Oh My Laird!: A Risqué Regency Romance (5 page)

DeVeres were cited for bravery, or received commendations, in more than a few wars, and one earned high praise for his performance in the Seven Year War.  There was a DeVere at the side of Sir William Howe during his successful campaigns for New York against the rebels, and another mentioned during the formation of the Second Coalition in 1798.

It was, therefore, unsurprising that the current Lord DeVere was revered as a great politician, diplomat and stalwart pillar of the British Empire. It also ignored the fact that he had pretty much retired from public activities and his son Rigsby was now acting as Lord DeVere in all but name.

Ian wondered about that. Rigsby was well-qualified and carried the
cachet
of his family name. But his father was still alive. Perhaps the old gentleman was in poor health—not an unlikely scenario.

So he narrowed down his focus to the two generations…father and son.

Marshall DeVere had married young, and chosen the perfect bride. Miss Marguerite Spencer was one of
the
Spencers, although from a very minor branch. However, the association was sufficient to make her an eligible mate for a DeVere and the marriage took place over forty years ago at DeVere Chase in Hertfordshire.

Children followed; six were listed, three had survived to adulthood. Amelia was the youngest by some five or six years.

Lady Marguerite had passed away, cause unlisted, when Amelia was about to enter her teenage years.

Which, mused Ian, must have been damned hard on a budding beauty. Who took her in hand? Who advised her? He doubted her father would have the knowledge or the interest, her older sister would have already made her debut—he checked—yes, Miss Georgina had already married, so was doubtless involved in setting up her own family with little time for Amelia.

She would have been left to her own devices, discounting a governess or two…perhaps that explained a little of the woman’s consequent behavior.

He thought about that at length, staring into the fire with a snifter of fine brandy at his elbow.

But his period of introspection came to an end with the delivery of a missive from one of his many obscure contacts.

It was a message, scrawled hurriedly on the back of an old advertising poster. “
Ruby for sale. Scottish border. Early next month
.”

Ian’s senses leaped to attention. Perhaps this was the very clue he’d been waiting for…

Things had gone from bad to worse at Natherbury Fell.

Amelia had done her best. She knew she wasn’t an idiot, and had more than a passing ability to deal with financial matters, no matter what her brother thought. She might have been an Incomparable, but that didn’t mean she was also an imbecile.

There were now more fires in the fireplaces, thanks to a diligent chimney-sweep, and another maid in the kitchen lightened the Treadways’ load.

However, when it came to repairing some of the actual structures, the trouble had started.

Mr. Burnley, the widowed owner of the local carpenter’s business, had decided to make Amelia his wife. After all, he told her, she was still young enough to breed fine sons and she needed a lot of work done on her house. Why not kill two birds with one stone?

She would have preferred to kill one carpenter with a large hammer at that moment, but her upbringing helped her politely turn away his rather blunt offer.

Not long after, she wished she’d followed her first inclination, because the man did not give up his quest. It seemed that he’d heard how ladies always refused marriage proposals the first few times, out of a desire to appear modest.

Amelia looked longingly at a large pitchfork resting against the wall of the barn as she tried to explain that she wanted the barn roof fixed before the east side of the house. She intended to stable a real horse soon, and in addition to the elderly job horse that pulled the small wagon, they required dry stalls, especially with the winter drawing ever closer.

Mr. Burnley listened, stared at her bosom—well-hidden beneath a warm wool day dress—and renewed his offer once more.

“C’mon, Miss Amelia. We’ll be very happy together. Good sons and a lot of fun makin’ ‘em, eh?” He came close enough to nudge her in the ribs, catching her between a trough and the wall of the barn.

“Here now, Arthur. Give the lady some room.”

A new voice cut through the Burnley
bonhomie,
which gave Amelia the chance to slip to a safer spot in the middle of the room. While she was grateful to the newcomer for the reprieve, it really didn’t improve matters.

The Very Reverend Josiah Masterson, Vicar of Natherbury, was also determined to wed Amelia. His courtship was more genteel, but his goal the same.

It was rapidly dawning on her that beauty was a useful weapon in London among the
Ton
where the rules were clearly delineated. Here in the country, however, there existed an entirely different set of rules and she was not finding any of them to be of use. “No” apparently meant “
perhaps, but I have to think about it carefully
.”  “You are very kind, but I must decline your offer” apparently meant “
Yes, but let me think about it carefully before agreeing
.”

