Wicked Earl, Wanton Widow

by Bronwyn Scott

  “Mrs. Janeway, you are a delight. Thank goodness your wit is not sharper or it would cut me to threads. As it is, I will bid you good night and retreat with what dignity is left to me.”

  “No, wait.” Impulse came to Rose sudden and swift. She didn’t stop to think. “Now it is my turn. I have a proposition for you.” That got his attention. His eyes perused her face in a casual study that caused her to flush. Perhaps she’d been too bold this time.

  “I like the sound of that, Rose.” He was back to first names with her and she was mightily encouraged.

  “Stay for dinner. Mrs. Hemburton has made shepherd’s pie and I hate eating alone. It’s the least I can do for your services today.”

  “And the most?” He’d stepped closer to her, his eyes on her lips, creating the sensation that he was already kissing her in his mind.

  “The most? I’m not sure I follow.” He was hunting her again with his eyes, as he had in the orchard, hot and direct, making it impossible for her to think straight.

  “You said dinner was the least you could do. What is the most?” Was he intentionally opening up a seductive gambit? Or perhaps he just couldn’t help himself? Flirtation must come naturally to a man like him. Heaven help her, all the logic in the world could not keep her fantasies at bay. She ran her tongue over her suddenly dry lips. “Mrs. Hemburton baked fresh sugar biscuits today as well. We can have them for dessert with pears from the orchard.”

  He took another step towards her, his voice a soft, low tease. “I prefer something a bit tarter for dessert, something with a little bite to it.”

  Rose’s heart hammered in erotic excitement. His kisses weren’t the only things that could make a woman swoon. But she didn’t want to appear over-eager. She wasn’t out of her depth yet when it came to matching wits. “I think we’ll leave that open to negotiation.”

  Chapter Five

  The only thing standing between her and the promise of unbridled pleasure was shepherd’s pie and sugar biscuits. He was leaving the ‘negotiations’ of what was to come up to her, she realized. She’d scolded him, worked him hard, ruined his shirt, insulted his lifestyle and somewhere during the day he’d decided he wanted her anyway.

  Did she want him? The primal woman in her clamored yes. A man like Killian Redbourne was a treat to be savored even if only for a night and, who knew, maybe she could change his mind about leaving. But that was a dangerous fantasy. If she chose to embrace such whimsy, she’d be opening herself up to great hurt. Her heart would be at risk, she could see the inevitable now if she went down that road. It would be all too simple to love a man like Killian.

  The soft light of the candles in the dining room served to enhance his looks, and Rose was tempted to forego the shepherd’s pie altogether. He’d taken time before the meal to sluice off the day’s grime at the pump. She knew because she’d watched him from her window upstairs, biting her nails as he’d stripped out of his stained shirt, all glorious, naked muscle in the light of the rising moon. Now, he sat across from her in an old shirt rummaged from a trunk in the attic, his dark hair loose on his shoulders, turning the shade of a polished walnut thanks to the combined efforts of candlelight and water droplets.

  “You look like a highwayman.” Rose ventured.

  He gave her a skeptical stare, mischief at home in its usual place in his eyes. “I hope not, unless of course you mean the romanticized highwaymen in the ballads. Real highwaymen tend to be dirty and ill-kempt.” Rose laughed at that and took a bite of the shepherd’s pie.

  He gave her a bone-warming smile. “Today, you looked like a highwaywoman in your trousers and shirt and those high boots you wore.” He chewed and added as an afterthought, “Very appealing. Very distracting, if I might be so bold.”

  “At least we both have future careers in crime assured.”

  Pembridge laid aside his fork and sat back in his chair. “I may be reduced to that. The estate is broke. I haven’t told anyone else, except Peyton of course. I’m not sure I want word to get out and create more panic than is necessary. But I thought you should know.”

  Because she’d accused him of not caring, of treating the responsibilities of the estate callously, Rose thought. “I didn’t know.” It was a throwaway line. What else could she say? Perhaps she had been hasty in her conclusions.

