Scoundrel of My Heart EPB

by Heath Lorraine

  “It was too dark for him to know for certain. He assumed.” Perhaps because he’d had to kill the fellow he was fighting.

  “I’m glad. Glad you didn’t kill them.”

  Causing a man’s death, even if it wasn’t intentional, was not an easy thing with which to live. He had a feeling neither man was long for this world, would end their lives on a scaffold, but had seen no point in shortening their time. Although, the first fellow was going to require a long period of healing. In addition to the sword wound he’d given him, he’d broken his nose and jaw. Not that she needed to know all that. Once more, he gathered a tear. “So now you can dance on the beach without any guilt.”

  Her eyes stopped filling with water. “Did you see me?”

  He nodded.

  She scoffed a little laugh. “I only do that when I don’t think anyone’s watching.”

  “Do you always dance on the beach before breakfast?”

  “My grandmother taught me that it was the best way to begin the day, because then no matter what trials or tribulations or disappointments might come my way, I would always have the joy of the morning to see me through. She used to skip about with me, so now it’s as though she’s still here with me.”

  “You appeared carefree for a while.”

  “Some of my happiest moments have been spent here. Thank you for coming.”

  “I was at the mercy of the laudanum.” At the mercy of her. “Although Kingsland isn’t going to be happy if he learns we’re here.”

  “He won’t. My servants are very loyal.”

  “The question, Lady Kathryn, is how loyal are we? Increased proximity sometimes breeds a more intimate familiarity. After all, you did kiss me in the carriage last night.”

  “Do you think he’s being loyal? Do you think he has no mistress? That he’s being celibate, doing without pleasure?”

  “He would expect you to.”

  “Then, he should have gone to a knee before traipsing off to Yorkshire.”

  “He’s not in London?”

  “Not until Wednesday next. He travels quite a bit, actually. I think it’s part of the reason that we’ve not formally come to terms. But I think he likes me well enough. I suspect he will ask soon.”

  “And you’ll say yes.”

  She gazed past him. “If those dark clouds on the horizon are rolling this way, we should probably have our breakfast and begin the journey back to London. The road away from here gets boggy when it rains.” Her gaze came back to him. “I should change your bandage as well. The doctor said at least once a day.”

  He didn’t remember that, but then he’d been striving to block out the pain and everything surrounding it, everything except the feel of her hand clinging to his, as though the discomfort he experienced she experienced as well. “We should head in, then.”

  After gingerly rising to his feet, he fought against drawing her into his arms and claiming her mouth as his. But it never had been, never would be. Not permanently, not forever.

  And now that she knew the truth of him, it was possible she wouldn’t welcome him taking any liberties.

  On the way to the cottage, they had decided to eat first, then see to his wound. They were halfway through breakfast when the storm arrived. Kathryn shouldn’t have been grateful for the rapid pattering against the roof and windows that would delay their leaving. But she was glad the rain fell in heavy sheets and brought with it the crash of thunder and shattering lightning.

  It was an aspect of the cottage that she loved best. The way it welcomed the rain and made her feel tucked in and safe. Her father’s residences were too large. She could stand in the middle of one and never even know it was raining, but here it was all noise, wind, and purpose.

  Relishing the calm inside the cottage while the thrashing outside created havoc, she carried the bowl of warm water into the bedchamber where Griff waited for her. She came up short at the unexpected sight of his bared torso as he stood at the window gazing out. Every inch she could see was lean muscle and corded sinew. From working the docks, from learning to brawl, from striving to protect those he loved. And last night he’d protected her.

  “We waited too long,” he said quietly, not taking his attention from the gloom beyond, and she wondered if he’d heard her arrival or sensed it. “It’s too late to leave.”

  “Yes. I spoke with the coachman. He said we’re likely to get stuck, probably more than once. With your wound, you won’t be able to help them roll us out of the muck.”

