“How dare you!”
His gaze was drawn, once again, to her sparkling green eyes, down her creamy neck, and to the bosom that so enticingly struggled to escape her gown with each breath.
“Do you like what you see?” Surprised, his gaze returned to see her magnificent eyes and her raised chin. She’d caught him red-handed, ogling her like a man who frequented unsavory taverns. Never mind the fact his pulse had begun to pound, a sudden surge of lust hitting him square in the gut, and lower.
Her chin rose higher.
He nodded. “Aye, your body and features are quite pleasing.” No use in denying it, but it felt damned strange to spout to a lady she was worth eyeballing, and without offering any apologies.
Perplexed over his barbarous behavior in the last ten minutes, he settled in the chair behind his desk. “The personality and temperament leave me wondering, however.”
Damnation.
Aye, the brandy had definitely had an influence on him, an adverse and bewildering effect. He dared not touch any more liquor. Who knew what other impulsive remarks he might utter, or actions he would carry out. His brain was already muddled with the fog of the drink, even though the exertion exhibited during their struggle had aided him in reducing said fog.
Good God, he’d just bodily carried her inside his home and spanked her along the way. He’d just insulted her in no uncertain terms, as well. What the bloody hell was the matter with him?
She clamped her mouth shut, biting off a curse, he was sure.
He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together.
“Since you have forgotten my earlier request to meet, we will have that discussion now.”
She folded her arms across those lovely breasts, eyes narrowing, yet again. “That was no request.”
“No? Well, it was the least you could have done after having destroyed my property.”
“I had just received terrible news.” She said it as if she were trying to justify her foul temper.
“Do you always destroy items that are not yours when you receive bad news?”
She gave him a tight smile. “Do you always get foxed during the day and force your guests over your shoulder?”
It was difficult not to sit back, sigh, and run his hand through his hair. He felt a twitching of skin under his left eye. She was positively infuriating. And, his reactions to her were just as vexing.
Her eyes lit with interest as she looked about the room, leaning back more comfortably in her chair. “This is a fine study.”
“There are entirely too many things to break in here.” He could not resist.
She cocked her head to the side, and he could not help watching as the ends of her braid caressed the top of one breast, highlighting more freckled, creamy skin.
He scrutinized her exposed shoulder, her long neck, then let his stare rest fully on her face. Her look could only be described as deliberate as she returned his stare with a mixture of rebellion and fury. He was thankful for the concealment from the desk as his trousers began to tighten with sudden arousal.
Damnation, what a spitfire. Undaunted, unafraid, and unashamed of his perusal of her body, she sat with her back straight and accusing eyes on him. He wanted nothing more than to take her over his knee and give her backside another good whack, and to hear the faint, Irish accent that painted her speech when riled.
And, Addison wanted her—he had no doubts that she would probably fight him, tooth and nail. Her green eyes, damning him to all the fires of Hell said so. Bloody vexing that the thought roused his manhood to its full erect state, stretching his breeches to the breaking point. He reached for his liquor glass with no thought to an earlier idea of refraining.
“I believe there was a topic you desired to discuss with me, My Lord?” She said the last with seething intent. Unfolding her arms, she pushed up from the settee and perused the bookcases throughout the room, giving him a delicious view of her profile.
He leaned back in his chair, trying to adjust the uncomfortable position the hardness tenting his breeches had left him. He’d be damned if he’d let her know how she had already affected him.
“Aye.” Desired, most assuredly.
She touched a book here and there as she slowly walked the room. Her delicate fingers caressed the spines. Her shoulders were thrown back, her back straight.
“Well, might we begin? I had planned to retrieve a wardrobe from a friend of my uncle.” He noticed, then, a large rip in her skirt, probably from their struggle in the drive.
“Might you simply change for dinner?” It was a reasonable question.
She turned those emerald eyes on him.
“I’d not have a stitch on if I changed, sir. This is my only gown.”
He groaned at the vision her statement provoked, a painful thump of a heartbeat in his manhood. She was direct and not the least bit shy about such inappropriate subject matter. Never in his life had he encountered a woman like her.
“Then, you’ve a friend to visit. I see.”
She turned back to her perusal of his book collection.
“Aye. That’s what I was doing when I was so rudely accosted.”
Suddenly feeling the cad, he bit back a retort, thankful she could not see the frown he displayed. “The wardrobe you wish to retrieve is close to Cranford Hall?”
She shrugged without turning. “Tradd Street in Charles Town was the address my uncle provided in his missive.” She emphasized the last word as she removed a book from the shelf.
She had no idea the distance between his home and town. She might have been gone for days had he not stopped her escape.
“It’s just as well, then, Madam. Travel by carriage to Charles Town can take anywhere from two to three days’ time depending on the mud and terrain. May I suggest one of my men row you to Charles Town in one of the long boats?”
“Aye, I would prefer the river more than the carriage.” She replaced the book, turning to look at him over her shoulder. “I shall fetch Raphael and we can be on our way.”
