Wedded in Winter (The Wicked Winters Book 2)

by Scarlett Scott

  A strange new longing crept up within him.

  One he could not seem to crush.

  He cleared his throat. “We ought to get our rest. The morning will come sooner than we expect.”

  She nodded. “Are you sure you want to sleep on the floor, Merrick? The bed is large enough for two.”

  Was she so sheltered and innocent she did not know the innate wrongness of her suggestion, or was she trying to nettle him? He searched her gaze, trying to find the answer and seeing only the promise of something he dared not dream of.

  “The floor shall do,” he said curtly.

  “It will be drafty, I expect,” she pointed out.

  Quite correctly.

  The night had grown colder, and the inn was far from boasting the luxury of the guest chamber he was meant to be occupying back at Dudley House. The chamber, he reminded himself, he had been denied because of the troublesome minx before him. If she had not been making mischief and getting left behind by the Winters, he would not be standing in a room in The Angry Bull with a stiff cock he could do nothing to remedy.

  “I shall be fine,” he gritted. “Thank you for your concern, Miss Winter. Sharing a bed with you would not just be improper, but it would be terribly foolhardy as well. It is the floor, or nothing at all.”

  Her lips pursed into a pout the raging beast inside him yearned to kiss away. “You are to call me Bea, Merrick. Have you forgotten already?”

  “Bea,” he bit out. The baggage was tempting him. Trying him mightily.

  “There.” She beamed. “That was not so very difficult, was it?”

  How the hell was he going to survive the night? It was all he could do to keep from closing the distance between them, hauling her into his arms, and carrying her to the bed.

  “Not difficult at all,” he lied through gritted teeth.

  Her smile faded. “Why do you dislike me, Merrick?”

  He did not dislike her, and that was part of the problem. He liked her far, far too bloody much. “I like you well enough, Bea. Now go to bed. I am tired, and the time for talking is at an end.”

  She bit her lip. “You are certain about the floor? I feel quite guilty. After all, you would not be on this journey at all were it not for me.”

  Hell and damnation.

  “Thank you, but no,” he forced out with grim politeness.

  “Very well. Good night then, Merrick.” She turned away from him and made her way to the bed.

  He thanked the Lord for small mercies. But just as quickly as relief washed over him, the sight of her rucking up her nightdress all the way to her knees stole it away. He should avert his gaze, and he knew it, but he could not seem to look anywhere else. His mouth went dry, his heart thudding in his chest. The skirt of her nightgown climbed even higher, revealing the curved expanse of her thigh as she scrambled into the bed without a modicum of elegance.

  As he watched, she flipped the counterpane over herself, then settled into the mattress with a satisfied-sounding sigh. He had never itched to join another woman in bed more. But he could not. Regardless of her innocent invitation. No matter how beautiful she was.

  Forbidden, he reminded himself for what must have been the thousandth time since he had discovered Beatrix Winter covered in blood, sneaking back into Dudley House. She is forbidden.

  “Merrick?” she called out softly.

  “Damn it, woman. The floor is perfectly fine,” he snapped.

  “I was merely going to say you may blow out the candles now if you wish,” she said.

  He felt like an arse. Stalking to the candles, he blew them out, plunging the chamber into darkness. Only the soft glow of the merrily crackling fire in the grate threw light. He returned to the makeshift bed he had fashioned for himself and settled on his rump.

  The floor was hard.

  And there was a draft.

  Devil take it, he would just leave his boots on. Lying back, he drew the covers over himself, willing his erection to subside. How he could be in such a persistent state whilst in the misery of this godforsaken inn was a mystery to him.

  “Merrick?” Her voice was quiet, almost hesitant.

  He hissed out a frustrated breath. “What is it now?”

  “You never did tell me what it was.”

  He counted to ten in his mind, then scrubbed a hand over his face. “I am afraid you will have to elaborate, Miss W—Bea.”

  “The thing you wanted but could not have,” she explained. “You never did tell me what it was.”

