Reckless

by Shannon Drake

  “Yes, but, Hunter…an engagement is one thing. It can be broken. I can’t do this to you. I can’t force you into such a sham!”

  “Marriages end, as well, I’m afraid. I increasingly hear of couples divorcing. Not pleasant, I admit, but they do happen. Of course, the scandal is terrible, but far less worrisome, I think, than the loss of one’s life.”

  “But still…Hunter, honestly, I am not afraid for myself. I came from nothing…and, well, even if my father does become very famous, the daughter of an artist doing something slightly scandalous will be almost expected. But for you…well, I cannot, will not, ask you to live such a facade.”

  “When you walk into that church, it will not be a facade,” he said starkly. “I will not risk your life, even if you are foolish enough to do so. There is no way I will return to England and your father without producing you, live and well.”

  She was not sure why she felt so ridiculously close to tears. It was just that she had simply…dreamed of so much more. He had proved himself to her in so many ways, so many times.

  But…

  She’d wanted love. Undying devotion. Tenderness, the loving, the cherishing. And he was so cold!

  But then, so be it, she thought. And she shivered suddenly. She remembered too clearly his touch, the feel of him. And as she came to life and started down the path, anxious that he not see her face at that moment, she realized that she was truly in danger now. She had been so close to him, she had come to be so accustomed to him, that she hadn’t realized that he had been stealing into her soul.

  And if she became closer to him still, she was bound to lose her heart.

  He would never believe that, even if she tried to articulate her feelings. She had set out on this journey to capture the heart and hand of David Turnberry. Hunter would never believe that she had come to know that she didn’t love the man in the least, and that he had been right all along—if she could have David, she wouldn’t want him.

  He caught up to her in front of the church.

  “I shall assume that this means you are agreeable to the plan?” he said.

  “I will be an excellent wife,” she assured him. “An excellent wife and a perfect assistant,” she vowed.

  To her horror, he laughed at her passionate avowal. “Ah, yes, Miss Adair. You will ride well, you will learn all about Egypt, you will be perfect. I have no doubt. Let’s do this thing, shall we?”

  She gritted her teeth, willing the tears that threatened not to sting her eyes. She walked into the church where the priest was chatting with Camille, Brian and Emma.

  “Young people!” Emma said, shaking her head. “This should have been huge, Hunter! We should have planned the wedding, had a gorgeous dress for such a lovely bride.”

  “Emma, you can throw a huge reception once we are home,” Hunter said, not unkindly. “Father Philbin, if you’ll tell us where to stand, what to do?”

  “Certainly. The two of you, here before me. Lord Carlyle, here, to the side, Lady Carlyle, by the bride. And, ah, there’s your man! Ethan, good fellow, next to Emma there. Four witnesses on the license, lovely. Now…”

  Father Philbin had a fine voice. The solemn words he spoke in the ceremony sounded utterly heartfelt. There was no music. No sound of tears from loved ones watching. There was no scent of flowers. Just the words. So well spoken. And to Kat and Hunter, so void of meaning!

  She answered at the appropriate times. And so did Hunter. Her voice was as sure and strong as his.

  As…cold and businesslike.

  Another bargain struck!

  A second ring slid onto her finger.

  “And you may now kiss the bride!” Father Philbin announced, smiling.

  Kat wasn’t sure what she had expected. Another of Hunter’s deep and reckless embraces, she supposed.

  His lips barely brushed hers. “We need to sign the license,” he said.

  She nodded.

  And it was done.

  Perhaps no one else noted the almost hostile current between the bride and groom. Emma was still clucking over the lack of ceremony, Ethan was sighing as he listened. Father Philbin was cheerfully explaining to the Lord and Lady of Carlyle where certain wedding practices had originated. “You see, in the good old days, say, the time of Henry III and all his offspring, weddings were held in June—because baths were customarily taken in May. The bride and groom would not carry too great an odor! But that’s where the bouquet came in. The bride carried flowers for the scent. The more flowers, the better their scent hid hers!” He yawned suddenly. “Ah, the hour! My blessings on your ventures, Sir Hunter, Lady Katherine.”

