Too Wicked to Marry (3 page)

She was barely more than a few lines into Achilles' temper tantrum over the possession of the captured Trojan woman when she realized that something was different, wrong. She wasn't sure what had caught her attentionùsome unexpected sound, perhaps, that had not consciously registered on her ears but had filtered into her awareness nonetheless. A door slamming, perhaps? Yes, that had been it. Who was likely to slam a door in Martin Kestrel's house?

She lifted her head and looked sharply around the empty garden, a small part of her automatically searching for escape routes. Senses acutely alert, she closed the book and rose to her feet. Trouble was coming, she knew it. She didn't know why or what, but she never doubted her visceral reactions. Woman's instinct, her father called it. He encouraged all his daughters to develop it.

She hefted the book under her arm and walked with a quick, wary step toward the entrance to the house. She was not surprised when Martin Kestrel stepped through the French door onto the terrace before she reached it. She had her usual appreciative reaction to the sight of his tall, dark figure, and put that reaction aside as she always did. She noticed instantly
that he seemed somehow even more handsome and vital than she remembered. When he saw her he waved, and as he drew quickly closer, his long legs eating the distance between them, she was caught by the intense light in his usually stormy gray eyes. And was that a confident smile gracing his mouth?

"You are smiling," she said as he planted himself in front of her. She peered at him suspiciously. "What's wrong? You haven't smiled in months." This was not precisely true, as Kestrel frequently smiled in the presence of his ten-year-old daughter, but that gentle, paternal smile held nothing of the devilish joy she saw now.

"Suspicious woman." He grasped her hands, causing the leather-bound book to tumble to the ground. He kicked Homer away and drew her closer.

She was too distracted by the firm, warm touch to worry about the fate of the book. He was a large man, and his hands were strong, for all the gentleness with which he touched her. "Stop this at once," she commanded, and tugged against his firm grip. She hoped he did not notice that she trembled ever so slightly. She took pride in her self-control, and hated that he could shake it so easily. Obviously, four years in the quiet life of a governess had made her a bit soft. "Let me go."

"I have no intention of ever letting you go."

As soon as he spoke, he planted a kiss on her forehead.

"Are you drunk?"

"I love it when you look outraged."

"I am not outraged," she answered. "I am appalled." She glanced around. "What if someone sees us standing like this?" There had never before been this sort of intimacy about their nearness. Was the sun shining more brightly with him looking at her this way? And what an odd thought that was. She stiffened her spine and her resolve. "What will people think?"

His smile widened. "Who cares what I do in my own garden?"

"The world cares, as you very well know. I care. You care."

"I do indeed." He lifted her hands, kissing first one and then the other. "I care for you."

She ignored the jolt of pleasure that went through her. "Then have a care for my reputation and release me at once."

"I love your tart tongue." His eyes glittered with amusement, and a wild heat she'd never seen before. "Say something else priggish and governessish, Abigail."

"I
am
a prig, it goes with the post, and
governessish
is not a word."

He laughed. Blast the man! And why did his tone of wicked amusement sound so good to her ears? He looked good, he sounded good, he even smelled good this close up, and the effect was devilishly distracting.

"You are not drunk," she decided, though she felt intoxicated herself. "I can't smell a bit of alcohol on you. Have you gone mad, then?"

"No, love," he said. "I've gone sane."

Love
? It was a short word, but probably the most frightening one in the English language. She tilted her head to one side and studied his face. He still held her hands, and she feared he might kiss them again at any moment. She feared that she wanted him to. His touch rattled her, even more than his expression and words. Calm, she told herself, stay calm. It was not as if he'd said he loved her, he had merely called her
love
. She sensed a disaster in the making, but surely there was still time to—

"I love you," he said.

"Oh, dear."

He pulled her into an encompassing embrace and, with his lips brushing her ear, said, "Marry me, my dear Miss Perry. Marry me, my love."

She discovered that it was possible to have the heart soar and sink at the same time. She was left sick with the pain of being so torn. Her heart was hammering like a drum, yet being in his arms seemed quite natural. She had only to turn her head a little way to be able to meet his lips with hers and—

"What is the matter with me—you. I mean, what is the matter with you, my lord?"

