The Captain's Lady

by Robecca Austin

  “Viscount,” Nicholas said, sailing Daniel’s abandoned hat through the air. “If I find your intentions less than honorable…”

  “You’ll have my head.” Daniel caught the hat as it cut the air above his head. “Don’t forget your promise, my lady.” He shouted above the roll of wheels.

  They rode at a steady gallop for a few minutes when she realized Nicholas wasn’t turning their carriage around. “Where are you taking me?” she asked when he made no move to turn them around.

  “Gretna Green,” he said and looked at her, a brow gently arched. “Why else would an unmarried lass and a Viscount be on the North Road?”

  Isabella shook her head in denial. “I only meant to leave London. I had no idea we were traveling along the Great North Road.”

  Nicholas let the reins fall over his thighs. Eyes closed, he took a deep calming breath. Whether to gather control of his anger or because he was now stuck with her, Isabella didn’t know.

  If her presence infuriated him, he shouldn’t have come. She had no doubt he’d easily find another more suited to his temperament.

  “Why… Why did you come after me?” She sniffed.

  Still braced against the carriage, his head turned towards her, brows raised slightly. “Because, darling Isabella.” One long finger traced a line from her brow to her chin. Isabella shuddered at the unexpected contact. “Ye are mine.”

  “But you don’t…”

  “Care?” he asked warily “Love ye?”

  Within moments, Isabella found herself in his lap, his eyes hooded, growing darker. She flushed. It was a compromising position for a lady, indecent, more so in plain view. And it made her blood run hot. Cigar and soap and man filled her nose. Isabella breathed deep. Too late. Her tongue flicked along dry lips, moistening them. His gaze followed the gesture. Taut muscles flexed beneath layers of fabric and she gasped.

  He rested his forehead against hers, breathing deeply. Isabella’s hands tentatively reached up between them, palms lying against his chest. She heard his sharp intake of air and felt his heart speed in time with her own.

  “I would release you from this bargain if I could, Isabella. But I cannot.”

  She squeezed her eyes tightly against what his words implied. That he’d so easily let her go meant he didn’t care, not truly. A bargain of necessity was all that could ever be between them. Nothing more. Eyes moist with unshed tears, Isabella blinked them back, not wanting to show any weakness. He was winning her heart, she realized.

  No, he’d already won it.

  As easily as he’d gathered her close, Nicholas righted her on the seat, taking the reins into both hands. The hard set of his jaw replaced their moment of tenderness. “Some of the most respected marriages among your class were not founded on love, Isabella.”

  It was true, she agreed.

  “One does not always have such luxury. I have promised a home, agreed to all your terms, and of course financial support. Is there something else you desire?”

  “No,” she quickly answered. How could she tell him what she most desired? He was a practical sort. Not swayed by emotions. Trembling hands brushed the seams of her skirt, any distractions to keep from burying her face in them.

  They had been traveling for almost four days, stopping only to change horses, rest, and eat. The overnights had been spent at various inns along the route. It didn’t matter that Nicholas had gotten them separate rooms. With no chaperone or male relative to accompany them, her reputation was lost. No one would believe she was still virginal. Isabella sighed. She did not have close male relatives in abundance and, although the thought warmed her, she certainly did not expect her father to chase after her.

  She was tired. Her bottom ached from prolonged sitting and she longed for a proper bed. Although she was enjoying the sprawling landscapes and hills, she wished to stop moving and sink beneath the waters of a steaming bath.

  Isabella stretched.

  “Look,” Nicholas said, pointing. They were nearing a hut. Nicholas slowed the horses to a halt. “Wait for me here, Isabella.” Feet on the ground, he tied the reins to a post before knocking on the door. They didn’t have to wait long. The door swung open. A man as built as Nicholas, but with shoulders slightly broader, stood at the entrance. From his bulk, charcoaled apron, and high boots, Isabella guessed he was the town’s blacksmith.

  Their hushed, rapid exchange increased her nervousness. Her fingers knotted in her lap. From the deep burr of his voice, she knew Nicholas was home among this Scottish country man. By now, all of London knew she hadn’t married Nicholas as announced, as well as of his chase across the country side. Escaping the ton here was possible, on land that stretched beyond hills. She giggled nervously at the thought of high society guessing as to her whereabouts.