  Kat managed to thank the priest. When she was back in the carriage, she sat next to Hunter, aware of him, but silent, still in shock. Neither Brian nor Camille tried to make small talk. When they reached the hotel, Camille gave her a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Best wishes, Kat!” she said.

  Then she and Brian disappeared into their suite, and Hunter, key in hand, was opening the door to her room.

  Their room?

  She started to tremble, but had no intention of letting him see it. She slipped on in, but then stood in the center of the room, not at all sure what to do.

  She was spared having to make any decision.

  “Get some sleep,” Hunter said curtly. He was striding about, once more, searching the room. He disappeared out into the parlor.

  She bit her lip, then fled into the bathroom, changing into her nightgown. He had not returned to the room. She quickly slid beneath the covers.

  He returned and doused the lights. He was still fully dressed. She felt his weight move the mattress as he lay down on the other side of the bed.

  He was not touching her.

  Nor did he touch her through what remained of the night.

  THE NEXT MORNING, they boarded the train that would take them to Brindisi and the ship.

  By noon, Kat was quite exhausted by the exclamations of surprise and congratulations that came her way.

  Lord Avery seemed to think that Hunter had merely done the right thing, like a military man, followed the only option that made sense. Margaret was giddy, thinking it the most romantic thing in the world. Lavinia seemed to survey it all with a jaundiced eye. Allan, Robert and Alfred exchanged smirks and shrugged. David spent the day giving her sad glances and quite frankly managed to look as if he had eaten something bad. His look didn’t impress her at all; she had seen his act for Lady Margaret the night before.

  “Quite something, an elopement in the middle of the night,” David said. She and Hunter were seated across from him and Margaret in the club car.

  “Well,” Hunter said, slipping his arm tightly around her and tangling his fingers suggestively by her throat, “I could bear it no longer. Night after night…so close.”

  “Oh, but it is so…romantic!” Margaret applauded for what seemed like the thousandth time.

  “Don’t even consider the same action, daughter!” her father warned from the next table.

  From across the aisle, Professor Atworthy wagged a finger. “You will not forget your art or forget that art is work!”

  “Imagine, Hunter married at last. And a good thing, since you might well be carrying the family title one day!” Lavinia noted.

  “Aunt Lavinia, I have never believed that a title is what makes a man,” Hunter said.

  “No, but a title is most convenient!” Brian said, and his words were followed by laughter.

  Kat merely wished that they would talk about something else. Anything else. But they didn’t. By the time they reached Brindisi, she was ready to scream.

  The ship did not leave until the following morning. Their accommodations for the night were at an old castle that had been renovated into an inn. The dining room was huge, an old great hall, and the food and service were excellent. But by dinner’s end, Kat had a dull headache. She was nervous, waiting for Hunter to suggest that they go up to their room. But he seemed happy to linger where they were, sharing
brandy with the men, listening to the trio that played.

  When he was engaged in conversation, she made her escape. Their room, in one of the towers, was a suite, really, expansive and luxurious with a sitting room and bedroom. The bedroom had a massive canopied bed and an enormous fireplace. There was a bath, beautifully appointed, with gold fixtures. She decided to have a long, hot soak in it.

  When she emerged, Hunter still had not returned. Exhausted and irritated, she climbed into bed. Hours later, she realized that she had dozed, and he was still not beside her. She rose and carefully tiptoed to the door leading to the parlor. He was there, standing tall and reflective by the fire, a snifter of brandy in his hand.

  He looked up. “Did I wake you? I apologize.”

  “You didn’t wake me.”

  “Well, then. Is there something else?”

  “I feel that I am keeping you from your own place,” she said.

  “How is that?”