  He released a long, drawn-out sigh that echoed his disappointment. She wasn’t going to take offense that he didn’t want to be here with her any longer, that he was anxious to return to his life. “Surely your club will survive a day without you. Mrs. Ward must be capable of handling things, or you’d not have put her in charge.”

  “The club is not my worry.”

  “What is, then?”

  With a shake of his head, he turned away from the view. “Set the bowl on the bedside table. I can see to changing the dressing myself.”

  “You’re less likely to pull any stitches if I do it.” After placing the bowl and linens on the table, she held up a small jar. “I have some salve the doctor gave me to aid in the healing. It’ll be easier for me to apply.”

  She waited as the debate he waged with himself was evident in the tightening of that luscious mouth of his, the narrowing of those beautiful eyes. Did he worry that this time he might initiate a kiss, one that shouldn’t happen? Did he recognize that knowing what shouldn’t happen didn’t necessarily stop it from happening?

  “I’ll behave,” she offered.

  He laughed, only a quick burst of sound, but it was enough to warm her to her core, enough to let her know that she was on the right track regarding his concerns. Kingsland never made her feel as though he struggled not to touch her, not to have a taste of her. Since their last night at the theater, he’d kissed her a few more times, but they had all been polite, gentlemanly sorts of encounters. She was discovering she preferred the kiss of a scoundrel.

  A smile was still playing over his lips as he approached. “Where do you want me? The chair?”

  “The bed.” He went still, his eyes heating with passion and promise that had her rushing to explain. “The chair is too small.” Too bulky with its thickly upholstered back and arms. “I won’t be able to work around you as I need to.”

  He eased onto the bed, sitting at its edge. “Be quick about it.”

  His hands clutched his thighs in the same manner they’d gripped his arms the first night she’d gone to his club. She shouldn’t have taken satisfaction in the knowledge that he wanted her. Or perhaps she had the wrong of it, and he was simply preparing to deal with the pain that might result from her tending to his wound. But she intended to be gentle, careful. She couldn’t bear the thought of causing him any agony.

  Using the scissors, she cut off the knot the doctor had made to secure the bandage that he’d wrapped around Griff’s torso. She unwound the linen, passing it off from hand to hand as she circled him, aware of his not breathing, of his holding so still he might as well have been a statue. Occasionally she misjudged and her knuckles skimmed over flesh she’d washed the night before. Grooves along his ribs she’d outlined after he’d gone to sleep, muscles roped along his arms that she’d explored. The laudanum had taken him under, and she’d touched him in ways she shouldn’t, curiosity getting the better of her, as she investigated this man who had filled out during the months he’d been in exile.

  The sheet had been gathered at his waist, and she’d used it as a barrier to the forbidden, hadn’t investigated what she’d averted her gaze from seeing as she’d helped him disrobe. But his arms and chest had been as mysterious and wondrous to her questing fingers. She’d continued to trail them over him after she’d crawled onto the bed and nestled up against him, because she couldn’t stand the notion of facing the demons who would surely haunt her. But they’d not come. Instinctually, he’d held her tight and kep
t them at bay.

  Finished with her chore, she set the old linens aside and appreciated the flatness of his stomach, the broadness of his chest. His wound was long, red, and angry, the stitches making it look even more ghastly. He would be left with a scar. Kneeling, she pressed her fingers to it. He took in a sharp breath.

  “I’m sorry. I know it hurts, but I have to check for putrefaction. The doctor showed me how.”

  “Good thing you were there. I don’t recall any of that.”

  With the warm water, she cleaned around the wound, gently removing any blood that remained. After reaching for the salve, she dipped some out and smoothed it over the line of stitches. He sucked in his breath, his gut, and she didn’t think it was because she’d hurt him. She didn’t want to stop touching him, wanted to touch more of him. She needed to distract them both. “May I ask you a question?”

  “That never bodes well,” he said. “When someone asks if they can ask a question. You can ask all the questions you like. Whether or not I’ll answer them is another thing entirely.”

