by Cheryl Holt
"Yes. Besides, I like flaunting myself in London as the earl. I like forcing our father's snooty friends to see me every day. I like having them fume over the fact that I've returned and they can't make me disappear as they did when I was a baby."
"I don't care about any of that. Neither do those horrid old men."
"Well, / care!" Jamie's near shout rang out across the yard, his words echoing off the hills, magnifying the depth of his outrage.
"It's such a waste of energy, Jamie," Jack murmured quietly. "You can't fix what they did to us."
"And your plan is better? You want to lie to yourself and pretend that these despicable people will eventually accept you. Do you actually think they weren't aware that our mother was pregnant with us? You think they didn't comprehend what had happened when we were sent away? They were silent for three decades! I say: To hell with them and this stupid property! They can all rot!"
"I want to get married," Jack blurted, surprising himself with the declaration. He hadn't known that he craved it so desperately.
"Married! What's come over you?"
"I want to settle down. I want to quit traveling."
Jamie stared at him, pondering whether to continue the quarrel or switch to persuasion and coaxing.
"Stay then," he finally conceded, "if that's what you wish."
"It is."
"I'm thirty years old. I guess I can go on alone. It won't kill me. I don't need you tagging after me as if you're my nanny."
"I'll run the place for you. I'll keep it solvent."
"You do that. You be my gentleman farmer."
"And I'll be here, waiting for you, if you want to come home."
"I have no home, and if I started to assume I might like one, it wouldn't be at Gladstone, where such treachery was inflicted on me."
"What about Miss Carstairs?" Jack asked.
"What about her?" Jamie replied.
"She'll expect to build a life with you, to have you be a real husband. She'll want babies to mother."
"What would I do with a gaggle of brats?"
"Once you speak the vows, you'll owe her children," Jack pressed. "Last I heard, it's impossible to sire them from London. I'm quite sure you have to be in the same location as your bride."
"I don't care about her or what she wants. Why would she have any impact on what I choose to do?"
"She'll be your wife!"
"So?"
"Jamie! What a thing to say!" Jack threw up his hands, his exasperation beyond bearing.
His brother was vain and self-centered, callous conduct his normal condition, so his heartlessness was nothing out of the ordinary. But Jack liked Anne Carstairs very much. She'd be a fine spouse for Jamie. With her calm, cool demeanor, she might be able to curb some of his wilder tendencies. Jamie might even grow fond of her, might form an attachment for a change.
"You know I'm only doing it because the Prince made me," Jamie said.
"And if he hadn't?"
"I'd never have picked her."
Jack winced. Jamie meant that he hadn't wanted to ever marry. He thought he'd be a terrible husband, and Jack agreed, but Jamie could be so harsh in his manner.
"Swear to me that you'll never tell her your true opinion."
"How can it matter? She'll be my wife, so she'll simply have to get over it."
"For a man who supposedly knows everything there is to know about women, you're an idiot."
"Why? Merely because I won't pretend to be a romantic fool?"
"Precisely. I just hope to God she never learns what a cold bastard you are."
Anne stood in her room, brushing her hair, when movement out in the forest caught her eye. A distant bang sounded, and she saw a flash. It was eerily reminiscent of the first day Jamie had come to Gladstone, and it was so late in the evening. No one would be hunting.
Was someone shooting at him again?
While she would have happily strangled him with her own two hands, she couldn't imagine him actually being killed, and she was aggravated that the assailant had tried again.
Jamie claimed it was Percy. Could it be? Would Percy dare?
She wondered if, from her vantage point, she might see who it had been. She walked over to the window and leaned out, when she realized that Jamie and Jack Merrick were on the verandah below, their voices drifting up.
If it had been another crack at an assassination, they didn't seem bothered in the least. They were the strangest men she'd ever met. Nothing fazed them. Not even attempted murder.
