Wicked Earl, Wanton Widow

by Bronwyn Scott

  Killian laughed, a warm, seductive sound in their lantern-lit paradise. His arms were linked loosely about her waist in casual intimacy. “Do you suggest an ode to a man’s chest?”

  “That rhymes. I think you may be off to a good start. I’m beginning to believe you have many hidden talents.”

  “Like what?” He bent to kiss her, a little nip on the column of her neck that sent her pulse racing. It was incredibly simple to be this way with him, as if they’d been lovers for ages, acquiring an effortless comfort that only comes with long familiarity. And yet it had only been a few days. That was part of his charm, this ability to put a woman at ease.

  “You’re fishing now, looking for compliments.” She replied, dropping her hand back to the waist of his trousers, seeking an entrance to the heat of him.

  “I’m not the only one fishing.” His voice had taken on the gratifying husky qualities of a man well-aroused. There was a certain power in knowing she could stoke him to readiness. He was a man who could have any woman he chose, and, for the time being, he’d chosen her. But for how much longer? The crop was in. Their implicit arrangement was at an end.

  Her hands worked his trousers free, boldly pushing them over narrow hips and firm buttocks. He was ready, but where to put him? She’d not thought of that when she’d begun her seduction. She’d only thought of how warm and wonderful-smelling the shed would be, how lovely to couple with him amid the bounty of the harvest. She’d not thought of any actual place, merely images.

  “I think the table would do nicely.” Killian whispered naughtily at her ear. He gave it a quick perusal for splinters, but it was a sturdy work table of heavy cherry, smoothed from years of use, and there were none.

  He backed up to it and dragged her to him. “Now, I believe you were about to climb on top of him.”

  “Why I believe I was.” Rose laughed, the awkward glitch neatly dealt with before embarrassment could damage the ambience.

  His hands were warm at her hips, holding her firmly, guiding her discreetly, she noticed as she stripped out of her own trousers, and she came over him with only her shirt on, feeling the air of the room caressing her bare skin.

  “Slowly, Rose. I want this to last. There, sink down now. Take me deep inside you.”

  She did as she was instructed, feeling decadent and utterly female as she joined her body with his. This was something she’d only dared to imagine. Killian let out a contented “Ah,” and she could feel the coarse rub of his man’s hair against her bare buttocks.

  Rose moved experimentally, but Killian halted her.

  “Wait, give your body time to stretch, time to know its mate.” His hands were at her shirt front, fumbling uncharacteristically in his haste, making no secret of his rising need. “I want to see your body, Rose, I want to feel the weight of you in my hands as we make love.” His eyes were black with desire. Her own need for him spiked at his words. These were not the words of a practiced libertine; his body attested to the truth of them.

  His hands were at her breasts now, cupping them in his palms, his thumbs stroking her nipples into an erection of their own. She started to move over him and this time he did not stall her. She rocked her hips gently, back and forth at first as if she were out for a Sunday ride. The first tiny notes of physical fulfillment grew in her, lapping at her core like small waves against a shore. She changed her gait and began to move up and down on his shaft, crying out in wonder when she rubbed a place deep inside that released the most exquisite sensation of pleasure-pain.

  A knowing smile took Killian’s mouth at the sound of her gasp. “I didn’t know…” she stammered.

  “Now you do, my dear.” But his own pleasure was rising fast, and he could manage no more words.

  She delighted in the sound of his moans, in the feel of his body beneath hers giving itself over the primal release bearing down on them both. His hands at her hips urged her on faster now, her breath was coming in pants, their bodies were pushed to the limits of anticipation. Then she took them there, to the top of their pleasure, and they were overcome with the power of it.

  She collapsed on top of him, exhausted from the physical efforts of the long day and the emotional wellspring of their lovemaking. She was boneless against him, unwilling and perhaps even unable to move. Why move when paradise was contained on a tabletop, she thought dreamily.

  Rose was vaguely aware of Killian rising, assembling his clothes into some decent array and then lifting her in his arms for the journey to the house.

