Seven Wicked Nights

by Courtney Milan

  “I won’t, love.” He buried his face in her hair. She smelled like smoke.

  “You’re squeezing me,” she coughed.

  “I want you close.”

  “I waited all night for you.”

  He might have thought she was angry, were she not pressing her face into his neck. “I apologize, darling. I had to go around the bridge in Polesworth and lost nearly twenty miles. It was an incredibly difficult journey.”

  “Polesworth? Where did you go?” His shoulder muffled her voice.

  “To get you a gift.”

  At this, she pulled back and looked up at him. Her eyes were soft, surprised, but the corners of her lips dipped down.

  He ran a finger down her cheek. “Why are you angry with me?”

  “I don’t know,” she huffed.

  Jamie didn’t want to stop touching her. “I’m sorry I was detained, Cat. I meant what I said.”

  “You said you needed an heir.”

  “No.” He pulled her back into his arms so she wouldn’t see his smile. “I mean, I said a lot more than that.”

  “You said you liked my taste in bedclothes.”

  He let out an exasperated laugh. What a saucy wife he had. He loved that about her.

  He dropped his chin and glanced down at her. She kept her face buried in his neck.

  “Look at me.” She must have heard the tenderness in his voice, for when she glanced up, no lines of anger marked her features. “Let me be clear. I love you, Cat. I always have. I want you as my wife. And I never want to be away from you again.”

  CAT STARED UP INTO her husband’s blue eyes.

  He’d said he loved her.

  Or maybe the fire and smoke and shouting had damaged her ears. “Say it again.”

  “I love you, Cat.”

  Her heart leapt, and she began to tremble everywhere.

  “I—” She stopped to catch her breath. Why was she so nervous? She placed her hand on his heart. Willed herself to be brave. She wanted to say this, needed to. “I never stopped loving you, Jamie.”

  She did not know he could look like this, so soft and tender. She kissed him on his chest, where his shirt was open. “I suppose if something is worth doing once, husband, it is worth doing twice.”

  “Yes.” He stroked her hair.

  Cat looked up at him, this man she had loved for as long as she could remember. “We can rebuild.”

  He tilted his head to the side. “The cottages?”

  “Yes, the cottages.” Down the lane, smoke rose from the ruins of her homes. She’d put so much time and work and hope into those cottages. A part of her felt very nearly burnt to the ground with them. But another part of her, a stronger part, refused to give up. She would rebuild. The families could stay in the empty cabins on the western edge of the estate, closer to the fields. Jamie wouldn’t hire more laborers until spring, and by then her families would be settled in the village. In fact, the women and children could help with the restoration.

  One setback, even a large one, was not cause for defeat.

  When she glanced back at her husband, he was still watching, waiting. She took a deep breath. “And our marriage. We can rebuild our marriage.”

  Relief softened his eyes. He lowered his head to kiss her, and she pressed up on her toes to meet him halfway. It was not an elegant embrace. Neither was it polite. But it was real. And raw. And full of love.

  “I would like that,” he murmured against her lips.

  “I am not saying it will be easy. And I am still frightened that you could hurt me again. But you are worth it.”

  Jamie pressed his forehead to hers. “I regret my actions, Cat. I cannot change them. I cannot undo the hurt I caused you. But I promise I will learn from them. I want to be a better man, a better husband.”

  “And I a better wife. We were both at fault. I should have put you first, that horrible night in London. I should have thought of you before my friend.”

  “And I should have stayed and made amends.” This time, when he hugged her, he lifted her off her feet. “I never want to leave you again.”

  “Especially not in a cold bed,” she grumbled.

  He put her down and stepped away. “Wait here.”

  Playfully, she planted her hands on her hips. “You just said you were never going to leave me.”

  He threw her a smile over his shoulder. “I promise you will like it.”

  Jamie disappeared into the crowd and returned wearing his riding coat. It was ridiculously clean where everything else about him was blackened and dusty.

  He stopped before her and, to her surprise, dropped onto one knee.

