The Defiant One (33 page)

"It looks fearfully heavy.  What's in there?"

"Can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"It's a surprise."

"What is it made of, then?  Solid gold?"

"Solid iron."

"
Iron?
" she said, trying not to look too disappointed by the fact that her handsome new bridegroom was not as romantic as she had thought.  "Really, Andrew . . ."

"Don't laugh, you might like it."

"Yes, I might, if you can ever succeed in getting it up these stairs.  All I can say is that I'm glad I married you for your brains and not your brawn."  She put her hands on her hips and grinned saucily down at him.  "Why, I could have had that thing up these stairs in half the time you're taking!"

"
You
try picking the confounded thing up!" he said drolly,  taking out a handkerchief and mopping his forehead.

Celsie, one brow lifting in mocking amusement, waited until he reached the top of the stairs and set the crate down.  Shooting him a superior little grin, she reached down to pick it up — and froze, her grin abruptly fading.  She might as well have tried to lift an overweight Great Dane.  The crate wouldn't budge.

"Very well then, I reclaim my comment about your brawn," she said, straightening.  "It's a wonder you didn't break your back!  Really, Andrew, why didn't you just leave it downstairs, instead of lugging it all the way up here?"

"Because you, madam, asked me to bring it up."

"Oh."

"It really does belong in the kitchen," he added.

Her face fell, though she tried not to let it show.  "Let me guess . . .  It's an iron cook pot for the hearth," she said, trying not to sound too deflated.

"No, it is not an iron cook pot.   Now, go get my present and we'll open them right here," he said, leaning against the elegantly carved balustrade and crossing his arms.  "Unless it's even bigger than this thing?"

"It is much bigger than that.  And I couldn't presume to carry it even if I wanted to.  You'll have to come with me."

"You
would
say that . . . I suppose you want me to bring this, then, too."

"Of course.  Would you like me to help you carry it?"

He merely shot her an exasperated look.  Celsie's eyes sparkled above her grin.  She watched as he crouched down and lifted the heavy crate, hoisting it even though Celsie hadn't been able to lift it an inch off the floor.

Now that she knew how impossibly heavy the thing was, Celsie couldn't help but stand transfixed.  Very well, then, so her gifted husband had brawn as well as brains.  Why, her side of this marital bargain was getting better and better!  She watched him balancing the box, and felt a thrill of expectation at the thought of touching those strong, defined muscles . . .

"Stop staring, girl, and start walking.  This isn't the lightest thing I've ever carried!"

Celsie laughed and continued on.  She was well aware that his appreciative gaze was on the sway of her hips and the narrowness of her waist as she preceded him down the hall, and the thought only made her all the more eager to finally get her husband into bed where he belonged.

She led him past the state bedrooms, past the apartments they would call their own, and into a rich, masculine room that had once been her papa's library but was now empty of books and all signs of recent habitation.  Dark mahogany bookcases lined an entire wall.  A case clock dominated one corner of the room.  Tall, south-facing windows let in the thin autumn sun and overlooked the ornamental pond, its surface now peppered with yellow and brown leaves, in the near distance.  The walls were panelled with fine English oak, the doors carved and heavy, the polished floor devoid of furniture save for three long tables, all of them spotlessly bare.  All of them, that is, except the middle one, upon which stood a decanter of wine and two crystal goblets.

Celsie stopped, turned, and hands on her hips, regarded him happily.

"Well, here you are, husband.  My wedding present to you."

Andrew set down his burden with a grunt and straightened.  He looked around and frowned, his expression much the same as Celsie's had been upon learning that his present to her had been a monstrous piece of iron.

"So, what do you think?" Celsie asked excitedly, feigning innocence.  "Isn't it wonderful?"

"Uh . . . isn't what wonderful?"

"Why, this room, of course."

"Sorry?"

"It's yours," she said gaily, unable to stop grinning.  "Oh Andrew, don't look so baffled!  There was a real reason why I didn't want you to have the downstairs ballroom for your laboratory . . . I had this room all picked out and ready for you.  I thought you'd like it so much better . . .  It gets lovely sunshine all day, is away from commotion and the sound of the kennels outside, and was once the domain of my father, the master of the house.  Now, as the new master of the house, it is your domain.  Yours to do with, whatever you wish."

