Rogues Rush In

Eat first, his stomach growled. Talk later.

  He attacked his food, downing four eggs, two rashers of bacon, and six points of buttered toast in a matter of minutes.

  She filled his teacup for the third time. "Feeling human again?"

  "Mostly."

  When she bent over the table to pour his tea, he could glimpse not only the sweet, abundant curves of her breasts, but the dark, secret valley between them. If he didn't know better, he'd have thought she meant to give him the tempting view.

  "I've been thinking." She propped an elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand. "Instead of going on to Ramsgate, perhaps we could stay here."

  "No." He drained his tea and set down the teacup with authority. "We're not going to spend another night in this cottage."

  "But--"

  "I'm taking you to an inn. Or a hotel. The finest establishment Ramsgate has to offer, whatever that might be."

  And wherever they stayed, he would demand the best room. Not merely a room, but a suite. An apartment with a soaking tub and a private dining room.

  And, most importantly, separate bedchambers.

  Last night, that simple goodnight kiss had nearly been his undoing. This morning he was slavering like a dog, after just one glimpse of her breasts. If he shared a bed with her again tonight, he'd risk losing all control.

  "But Ramsgate is so popular this time of year. It will be full to bursting with ladies on holiday. Too many prying eyes. Someone will recognize us, and then the rumors will be all over England."

  "Unless we're visiting the shops or the seaside, we won't attract notice."

  She laughed to herself. "Sebastian, you are like a walking exhibition of Grecian sculpture. Wherever you go, you attract notice. Once we ride into town together, we may as well put a notice in the The Times. Can't we remain here and avoid the gossip? In just one morning, I've already improved the kitchen. Give it a few more days, and this cottage will be positively charming, you'll see."

  He relented. "Very well. If that's truly what you want."

  "It's what I want. If it weren't, you know I wouldn't hesitate to tell you."

  "This is true." He tapped a finger on the table's edge. "But I have one condition. We must do something about our sleeping arrangements."

  "I wholeheartedly agree." She pushed back from the table. "Which is why I've something to show you upstairs."

  Chapter 6

  Sebastian followed her up the stairs, feeling strangely wary. Just what sort of surprise did she have in mind?

  "I found it in the attic," she chattered on the way. "It must be centuries old. We dusted it off with rags, and Dick carried it down to this room. It's the largest." She led him into a bedchamber branching off the corridor and made a sweeping arm gesture toward one corner. "See? It's a bed."

  Sebastian blinked at the jumble of timbers. "That's not a bed. That's firewood."

  "It's a disassembled bed. And I think you'd have a difficult time burning it. It's heavier than bricks." She lifted one end of a plank. "I don't even know what kind of wood this is."

  He ran his fingers over the surface and examined the grain. "I'm not certain, either." He picked up a lathe-turned wooden leg. Or was it a finial? Time had coated the wood in a dark, impenetrable patina that he couldn't even gouge with his thumbnail.

  "I don't think it's English. What style of carving do you make that out to be?" She leaned close to him, offering a piece decorated with a chain of stylized wildflowers.

  He shrugged. "Swedish, maybe?"

  "Well, wherever it came from, it's going to be slept in tonight. I already told Fanny to stuff a mattress tick with fresh straw. We just have to put the frame together. All the pieces seem to be here." She took hold of a board and lifted it, eyeing the dimensions. "Do you think this is a slat, perhaps?" She tipped her head to regard it from another angle. "Or a rail?"

  With a shrug, she carried it to the center of the room and laid it flat on the floor.

  Sebastian poked through the stack of planks and pieces. "Simple mortise and tenon joints. Shouldn't take long." He chose two pieces that looked as though they'd been hewn to fit together, and the tenon slipped into the mortise like a hand into a fitted glove. "That's one joint connected."

  Mary paused in the act of laying a second plank next to the first, lining up their bottom edges for comparison. "Oh, no. We're not going about it all higgledy-piggledy. We don't know if those two pieces belong together."

  "Of course they do. They were made to fit."

  "You can't be sure of that."