Within a week of meeting these two men in Natherbury Village, Amelia had learned to gnash her teeth, something which—up to now—had not been part of her repertoire of gestures.

“Good morning, Vicar.” She edged toward the barn door. “How kind of you to call. Unfortunately, I am not receiving this morning.”

He chuckled. “Everyone’s door is always open to God’s word, my dear Miss DeVere. And who am I but God’s humble messenger?” He extended a bunch of chrysanthemums to her. “From the vicarage gardens. To brighten your day.”

“How thoughtful.” She accepted the bouquet. And sneezed.

Two
God bless you
’s rang out, and the men glared at each other like a pair of fighting cocks ready to battle for the prize. Which, in this case, was her. It had to stop.

“Gentlemen.”

She spoke sharply, jerking their attention from each other to her.

“I have been as polite as possible to you both. It appears that I have failed to make a very clear point. I am not interested in either of you as potential husbands. While I dislike discussing my personal affairs, it seems that only blunt honesty will suffice.” She took a breath. “I am already promised to another man.”

There was a moment of silence as her lie sank in.

“
What
?” Burnley blinked.

“
Who
?” The Vicar stared blankly at her.

“Me.”

A third man walked into the barn and this time Amelia’s jaw dropped as well.

It was Ian McPherson.

*~~*~~*

He’d had a hard time controlling his laughter as he stood outside the barn and listened to the conversation within.

Truly, Amelia was doing her best, but Ian knew the solid determination of country folk. She was out of her depth with these two. And there would doubtless be more once word of her situation got around.

When she spoke, and lied through through perfect teeth, well…it was an open door and he didn’t even think before walking through it.

“Amelia, m’dearlin’ lass.” He strode to her side and took her into his arms, tossing the flowers aside. “I could’n’a live wi’ out ye. I had to come and taste yer lips again. ‘T’will ne’er be enough until ye’re mine at last.”

Those lips opened and closed as the stunned woman fought to collect her wits. Ian refused to give her the chance.

He bent her backwards, ran his hand up her neck to cradle her head, and kissed the merry hell out of her.

He felt her indrawn breath as their lips met, and her initial resistance as his tongue fought to slide within.

Then he pulled her tighter, closer, and suddenly she loosened, her arms creeping over his shoulders, her spine arching, her mouth opening for him. What had begun as a spur of the moment action, turned into something else within seconds of that first touch.

She was fire and heat in his arms, exploding with an undeniable passion that rocked him to his toes. Her tongue met his, dueled with it and vanquished it, sucking it deep and then darting over his teeth to learn his taste and tease him with her own.

She moaned, a tiny sound deep in her throat, and he crushed her against him, her breasts pressing hot into his shirt and her nipples hard nubs that aroused him as they tightened. Her fingers clawed at his jacket as she ate at his mouth and time passed unnoticed as they fell into their own passionate universe.

Until a loud clearing of someone’s throat drew them apart.

Ian kept his arm around her waist, however, refusing to let her step aside, even when he felt her try to distance herself. He smiled down at her confused expression. “How are ye, love?”

“Miss DeVere.” The Vicar was trying to look outraged. “You should have mentioned this…this…
Scot
.”

She turned in Ian’s arm to face the other men. “Really? Why?“ The DeVere eyebrow rose, taking the bluster out of the Vicar’s sails and leaving him floundering.

There’s my lass. 

Ian grinned to himself. Then wondered where the hell that thought had come from. Of course he was hard as steel beneath his britches, but that was just the urge to fuck this woman until her throat was raw from screaming his name. It didn’t make her his
lass
, for God’s sake.

“Well had we known, I daresay we’d not have made the respectable offers of marriage that we did. Certainly neither of us has any desire to play in another man’s field. So to speak.” Burnley’s comment was clear, and designed to cover his ample backside.

The fact that Ian was a good half a foot taller than either man, not to mention quite well-muscled, was very apparent as he looked down at them, trying to contain his distaste.

“I think ma dearlin’ and I can o’erlook this wee error, gentlemen. But ye canna come back agin’ until ye’re of a mind ta talk business, not marriage.  Ye ken?”

“Of course.”

“Indeed, sir. Good day to you both.”

