Maybe This Time, page 25
“Look at the back of the ace.”
He held the lantern so that she could see. She read Innes’s familiar scrawl acknowledging his loss to Lord Buchannan. “Dear God,” she mumbled. “Twos and fours?”
Lord Buchannan nodded, his look triumphant, not at all sympathetic. Blasted man. “You won me with this paltry hand, and you will hold me to the wager?”
“I will. Paltry or no, that hand was enough. You are mine.”
Her temper flared. “Milord, I am convinced that you are who you say. And I am convinced that you did in fact wager and best Lord Innes. But I am a woman, not a bit of horseflesh that can be wagered and lost. I do not see why—”
“Because,” he cut in, “if you don’t fulfill your obligation to me by becoming my wife, you shall do so by becoming my lightskirt. Less dignity and prestige, but either alliance is fine with me. I’ll leave the choice in your able hands, my dear.”
“But—”
He folded his arms across his chest, his expression dark and demanding. “Which do you prefer?”
Dear God, he was serious! She gripped the edge of the seat and squeezed hard. “You cannot force a woman of gentle birth—”
“I can,” he insisted in a tone that sent her heart to thumping and her ears to ringing. “You forget my position—and your own. Now choose.”
Alyssa hesitated only a moment. Her father was already undone. She would rather be dead than any man’s lightskirt. It seemed fate had taken her father’s dilemma and her own future from her hands. “Very well, milord. I have no choice.” She lifted her chin. “Though I believe you a rakehell, I will marry you.” She worried her lower lip with her teeth. “But—but you must give me your vow of secrecy regarding this wager.” She paused to ponder, then added, “And it’s only fair that you know of my own vow, though it isn’t one I’ll state publicly with the others.”
“I’m listening.”
She attempted to level him with a haughty glare. “You, milord, will never know a moment of contentment in your marriage to me.”
He smiled. The left side of his mouth crooked up, and her heart lurched. Blasted man. How did he do that to her?
“I accept your terms. On my honor as a . . . rakehell, was it? Yes. On my honor as a rakehell, I vow I shall never tell a soul that I won you in a game of cards. And, somehow, my dear lady, I will stumble through life without the benefit of being content with you.”
How dare he laugh at her? Had the man no sense? “I am most serious regarding this matter,” she warned him.
“I’m certain you are. Might I suggest we rest for a while, my dear? There will be ample time to discuss our future later.”
Wordlessly, she sat back on the seat and closed her eyes.
Alyssa drifted between hours of hazy sleep and hours of wakefulness, hours of cursing his temerity and hours of being grateful, even flattered that he wanted to marry her.
During one such nap, she heard Kevan calling her and opened her eyes.
“Put on your gloves.”
Looking pleased, he glanced out of the window. She snatched up her gloves and tugged them on, her gaze following his. “Where are we?”
Passing over a narrow bridge, the carriage lurched. Alyssa lost her seat.
He caught her in his arms, his pleasant scent teasing her nostrils. When he didn’t release her, she looked up and met his gaze.
“Come.”
Hot and dark, his eyes held her captive. She wanted to look away, but lacked the strength. His hands at her waist, he lifted her onto his lap. Her heart skipped, then thudded wildly. Her gown crinkled against his hard thighs. His lips hovered mere inches above hers. “Milord?” she whispered.
He dipped his head until his lips brushed against her mouth. “Yes, my dear. We have arrived. Welcome to Scotland’s Gretna Green.”
Eighteen
“I WON’T DO IT, milord.” Alyssa clenched her hands into fists at her sides. “I will not be married by a man in his altitudes.”
“Alyssa,” Kevan insisted, “be reasonable. He is authorized to perform marriages by the Church of England. If you refuse, then we must be married by the blacksmith. Do you want an ‘over the anvil’ marriage?”
Alyssa glared at him. “I’d prefer to be married by a metal anvil than by a cup-shot parson, and that’s the truth of it.”