  He sighed. Yes, she was going to be the death of him. “Go to sleep, Bea.”

  There was silence from the bed, then a rustle of blankets and a creak. “Are you sure you do not dislike me?”

  “Sure,” he growled. “I like you well enough.”

  “Merrick?”

  “Bloody hell,” he roared, losing his patience. “What is it now?”

  “I like you, too.”

  Damn and blast. How was he ever going to sleep tonight?

  Slumber was proving elusive.

  Her feet, always cold, felt like twin blocks of ice beneath the blankets. The bed was lumpy. The pillow smelled of smoke and hair grease. The fire had diminished to a pathetic smattering of glowing coals in the grate. The moon was too bright, filtering through the window dressings and casting a sliver of light straight upon her.

  She sighed, then rolled over.

  “If you keep sighing all night, neither of us will get any rest,” grumbled Merrick from the darkness of the floor.

  His baritone, as always, sent a frisson straight through her.

  In spite of his remonstration, she heaved another sigh, staring into the silvery glow of the moonlight on the ceiling overhead. “I cannot sleep.”

  “Nor can I with all your fidgeting about,” he groused.

  Well? What did he expect? The accommodations were not precisely what she was accustomed to, and nor had she ever spent the night sharing a chamber with a man before. Her stomach felt strange, and the quivery sensation that afflicted her in Merrick’s presence refused to go away. But she could not tell him all that.

  So instead, she offered her primary complaint. “My feet are cold.”

  “I will stoke the fire again.” Sighing, he too rose, and she saw the faint outline of his tall, lean form as he stalked toward the fireplace.

  Wickedness stirred inside her, joining the quivers. “I do not think that will help.”

  He stirred the fire, bringing some flames back to life. “Of course it will.”

  “The fire is too far away.” And so was he.

  “What would you have me do?” he asked, his tone rife with frustration.

  “Lend me some of your warmth,” she tried hopefully.

  “No,” he denied, his tone flat.

  “Please, Merrick?”

  “No.”

  “You must be terribly cold on the floor,” she said, for it was the truth. The wind was howling outside, and she swore with each gale, she felt a fresh burst of air chilling her to the marrow.

  “I have blankets,” he said dryly, settling himself back down upon the floor. “As do you. They suffice.”

  She chattered her teeth in response, then turned so she lay with her back to him. Silence descended. But her feet still felt as if she had been wandering, shoeless, through a frozen moor. Another sigh left her. She moved again, but the blankets were even colder, and she hissed as her bare legs glanced over the chill.

  “Devil take it,” he snarled.

  She bit her lip as she listened to the rustle of him leaving the blankets before crossing the room. A flurry of sounds filled the quiet of the night. Two distinct thuds reached her, the unmistakable sound of him removing his boots. The mattress dipped.

  He was joining her.

  She would not have believed it had she not felt movement. The blankets lifted, and suddenly, there was a large male body alongside hers. Instinctively, she scooted nearer to him. Though his proximity delighted her senses, she discovered he, too,
was cold. Cool air emanated from him, sending a shiver over her anew, one which was only partly caused by her chill.

  “You feel as if you were caught in a blizzard, Merrick,” she accused. “Why did you insist you were perfectly comfortable upon the floor?”

  “Propriety,” he answered grimly. “But I have made the unwanted realization that between the draft on the floor and your fussing and nattering, I shall not have a wink of sleep all night unless I make an effort to make us both more comfortable, propriety be damned.”

  She smiled into the darkness, grateful he could not see how pleased she was by his capitulation. Her back was yet to him. She settled deeper into the mattress, sliding even closer to him in the process.

  “I am heartily glad you have decided to see reason at last. No one else ever need know, if that is what concerns you.” Her smile turned wistful. “I am frightfully good at keeping secrets.”

  “I know you are, and it is a most damning trait in a young lady of marriageable age.” Though his tone was crisp, he was near enough, the warmth of his breath brushed over her ear as he spoke, taking some of the sting out of his words.