  He held up the joint for her, sliding the tenon in and out of its slot a few times. "Is that not proof enough?"

  "Perhaps there are two that would fit the same hole."

  "Well, I don't know how you propose to complete this bed without joining pieces together. Did you find a leaflet in the attic with instructions? In Swedish?"

  "Of course I didn't. That's why we need a plan. Now, we're going to arrange all these pieces neatly in rows first, laying them out on the floor so that we can count and compare. We'll put a little mark on the similar ones. Plank A, plank B, and so on. Then we'll chalk up a diagram on the floor and--"

  "I thought you wanted to sleep in this bed tonight. Not next week."

  "What's wrong with planning first?"

  "You're making it more complicated than it needs to be." He lifted the wide, flat headboard and placed it against the wall. "Is this where you want it?"

  "A little to the left." She waved him to the side. "No, back to the right a touch. There."

  He set the piece down, then returned to the stack of timbers and selected the largest. "This goes at the foot of the bed."

  "Are you certain?"

  "Yes." He lifted the board with a grunt, swung it about, and positioned it parallel to the headboard. "Hold that in place."

  She sounded skeptical. "So you've done this before. Assembled beds."

  "Loads of them."

  "Loads of them? When and where was that?"

  He gave a strangled groan of impatience. "Just trust me, Mary. I have it all under control. This won't take but a few minutes."

  *

  One hour later

  Mary pulled to a standing position and massaged the wrenched muscle at the small of her back. "It's still not right. That one doesn't go there."

  "Yes, it does." As she stood observing, Sebastian tried once again to shove the wooden tab of one rail into the slot carved into a leg.

  "See? It doesn't fit."

  "It will fit. There aren't any other pieces left that it could be."

  "It's probably one of the pieces we've already used. It could be anywhere." She gestured at the half-finished bed frame. "Or maybe the right piece was never here to begin with. This was why I wanted to make a plan, you know."

  He gave her a look. "Don't be that way."

  "Don't be what way? Right?" She huffed a breath, blowing a wisp of hair off her cheek. "There's nothing else to be done. We'll have to take it apart and start over."

  He swore with passion. "We are not taking the thing apart. And this piece does fit." He glared at the wood, as though he could force it into submission through the sheer power of masculine brooding. "I just need a mallet."

  "I think I need a mallet," she grumbled.

  "What?"

  "Nothing," she chirped with bright innocence. "I'll find you that mallet straightaway."

  *

  Two hours after that

  Mary sat in the corner of the bedchamber with her knees hugged to her chest.

  With a grimace of effort, Sebastian gave the bed-key one final twist to tighten the ropes. "There."

  Mary watched as he dragged the freshly stuffed mattress tick onto the frame.

  She would have offered to help. But by this point, she knew better than to touch--or even breathe on--his work in progress. And God forbid she make a helpful suggestion.

  He stood back, straightened, and used his sleeve to wipe the sweat streaming off his brow. "Finis
hed."

  She stared at the bed, biting her tongue.

  "Well...?" He propped his hands on his hips. "I told you I'd have it put together."

  "Yes, but--"

  "But what, Mary? But what?"

  "But there are three boards left over." She stood and pointed. "Where do they go?"

  He gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Must be surplus."

  "Surplus? What centuries-old bed comes with surplus pieces?"

  "This one."

  She rubbed her temples.

  "It doesn't matter." He took a pace backward. "It's sturdy enough to hold an ox. Just watch."

  "Sebastian, wait."

  He took two running steps and launched himself at the bed, twisting in midair so that he landed on his back. All sixteen stone of him, squarely plunked in the center of the mattress.

  "See?" He folded his hands under his head and gave her a smug look. "I told you it was st--"

  Crash.

  One side of the bed frame collapsed beneath his weight, tipping the mattress at an angle and shunting him to the floor.

  Mary stood very quietly.

  He stared blankly at the ceiling. "Go on. Say it."

  "Say what?"

  "I know you're thinking it. You may as well have out with it."

  "I'm not sure what you mean," she lied.

  "Yes, you are."

  "Let's go downstairs for some tea."