  She waved a hand awkwardly. “I…well, I know we made a bargain. I just—”

  He laughed suddenly. “I see. You lie there, nervous, not knowing just what is expected, is that it?”

  She let out a long expulsion of air. “Yes. I have said that I will be a good wife.”

  He walked over to her. Something about his approach made her want to back away. “I know that you will be.”

  “There is no reason that you cannot sleep in the bed,” she said.

  “How very kind of you!” He touched her face with the palm of his hand, then tilted her chin upward. “Believe me, Kat, I did not marry you with any thought of a chaste life! Let me assure you that I have made you my wife in every sense of the word, and at my convenience and interest, I do intend to claim every right that is mine.”

  At his convenience and interest!

  She did step away now, eyes flashing. “Indeed? Well, sir, I shall be happy to tell you if and when my ‘convenience and interest’ align with yours!”

  He cocked his head slightly, his eyes like blue-black daggers of challenge. “Let’s see…we’re both aware of your infatuation with another man. We’re both aware that you will avoid that man, because I could tear the two of you limb from limb and, mark you, find a way to get away with it. I am extremely proud, vain, even, sadly, possessive. There is no pretense between us. Do I want you, desire you? Yes. Do you want me, desire me? Well, I am not David Turnberry, but that doesn’t matter. You will be a good wife. Will you be dreaming that I am him? Again, it doesn’t matter. And so, these are the truths.”

  “Then why don’t we just get it over with?” she demanded angrily.

  He arched his brows, and she thought that he was angry, but he burst into laughter. “Whether you are in love or not, my dear, the act of love can be a rather beautiful thing. Not something that someone does as quickly as possible, like sweeping ashes from a grate!”

  She bristled at his laughter. She wasn’t sure what infuriated her more, his laughter or the fact that she never had the last word.

  And so she merely lifted her head, giving him what she hoped was a completely disdainful gaze, then made an about-face and headed back to the bedroom.

  He had seemed so lacking in interest that she was taken by surprise when he caught up with her, catching her arm, swinging her around to face him. His eyes were dark, soulless pits, it seemed, and she had never seen his jaw so rigid. A lock of dark hair hung low over his forehead and her heart skipped a beat. He was both exceedingly attractive and frightening.

  “Now,” he said.

  “Now?”

  “It seems a most convenient time and I am very interested!” His voice was low and husky, the heat of his breath warming her cheeks.

  “It’s not convenient for me and I am not interested!” she informed him regally.

  He smiled. “And I am so sorry, because I don’t give a damn,” he said.

  And then he kissed her again. There was no hesitance about him now, and the ravaging insinuation of his tongue gave no doubt of all that he intended to do with his body. She gasped softly beneath the assault, pressed her hands against him and felt the constriction of the muscles in his chest. The pressure of his lips lightened and coerced, seduced slowly, the tip of his tongue made a gentle loop over her lips. And then it plunged again, and she was aware that his hands had moved, that she was standing on her own, and that the white cotton and lace ribbons of her gown were being pulled and loosened. The great white sleeves slipped from her shoulders and his lips fell on the flesh there. She clung to him, feeling the sensation sweep into her again, weakness in her knees, the trembling of her body. His lips slid along her throat as his fingers manipulated the gown, sending it to the floor. She stood in the pool of white cotton and lace, and shivered, instinctively moving toward him for his warmth, aware of his hands then sliding erotically down the length of her back, curving over the bare flesh of her buttocks, rising again, pressing her hips ever closer to his own. He stepped back, inches from her, allowing his hands and lips to move and seek and touch. Her lungs failed to work when he teased her breasts, when his lips settled there, coaxing, caressing, his tongue wetting.

