Wedded in Winter (The Wicked Winters Book 2)

by Scarlett Scott

  Every glorious, perfect bit of her.

  “Have you nothing at all to say, Merrick?” she persisted, apparently intent upon tormenting him.

  He knew what her lips felt like beneath his now. Knew how sweetly responsive she was, how her curves melted into his hardness. How the devil was he going to survive hours seated opposite her in a carriage?

  “You could at least say something inane,” she continued, her voice taking on an edge of irritation. “Something about the weather, perhaps.”

  He made a noncommittal sound, part grunt, part growl. He had no intention of holding a dialogue with the minx. Keeping his position was paramount. Maintaining her virtue even more so.

  Both were damned tricky propositions when his tongue had been in her mouth.

  He kept his eyes trained to the far more innocuous scenery. He could only hope she would not divulge the kiss they had shared with her brother. Or the moment she had stood, nude and dripping before him as she left her bath. Merrick clenched his jaw, trying to strike that image from his mind as his cock twitched.

  “Very well,” she snapped, stubborn as ever. “If you shall not speak, I will. This journey will be ridiculously long with nothing but awkward silence the entire way. You cannot truly mean to ignore me. Can you?”

  Damnation, Beatrix Winter was determined. But so was he.

  “It seems unseasonably cold for December, does it not?” she asked.

  This, too, he ignored.

  “Do you think it will snow?”

  Hell if he knew. The sky had been gray that morning, a moist nip in the air suggesting precipitation was possible. He ought to pray to the Lord right then and there that not a snowflake would fall from the sky. Traveling without notice, just the two of them and a coachman, was treacherous enough. Adding snow to the mix…

  No. His mind refused to contemplate such a disaster.

  She drummed her fingers impatiently upon the leather squab. “How old are you?”

  Eight-and-twenty to her eighteen. Old enough to know better than to allow himself to succumb to the persuasions of the flesh. Old enough to refuse the kiss of his employer’s innocent sister.

  “You are eight-and-twenty,” she answered for herself. “Nearly of an age with Dev.”

  He bit his lip to refrain from voicing his surprise that she knew. He had not supposed she had ever paid him much heed, for he was a shadow in her world. He was in her brother’s employ, and though he and Dev enjoyed a friendship and he knew Dev trusted him implicitly, the boundaries between he and the Winter family had always been sharply drawn. He was not family, not friend. And though the Wicked Winters, as they were known, were not aristocrats, their tremendous wealth, coupled with Dev’s marriage to a duke’s daughter, ensured they were far out of Merrick’s reach.

  “What was it like, working in a factory?” she asked next.

  Hell.

  But that too, he kept to himself. It had been many years since Devereaux Winter had plucked him from the drudgery of toiling in one of his family’s factories. He had not, however, forgotten it. Nor, he knew, would he ever. A man did not forget that sort of thing. It was branded upon his memory, upon his very soul.

  “Forgive me,” she said then, surprising him. “That was rude of me, and terribly thoughtless.”

  The genuine contrition in her tone had him turning toward her, breaking his determination to keep from looking upon her unless it was absolutely necessary. The force of her beauty made him forget his every good intention. The desire he had never acknowledged or allowed himself to entertain until last night returned as a throb in his loins and a fire in his veins.

  “You are forgiven,” he rasped before he could think better of the words, and he was thinking of the sounds she had made when he kissed her. Of the way her fingers had threaded through his hair and she had kissed him back, ardently, if untutored.

  Her expression had changed, softening.

  “Sometimes I speak before I think,” she told him.

  “Sometimes you act without thinking of the consequences,” he pointed out, willing his hunger for her to abate. “I have a proposition for you, Miss Winter.”

  Her brows hiked skyward. “Oh?”

  He frowned. “Yes. I will speak to you during this journey in return for your honesty.”

  She eyed him dubiously. “My honesty in what fashion?”

