I’ll be ready to leave whenever you are.” She didn’t fight the urge to rise on tiptoe and kiss him on the lips. She quickly turned and lowered herself onto the ladder, smiling at Blackthorne until she was too far down to see him anymore.

  BLACKTHORNE WONDERED WHO was taming whom. Over the past week, he’d allowed a cat and her kittens to set up house in his wife’s bedroom. He’d cleaned and furnished the gatekeeper’s cottage and installed three young girls with a governess to watch over them during the day, so his housekeeper could be available to continue her work at the Abbey. And he’d made a special trip back to his tenant’s home with Josie, to deliver a colorful selection of silk ribbons to Mr. Moreland’s daughters, which she’d personally woven into each delighted child’s hair.

  And he’d done it all to please his wife.

  Blackthorne had found himself reveling in the enchanting smile that appeared on her face in each instance. For the kittens. For their housekeeper’s sisters. For the little girls receiving their silk hair ribbons. He’d waited for her to turn that dimpled smile on him. He’d yearned for it. And been left wanting.

  Blackthorne couldn’t imagine any duchess of his acquaintance concerning herself with a few flea-bitten cats (which she’d divested of their fleas), or the housekeeper’s kin (for whom he’d been named guardian), or hair ribbons for a tenant’s children (which he’d driven her into town to personally select). His wife was turning his world on its ear. She seemed to care about everyone and everything at the Abbey. Except him.

  He hadn’t noticed at first that Josie was avoiding his company, because they’d both been busy over the past week in their separate spheres of activity. He’d spent hours every day locked in his study with his steward. She spent her days supervising the housekeeper and the cook, searching the attic for treasures and figuring out what needed to be ordered to bring the kitchen into the nineteenth century. He was stunned when it dawned on him that she was only speaking to him in response to questions he addressed to her.

  He’d thought relations between them would improve after the intimate moments they’d shared in the loft. But he and his wife were further apart than ever. He wasn’t sure what had gone wrong. He’d spent every night sleeping by himself, having discovered, after surreptitiously checking each evening, that the door between his bedroom and hers was locked.

  He paced the floor of his bedroom for the umpteenth time, wondering if it was worth the effort to check the door tonight. And if it was locked? Was he going to knock? Was he going to ask his wife—beg her—to let him in?

  He’d be damned before he did any such thing! To hell with her. If she didn’t want him, that was her loss.

  Blackthorne untied his Sulka robe and threw it onto the foot of the bed, then buttoned his nightshirt the rest of the way up the front. He shoved both hands through his hair, leaving it standing on end, as he went over everything that had happened between them since their marriage, wondering what he could have done differently.

  Why hadn’t he pressed his advantage in the loft? He’d felt Josie’s pulse racing in her throat, seen her eyes glazed with passion, watched her desire rising. Why had she stopped him? What was it about him that she found wanting?

  He’d always thought that getting to know the girl who’d captured his heart with her courage would be a dream come true. It was turning out to be more of a nightmare.

  He’d been the soul of patience, not pressing Josie for explanations he felt he deserved. Where had she been all this time? Why hadn’t she admitted who she was when she’d applied to be his bride? And why had she married him, especially when she didn’t seem to particularly like him?

  Blackthorne put a hand to his chest. He’d never realized a heart could actually, physically ache with hurt. After all the disaster in his life so far, he hadn’t believed he would ever let himself get close enough to anyone to suffer this kind of pain again. But then, he’d never imagined ending up married to someone he admired but who, apparently, had such a low opinion of him.

  And it wasn’t just his heart she’d trampled. Josie’s rejection of him—and his lovemaking—had touched his pride. When he’d married Fanny, he could have had his choice of any female he wanted with the mere crook of his finger. When he’d decided to marry a mail-order bride, he hadn’t cared one way or the other what she thought of him, or whether he ever bedded her again, once they’d consummated the marriage.

  So why was he obsessing about Josie now? Why was he pacing on the other side of her bedroom door like a stag in rut?

  The simple answer was that he wanted her to like him. He wanted her to want him. What he didn’t understand was why it mattered to him. How had she managed to get under his skin in such a short amount of time? How had her opinion come to mean so much to him?

  Blackthorne realized that, if he didn’t get out of his bedroom, he was liable to do something stupid. Like breaking down the door and ravishing his wife.

  He headed downstairs and only realized when his bare feet left the scruffy Aubusson carpet on the stairs and landed on the cold stone floor below, that he hadn’t bothered to put on any slippers. He also hadn’t bothered to bring a lantern with him. He ended up in the library, where he knew he would find a decanter of brandy on an end table.