  Using her left foot for leverage, she moved another few inches closer, until her rump connected with something long and firm, standing apart from the rest of him. “What if I do not wish to marry?”

  His hand settled upon her waist in a grasp that was almost possessive. “Cease moving closer. We have broken enough rules for one night.”

  She could not help herself. Ignoring his warning, she wriggled against him. Her belly tightened.

  “Some rules ought to be broken,” she told him. Particularly if said rules forbade her from pressing her body nearer to his.

  “Bea,” he warned. “Do not push me, or you will not like the consequences. We can share warmth, but that must be all we share. Do you understand?”

  She understood that although he cautioned her, he had not pushed her away. Instead, his grip upon her waist had tightened, as if holding her to him. “My feet are still cold,” she complained instead of addressing his stern query.

  He muttered something beneath his breath that sounded like an epithet. But then, his stockinged feet caught her bare feet in his, and whilst the rest of him was quite cool, his boots had obviously done their job in keeping him warm enough to offer her some heat. How strangely intimate it felt, sharing a bed with him, their feet entangled.

  “How is that?” he asked thickly. “Better?”

  She arched her back, pressing her bottom more firmly into him. “Better, yes.”

  So much better, except now that his warmth was chasing away her cold, he had also incited a different series of sensations altogether. Hunger. Desire. Yearning. Need. The sudden thought hit her that this night may be her only chance. By tomorrow evening, they would reach Abingdon Hall. From then on, she would be surrounded by her overprotective brother and a gaggle of unwanted suitors he had invited with a mind toward seeing Bea and all her sisters married off to titled husbands.

  It was a grim fate, not one she had ever wished for herself. Bea could pour a passable cup of tea, but she was not, nor would she ever be, and neither did she wish to be, a lady. She wanted to pursue what interested her. To follow her heart rather than her head. To go where it would lead her.

  And in this moment, her heart led her to roll toward Merrick. She did not stop until she lay on her side, facing him. Their feet were still entangled, and his hand found her waist once more, gripping her, keeping her from sliding even closer.

  “What the devil do you think you are doing, Bea?” he rumbled.

  Moonbeams illuminated his countenance. She could not help herself—she cupped his face in her hands. He was so handsome, so tempting, and she did not want to resist. “Touching you,” she whispered. “Touching you as I have wanted to do all day, ever since you abandoned me in the carriage this morning.”

  He had tensed beneath her caress, but he did not withdraw. Instead, he held still, the gleam of his stare finding her through the murk, boring into her. Seeing everything, it seemed. “You should not.”

  “But I want to,” she countered, learning him through touch alone. The pads of her thumbs traced the sharp blades of his cheekbones. Her fingers absorbed the prickle of the whiskers beginning on his jaw.

  How decadent, the ability to feel his skin, unencumbered by gloves, searing hers. Everywhere she touched him, she was aflame. Not even her feet were cold any longer. One of his long legs had found its way between hers, and she moved nearer, the ache at her core guiding her. Her nightdress was bunched up around her waist now. She rubbed against his breeches, his stockings, shamelessly rocked against him, opening her thighs wider, inviting him in.

  His hands closed over hers, rough and uncompromising. But even so, he did not push her away. He held her fast, his breath a curtain drawing over her mouth. A promise of the illicit she so desperately longed to claim.

  “I warned you, Bea. This is not a game we play,” he rasped then. “You are an innocent who knows nothing of the way of the world, and I am not your equal. I cannot offer for you, and even if I could, your brother would never accept me.”

  She wondered if he was right about that. Dev admired no one as he admired Merrick, aside from his wife Lady Emilia, who had stolen his icy heart and made it her own. But it mattered not anyway, because marrying Merrick was the last thought on her mind.

  “I never said I wish to marry,” she pointed out.

  “But marry you must, and so you shall.” His voice was weary. “It is the way of things. And as beautiful and tempting as you are, I will not ruin myself for you, and nor would I want you to ruin yourself for me. Your brother has every intention of seeing you married to a lord, and I am the furthest one can get from that.”

