My Scandalous Bride

  "Ernest.. ." Leighton drew out his name in warning.

  "Where's yer valet? Is yer horse in the stable?"

  Leighton watched Ernest sweat and contemplated the situation. Ernest would have to be dealt with, but Ernest and his family had been the innkeepers at the Bull and Eagle for two hundred years. Ernest would be waiting when Leighton walked down the stairs once more.

  Laura Haver was his first priority. She didn't know it yet, but she was going to tell him every bit of information she knew. He would work on her. Hell, he looked forward to working on her. Decision

  made, Leighton answered Ernest. "I walked over."

  "From the manor?" Ernest's eyebrows lifted so high they would have touched his hairline, if he'd had

  one. "Didn't ye know to look for m'lady here first?"

  "We haven't been speaking." It wasn't a lie. He could scarcely talk to m'lady when no m'lady existed.

  "A tiff already?" Ernest clucked his tongue and bent down and rummaged under the bar. "But an

  evening visit such as this will cure that honeymonth uncertainty. Here."

  He handed Leighton a dusty bottle of wine. " Tis one of my best. Share it with her tonight."

  Leighton took the bottle, looked up the stairs, and for the first time allowed himself to wonder what

  Laura would do when he knocked on the door. She didn't plan on him arriving to claim his "bride," but... his vision blurred in a sudden flush of heat. He'd caught her at last. He'd have to question her about her presence here, and he knew from experience she was stubborn, bad-tempered, and determined.

  He might have to question her all night.

  He looked at the bottle in his hand. She might need to have her tongue loosened with an application of truth medication, and if that didn't work, he might have to seduce her—for the good of his operation,

  of course.

  He grinned. The little fool had played right into his hands.

  CHAPTER 2

  Laura listened as the two men spoke in the taproom below. It was probably nothing, probably the first

  of the villagers arriving for an ale, but the events of the night had made her wary, and she slipped over

  to the door and laid her head against the boards while straining to hear.

  The knock on the door made her jump backward, stumbling on the thin carpet that covered part of the floor.

  "M'lady?"

  Only Ernest called her by that title. "What?" she called, and her voice quavered.

  " 'Tis Ernest, m'lady, with a surprise for ye."

  "What kind of surprise?" She feared suspicion colored her tone, but Ernest sounded as cheerful as ever.

  " 'Tis something to warm yer bones." Metal rattled against metal. "Shall I just unlock the door and pass

  it through to ye?"

  She stared in horror at the metal lock. She'd thought herself inviolate in here, and now Ernest announced he had another key. Should she fling her weight against the door and block it? She looked down at herself and at another time, she would have laughed. "Bird-bones," Ronald had called her, and "Shorty."

  Should she start pushing furniture against the door? Her gaze swept the room. No, she wouldn't be able

  to move big enough things fast enough. And why was she worried, really? As far as she could tell,

  Ernest had been totally trustworthy, keeping the secret she'd entrusted to him with perfect consideration. Only the events on the cliff colored her suspicions of him.

  "I'll open it," she called. She wanted to retain control of access to her room, and not have Ernest thinking he could enter any time. She produced the key and turned it in the lock, then opened the door a crack

  and peeked through.

  Leighton.

  She tried to ram the door closed but obviously he anticipated her action, for he shoved and the door sprang open under his weight.

  She stumbled back and when he boomed, "Darling!" she almost fell. But he rescued her, swept her into his arms, lifting her until her feet dangled, and kissed her.

  For the watching innkeeper, it must have looked like romance personified. For Laura, it was the most frightening experience of her life. Leighton clearly intended to impress her with his size and her lack of it, and he succeeded quite impressively. She jerked her head back, wanting to free her mouth to scream,

  and found his hand cupping her neck. Where was his other hand? Her mind scrambled to adjust, to discover, and found he held her close with one arm under her posterior. Her posterior! She, who maintained dignity at all costs, had Leighton holding her up by her posterior! Then his mouth invaded hers, and she forgot about dignity and struck at his shoulders. He didn't seem to notice. His smooth lips followed hers with a sure instinct, blocking every little evasive maneuver and countering with some maneuvers of his own. She'd never had a man nibble at her lips and when she opened them, slip his tongue inside. And when she kicked his legs, he chuckled as if he were amused!

  So she bit him.

  He dropped her to her feet and grabbed at his mouth, and she backed up as fast as she could until the edge of the desk struck her thighs and stopped her. A glance at the door proved it to be shut, and she stammered, "He's gone."

  "Quite a while ago."

  While Leighton dabbed at his tongue and looked at the blood on his finger, she filled her lungs to scream. He reached her with one giant step, but made no attempt to smother her. He just watched her with a wicked amusement, and her cry for help disintegrated into a whimper.

  "Go ahead," he said. "Yell all you want. No one dares interfere between a married couple." He cupped her chin and leaned down to whisper, "And you're my little wife."

