Hope Tarr

by Untamed

  Gavin’s gaze connected with hers, and a broad smile broke over his face. “You don’t mean The Taming of the Shrew, by any chance?”

  She nodded. “Indeed. I’d say given the circumstances, a special wedding gift is in order, wouldn’t you? You never know, but it might make for … instructive reading.”

  Gavin rolled his eyes. “That depends upon Rourke actually reading it. I’ve yet to see him pick up anything that wasn’t a newspaper or railway financial report.”

  “You assume Lady Katherine is the one in need of taming.”

  He sent her a tolerant smile. “In that case, I’ll post it first thing in the morning.”

  She reached out and swiped her thumb over the champagne bead resting on his sexy lower lip. As much as she loved a party, she was very much looking forward to their private celebration after the guests had gone.

  “Perfect, my love, pray do.”

  “Married!” Felicity pulled her head from the musky space between her latest keeper’s tented knees and looked up into his strained face. “Why didn’t you tell me before now?”

  On the cusp of climax, Lord Haversham raised his perspiring head from the pillow. “It just happened this morning. Lindsey said O’Rourke refused to stay for the wedding breakfast. Threw the little shrew over his shoulder like a sack of corn and carried her off to the train station. God, I would have loved to have seen the bitch’s face. With luck, that meddlesome package will be out of my hair. Good riddance. The younger chit is biddable enough. She should present no problem at all.”

  His heavy hand landed at the back of her head, pushing her down, but Felicity reared out of reach. “You should have told me.”

  His lordship scowled. “What’s it to do with you?”

  Swinging her long legs over the bedside, Felicity shrugged. She hadn’t even known Rourke was back in London, but then these days she hardly traveled in West End drawing-room circles. “I fancy my information as much as the next person. I’ve certainly helped you to yours a time or two.”

  Considering the question, she padded over to the chipped dresser, moving slowly to give him time to appreciate her buxom backside and delicious curves. Of all her lovers, a considerable number particularly as she was just twenty-three, there was only one man who’d ever truly possessed the power to not only satisfy, but enslave her. Patrick O’Rourke—Rourke—had always given her as good a shagging as he’d got. Felicity wasn’t prone to self-reflection, let alone regret, but this once she had to admit she’d been a bloody fool to let him loose. Given time, she might have brought him around to the idea of their marrying. Even if he’d held the hard line—and Felicity’s mouth watered at the memory of just how very hard he got and how very long he remained that way—being his mistress had brought its own rewards.

  But beyond the carnal delights he could deliver, Rourke was a rich man and a generous one. He’d purchased the former Palace supper club to help out a friend, but he’d yet to reopen it. Before its closing, the popular Covent Garden nightspot had launched the careers of several stars of the stage, including the actress formerly known as Delilah du Lac. The music-hall chanteuse, whose real name was Daisy Lake, had gone on to debut in a proper play at Drury Lane. With her new husband, also a friend of Rourke’s, she was about to open her own theatre in the East End.

  Felicity’s stage career was progressing at a considerably slower pace. She’d left Edinburgh for London two years ago, and by now she really ought to be a top liner somewhere. Instead she was stuck dancing in the chorus at the Royal Alhambra Palace on the east side of Leicester Square. Most of her fellow dancers seemed to have no ambition beyond trolling the canteen between performances and flirting with the gentlemen patrons for pairs of gloves and shots of gin. Felicity aspired to better, but she was coming to wonder if “better” was, indeed, on the way. The present shabby suite of rented rooms where Haversham had set her up was fast losing its charm.

  Haversham called to her from the bed, “Surely you don’t mean to leave me now, like … this?”

  In the rust-spotted mirror, she caught a glimpse of his tortured face and smiled. The sadist in her loved that she was leaving him aching.

  Folding her arms across her berry-tipped breasts, she turned about to face him. “That all depends on how cooperative you show yourself to be.”

  He scowled again and braced his hand about his cock. “What the devil? I’ll play any game you fancy, only come over here and finish this first.”

