by Nicole Byrd
Gemma’s eyes glistened with a suspicious glint—whether from happiness or concern Louisa was not sure—and the maid, summoned as their other witness, watched them with open curiosity.
When the ceremony was complete and Lieutenant McGregor had slipped a plain gold band upon her finger, they shared a brief kiss.
It was only a slight brush of the lips, yet Louisa felt her pulse jump.
But the lieutenant—her husband!—pulled back at once. Thanking the clergyman and shaking hands, they soon made their farewells.
They returned to the inn where evening shadows were falling in the courtyard. Despite their new titular state of intimacy, her new husband seemed strangely distant. He did not touch her again, walking several paces away and not offering his arm, quite unlike his usual courteous escort. He ordered dinner for the three of them sent up to a private parlor and arranged for two bedchambers, at different ends of the hallway.
“Miss Smith will spend the night with you,” he told Louisa while the three were eating. “I will take the other room. In the morning, at first light, we will be on our way back to London. By the time we arrange for the gossip to begin, the annulment should be underway. You may wish to return to Bath long enough to confer with your uncle or to receive your family’s support, but we can decide that after our return to the city.”
Louisa nodded but made no comment, taking another bite of the sliced beef instead. It was quite delicious, or perhaps this was the first time she’d had an appetite since the sky had fallen in shreds about her shoulders. She suddenly felt like humming, but her mouth was too full.
Gemma, who appeared worried, glanced her way once or twice. Louisa flashed her friend a smile, and Gemma returned it with obvious effort.
“All will be well,” Louisa muttered.
Gemma looked skeptical, but she nodded.
After dinner, they said good night to the lieutenant, leaving him staring somberly into his wine, and went up to their room. When the door was shut, Gemma turned to her.
“Shall I unhook your gown?” Gemma asked. “The maid is bringing us warm water to wash with.”
“Good.” Louisa twisted the gold ring on her third finger. It felt smooth with age and wear. Who had worn this ring? A woman, obviously; it was barely big enough for Louisa’s slim fingers. Had that woman loved the man who had slipped it on, loved him completely with her body and soul?
“I would like a bath. Besides, we must see if she would enjoy a trip to London,” Louisa said.
“What?” Gemma demanded.
Sitting down on the side of the bed, Louisa explained.
Fifteen
His elbows on the bare table, Colin sat for what seemed like hours, trying to think of something, anything, except the woman in the room upstairs. She must be shedding her dress by now, allowing her traveling gown to drop lightly to the floor, the fabric sliding past her slim hips and shapely legs—legs whose form he could sometimes glimpse beneath the thin fabric of her muslin skirts—and puddling at last around her trim ankles. The maid would lift a nightgown above Louisa’s head, and the light garment would slip over that petite figure with its soft curves, caressing it just as his palms ached to caress every inch of her. . . .
His body responded to the images he was too weak to push away, and he almost groaned. No, he must not torment himself like this—it was insane. He took a long swallow of wine, but still, although he turned his gaze toward the coals dying on the hearth, he saw only the inner vision of her long pale hair and her expressive soft blue eyes, eyes big with chagrin or gleaming with merry mischief.
When Louisa Crookshank took a husband for real, she would lead him a merry dance, Colin thought. A man would have to be firm with her, this lighthearted woman with her impulsive and generous and sometimes foolhardy whims, so that she did not get herself into more scrapes, and yet at the same time her husband must be sweet and gentle. No man with an ounce of honor in his soul could bear to make such a woman unhappy. Or if one existed capable of causing her grief, and if Colin ever heard of her woe, he would ram his fist down that stranger’s throat. . . .
Young Sir Lucas, that green and inconsiderate boy, would never have made her a good husband. Colin could not consider the abrupt ending of that engagement with any regret.
