“Nell!” Strong hands grabbed her before she hit the ground and pulled her into a rock-hard embrace. The rough fabric of Ian’s greatcoat rubbed against her breasts, her stomach, her…dear God.
She squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She would die of embarrassment. She was naked in Ian’s arms.
“Are you all right, Nell? Can you stand?”
She felt cool air on her wet skin. He was holding her away from him and he was—she opened one eye to peek—yes, he was looking at her. She felt her nipples pebble—she was cold, that was all. Not hot. Her womb was not melting and the long-dead place between her legs was not throbbing and swelling.
They had married when she was seventeen. She had wanted him so wildly then, she could not wait to go to his bed.
She swallowed the sob, but not quickly enough.
“You’re hurt.”
“Nay, it’s—”
“Aye, you’re hurt, lass. I heard you cry.” He pulled her up against him again, held her tight with one arm while he slid the other hand down her naked, wet back. Did he think to comfort her? It was not comfort he gave her. He was stoking the flames of a fire she’d thought so long dead even the embers were stone-cold.
“Tell me where you hurt. Is it your leg? Can you stand, love?”
She had been his love once, long ago, before she’d lost his babe. She choked back another sob. She felt his lips brush her forehead.
“Oh, sweetheart. Dinna cry. Let me see your leg.”
“Nay, I—”
But Ian was already stooping, sliding his hand over her thigh, her knee, her calf. His face was level with—
Please let him think the wetness on her thighs was all from her bath.
“Hold on to my shoulders, Nell.”
Was his voice huskier?
“Nay, I’m fine, Ian. Just get me that towel. I’m naked, ye ken.”
He laughed then, though it was a short, choked sound.
“I ken, Nell.” He ran his hands up her body, letting his thumbs skim her breasts, as he stood. He cupped her jaw and looked down into her face. His eyes were…hungry.
They’d been hungry when he was nineteen, too, but this was different. Were there pain and a hint of desperation there as well?
She certainly felt desperate. She moistened her lips; his eyes followed the sweep of her tongue. His head bent.
In a moment she would feel his lips again after so many, many years. She shivered with anticipation.
“Och, Nell, you’re cold, and here I am…I am…” His head snapped up and he stepped back. “What the hell am I doing?”
Good God, he had just been about to kiss Nell. The need, the overwhelming lust, still hammered at him, like storm waves crashing against the shore. He’d never felt that intensity with any other woman. How had he stopped himself?
Thank God he had. If he hadn’t, Nell would have done so for him. She hated him. She was glaring at him now.
He scowled. Would she put some damn clothes on? Did she not realize what a tease she was, standing there naked? The firelight glistened on her wet body—it was even more beautiful than it had been when she was younger—slightly rounder, a little fuller. Her breasts—
He jerked his eyes back to her face. He would not look at her breasts.
She finally wrapped the towel around herself. He should have handed it to her, but frankly, he didn’t trust himself. He balled his fists. The damn lust was like a raging fever. If he moved, he’d fall on her like the rutting animal she thought he was.
She had made it very clear ten years ago that she never wanted him in her bed again. In all the years since, she had not once given him any indication she’d changed her mind, though MacNeill had told him time after time she was not averse to male companionship. Hell, just a fortnight ago, the man had sent word she was dallying with the damn estate manager. MacNeill had caught them in the library, apparently just moments before Pennington’d had Nell out of her gown and down on the rug.
Would she not put some clothes on?
There, finally she was reaching for her dressing gown. She was holding the damn thing in front of her like a shield. The sooner she put it on, the better.
He should just turn his back so she’d have the privacy to get the job done. If he turned, he wouldn’t keep staring at her.
He couldn’t move. He was worse than a randy schoolboy, hoping for another glimpse of her perfect…
Damn it all to hell, he was a thirty-year-old man. He’d seen plenty of naked females. He should not be panting, almost mindless with desire, just because he was here in a bedroom alone with Nell. Naked Nell.