  He turned her so that he was behind her. His mouth was at her nape, his fingers tangled into her hair, then his hands slid down, over her rib cage, then lower and lower on her abdomen. He had moved again, and she wasn’t sure how or when, but his mouth with its tender caress eased along her hip, bathed her naval, plunged below. The shock of his next intimacy brought the breath she had held cascading from her body in a gasp; her fingers locked on to his shoulders, then his hair. The sensations that had stolen so swiftly and boldly into every cell of her body seemed to be swirling to an electric eddy. Words formed on her lips, faded without sound. She arched in a strange agony of sweet and scalding need, gasping still, desperate to move, afraid she would fall. At last she cried out, heedless of the sound, as it seemed that light exploded and pulsed throughout her, stealing strength, stealing sanity.

  There was little time to begin to fathom the feeling, for he was up, and she was somehow limp in his arms, eyes closed. She was suddenly filled with the memory of what had been just before. He was a practiced lover. Excellent at this act that had brought her such sheer ecstasy. For her, there had been a change in the world, in the way the sun moved, that night came.

  And for him? Was it just a diversion?

  She watched him as he laid her down on the white expanse of the bed. She trembled as she remembered her one quick view of the man naked. He had removed his clothing with such haste and climbed so quickly on top of her that she had little for a second view. Yet in those brief moments her trembling was renewed and a single word ricocheted in her mind. Magnificent.

  She felt the weight of his body on her, between her thighs, the burn of his mouth, hungry now, against her throat. And the first, hard thrust of him. Pain ripped through her, and she cried out, but he was quickly whispering to her, something, she knew not what, bathing her face and throat with gentle kisses…and then it seemed she was liquid again and there was a rampant force, and she was clinging desperately to him. She was aware of every constriction of his muscles, the force of his body in hers, and aware that she was again feeling the exquisite rise of something within herself. She couldn’t breathe, then she breathed too quickly. Her heart stopped, then it thundered. His flesh against hers was damp, searing, the very world was rocking explosively, violently…

  Again, she cried out in a gasp of ecstasy. She bit her lip quickly, gasping in a huge gulp of air, aware of him still inside her, the force of him, the weight of him…the sheets, the dim light in the room from the single lamp on the table, and from the dying fire in the hearth. She lay shaking, trembling, stunned by the cataclysmic nature of the night.

  He eased his weight from her and lay at her side. She did not open her eyes. His arm came round her, cradling her to him. She thought he would speak, for the world had changed so that words must be said…

  “Good night, my dear,” he murmured.

  An
d that was all.

  She lay awake.

  Diversion.

  She had never felt such splendor. And yet…

  Tears burned her eyes.

  She tried very hard not to move, not once, during the long night. Though perhaps she inched against him. For she was half asleep when she realized that she was feeling that sweet, searing, molten sense of arousal again. His lips teased her back. Down her spine. He rolled her toward him. His mouth found hers. She was barely aware of what was happening until he was in her again, and then she was wide awake, filled with him, feeling as if she had been taken by a raging wave. And again, she rode the pinnacle of a searing wonder, breathless, heart thundering, the sensation so powerful it burst with light.

  Afterward, she played possum so long that she drifted. When she opened her eyes at last, he was gone.

  IT WAS A BUSY MORNING AGAIN. Loading the ship, finding the cabins, seeing to the last details. The men were up and at the docks first.

  Hunter should have felt on top of the world. It was not that he lacked a certain swaggering pleasure in the night. It was just that David Turnberry’s face seemed to be before him at every turn. The man was doing nothing wrong. He was checking off boxes as they came, making the right inquiries, doing his work. Yet Hunter couldn’t so much as pass him by without thinking that he would gladly rip the fellow’s throat out were he to go near his wife ever again.

  The ship was crowded and cramped for space, but they would not be aboard long. And when they disembarked this time, they would be nearly at their final destination.

  “That’s the last of it,” Brian said. “Shall we join the ladies?”

  “A drink, dear Lord, a drink! I’m expiring!” Robert said teasingly.

  “I’m sure we can find a drink,” Hunter said dryly. “They will be serving aboard.”

  “But that, my thirsty young fellows, is one of the reasons it’s so important no box be left behind.”