  “This is what my important business was.” He opened a small box and held it up. The most beautiful sapphire ring she’d ever seen lay nestled inside.

  “Marry me again, Catherine Meredith Carthwick Raybourne. I want to renew my vows to you. I made promises to you that I broke. I promised to love and cherish you, and I fear I did not do very well.”

  Cat blinked through the tears in her eyes. She hugged her arms around her chest as if she could contain the joy bursting through her. Everything within was singing, soaring, spinning with hope. “Well, I promised to obey you. And I admit I didn’t really mean it.”

  He laughed, his teeth a flash of white against his soot-covered skin. “So you will marry me, again? You will be the wife of my heart?”

  “Yes, Jamie.” Yes, yes. Of course yes! “Always.”

  She twisted her hands together as he came to standing, resisting the urge to throw her arms around him. He had more to say and she wanted to hear what it was.

  “I found the sapphire in Kashmir. Let me see how I did.” He took the ring from the box and held it next to her eyes. “Yes. I remembered your eyes exactly.”

  Cat held out her hand, and he slid the ring onto her finger. The band was designed with elaborate scrolls and perfectly matched her previous engagement ring. “Where did you have it made?”

  “The Jewelry Quarter in Birmingham.”

  “It’s perfect, Jamie.”

  “No, it’s not.” He brushed her hair back from her face. “But it doesn’t need to be perfect. It just needs to be true.”

  Epilogue

  LEAVES RUSTLED OVERHEAD as Jamie took her hand beneath the old oak tree. They stood before the heart he had carved into its trunk nine years prior.

  “I promise to love you, Catherine, for all my days. To write you notes whenever I must leave, to tell you about my worries as much as my celebrations.” No humor showed on his face, no amusement. Only deep intention. Integrity. And love. “And to trust you, even if I do not understand or agree with your actions. I pledge my heart to you until death shall us part.”

  Cat squeezed his hands. They were shaking in hers. “I pledge to love and honor you, Jamie, as my husband, my lover, and my friend. I promise to hold you foremost in my heart, even when we do not agree. I will share my life with you, my laughter and my tears, and cherish you always. I pledge my heart to you until death shall us part.”

  He lifted her hand and slid the sapphire ring onto her finger. “With this ring, I thee wed. Again.”

  Cat looked up and smiled into his eyes. Her husband tilted his lips into that lopsided half smile that never failed to melt her heart.

  “Now kiss your bride,” she teased.

  Never did he have to be asked twice. He leaned down and claimed her mouth in a searing kiss.

  Wind sang through the trees. The crisp scent of autumn lingered in the sunlight. Winter was coming and the world was alive with joy.

  Cat slipped her hands down around Jamie’s hips.

  “Hmm,” he murmured against her mouth. “I like this.”

  “We’ve work to do, husband.”

  “Work?” He pulled back and studied her face.

  “Yes,” she tilted her head to the side. “Didn’t you say something about needing an heir?”

  “So I did.” She laughed as he picked her up and laid her down in the grass.<
br />
  The future looked very bright indeed.

  About Leigh

  Leigh LaValle, a RWA Golden Heart® finalist and Amazon Bestselling author, pilfered her first Historical Romance novel off her mother’s bookshelf and quickly developed a lifelong love affair of rogues, rakes and rascals. When she is not writing, mommying, or reading, she is rarely seen cleaning, and more often found hiking or, when she is really lucky, in the white powder of the ski slopes. Leigh is also a devoted yoga practitioner and instructor. She currently lives in the Pacific Northwest with her family, and is hard at work on her next novel.

  Follow Leigh LaValle on twitter at @Leigh_LaValle, friend her on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/leigh.lavalle, or visit her website at http://www.LeighLaValle.com.

  Other Books by Leigh

  The Nottinghamshire Series

  The Runaway Countess

  The Misbehaving Marquess

  The Rogue Returns

  The Runaway Countess

  During a hot and thunderous Nottingham summer, a lady thief steals from the rich to give to the poor. Captured by a handsome lord, she resists his interrogations but not his tempestuous kisses. Right and wrong turn inside out as she finds herself falling in love with her mortal enemy.

