Hope Tarr

by Untamed

  Like a thoroughbred filly, a pulse beat high in her sculpted forehead, square between her eyes. She swallowed hard, the ripple traveling the length of her long, elegant throat. “A gentleman wouldn’t throw such a private moment in my face.”

  “If by gentleman you mean that lot of pasty-faced pansies who courted you back in London, nay one of them would have been man enough to bring you to your knees.” He reached out, lifting her chin on the scarred knuckles of his hand. “Nay, you canna forget, Kate, and you canna make me forget, either. Like it or no, I’m in your blood now, as you are in mine.”

  Later that day, Kate sat on a pillow in Hattie’s room, nursing a sore bottom and hurt pride in equal measure. In truth, she was more saddle sore from her breakneck ride on Zeus than she was from her husband’s spanking. Fortunately the stallion had been recovered, and the groomsmen who’d gone after him had returned with only a few bruises.

  “That man, that miserable, infuriating man. Who does he think he is, adapting a play, a famous play by Shakespeare, to get one over on me, to tame me, no less? What cheek!”

  Hattie sat across from her, stitching what looked suspiciously like baby booties, the picture of serenity. Barring the embarrassing bit to do with the spanking, the housekeeper had heard the story of Kate’s discovery of Rourke’s scheme, not once but several times.

  She looked up from the stitch she’d just made. “Some might find it rather romantic. And you must admit it did work for a while. I’ve never seen you looking so happy.”

  Kate took another sip of tea, steam rising from the cup and, likely, from the top of her head. “Huh! I rue the day I ever agreed to dance the waltz with him. My life has gone to rack and ruin ever since.”

  Hattie bobbed a nod. “And well you should. Why, it was a regular paradise he took you away from. Between your father’s drinking and gaming and your sister’s tantrums and whining, only think of the happy times you’re missing by being here—in your castle … with your husband … who happens to be mad about you. The short end of the stick, that’s your lot, and I for one don’t blame you a bit for being bitter.”

  The sarcasm wasn’t lost on Kate. All at once, she felt sad and lonesome and more than a little sick of it all. Until now she’d railed against the state of affairs that had conspired to place her in her current untenable position—her father’s gaming, her sister’s selfishness, her long-ago promise to her mother to see that everyone and everything was taken care of and made all right—everyone, that is, but her.

  Sitting in Hattie’s room, thinking of all the luxuries and security she had that the housekeeper did not, it occurred to her to wonder from what marriage to Rourke had supposedly taken her away. Waiting hand and foot upon her father until he was in his dotage and she well and truly past her prime? Reading romantic novels and gorging on chocolate because there was no romance in her life or any real sweetness?

  Thanks to Rourke, she no longer need fret about her family. Worries over her father’s unbridled gaming and the need to secure a suitable dowry for her little sister were for the moment held in check. Not only was he rich, but he was wise. Unlike her father, he wasn’t going to lose the roof over their heads in a game of cards or stake her like a serf in some absurd wager. His one great “crime” since they’d met had been to wager that he could coax a kiss from her in public. At this point, she’d gladly let him kiss her just about anywhere.

  She ran her tongue along her lower lip. That was what Patrick was like—all steely control on the outside and carefully harnessed chaos within. Kate wanted him to lose control. She wanted to lose control with him. She wanted to not only embrace the chaos of her feelings, embrace him, but become one with it. She wanted them to walk hand in hand into the eye of the storm without fear, recriminations, God help her, or looking back.

  But they were still a long way from that level of letting go. Trust must be earned. It wasn’t her husband she didn’t trust so much as herself. Until meeting Rourke, her entire existence had been predicated on maintaining control. Living with a drunkard, matters could spiral out of control at the snap of fingers. Her role had been to anticipate everything that might go awry and then take steps to make sure that it did not. She was very good at it, but the weeks of freedom from that household had shown her just how exhausting playing her father’s keeper had been. She had lost something precious in all those years, something less tangible than her pony, Princess. She had lost herself. At eight-and-twenty, she wasn’t sure she even knew who she was, but whatever her authentic self was, it seemed to come out, to shine, when she was with Patrick.

