by Kresley Cole
The image of her pounding her fist on the floor of that tavern flashed in his mind. Reminded of the weary resolve he'd seen, he studied her face. He could see faint smudges beneath her eyes. The day she'd had would throw anyone.
Her hands were slipping along….
"Though you tempt me sorely, I'll let you go so you can rest tonight," he said, disbelieving what he was hearing himself say. "For a kiss."
She flashed him an expression of disappointment and in a deadened tone said, "Fine. Get it over with."
He moved his hands to cradle her face, making her frown. He stroked her cheeks with his thumbs as he kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose, then her mouth with a mere brushing of his lips against hers.
When he released her, it took her a moment to blink open her eyes.
"The first rule of a successful cull," she murmured, "give a little, then take it all."
"Am I to get away with nothing, Madeleine?" he asked, amused for some reason. As he stifled a smile, her gaze dipped to his lips. She looked like she might kisshim . But then she abruptly twisted from his hold to rise from the water.
When she stepped out and turned for a towel, he was surprised to see his hand reach out to swat her adorable arse. She swiftly covered herself, casting him a startled glance over her shoulder. But whatever she saw in his expression made her give him a baffled half grin.
Then she sauntered out of the room, collecting her ring, actually seeming more relaxed.
As he finished washing, he wondered how he could be so bloody jovial when his shaft throbbed miserably. He told himself it was only because she'd accepted the plan. He'd won the first battle.
It is no' because she's accepted me, agreed to marry me….
After drying off, he returned to the room with a towel wrapped around his waist. He found her dressed in one of his shirts with the sleeves rolled up. It hung off her shoulders and down to her knees. Around her neck, she wore the ring on that long, red ribbon.
She'd also borrowed a pair of his thick gray socks. They swallowed her feet, bunching down around her ankles. She nibbled her lip, rubbing one wee foot over the other, and again his chest felt tight. "I hope you don't mind."
"No, no' at all."Can she possibly be more fetching…?
"How are we to, um, sleep?" she asked.
He stiffened, his mood souring. "Doona care."Just as long as it's not with me.
She padded to the linen closet for a blanket and pillow as though she'd read his mind. "Oh, well, you see, I don't really sleep well with anyone in the bed with me."
Ethan drew his head back. "Soyou doona want to share a bed withme ?" After all those women in his past who'd yearned to sleep with him, this chit looked as if the prospect was appalling.
"That's part of the reason that I wanted my own room," she said. "But I'll happily settle on the divan—"
Swooping her up, he ignored her sputtering protests and dumped her in the bed. He'd make her sleep with him—just to punish her for being contrary. If she hadn't weighed less than a feather, his wound would've been singing, but he didn't care. "You'll be in this bed with me tonight." After throwing off his towel, he joined her.
"I don't want to sleep with you!" She rose to her knees, haphazardly marching on them to the edge. "This, MacCarrick, is my fifth condition."
He caught her makeshift nightgown in his fist, reeling her back. At her mutinous look, he took her in his arms once more to shove her under the covers.
When she shimmied to the side of the bed, tugging against his hold, he said, "Stay, and I'll buy you new clothes tomorrow." He needed to anyway. There was no way they'd go about in public with her dressed shabbily compared to him. Already people were going to wonder what a woman like her was doing with him. Money would be the natural conclusion, but he'd be damned if he handed others that answer.
She froze, shoulders tensed. "But not…notevery night, MacCarrick?"
She sounded so horrified at the proposition of sharing a bed that he said, "Every…single…sodding one."
"I want this sacrifice remembered," she muttered, hitting her pillow before lying down on the far edge of the bed.
Sacrifice?Good, she wouldn't prove to be a clinger. He was pleased. Of course.
But an hour later, once she'd fallen asleep, he remained awake, watching her. He found two things interesting about how she slept: silently, and curled up with her knees pulled tight to her chest—the position people took when receiving blows they couldn't defend against.