  Dear God. He knew. She could scarcely speak with dismay. "We're not really married!"

  "You told Ernest we were." Leighton straightened and with a swirl of movement swept off his black wool greatcoat. Beneath he wore loose, rough clothes, more fitting to a fisherman—or a smuggler—than to a lord. "Imagine my surprise when I arrived at the inn to be informed my bride awaited me upstairs."

  He swung his fist and she ducked, but he did nothing but thrust the papers off the desk and deposit the bottle of wine he held in one fist. Ronald's diary landed on the floor with a thud, but with an effort of

  will she kept her gaze fixed on Leighton's face.

  He didn't seem to notice the precious leather-bound volume, but she could see it out of the corner of her eye, lying with its ruby cover glowing on the otherwise scattered sheets. Leighton seemed to consider her wide-eyed terror nothing but just trepidation of his reprisal, and he said, "I'm not a man to let opportunity slide, especially when I'm long overdue for a wedding night."

  She didn't know what to do. Her fingers trembled with the desire to pick up the diary and hide it behind her back, but she didn't want to call it to his attention. At the same time, he was making threats. His voice, always deep and mild, had slipped into a husky whisper, and his eyes gleamed like blue coals

  from the hottest part of the fire. His black cravat was nothing more than a scarf to warm his neck, tied with true carelessness into a twisted knot. His dark shirt laid open to the middle of his chest and drops of water clung to the curls that poked forth. The cotton stuck to his shoulders in wet patches, and she could almost see steam rising because of his heat. Her personal fright warred with her fear he would discover what she knew, and it irritated her that she could worry about her own safety when she had a chance to avenge herself on Ronald's murderer.

  Moving her hands along the desk top behind her, she crept sideways away from the spilled papers. She had to concentrate on removing his attention away from the betraying diary, and she seemed successful, for Leighton watched her, only her. When she'd reached the edge of the desk, he turned and strode to

  the settle. Fingering her redingote, he said, "It would seem you've been out tonight."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "It's damp." He tossed his own heavy wool greatcoat over the top of hers in what Laura thought a mos
t suggestive manner. "And it didn't start raining until a few moments ago."

  "I went for a walk."

  He nudged at her encrusted boots with his foot. "Through the mud?"

  Cocking her head, she replied, "Much like yourself."

  "You're a clever minx. Saucy, too." For such a large man, he moved gracefully, and he eased himself down on the settle as if he planned to remain there a long time.

  The high back of the seat protected most of him from her sight, but she could see his hands as they

  came forward to grasp each one of his work boots, and jerk it off.

  She stared. What was he doing?

  "I'm removing my boots," he answered, although she wasn't aware of asking the question aloud. "I'm

  wet and I'm cold, and I'd like to spend an evening alone with my new bride—and so I informed Ernest."

  She couldn't believe that Leighton spoke to her so frankly and with such provocative intent. Then she remembered the image of the Indian tiger. The lying in wait, the stalking of the victim who, unaware, walked into the trap, the brief race, the tiger's final success. Gulping, she tried to wet her suddenly dry throat. She tried to speak, but knew no words that would sway him. He'd waited, he'd stalked her, now her escape depended on her own speed and dexterity. She paused only long enough to scoop up the

  diary and thrust it in the pocket of her skirt, then allowed her panic to move her toward the door. Grasping the knob between her sweaty palms, she tried to twist it open, but her grip slipped on the

  cool metal.

  The door was locked from the outside.

  Was that part of Leighton's trap? No, more likely Ernest wished to give his lord and new lady privacy. She plunged her hand into her reticule, wanting the key, wanting desperately to escape, but Leighton's next words brought her to a halt.

  "Smugglers were plying their trade on the coast tonight. Would you know anything about that?"

  The key slithered away from her shaking fingers and fell to the floor with a clink. She dropped to her knees and groped for it, grasped it, stood and tried to insert it into the lock.

  "Miss Haver, I asked you a question." Leighton leaned around the high edge of the settle and fixed her

  in his gaze. "Or should I call you 'my lady'?"

  She tried to appear innocent, as if sneaking away from this room was no more than should be expected, and indeed, he didn't seem surprised.

  "Are you leaving?"

  Show no fear, she told herself. Stare the tiger down. "Yes." Her voice squeaked, and she smiled fixedly

  at him to counteract any cowardly impression.

  "You can do that, of course, but it will be quite embarrassing."

  Her smile faded. "Why do you say that?"

  "Because I'll be forced to chase you down and bring you back. I can't imagine that you'll look your best draped over my shoulder as we go through the taproom."

  "I'll scream. Ernest won't let you—"

  "Won't he?" She'd always thought Leighton smug, but now he fairly glowed with it. "Ernest would not ever interfere, no matter what he heard."

  She looked at him, at the openly tigerous satisfaction on his face, and she didn't care. She wanted to run, she had to run, she had to try, and she crammed the key into the lock, turned it, and slammed the door back on its hinges.