  How he managed the trip up the stairs, she could not guess. She was capable of little else but basking in the drowsiness of satiated satisfaction.

  Chapter Ten

  Rose woke slowly the next morning, her body filled with the lazy exhilaration of knowing there was nothing to do, at least nothing that had to be done. The apples were safely stored. There was nothing that could not wait one more day. After the hard work of the summer and the harvesting of the autumn, she could take one day and relax. The thought of a full day stretching out before her with no expectations seemed like a gift from the gods.

  Beside her, Killian stirred, his arm seeking her in his sleep. She turned towards him and smiled, reveling in the chance to study her lover up close in the light of day. His hair was loose, falling over his shoulders, dark and sensual, framing his face. Longer hair on a man was undoubtedly sexy, Rose thought. Not that Killian’s hair was truly long. It wasn’t long at all compared to a woman’s. Her own hair unbound reached the small of her back. Killian’s hair merely graced his shoulders, enough of it that it could be neatly pulled back without looking straggly.

  She stroked a length of it, pushing it back behind his ear. It was enough to wake him. “Good morning.”

  “You’ve been watching me sleep.” Killian teased in a gravelly voice still filled with the effects of slumber.

  Rose propped herself up on one arm, “I’ve been wondering all sorts of things about you.”

  “Like what? Or should I be frightened?” Killian traced her hip bone through the sheets with slow hands, and her need for him started to rise at his touch.

  “Did you really make Mrs. Dempsey swoon?”

  Killian’s mouth made a playful, scolding frown. “What a leading question.” His hand kept kneading the curve of her hip in a most delightful, possessive manner that would soon render the issue of Mrs. Dempsey de trop.

  “Well,” Rose pressed. “Did you?”

  Killian rolled his eyes. “Suffice it to say, Mrs. Dempsey is a woman with an overinflated sense of her own charms.”

  “Hmmm.” Rose pretended to reflect on the comment, studying him. “Sounds like a certain man I know.”

  “Does it? I’d agree with the overinflated part just now.” Killian rejoined. Rose’s eyes dropped to his waist, speculating about what she might find if she lifted the sheets. “Lusty wench.” Killian grinned, following her gaze. “The problem with you, wench, is that you need kissing. Badly, unless I miss my guess.” He drew her to him, the evidence of her speculations confirmed.

  “The problem with me, is it?” Rose said coyly, laughter rising up with her words

  “Thankfully,” Killian said in mock seriousness, drawing a finger up the back of her leg. “I know precisely how to solve your kind of problem.”

  Rose yelped. “That tickles!”

  Killian’s eyes brightened, and she knew she’d made a tactical error. “Oh no, oh no, you wouldn’t!” Rose cried as Killian launched an avid search for more tickle-spots.

  They were wrestling now, kicking at the covers, grappling for pillows, laughing, screaming out their delight in the impromptu tickle war that ensued.

  They didn’t hear the pounding of booted footsteps on the landing until it was too late. The door flew open and Rose’s latest scream died a squeaky death in her throat. She grabbed up a sheet in a belated attempt at modesty, feeling her cheeks heat to a beet-red. Killian merely put down his pillow shield and drawled, “Good morning, Peyton. What brings you
out so early?”

  They might as well have all been dressed and sitting in the parlor for tea, Rose thought, the ridiculous image causing an embarrassing bubble of laughter to creep dangerously up her throat and threaten to burst. But what Peyton had to share was no laughing matter.

  “There’s been a fire at a Mr. Franklin’s place. The barn burned. He claims there’s reason to believe it’s arson.”

  Rose’s heart was in her throat, replacing the errant bubble of laughter. It could indeed be arson. She heard the implied message behind Dursley’s terse message and all that went unsaid. A barn burnt meant necessities lost: a winter’s supply of hay for the animals, perhaps even livestock itself. Franklin was not well-liked. He’d paid his day laborers poorly this year, citing the exigencies of a smaller crop, and had hoarded the profit for himself. People felt he had dealt with them unfairly.

