Her Baseborn Bridegroom (Vawdrey Brothers Book 1)

by Alice Coldbreath

  “How dare you sit there, scoundrel! Cozying up to your own brother’s betrothed!”

  “She’s my wife,” retorted Mason. “I’ll do as I damn well please.”

  “Aye, you’ve proven that!” bawled his father furiously. “Stepping into Roland’s shoes as cool as you please! A pretty way to behave to your own kin!”

  “Sir Roland never replied to my letter,” put in Linnet loudly. “I wrote to him and he never responded.”

  Lord Vawdrey looked floored by this. He scratched his head with his knife. “Aye, well, happen he’s not much for writing,” he said.

  Mason snorted again. Roland hadn’t written, as he clearly held his intended bride in total contempt! He could hardly point that out in her presence however.

  “Jevons has spread the tale wide,” his father grimaced, taking a sip of ale. “How you clambered into Lady Cadwallader’s sickbed, ravished her, and forced her hand to marry you out of shame.”

  Linnet gasped. “That is grossly untrue!” she cried and struggled to stand. Mason clamped his arms around her, forcing her to still.

  “More lies,” he said calmly. “Linnet married me of her own free will.”

  “Of course I did!” she agreed hotly. “I can’t believe my uncle is spreading such a tale!”

  Something about her tone sounded off. Then Mason realized what it was. She sounded mortified. He shot a warning look at his father. “You’re upsetting my wife,” he said warningly.

  Lord Vawdrey spluttered, lowering his mug of ale. “A fine solicitous husband ye make,” he jeered. “Well, I believe in plain speaking. If it’s too much for your wee wife to stomach, mayhap she should retire so we can hash it out between us men.”

  Linnet stiffened but in truth Mason thought it might be for the best. He ran his thumb up and down her upper arm. “You go up and I’ll join you after,” he suggested in a quiet voice as he turned her in his arms.

  Linnet’s gaze was wounded and faintly accusing. “But I want to know the news from court.”

  This surprised him and not pleasantly. “Why?”

  “If it concerns our marriage then of course I want to know what is being said . . . ” She frowned.

  He relaxed slightly. “He’ll tell me easier without you here,” he murmured in an undertone. “Trust me.”

  Her eyes flew to his. “I do,” she whispered, lowering her gaze but not before he saw the sparks darting from them.

  His hand tipped her chin to capture her eyes again. “Don’t fall asleep,” he said lightly.

  “I couldn’t possibly.”

  He smiled at her tartness. Definitely, his wife was not fainthearted.

  She curtsied to Oswald and his father who rose, albeit grudgingly in the case of his father, to return a bow. Then she exited the hall, her head held high.

  Lord Vawdrey opened his mouth, but Mason put up a hand forestalling him. He swung round in his chair taking in the wide-eyed servants. He rather suspected more had crept in as the meal progressed.

  “Fetch us another flagon of ale and you’re all dismissed,” he said loudly. He would not have Linnet’s servants listening wide-eyed to his father’s rantings.

  Lord Vawdrey’s bushy eyebrows rose, but he made no comment and tucked into his meal. There was some foot dragging but eventually a large pitcher of ale appeared and all the servants dispersed. Lord Vawdrey made short work of his meat. He pushed the plate away with a loud burp.

  “She’s a plain, drab little thing for two brothers to fall out over,” he said bluntly.

  Mason felt himself tense. “I’ve fallen out with no one,” he replied firmly. “Roland passed up an opportunity. I seized upon it. I see no reason for him to feel hard used.”

  “No reason?” repeated his father belligerently. “Aye, you’re not so overdelicate in your tastes, are you, boy?”

  Mason shrugged. “As you say.”

  “She’s brought you a pretty estate, I’ll admit,” said his father screwing up his eyes. “But if you mean to put the bitch to whelp you’ll be disappointed.”

  “Father!” objected Oswald.

  “What?” his father turned on his firstborn. “I’ll have plain speech, by gads! None of your pussyfooting around Oswald!”

