Heir of Danger (24 page)

It was one thing to marry in such a helter-skelter way. Another to have the priest ogling her as if she were a side of beef at Fleet market. She speared the cleric with a ferocious stare that had him tugging at his collar as if he were in sudden need of air and hastening through the rest of the service in double time.

Not the wedding of her dreams. Madame Arana and Miss Roseingrave were the only witnesses to her honor’s restoration, Rogan pleading an aversion to churches in general and marriage in particular. And in place of Miss Havisham’s expensive confection of cream-colored silk and yards of silver lace, Elisabeth wore a modest gown of white muslin. One of the few outfits in Helena’s wardrobe that needn’t be let out or taken in.

Brendan stood beside her, pressed and polished and looking as mouthwatering as she’d ever seen him.

The Douglases possessed looks to draw every eye. Aidan bore an austere elegance and a confident swagger that left no one in doubt of his noble bloodlines. Sabrina’s winsome flashing smile and sparkling blue eyes more than made up for her inherent shyness. But Brendan outshone both of them with his sun-bronzed, square-jawed face, the dagger gleam of his gold eyes, and the taut balance of his swordsman’s body.

Until now he’d been a million miles away, his expression unreadable in the dim interior of the church, but when the priest asked, “Do you take this woman?” he finally looked at her, his eyes a darkened bronze like ancient coins, face uncharacteristically solemn.

“I do,” he said, his fingers tightening on hers in a gesture she chose to interpret as encouragement rather than dread.

It didn’t take nearly as long as she’d expected to change the course of her life forever. A few words spoken over them. An exchange of chaste kisses for the spectators, and a marriage seven years in the making was finally accomplished.

There should have been bells. A parade. Perhaps a few fireworks. Instead, Madame Arana blew a great honk into her handkerchief and Helena’s bark of brittle laughter echoed along the rows of empty pews. “Hunted by armies only to be caught in a wee parson’s mousetrap.”

Elisabeth heaved a sigh. So much for celebration.

Brendan must have taken her sigh as one of sad regret. He whispered in her ear, his soft breath against her neck shooting butterflies through her. “It’s not the wedding you deserve, nor am I the man you wanted. For that I am sorry, Lissa.”

Not the man she’d wanted? You couldn’t have told her that while Brendan’s lips had been trailing shivers of sensation over her skin. While he’d stroked her body to a fever’s pitch and she’d responded with a raw frenzied hunger.

Shame settled like lead in the pit of her stomach. Surely she should have felt some remorse at so quickly shedding one man to tumble into marriage with another. Surely she ought to be crimson with guilt. It was only proper. To be expected.

So why then did becoming Mrs. Brendan Douglas, awkward as it was, seem so much better than worse?

Elisabeth was disappointed. Brendan could tell as soon as they emerged from the church this morning into a steady downpour, the streets gray, the wedding party grayer. She’d put on a brave, cheerful face throughout the improvised wedding breakfast, had sat through Rogan’s litany of “horrible marriages hath I known” without batting an eye before retiring to her room to refresh herself. Code for escape before she drowned the harper in his tea.

Brendan had let her go without comment. It was best to give her time to gather her thoughts. After all, she must be imagining her lost life with Shaw the sheepdog. Probably wishing Brendan to the devil. Screaming her fury into her pillow.

It wasn’t until late afternoon when he finally couldn’t stand the suspense anymore and went in search of her. She wanted to brood? He’d written the book on brooding. Gordon Shaw was not worth wasting good brooding time over.

He found her in the study, head buried in an accounts ledger, receipts and bills of lading spread out around her, twirling her pen between ink-stained fingers. And not
looking in the least bit gloomy or pensive or sad. Rather, she held a distracted, harried eagerness like a child in a confectioner’s shop.

“Have they put you to work earning your keep?” he asked.

She looked up with a smile that had every nerve ending in his body jumping to attention. “Madame Arana asked if I could sort through the household finances. I’ve spent the last hour just organizing. A pile for incoming. A pile for outgoing. And a pile for miscellaneous.” She grimaced, lurching to contain the largest of the three stacks before it slid onto the floor. “Helena may be able to wield sword and magic with cutthroat precision, but she’s a mess at finances.”