Ethan understood that her harsh life had made her guarded, but now he wondered specifically what had happened to her once she'd left England. He hadn't known she'd been in a fire, and by the look of the scar, she'd been young when she'd received the injury. She was obviously resilient, even as she appeared so delicate and vulnerable to him.
Surrendering to the urge, he lightly grasped a handful of the blonde glossy curls drying over her pillow. As he rubbed his thumb over the silky texture, he began to ponder what the mysterious appeal was of holding another in sleep.
Some men genuinely seemed to like it. He remembered Hugh coming home from a day spent with Jane when they'd been younger. He'd had that moonstruck look about him, even more pronounced than usual after meetings with Jane. Ethan had thought he'd finally tupped her, but Hugh had been disgusted with Ethan at the idea. "No, Iheld her. While she slept," Hugh had said, then he'd exhaled with pleasure. "For over anhour ."
Now, Ethan eased out his hand to feel the enticing warmth of Madeleine's body. Willing her not to wake, he edged closer to her, stretching out behind her, only wanting to test this out for a minute. But she woke and tensed. Well, if the dam was breached…He ran his hand under her side and tucked her against him.
He waited for her to relax. Minutes passed, and still she was stiff. He could be contrary, too, and he forced her to remain in this position. He even dragged her tighter to him, which put her pert bottom in his lap and his face against her neck, sending him awash in the scent of her hair. Not surprisingly, he shot hard against her. He looped his other arm under hers and around her chest so that he completely enfolded her.
He ached to be inside her, so why was he feeling that perplexing sense of satisfaction again? As if he was where he was supposed to be?
He'd been exhausted for days, and soon her warmth lulled him. The last thought he had was that if the little witch would relax a bloody bit, sharing a bed might not be the burden he'd thought it.
Chapter Twenty-two
Men just aren't built like this anymore, Maddy thought with a sigh. Like gladiators, like warriors.
Tilting her head this way and that, she studied him sleeping in the muted morning sun. He lay on his back with an arm raised over his head, the cover precariously positioned low at his waist, displaying his broad chest and muscular torso. She flushed when she saw that his morning erection elevated the heavy cover.
Maddy had awakened without hunger in a warm, soft bed after a full night's rest uninterrupted by nightmares. And apparently, now that the critical needs of food, safety, and shelter had been met, her body had an entirely different need to contend with.
She was aroused, and his clean, masculine scent and the warmth emanating from his body were making it worse. She had to struggle not to run her fingers over his skin as she recalled the scenes from the night before—how her breasts had rubbed against his unyielding chest in the tub, or later when his hard body had wrapped around hers. Though she didn't want to sleep that way each night, she'd felt surprisingly safe with him. His erection had pressed against her bottom, but he'd kept his promise, never making an advance.
She'd never thought she would enjoy intercourse again, but now she was beginning to believe she could tolerate sex with him—and if he could do it as splendidly as he kissed her, she might even enjoy it once she grew accustomed to his size.
Of course, this didn't mean she planned to let him take her before their wedding. She had to hold firm on that—she knew too many women who'd been promised mar
riage only to return to La Marais big with child and utterly destitute.
Yet after they'd wed…what would a second attempt be like? She might not be looking forward to it, but she was definitely curious.
In fact, everything about him made her curious. For instance, why was he so skilled with a pistol? And who'd shot him so recently? She'd noted at least one other scar that looked like a bullet wound and would bet there were more on his back. What did he do that was so fraught with danger?
Who'd cut his face so terribly, leaving that bone-deep scar?
Already she had a good idea of how intensely it troubled him. But the truth was that even an aficionada like herself could see past it. Indeed, MacCarrick's face was still captivating to her, his features pleasing and even. He had a strong, straight nose, firm lips, and a square jaw shadowed with the night's growth of beard.
The good was so exceedingly good with this man, that it far outweighed the bad.
Maybe in the gentrified Grosvenor world he knew, people were flawless, but that was no longer Maddy's world. She was so used to seeing Crimean soldiers returned from war with parts of their regimental uniforms empty and pinned up that MacCarrick's scar was mild in comparison.