  His self-deprecation irritated her. “What if I have no wish to marry a boring old lord? Has no one ever thought of that?”

  “You will.” He startled her then by pressing a kiss to her forehead.

  Just one, and she knew a sweet rush of joy at his lips upon her. But it was not in the manner she wished. It felt more like a goodbye than a gesture of tenderness. “I know my own mind, Merrick. I know what I want.”

  She rolled her hips as she spoke, seeking more of him. All of him. Seeking something, anything. She knew not what, only that he alone could give it to her. He was all she wanted.

  His grip changed, moving until he encircled her wrists, his thumbs working in tender circles over the pounding pulse he undoubtedly found there. “Do you trust me with your secret?”

  Did she? She hesitated, tempted, for the first time, to reveal where she had been and what she had been doing two nights ago with him. But then she thought again of Dev, and how quickly and ruthlessly he would put an end to her excursions and make certain it was impossible for her to ever escape again. And how he would likely also destroy Dr. Nichols in the process.

  If the secret was hers alone, Dev had no way of knowing who she had met or why, and Dr. Nichols would not be adversely affected. Furthermore, she felt sure she could avoid becoming betrothed to a lord for the next few seasons at least. She was the youngest of the Winters, after all. Which meant the potential for a few more years of freedom, of the possibility of following her heart rather than succumbing to the path Dev had chosen for her.

  “No,” she forced herself to say at last. “I cannot tell you, Merrick.”

  He was grim. “If you cannot trust me with your secret, then you have no business trusting me with the rest of you, Miss Winter.”

  With that, he released her wrists and rolled away from her, turning on his side and presenting her with an unadulterated view of his broad, vexing back.

  Chapter Seven

  Merrick woke to the faint strains of dawn, the scent of jasmine mingling with a dying fire, and the fullness of a breast nestled in his hand. To a hard nipple studding his palm.

  Gradually, wakefulness restored itself to him, and he became aware of far more. His cock ached, pressing against the fall of
his breeches with unprecedented demand. His hip was slung over the sweet curve of a feminine pair of thighs, and when he stretched, his back arched, making his erect prick glide against the delightfully pert bottom of his bedmate.

  Who, hell and damnation, also happened to be the sister of the man he owed virtually everything.

  “Bea,” he muttered as recollection washed over him.

  They were at an inn. The Rutting Bull or some such nonsense. In the depth of the night, he had moved to her bed because he had been weary and cold to the bone, and she had been complaining about her pampered little Winter feet, and the floor had been hard as a bleeding rock, and he had lost his ability to resist her. Instead, he had succumbed, giving her what she wanted, joining her on the bed.

  But though he had come perilously close to kissing her, he had known what would come after. He had known too she was an innocent, her body beset by the yearnings of a woman without a woman’s knowledge of their implications. And, thank the Lord, he had not given in to his own weakness and committed a greater sin than those he already had since his unexpected discovery of her at Dudley House.

  Sleeping in the same chamber as Beatrix Winter was bad enough, but sleeping in the same bed? He suppressed a shudder. If Dev ever discovered what he had done, the consequences would be dire. And he could not even blame anything or anyone else. Only his own stupidity.

  She made a sleepy sound of contentment, shifting against him so his cock pressed more firmly into the cleft of her rump. A white-hot surge of lust hit him, tightening his ballocks and making it almost impossible for him to keep from rolling her onto her back, lifting her hem to her waist, and bringing her to a shattering pinnacle with nothing more than his tongue before he entered her with his…

  Nay.

  He could not think such wicked thoughts.

  But neither could he resist giving her breast a gentle squeeze. Or rolling the tight bud of her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. It was wrong, and he knew it, but wrong had never been more tempting. And he knew all too well that by the end of the day, he would be parting ways with her once more, leaving her to be wooed by some coxcomb of a lord who would never have the ability to appreciate her boldness.