“You can finish later. I brought you a gift,” he announced.

She cocked her head up at him, her eyes almost black in this light, brows scrunched, lip caught between her teeth. The gesture caused his chest to tighten with an unexpected ache. “I can’t leave it now. I’ve only just started.”

“Do you want to spend the afternoon locked in here with your abacus?”

Hesitation as she studied the muddled accounts in front of her. “Not particularly, but they have been very kind and it seems only right to try and assist if I can.”

“Come with me now, and I promise later you can file and categorize to your heart’s content.”

She tossed her head, eyes dancing with mischief. “Another promise you don’t intend to keep? The number grows exponentially.”

“Quit your scolding, woman, and come along.” Chaining his runaway libido, he drew her up beside him.

“Where are we going?”

“The gifts are in my room.”

A brow arched in devious excitement, a tiny flame alight in the dark of those deep brown eyes. “Your room? And calling it a gift now? That’s hubris for you.”

He shot her a look. “I’d no idea what a filthy little mind my wife would have.” Let his gaze wander. “I like it.”

She laughed. “So what is this gift?”

“You see . . . well, I had told you . . . oh, just come see for yourself.” He grabbed her hand, pulling her after him. “You women talk everything to death.”

She allowed herself to be led up to his bedchamber, hanging back for the slightest of moments at his door.

“Come along,” he said. “You can hardly stand on maidenly protests now. A bit like guarding the barn after the horse has been ridden.” He quirked her a scoundrel’s grin.

“Brendan!” she exclaimed in mock horror. Another flash of something unreadable in her eyes.

He hadn’t expected his eager anticipation upon presentation of his purchases. But as he stepped away from his bed, revealing the pile he’d had the maid bring up, he couldn’t help the impatient smile or the sweep of nervous excitement. Would she like them? Would she throw her arms around his neck? Would they make her happy? Would he have done something right where she was concerned? He shouldn’t care. Couldn’t care. But he did. More than he’d admit.

“Remember when I promised to shower you with silks?”

She blinked as if she didn’t understand what she was seeing.

“You didn’t think I’d do it, did you? Tell the truth.” He drew a bolt of fabric from the pile. “It’s”—he glanced at it with a frown—“well, this isn’t silk. It’s muslin. But there’s silk among the lot.”

She stepped forward. Held out a tentative hand to touch the cloth.

“I made a promise and I kept a promise. I don’t make a habit of it, but every now and again.” He dropped the bolt into her arms. “I bought enough to make up a half dozen gowns.”

She flushed, the sprinkle of freckles fading into the dusky pink of her cheeks. “They’re all lovely, Brendan. Thank you.”

“To give credit where it’s due, Madame Arana helped. She knew the best warehouses and linen drapers and what colors and fabrics were in fashion. I’ve never been much when it came to that sort of thing. As long as you’re not exposing anything that ought not be exposed, I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”

“You don’t say.” She pursed her lips around a smile, making him acutely aware of his borrowed coat, his haphazardly knotted cravat, and a pair of broken-in boots. So he wasn’t Beau Brummell. He was comfortable.

“I’ll never be a pink of the
ton
. Never had aspirations to make a splash. But that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate those who do.”

The curve of her cheek. The curve of her body. When had his room grown so small? When had Elisabeth Fitzgerald changed from millstone round his neck to fire in his blood? He cleared his throat. Snatched the muslin back from her to lay it with the rest.

“One more thing. Spin around.”

Her eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

“Quit yammering, turn around, and close your eyes.”

She did as she was told, shivering as he brushed her neck, the smell of her and the sight of the tender skin just
behind her ear sending the blood rushing from his head to his groin.

“No peeking,” he barked, furious with himself for behaving like a lust-crazed simpleton. “Very well, you can open your eyes now.”

Her gaze dropped to the necklace gracing her throat, the shimmering opal teardrop upon a thin gold chain.

“This one is just a stone,” he admitted. “Nothing more. Nothing less. But it’s yours to keep.”

She turned, throwing her arms about his neck. “It’s perfect.”

He ducked his head, not completely able to hide his joy at her response. “I don’t know about perfect. Shaw’s sapphires probably cost twenty times what this little trinket did.”