  "For the love of God, Mary. I know it's coming. Just say it now."

  "I don't--"

  "Say it."

  "I told you so!" she shouted. "Is that what you want to hear? I told you this would happen. I told you you were doing it wrong. I. Told. You. So."

  He stared up at the ceiling, infuriatingly silent.

  Mary, however, was only getting started. "I wanted to make a plan. But noooo. You don't need a plan. You've assembled loads of beds. You know exactly which pieces fit where. Because you, like all men, have a magical nugget of furniture-assembly expertise dangling in your left bollock." She flung a hand at the unused boards. "Surplus? You're telling me sixteenth-century Swedish artisans made surplus?"

  He finally pulled himself off the floor. "I"--he jabbed a finger in his chest--"told you"--the finger turned on Mary--"that we should go to Ramsgate. Where they have beds already. Assembled beds. Comfortable beds. Beds just sitting there in well-appointed rooms, waiting for someone to use them."

  "I don't want to go to Ramsgate."

  "Yes, so you told me. You're very keen to avoid the gossip. God forbid you be seen with me in public."

  Her chin jerked. "What?"

  "I mean, you could have been married to Giles Perry, a barrister's son with a promising political career. Instead, you're with the disgraced Lord Byrne. The one who dirties his hands in trade, because his father drove the estate straight up to the brink of insolvency and only failed to take it over the edge because he drank himself to death first. Those ladies on holiday would cluck their tongues, wouldn't they? All of England would be shaking their heads."

  "Sebastian. You can't think I'm ashamed of having married you."

  "Of course not," he said mockingly. "You prefer to spend the week squirreled away with me in some ramshackle cottage, scrubbing floors and assembling furniture, when you could be staying in the finest seaside resort."

  "I do prefer it."

  "To be sure." He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "Why wouldn't you? Just look at all the fun we're having right this very moment."

  She shook her head. "I can't believe this."

  "Well, I can't believe you. It's clear you're trying to persuade me into remaining here. Vases of flowers on the table, breakfast." He gave the unfinished bed a disgusted look. "That."

  "Well, pardon me for attempting to make our honeymoon cottage just the tiniest bit romantic."

  "It's not supposed to be romantic. You were jilted by your groom. I stepped in to marry you out of loyalty to your brother. It's not as though we clasped hands and ran away into the sunset, Mary." He swept her with a cold look. "We're not in love."

  His words struck her in the chest with such force, she couldn't breathe.

  And she hadn't any logical reason to feel hurt. He was only speaking the truth. She simply hadn't realized, until this moment, how much she wished the truth were different.

  "I..." She blinked rapidly, forcing back a hot tear.

  He pushed his hands through his hair and cursed. "Mary, don't listen to me. We're both exhausted, and--"

  "It's all right, Sebastian. You don't need to explain." Mary backed her way toward the door. She had to escape this room. The walls were closing in on her, squeezing at her heart. "We can leave for Ramsgate whenever you're ready."

  Chapter 7

  It took Sebastian about five seconds to realize what a bastard he'd been. However, he forced himself to wait a few hours before attempting to tell her so. She needed time and space to breathe, and so did he.

  As penance, he did exactly as she'd suggested from the start.

  He took the whole damn bed apart, sorted the pieces by size and function, chalked an outline on the floor, and wouldn't you know. It all fit together as it should.

  When he finally went looking for her, she wasn't in the cottage. He searched through every room, growing increasingly concerned, until he returned to the master bedchamber and happened to look out the window. She was down by the water, walking along the sandy shore.

  He picked his way down the winding path to the beach. As she came into view, he paused a moment to recover his breath.

  Her lovely profile was to him as she stared out over the ocean. The breeze whipped at her filmy summer frock and toyed with the loose strands of her hair. Before she walked on, she stopped and bent to gather something from the sand, adding it to a collection in her palm.

  "Mary!" He jogged down the beach until he reached her side. Once he'd reached her, he searched his brain for the right words. Only three came to mind. "I'm a jackass."

  She ducked her head. "You're not alone."

  They walked on together.

  "What is it you're collecting?" he asked.