  Both men turned. The blacksmith’s gaze held, searched, before full lips curved into a broad smile. But it was Nicholas’s raised brows and amused smirk that sent her heart racing.

  “Come.” Nicholas helped her from the carriage. “Your amusement confirmed our happiness to Ian, and he’s agreed to perform a hand-fasting.”

  Her brows wrinkled.

  “He carries out the local weddings until someone from the clergy passes through the village and can perform the ceremony.”

  Isabella quickly glanced at the man that now held the door open wider in welcome and received a nod in return. “I thought him the blacksmith.”

  Nicholas chuckled. “Aye, he is both.”

  “Ma name is Ian,” the man introduced himself once they entered his home. “This is ma wife, Gillian, and sister Fenella.”

  “A pleasure to meet ye,” Nicholas said. “This is Lady Isabella Pennington, and I’m Nicholas Ferguson. Thank ye for agreeing to do this on such short notice.” Nicholas nodded to both women.

  “Nay much is planned beyond a month in these parts.” Gillian smiled. “The wee lads and lassies are more anxious to get started. The tartan cloth is nay loose when they run in search of privacy.”

  “Gillian!” Ian groaned.

  “Well it’s true! I seldom think they hear your words, husband, before they’re racing to the nearest lodgings.” She shook her head. “The poor priest is kept busy.”

  Isabella blushed.

  “Fenella, why don’t ye start a pot o’ tea? That’ll give Lady Isabella time for a wet cloth before the pipes.”

  Sure she was the color of a ripe apple, Isabella followed Gillian to a small room at the back of the house. It was smaller than her own powder room, with white-washed walls and a large window that flooded the room with light. Simple, but with all the essentials and a feeling of comfort.

  “What a beautiful vanity.” Solid oak with silver carving embedded into its legs and surface.

  “Thank ye. My husband carved it and gifted it to me on our wedding day. He finished it only hours before our ceremony.”

  “What does it say?” Isabella ran her fingers along the inscription.

  “Yer beauty shines from beyond what ye see.” It was Gillian’s turn to blush.

  After all these years, Isabella saw a woman still in love with her husband. Envy and longing nipped at her heart.

  As if sensing her insecurities, Gillian said, “Yer Nicholas seems like a fine mon. Do ye love him?”

  Despite all attempts not to, she did care for him. Isabella nodded.

  “Then, I pray you have the happiest of marriages. Now come, before that mon of yours thinks ye have fled.”

  Isabella flinched. It would do no good to incite Nicholas’s anger further. Following Gillian into the front parlor, Isabella was again startled by the size of both men. They filled the room. She watched the two of them, both confident in their stature. Nicholas’s mouth curved in good humor at Ian’s jest.

  He was six feet tall, the top of her head meeting the center of his chest. They couldn’t possibly fit together, could they? Looking at the man who was soon to be her husband, she wondered if he was huge everywhere. At the direction of her wanton thou
ghts, a shiver started at the base of her spine as she realized tonight would be their wedding night.

  Nicholas’s eyes met hers, pinning her to the floor, his gaze as effective as iron chains. He took her elbow, guiding her to his side.

  Ian smiled and took his place before them. Isabella swallowed. It was not how she imagined her wedding day. She glanced at Nicholas, but he stood rigid. The blacksmith spoke, his words washing over them. Herbs and spices from the tea and cakes drifted to her nose.

  Eyes moist, Isabella was unable to stop a lone tear from leaking. It may not be the wedding of her dreams, but the ceremony was warm and personal. She immediately felt guilty for depriving Nicholas’s family of the nuptials.

  Ian’s wife and sister stood as witnesses. The joining words were clear as Nicholas repeated them. She was next. Two words would seal her fate. She would be married, bound forever to a man who had made it clear he had no intention of loving her. She swallowed, studying Nicholas. Black suited him. It wrapped around him like a cloak rather than clothing. Pinned to his chest was his family’s tartan brooch.