  He hadn’t tamed her. He’d rescued her.

  That evening, Kate took a bracing breath and knocked on the adjoining door to her husband’s room. She hadn’t seen him since that morning at breakfast. She knew he was within because she’d heard him come up earlier. Heart beating fast, she listened for his footfalls cutting across the room. Given the silence, she wondered if he might be asleep.

  The door opened partway. Rourke appeared in the opening. He wore only a shirt and waistcoat, both buttoned this time. His eyes, she thought, looked a bit hollow.

  She fixed on what she hoped was a bright smile. “I’ve come to invite you to dinner. A private dinner in my room,” she added, and then stepped back to give him a better view, not of the room but of her.

  She’d exchanged her customary practical shirtwaist and skirt for a fashionable dinner gown. The sherry-colored satin shimmered in the candlelight and made a delicious rustling sound when she moved. According to Hattie, it also brought out her hair and eye color in a highly flattering way. The gown’s daring décolletage was more suited to a formal than a family dinner. Then again, when one’s purpose was to reconcile with one’s husband, it was perfect, or so she hoped.

  He ran his gaze over her. She thought he looked wary. After that morning, she supposed she couldn’t blame him.

  At last he spoke. “To what do I owe this unprecedented honor?”

  She shrugged, but her heartbeat quickened. He wasn’t about to make this easy for her, but then she’d expected as much. “Think of it as a truce, an olive branch. If you’ll cease trying to tame me, I’ll cease searching for ways to vex you. Fair enough?”

  He blew out a breath, and then nodded. “Fair enough.” He reached to take her hand.

  Kate held back. She’d hoped for more than a handshake to seal their bargain. “Aren’t you going to at least … kiss me?”

  “I considered it, but I’m minded of your dislike of such rough Scot’s ways.”

  Kate would have given a great deal to be the recipient of his “rough Scot’s ways,” but she reminded herself that it was as yet early in the evening. She took him by the hand, not to shake it but to lead him inside before he could refuse.

  She didn’t drop her hold until they reached the small round table Hattie had helped her set up. Following her fellow conspirator’s suggestion, she’d purchased a single red rose from the flower seller in town and set it in the center. And instead of the gas lamps, she’d lit candles about the room.

  Several covered dishes had been set out on a cloth-covered side table. “It’s a simple supper. I didn’t want to have to worry with carving. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Now that she’d got him this far, she was nervous. She found herself eyeing the wine, a bordeaux she’d had Mr. Sylvester fetch from the cellar and that she’d just decanted mere minutes before.

  He lifted serving-dish lids and peered inside. “That wouldn’t be oxtail soup, would it?” He gave an appreciative sniff.

  “Indeed, it is. There is also a beef à la mode, butter beans with almonds, roasted jacket potatoes, and a ginger cream for dessert.” Instead of ginger cream, she hoped her husband would be having her for dessert.

  He lifted his eyes to her. “All favorites of mine.”

  “I know.”

  She served the soup while he poured out the wine. He tucked her into her chair, and then took his place beside her.

  Picki
ng up his spoon, he paused, “You’ve not peppered it, have you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Dosed it with some emetic, then?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Poisoned it? I hear arsenic can be verra hard to trace.”

  She smiled at that. “I’ll have to remember that, but for the present, no.” So long as he teased her, there yet might be hope. “I suppose you’ll just have to try a bite and find out.”

  They ate in silence for the next few minutes, or rather Rourke did. Kate drank wine and pushed her spoon about her bowl. When her glass was empty, she reached for the decanter to top off his glass, and then refilled hers.

  He looked up. “If I didn’t know better, Katie, I’d think you were trying to get me drunk.”

  This time she didn’t object to the nickname. In fact, she was coming to rather like it, at least the way it sounded rolling off his tongue with his soft Scot’s burr.

  “What if I am?” she asked gamely, the wine sending a pleasant languor trickling through her limbs. “Would you mind terribly?”

  “You might mind.”