He was going to have an apoplexy if she didn’t get some blasted clothes on right now. Perhaps speaking would help. Formulating words and even sentences would take some thought away from contemplating Nell, naked and—
“What the hell are you doing in my room?”
“Don’t shout.” Nell frowned. Ian was scowling at her now.
“All right.” This time it sounded like he was talking through gritted teeth. “What the bloody hell are you doing in my room?”
“Don’t curse.” Did she actually hear his teeth grind? “And this isn’t your room—it’s mine.” She turned away briefly to struggle into her dressing gown and then turned back, tying the gown’s sash tight while she glared at him. “As you noted, I was in the middle of bathing. I suggest you leave me to my privacy and seek out the housekeeper. Obviously you have gone astray.”
Yes, she’d been in the middle of bathing—and then in the middle of lusting after him.
What was the matter with her? Was the man a bloody conjuror? She hadn’t felt these…urges in ten years. She didn’t want to feel them. She was content the way she was. She didn’t need any more heartbreak.
“This is my room.” Ian’s voice was hard—mulish.
This was the man she remembered. The man who’d insisted she come back to his bed once her courses had returned. The man who’d said it was her marital duty.
Perhaps by law he had been right, but she couldn’t do it. If she’d submitted to him, something important would have died in her. Something besides the baby who was already dead…
“It’s not your room.”
“It is.” His jaw jutted out. He could be incredibly stubborn. Everyone had used to say he was only stubborn with her because she was the only one who had the backbone to stand up to him.
“This is my room.” She pointed to the tub and then flushed. She’d rather not bring his attention back to the tub, but it did prove her point. “Lord Motton’s footmen would not have brought me up a bath if this were not my room.”
Ian scowled at the tub. “They must have been confused. I tell you, the housekeeper was very clear. This is definitely my room. I did not make a mistake.”
“Obviously, you did.”
“No, I—” He grunted. “Wait here.” He opened the door and stepped into the corridor.
Nell stepped closer to the fire. Of course she would wait here. Where else would she wait? She wasn’t even dressed, for goodness’ sake. She found her comb and attacked the tangles in her hair.
Five, ten minutes passed. What was taking so long? Had Ian left? But his bag was still here—
The door swung open and Ian ushered in Mrs. Gilbert, the housekeeper. He was scowling; Mrs. Gilbert was wringing her hands.
“I’m terribly sorry, milord.”
“Just tell my—” Ian made an odd noise, sort of a cross between a cough and a growl. “Just tell Lady Kilgorn what you told me.”
Nell hurried over to Mrs. Gilbert. The poor woman looked miserable.
“Mrs. Gilbert, please don’t be distressed. Lord Kilgorn’s bark is much worse than his bite, I assure you.”
“Wait until you hear what she has to say, Nell.”
“What?” Nell glared at Ian. Why was he being so fierce? Couldn’t he see he was frightening Mrs. Gilbert? He hadn’t used to vent his spleen on the servants. “Oh, stop it. You are giving poor Mrs. Gilbert hear
t palpitations.” She turned back to pat Mrs. Gilbert’s shoulder. “Now what is it? Surely it can’t be as bad as all that.”
“Oh, milady, I very much fear there has been a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding?” Nell’s stomach clenched. “What kind of misunderstanding?”
“Miss Smyth, Lord Motton’s aunt, is acting as his hostess, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know.”
Mrs. Gilbert nodded. “She is. She assigned all the rooms. She usually doesn’t make mistakes.”
“Yes? Was there a mistake this time?”
“I—” Mrs. Gilbert sent a nervous glance at Ian. “Yes, milady, apparently there was.”
So Ian was right. This was his room. Well, no matter. She didn’t care, though she would insist on being given time to dress before she found her new chamber. “That’s quite all right, Mrs. Gilbert. I don’t mind.”
“You don’t?” Mrs. Gilbert looked as if she would fall on Nell’s neck and weep tears of joy. The reaction seemed a trifle out of proportion to the situation.
“I don’t believe you fully understand the nature of the error, Nell.”
“No?” Nell glanced from Ian to the housekeeper. “Perhaps you’d best explain it to me more completely, Mrs. Gilbert.”