  As much as Felicity enjoyed toying with the whips and paddles and silk ties tucked into her bedside table, she had more important matters on her mind. “All in good time, ducks, but first tell me everything you know about the younger Lindsey sister—and I mean everything.”

  Kate nodded off shortly after they crossed the border into Scotland. She awoke to Rourke pressing on her shoulder. “Kate, wake up, this is our stop.”

  Muzzy-headed, she nodded and got up. She collected her carpetbag and followed her new husband out into the train vestibule. It was dark when they stepped down onto the open-air platform.

  Kate looked about, the station lights illuminating winter white sky and gray drizzle. The rural station was a far cry from the splendor of King’s Cross, but then King’s Cross was in the heart of London whereas Linlithgow was a much smaller town. It stood to reason a castle wouldn’t very well be in the city. What had she been thinking?

  The obvious answer was, she hadn’t been thinking. She hadn’t thought things out at all. She’d trusted Rourke to take care of their travel plans, to take care of her. She wasn’t used to putting her fate, her person, in anyone else’s hands, particularly a man’s. That she had, and without conscious thought, brought about an odd and disconcerting mix of feelings.

  Following him through the knot of disembarking passengers, she found himself admiring the way the cut of his coat showed off his broad shoulders and tapered waist. Whatever his faults, she couldn’t discount the obvious. Her new husband was a fine figure of a man.

  That a man who always dressed so meticulously would have shown up as he had to a wedding, his, baffled her. Obviously he’d set out to annoy her—he had annoyed her—but why he would choose to do so by dressing as a clown baffled her.

  He positioned her by one of the benches on the platform. “Wait here, Kate. I’ll go and fetch our luggage, and then we’ll be on our way.”

  For once Kate was too fatigued to argue. Beyond that, she sensed she was in good hands. Kate had only ridden the train a few times before, but her husband owned railways. She hadn’t missed the respectful looks lanced their way by the stationmaster and porters back at King’s Cross. He more than knew what to do.

  Kate took a seat on the bench. A gust of winter wind found its way inside her coat. She shivered and pulled the collar closer. This far north, the winters were far colder than what they’d left in London. If she stayed on, she would have to purchase a heavier winter coat than her fashionable, if thin wool one.

  If she stayed on. She caught the implication that she had a choice and shivered with a different sort of chill. She was married now, leg-shackled as it were. Like it or not, her place was with her husband.

  Returning footsteps had her snapping back to the present. She looked up at Rourke’s sober face. “I’m afraid our luggage has gone missing.”

  “Lost!” Kate popped up from her seat.

  “Aye, I’m afraid so.”

  “How can that be? I stood beside you on the station platform in London when you turned it over to that porter.”

  His nod acknowledged that was so. “It seems he omitted actually loading it into the baggage car. It may be sitting on the platform still, provided it hasna been stolen.”

  “Stolen!”

  “It’s possible, but hopefully not. If it was recovered, they’ll send it on the next train in another day or two.”

  For a man who’d also lost his luggage, and on his own railway no less, he seemed remarkably resigned. Had Kate been in his place, heads would have rolled.r />
  He cocked his head to the side. “Actually, it’s all for the best.”

  She glared at him. All this cheeriness really was beginning to grate. “How so?”

  “The cabs are all off for the evening.”

  “Meaning?”

  Beneath the hazy glow of the platform lights, his smile seemed to broaden to a jack-o’-lantern’s grin. “We’ll have to walk.”

  She looked beyond the platform where the drizzle was fast building to a full-scale downpour and felt her spirits dampening along with the weather.

  “But it’s raining—hard.” She didn’t have so much as a parasol with her, let alone an umbrella. All she owned at the moment was contained in the upholstered carpetbag lying on the bench seat.

  He tucked her arm in his. “Dinna fash, Kate. As neither of us is particularly sweet, we’ve nay worries of melting.”

  “How much farther is this castle of yours?”