Tears shone in her eyes as she stepped back to stare up at him. “But this is worth twenty times more. How on earth did you afford all of this?”

“Not married a week and already harping over my spendthrift ways?” He shifted uneasily. “I managed to pawn a few things.”

Her gaze dropped to his waistcoat. “Your watch,” she gasped. “You loved that watch. Brendan, you didn’t have to. Not for me.”

Loss twisted his innards, but only for a moment. “I didn’t have to. I wanted to. My felicitations, Mrs. Douglas. You are now officially un-ruined.”

The scent of her filled his nostrils, that lemony-lavender spring bouquet of hers that never failed to catch him unawares. Like the flash in her dark eyes or the way she had of tossing her head or the rousing way she moved, every curve an invitation to sample.

She leaned forward, kissing him at the edge of his mouth. “It’s our wedding day. What say we ruin me all over again?”

His whole body went rock hard. “I hope someday I might look back and say marriage was the best thing I ever did.”

“Let’s make someday now.”

Still floating with a dazed sense of satisfaction, Elisabeth bent over Brendan, kissing his rippled abdomen, his sculpted chest, the side of his neck where his pulse thundered against his skin. He tasted salty, smelled of soap and man and some faint exotic scent she couldn’t place.

So much for calm, placid waters. She’d landed smack in the eye of the hurricane.

Brendan embraced her, pulling her down on top of him, tucking her head beneath his chin, his hand skimming up and down her spine, sending trills of delicious pleasure jolting through her.

“Am I squashing you?” she asked.

A rumble of laughter beneath her ear. “I think my frail body can handle you.” He caressed her ribs, cupped her backside. “You’re hardly a stoning weight.”

She snuggled into him, already feeling signs of his renewed desire between her legs. “No, but nor am I a skinny twig who can live on air.”

He dropped a kiss upon the top of her head. “Twigs are overrated. And I’ve never been fond of air as a main course either.”

Crushing her in his arms, he rolled her beneath him, settling himself between her legs, a flop of dark hair falling across his forehead, his smile as full of sinful promise as ever.

She fought to maintain hold of the wild blaze of emotion engulfing her. She repeated over and over in her head,
This cannot last
, as she kissed him. The danger remained. It may have retreated into the shadows. She might not feel as if she was running for her life, but she was. They both were. She needed to hold tight to that thought. “Until death do us part” might mean tomorrow when survival hung by a fraying thread.

This wasn’t about making a life together or a home or a family or any of those pretty pictures she held in her mind. This was about Brendan putting right his mistake. If she pretended it was anything more, then that was her fault. Not his.

Driving away her second thoughts with a slow, deep kiss that shot quivers of anticipation straight to her center, he slid his hand up her calf, skimmed her inner thigh. The kiss deepened as he nipped and tongued and teased her senseless while his hand caressed her woman’s place, the wicked play of his fingers making her push up into him in a desperate bid for more. She heard her pleading whimpers, his seductive chuckle as he played her closer and closer to her edge. She threw her head back, rocking up into his hand and then his erection as he sheathed himself inside her.

She moaned his name, the lush subtle cords of desire binding her tighter and tighter. Tremors of building need began at their joining, slowly moving through her veins like honey, an intoxicating erotic abandonment as she locked her legs behind him, moving with him, their rhythm as relaxed as if they had lifetimes to enjoy one another. But there was no link between the subtle possession and the volcanic eruption as she convulsed against him, every muscle down to her toes contracting. The fires still swept
her away with devastating ferocity. Tears still stung her eyes, and she still caught herself imagining forever.

“You said you’d found mention of Arthur. Show me,” he said.

They sat up in bed together, though she’d donned a nightgown and bundled her hair into a messy knot at the back of her head, and he’d thrown on a pair of breeches—thank the gods or she’d never be able to concentrate.

At his request, she rolled out of their nest of quilts to retrieve the book. Handing it over as she slid back in beside him.

He checked the title page, widening his eyes in appreciation. “Gilles de Clercq in the original French. You are ambitious,” before turning to the page she’d bookmarked.

Brows drawn low, he scanned the paragraph.