Mrs. Gilbert paled. Her hands fluttered around her face and then fell, like dying sparrows, to her skirts. “Miss Smyth must not have understood…she must not have known that you and his lordship…”
She and his lordship? Nell felt a sudden flutter of nerves herself. “Just tell me, Mrs. Gilbert.”
“Miss Smyth told me to put Lord and Lady Kilgorn—both of you, milady—in the Thistle Room.” Mrs. Gilbert cleared her throat. She must have thought Nell’s understanding was weak—not surprising as Nell definitely felt more than usually stupid at the moment—because she repeated herself. “Together, milady. In one room. Here.”
“Oh.” That was awkward, but surely no more than momentarily embarrassing. There was no need for Mrs. Gilbert to look so stricken. Nell smiled weakly. “But that’s easily rectified, isn’t it? You can just move one of us. And since Lord Kilgorn seems unwilling to change rooms, I don’t mind being the one to move—just let me dress and get my things together.”
Why Ian wasn’t acting the gentleman and offering to take another room was odd, but he must have his reasons. Her stomach sank as the obvious reason immediately presented itself. He must already have arranged an assignation, most likely with Lady Remington.
Mrs. Gilbert’s mouth flapped slightly, but it seemed the poor woman could not muster words. Ian spoke instead.
“The solution is not that simple, Nell.”
“Oh? Why not?” Nell turned again to Mrs. Gilbert. The housekeeper truly looked as if she would swoon.
“The problem is…” Mrs. Gilbert swallowed so they could observe her throat moving. “The trouble…the difficulty is…well, you see…” She trailed off into silence, looking to Ian. Nell looked at him, too. His lips were twisted into an odd, almost desperate half smile.
“The difficulty is,” Ian said, “there are no other bedchambers available.”
CHAPTER 2
Nell was still gaping at him as the door closed behind Mrs. Gilbert, but the click of the latch freed her from her stupor. She snapped her jaw shut, crossed her arms tightly, and stalked over to the hearth.
Wonderful. He studied her stiff back. She might as well be wearing a sign proclaiming in large letters: KEEP OUT.
What the hell was he going to do now? Ian looked around the tiny chamber. His eyes kept coming back to the bed. How could they not? It was just about the only damn stick of furniture in this little hole of a room.
He couldn’t stay here. He certainly couldn’t sleep here. Sleep? Ha! Sleeping was the last thing he wished to do on that bed.
He was an idiot, a complete and total idiot. One would think after all this time…
He glanced back at Nell. She was still staring into the fire, ignoring him exactly as she had these last ten years.
Bloody, bloody hell.
He wanted to shout, throw something, do something to make her acknowledge his existence.
When he’d followed her to Pentforth Hall—he’d waited a week or two, thinking she’d come back on her own—he’d been turned away at the door. He, the Earl of Kilgorn, the master of the estate, had been sent packing. Not by MacNeill, of course—the butler knew who paid his wages. Mrs. MacNeill was the one who’d told him Nell refused to see him.
Refused to see him! He clenched his hands into tight fists. The thought of it still had the power to infuriate him. Mrs. MacNeill had said a lot more, but he’d been too angry—well, and hurt, too—to hear it. Then he had thrown something—he’d been only twenty, after all, and new to such pain. He’d hurled some hideous knickknack into the fireplace. It had made a lovely crash as it shattered into a hundred pieces.
He unbuttoned his greatcoat. Why had Nell turned him away? He still didn’t understand it. She was his wife. She had vowed to obey him. She was compelled by the church and the state to submit to him—and she hadn’t even had the courtesy to see him. It wasn’t as if he were some reprobate. He hadn’t caused her to miscarry. Damn it all, it wasn’t his fault.
He shrugged out of his coat and threw it on the bed. And he’d loved her. She’d been his first, his only love. He’d been nineteen, little more than a boy, when they’d wed. A virgin still. He’d discovered heaven in Nell’s arms. He’d been happy, proud—damn cocky, really—when his seed had taken root so quickly. Yes, he’d been disappointed when she’d lost the babe, but he’d thought they would just try again.