  "Cockleshells." She held them up for him to see. "Couldn't resist."

  Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?

  With silver bells and cockleshells, and pretty maids all in a row.

  Whenever she dug her heels into an argument, Henry had teased her with that rhyme, even long past the age when they should have outgrown it. Sebastian supposed that was what brothers did.

  She poked through her little collection with a fingertip. "Perhaps I'll put them in the garden, with some silver bells and pretty maids all in a row. It would be a nice remembrance, wouldn't it?"

  "I think he'd like that. A chance to tease you from beyond the grave."

  "Henry did have a point. I've tried to temper my inclination toward contrariness, but it never seems to work. I'm my father's daughter, and it's in my blood. A bit of rousing debate was like a game for us. One we both enjoyed." She gave him a cautious look. "But I know it's not that way in everyone's family."

  It certainly hadn't been that way in Sebastian's home. No good-natured arguments between his parents. Only threats and accusations and the sound of china shattering against the wall.

  "I'll try to be more patient," he said.

  "I'll try not to be right all the time," she teased. "I suppose this means our first argument as a married couple is out of the way."

  The knot in his chest unraveled. Apologies accomplished, just like that. He'd learned so much from his time spent in the Clayton house. It was in that house he'd learned to be a man.

  Henry had taught him what it meant to be a friend.

  Mr. Clayton had taught him what it meant to be responsible.

  Mary had taught him what it meant to yearn. To sense there was something more beneath the surface of a friendship. To wish he knew how to bring that into the light. To wonder if he could ever deserve it.

  She stopped to gather another c
ockleshell and turned it over between her fingers, inspecting it. Dissatisfied, she cast it away. "Imagine if I'd married Giles. I would have been 'Mary Perry, quite contrary.' How dreadful."

  He pulled a face. "Dreadful, indeed. Why did you accept his proposal if you didn't love him?"

  "Considering his political aspirations, I told myself I could do some good as his wife. That was before I realized he was only motivated by ambition. He didn't truly care about serving the people. I'd have gone mad as his wife, trying to hold my tongue in company and support his bland political positions without expressing my own thoughts. I'm so relieved that I didn't have to marry him."

  "Are you?"

  "Yes. In fact, I'm more than relieved. I'm happy."

  Happy.

  The word made Sebastian's brain spin.

  Naturally, he agreed with the assessment that she and Perry would have made a disastrous match. He'd known that from the first. Differences of opinion aside, the man simply wasn't good enough for her.

  But could she truly be happy to have been jilted?

  That was too much to believe. In all likelihood, she was merely soothing her own feelings. Telling herself it was for the best, in order to ease the pain.

  In time, he'd do his best to make her happy in truth.

  "I have something for you." He reached into his breast pocket, fishing around for his small gift. "I brought it back from the village, but I forgot about it earlier, what with all the--"

  Her eyebrows lifted. "Surplus?"

  "Exactly." He smiled a little. "While I was at the smithy with Shadow, I had the blacksmith make this." He withdrew the tiny circle of polished silver and placed it in her palm. "It's only temporary. You'll have something much finer at the first opportunity. But for now, it's the best I could do."

  She regarded it wordlessly.

  Sebastian shifted his weight from one foot to the other. At the smithy, it had seemed a good idea. Now that he saw it resting in her delicate hand, the ring looked crude and paltry. "You don't have to wear it."

  She clamped her fingers over it, closing the ring in her fist. "Certainly I'm going to wear it. Don't think I'll give it back now."

  He exhaled with relief.

  She slid the thin, humble band onto her third finger. "It was thoughtful of you to bring it." She stretched up to kiss his cheek. "Thank you."

  As she pulled back, he wrapped an arm around her, keeping her close. His gaze dropped to her pale-pink lips.

  Irresistible.

  He kissed her, and she leaned into his embrace. Her frock was wonderfully thin, and her breasts melted against him. He explored her mouth with possessive strokes of his tongue, taking more, and then yet more. She offered everything he asked, and then began to take from him, too. She laced her fingers together at the back of his neck and clung tight, making him her captive.