In the hierarchy of characteristics she needed in a potential mate, unmarred skin was not a contender compared to virility, strength, and wealth—all of which this Scot had in spades.
She mentally catalogued his good points: He was rich and seemed generous with his money. He was a sinfully skilled kisser and possessor of the most gorgeous, sculpted body she'd ever beheld. He was fierce—this Scot was no gentle giant—which suited Maddy fine.
The bad points: He was selfish, stubborn, rough, aggressive, and untrustworthy.
Would Ethan MacCarrick be difficult to manage? Absolutely. She had no doubt that she was going to have to draw on every man-managing skill she'd ever learned—and then call on every ounce of patience she could muster.
But she could do it to say good-bye to debts and her hardscrabble existence, andbonjour to a new life with a mysterious Scot who'd made her blood burn with both passion and fury.
Finally surrendering to the urge, she trailed the pads of her fingers down the underside of his raised arm, watching, enthralled, as the muscles lining the side of his torso briefly flexed. She gently brushed the skin around his wound, feeling unaccountably saddened that someone had sought to hurt him—or kill him. Why did the idea of him in pain bother her so much? At heart he was still a stranger.
She shook her head, deciding then that she wasn't going to lie to herself anymore. Something about him had attracted her from the very first—attracted her as no man had before. She'd been overwhelmingly drawn to him before she'd seen his face and scar—she still was after.And last night, his unpracticed, awkward smile as he'd cuffed her bottom had shown her a different side to this Scot, softening her anger toward him….
After making an unhurried exploration of his chest, her finger meandered down the rigid length of his stomach. Reaching the trail of crisp hair below his navel, she lazily stroked it with her nails.
When he slid his knee up, and his shaft pulsed beneath the cover, she gasped and glanced up, finding his eyes on her. She'd never seen any so compelling—so fierce, the irises jet black with flecks of amber.
Though he was studying her face, she didn't bother trying to disguise the desire she was feeling. His brows drew together, as if he didn't know how to respond.
She grazed the backs of her fingers over his scar, and his expression changed, his demeanor growing surly. "Why do you sleep curled in a ball?" he asked, his voice even more rumbling in the morning. At her blank look, he said, "Sometime in the night, I got you to fall asleep against me, but then when I woke, you were curled up on the other side of the bed." His tone was strangely accusatory.
"I don't know. I guess it's warmer in that position. Paris can get so cold in the winter."
"It could no'be warmer than when you were against me."
"I…you're right. I just feel crowded with another in the bed." She barely stifled a shudder. She all too clearly remembered those horrible nights in the infirmary after the fire, sharing a bed with other indigent girls, who unremittingly bumped into her ruined arm all through the night. That pain was as fresh in her memory as it had been when she was eleven. "You don't feel claustrophobic?"
He gave her that look that she'd begun to think he reserved solely for her—a mix of irritation, scowl, and a threatening glower. "It's no' like you take up much room, then, is it?"
Patience, Maddy.Changing the subject, she asked, "So, are we leaving for Scotland today?"
"We're scheduled to leave tomorrow night, but we can push that back if we canna get a week's worth of clothing for you."
"You're really taking me shopping?"
"I said I would, did I no'?"
"Well, if you do everything you say you will, then that means I'm going to be married, and not hungry, and living with you in Scotland." Today she would start a new life with this mysterious man beside her—and for once, she was delighted with her luck. "How are we going to get there?"
"A train from here to Le Havre, then by sea."
"Ah,la porte océane. How long will it take?"
"By steamer, it's no more than four days to the southwest coast of Scotland."
"A steamer! I've never been on one, except for the Channel tubs."
"TheBlue Riband will be lavish, Miss Van Rowen. You'll have much silver to steal." His tone might have been cutting, but she was too excited by their plans and couldn't hold back a grin. He frowned at her lips, then continued, "I've a lesser estate on the coast across the sea from Ireland. We'll spend a night or two there before continuing north by rail to my family's seat of Carrickliffe."