They were such a magnetic duo, both so tall and dark and handsome. They exuded power and authority, but with a rough edge honed through decades of struggle. She couldn't help watching them, especially when she'd had so few chances to observe them together.
Jack Merrick asked, "What about Miss Carstairs?"
She grinned, delighted that they were talking about her and curious as to what Jamie might say. She was certain she'd hear if not something romantic, then something pragmatic and reasonable as to why they'd be a good match. But of course, as soon as Jamie opened his mouth, she remembered why eavesdropping was such a bad idea.
"What about her?" Jamie answered, his tone dismissive and cruel.
The conversation went downhill from there. Anne was barraged by snippets of it—gaggle of brats...
I don't care about her or what she wants... the Prince made me—and she nearly plugged her ears to shut out the awful remarks, but she couldn't quit listening.
"I'd never have picked her," Jamie said, and the brutal comment cut her to the quick.
While she hadn't expected much from the marriage, she'd assumed fondness would grow, that friendship would blossom. If she bore him his gaggle of children, would he even stay around to be a father to any of them?
A vision of Ophelia, naked and in his bed, blazed in Anne's mind, and she saw years of misery stretching ahead. If he was truly repulsed by her, then he'd never develop any regard for her feelings. There'd be a line of strumpets to humiliate her, and he'd be gone for lengthy periods when she would worry about where he was and what he was doing.
Neighbors would titter behind her back. The servants would assess her with veiled pity. She'd be a laughingstock, the lowly girl who'd put on airs to wed the new earl who'd never wanted her.
Devastated, she collapsed against the sill, and she'd forgotten she was still holding her brush. It slipped from her fingers and tumbled down to the verandah, where it bounced across the smooth stones.
The twins were jumpy, ready to fend off an assault. Jack whipped around with fists clenched, and Jamie leapt to his feet, gripping the hilt of a knife he carried strapped to his waist.
They glared up the wall to where she was staring down on them. As they grasped that she'd overheard every vile word of their discussion, she was mute and horrified. For an eternity, they were all three frozen in place.
Ultimately, Jack Merrick muttered, "Dammit!"
Jamie said nothing but continued to study her, his expression wiped of any emotion. If he was chagrined, if he was embarrassed, if he was feeling anything, at all, not a trace of it showed.
Eventually, a corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk or a smile, and he shrugged as if he couldn't figure out what the fuss was about. Casually, slowly, he turned from her, sat in his chair, and reached for his whiskey.
His brother whispered something, and Jamie responded just as softly. As if she'd ceased to exist, neither of them looked at her again, and she lurched away from the window, desperate to be hidden by the shadows in her room.
Ten
Anne slipped a note under Sarah's door, explaining where she'd gone and why, then tiptoed out of the house and headed for the stables. She knew how to saddle a horse, how to ride one, and she was delighted to have the chance to steal one of Jamieson Merrick's prized animals.
It was very late, but she'd have many hours to travel before anyone discovered she'd fled again. It was stupid to leave. Stupid and dangerous and pointless, but she was leaving
anyway, and she wouldn't seek refuge with that idiotic vicar, either.
Despite how it often seemed, she and her sister weren't alone in the world. Their mother's childhood friend still resided in Rudwick. The moon was up, and Anne could be there by morning, safely concealed where no one would think to look. She'd be able to reflect and plan, and she'd have an older woman's guidance as to what she should do.
She was scarcely acquainted with Lord Gladstone, and he'd already broken her heart a dozen times over. If she wed him, what would become of her after a month? After a year? She was too gentle a soul to marry him. He'd kill her with despondency. It would be a horrible death, too, and she refused to suffer it.
She reached the edge of the verandah and had nearly made it to the stairs when the smell of a burning cheroot gave him away.
"Hello, Anne. Fancy meeting you here."
She sighed with resignation. "Hello, Lord Gladstone."
As he moved to block her path, she envisioned herself knocking him down, running like a deer, leaping on a horse, and galloping away, but it would never happen. He wouldn't let it happen.