He stared about him, blinking and amazed, his expression softening into one of sheer, unfettered rapture.  A broad, boyish smile overtook his mouth, and he shook his head in disbelief, his eyes glowing with happiness.  "Oh, Celsie . . . you couldn't have chosen a nicer gift!"

"There's more," she said.

"More?"

"Yes.  Since you are so hopelessly disorganized, Andrew, and since I'm beginning to think that your dislike of paperwork and the meticulous recording of information is one of the reasons you jump from one idea to the next before seeing things through, I have determined to do something about it.  This chamber not only comes with all the furniture you see — also part of my wedding present, of course — it comes with its own laboratory assistant."  She grinned.  "Me."

"You?"

"Me."  She flew into his arms, hugging him tightly.  "Oh, Andrew, I just
know
you're going to change the world, and best of all, you're going to start right here!  I can't wait!"

Overwhelmed, he lifted her high and swung her around once, twice, her petticoats flying.  "Celsie — dearest, most delightful Celsie — nothing you could have given me, save for yourself, could have made me so happy!"

"Well since you get me as well as the room, then you should never have reason to be in a bad mood, ever again!"

He bent his head and kissed her, his heart so full of joy and adoration he thought he was going to burst.  It was a long time before he finally set her back, tenderly gripping her upper arms as he gazed down into her eyes.

"Do you know, Celsiana Blake de Montforte, I am dangerously close to admitting that I could quite easily fall in love with you.  In fact, I am dangerously close to admitting that I'm already half in love with you as it is."

"Well then, if you're half in love with me, and I'm half in love with you, does that make us a whole?"

"Sorry?"

"Does that make us wholly in love with each other?"

He laughed.  "Well, now, that's rather interesting logic, isn't it?  I hadn't quite looked at it that way, but yes, I do suppose it must."

"Well then, show me how much you half love me by letting me open
my
present!"

He looked suddenly shy, and she saw a faint red flush suffusing his cheeks.  "Oh, well, nothing I could ever give you would even come close to what you've just given me."

"You're probably right," she said jokingly, trying to lessen his sudden embarrassment.  "I cannot imagine
what
a huge chunk of iron is going to do for me!  But never mind, you've intrigued me, Andrew.  I'll open it now."

She knelt down beside the large crate, flipped open the rope latch, lifted the cover —

And blinked.

"Do you like it?" he asked, standing over her shoulder and displaying the same false innocence she had shown just moments ago.

She just knelt there, staring rather stupidly at the pulleys and wooden crank handle and gears with their wolfhound-sized teeth, at this strange concoction of iron that was the ugliest and most unromantic wedding gift imaginable, and didn't know quite what to say.  She didn't want to hurt his feelings; he sounded so excited, so eager for her to like it . . .

Whatever "it" was.

"Um, Andrew . . . it's, uh, rather interesting, but I haven't the faintest idea what it is."

"Guess."

"Um . . . it's the inner workings for a new clock you've designed?"

"Try again."

"Something you've seen in one of your visions?"

"No — you've got one more guess."

"Something to do with a new carriage."

"Wrong again.  Shall I tell you what it is, then?"

"I think you're going to have to," she said, trying not to sound too glum.

"It's a mechanized roaster," he said happily.  "To go into the kitchen.  To turn the meats.  To turn the meats over the open fire, Celsiana, so that your little turnspit dogs can now go learn how to be lapdogs, instead."

It took a moment for his words to sink in.

To turn the meats over the open fire, Celsiana, so that your little turnspit dogs can now go learn how to be lapdogs, instead.

Celsie's gaze flew back to what had been, just a moment ago, a confusing and ugly jumble of iron and wood; and then, suddenly, a lump caught in her throat and all those gears and pulleys and strange bits of metal went blurry beneath the sudden sheen of tears.

Her hand went to her mouth.