  Kate rather doubted it. She could see she wasn’t the only of them who fancied holding on to self-control. “You’re not much for keeping up the reputation of Scotsmen, are you?”

  He pushed his empty bowl aside. “If I hold back from having to brace myself up by my elbows, as my wife I’d think you’d not have cause to complain of it.”

  “I’m not complaining, only … curious.”

  It was nearing eight o’clock. Excellent vintage or not, her father would be three sheets to the wind long before now. No, her husband’s moderation didn’t bother her. It but gave her one more reason to respect him, to like him—to love him. Despite having gotten off on the wrong foot in their marriage—several wrong feet—she knew she would always be safe with this man.

  He hesitated, looking not at her but deeply into his glass. “Railway work is hard on a man, hard on his body and even harder on his soul. My da was fond of the whiskey and the gin. Overfond, you might say.”

  So his father was a drunkard, too, yet another commonality they shared. For two people who on the outside couldn’t be more opposed in background and breeding, it was amazing how very much they had in common, how truly alike they were.

  Appalled, she said, “Was he violent when he drank?”

  Her father had never once raised his hand to her. She must give the devil his due. Still, there were other ways to wound. Not all scars were on the surface of skin.

  He hesitated and then shrugged as though being beaten was of no consequence, and it occurred to her that she was making him remember things he might well rather forget. “A hard hand had my da, though he had goodness at his core. He was always sorry afterward, for what it was worth. I dinna hold it against him, at least not much, though I swore when I grew up, no matter how bad things got, I’d not follow him down that path. My wife and children would never have cause to fear or flee me.” He lifted his eyes to her. “The other night with you, I broke that rule. I’m sorry, Kate.”

  “I’m sorry, too.” On impulse, she reached across the table and clasped his big, rough hand. “I know you wouldn’t really hurt me.” Though she wasn’t yet prepared to admit it aloud, being overpowered by him, and yes, feeling that hard open palm slapping her backside had excited her—powerfully.

  She rose to clear the bowls and serve the second course. Blunt-speaking and rough-hewn though he was in many ways, with her he had the loveliest manners.

  Taking the opportunity to shift the conversation to a lighter topic, she said, “So, why a castle?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Kate set their plates down and took her chair. “It seems a great deal of space and upkeep for one person.”

  He sat as well. “There are two of us … now.”

  By “now,” she wondered if he implied there might one day be more than the two of them, and her heart skipped a beat. She so wanted a baby—his baby.

  “I can’t help but think of Sir Walter Scott’s glorifying the so-called Dark Ages in the Waverley novel Ivanhoe.” Catching his blank look, she hesitated and then clarified, “Have you read any of Scott’s work?”

  “I havena, though I’m sure I’ve the books on my shelves. I don’t read much, mind.”

  She couldn’t resist. “Well, you read plays, certainly. Perhaps you’ll want to branch out to other forms of fiction.”

  She shouldn’t have said that. His gaze dimmed, and he focused on forking up his food.

  Taking another sip of wine, she leaned forward, just enough to give him a teasing glimpse of cleavage. “Still, I think you rather fancy it here, the mystique of being master of your medieval domain and all that.” The word master was a deliberate choice. “Have you a dungeon? Surely you must. What is a castle without a dungeon?”

  His gaze slid upward, resting on her breasts before returning to her face. “What, indeed? In this case, what was the dungeon is now a wine cellar.”

  She reached over and brushed back the lock of hair that had fallen over the small white scar on his forehead. So many scars, and yet she’d be hard-pressed to say she’d ever met a more handsome man.

  “Do you suppose previous lairds who lived here ever took their naughty wives down to the dungeon, hmmm?”

  She was flirting, openly, outrageously, but she was too tipsy and randy to care. She only hoped she was going about it properly. In the past, she’d warded off suitors by being as sharp-tongued and displeasing as possible. Coming up with innovative cuts, direct or otherwise, had become almost a point of pride. She’d never given much thought to her flirting skills before now, but then she’d never before had so very much at stake.

  “I couldn’t say.”