  He poured himself a drink and slumped down in one of the two chairs facing the fire to contemplate the state of his life.

  Why hadn’t he asked Josie those all-important questions about where she’d been all this time, and precisely why she’d married him? What was he waiting for? What was he afraid of?

  He’d just swallowed the last of his brandy when he heard a commotion and realized someone was banging on the front door. He looked down at the nightshirt that was all he was wearing and grimaced. He hadn’t even stopped to put on his robe before he’d left his bedroom. In London, his butler would already have answered the door, but he wasn’t sure Harkness could even
hear the noise, let alone get to the door before whoever it was gave up and went away.

  It suddenly occurred to him that no one would have come to the Abbey at this hour of the night unless it was some sort of emergency. Blackthorne leapt up in alarm, swearing bitterly when he stubbed his toe in the dark. He hastened to the front door, his heart in his throat the whole way, and swore again when the door stubbornly refused to open. He finally managed to free it and found a man standing before him bathed in moonlight.

  It took him a moment to recognize the messenger’s livery. When he did, fear rose in his throat and choked him into silence.

  SEATON HAD TAKEN precautions to ensure that Blackthorne wouldn’t discover he’d traveled to Northumberland and ask what business he had there, all of which might come undone, because Lady Lark was making the long journey north on the same train. The last thing he wanted was for her to find out what Fanny had done and tell her brother. He would need to be careful what he said to her when they met for tea.

  He arrived at precisely ten o’clock in the dining car, as they’d arranged, and was surprised to find Blackthorne’s sister sitting at a table all by herself, without a friend or a maid or a chaperon in sight. She smiled in welcome when she saw him and shifted her shoulders back as she straightened in her chair.

  He forced his gaze away from the fashionable fit of her bodice, which emphasized her feminine assets, toward the expected cherubic face. Except, he discovered that the once-full cheeks had thinned, the wide-set blue eyes were framed by very long, very black lashes, and the once-pouty mouth had developed into surprisingly kissable lips.

  Seaton couldn’t take his eyes off his best friend’s sister and realized he needed some distraction, or he would soon be in no condition for decent company. As he settled himself opposite her at the table in the dining car, he said, “Where are Mr. and Mrs. Court and their daughter?”

  Her smile got even brighter, if that were possible. “In London, I imagine.”

  Seaton was confused. “They’re not here with you?”

  “No.” Just that one word, with no explanation.

  “You’re traveling alone?”

  “Yes.”

  He glanced around the dining car. “Where’s your maid?”

  “Visiting her mother in Devon.”

  “Are you telling me that you’re on this train all by yourself?”

  “Of course not!”

  He felt relieved, until she added, “I’m here with you.”

  He felt his heart take a giant leap and grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself. “What’s going on, Lark?” He realized he’d called her by her first name, without the title he’d begun using over the past year to keep her at a distance.

  She looked at him with round, innocent eyes and announced, “I’ve decided to have an adventure.”

  “On a journey that can’t be completed in a single day? Alone in the company of a single gentleman? Your brother will kill me—after he forces us to marry.”

  She had the grace to blush, the minx. When she was younger, he’d admired Lark for her willingness to try anything. While Lindsey had run screaming when he’d threatened her with fishing worms, Lark had stood her ground.

  But she was no longer a child, something he’d become painfully aware of during the past year. He’d been philosophical the first time he’d become aroused in her company. She’d been shoved against him at a crowded garden party, and her breasts had accidentally been crushed against his chest. That had caused a very natural, very predictable male response.

  He’d told himself the same thing would have happened no matter who the woman had been. The problem was it didn’t happen with Lindsey, when the same sort of mishap occurred later that same day, and not once with Lark’s sister in the three months since.

  Only with Lark. And always with Lark.

  He was aware of her whenever she came into a room, but he’d schooled himself to ignore her presence. Blackthorne’s sisters were barely out of the schoolroom, and he was nowhere near ready to marry. Besides, he had no intention of losing his heart to any female. Not for a long, long time. Waiting for Fanny to die—and watching Blackthorne suffer through her illness—hadn’t just been difficult, it had been a nightmare from which he didn’t think he would ever awaken.

  He could understand why Blackthorne had been willing to marry without love the second time around. Love hurt. He was in no hurry to have a wife who might die in childbed or fall sick from some other illness. Or to have a child who died at birth, taking its mother along with it.