  Oswald grimaced. “You are speaking of a lady,” he reminded his father with dignity. “Not a broodmare!”

  “Same thing to my mind” growled their father. “I’ve three sons, haven’t I? I know what I’m talking about.”

  “Linnet will give me sons,” said Mason, leaning back in his seat. “She’ll give me a passel of sons before I’m through.”

  His father looked taken aback by his confidence. “That freckled little female? I highly doubt it!”

  “She has resolve,” said Mason. “And spirit. And moreover,” he said, picking up his cup, “she has promised me a son.”

  “Has she, by all that’s holy?” His father looked grudgingly impressed.

  “She has. A son who will be Duke of Cadwallader, no less.”

  His father slammed his cup down, wiping droplets of ale from his moustache. “What?”

  “She holds her father’s title in abeyance. Did Jevons not tell you that?” Mason smirked.

  His father’s jaw dropped. “Nay he did not, the sneaky, lying snake!”

  Mason’s lips quirked. “Well, you were hoodwinked by a lying, smooth-faced knave. He had no intention of giving up Linnet’s lands. He thought to keep the reins by having her marry Roland in name only.”

  His father growled. “What?”

  “’Tis unlikely Roland would have come to Cadwallader Castle more than twice a year,” Mason pointed out. “Her aunt would have been kept close, keeping them apart, spinning her web of lies.”

  “Whereas Mason threw them both out,” put in Oswald. “He has forged his own way here. Roland never would have. He prefers it at court.”

  Their father’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

  “Roland is young,” pointed out Mason. “He likes things easy.”

  “Whereas you were never afraid to wage war,” growled Lord Vawdrey. “Hardheaded to a fault.”

  Mason shrugged.

  “My grandson, a duke,” muttered Lord Vawdrey, clearly liking the sound of it. Oswald refilled his cup with ale. “Roland would never have gotten a son on her,” he acknowledged grudgingly. He eyed Mason speculatively. “You really think she’s up to it?”

  “I do. There’s naught amiss with her. She just needs to build up her strength.”

  “Humph!” grumbled his father, tugging at his beard, thoughtfully this time.

  Mason shut the door quietly behind him and turned, half-expecting to find Linnet fast asleep. To his surprise she sat hunched over a candle in her shift, clasping a small bowl of water and what looked like a necklace.

  “What are you doing?” Even in his slightly inebriated state, he knew it was something out of the ordinary.

  She looked up distractedly. “Making my amethyst sweat,” she told him, holding up a pendant to show him the purplish stone.

  He made his way over to the washing stand. “Why?” he asked, because in spite of himself he was curious.

  “It’s a remedy,” she answered. Glancing over, he found her rubbing the stone along her throat.

  He blinked. Strange. “Remedy for what?”

  “Freckles,” she admitted grudgingly. She flicked a pained look at him. “You must have noticed I’m beset with them. You’re just too considerate to say so.”

  Mason washed his face while he mulled this over. It was safe to say that no one had ever accused him of being too considerate before. Once he had shaken the water out of his eyes, he looked back over and found her holding the stone above the shallow bowl of heated water. As he dried his hands he watched her run the stone along her collarbone. Making his way thoughtfully to the bed, he commented with a frown, “Don’t get rid of all of them.”

  She turned to face him. “I don’t expect it will get rid of any of them,” she admitted ruefully. “This is
about the hundredth remedy I’ve tried. I vow Mother Ames will run out of ideas before they fade.”

  He climbed into the bed. “Do you want me to do your back?” he asked, reclining on the mattress.

  She eyed him anxiously, twisting on the bedsheets. “Have I many there too?” she asked in dismay. “Usually it’s only where the sun has touched me.” She’d braided her hair again for bed, and she flipped it forward over her shoulder to give him an unimpeded view of her narrow back.

  “A few on the back of your neck and shoulders,” he admitted.

  She tutted with vexation. “If you would,” she said, hugging her knees to her chest as he reared up behind her.

  “Give me the stone.”

  She handed it to him, and after inspecting it a moment, he suspended it over the steaming water.