Kevan let out a sigh and resisted the desire to pace the innkeeper’s private salon. She was stubborn, and the three day journey had done little to improve her disposition. But he’d wanted her for over a year, and he’d gone to great lengths to get her. If a blacksmith suited her better than a cup-shot parson, so be it. He turned to his coachman. “Major, get the smith.”
Minutes later, Alyssa said the vows that made her his wife. A coil of tension slowly unwound inside him. Until she’d actually said them, he hadn’t been at all certain that she would go through with it. His heart pounded then lurched in his chest. His wife. He rubbed his cheek to hide a smile. By God, life looked good.
In a covert glimpse, he saw her jaw snap shut. His smile faded. Though elation soared in him, Alyssa looked far less pleased with her circumstance. But then, he reminded himself, she didn’t understand her circumstance. Once they settled in at Woodwind, she would realize that marrying him had been a wise decision.
And he would take great delight in her learning—once he got past her temper. Though, if the glare she had leveled on him provided any indication, that could take a while. He stifled the urge to rub his neck. His wife was a spirited woman. But he would tame her. A thrill of anticipation shot through him. She wouldn’t like it, but he would tame her.
The smith spoke the final words, and Kevan bent to do what he’d waited fourteen long months to do. He kissed his bride.
This kiss bore no resemblance to the one she’d given him at the London church. Alyssa was neither soft, nor yielding. But he’d surprised her then, and gratitude had ridden companion to her turmoil. Expecting this kiss, she was skittish, defiant, her inexperience more discernible.
Gently coaxing her, he was not disappointed. He knew the very instant she forgot her displeasure and opened herself to him. A little whimper escaped her throat, whispering her delight. Beautiful. He sighed against her soft lips. From the crown of her silver-haired head to the toes of her white kid slippers, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. And now she was his.
He forced himself to release her. Flushed a becoming pink, she looked bemused. Warm and protective urges he’d known before, surged from even deeper inside him—an effect he’d deemed quite impossible.
Her eyes were smoky soft, intoxicating. “Milord?”
He heard confusion in her tone. She didn’t understand the feelings his kiss had awakened in her. But he understood them. Breathing in her scent, warm and sweet, he smiled his contentment, and corrected her. “Kevan, love. You’re my wife now.”
“Yes.” That thought seemed to jolt her, and the softness in her expression disappeared. “Yes,” she agreed in a tight little voice. “Curse or blessing, I am your wife.”
He didn’t take insult. Nor did he smile, though he wanted to. It seemed his wife, too, at times preferred wearing a mask. But her righteous indignation proved a poor substitute for cloth. She feared him. Placing himself in her position, he understood her fear. He didn’t like it, but, considering his actions, he understood it. Unfortunately, she was not likely to believe his explanations. But soon he would put her fears to rest. “Have you paid the parson?”
“Smith,” she informed him in a voice that pinched more than a new pair of boots. “The man is a smith.”
He resisted a chuckle. “The smith, then.”
“Not yet.”
Her annoyance amused him. Did she expect her anger to cool his ardor? The idea was laughable. He’d pursued her relentlessly. And, being as territorial as men have been about their women since the beginning of time, he conceded that as surely as he breathed, his obsession would continue until time’s end. He forced his voice stern. “Please do so, milady. The hour grows late.”
She slid him a mutinous glare, then thrust the blunt into the smith’s hand. Her scowl threatened to lay the poor man low. With a swish of her skirt, she bent over the table and signed the parchment.
Kevan risked smiling at her back. And, not for the first time, he suffered a twinge of doubt. Would the delectable Lady Buchannan like what she learned about him? Her gown pulled taut across her hips. A jolt of desire surged to Kevan’s loins. She’d better, he decided, catching a glimpse of her ankle—the same ankle he’d touched in the carriage.
This marriage was for life, and the thought of her nagging him into his grave years before his time was not a pleasant one.
What was he doing? he chided himself. Worrying over a woman? And a tiny woman, at that. A strong wind would surely blow her over. He crossed his arms over his chest. She would grow fond of him. He would demand it. She was his wife. It was her duty to not only like him, but to love him. And, by God, he’d see she did her duty.