  The sharp ridges of his jaw and eyes willed fear and offered protection. Hadn’t he protected her that first night, made her feel whole, wanted? And wasn’t that a husband’s role, Isabella wondered.

  Isabella glanced up and realized both Nicholas and Ian waited on her response.

  “I do,” she said solemnly. She did care for him, would cherish him and hold fast to the sanctuary of their marriage. Would he? Could he ever love her? Pushing the thought aside, she scolded herself.

  Reaching into his pockets, Nicholas revealed a heart-shaped brooch, the plaid similar to the one he wore. She gasped when the cool pin weaved between the materials above her breast, the antique brooch delicate in his large hand.

  “If ye will have it so, it’s both a Luckenbooth and tartan. The weaving from my mother’s clan,” he explained. His head lowered, fingers brushing the pin. “It says, ‘My love and wife. Friend and clansmen.’”

  Strong hands circled her waist, drawing her against the solid wall of his body. Eyes alight with mischief, his lips were mere inches from hers. His breath brushing against her cheek, Nicholas uttered a single word before claiming her mouth. “Mine.”

  This was different from all his other kisses. Hungrier. A taste of their future. The thought of their nights being the fire to their days sent a new thrill through Isabella. This power he held frightened her.

  Isabella swayed.

  He nipped her lower lip, then licked away the sting. Isabella gasped, the heat that started on her lips moving downward.

  He, too, moaned as his tongue swept past her lips.

  Too dazed to react when Ian cleared his throat, she allowed her new husband to hold her close.

  “A thousand welcomes to ye in marriage. May ye be healthy all your days. May ye be blessed with long life and peace. May ye grow old with goodness and riches.” As Ian blessed them, Nicholas stared into her eyes.

  Mine. His last words played over and over. She was his.

  Twenty One

  Within the hour, he’d found the inn Ian and his wife had suggested. They were warned it was comfortable, but probably not filled with the splendors they were accustomed to. But polished silverware was not her first thought—spending the night with Nicholas was. There was no one to tutor her on what was expected. What if he found her lacking?

  “Afternoon m’lady, m’lord.” The innkeeper beamed. “Just married, are ye? Ian sent word ye’d be wanting a room.”

  “Good afternoon, sir.” Isabella blushed when the man’s eyes darted between them. Though she’d brushed most of the dust from her traveling drapery, it still clung to her shoes.

  “I’d like a room,” Nicholas said. “Tea and a bath drawn for my wife.”

  “I’ve just the room—”

  Nicholas cut him off with a wave of his hand. “The best corner room you have facing the east.” He tossed a few extra coins on the counter, which disappeared before having chance to settle. It surprised Isabella that he so easily sought to comfort her.

  Either the word “wife” or the extra coins spurred the innkeeper into action. “Of course, sir.” The innkeeper snapped his fingers and two girls stood at attention as he barked orders in rapid succession.

  “You, laddie.” The innkeeper addressed a young boy covered in grime. “Take care of the gentleman’s horse and take his bags to his rooms straight away.”

  As the boy passed, Nicholas dropped a coin into his dirty hands.

  “Thanks!” The lad beamed.

  “Nay need for that, sir,” the innkeeper shouted.

  The boy grinned, showing off his white teeth. Isabella’s hand reached to stroke the boy’s cheek, but she instead found her arm linked with Nicholas’s.

  Nicholas shrugged, then plucked the coin from the boy’s hand. She watched in horror as the boy ran from the lobby. The innkeeper looked pleased. She was about to chastise Nicholas when he entwined his fingers through hers. He squeezed lightly. No coin! He hadn’t taken the coin from the child. It only appeared that way. She looked at him with wide eyes.

  What a smart lad, Isabella thought. And cunning.

  “Will ye take tea in the lunchroom, m’lady? Supper will be served shortly.”

  “Yes,” Isabella answered. She was only postponing the inevitable, she knew, but she couldn’t stop her heart from leaping against her chest.

  The innkeeper moved from behind the counter, leading them into a spacious dining parlor, sitting them close to the large window.

  Orange glow moved across the surface of the tablecloth. Little balls of white light danced over the cutlery and napkins. She tapped her finger on one small reflection, amused when it moved out of reach.