  “What happened when you were arrested?”

  His jaw clenched, but he stared straight ahead, as though the memories were playing out before him on a stage. “At first, we were confused, disoriented, frightened. I was asleep when they arrived and dragged me from my bed. Marcus insisted they at least allow us to dress. Carrying a courtesy title as an earl, his words held more weight than my protests. So we were at least allowed to make ourselves presentable. Still, they carted us away with no explanation.

  “They put us together in a room in the Tower. They came for me first, and I thought, They’re going to chop off my head. Ridiculous thought, really. But it seemed the place for it. As they marched me down the corridor, terror gripped me. I didn’t want to continue to put one foot in front of the other. I wanted to rail, and scream, and run. How had Anne Boleyn, a mere slip of a woman, done it, walked to her death? Maybe she pretended she was merely going for a stroll. I don’t know.

  “But I stopped thinking about what I was presently enduring and the future that I assumed awaited me, and I focused instead on the past, on things that were worth remembering one last time: the unraveling of a woman’s hair, a waltz, the last kiss I’d had, would ever have.”

  She’d paused in her ministrations, and he lowered his gaze, capturing and holding hers. “You, Kathryn, you were there with me and helped me walk down that stone corridor with some dignity.”

  Tears welled in her eyes, and he realized he shouldn’t have confessed something so personal that involved her. But during the two weeks he was in the Tower and the months following when his life had gone to hell, memories of her had sustained him.

  “Hand me the linen. I can finish up here,” he said brusquely, probably too briskly, because she seemed to snap into action.

  “I’ll do it.”

  It was torture to have her winding the cloth around him. Every time she carried the cloth to his back, she leaned in so close that he could have easily captured her mouth, kissed her throat—and every time he thought of doing both, was so damned tempted, he’d remind himself he was the son of a traitor, was familiar with London’s darker corners, had hunted in them, had been responsible for a death. He now ran a club that encouraged sin. Not exactly the sort of gent in whom a woman could take pride. Certainly not the sort for which a lady should give up an inheritance.

  “But, thankfully, they didn’t take you to the chopping block,” she said, finally finished with the tortuous wrapping and sitting back on her heels.

  “No. They took me into a room where they sat me in a wooden chair and started asking me questions about my father. It was the first hint I had that the arrest might be a result of something he’d done. I could offer very little insight into his actions, was stunned by the revelation regarding his plans.” He glanced toward the window. “When do you think we’ll be able to leave?”

  “It depends how long the rain continues, but based on how hard it’s coming down, probably not until tomorrow.”

  He bit back a curse, not wanting her to know how desperately he needed to get away from her. Resisting her was becoming more challenging by the minute. When she looked at him with those sultry eyes or when tears gathered or when she touched him—

  She’d touched him last night. He remembered it now: it had been as he was drifting off to sleep. He’d luxuriated in her caresses, had taken them into his dreams where he’d returned the favor to her in the wickedest of ways. He wanted to transform the fantasy into reality.

  But she was not for him. And he would not risk her losing what she longed to possess. Especially now that he’d seen her here, seen how perfectly it suited her. The innocence of the place where she was free to frolic on the beach, a world so different from the one in which he now lived. An ugliness from his past had touched her, and he intended to ensure it never touched her again. Never had a chance to even come close. He couldn’t swear that he’d escaped it completely, that if Marcus sent word to him, he wouldn’t answer and return to his brother’s side. “I’ve grown weary. I should sleep for a bit.”

  “Of course.” She rose. “You’re healing. You should rest while you’re here. I doubt you’ll get to do that very much when you’ve returned to your club.”

  After gathering up the bowl, the old linens, and the salve, she headed for the door.

  “Lady Kathryn?”

  Stopping, she turned to glance back at him. Confusion marred her eyes, no doubt because he’d addressed her so formally, but it was imperative to constantly remind himself she was beyond reach. “Thank you for your care.”