“You may go after our discussion.” He cleared his throat, readying the words he’d rehearsed the entire hour he had waited for her to appear in his study the first time. “I am in need of a wife to see to the running of this household. I have agreed to provide a roof over your head, become your husband, afford the protection of my name and honor. This was your uncle’s wish. Since you shall be staying here permanently, and your son as well . . .”
“Sons,” she turned to face him. “And, a daughter.” A smile curved her lips—a gamine smile at that—assailing him with another jolt of lust.
He focused on her words. “Sons? A daughter? Holt appears to be the only boy I have here in my home.”
“Then, you need to look again, sir. My newest son and daughter are in the crib in the nursery.”
He eyed her suspiciously. A test, perhaps?
“You’ve had more children?”
“Aye, they all come with me. You take me. You take them.”
He did not care how many children she had. He loved children. Visions of family gatherings swirled through his mind, and his pulse quickened. Still, it was the lady herself of whom he was quite unsure.
“That is neither here nor there, madam. The fact remains, you must obey my rules if you’re going to reside here.” He gave her a direct and meaningful look. “First rule: no destruction of my property.”
She quirked a dark auburn eyebrow, a slight smile played about her full lips.
“Rule two: you shall treat everyone in this house with respect, including me.”
A blush crept up her neck to stain her cheeks an enchanting pink.
“Do you think to give me rules, sir?” She’d folded her arms across her bosom again, her eyes narrowing.
“Rule three: you
shall abide by the vows of marriage, obeying your husband.” Smiling, he laced his fingers behind his head as he leaned back. “Although, it is general practice on the plantations in this area to whip obedience into servants, I do not use that practice. However, I could make an exception for a wife.”
Her nostrils flared. “You wouldn’t dare.”
He leaned forward and allowed his gaze to travel down her body and rest on her backside. “We’ve already deduced that I would, madam.”
She fisted her hands at her side, her mouth working as if she were trying to hold in the swear words he’d heard her muttering while she exited the carriage. Instead, she demanded, “Are we done, here?”
No other acceptable reason presented itself, to his mind, to detain her further. He nodded, “For now. You may continue on your journey for proper attire.” He said it to pique her temper, just in case she forgot to ask his permission.
He found enjoyment sparking her very flammable temper.
“Oh!” He heard a few expletives as his study door slammed on her exit.
He grimaced though, wondering what Cormac had thrust upon him. He needed the land to expand and he’d given Cormac his word.
He sighed, finally allowing himself the habit of jerking his hand through his hair.
Taming Mrs. Anne Morgan was proving to be a challenge, and he’d only had the pleasure of her presence less than a day.
How would he survive more than one day?
Chapter 6
Anne stomped out the front door, down the steps, and toward the carriage.
Raphael lifted a brow at her and shrugged his shoulders as he jumped atop to grab the reins.
Her mouth settled in a mulish line as she stood below her bodyguard.
“You just allowed that man carry me off like a sack of potatoes.” Had she expected him to look sheepish or ashamed at her words? No doubt her father’s hired hand knew the man would be her husband. And, what man did not manhandle his wife? A grunt was his response.
She threw her hands up in the air. “Men.” She motioned impatiently to the brute. “Come. Blackhurst is sending us by way of the river. It is much quicker than this blasted carriage.”
She fumed the entire walk to the river. The long boat in which she’d only just arrived remained at the ready. Artie, one of her companions from the trip up the River Ashley, stood with a hat crushed in his beefy hands.
“Ma’am.” Large, kind brown eyes looked at her from a tanned, weathered face. Short and bulky, scarred arms and hands, and mousy black hair contrasted the kind grin and warm eyes.
He nodded behind her, acknowledging Raphael. “Master Blackhurst said you wish to return to Charles Town for a few hours.”
“Thank you, Artie. Yes, please.”
They walked over to the small dock, and she allowed him to hand her down to Raphael, who had lumbered ahead of her to steady the boat. She gave him a pinched face.
What had he been thinking during the beastly display of being carried about like a cavewoman?
Swallowing hard, she plopped down, unladylike, in the boat. As she sat in silence, she tried valiantly to forget how her pulse quickened when Addison looked at her so passionately for those few moments in the study. She gazed around her, not noticing aught around them, as Raphael and Artie rowed them along.
So wrapped up was she in the feel of his strong hands on her as he’d carried her away, she hadn’t paid attention to the scenery jostling by, or any thoughts for that matter. Truth be known, Addison’s handling of her had not been the least bit rough. Although he had tried to restrain her flailing hands and feet, he was still gentle for such a large man.
And, then he’d smacked her bottom.
Just a short, quick thump that had sent her senses reeling. It had stung, but something utterly different had fluttered in her belly. A pooling of heat that settled into the pit of her stomach, and lower. That same fluttering sensation had occurred again in the study as he’d gazed at her with those steely gray eyes, appreciating her even as she stood before him still disheveled.