Did Louisa regret it? Sweet heaven, he hoped not, just as he wished fervently that she would not have cause to rue this strange conjugal fraud. His plan could come undone in so many ways—he had gambled with her good name, risking it to try to save it. Perhaps he had been just as impetuous as Louisa. . . . No, in life as on the battlefield, sometimes one had to move fast. He would see her through this, somehow, and if the ruse of the elopement did not shield her from the other, greater scandal, he would call out every man in London if need be!
On this highly impractical thought, Colin pushed himself back from the table. More wine would not help; his groin ached with unslaked desire already. But she didn’t know how much he wanted to touch her lips, wanted to caress her neck and her smooth white breasts. . . . His body responded again, and he stood, shaking his head as if to cast aside such treacherous thoughts.
It didn’t matter what he wanted. The only thing that mattered was Louisa’s happiness, that she be allowed to maintain her good name. He wanted to see her flash that bright smile again without any shadow to darken her eyes.
He went slowly up the stairs, his footsteps heavy on the wooden treads, and the inn was quiet around him. He had sent the servants off long ago. When he swung open the door, he stepped into near darkness. Although a fire burned on the hearth, a brass fireguard had been placed in front of it, and in the dimness he could make out only indistinct forms. He closed the door and bolted it behind him. Pausing to put down his glass, he lit the candle waiting on the side table, then loosened his neckcloth. Perhaps he would not bother to undress. He had little hope of enjoying any sleep this night.
A small sound alerted him, and perhaps a trace of lilac scent. Turning quickly, he was startled to see in the small circle of light now stretching across the room, someone sitting in a chair by the window. The slender form was pale against the dimness.
His hand went automatically to the weapon inside his coat.
“Don’t shoot, please,” she said.
He knew that voice, that same light, trilling, sweet tone he had heard in the brothel. But this time she did not sound frantic with fear, only a little breathless.
“Louisa—Miss Crookshank—” he began, his voice sharp with urgency.
“Mrs. McGregor, you mean,” she suggested.
“Only for a few days,” he told her. Good lord, was she so innocent that she did not comprehend—did not realize—he drew a deep breath and tried to explain.
“Miss Crookshank, you must leave. You must be chaperoned at all times. We cannot spend any time alone together.”
“But we are husband and wife,” she pointed out, without making any effort to depart. “It is quite proper.” She sat too far from the candle’s faint glow, and it was difficult to make out her expression.
He felt the blood surge through him, the deepening ache in his groin. She was wearing only her white nightgown with a light wrapper over it. That smooth curve of her neck that led to the breasts he had yet to glimpse—the breasts that were now almost completely unfettered, with only a light layer of fabric to keep them from his hands—
He gave himself a mental shake.
“You don’t understand. We will not be able to obtain an annulment easily, or at all, if there is any suspicion that we have been—that we—that we have come together as husband and wife.” He heard the stiffness in his tone. Good lord, he sounded like someone’s maiden aunt. But how did one explain to a lady as sheltered and as young as this just what she was risking? She couldn’t know how the blood roared in his ears so that he could hardly make out her soft words, or how his passion swirled around him until he felt like a drowning man being drawn deeper and deeper into the whirling maelstrom of his need.
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��I trust you,” she said simply. At last she stood, but instead of walking toward the door, she took a step closer to him.
Colin drew a deep breath. “You shouldn’t,” he said, hardly knowing his own voice, it sounded so strange and so harsh. “You can’t. You will walk out that door right now. You will go straight to your room and not leave your friend’s side again. I am human, Louisa, and as frail as any man, more so than many. I cannot allow you in my room, nor sleep by your side—even if we could risk such closeness, which we cannot—without doing—without showing you what marriage truly means. And then we will never obtain the annulment—”
“I don’t want an annulment,” she said.
He didn’t believe what he’d heard.
“Louisa, be sensible. If this is some momentary expression of gratitude . . . You can do much better, lass, than a paltry half-pay officer with an uncertain reputation!”