  “What other remedies have you tried?” he asked. For some reason, this subject interested him more than talk of his father’s arrival at the castle.

  “Well, I’ve tried various unguents and poultices,” she admitted sadly. “The worst was made from vinegar and oats. It smelled pretty foul. I’ve tried lots of others . . . Crushed strawberries, pure distilled water mixed with flour, pulped cucumbers. The list goes on and on. One time Mother Ames gave me a plaster made of rabbit leather, but I couldn’t get on with that. She also suggested applying bull’s blood, but I―I just couldn’t.”

  She shivered, and he wasn’t sure if that was from his application of the jewel or the idea of animal blood. “How is the amethyst supposed to help?” he asked, gliding it over her smooth skin.

  She gulped. “The jewel supposedly has healing properties.”

  “You’re not injured though,” he pointed out and tugged her shift down over her shoulder blades to press his lips to cool, pretty skin.

  “Uh, no,” she agreed. “But my skin is blemished.”

  He made a noise of dissent low in his throat. “No it isn’t, Linnet. Your skin is perfect.”

  She went quite still at that. “Perfect?” she whispered.

  “Perfect,” he affirmed and kissed the line of her upper spine.

  She was quiet and still a moment as she digested that. Then she wriggled. “Is your father settled for the night?” she asked as he slid her shift down over one shoulder and kissed it too. “I told Gertrude to put him in the blue chamber. I hope that’s alright.”

  “He’ll be fine,” he answered shortly. “Let’s take this off,” he said, lightly tugging at her sheer night gown. He tossed the amethyst onto the set of drawers by the bed.

  “I haven’t done my arms yet,” she pointed out.

  Mason took one of her slim, pale hands in his and inspected it. There was a scattering of freckles on the backs of her hand. He noticed she still wore the thin scarlet ribbon holding his cracked signet ring in place on her finger. He really should replace that when he got the chance. With what he didn’t know precisely as he’d never bought a woman jewelry before. He raised her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm. “Do they really bother you?”

  She stared up at him. “Do they really not bother you?” she asked in a slightly choked voice.

  “No,” he shrugged. “They don’t bother me at all.”

  Linnet blinked once, twice. Then she sighed. “I suppose beauty was probably never on your list of requirements for a bride.”

  Which was true of course but for some reason it annoyed him. “Your looks don’t displease me,” he said shortly. “Though the fact you’re still dressed does.”

  He rolled away from her to finish stripping off his own undergarments. When he turned back towards her, she’d dragged her shift over her shoulders. He gave a satisfied growl and pounced on her.

  “Wait!” she exclaimed, trying to disentangle her arms.

  “I’ve been waiting,” he growled. “For too long. When I come home of an evening, I shouldn’t have to come looking for you.”

  He hadn’t known he was going to say that until it came out of his mouth. Disconcerted by his own thoughts, he leant over and blew out the candle so he couldn’t see Linnet’s surprised expression. Of course she was surprised. He knew full-well he was being unreasonable!

  “What should I do then?” she asked uncertainly as he ran his hands over her hips and buttocks. He buried his face in her neck.

  “You should be waiting for me here,” he said and kissed the point where her neck and shoulders met.

  “In our bedroom?”

  “In our bed,” he corrected her.

  She gave a slight gasp when his lips found hers for a very thorough and deep kiss.

  “Would that not be somewhat unconventional?” she asked when he released her and started shifting down the bed, kissing her sweet little breasts and then down her flat stomach. “Oh,” she exclaimed as if the thought had suddenly occurred to her. “Is this part of our bargain?” She tried to sit up, but he grasped her hips firmly and pulled her back down the mattress.

  “Bargain?” he asked distractedly.

  “For our two—I mean, three sons.”

  “Yes,” he said roughly. As far as Mason was concerned the time for talking was done.

  “I see,” she agreed breathlessly.