  “Tell me where you were, and why you returned home with bloodied skirts, and I shall be happy to indulge in senseless chatter with you.”

  There was a solution to his problem—it was fast becoming apparent he did not possess the tolerance to continue ignoring her. Beatrix Winter was a veritable Siren, and he would look upon her, but he would be damned if he allowed her to lure him into the rocks.

  Her eyes darkened. “Here is another proposition for you. Indulge my senseless chatter, and I will not tell my brother you kissed me.”

  His blood chilled, chasing away the raging heat of need that had roared to life within him.

  “You kissed me,” he bit out.

  She blinked, her expression one of wide-eyed innocence. Completely feigned, the hoyden. “That is not how I remember it, Merrick. Whom do you think my brother will believe?”

  Whom indeed?

  She was bluffing, blustering her way through this unexpected clash with Merrick. In truth, Dev would likely believe Merrick over her, because her brother was forever scolding her over her antics and troublesome ways. He would never believe his stoic, proper, most-trusted man would kiss her.

  Bea would not have believed it herself had she not felt his lips move over hers in return.

  But he was regretting having kissed her back, and she knew it now as the carriage swayed and lumbered on its journey to Oxfordshire and the family that had left her behind. His posture was stiffer than usual, his jaw held rigidly. His profile had been handsome as ever as he diverted his attention to the countryside beyond the carriage window rather than to her.

  She had his attention now, however. All of it.

  “If you would tell a lie to keep from revealing the truth, let it be a mark against your soul, Miss Winter,” he said then. “Not mine.”

  His chastisement found its target. She decided to try a new tactic.

  She canted her head, studying him. He was so handsome, he made her ache. “Tell me, Merrick. Why do you wish to know where I was?”

  “To protect you from yourself,” he answered grimly. “Someone must. You were gone all night long, Lord knows where, gadding about town alone. You are damned lucky your skirts were the only thing marred by your recklessness.”

  She was well aware of the risks she took, but hearing the disapproval redolent in Merrick’s baritone stung. “Have you not ever wished for something you could not have?” she asked passionately.

  His blue stare held hers. “It would seem I have.”

  The intensity of his gaze shocked her. Surely he did not mean her? It suddenly felt as if all the air had fled the carriage. She could scarcely catch her breath.

  “What was it?” she dared to ask.

  A smile flirted with the corners of his lips before he suppressed it. “You tell me, and I shall tell you.”

  She was tempted. Dear heavens, how she was tempted. But she would not entrust her secret to Merrick Hart. No matter how much she wanted to know the answer. Regardless of how desperately she longed to hear him say he wanted her.

  “If I tell you, then you will tell Dev,” she said instead, for she knew it was true. Merrick’s loyalty was to her brother. “And if you tell Dev, he will stop me.”

  Merrick’s jaw clenched once more. “He will protect you, Miss Winter. There is a difference.”

  “Bea,” she corrected, feeling stubborn.

  “Miss Winter,” he returned, his voice cool, unrelenting.

  “Why do you insist upon formality?” she could not help but ask. “There is no one around but the two of us. No one to overhear.”

  “And that is precisely why I must,” he said
grimly. “It is already dreadfully improper for me to be traveling with you thus.”

  Could it be that he was as affected by their kisses last night as she was? She had to know. “What is so improper about calling me Bea? Surely it cannot be any more improper than kissing me.”

  His nostrils flared. “What happened yesterday will never be repeated. It was a mistake and a grave lapse of judgment and control on my part. You are young and headstrong and reckless, unknowing of what you do. I am older and more mature. I know better than to indulge in such folly.”

  It was her turn to clench her jaw, for she did not like the way he dismissed her as if she were flighty and far too young to understand the ramifications of her actions. She may have acted with haste, but she had never wanted anything more than she had wanted to kiss him.

  “It did not feel like folly to me,” she returned heatedly.

  His eyes darkened, his gaze drifting, just for a moment, to her mouth, before jerking upward again. “That is because you are little more than a girl.”