  Pembridge lifted one shoulder in a shrug, dismissing her guilt. “The estate could be faring well and I still wouldn’t be staying. Even if I wanted to stay, I’m not Rumpelstiltskin. I can’t spin straw into gold for these people. I have my own fortune from business ventures, but it’s not of the magnitude needed here.”

  Rose smiled wanly in agreement. “The only gold around here is red-gold.” He raised his eyebrow in question and she explained. “The apples in my orchard are called Redstreaks. Local legend has it that a Lord Scudamore brought the pips for Redstreaks back from France with him in the 1600s. They’re known for their reddish-golden hue.”

  “Like your hair.” Killian said softly, reaching across the table to wind an errant curl about his finger. “It’s the most original color I’ve ever seen, not blond but not really red.” He gave her a hot look and dropped his voice. “It makes a man wonder if perhaps all your hair is lucky enough to share the same hue.”

  One well-placed remark and dinner was over. Sugar biscuits would have to wait. There would be no more negotiations, although in truth, Rose knew she’d reached her decision long before she’d invited him to dinner.

  Killian rose from the table and extended his hand to her, the gesture both blatant and eloquent in its message; I want you. Tonight, I will be your lover and you will be mine.

  Rose took his hand and all it offered. She let him lead her upstairs, the brace of candles in his hand casting their shadow along the staircase wall, his other hand gripping hers with his warm strength.

  In her room, he quietly shut the door behind them although there was no one to see or hear. But the very act of doing so created an intimate sense of privacy that said he was hers alone and she was his.

  He came to her, bending slightly to kiss her at the base of her ear and to whisper, “Watch me, Rose.” He drew back, his eyes holding her to the request, and slowly began to remove his clothes.

  The shirt went first, button by button, until his torso was revealed in all its anticipated glory. She’d only seen his back at the pump. He was beautiful, all sculpted muscle, the definition of his abdomen tapering to the trimness of his waist.

  “Come help with my boots.”

  There was a familiar intimacy in helping a shirtless man remove his footwear, Rose thought, tugging at the boots. They gave easily and he ordered her back to the bed, his hands already at the waistband of his trousers, pushing them down his hips and kicking them off his legs.

  What legs they were, shaped by long hard muscles. He must have spent ages in the saddle to have calves like that, thighs like that. Her eyes moved up his legs to his rampant masculinity—proof, had she needed it, of how desperately he desired her.

  Wonder filled her, peaceful, inexplicable wonder that a stranger could provoke such a reaction in her and she in him. She was a practical woman, an earthy woman. She’d lived around the cycles of the seasons her entire life. She knew the power of the harvest. It was no coincidence that so many babies; foals, calves, and lambs were born in the spring. Humans mimicked their pattern as well. One had only to look at the plethora of summer birthdates in the parish register to see the lure of the harvest season.

  Perhaps she and Killian (it was impossible to think of him as Pembridge in the intimacy of the moment), were nothing more than strangers looking for the succor of another’s body.

  He was reaching for her, drawing her to him. She could feel the heat of his naked body, but her curiosity would not rest. “Why do you want me? You hardly know me.” She whispered.

  “I know you better than you think.” His breath feathered against her ear, his mouth moving to take her mouth in a long kiss. She opened her lips to him, le
tting his tongue tangle with hers until she was caught up in the need rising between them, the kiss growing stronger, more insistent as it progressed. His hands worked the bodice of her gown loose, shoving it off her shoulders before his warm hands took her breasts in their palms. She moaned against him, feeling the power of his erection hot through her clothes. She wanted release from the garments, from the pressure building inside her.

  He gave it to her, sliding her gown to the floor and making quick work of her under things so that she stood naked with him. He bent her back towards the bed. “Lie down for me, let me see you.”

  She started to protest, suddenly uncomfortable. She’d never been openly, blatantly naked with her husband. They’d relegated their lovemaking to the dark anonymity that existed beneath the blankets.