  “While I wish it wasn’t necessary, tending to you was my pleasure.”

  As she left, he slammed his eyes closed as images of another sort of pleasure, hot, sweaty, and extremely carnal, raced through his mind. He flopped down onto the bed, onto his back, and groaned as his side protested the abuse. He cursed Kingsland for having not already married her, for not removing all temptation of her.

  Chapter 15

  He awoke to the light patter of rain. After rolling out of bed, he walked to the window, parted the draperies, and gazed at the gloominess that somehow comforted and brought solace. He understood why Kathryn loved this place, why she’d not considered giving it up for any man who didn’t meet the criteria required for her to have it. She was more relaxed, happier, at peace here.

  Why the devil hadn’t Kingsland asked for her hand already? He’d had months of calling upon her. Was the man blind to the treasure she was? She’d make an excellent duchess, wife, and mother. When he envisioned her with children, he saw them as blond—which was impossible, considering how dark the duke was, how coppery red her own hair—frolicking through the tall grasses, rushing down the trail to the water’s edge, and squealing with delight as the sea rolled in to tickle their toes.

  He placed his scarred palm on the glass, splayed his calloused fingers. The hand of a brute.

  Eventually, if his business continued in the direction it was going, if his investments continued to reap rewards, he could purchase a cottage by the sea. But it was unlikely to be this one, wouldn’t hold her memories. If he confessed his feelings for her, asked her to marry him, she wouldn’t be the wife of a gentleman but that of a scoundrel and worse: a man willing to do anything to survive.

  He cursed the rain that was going to keep them there for another night, keep her within proximity. At the club witnesses—some studying him warily, some glaring openly—served as a reminder they were watched, and so he’d kept his hands off her when he’d dearly wanted to touch her. He’d maintained a distance, not only physically but mentally as well. He’d fought against letting her delve beneath his surface, battled against letting her know that he could survive for weeks on one of her smiles, for months on a single peal of her laughter.

  To aid in his quest to shield himself from her, to protect her from him, he’d built a wall, brick by brick, each representing an action in which a gentleman would never engage but
that he had—multiple times. The hefting of boxes, the hauling of crates, the pulling on ropes. The pummeling of a fist, the intimidating, the spying. The learning of secrets, the threatening to reveal them. The power that could be used for harm. The night he hadn’t hesitated to use it to destroy.

  His past should be enough to ensure he kept his hands off her. But when she’d kissed him at the club and in the carriage, the bricks crumbled, and he had been forced to rebuild the wall.

  He shouldn’t have come here, shouldn’t have caught a glimpse of what life with her might be: dances along the shore, the music of her soul on the air, smiles exchanged, laugher shared . . . and peace.

  How he longed for peace. Maybe it was the reason Marcus was obsessed with discovering the truth of their father, because without it, for him, peace could not exist. But Griff was learning that the truth didn’t bring peace. It brought only misery.

  Because the truth was—and had been for longer than he’d realized—he loved Kathryn. Loved her with a strength of conviction and passion that was terrifying. It had prompted him to write the duke in order to ensure she gained what she desired.

  The wager had been an afterthought, to provide him with consolation. If he couldn’t have her, he’d have his damned club. But the laughter within its walls had not been hers. The smiles had not been hers. The seductive whispers had not been hers. He’d not been able to put her there—until the night she’d walked in. And now he’d not be able to stroll through it without bringing forth images of her in each of the rooms.

  He wondered if she would have the same experience, if she would be able to walk through the cottage and not sense the remnants of his presence.

  A rap sounded on the door.

  “Griff? Dinner is prepared. Will you be joining me?”

  He shouldn’t. He should have a plate brought to him and eat it in here. Alone.

  But he was destined for a good many nights alone, and many lonely nights. No matter how crowded his club became, still he remained alone . . . and lonely.