  “Is it too bright, Isabella?” His voice was cheered by her silliness.

  Isabella shook her head. “I enjoy this time of day,” she told him. “The sunset, it is not bright or hot. Evenings are the right time for entertainment, yet too late for callers if one does not wish company. It is peaceful.” She risked a wary glance in his direction. His eyes were soft, thoughtful.

  “Aye, the wee hours before dawn as well.”

  He would appreciate the hours leading to dawn, she thought. They were gloomy. She giggled, unable to suppress the strangled noise from escaping her lips.

  Nicholas frowned. His hand reached across the distance, his fingers stroking her cheek. “Your disposition on my favored time of day leaves much to be desired.”

  “I… I did not mean to…”

  “As your husband, it is now my duty to show you why I prefer early mornings.”

  Their eyes held for a long moment without words. What she saw in their depths was an unspoken challenge. Looking away, Isabella felt heat gather where his fingers caressed her skin. He was deliberately needling her.

  The servant came then, placing cups of tea and sweets on the table. Isabella welcomed the distraction. Nicholas was being a perfect gentleman, attentive. Was it his intent not to shadow their wedding night with hostility?

  Isabella had to admit she was as curious as she was scared. She remembered the wicked things those hands had done the day he’d found Daniel in her townhouse. His hands had burned her, and no number of layers of clothing had stopped him. His touch hounded her even now. What would happen when he truly had his way? Her heart would be lost to him forever. Isabella bit her lip, pulling it between her teeth. She could ask for more time, least until they were home on familiar grounds.

  “Isabella,” he groaned, “stop that.”

  Her brows drew together as she met his stare. Slowly, she released her lower lip from the clutches of her teeth. “I… I think I’ll have that bath now.” Retreat, she thought. She was almost always at an advantage when she had time to think.

  “Would ye like help?”

  She really needed to avoid those stormy eyes.

  “Let me wash ye.” He leaned closer.

  Isabella staggered, unable to block the image his wor
ds created. “No!” She hurried from the room. Again, he’d unraveled her wit.

  Leaning against the back of his chair, Nicholas folded his arms across his chest and studied Isabella’s fleeing form. She had acted virginal—very different from the day he had taken her from her home. She had writhed beneath him that day. Blossomed to his touch. That Isabella had left him aroused for the better part of the afternoon. Having her in his home didn’t help. Knowing she was within reach heated his blood. So he had avoided her and held fast to the bargain they’d struck, a bloody shame. An agreement Isabella had mucked up when she chose to run away. He didn’t know what game she played, but he aimed to find out.

  He shrugged away any thought of Isabella as an innocent. Had she not bargained for continued involvement with the viscount, Daniel? And after a three-year engagement to Lord Emsley—knowing the man frequented hidden brothels—Nicholas was now convinced they had shared more than chaste kisses.

  Was it fear, then, that made her rebuke him? Nicholas frowned. Or was she still in love with Emsley? Neither notion appealed to him as he pushed away from the table and stood.

  More than an hour had passed since she’d abandoned their meal. He headed towards the stairs that led to their room, aware complete darkness did not engulf them yet. Isabella had given him a glimpse of the lightning passion she possessed and he wanted more. Of all the women he’d bedded, none drove him stir-mad like Isabella. That first night at the ball, when her reddened lips had parted for him, Nicholas knew she was his. She belonged in his bed, though she wasn’t aware of it yet. The ton would laugh if they knew he desired his own wife.

  Entering the room, he closed and locked the door. Nicholas shrugged out of his coat, draping it over the nearest chair in the small parlor that connected to their sleeping quarters. He half expected her to greet him at the door, protest her readiness, but no sound came from either room. Rosewood peppered the air. Nicholas breathed deep, trusting his instincts.

  He moved to the entryway of their bed chamber and braced his broad shoulders against the frame. His body stiffened immediately at the sight of Isabella soaking in the hip bath. Back to him, her thick hair taunted the ground. Nicholas did not know how long he stood watching her bathe—seconds, minutes—until she sat forward, reached for the robe on the floor, and stood.