  Rourke cast a backward glance to his bride limping along the roadside. The mud had sucked off her left shoe a while back, and in bending down to retrieve it, she’d slipped and fallen face-first in the mud. She’d lost her hat, as well. A gust of wind had made short work of it, blowing it into a frost-parched field where it landed in a pile of dung. Wet hair trailed down her back and plastered her cheeks and neck. Every so often, she reached up a hand to smooth it back, smearing even more filth on her face. Poor lass, if pride preceded a fall, Kate had fallen twice now and still she managed to hold on to her dignity. Under other circumstances, he might have found himself admiring her. Damn it, he did admire her, though he had no intention of altering his course. Every time he was tempted to take pity on her, he forced his thoughts back to the escapade in her father’s garden. The mental picture of those jeering faces, Kate’s among them, brought him back swiftly to his purpose—taming the shrew trailing behind him.

  He pretended to consider, though he knew the distance exactly. “Och, another league, I’d say.”

  Breathing hard, she hauled up beside him. “But that’s an hour’s walk at least. And we’ve walked so far already. Are you quite certain you know the direction?”

  “Dinna fash, lass. I ken these roads like the back of my hand.”

  She shielded her hand over her eyes and peered out onto the hedgerow-bordered roadway. “I’m not, uh … fashing. I was only wondering where we are. I could almost imagine we’re turning in circles.”

  Rourke hid a smile. They had done a loop or two, as a matter of fact. His castle was less than a league from the train station. On a fine day he sometimes walked to the station simply to enjoy the exercise. They might have been there by now, only he’d deliberately taken her the most rambling, roundabout route of rutted country lanes.

  Likewise, their luggage going missing was no happenstance. He’d arranged with the porter to have their trunks “lost.” The man had looked at him oddly, but as Rourke owned the railway, what was he to do but comply? This taming business was proving to be bloody hard work. He only hoped Kate broke and soon. Until she did, he had no choice but to suffer along with her.

  To annoy her, and hopefully speed matters along, he made a point of thickening his burr. He wasn’t the ace mimic that Ralph was, but he tossed in every Scots colloquialism he could. She hadn’t remarked upon it yet, but he suspected before long she would.

  “Was there no one who might have met us at the station?”

  “Aye, only we werena expected ’til tomorrow.”

  That news had the predicted effect. She swung her head about. Even in semidarkness, there was no missing the murderous look she lanced him. “Tomorrow! Do you mean to say we might have stayed for our wedding breakfast and taken a train in the morning?”

  “Aye, so we might have—only I found myself so bowled over by your sweet temperament and pleasing ways in the church, darling Kate, that I couldna bring myself to wait another day to bear you back to my own home—and bed.”

  Rather than answer that, she said, “Are you quite certain we haven’t missed it, some entrance road or drive …”

  “That eager to begin the honeymoon, are ye?”

  She screwed up her face as though a foul smell had wafted their way. “If I’m eager for anything, it’s a hot bath and a hot supper and a night’s rest—undisturbed rest.”

  “In that case, Katie, forward ho. The hospitality of my hearth awaits my lady’s pleasure.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “This is a way to kill a wife with kindness, And thus I’ll curb her mad and headstrong humor. He that knows better how to tame a shrew, Now let him speak—’tis charity to show.”

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, PETRUCHIO, The Taming of the Shrew

  y the time they reached Rourke’s castle, Kate’s teeth were knocking together, and an unshakable chill streaked the length of her spine. She’d swallowed her pride and accepted Rourke’s coat a while back if only to silence his persistent offers. Still, with their clothing soaked through, the extra layer scarcely helped. Limping up the drive beyond the stone gatehouse, curiously devoid of a keeper, she was too fatigued, dispirited, and bone-chilled to give the crenellated battlements and cone-topped towers more than a passing look. There would be plenty of time for exploring in the days ahead—those “fifty-odd years” came to mind. For the present, all she wanted was to get inside where it was dry and presumably warm, or at least warmer, and have a hot bath and a hot supper, the latter in no particular order.