"You've packed a bag. Are you going somewhere?"
"No," she said, dejected. "I'm not going anywhere, at all."
"Good. I'd hate to have you miss our wedding tomorrow."
He took her satchel, and she relinquished it without a fight.
"How did you know I'd be here?" she inquired.
"It's the funniest thing, but I told my brother you'd sneak off again—most likely in the middle of the night—but he insisted that you'd never be that foolish." He paused, his words sinking in so she would recollect that she had no power. "Isn't it interesting how quickly I've figured out how your mind works?"
"You know me well."
"I certainly do. Where were you hoping to hide?" "It doesn't matter now."
"Yes, it does. You must inform me, so that when you next try something this ridiculous, I'll have some idea of where to start searching."
Silent and furious, she glared at him, and he shrugged off her pique.
"Fine then. I'll just ask your sister. She's not as stubborn as you are." He turned her toward the house. "It's chilly out. Let's get you back to your room."
She didn't bother to argue. Like a felon, marching to the gallows, each step conveyed her to the inevitable end of the line.
She trudged into her new, grand bedchamber, the one from which he'd evicted Ophelia without considering the ruckus it would cause. He'd simply pronounced that it was the countess's boudoir and since Ophelia wasn't the countess, it would no longer be hers.
Ophelia was in a snit about the change, and Anne hadn't been too keen on it, herself, but she hadn't been able to dissuade him. She was ensconced in the huge suite, located far from her sister, and feeling like an impostor.
He strutted in behind her, and she didn't attempt to keep him out. If he wanted to enter, he would. If he wanted to lock her in, or stay and guard her, he would, and there'd be nothing she could do about it.
In her haste to depart, she'd left a candle burning, so she could easily see her way to the dressing room. The large space was designed for a countess to use, and Ophelia—with her fashionable and extensive wardrobe—had filled it to bursting.
In comparison, Anne's four gowns looked lonely and ragged.
She hung her bonnet and shawl on a hook, then spun to him. He was over by the door, feet braced, his cheeks dark with stubble, his eyes impossibly blue. He appeared devilish, or maybe like a fallen angel who'd come to earth to entice and torment her.
"Are you even sorry?" she queried.
He was as oblivious as she might have predicted he'd be.
"Sorry for what?"
"For hurting me! You don't care about me, and you don't wish to marry me. At least have the courage to say so aloud, and I won't continue harboring these absurd delusions."
"You imagined I... I... cared for you?"
"Silly of me, I know."
"I've never cared for anyone—except my brother." "I'm sure that's true."
He crossed to her so that he was close enough to touch her, the tips of his boots slipping under the hem of her skirt, and he studied her as if he'd never seen her before.
"I don't understand you," he finally muttered. "I'm giving you everything a woman could ever want—for no reason, at all—yet you're so miserable."
"Why did the Prince make you marry me?"
"The King was a friend of your father's."
"Was he? I wasn't aware of any connection."
"He's always been worried about your plight."
"If I don't wed you, will you still get to keep the estate? Was the transfer contingent on our union?"
"No. It's mine no matter what I choose to do."
He said it with a straight face, so she couldn't discern if he was lying or not. No doubt, he was adept at fabrication. A man couldn't rise as he had without being ruthless and untrustworthy.
"Then why would you agree?"
"It was important to the Prince, and it won't kill me. There seemed no basis to refuse."
It was such a cold remark, and it made her feel so insignificant, so absolutely ordinary. Couldn't he have left her with the illusion that he'd found something about her to be special?
"If we wed—," she began.
"When we wed," he interrupted.
"Have it your way," she replied, capitulating. "When we wed, what kind of life do you expect we'll have?"
"What kind of life?"
"Yes. Have you given any thought as to how we'll carry on? Does it concern you in the slightest?" "No."
