Haddon tucked his pistol into the waistband of his breeches and released a world-weary sigh as if this wasn’t the first time Michael had tried his patience. “Would you please explain to me what is going on? We docked late yesterday evening, and I received the news from Old Fitzhugh that you demanded a draft of five hundred pounds and asked for your coach to be sent to this”—He waved a hand—“place. Where are we anyway?”
“Rutland,” Michael answered. “By the way, this is my wife, Isabel.”
If the earth had opened up beneath his feet, Haddon could obviously not have been more surprised. “You? Married?”
“Yes, me,” Michael answered, enjoying himself.
Haddon tossed his hat to the serving girl and picked up a chair from the corner of the room. He set it up at the table right between Michael and Isabel.
“What are you doing?” Michael demanded.
“Getting to know your wife,” Haddon stated flatly, squeezing himself in. He refilled Isabel’s wineglass, then poured a glass for himself. Her husband drank springwater. “Has Michael told you anything about me?”
“No.”
“Well, let me fill you in on the details—” Haddon started, but Michael cut him off.
“Don’t listen to a word he says,” he ordered good-naturedly.
“You’d better,” Haddon assured her. “I know all his bad habits.”
“Are there many?” Isabel asked, charmed by their carefree camaraderie.
“We shall be here all night,” Haddon assured her.
“The devil we will,” Michael said. He rose and, before Isabel realized what he was about to do, grabbed the back of Haddon’s chair, tilted it, and pulled his friend out from the table. He pushed him in between Simon and Mrs. Oxley. “Flirt with the serving girl,” he whispered into Haddon’s ear in a voice everyone could hear.
“I will,” Haddon assured him. “It’s not often I find myself surrounded by such lovely women.” He looked at Mrs. Oxley, who blushed at the compliment, while the serving girl giggled as she handed him a plate.
“Haddon is my blood brother,” Michael told Isabel.
“Blood brother?” Mr. Oxley asked. “What does that mean?”
“It means I saved his life, and he was thankful for it,” Haddon said, spearing pheasant.
“Hardly,” Michael corrected. “I saved his scalp from a Mohawk war party.”
“No one likes the Mohawks,” Haddon confided.
“Bad sort?” Simon asked, wide-eyed.
“The worst,” Haddon answered, and Isabel didn’t know if he was teasing or not. It was obvious he liked a good joke, as did Michael.
“The name Haddon is familiar,” Mr. Oxley said. “Wasn’t there a general by that name?”
“Yes, the traitor,” Haddon said.
“Are you related?” Mrs. Oxley asked.
There was a beat of silence, then Haddon said, “He was my father.”
The awkward moment was dissipated by Mrs. Oxley saying, “No wonder you speak English so well.”
Haddon smiled at her, charmed. Isabel didn’t know what he had expected from them, but it certainly hadn’t been Mrs. Oxley’s optimism.
“Haddon speaks several languages,” Michael said. “He’s half-Shawnee.”
“And that is why you wear silver,” Mrs. Oxley said. Both she and her husband were completely taken by Haddon.
“The importance of a warrior is shown in the silver he wears,” Michael explained.
“And I’m hoping to start a new fashion,” Haddon added, and everyone laughed, especially since he kept their glasses full. The breakfast progressed smoothly from that moment, and Isabel sensed Michael was glad his friend was present.
She didn’t know how Haddon felt. She noticed that his appraising gaze often fell on Michael’s hand covering hers.
Ever so slowly, the wine and good food eased Isabel’s overly suspicious nature. The innkeeper’s wife, Mrs. Graves, came in and joined them, both she and her husband sitting at the table. The conversation was interesting and lively…but Isabel wasn’t attending to most of it. Instead, she basked in her sudden good fortune.
Her husband. The words filled her with a combination of nervous anticipation and pride. She touched the ring on her finger, marveling at the smooth, solid feel of the gold.
She tried not to let herself think too far ahead. She lived in the moment, pressing into her memory every nuance, scent, word of this meal. She would always remember the way the candlelight flickered in Mrs. Oxley’s eyes as she and her husband listened to Haddon and Michael’s tales of Canada. She wanted to capture the sound of Mr. Graves’s gruff laugh and memorize even the image of Simon pointing his knife to emphasize something he’d said. All these things she wanted to remember forever.
The light outside the window faded to twilight. Mrs. Oxley suggested that she and Isabel “freshen up” together. The women excused themselves.
Out in the hall, Mrs. Oxley took her arm. Her cheeks were rosy with good cheer. “You are such a fortunate young woman,” she said. “Your husband is handsome, generous, and very exciting. The stories he and his friend tell.” She shook her head.
Isabel was feeling the same things, too, along with the mellow effects of the wine. Of course, Mrs. Oxley was a bit more mellow.
The necessary room at the Bull and Crown was beyond anything Mrs. Oxley had ever seen, and they had to spend several minutes enjoying the luxury and tucking in the pins in Isabel’s hair to preserve the style.
They finished their business and were following the hallway back to the private room when they passed a closed door, and Isabel thought she heard Michael’s voice. She slowed her step to a halt.