  She flinched at his callous words. It was the wrong thing to say to her. She was the youngest of the Winters, but that did not mean she did not have a mind or a will of her own. How dare he act as if she did not possess the capacity to understand her own emotions?

  Little more than a girl, was she? A new surge of determination rushed through her. Recklessness was a Winter family trait, along with stubbornness. And before she could think, she gave in to both of them.

  She left her side of the carriage, wrapped her arms around his neck, and seated herself upon his lap, as if she were riding sidesaddle. “Say it again.”

  His hands clamped tightly on her waist, but he did not attempt to remove her. His countenance looked as if it had been carved in stone. “What do you think you are doing, Miss Winter?”

  Being reckless.

  Showing him she was a woman.

  Taking what she wanted.

  Daring him to deny the fire sizzling between them.

  All those things at once. But she said none of them aloud. Instead, she spoke with deeds rather than words. She pressed her lips to his. She kissed him as she had been longing to do since she had watched him storm out of her chamber last night. Kissed him as she had wanted to do from the moment he had joined her in the carriage.

  To her immense satisfaction, he kissed her back. Again.

  With a growl, he settled her more firmly against him, his mouth moving as it had last night, swiftly owning her lips. One of his hands slid up her spine, finding its way to the nape of her neck where her skin was bare. His fingers sank into her hair, cradling her skull, angling her so he could deepen the kiss.

  When his tongue traveled over the seam of her lips, she opened for him. The soft mewling sound in the carriage belonged to her, but she scarcely recognized it as her own voice. She melted into him, giving in to his masterful mouth. Their tongues touched. This time, he tasted of the coffee he must have had with his breakfast, every bit as delicious.

  This kiss was a revelation. His lips moved with greater urgency, demanding, taking, giving. She was lost in him, caught up in sensation. His thighs were firm beneath her bottom, his chest a rigid wall, his masculine heat burning into her, all the warmth she needed. Not even the cold wind howling around the coach outside could chill her. Nothing could.

  This morning, he smelled once more of shaving soap. Her hands investigated his broad shoulders, clutching at him. His grip on her waist tightened. The world around them fell away. They moved as one, desperation boiling between them, and it was the same as it had been last night yet magnified. The desire was stronger, the yearning taking control of the both of them.

  She was lost to anything but his touch and his lips. To the kisses he gave her as if she were the most decadent delicacy he had ever tasted. Worshiping her. His other hand slipped beneath the skirt of her traveling gown, gliding over her ankle, up her calf. Even through the barriers of her stockings and his gloves, she felt his caress as if it were a brand. All the way to her thigh he went, stroking her, making the knot inside her grow.

  When he reached the apex of her thighs, she parted her legs instinctively, granting him access. She did not know what she wanted, not precisely. All she understood was that she needed more of his touch. She ached for him. The longing was reaching a terrible crescendo, her heart pounding, her breath uneven.

  He glanced over the heart of her, a forbidden place, and her flesh came to life. She jerked into his hand, crying out. But in the next moment, her bliss abruptly vanished. He tore his lips from hers on an angry curse.

  “Damn it all to hell.” His hand retreated from beneath her gown, and he flipped her skirts back into place before he lifted her and unceremoniously deposited her back on the squab opposite him. “Does your recklessness have no end, Miss Winter?”

  She was breathless, dazed, and flushed. Triumphant and yet disappointed he had ended their interlude with such abrupt haste.

  “Bea,” she managed to remind him. “And no, it does not. But neither does yours, it would seem.”

  Let him dismiss her as a girl now, she thought triumphantly.

  Chapter Five

  They stopped at the Golden Lion to change out their horses, and Merrick knew he was in trouble. The worst sort of trouble.

  Though they had only been traveling for three hours, the time after Beatrix Winter had settled herself into his lap and kissed him had seemed to stretch for an eternity. An eternity of attempting to quell the raging need burning through him. An eternity of trying—unsuccessfully—to ignore her presence.