  “You’re too beautiful to hide,” Killian coaxed, coming down beside her on the bed. He ran his hand the length of her body, from breast to hip, hip to that most private place and there his hand rested in the red-gold arbor of her curls, gently exploring, teasing.

  “Touch me too, Rose.” He encouraged. “I’m as much yours as you are mine.”

  She needed no further invitation. Her hands ached to touch his body, to feel the paths of his muscles beneath her fingers. Her own hands traveled downwards as his had until they found the length of him. His eyes lit with desire at the contact, a groan of appreciation escaping him.

  She stroked him, learning his rhythm until he begged for mercy. His pleasure made her audacious and suddenly she couldn’t wait any longer. She widened her legs and whispered, “Come into me, Killian.”

  No other summons was required. He growled and moved over her at once, entering her in one fierce thrust. She bucked hard against him, his penetration full and intense. It had been ages since she’d taken a man into her body and her

  body welcomed him as if in homecoming, as if he had always been meant to be there. She gasped in delight and felt him tense.

  “Did I hurt you? Do you need me to stop?” She heard the grit of restraint in his voice and doubted he could have stopped even if she wanted it. She didn’t. Stopping was the furthest thought from her mind. Passion had her in its throes. She could only think of going forward to the great paradise each thrust of Killian’s brought closer.

  She raised her hips, urging him onward until they were there, on the crest of their desire. She had only time to gasp once more and they were at the top, hovering in the wake of a shattering bliss, and then they were falling together towards peace and oblivion.

  Chapter Six

  The gray shadows of morning teased Killian into waking. He stretched, arching his back in well-rested satisfaction. Then it hit him—where he was, what he’d done and with whom. Rose. But the bed felt empty. A quick roll to his side confirmed his suspicions. She was already up. Her side of the bed was cold, suggesting she’d been up for quite some time.

  It couldn’t be later than seven o’clock in the morning judging by the pale light. But he was in the country now. The country kept different hours than the city and this was a working farm. Crops and harvests didn’t grow on banker’s hours.

  Killian sighed, blowing out a deep breath of air and fell back on his pillows. Yes, he was in the country now and more than the hours of the day were different. The social rules were different too, in some ways more lax and in other ways more strict. Would the residents of Pembridge-on-the-Wye permit him to dally with their Widow Janeway without imposing negative consequences on him or her?

  He was fairly certain he could get away with it. But Rose? The last thing he wanted was to leave her under a cloud of censure while he simply departed back to his life in the city. Departed.

  So much had changed in the span of one day. Yesterday morning he’d been eager to leave Pembridge-on-the-Wye. He’d gone searching for a woman who was supposed to help him expedite that goal. Instead, he’d ended up picking apples and this morning he was in no immediate hurry to leave.

  Last night, he’d expected to remain detached from the encounter beyond the physical gratification it brought and yet, making love with Rose had touched him far beyond that. She was a generous lover, giving herself over entirely to their mutual pleasure. Beneath the sheets, his cock thrummed in remembered knowledge of it—the way she’d touched him, the way she’d opened to him and unabashedly joined him in mutual climax. He’d been with women he’d known a short time and women he’d known much longer before they’d coupled. But in neither instance, had he ever felt the way he’d felt last night. It had been more than simple physical pleasure. He’d felt connected in some fundamental way with another human being, and he found he wanted to feel that way again.

  This was not going as planned. Usually bedding women he was attracted to and knew little about worked out well for him. He’d get up in the morning, ready to walk away. Last night had started that way, but it hadn’t ended with his regular level of detachment.

  He’d told her he knew her better than she thought. Maybe it was true, and maybe it was just something a man said to get what he wanted. After last night, Killian doubted the latter and was puzzled by the former. What did he know about Rose Janeway? She was a widow with vast orchards she personally worked herself if yesterday was any testament. And she was beautiful. That was the list. The list of things he didn’t know about her was far longer.