Mrs. Oxley, her mind pleasantly numb, continued on her way, a hand on the wall for a little guidance.
Isabel leaned closer to the door where she’d thought she heard Michael. But it was Haddon who spoke, “I know you want to clear your name, but this is going too far.”
“I’ve tried everything else.”
Haddon made an impatient sound. “She’s an innocent.”
“She’ll not suffer because of me.”
Isabel realized they discussed her. Her mind was too wine-soaked to wrap itself around the meaning of their conversation.
“Be careful,” Haddon warned. “If you aren’t, the next bullet may kill you. According to the priest, he almost succeeded this time.”
“He won’t try again. Not now.” Michael’s firm voice sounded closer, as if he was coming toward the door.
Isabel didn’t want to be caught eavesdropping. She practically ran for the private dining room.
Michael paused with his hand on the door handle. He looked to his friend. “I know what you are saying, but Alex, Isabel is the only way. I’ve exhausted other avenues.”
“She’s not a part of this, Michael.”
“I know…” He shifted his weight, then confessed, “I didn’t marry her because of her connection to Elswick. I want her. There is something between us.”
Alex looked at him with new interest. “Has a woman finally gotten past your guard?” he wondered aloud.
“Is that so strange?” Michael asked, facing his friend.
“For any other man? No. For you? Yes.” Alex walked up to him. “Be careful, Michael. You’ve been consumed with clearing your name, but your Isabel really does imagine you a hero, and I know women better than you do,” he said, a reference to the near-celibate state Michael had previously practiced. “They all want brave warriors, but there is a price to pay.”
He placed his hand on the door and would have turned the handle to leave but Michael stopped him. “What of you? Any word of your father?”
Alex’s back stiffened ever so slightly. “He’s in France.”
“Will you seek him there?”
“I’d rather go to hell.” Alex opened the door. “He’s as one dead to me, Michael. I was foolish to have even had an interest in meeting him.”
“Sometimes we have no choice but t
o meet the ghosts of our past.”
“My father a ghost?” Alex shook his head. “Not hardly. A son always carries the sins of his father.” He searched Michael’s face a moment and then added softly, “Be careful that your son has no sins to carry. Be gentle with that son’s mother.” With those words, he opened the door and left the room.
Michael didn’t follow. Alex’s warning pricked his conscience. As had Mr. Oxley’s private lecture to him that morning about the sacredness of wedding vows.
He wasn’t going to let Isabel get hurt. He’d not allow anything to happen to her. He just needed to draw Elswick out.
And he was committed to Isabel. He would take care of her—and any of their children, if they had them. He would be her “brave warrior.”
Thoughtfully, Michael went down the hall to the private room.
Mr. Graves and Mr. Oxley were deep in conversation with Alex. Mrs. Oxley yawned, as she and Mrs. Graves shared opinions.
Isabel watched the door for him.
Their gazes met, and he knew why Alex had been concerned. She was fragile and yet strong. Timid, yet bold. Aware of her weaknesses, but courageous enough to face life in spite of them.
His Isabel. So reserved and proper…except he had tasted her kisses. He knew her blood ran hot. He’d felt her heat.
Suddenly, Michael couldn’t wait to have her alone.
He walked up to her. Leaning down, he whispered in her ear, “Come, it is time for us to take our leave.”
Nine
Isabel wanted to grab hold of the edges of her chair and hold on. It was too soon.
However, she could see in the faces of those around her, Michael was right. They expected her to leave. It just seemed so very public—especially since she knew what would happen next. They would go upstairs as man and wife. She knew what would follow, and it embarrassed her down to her immortal soul that everyone else did, too.
“If I must,” she said, not intending for her words to imply what they did or to be overheard.
Of course, they were.
Everyone in the room seemed to have been holding their breaths for this moment. Michael’s friend Mr. Haddon covered his mouth as if choking back laughter. Mr. Graves and Simon were not so kind. They elbowed each other and mimicked her “If I must” to each other in dying tones.
Isabel could have boxed their ears. But before she could lose her temper, Michael pulled back her chair. “We must,” he assured her, and swept her up into his arms, the movement making her a little dizzy. She had to hold on by wrapping her arms around his neck.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we bid you good night,” he announced, and carried her out the door.
As they moved down the hall to the back stairs, she studied his strong profile and tried to lay her apprehensions at rest. He was so sure about life and what he wanted. She wished she could be that certain.
Michael caught her looking at him and smiled.
His was a beautiful mouth. A good mouth for kissing—
“What are you thinking?” his lips asked.
She looked into his eyes. “That I may have had too much wine to drink.”
He laughed. “You’re fine,” he promised. “Here, these stairs are too narrow for me to carry you up without banging your head on the wall. You’ll have to walk the rest of the way.” He set her down on the second tread.
She didn’t release her arms from his neck. They were at eye level now. “Are you sorry you married me?”
Michael frowned. “Where did you come up with such a question?”
“Are you?”
“No, I’m not. I never will be.”
Those were the words she wanted to hear—
“Are you sorry you married me?” he asked gently.
Isabel couldn’t believe he’d even imagine such a thing. “This day has been beyond anything I’ve ever known in my life.”