It was amazing how quickly he could put her in a temper and create that strange feeling in her lower belly and weaken her knees—all at the same time.
Anne rubbed the back of her neck to ease the contradictory thoughts flooding her mind. Not to mention the odd sensations coursing through her senses.
The boat glided along with the to and fro of the oars as the men labored over them, and she pondered her circumstances and the insufferable obstacle now in her path. She was not quite sure who was winning this game they were playing of trying to best one another.
Her muddled thoughts carried her through the first hour of their journey, and Artie’s lively conversation of the flora and fauna along the Ashley kept them entertained the rest of the way.
At the end, Raphael pulled her up from the boat and onto a small dock west of the city. Artie said he’d await them there on the boat, and she followed Raphael on the sand-covered streets to Tradd Street. He led them to stand before a three-story, brick home, typical of the Charles Towne well-to-do. The immaculate brick façade was impressive, indeed.
She steeled herself and hurried up the stairs to the entry door.
Anne straightened her shoulders as she rapped the knocker against the front door. A plump man with curly, white sprigs of hair enveloping a balding head greeted her. Round spectacles framed his crisp, blue eyes. As he spoke, his bushy brows lifted. “May I help you, Miss?”
She beamed at him, and found she had to look down to address the round man. “Hello, sir. I wish to speak with Elizabeth Browning.”
He eyed her curiously. She surmised her wrinkled gown gave him pause. But, he nodded and motioned her into the sun-lit entryway, the smell of roses permeating the interior.
The glamour of the interior mirrored that of Cranford Hall. An intricate carpet lined the foyer floor, and an exotic and presumably expensive chandelier hung from the tall ceiling. Mrs. Browning and her husband were important Charles Towne citizens. Foreign as ever in her torn, stained gown, she kept the smile upon her face despite the feeling of inadequacy.
“Who might I say is calling, Miss?” He ushered her into a small ladies’ parlor to the right of the foyer, busy floral wallpaper adorning its interior.
“Mrs. Anne Morgan. I believe she is expecting me.”
“Please, have a seat. I shall send word to her ladyship.” The man had an uncanny ability to stare down his long nose at her, although she stood above him. Pompous and full of his own importance, she thought.
She stifled a giggle. Sarah would swallow the man up in an instant.
Settling onto a small, rose-colored settee before the large-paned window in the parlor, Anne admired the large vase of yellow and orange roses sitting on the marble-topped table before her. The aroma overpowered the room, but she preferred the flowery scent over the smells she’d become accustomed to in jail.
A lone portrait hung above the fireplace of a wispy-haired lad with terriers playing about his feet—a typical aristocratic painting. Fine porcelain plates and vases adorned the mantle and side tables. A tea service sat on another table in the corner.
Anne tapped her fingers on her leg, wondering how long she would be forced to wait for her hostess. Patience was not one of her virtues, but having no knowledge of Elizabeth Browning personally, she was able to keep her impatience at bay.
A grandfather clock chimed from somewhere in the interior of the home when the door to the parlor clicked open, as if announcing the woman on cue.
A tall and regal, older woman with piles of gray hair stacked upon her head strolled through the entrance. She wore a deep violet damask gown with a low cut bodice that could have wriggled a few eyebrows at any soiree. Anne’s brows rose seconds before she remembered her manners. This was not a tavern in Tortuga.
She stood, gave the lady her brightest smile, and held out her hand. “How nice to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Browning. I’m Anne Morgan.”
Crinkles at the corners of the lady’s turquoise eyes appeared as she smiled, reaching for Anne’s hand and squeezing it. “Of course, Anne. I’ve been expecting you.” She gave a small tug on Anne’s hand, sat on the settee, and patted the space beside her. “Come, have a seat,” she chuckled. “And, please, call me Elizabeth.”
Laugh lines were in the corners of Elizabeth’s mouth, as if she’d done quite a bit of chuckling in her day. Anne liked that about her immediately.
Not sure how much the woman knew, she decided to approach gently. “William Cormac sent me to you. He suggested you might have some clothing you wanted to be rid of?”
Placing a hand above her heart, she sighed. “Oh my, yes. I’ve six children, you know, all married and on their own now. My eldest daughter, God rest her soul, passed away giving birth to her seventh child.”
“I am deeply sorry.” Anne watched as Elizabeth patted her hand, as if Anne were the one needing condolences.
“Thank you, dear. It’s been three years, and I miss her every day.” Sizing up Anne’s gown—wrinkled, smudged with dirt and dust—Elizabeth nodded. “Aye, you shall need clothing. I’ve so many dresses, undergarments, coats, riding habits, that were my Lenore’s . . . they should fit you quite nicely. The entire wardrobe shipped direct from London, I might add.”
Momentarily speechless, Anne throttled a gasp. She was to receive her daughter’s entire, expensive wardrobe? She couldn’t contain the surprise in her voice.
My Bonny Heart (Pirate's Progeny Book 1) Page 6