  He didn’t know her favorite color, her favorite food, her likes or dislikes. He knew none of the things friends know about one another. And yet, they’d shared an intimacy that exceeded friendship. It was strange how little time had been needed to stoke his desire for her to a fevered pitch. Stranger still were the remnants of that possession.

  Usually when he took a woman on short acquaintance, his ardor was quickly cooled. Not so in this circumstance. He wanted her again and with such immediacy he was about ready to go in search of her and drag her back to bed. When it came to Rose Janeway, his ardor was far from slaked.

  Hard to say if he would have acted on that impulse. He didn’t get a chance to find out. The door to the bedroom opened and Rose entered, shutting the door with her hip, her hands wrapped around a basket of folded clothing. She looked enticingly fresh in a dark-blue skirt of heavy fabric for everyday wear and a white blouse, her hair draped over one shoulder in a tight braid that lay provocatively against the swell of her breast.

  “No trousers today?” Killian queried, wondering if she’d notice the tenting bulge beneath the sheets.

  “I’ve come up to change.”

  Ah, no help for him there. He was already imagining the buttons of her blouse coming undone one by one, each one revealing a larger show of the cleavage beneath. His hands already itched to hold the weight of her breasts in his palms.

  Rose set the basket down at the foot of the bed. “I unearthed some more clothes in the attic for you. I thought you might like them for work.”

  It was a nervy statement. Leave it to Rose to so masterfully introduce the prickly topic of ‘what next’ with the subtle offer of a shirt and trousers. He knew precisely what she was asking him.

  Killian found he liked her presumptions. Perhaps it was a sign she didn’t think as poorly of him as she had the day before if she was thinking he’d stay and help pick apples. He knew too, this was not just about apples. She was offering him her bed for the duration of his stay; an offer that had merit and one he’d gladly accept.

  But he had to tread carefully here too. Too many assumptions on her part might lead to a precarious situation when he prepared to leave. He was going to leave. It was a foregone conclusion. The only question was when.

  Certainly not before I drink my fill of this woman. His body throbbed. Even the simple act of watching her fold laundry and put it away was painfully arousing. She stretched up to put a stack of clothes on top of the wardrobe, the reach drawing the fabric of her blouse tight against her breasts. But the reach was awkward for her to manage easily, even with her height. Without thinking, Killian threw back the covers and went to her aid, steadying t
he teetering stack of linens.

  “Thank you.” She said, her color suddenly rising beautifully in her face as her eyes took in his naked body and obvious state of arousal.

  Killian shrugged, at ease with his own nakedness and body. He turned to face her fully, utterly unashamed and smiled at her, his eyes sparkling with an unspoken question.

  Her blue eyes darted towards the window, uncertain. “The workers will be here by eight.” She stalled.

  “We don’t need very long, I think.” He dropped his gaze to her lips in deliberate contemplation. “I’m already undressed and you were going to change anyway.” He bent to kiss her, to silence any other half-hearted protests and because he couldn’t wait any longer to do otherwise. She melted into him, assurance that her protests were pro forma at best, that she wanted him too.

  He bunched the hem of her skirts in one hand and rucked them to her waist, seeking the wet heat of her core. She was long past ready, making him wonder what exactly she’d planned to do all along when she’d come up to the room. It was clear neither of them were going to wait for her to undress.

  A moan of distress escaped her lips and her attention momentarily focused on the window. He heard it too, the sounds of a wagon jangling into the drive. He’d not survive the day if he didn’t take her now. He’d not experienced apple picking with an erection, but he didn’t think it would be pleasant, let alone easy to explain. “Don’t worry.” His voice was ragged.

  He maneuvered her against the flat surface of the wardrobe doors, her arms tight around his neck, and lifted. Instinctively, her legs wrapped about his waist and he thrust deep inside her, her excited cries muffled against his bare shoulder. He could feel the desperate nips of her teeth against his skin, an intoxicating delight of erotic proportions. Killian pumped once, twice more, the pressure of his culmination rough and savage as it built. He felt her convulse around him and he let himself go.