She lifted her head and met his gaze. “I don’t care about your reputation. I don’t care how much money you have. You have never failed to put my welfare before your own. You took pity on me when I fouled my shoe, and you never made sport of my ridiculous dilemma. You washed my foot! When I was downcast, you made me smile. You came to the bawdy house to take me safely home. You are sacrificing your own welfare now. Even if this preposterous plan works—and I think you must care for me to see any logic in it or any hope of its success, my dearest—how will you ever find a wife when news of this so-called seduction gets out? You’re ready to give up your reputation to save mine, just as you sacrificed your hopes of military advancement to save your men.”
He shook his head. “Louisa, you are being a fool!”
She took another step closer.
There seemed to be a humming in his ears. He could smell her lilac scent again, stronger and sweeter, and he saw her breasts rising and falling beneath their thin covering.
“You are either the most honorable man I have ever known or thought of knowing, or perhaps . . . you do love me?” Her voice lifted a little to make it half statement, half query.
“Louisa—” He tried to concentrate on her words, but he felt befogged by her nearness.
“Would it be so bad, being my husband?” She was untying the ribbon that held the light wrap together.
He watched the ribbon untangle itself beneath her fingers, saw her push the garment back and allow it to fall unheeded to the floor.
Now there was only the nightgown, its lace dipping low against the curve of her breasts.
“Oh, sweet heaven,” he said, not knowing he had lifted his hand until the curve of her breast rested inside it, like a bird coming home to its nest. It fit naturally, easily, perfectly, as if she had been made only for his touch, created round and soft and smooth only for him to fondle.
Louisa sighed in relief. She saw the flame of the fire reflected in his eyes, and she felt the shudder that went through him. Surely, he could not be indifferent to her.
“I do not wish an annulment,” she repeated. “Colin, I love you.”
“Then God help us both,” he muttered. He stroked her breast, and Louisa felt his touch send strange tingles through her, as if her skin had melted away and he touched something primal deep inside.
“If you change your mind—” he muttered. “Oh, Louisa, my bonny lass—”
“I won’t,” Louisa assured him, although her voice quivered a little because his hand had moved to pull the nightgown down, exposing her breasts to his view. He brushed the nipples lightly, and her stomach clenched. Who would think such a faint touch could provoke such sensation?
“I hope not, because it’s too late,” he told her. This time his lips lifted, his smile at once sweet and wicked, and his eyes held that gleam she had come to love. And at last, his voice had lost its harshness, although its tone sounded deeper than usual. “I will not—cannot—let you leave now, sweet Louisa, guileless, cunning Louisa. I warned you long ago to stay far from my path. You are here now, and you are mine, and I will not give you up, not now, not ever. Tonight, you will become my bride in truth as well as in name.”
Knowing that her smile must be as wide as his, Louisa flung her arms around his neck. “My husband,” she said. “Show me, please, what marriage is.”
He lowered his head and kissed her, a deep, warm lingering kiss that was like nothing Louisa had enjoyed before. It made recollections of Louisa’s chaste embraces with her former fiancé float away, memories banished by the sudden rush of new feelings, responses such as she had never felt. Colin’s lips were firm, and he seemed to know just how to meet her own, just how much pressure made her pulse jump, and just how long to linger. She found, instinctively, that she could kiss him back, meet him—with less skill but no less fervor—halfway.
And then, just as she relaxed into his kiss, his tongue slipped past her half-opened lips. Louisa jumped, startled for a moment by the new sensation. Then she realized she liked this touch, warm again and sure, and again, it tantalized and teased her. . . . And his hands were slipping the nightgown down, and cupping her breasts, both at once, even though he still held her mouth beneath his.
It was almost too much sensation and it rushed through her whole body. His lips, his hands, the way they stroked her skin and left traces of fire behind, as if she were the tinder and he the spark . . .