She chuckled, but wretchedly. "You are so brutally frank, which isn't what I need at the moment. Couldn't you humor me? Couldn't you pretend we can make it work?"
"Of course it will work. I'll tell you what to do, and you'll do it. We'll get on fine." "Is that how you run your ship?" "Yes."
"So that's how you'll run our marriage?"
"I never learned any other way. It's easier when everyone knows who's in charge."
"You're such a bully. I hate that about you."
"What would you have me say, Anne? I'm not the sort to court you with flowers and poetry."
"No, you're not."
"But I swear to you that you'll never want for anything, that you'll be safe, that you'll be fed and sheltered. Why can't that be enough for you?"
"I just always assumed my husband would love me. It's a dream that's dying very hard."
He sighed and took her hand, their fingers linked as if they were sweethearts.
"Come with me."
'To where?" "Does it matter?" "I guess not."
He led her into the earl's suite and proceeded directly to his bedchamber, where the king's bed sat in the middle of the floor.
"Has anyone ever explained to you what happens in the marital bed?"
"No."
"Then some of what we're about to do may seem very strange."
"Why? What are you planning?"
"I'm going to bind you to me, so you can never leave."
"How?"
"How would you suppose?" "Can I talk to my sister first?" "No." "Please?"
"She can't help you."
"But I don't want to do this."
"I don't care," he said, though gently. "I have to put an end to all your nonsense. We're to speak the vows tomorrow anyway, so we're just pushing ahead with the inevitable."
"You'd take me against my will?"
"If you wish to look at it like that, you're entitled. I'd rather have you disposed and amenable. It will be more enjoyable for you."
"I'll resist," she bravely contended.
"Will you, Anne? Will you really?"
She never would, and as he'd mentioned, their marriage was inevitable. He was determined to have it transpire, and he always got his way. She would have to submit now, or she would have to submit the following evening after the ceremony. She had no power to alter events.
"If I fought you," she asked, "co
uld I ever win?"
"No. Turn around," he commanded, and like a puppet on a string, she obeyed.
He fussed with her hair, pulling at the pins and combs, so that it fell to her hips in an auburn wave; then he unbuttoned her dress and stripped her. Her garments dropped away, piece by piece.
In a thrice, she was bared to her chemise, and he snuggled himself to her back, his arms encircling her, his palms flat on her belly. He nibbled at her nape, taking soft bites along her neck and shoulder.
She shivered, goose bumps cascading across her skin, and he smirked.
"Are you cold?" he inquired.
"No."
"Do you know what I think?" "What?"
"I think perhaps you like me a tad more than you can admit."
He was probably correct, but she'd never fan his inflated ego by agreeing. He was too vain by half, and if he thought she was infatuated, he'd be more unbearable than he already was.
"You were worried about how we'll carry on," he said. "Well, this is how. Every day and every night, we'll be together like this. It's not so terribly bad, is it?"
"Not so far," she allowed, refusing to be anything but surly.
He laughed and urged her onto the mattress. She didn't hesitate, for if she defied him, he'd simply lift her and toss her where he wanted her to be.
She lay on her stomach, her face buried in the pillows, listening as he removed some of his clothes, then climbed up, too. He stretched out on top of her and clasped her flanks. He flexed his loins against her bottom, taking several slow thrusts that made her stomach flutter with butterflies.
"Will it hurt?" she asked.
"Will what hurt?"
"I heard some women gossiping once. They said it hurt."
"They were wrong. It feels very, very good."
He slid to the side and drew her to him. His shirt was off, and the front of his trousers was loose, a few buttons undone, the placard dangling lazily.
At the sight of so much exposed male flesh, she was giddy and reckless. Her body was goading her to try things she'd never imagined, things she couldn't comprehend. She wanted to touch him all over, wanted to lick him and kiss him all over. She was frantic with the need of it.
"There will always be one rule between us," he murmured, dipping to nuzzle under her chin. "What is that?"