“It’s not over, Isabel.” He took her hand and looked down at the ring he’d placed on her finger. “I meant my vows. I will always keep you safe.” He turned her around, coming up on the step behind her. Through the layers of their clothes, she could feel his arousal. His lips brushed her ear. “We’d best go to our room. I’m anxious to make love to my wife.”
Make love. Her blood sang with those words. All doubts vanished. She began moving up the stairs, Michael right at her heels.
The door to one of the guest rooms located midway down the hall was open. Isabel didn’t need Michael’s hand on her waist to know it was theirs. He guided her to the door—and she stopped.
Some unseen servant had made preparations. The bed was turned down. It was a four-poster with velvet drapes. There were flowers on a table, an arrangement apparently made from those the villagers had given her.
But what caught Isabel’s breath were the candles that glowed everywhere. They were on the windowsill, the dresser, the mantel’s edge, in the hearth, and on the bed’s side tables. Their light was reflected in the room’s mirrors and filled the space with their golden glow.
Isabel walked in, feeling as if she were entering a fairy world.
She turned and looked at her husband. “You remembered.”
He released his breath as if he’d been holding it, anxious for her response. He closed the door. “Graves thought I was mad to want such a thing.”
“But you told him any act of independence was to be celebrated in this country.” Her words echoed those he had said to her the night she had lit candles.
“I did.”
Her last remnants of doubt fell away. In that single moment, Isabel was suddenly overwhelmed with love, hardly able to believe her good fortune. She touched the ring on her finger. No one had ever given her such consideration and respect as this man had. He cared. The candles were proof.
She went to him.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, her breasts against his chest, and kissed him back with everything she had. He was her husband, the man she loved.
There was nothing she wouldn’t do for him.
Isabel pulled on his coat, willing to rip it off, anxious to remove all barriers between them. His fingers tugged at her lacings. She struggled with the knot in his neckcloth. The urgency they had experienced under the Wardleys’ roof came back full force.
She tugged at the buttons of his breeches, despairing of ever getting them undone if he kept teasing her ear with his tongue and soon finding her arms useless when he pushed her dress and chemise down over her shoulders. His mouth found her breast—
Isabel melted down onto the bed. Michael followed her. She pulled her arms free and buried her fingers in his hair, never wanting him to stop. No one had told her how good a man’s touch could make her feel.
Her hand found a way to slip the last button of his breeches free. She stroked the hard length of his erection, and now it was Michael who was ensnared.
He covered her hand with his own. His gaze met hers. “Isabel,” he whispered. Her name had never sounded so beautiful. He buried his head in her hair, which had lost all its pins, and whispered to her what he wanted. He covered her hand with his and taught her how to touch him.
Her cheek against his neck, she could feel the racing pulse of his heart, whose beat matched her own. Their bodies were bathed in golden light.
Michael’s lips sought hers. He stroked her back, sliding her dress down over her hips. His hand touched her intimately, and she discovered pleasure. Her husband knew what she needed.
The time had come.
He sat on the edge of the bed to remove his boots. Uninhibited, Isabel kicked off her own shoes and slid her petticoats, garters, and stockings down. She lay back on the bed, watching her husband stand and pull his shirt over his head.
He was strong and powerful, his muscles lean and long. Life had honed him into the man he was. It had left marks; there were scars. But she also sensed he could take care of anything. He would protect her from the world, and, just as fiercely, she would protect him.
Isabel reached up to tou
ch the bandage across his chest and back. It was white against his tanned skin. If his wound hampered his movements, she couldn’t tell.
Michael stood to remove his breeches before facing her. His need for her was very evident, and Isabel was inordinately proud that this man was hers. As she came up on her knees to kiss him, his hands brushed her hair, stroked her back, and gently guided her back to the bed.
He covered her with his body. His weight felt good, and she sensed him positioning himself between her legs. Never had she wanted anything as much as she wanted this contact between them. Her body demanded this joining, but he hesitated.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.
“You won’t,” she whispered.
He didn’t.
He entered her with one smooth, fluid motion. There was a moment of discomfort. The feeling of him inside her was different than she had anticipated. Her body stretched to accommodate him…and it felt right.
“Isabel?”
She smiled, so full of love he must certainly be able to feel it flow from her. She touched his hair at the temples, and he began moving.
Deep within, a yearning built inside her for that which she did not yet understand. Her body met his thrusts, and she found herself whispering, “More.” She wanted more.
The word that had haunted her now had definition and meaning. This closeness with this man was what she had been searching for.
Michael, the man who always seemed to be in control, now appeared as powerless against his needs as she was against hers. They moved together, finding a rhythm that was exactly right for them.
He whispered to her, telling her how beautiful she was, how unique and precious. She felt on fire—
Ecstasy caught her by surprise.
One moment she was of this world; in the next, her soul seemed to explode into a thousand stars.
She cried out Michael’s name, holding him tighter.
He knew what she was feeling. His thrusts became more powerful, deeper—and he buried himself to the hilt. His seed flowed into her. She could feel it. She held him close, never wanting to let him go.
Temptation of a Proper Governess Page 11