For a few minutes Louisa forgot to think. When he stepped away for a moment, she opened her eyes and her lips to protest, but she saw that he had shrugged out of his coat and was pulling off his shirt.
Yes, she approved of that! She looked over her new husband with interest. Back in Bath she had young cousins still in the nursery and had occasionally helped with their care, but she had never seen a grown man naked. His chest and arms were just as nicely muscled as she had thought they might be. An old scar on his shoulder and another on his torso made her wince for him, but then she forgot her concern when she saw he was pulling off his boots. Or trying to pull off his boots.
He looked up at her. “Don’t giggle, wench! I shall have to call a manservant. There is no bootjack here, and it would ruin the finish of my best boots if I used such a thing!”
“Can I do it?” Louisa asked.
“Do you wish to?” He sounded surprised.
She nodded. “Why not? You have done as much for me and when I was in much greater disorder. At least your boots are clean.”
“Sit on the side of the bed,” he suggested.
She did, and he lifted one foot, putting the well-polished boot between her legs, resting his foot against the bed frame. The leather felt cool against the inside of her thigh, and she felt again a quiver of unfamiliar sensation.
“You will have to grip it tightly,” he suggested, with a hint of mischief in his voice.
She put both her hands around the heel, braced herself and pulled. For a moment, she thought she did not have the strength, but then the tight-fitting boot released its grip, and she fell back against the feather mattress.
But his foot was free. Colin took the boot from her and dropped it on the floor. “One more time,” he said. Again, he lifted his foot and braced it against the frame, again she tugged.
This time, it came more easily.
“If you need a reference as a gentleman’s valet—” he murmured.
She giggled again. Louisa watched as, free of the tall boots, he rapidly shed his trousers, then his stockings and underclothes.
He came out of his remaining garments with a smooth grace, and before Louisa could do more than blink, she was staring at her husband in the flickering light of the candle, marveling at the masculine potency so obvious to her startled gaze.
This was the shape of a man, then.
“What if—what if I don’t like this?” she asked, hearing the wobble in her voice.
Colin grinned at her. “Trust me, lass,” he suggested. “You are going to like this very much indeed.”
She bit her lip. “Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes, sweet Louisa. My word as a gentleman and of
ficer.” He leaned over to kiss her lips again.
This part, she understood. Louisa shut her eyes—it was easier to enjoy the sensations when she did not have the intimidating sight of him in front of her—and enjoyed the touch of his mouth against her own.
Then he touched her breasts again, and she shivered with the thrill that coursed through her. He caressed one nipple, then another, then both at once. Louisa felt an unfamiliar ache deep in her belly, and tried to think why one part of her body would feel so when it was her breasts that he stroked . . . then he lowered his lips to take one of her nipples inside his warm supple mouth, and she forgot to think.
She gasped, and then as his tongue lingered over the firm pressing center, put her hands behind his head and pulled him harder against her. Oh, yes, yes. He kissed and suckled and fondled until her body moved without her volition, and when he released one breast, she had no time to protest because he bent toward the other, kissing it, running his tongue lightly, teasingly over that nipple, too, stirring even more of the strange yearnings deep inside her.
He paused long enough to kiss the side of her neck, and Louisa was surprised that this part of her, too, was sensitive to his touch. And the underside of her jaw, and her ear—every part of her held unexpected sensations, new responses that she’d never suspected might exist.
He ran his hands over her arms and then back to her shoulders, her neck, feathering down to her breasts again, and while she waited, breathing quickly, for the wonderful touch once again, his hands slid lower.
Her stomach, too, could quiver with delight as he stroked and kissed and stroked again. And his hands dipped even lower, and suddenly Louisa felt sensations so intense they were almost—oh!—almost painful. He slipped his hand between her legs, and the skin seemed aflame, and there was something she needed, a distinct ache she had not felt before. . . .
And his hand was there—just where she yearned for it.
She moved away, for an instant, almost alarmed by how deep the need was, how sharp her response to his light touch.