  They stepped inside, and Kate found herself in the vestibule of a medieval great hall. Torches burned from cast-iron brackets anchored at intervals on the stone walls, providing patches of flickering light. Something tickled her nose, and she looked up. A tapestry of spider-webs hung suspended from the vaulted ceiling. Judging from the size and intricacy of the webs, they had been there for some time, a graveyard for flies and other insects, as well as home to more spiders than Kate cared to think about.

  Kate hated spiders.

  A stone fireplace took pride of place at the far end of the hall. Basking before it, a large brindle-colored mastiff rose from a plaid pallet covered in fur and ambled over to greet them, or rather Rourke.

  Kate’s gaze swung back to her husband. Other than horses, she hadn’t realized he might have animals purely as pets. “Ho, there, Toby, I missed you, too.” Leaping up on his hind legs, the dog planted his forepaws on Rourke’s chest.

  Kate eyed the animal, more miniature horse than dog. Standing upright, he was very nearly as tall as she. “That is not a dog.”

  “Oh, aye, he’s a dog a’right.” Rourke scratched the beast about the ears, sending the long, black spotted tongue lolling out one side of his mouth.

  Kate hung back by the door. Ever since one of her father’s hunting dogs had knocked her down face-first on the bricks, leaving her with the small white scar on her cheek, she’d been hesitant around dogs, large ones at least.

  “What, uh … kind is he … other than large, I mean?”

  Rourke shrugged as though the question of his pet’s pedigree had never occurred to him before now. “Part mastiff, wolfhound, and mayhap wolf. In the main, Toby’s a mongrel like me.”

  “I see.”

  The dog subsided to the floor on all fours, and Rouke brushed at the paw prints fronting his jacket. “Don’t let his size fool you. Toby is as gentle as a lamb. He wouldna harm a fly. Now a thief or a poacher, well, that’s a different story. Once he gets used to you, he’ll be your best friend. He’ll even sleep at the foot of your bed.”

  Given that the dog was not only large but rather matted and smelly, Kate heartily hoped to be spared the delight of having Toby as a bedmate. Still, if they were all to live together, and it appeared Toby had the run of the castle, it behooved her to make friends.

  She slowly set the carpetbag inside the door—no sudden movements!—and stretched out her hand. Toby trotted over, sniffing and then slobbering her palm in search of treats, no doubt. Like everything else she’d so far seen, he could benefit from a good scrubbing.


  “I’ll bring you a bone from the kitchen next time.” She made a mental note to see about his grooming in the coming days and pulled her hand away. Swiping it on the side of her mud-caked skirts, she asked, “Where is the kitchen, by the way?”

  Rourke shrugged. “Dunno, exactly. Somewhere below stairs.”

  Kate heartily hoped that wherever it was, it was in better condition than what she’d so far seen. Thinking back to the sumptuous wedding breakfast she’d missed, she asked, “Can you point me to the pantry at least? Once I wash my hands, I’ll cobble together a cold supper.”

  He startled her by stomping his foot. “There’ll be no cold suppers for my bride! My Kate shall have a feast to rival all feasts—stewed mutton and kidneys, roast goose, capon, and new potatoes.”

  She hadn’t exaggerated when she’d called the castle shambling. That was possibly too generous a description. If the main rooms had been permitted to descend into such a state, Lord only knew what awaited her in the kitchen. She doubted the necessary foodstuffs were in store. Even if the larder was stocked, preparing the dishes he called for would take hours. Kate needed food now.

  “And for dessert, let there be plum pudding and bride cake. Why, ’tis our wedding day, Kate. We must have cake.” He grasped her wrists and raised her joined hands to meet his smacking kiss.

  She jerked away. “If you’ll recall, we had a lovely cake at the breakfast you insisted we leave.”

  Rourke softened his voice. “You’ve only to name your fancy, Kate. Ask for what you want, and it shall be brought forth as if by magic.”

  As she’d so far seen no servants about, Kate doubted it. Late though it was, ordinarily someone—a housekeeper or butler—would have risen to see to their needs.

  All at once, he stalked off, calling, “Cheevers! Cheevers, where are you, you lazy lout?”

  “Rourke, really, is that necessary?”