She straightened and held the quill out to him. “Milord?”
She’d avoided using his name again just to be contrary, he was sure, and her tone held a distinct challenge. A mere slip of a woman dared to challenge him? Arching an amused brow, he accepted the quill. Bringing her to heel promised to be a most enjoyable challenge. “Thank you, my dear.”
He affixed his signature to the document, feeling her gaze heat his back. She could be difficult. But he’d already learned the value of varying his actions. Of all of them, she seemed to dislike his feigning boredom the most.
Yet she was not an easy woman to unbalance. An admirable trait, that. Not many of her gender found the combination of his size and dark looks easy to address. But Alyssa clearly had no qualms with letting him feel her temper. When he’d told her to choose between becoming his lightskirt or his wife, she’d looked ready to lay him low. He’d liked that, too.
He shuddered at the risk he’d taken in letting her make that choice. What would he have done had she chosen to bed him, but not to wed him?
His answer required no thought. He would have done the same as any man set on marrying: dragged her here, kissed her senseless, and kept her senseless until after they were wed. Though that endeavor held an enticing appeal, his use of force hadn’t been necessary. Why had she conceded?
He slid his wife a thoughtful look. She stood glaring at him. Her reason was of no consequence, he supposed. What did bear consequence was his mission. And, thus far, it had been a smashing success.
Responding to inane comments and well-wishes from Major, the smith, and the innkeeper, he pondered the matter of intensifying his relationship with his wife. Devotion, he decided, accepting a glass of brandy from the innkeeper’s wife. Yes, that strategy appealed. Since her mother’s death, Alyssa’d had no one she could depend on. He’d be the man she could lean on for support, the man she could come to with her concerns. That suited. As her husband, those rights were his due, as was her affection. His chest swelled and he lifted his glass to toast his wife. By God, life looked good.
Soon Kevan tucked the marriage document inside his coat, and returned with his wife to the carriage. When Alyssa settled, he wrapped her legs with the blanket. “I know you’ve been ill, love, and I’ll do my best to see to your comfort, but we must return to my home in Brighton at once.”
“I am not your love, Kevan.” She swatted at his hand resting on her knee. “And kindly refrain from taking that liberty with my person. You wanted me as your wife, and you’ve won. But, as I have promised, it’ll be no pleasure.”
“Very well, my dear. But remember this: you are my wife. For now, I will permit your virgin sensibilities to repel my touch. But you will accept my endearments without complaint, and you will play the part of my devoted wife in the presence of others.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Do not push me, Alyssa.” His eyes narrowed. “I want to be loving with you. To lead you, and to protect you. A wise woman accepts her destiny—without force.”
THE JOURNEY to Brighton took three days, and, more fatigued than she realized, Alyssa slept through a great portion of it. Several times during the trip, she had awakened in Kevan’s arms, her head resting against his shoulder. Now it was he who slept, and she wondered if he had studied her sleeping countenance.
Though massive, without the black clothes and mask, Kevan seemed less formidable. His dark head rested against the carriage wall and rocked gently with the rhythm of the ride. His features, softened in repose, made him more appealing, more like the rescuing knight she fancied had abducted her because he had a partiality for her.
He was her husband. Her husband. Being married to this intriguing stranger, this lord who behaved as anything but a lord, amazed her. Had she somehow conjured him up?
She let her gaze slide his length, from the tip of his dark head, down to the toes of his black boots. She pinched her forearm purple, assuring herself that he was no dream. But, still unconvinced, she gave in to temptation and touched the arch of his lip that crooked up when he gave her that special smile. Her fingertip trembled. His jaw, slightly roughened by a day’s growth of beard, provided undeniable proof. This man was flesh and blood. And, pity, but there was a lot of flesh.
Sitting back, she felt him graze her finger with his teeth. Her gaze darted to his.
“You may touch me whenever you like, Alyssa.”
Her face flooded heat. “I don’t wish—”
“Do not lie, my dear. Buchannans are people of their word.” He licked the tip of her finger with his tongue. “You want me.”