  “What do you want me to do about it?” Killian said, his strong gaze matching Dursley’s in challenge.

  Dursley raised a supercilious eyebrow, a practiced move, Rose was sure he’d done a thousand times. It was no doubt quite effective in getting results. “In case you’ve forgotten, you’re the damned magistrate in these parts now, Redbourne. You need to get out there and handle this before your little part of Herefordshire falls victim to swing riots.”

  Killian rose from the bed and drew on his discarded shirt, anger simmering in his taut muscles. “You don’t need to tell me my duty, Peyton. I know it full well. I’ll be downstairs in five minutes.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “You have some answering to do,” Killian fumed precisely five minutes later in the small parlor of Rose’s home. Peyton sat on the worn sofa, one leg elegantly crossed, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “You cannot come barging into someone’s home like that and walk into their bedroom, where God knows what’s going on.”

  “Clearly.” Peyton said.

  “Stop doing that eyebrow thing you do. You’re going to do it again, I can tell. I’m not one of your errant brothers, you know.”

  “Leave my brothers out of this.” Peyton said with a coldness that made Killian regret his words. Perhaps he had gone a bit too far with the comment, but deuce take it, he was furious with Peyton for interrupting a most private pleasure and for unnecessarily taking him to task in front of Rose.

  “I am sorry, Killian, for barging in. But this news is serious, far more serious than playing Tup the Widow.”

  “Don’t be crass.” Killian cut in. “It’s not like that.”

  “Oh? How is it then? You’d hardly been in town two days and you were in her bed and haven’t been home since. What do you think this is? She does understand that you’ll be leaving as soon as you possibly can? That she’s just another notch in your illustrious belt, nothing more than a sidelight compared to your conquests in London.”

  “I will not be provoked, Peyton.” Killian grimaced. “My relationship with Rose Janeway is not the issue on display here. It has nothing to do with these claims of arson.”

  “If you think that, you’ve not been a nobleman very long.” Peyton took a small measure of pity on him.

  “About one week, by my recollection.” Killian replied dryly. “I’m a businessman. I know how to make money. I don’t imagine I’ll ever really be a peer, regardless of what the title says.”

  Peyton nodded. “A businessman is very bottom-line by nature. You see profit margins and risk, balance sheets where neat columns line up with calculated answers and assurances. A nobleman’s view is quite different. A nobleman must see all things as interconnections, interconnections that all, I might add, lead back to themselves. A businessman is a private citizen, but a nobleman is not. He must answer to his subjects on all levels. There is no private sector in this life, Killian. Even my mistresses are fair game for common knowledge. It is the same for you as it is for the rest of us. You’re something of a celebrity now. You must go and deal with the question of arson fairly and honestly, if for no other reason than to keep Rose Janeway safe. You would not want to bring the wrath of the rioters down on her head simply because of her association with you.” Peyton counseled.

  “He’s right.” Rose spoke from the doorway, pale and worried. Killian had the uncomfortable sensation she’d been standing there longer then he would have liked, perhaps hearing things best left unsaid until matters were sorted and heads cooled. But her shoulders were straight and she’d dressed in a subdued dress of blue wool with tight sleeves and a high neck trimmed discreetly with white cotton lace, her hair netted and tamed in a chignon at the base of her neck.

  “I have water on for tea and toast in the oven. After breakfast, we’ll go out and settle this matter.” She said matter-of-factly.

  Killian started towards her. “Rose, I think it would be best if you stayed here.”

  She shook her head. “No, you need me. You don’t know these people. You came here a few days ago seeking me for just that purpose didn’t you?” she reminded him in a tone that brooked no argument. “Now, gentlemen, come and eat. Justice is hard to come by on an empty stomach.”