  That bloody sound she had made, soft and breathy, a prelude to lovemaking, would be the death of him. He could not shake it from his mind. Could not cease thinking about it, recalling it in his mind, and wanting to hear it again. Wanting to be the source of her every sigh of satisfaction.

  Wanting to make her his.

  Which was not just impossible, but damned impossible.

  Having been born the son of a drunkard, Merrick did not drink. But if there had ever been a day when he would have wished to drown himself in oblivion, this one would have done nicely. He paused outside the well-worn door to the private sitting room he had acquired for Miss Winter before rapping his knuckles on the portal.

  “Merrick, is that you?” she called in her sweetly lilting voice.

  The voice that settled in his chest and wrapped itself around his icy heart. None of those thoughts now. If there was one thing more ill-advised than entertaining lust for the sister of his employer, it most assuredly was fancying himself possessing feelings for her.

  Blaspheme.

  He cleared his throat. “Yes.”

  He had instructed her to bar the door while he saw to the particulars of their continued journey—ordering some light sustenance for her, acquiring adequate horseflesh, seeing that their driver did not quaff too much ale—and he heard the bolt scrape now. What a miracle it was that she had actually listened to him.

  The door opened. She looked somehow smaller outside the confines of the carriage. Younger, as well. More innocent. Looking at her was a remonstration. A reminder she was ten years his junior and utterly forbidden. But bloody hell, she was beautiful.

  “I was wondering when you would deign to join me,” she announced, sweeping back for him to enter.

  He remained on the threshold. “I am not joining you. I am fetching you. Are you ready to carry on with the journey?”

  Her disappointment was almost palpable, plain upon her heart-shaped face until she schooled her features back into an expression of serenity. “Do not tell me you refuse to partake in a light repast with me, too, unless I confess all my sins.”

  The word sins falling from her lips ought not to inspire such a reaction in him. His entire body felt as if it were tensed, as though he were a cat poised to pounce upon his prey. But he could not pounce upon Miss Beatrix Winter, because unlike the cat and the mouse, in this scenario, he would be the one paying the price.

  “I
hardly suppose you are old enough to possess any sins, Miss Winter,” he said coolly. “As for your troubling behavior the night before last and your shocking insistence upon foisting yourself upon me, I will leave it to your brother to correct your hoydenish ways.”

  Her cheeks blossomed with twin patches of scarlet, and he did not know if it was anger or shame that was the cause. “You kissed me back,” she reminded him tartly.

  “A man cannot help his instinctive reaction,” he lied. “You could have been anyone, and I would have responded in a similar fashion until my wits restored themselves to me.”

  Also a dreadful prevarication on his part.

  The difference between Beatrix Winter and every other female in Christendom was staggering. There was only one Beatrix. No one else could compare.

  Her lips pinched into a grim line, and he knew his words had made their way past the thick wall of her determination and found their mark. He knew a pang of regret before he chased it away with the reminder that keeping her at a distance was necessary.

  “If that is how you feel, then undoubtedly, you will not mind joining me for some tea and biscuits,” she said with a cheer that was surely contrived. “Do come in, Merrick.”

  She had him once more, the minx. He inclined his head. “As you wish, Miss Winter.”

  And then, he found himself crossing the threshold and entering the small, dingy private room she had been inhabiting. It smelled of dampness and smoke and the sourness of spilled ale, but above it all was the unmistakable scent of her skin, the delicate, exotic perfume of jasmine. Her scent was not cloying as most ladies’. Rather, it was fresh and bold and unique, much as she was.

  The door closed. They were once more alone. In a small space. With all the pent-up yearning roiling through him. He inhaled slowly, forcing himself to think of what manner of employment he would find when Dev dismissed him. Dev paid him handsomely, and he had gained a great deal of experience and knowledge of business. Perhaps he could manage a factory if Dev would be kind enough to grant him a reference, which he probably would not.