“I do not.”
“You do,” he insisted.
“Kevan. I don’t even know you. How, pray tell me, could I want you?”
“You do.”
She glared at him. “I’ll admit I like knowing you’re a man of your word,” she said, thinking to appease him and turn the subject in one swoop. It salved her conscience, too. She hadn’t lied. Not once had he attempted to take liberties with her person, though she did wish—in between her engaging pastime of flinging silent curses on his head—that he would kiss her again. It was sinful, the things his kiss and its memory brought to her mind.
He cast her a wicked smile. “You want me. No, don’t bother to glare at me, Alyssa. I’ll not wither. Just tell me what draws you to me.”
Why did she feel drawn to him? He was devastatingly handsome. But his appeal ran deeper than his good looks. “I’m not,” she lied.
“Perhaps my attentions to your comfort,” he suggested. “I would remind you, my dear, few men realize the attachment between physical and emotional comfort. Is that what makes you want me?”
A wise man, this one, and arrogant, too. “I don’t want you.”
He ignored her. “My thoughtfulness?” He lifted one shoulder and a brow. “I have provided you with appropriate clothing and warm blankets. Or maybe what makes you want me is my romantic nature.”
She guffawed. “You’re arrogant, milord. And about as romantic as a stone.”
“Alyssa, you wound me. I present you with a wall flower every morning.” His eyes lit with mischief. “Or was that another of my women?”
Alyssa clamped her jaw shut. The maid at the inn had gushed, saying each flower held a special message. She’d given Alyssa a list of them. The wall flower meant patience and affection. Had Kevan known that? More than likely he hadn’t. “No, milord. It’s not one of your other women. I receive your flowers. I see you require your Creator’s protection against your faulty memory. I shall request His indulgence on your behalf.”
“You believe it necessary?”
The vile man knew his goading had hit its mark. “I do. Because I’ll tell you now, I’ll not tolerate you giving flowers to another woman.”
“I knew you were drawn to me,” he roared, smacking his thigh. “You’re jealous. By God, you are. You’re jealous.”
“What I am, milord, is sorely tempted to slap that smirk from your cheeks. While I am not a violent woman, I assure you that neither am I a meek one. I realize that although I am your wife, I am a stranger to you. So I suppose it only fair to warn you. Do not push me too far, or you’ll find our marriage intolerable.”
“You’ve already vowed I’ll know no contentment with you. What more can I lose? No, I think I will love pushing you too far, my dear. You’re exceptionally attractive when your temper is up. And it flares quite often, doesn’t it?”
“When you must attempt to soothe my temper and fail, I daresay, you won’t appreciate it quite so much.”
He looked at her, the devil in his eye. “That is the part I look most forward to, my dear.”
“Failing?”
He slid her a slow, sure smile. “No, love. The soothing. I’m told, I’m rather good at it.”
Blushing to the tips of her toes, Alyssa swallowed her reply and stared out the window. When had the weather turned so unseasonably hot?
FINALLY, THE SUSSEX coast scenery was soothing her frayed nerves. So much worry and concern for the future had occupied her during the journey. Her father had in effect sold her to Innes. The hurt and anger that came with the knowing wounded her heart. In turn, Innes had lost her to Kevan. But for that, she could feel only gratitude. And she’d married Kevan. Done her duty, fulfilled a commitment she hadn’t made, but one that should insure her father’s safety. Any man of honor would agree.
But Innes had no honor. He’d proven that by attempting to wed her after he’d lost her to Kevan. And what about Kevan?
He was an enigma. What had he wagered? Why had he done all this? He’d said he wanted a wife. But an earl—especially one so powerful, so appealing in person, and so able to provide security—didn’t have to resort to abduction to get a wife. Any unmarried woman in England would be happy to wed him. Which meant he wanted her specifically. But why?
Stealing a look at him from under her lashes, she watched him gaze out on the scenery. Could he be as relaxed and rested as he appeared? She felt as tense as a stretched rope, and tired to the bone.