  The Rogue Returns

  With siblings to protect and creditors at her door, an intrepid lady has no recourse but to seek a fabled fortune buried years ago. Forming an uneasy alliance with a silver-tongued rogue, she adventures through the high peaks of England, battling treasure hunters, violent storms, and dangerous terrain. But can she escape the growing passion that threatens to steal her heart?

  To Catherine Gayle, for putting up with me and my endless questions.

  And for Kirk, even though you’re entirely too nice to ever be a decent rake.

  Prologue

  “NICOLAS, SAY HELLO to your new cousin.”

  Eleanor Abbington glanced up sharply at her new aunt’s statement. How had she been singled out? With the entire family gathered in the courtyard of Malcolm Manor to meet Uncle Robert’s new wife and her son, it didn’t seem fair that Eleanor should find herself the center of attention.

  Aunt Lavinia smiled as she glanced back and forth between them, her golden eyebrows raised in two perfect arches of expectation. “Eleanor is closest to you in age, only two years your senior.”

  Only two years? That was more than a quarter of the boy’s lifetime. For some reason it annoyed her that a seven-year-old was nearly as tall as she. He looked rather like a giraffe, actually, with his long and spindly limbs. Sighing, Eleanor waited for him to say something, to get these forced niceties out of the way. But he didn’t. Instead, he just stood there, staring down at his shiny brown shoes and letting the silence stretch.

  Tittering like a squeaky field mouse, Aunt Lavinia turned to Eleanor. “I think he’s shy with all these new people. Be a good girl and give your new cousin a kiss.”

  A kiss? Eleanor tried not to make a face, but it wasn’t easy. She couldn’t possibly expect her to kiss this strange boy. Just because Aunt Lavinia had called him her cousin, didn’t make it so. She had overheard Mama talking to Aunt Margaret; she knew that Aunt Lavinia was just a silver-tongue widow—though her tongue looked quite pink to Eleanor—who had somehow managed to fool Uncle Robert, the revered Earl of Malcolm, into marrying her.

  Eleanor sent a pleading look to her mother. Mama cut a glance to her new sister-in-law, her mouth pinched and her brow lowered in the same sort of disapproving expression she gave the dog when it slipped inside with muddy paws, but she didn’t intervene on Eleanor’s behalf.

  At her side, Libby watched with rounded eyes, leaning into their mother’s skirts. For once, Eleanor was envious of her little sister. No one expected a toddler to have to do such a thing. Or even a five-year-old, for that matter, though William, her real cousin, didn’t seem as though he’d mind such a fate, peering up in adoration at his new stepbrother as he was.

  “Eleanor,” her mother said in warning.

  Fine.

  Sighing hugely, Eleanor stepped forward, reluctance weighing her feet like stones. Still Nicolas didn’t look up. He simply stood there, letting his shaggy hair hang down across his forehead. Great—not only did she get a cousin she didn’t want, but he was rude to boot. Didn’t he know you should face someone when being forced to meet?

  Pursing her mouth into a kiss that put her lips as far from her body as she could manage, she leaned forward, aiming for his freckled cheek. He smelled like wind and sunshine, which was better than the dirt and sweat smell she expected of a boy. Just when she was about to graze his cheek, he turned, quick as a whip, and smacked his lips to hers.

  She sputtered and jumped back, wiping her whole arm across her violated lips. “Ew! Mama, he kissed me!”

  For the first time since he arrived, Nicolas looked her right in the eye. He was grinning like the fool he was, his pale green gaze dancing with smug merriment. “I was just standing here. You were the one who kissed me.”

  “Not on the lips,” Eleanor said, spitting the words out along with the taste of him. “That’s disgusting.”

  “Eleanor!” Mama barked, grabbing her by the arm and tugging her back sharply. “Mind your manners, young lady.”