  He set his cutlery neatly alongside his plate and looked over at her. The heat of his gaze scorched her, setting her skin prickling and her sex pulsing.

  “I take naughty wives to bed.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Now, Kate, I am a husband for your turn, For, by this light, whereby I see thy beauty— Thy beauty that doth make me like thee well– Thou must be married to no man but me.”

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, PETRUCHIO, The Taming of the Shrew

  hen Rourke swung her up into his arms, this time Kate didn’t struggle. She didn’t kick. She didn’t scratch. Instead she rested her head on his solid shoulder and draped her arm about his strong neck, and savored the delicious, buoyant feeling of being utterly cherished and cared for. She’d supposed he would carry her to the bed, but instead he crossed the room and set her down before the dressing mirror.

  Standing behind her, he reached around her, settling his hands on her hips. “Beautiful Kate, Katie mine, so lovely betimes it hurts my eyes to gaze upon you.” Kissing the side of her neck, he smoothed a callused palm over the well of her belly, sending small shivery shocks rippling through her.

  He nipped at her ear, the side of her neck, the edge of her collarbone, his arousal pressing into her backside. Kate leaned into his muscled strength, his searing heat. The thought of taking all of that, all of him, inside her again made her skin prickle and warm.

  He slid a hand into the back of her hair, letting the strands slide through his fingers. “Kate, sweet Kate, you’re a temptress and an angel.”

  She stared into the mirror, fascinated with watching his hands. “I can’t say as I’ve ever been accused of being either before.”

  Layer by layer, he peeled her clothing away until even her stays and panties lay atop the puddle of shimmering dress. Watching him lay her bare bit by naughty bit was a foreign and erotic sensation. He still hadn’t removed so much as a stitch of his own clothes. Looking at their joined reflections in the glass, Kate was seized with impatience. She wanted to see him, too. She wanted to see him now.

  His arms slid around her. He palmed her breasts, played with her nipples. “It’s long, lovely nipples you have, lass, and ripe as berries.” What they were was exquisitely sensitive
, especially in his expert hands. Watching him roll them between his thumb and forefinger, Kate couldn’t shake the sense that she was an instrument being played.

  “Rourke, I—”

  His lips found the sensitive spot at her nape again and licked. “Hush, Katie.”

  “But I … I don’t know how much longer I can bear it. I don’t know how much longer I can stand.”

  It was no more than the truth. She felt as boneless as an eel, her legs a breath away from buckling.

  His soft laugh warmed the shell of her ear. “Dinna fret, Katie mine. If you fall, I’m here to catch you.”

  If you fall, I’m here to catch you.

  He slid his hand down over her belly, his blunt fingers combing through the triangle of curls, stirring a slow-building ache. “Easy, lass, it’s gentle I’ll be with you this time. We’ll go as slow as you like.”

  Her voice was lost to her for the moment. She managed a nod. Whatever response she gave, he seemed satisfied because he didn’t stop. He sank a thick finger all the way inside her, rousing a longing that until the night before was as foreign as it was fierce. Kate started, but he still had one arm wrapped about her waist. She wasn’t going anywhere, not that she wanted to. The mad fever was upon her, pitching higher, closing, muddling her thoughts and doing wickedly delicious things to her body. She wanted Rourke. She wanted to make love with her husband. He might be the enemy, the man determined to master her, but in this they were united. She wanted him in a very physical way, and the hard length of him pressing against her backside told her he wanted her, too.

  She twisted her head about and caught his mouth in a clumsy kiss. A rumble rose from his throat, equal parts laugh and groan. Inside her mouth, his tongue swirled like a cloud, and she couldn’t help wondering what it might feel like to have him kiss her like that, only lower at the oh-so-sensitive spot between her legs. He turned her in his arms, and she clung, his shoulders her anchor, his dark emerald gaze her guiding star in a world that suddenly seemed cast adrift, lost at sea. Reaching around, he caressed her buttocks, his big strong hands warm and sure. All at once, she felt safe and cherished, wanton and free. She moaned and arched against his hand, wanting more, wanting all.