  One would have thought Rose Janeway was in the habit of entertaining lords in her kitchen from the way she settled them at the long work table with tea and toast and a few sausages she adeptly fried up. Killian found a new level of appreciation for her, watching her in the kitchen. His Rose was quite versatile. She could run a farm, bring in the apple harvest and cook (apparently the redoubtable Mrs. Hemburton had the day off), to say nothing of the passion she brought to bed at the end of the day.

  Quite honestly, he’d never met a woman like her. The women who populated his circles in London were elegant rich women of varying stations, but all were obsessed with the same thing—themselves. Rose’s thoughts were for others. Even last night, her thoughts had been for him, for bringing him pleasure. Of course, he’d seen to it that he’d not gone alone into that world of ecstasy. But her intentions had touched him greatly.

  Over toast, she briefed them on Franklin, telling them about the low wages he’d paid out and the situation concerning Herefordshire agriculture in general. One thing was clear: desperation levels were on the rise.

  Connelly had not lied when he’d told Killian Rose was the one best placed to help him get to know the area. She was an astute farmer herself and a keen observer of human nature. Such traits spoke to the kind of life she must have led as the local squire’s wife, Killian thought. A surge of jealous possession went through him. It was hard to picture her as another man’s wife. In the time he’d known her, she’d become entirely his, and the recognition of that truth rocked him to his core. He’d never felt such possessiveness over a woman before.

  “We’re all worried. No one wants the swing riots to occur here, but there’s only so much any one of us can do and a mob is a rule unto itself,” Rose was saying.

  Reflexively, Killian reached out a hand to cover hers where it lay on the table, wanting to give her comfort. “They won’t come here, Rose. You paid more than fair wages last night. People cannot blame you.”

  “Not philosophically anyways.” She gave a weak smile. “But who’s to stop them? Philosophy and logic are poor shields against hungry men trying to get justice for their families.”

  Perhaps she did not mean it as a personal jab, still he couldn’t help but feel the sting of her words. A lord in residence might keep the peace simply through his presence. Without him, who would be on hand and willing to step into the breach if disorder broke out? An awkward silence descended on the table.

  “Let us go and hitch up the gig for you and Mrs. Janeway.” Peyton suggested. He turned to Rose.

  “Will ten minutes be enough time? We should not delay longer than needed.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The barn was a cindered remnant of its former self, a black frame against the sky. Several people were milling about the wreckage when they arrived. Killian hoped bits of useful evidence hadn’t been destroyed or altered by their presence. He jumped down fr
om the gig and immediately strode forward, taking charge.

  “Everyone, step back from the remains,” he commanded. “We need to look around to see if we can spot anything that might have started the fire before we can go further.”

  Mr. Franklin stepped forward, a bluff, florid-looking man in his late forties, an expression of smug satisfaction on his face at seeing Killian. “I’m Pembridge.” Killian said, extending his hand to the man.

  “Now we’ll get somewhere.” Mr. Franklin’s voice was loud and menacing, as if he were threatening those about him. “You’ll all see you can’t take matters into your own hands. I’ve got a suspect too,” Franklin said to Killian. “Jeppeson over there has been uppity since August, complaining about my wages.”

  Killian shot a quick glance at the man indicated and raised his brow in questioning disbelief. “And he’s come out to help you salvage? That doesn’t initially strike me as the action of an arsonist. But I’ll reserve judgment until we’ve established it was even arson at all. Please excuse me, I want to take a look at the site.”

  Killian strode through the charred debris, kneeling down in places to sift through the ash and burned wood. He was aware of Peyton talking with people off to the side, away from where careless footsteps could further disturb the remains. It took a while, but finally Killian found what he was looking for. A wave of relief swept through him. He’d been ready to prosecute if he’d had to, justice had its point after all. If he was to be taken seriously, he had to act swiftly and decisively no matter what the case. But he doubted Mr. Franklin would appreciate his findings as much as he himself did.

  Discreetly, Killian approached Mr. Franklin and walked off into privacy with him. The man had lost a barn, a valued commodity in the country. He deserved to hear the news first and alone. “Mr. Franklin,” he began, “it appears a lantern was the cause of the fire.”