  He smirked. His sheltered little bride saw nothing, but it was just as well. In truth, a man might ask such a thing of his mistress, not his wife, but he didn’t give a damn. The thought of returning to the castle and finding her awaiting his pleasure, filled him with satisfaction. He was master here and his word should be law. He buried his face between her thighs and feasted on the sweetness there. When she tried to twist away, he took a firm grasp of her soft thighs and held her in place for his voracious mouth. Her legs trembled, her fingers gripped his hair and soon she was panting his name in helpless appeal, but he wouldn’t give it to her.

  “When I’m inside you this time,” he reminded her as he slid back up the bed. She was eager this time, almost as eager as he when he settled over her. “Linnet,” he breathed. Then he thrust inside her and they both gasped. “Are you . . . ?”

  “I’m well,” she hastened to assure him. “Please don’t stop.”

  “I’m not going to stop.”

  He heard her gasp again and then her hands were travelling restlessly over his back. “Please Mason,” she whispered. “I want you to move like last time.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut, luxuriating in the feel of her all around him, clasping him tight. “I will,” he promised groaning. “Just give me a minute. You feel so good, Linnet.”

  “So do you,” she whispered back.

  He wanted to be gentle and considerate, but he knew he wasn’t going to be. Then he remembered he hadn’t been last time. I want you to move like last time, she’d said. His eyes snapped open to look at her, but it was too dark to catch her expression. “Like last time?” he echoed, not quite believing his own ears. He’d been angry last time. Jealous, his conscience corrected him. He’d been a boorish lout. Loud and energetic. He hadn’t held back.

  Her hands slid down his ribs to grip his hips, sparking his lust even further. “Yes,” she said huskily. “Please, Mason.”

  And that was it. His restraint was gone. With a smothered oath, he pinned her knee to the sheets and let her have it. She was so tight, so responsive, he had to grit his jaw against the glorious sensation so he would last. This was really no way to take a wife, swiving her like a lusty tavern wench, but lucky for him, Linnet was bloody clueless of the fact. She clung to him, she made approving, encouraging sounds and—glory of glories—she took it all and rewarded him by coming on his cock with an enthusiasm that triggered his own. Shit. He even liked how she sobbed his name.

  He wasn’t sure how much later it was when she shifted and turned her head to kiss his shoulder. He stroked a hand down her side, taking comfort from her nearness, her body draped on his. He kept his eyes closed to prolong the blissful stupor. He didn’t think he’d ever felt quite this content before in all his twenty-eight years. He had never had a woman that had made him want to
tarry in the aftermath. But Linnet was different. Not just some tryst between the sheets. He was just drifting off to sleep again when she said something that shattered all of his euphoric happiness in just seven words.

  “I think I should come to court with you when you go back.”

  He grimaced. Bloody hells! “No.”

  “But—”

  “No, Linnet. Absolutely not.”

  “But people are saying things about you and about our marriage that I don’t like.”

  He cracked one eye open to find she had raised her head from his chest and was looking down at him with a concerned look on her face.

  “Damn it, I don’t care,” he said. “And neither should you.”

  “Not care if my husband is being slandered?” she demanded.

  He opened both eyes. “I told you, I don’t care what people say about me. Court’s rife with gossip. Even if I lived a life of utter virtue someone there would spread horseshit about me.”

  She blinked at this. “Is it really that bad?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why—?”

  “Linnet, I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” he told her sternly. “Put your head back here,” he tapped his chest. “And go to sleep.”

  She frowned at him. “I had a warning.”

  “What?” He glared up at her. “Someone threatened you?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. Just . . . you know, it was foretold.”

  “What was foretold?”

  “That there would be some opposition from House Vawdrey over our marriage.”

  “Who the hell told you that?”

  “Mother Ames.”

  “Mother . . . ?” he broke off. “That old quack that told you to rub gemstones over your freckles?”

  “She’s a wise woman,” Linnet told him.

  He snorted. “My father’s already half come around. Give him a grandson and you’ll be his favorite daughter.”

  “He’s reconciled to our marriage?”

  “As much as he is reconciled to anything not of his own devising.”

  She hesitated. “But what of your brother, Sir Roland?”

  He stiffened. “You are no concern of Roland’s now Linnet.”

  “But your father seemed to think—”