"What's Carrickliffe like? Do you think I'll like it there? Is your clan nice? Will they like me? When I'm not tired and hungry, I'm usually very likable."
"It's a fine estate in the Highlands, with a castle, and, aye, any bride would like it. My clan is verra serious, verra solemn. I doona think they would know what to do with you."
"In other words, they won't like me."
"Does no' matter, since I'm rarely there. And besides, they doona like me either."
She nodded without argument.
"What? You can easily see this?"
"Well, yes," she answered. "You're not very serious or solemn, so I expect that they don't know what to do with you either."
He looked at her as if she'd sprouted two heads. "Iam serious and solemn."
"No, you're not. At the masquerade, you made me laugh. You had a devilish sense of humor that I enjoyed."
"I think I would know myself," he said more gruffly.
"I won't argue with you, Scot. Though now I do have to wonder exactly why they don't like you."
"Let's have this discussion when you've been around me for a few days. It might become more apparent."
She quirked a brow, deciding not to pursue that subject—yet. "What about your family?" she asked instead. "Do you have a big family? I've always wanted a big one. I wish I had siblings. I know you have one brother…" She trailed off. "You said he married Jane—that will make her my sister-in-law, too!"
"Aye, it would. And I have another brother who's also recently married. My mother is still living, but I have no contact with her."
"Oh. Are you close to your brothers?"
"I'd do anything for them, but I doona believe we're close," he said, revealing the tiniest hint of regret in his voice. For a man who seemed to cloak his emotions at every opportunity, his tone was telling. "Enough questions. We've much to do to prepare for the trip."
She nodded. "Before we leave, I need to pack up some things—"
"You doona need to pack anything. I told you I'd buy you new. Besides, the spoils would no'be worth the effort."
Her lips thinned. If he was going to continue ridiculing her poverty, then she was glad she hadn't told him she could overlook his scar. She'd give up knowledge of tha
t chink in his armor as soon as she deemed it unnecessary to possess.
"In any case, MacCarrick, I'd like to give some things to my friends and say good-bye to them."
"We'll see, if there's time."
It nettled her how dogmatic and domineering he was with her, but Maddy would pick her battles. If she was patient, with time she could manage him—she just needed to bite her tongue until she uncovered his weaknesses. Besides, she wouldn't fight him on this—not until she'd determined he absolutely wouldn't permit her to see her friends. "You know, since it appears that we're actually going through with this, I think you should tell me how you got your scar." When she touched it again, he looked as if he'd just stopped himself from flinching.
He hesitated before he said, "I was in a knife fight."
Her eyes widened. "Did you kill someone? Was it broken up? Did you win?"
"I dinna win at first"—he cast her a disquieting smile—"but I did in the end."
"Get my wife anything she could possibly need," Ethan told the modiste at one of the most exclusive dressmaker's in Paris. "Her trunks were lost, so we'll be starting anew. And we'll need garments to take with us today—a week's worth of dresses."
When he and Madeleine had first entered the shop, a few of the girls working inside had turned their noses up at Madeleine's scuffed boots and worn clothes. She'd donned an indifferent expression, but he could tell she was embarrassed, and for some reason, the idea of that made his hackles rise.How dare they?
Ethan stressed to the modiste, "I want you and your employees to understand thatnothing is too good, or too costly, for her. Her wardrobe—and their attitude—should reflect that."
The woman nodded enthusiastically, and a sharp clap of her hands sent shopgirls rushing to set up garments and fabrics in a back dressing room.
Madeleine grabbed his arm and tried to steer him aside. "No, MacCarrick," she urgently whispered, "An entire wardrobe? Not in a place like this—that will cost a fortune! There are bargain shops on Rue de la Paix."
He raised his eyebrows. "I thought you said we have a lot in common. In your situation, I would take me for all I'm worth."