Two embarrassed and blushing men sidled out of the barn, leaving Ian standing with his arm comfortably around Amelia’s slim waist. She was warm, the perfect height for him and he felt at ease standing in the autumn sun right where he was.

“Thank you.” She turned a little and glanced up at him.

“You’re welcome.” He smiled. “Always happy to help a lady in distress.”

“I could have handled them, you know.”

“Of that I have no doubt. But I simply couldn’t restrain the urge to play the brave knight. It doesn’t come along too often.”

“The Scottish accent didn’t hurt.” He could see a smile lighting her eyes. “In fact I’d say it was quite inspired.”

“I have my moments.”

Her gaze swept his face, and down over the rest of him. “Yes, you do. You do indeed.”

Then she seized him and dragged his head down to hers.

This time it was Amelia who kissed the hell out of
him
.

*~~*~~*

She knew exactly what she was doing.

He tasted of sunshine and warm male and the minute he’d taken her in his arms she
knew
. This was a man who wouldn’t want the society woman, the incomparable or the daughter of Lord DeVere.

He would need a real woman and wouldn’t hesitate to take what he wanted.

She’d known, the second his lips met hers, that here was someone dangerous, thrilling, and powerful. Not in a bad way, but in the same way that a fine horse was dangerous. You had to know how to handle it, and if you did? You were in for the ride of your life.

She seized him, desperate to feel that fire again, hungry for the touch of another human being and still shivering inside from the memory of their first kiss.

It was all there. Still. The heat arcing between them like summer lightning, silent but brilliant. He was willing, no doubt about that. He claimed her again, but this time without an audience.

She found herself with her back against the barn wall and her hands captured high above her head, while he ravaged her mouth with her willing cooperation.

She craved this, had been desperate for this and, as she writhed against his imprisoning hold, the reason dawned on her.

This was new
. This sensation, this wanting to crawl inside a man, to be naked against him and rub herself all over him—this was different. He took her breath and gave it back on a groan of desire. He thrust his hard cock against her gown, burying it in the softness between her thighs. He was the right height, the right taste, the right everything.

And oh God, she wanted him on top of her, inside her, right this second.

But he held her fast, struggle though she might. He held her wrists firmly against the rough wood wall, refusing to let them loose as if he knew that free, she would tear his clothes away and have him right there on the hay.

It was what she desired, what she moaned for. He tore his lips from hers and nipped his way down her neck, fighting her gown and then placing his open mouth over her breast. She arched, pushing it toward him, inviting him to take it—take her.

His teeth gently gnawed at the wool of her bodice and she sobbed aloud at the magnificent stabs of erotic sensation he created. Darts of heat shot down through her body to her pussy and her juices dampened her thighs as he continued his merciless, wonderful torture of her body.

“Ian…” she found her voice. “
Ian
…”

“I know, lass…” He was hoarse as he returned to her mouth for more.

She moved to the side, biting at him. “Fuck me, Ian. Dear God I want you so desperately…”

He pressed hard then, his cock all but nailing her to the wall behind her. “And you think I don’t?”

She stilled. “Then do it. Now. Have me.”

He stilled too. “No.”

Her scream of frustration shocked the pigeons in the rafters into a massive flight of panic and several feathers rained down on the couple beneath.

She fought for composure. “Very well, sir. Forgive me for losing my head here. It has been sometime since a gentlemen kissed me, let alone as well and as thoroughly as yourself.”

“Stop it.” Ian hissed the words. “Just stop it.”

Amelia risked a glance at his face and saw fire burning behind the blue. “What?”

“I
want
you, woman. In every way known to God and then some. I want you badly and I have no idea why. I’m not even sure I like you, and you haven’t seduced me at all, beautiful though you are. No,” he shook his head. “It’s something else. Damned if I know what, but it’s there. Between us. Some kind of fire that will probably burn itself out. An itch maybe. I don’t know. What I do know is that yes, we’re going to scratch our itches and see if the fire really burns hot. You can take that as gospel. But here’s something else worth remembering.”

He let her go then and she rubbed her wrists where he’d held her.

“I won’t take you on the floor of a filthy barn. Because when I do take you, it’s going to be all night. Probably even longer. And you’ll be sore and tired when I’m done with you. So it’ll be a big bed, the bigger the better. Not here, not in the hay. Do you understand?”

She stared at him, trying to absorb all that he had just said without exploding into a sodden lump of lust.