  So he was particularly concerned by the fact that he now found himself in the uncomfortable—unbearable—situation of being the chaperon for a young lady to whom he was sexually attracted.

  There was no question of sending Lark off on her own. He owed his protection to his best friend’s little sister, even if time spent with Lark was going to play havoc with his body and seriously challenge his self-control.

  “What am I supposed to do with you?” he demanded in a severe voice.

  “Enjoy my company?”

  He wanted to laugh but forced a ferocious frown onto his face. “This won’t do, Lady Lark. We need to get off this train at the next station and—”

  “No. Please.”

  The look of entreaty in her eyes stopped him in mid-sentence. He stared at her, perplexed.

  “It was difficult enough to make the decision to do this,” she said in a voice that trembled. “It would be too humiliating if you drag me home like a wayward child.”

  “Why did you do this?” He couldn’t fathom why she would engage in such risqué behavior.

  She chewed on her lower lip, and he felt himself thinking that he’d like to be doing that. Which caused the response one might have expected. He gritted his teeth and shifted in his seat. And waited for her to explain herself.

  “I’m no good at this,” she muttered.

  “At what?”

  She spread her hands helplessly. “This.”

  He still had no idea what she was talking about. “Where were you planning to stay when we arrived?”

  “At the Courts’ home, of course.”

  “How were you planning to get there?”

  “I suppose I’ll hire myself a carriage.” She hesitated, then looked up at him from beneath lowered lashes. “Unless you’re willing to escort me.”

  “You expect me to change my plans to accommodate this foolish prank of yours?”

  She met his gaze squarely. “I know how thoughtful you are, Seaton. And I know you and Marcus had adventures when you were young,” she said earnestly, “so you must understand why I wanted to spread my wings and do something I’ve never done before.”

  It didn’t hurt his ego to be called thoughtful. And of course he understood her desire to break free of the shackles her grandmother put on her behavior. The dowager was a fierce guardian who took her duties seriously. He could imagine how a free spirit like Lark might chafe under such restrictions. “How did you evade your grandmother’s eagle eye?”

  “She believes I’m being watched over by the Courts.”

  “You lied to her?”

  She nodded but didn’t look contrite. “I had no choice. It was the only way to escape.”

  “You can’t hope to keep this from her indefinitely.”

  “Why not? She believes I’m with the Courts, who only come to London to shop once a year. By the time she discovers what I’ve done, I’ll be a matron with four children at my knee.”

  He grinned. “Four?”

  “Two girls and two boys, if you must know.”

  “That will keep your husband very busy.” The words were already out of his mouth before he realized how provocative they sounded.

  She looked him right in the eye and said, “I hope so.”

  Seaton slid a finger around his collar, which suddenly felt like a noose. Was Lark suggesting that he should father those children?

  “Will you help me?” she asked.

  �
��We have a long journey ahead of us,” he said at last. “We can decide what to do once we arrive at our destination.”

  The smile she gave him made his heart skip a beat. Seaton realized there was far more at risk on this journey than Lady Lark’s reputation. He had to be very careful not to be caught in parson’s mousetrap. There were good reasons why he didn’t want to be married. He’d do well to keep them in mind for the hours he spent on the train with his best friend’s little sister.

  IT HAD NEVER occurred to Lark that the train wouldn’t run on time. She’d expected to arrive at Berwick-upon-Tweed early enough to have supper with Seaton before he dropped her off at the Courts’ home. Instead, the train pulled into the station long past midnight, following an endless delay caused by the need to replace a missing rail. They were lucky the engineer had noticed the problem in time to prevent a terrible accident. It had been necessary to back up to the nearest town and send for the supplies that were needed to make the repair.

  Lark felt hot and tired and cranky. The cough she’d thought was merely something caught in her throat had persisted, and even gotten worse. Her eyes were watering, and her nose had started to run so much that she’d used up not only her own handkerchief but Seaton’s as well.

  “I don’t see how I can show up at the Courts’ home in the middle of the night. Everyone will be in bed,” she explained to Seaton. “I’ll have to get a room in town for the night.”

  “Your brother will kill me,” Seaton muttered. “After he stands me before an altar with you by my side.”

  Lark would have felt more guilty, if getting Seaton to the altar wasn’t the main reason she’d come on this adventure. “I’ve stayed at an inn before.”

  “With your grandmother and your sister and an abigail or two, I have no doubt,” Seaton said curtly. “What is the innkeeper going to think, when I ask for a room for a single young lady with no chaperon in sight?”

  Lark blushed. When he put it that way, it made the situation sound licentious. “Maybe I could be your sister.”