  Mind her manners? She was the one who had been accosted by the little ruffian! But with Mama’s fingers already digging into her upper arm, Eleanor knew better than to say what she was thinking. “Yes, ma’am,” she mumbled, all the while leveling furious, narrowed eyes on Nicolas.

  Did he appear even the tiniest bit contrite? Not even a little. As the adults went on with their greetings, she wrinkled her nose, telling him as clearly as she could manage that she did not like him, cousin or not.

  His grin only widened, and then he winked at her. Winked!

  Eleanor’s mouth dropped open, which only made him look that much more pleased with himself. Of all the… she snapped her head to the side, refusing to give him the attention he so clearly craved. Even with her gaze averted, she just knew he was still watching her, his infuriatingly smug grin still in place. So he thought he had bested her, did he?

  Well, they’d see about that.

  Chapter One

  Fifteen years later

  OH LORD, SHE WAS TRAPPED.

  Standing in the center of the sun-dappled folly overlooking the rolling hills of her uncle’s estate, Eleanor suddenly realized exactly what was about to happen. Don’t say it. Please don’t say it.

  “Miss Abbington, will you consent to be my wife?” Across from her, Lord Kensington stood perfectly erect, his thick eyebrows raised in polite query.

  Drat, drat, drat. Eleanor bit her lip, dismay settling like a brick in her stomach. Or was it dread? Why hadn’t the man listened to her when she had told him in every way possible that she was happy in her situation, and had no plans to change it?

  Better yet, why had she been so utterly oblivious to his intentions when she agreed to the walk in the first place? Now she was stuck, with no other choice than to be blunt. “Oh, my. I am sorry, my lord, but I am afraid I must decline your kind offer.”

  Silence reigned for the space of ten seconds, broken only by the nearby oak leaves rattling in the light wind as Lord Kensington absorbed her response. In those moments, the spacious, open-air folly seemed to shrink to the size of a cupboard, making it difficult for Eleanor to put enough space between her and her completely unwanted suitor.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She tilted her head the slightest bit and tried to infuse compassion into her posture and expression. “My apologies, Lord Kensington, but my answer is no. I will not marry you.”

  What a fool she’d been to let it come to this. Yes, she’d known her uncle strongly favored a match between them, but this was only the second day Kensington had been at Malcolm Manor, for heaven’s sake. The rest of the guests would arrive tomorrow, at which time the house party would officially begin. Did he feel that he had to rush things in order to get a leg up on
the competition?

  Ugh, as if a houseful of boring members of Parliament would tempt her.

  “But…” He trailed off, his dark eyes troubled. Confused more than troubled, actually. There was no telling what Uncle Robert had led him to believe.

  She set her jaw. Why her uncle was so keen to have her marry all of a sudden was beyond her. Clearly he had not believed her earlier in the summer when she had told him she was content to serve as her Aunt Margaret’s companion and remain a spinster, no matter how society viewed her choice. Old and dried up at that age of four-and-twenty, according to the ton. Which was ridiculous. She was perfectly moisturized and plenty young, thank you very much.

  And she had been happy, all the way up until about three minutes ago. Now she had an affronted, would-be suitor gaping at her as if she’d, well, rejected his offer of marriage. Sighing, she offered an apologetic smile. “Please know how flattered I am by your proposal. I wish you nothing but the very best in the future, my lord.”

  The situation could not have been any more awkward. Spending the rest of the week with him was going to be excruciating. Spending the rest of the week with Uncle Robert would be even worse.

  She swallowed; she couldn’t even think about that now.

  As his face grew increasingly mottled, Kensington tugged on the hem of his mustard-colored jacket. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Abbington.” The words were stilted and brusque, understandably.

  As far as she was concerned, the sooner this interview was over, the better. “Yes, of course,” she murmured, dipping into a shallow curtsey. He turned and stalked away, cutting a straight line through the grass toward the house. Expelling a lungful of air, Eleanor sagged against one of the folly’s rounded stone columns.

  That was an experience she hoped never to repeat.