He shook his head. He couldn’t understand why he’d had to lose his child and his wife. Had Nell never really loved him? Was that it?
Zeus, he had loved her. She’d taken his heart when she’d left. Nothing had ever been the same.
He started unbuttoning his waistcoat. He was hot, tired, and dirty from his ride out from London. The bathwater was sitting there. He might as well use it. Nell couldn’t care; she’d already had her bath. She was still standing in front of the fire, combing her long, black hair.
God, she was beautiful. He’d used to tell her some claptrap about how her hair was as dark as a moonless night. Silly cub—he’d fancied himself a bit of a poet when he was young. But it was true. Her hair was as black as a moonless night and her eyes as blue as Kilgorn Loch.
But it wasn’t just her body that had wooed him. She’d been so full of life, so full of joy, when she’d been young.
He dropped the waistcoat on top of his coat. He’d been such a fool. He’d left Pentforth angry—livid—but the anger had faded quickly. He’d missed her so much her absence was almost a physical pain. So he’d written to her, letter after letter that first horrible year, sweating over each word—even, much as he cringed to admit it, crying over some. He’d never got one single word in reply.
How she must have laughed at him—if she’d even bothered to read what he’d written.
He’d sent her one last note on her nineteenth birthday. When that, too, was met with silence, he’d washed his hands of her.
Except he hadn’t. She haunted him, even when he was in another woman’s bed. And now the image of her naked in the tub, water streaming off her lovely, full breasts, was seared into his brain for all eternity.
Perhaps this was good, seeing her again. If he were lucky, the experience would be so painful he’d finally be cured of her.
“Has Lady Remington arrived yet?”
“What?” He looked up. Nell was still staring at the fire. Her voice had been carefully devoid of emotion. Why? Did she know Caro was his mistress? Surely she didn’t care.
“Lady Remington. Is she here yet?”
“Lady Remington is not coming.” He untied his cravat. Caro had been a crashing bore about it, too. She’d tried to get him to procure an invitation for her, but he’d realized he liked the idea of being free of her for a few days—a definite sign it wa
s time to give her her congé.
“Oh.”
He stared at Nell. Her tone…she sounded pleased by Caro’s absence. “Why do you care whether she is here or not?”
Nell shrugged. “I merely wished to know if I’d be sitting down to table with my husband’s mistress.”
“Ah.” So she did know about Caro. He shouldn’t be surprised. He hadn’t tried terribly hard to be discreet. Caro was a widow, and he hadn’t thought his wife would care if he fornicated on the floor of Almack’s. Well, she shouldn’t throw stones. “And I take it I won’t be stumbling over Pennington?”
He tried to keep the venom from his voice. He didn’t want Nell to think he was jealous, that he cared one iota what she did in her bed. He yanked his shirt out of his waistband.
“Mr. Pennington?” She finally turned to face him. “He’s the Pentforth estate manager. Why would he be here?”
“MacNeill said the man’s become slightly more than an employee.” He couldn’t stop himself. “Or that he’s being employed to…manage more than the estate.”
“How dare you?” Nell’s eyes flashed and she stepped away from the fire. “And I do not appreciate you setting the servants to spy on me.”
He grunted and grasped the hem of his shirt. “MacNeill isn’t a spy—he’s the butler.”
“He’s a spy, as you very well know and—what are you doing?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” He pulled his shirt over his head. When he emerged from the linen he noticed Nell was eyeing his chest as if she was both appalled and fascinated. He glanced down. His chest looked exactly as it always did, but another part of his body was responding to her attention in a completely inappropriate manner. She’d best not let her gaze drop or she really would be horrified. He looked back up at her. “You’re done with the water, aren’t you?” His hands went to his fall. Nell squeaked.
“You’re taking your clothes off!”
“One usually removes one’s clothing before bathing.” She was acting like a shy little virgin. What was Pennington doing—or, more to the point, not doing—with her? Surely the man didn’t make love with his clothes on?
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