"Oh,
Andrew
," she breathed, turning to look up at him over her shoulder with huge, watery eyes.  She felt her jaw quivering.  "I can't believe you did this . . ."

His cheeks were a little red.  He shrugged, trying to make light of what he'd done, but she saw the pride in his eyes, the vulnerability, the desperate hope that she'd like what he had made for her.  "Oh, well, it didn't take long," he admitted.  "I got the idea when we were in London.  I know the blacksmith in Ravenscombe quite well, and he was happy to fashion this to my specifications —"

"You mean to say you thought this up just like that?"

He shrugged.  "That's how I think most things up," he confessed, almost apologetically.  "I can't help it."

"Andrew, you're absolutely
brilliant
!"  She leaped to her feet and hurled herself into his arms, kissing his face, kissing his lips, while huge tears of happiness slipped down her cheeks.  "Do you know what this is going to mean to all those poor little dogs burning their paws off in so many English kitchens, running their tiny legs to the bone?  Do you realize how this is going to revolutionize the way kitchens are run, the way food is cooked?  Oh, Andrew — I thank you!  All those little dogs who are currently being so abused thank you!  Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

He caught her as she hugged him around the neck, nearly choking him and more happy than he'd ever seen her.  His own grin was a little cocky.  Well, damn . . . if this was all it took to make the lady happy, the road ahead wasn't going to be so difficult, after all!

"Do you know, I couldn't have asked for a better present," she said, wiping at her streaming eyes.  "I am the happiest woman in England.  I have the smartest husband in the whole wide world.  And the only thing that could possibly make me even happier is if my smart, handsome husband were to lift me in his arms and carry me off to our marriage bed."

He smiled lazily down at her, and in one neat, easy movement, scooped her up.  "Well then, dear lady — your wish is my most eager command."

Chapter 28

"We'll have to get a patent for it, immediately.  We'll have to present it to the Royal Society.  We'll have to throw a huge ball and invite everyone there is to invite, have a demonstration, and
prove
that people don't have to use poor little dogs in the kitchen!"

Andrew merely smiled and, carrying the comparatively weightless Celsie, strode easily down the hall.

"We'll have to enlarge the kennels so we can take in all the dogs that will be out of work once your wheel goes into production.  We'll have to print broadsides informing the general public.  Oh, and Andrew, we simply
must
make a present of one for the king's household, because if
he
endorses it, all of England will want one!"

"Yes, Celsie."

"Oh!  You just passed the door, Andrew.  Go back a few steps!"

He did, carrying her over the threshold and kicking the door shut behind him as he moved toward the bed.

"We'll have to start a company to manufacture it.  We'll have to take it on tour throughout England.  In fact, we'll have to take it all around Europe so that everyone there will also —"

She never finished.  His mouth came down hard on hers, crushing her lips with blistering intensity.  His tongue forced her lips apart and his breath was hot against her cheek. 
Ohhhhhh,
Celsie thought, and began to melt.  As he laid her down on the bed, she felt her spine sinking into the plush coverlet, her eyes closing, her head falling upon a paw.

A paw.

Freckles was in the bed.

Her eyes flew open.  "Andrew, we can't make love
here
, Freckles will see!"

"Freckles can close his eyes."

"But Andrew —"

He scooped her back up, carried her to the elegant, claw-footed settee, and laid her down on it instead.  Her body angled across the rich red damask, one leg bent at the knee, the other just resting on the rug.  One of her shoes came off.  Her layers of petticoats spilled from her hips and tumbled toward the floor in frothy yards of quilted cotton, of heavy, serviceable wool.  She felt his mounting urgency to have her.  She felt his fingers pulling her stock from her neck, his lips against her throat.  And she felt his hand palming and stroking her breast where it swelled above her stays, warming her skin, firing her desire.

"God and the devil, I hate these things," he muttered.  "Must beauty be contained in such a damnable cage?"

He couldn't reach her; not without turning her over and unlacing her.  And he had neither the patience nor the ability to wait.  He crowded onto the narrow sofa, too much man for so little space, his knee driving against the outside of her thigh, his hand reaching down to find the hem of her petticoats and pull them high —