  He muttered, "Damn!" but she didn't look back. She tore out of the room as if... as if a tiger were on

  her heels.

  He was. He caught her before she reached the top of the stairs and lifted her with his arm around the waist. She screamed, loud and shrill, but the sound echoed down the stairs and through the obviously empty taproom. Leighton held her there long enough to confirm his prediction. Ernest wouldn't rescue her. She was his wife, and Ernest would leave her to the man he thought to be her husband.

  "Satisfied?" Leighton growled in her ear.

  She kicked at him, but her heels bounced on his thighs, and without flinching, he swung her around in

  the narrow hall and headed back for the bedchamber. She twisted, desperately trying to knock him with an elbow, a fist, anything, but she couldn't get to him, and they swept back into the room. Kicking the door shut with his foot, he carried her writhing form to Henry the Eighth's bed and dropped her into the two-thousand-goose-feather mattress. Its softness billowed up around her, stifling her as she tried to leap back at him. He landed on her. Her foot twisted under her and she gave a yelp of pain.

  "Stupid girl," he growled, lifting himself and adjusting her leg.

  She rammed her knee into his midsection. He doubled over. She scrambled over him toward freedom.

  He caught her again and rolled, tucking her under him as he went. "Stupid, stupid girl," he repeated,

  and she took comfort in the fact that he sounded slightly winded.

  Then he kissed her. Last time, she realized, had been playacting. This time, he was angry. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and when she tried to close her teeth on him again, he lifted his head. Looking

  right into her eyes, he said, "If you bite me, I will retaliate." She flinched and he felt it, lying on top of

  her as he was, and he smiled using all his white teeth. "And I never make promises I don't keep."

  When he put his lips to hers again, she desperately wanted to defy him, but he had made her aware of him and his fury. He was doing it on purpose, she thought, weighing her down with his large body until everywhere she turned, he was there. The scent of fresh air, rain, and heather filled her nostrils, and that was him. The heat of an iron forge covered her, and that was him. The sound of a heartbeat filled her ears, and that was surely him. It couldn't be her own heart that raced so madly, and certainly not because of the way he kissed.

  Because she wasn't susceptible to such physical entrapment—at least she never had been before. When he penetrated her mouth with his tongue, she kept her eyes open and her teeth firmly shut.

  He didn't seem to mind. He closed his eyes as if she were no threat to him, and it irked her to know it could possibly be true. He explored the inner wetness of her lip, finding untouched places and touching them. His tongue ran the ridges of her teeth and when she tried to shake her head and shake him out,

  he rapped out one word. "Laura!"

  As if she were a child!

  Doubling up her fist, she swung at him for his impertinence, but she'd taught him some respect, it

  seemed, for he caught her wrists in one hand and placed them over her head. She tried to flail away,

  but the feathers ensnared her and her struggles carried her deeper into the mattress. Her legs churned

  in useless protest, and panic rose in her. She'd never been so helpless, so out of control, and she didn't want this kiss.

  Then he touched her breast, and the kiss seemed innocent in comparison. The wool cloth of her bodice might have been cambric, so little did it protect her from his caress. He explored the lower curve. With each contact, her breath caught. She closed her eyes at last, too embarrassed by such blatant intimacy

  and the eminent stroke of his fingers against the peak. It must have retained memory of the cold, for it had puckered into that hard little knot. His hand covered it, but not even that warmed it. Then she realized both his hands were busy elsewhere, and she couldn't imagine .. . she ventured a peek and he

  had his mouth there. She froze into immobility. She could scarcely speak, but she managed to choke, "What are you doing?"

  He didn't raise his head, but sucked on the cloth until it turned dark and damp. Casually, he said,

  "I'm making myself happy, and you too, I hope."

  "Impertinent!" She took an outraged breath, but that pushed her bosom closer to his face and she hastily tried to make herself as small as possible. Then Leighton, and curiosity, nipped at her, and she asked, "Happy? Why would this make me happy?"

  Taking the cloth, and the nipple beneath, between his fingers, he rubbed until the friction made her twist to get away, or perhaps to get closer. The l
ower halves of their bodies pressed together and changes

  were happening in hers. Changes she didn't want to admit or to have him recognize.

  "Can you feel that?" he asked.

  "Of course I can," she snapped, pressing her legs together to relieve a sudden, unexplained pressure. "How can I help it when you pinch me?"

  "Not here." He cupped her breast in one hand. "But here." And he put his other hand right between

  her legs! "Doesn't it tingle?"

  He pressed his fingers on her mound, then adjusted them to fit closer. If he weren't careful, he'd have

  one finger in her slot and she'd have to shake him.

  One finger . .. two fingers ... she reached out to shake him, but forgot her intention right before

  execution. She dug her heels into the mattress, she arched her back, and Leighton murmured,

  "Deep inside, it should be tight, and maybe you're damp."