"You generally call me Martin when we are alone."

Words tumbled out of her breathlessly, a paltry cover for her shattered emotions. "A presumption of familiarity on my part. I see that such a presumption was a grave mistake. I assure you that I will never again be so bold as to address my betters in such a—"

He silenced her with a kiss. She wasn't quite sure how he managed to shift their positions so that his mouth covered hers, and for a few moments she didn't care.

Kestrel smiled even though Abigail pushed him away with enough force to make him stumble back a step. The backs of his knees encountered the edge of a pot holding a small orange tree, and he abruptly found himself seated on the pot's rim, looking up at the glaring governess. "You enjoyed being kissed," he said, even as she made a point of wiping the back of her hand across her mouth.

"Of course I enjoyed it," she answered. "You, my lord, are a practiced seducer. You would not have such a reputation if you did not know how to make a woman enjoy being kissed."

Her cheeks glowed a very becoming pink. He crossed his arms and drank in the sight of Abigail Perry discomfited. "You should pick up that book and hurl it at me," he suggested as she looked around at anything but at him. "In defense of your virtue."

"I can defend my virtue without the assistance of a horde of ancient warriors, thank you very much." She finally met his gaze, her green eyes blazing. "What I should do is slap you."

"But you said you enjoyed it."

"Enjoyment is beside the point, my lord." She wiped her mouth again. "That should not have happened."

"It should have happened years ago," he countered.

"Really?" she said, the word coldly scathing. "Recall my place in your household, my lord. What of your daughter?"

Her dignified outrage made him wince. "Abigail, please!"

"What of your promise?" she continued relentlessly. "I trust you do recall that promise?"

He knew he should not have left the child's room so soon after kissing her good night, but he could not bear to answer the question Patricia never tired of asking in the last two months. "Where's Mama?" she asked over and over again. He did not blame her for her confusion, but he almost could not bring himself to lie to her anymore. Tonight he had nearly broken, had nearly told his darling baby that Mama had run off with another man and would never, ever be coming home.

Even if Sabine someday begged him to take her back, no matter how much his senses still craved the intoxication of making love to her, he would never allow a woman who abandoned her only child back into that child's life. Something stronger than fury seethed through his blood at the thought of what Sabine had done. He found himself with a longing for revenge. And unexpectedly, a longing for flesh, a frustrated need that surprised him with its intensity.

What did he have to lose when the marriage vow had been broken already? What business did he have being faithful when adultery already stained his marriage bed?

Though he'd left Patricia to Miss Perry's care after kissing her good night, he still lingered in the drafty hall outside the child's bedroom. The hallway overlooked the dark main room of the small rented villa. He gripped the polished wood railing, looked down into the darkness, and listened while the young woman spoke gently to her new charge and read in a soothing tone until the child fell asleep. Her voice filled his head with a certain amount of peace, and he sighed when she closed the book, wishing that she would go on for at least one more page.

He turned when she came out of Patricia's room and eased the door closed. She held a lamp in one hand, illuminating her face and form in a soft pool of light. Kestrel caught his breath, realizing for the first time that Miss Abigail Perry was a lovely young woman indeed. He already knew from their adventure the night before that she was stalwart, sensible, competent, calm, and discreet. He knew that the British embassy had sent her in answer to his request to find him help after Patricia's last governess decided she could not stay, claiming the scandal surrounding the family would besmirch her good name. He knew that Miss Perry had excellent references, and that Patricia had taken to her instantly, but this was the first time he'd actually
seen
her. Abigail was a tall, lithe creature with dark brown hair and uptilted sea-green eyes that would have done justice to a mermaid
.

"Good lord," he said. "You're lovely." He was not sure it would do to have such a beauty in his house, because instantly, and for the first time in years, he wanted someone other than the sumptuous, sensuous, fiery woman he'd taken as his wife. His faithless wife. He took a step toward Miss Perry, who gave him a withering look, put a finger to her lips that reminded him of his sleeping daughter, and walked swiftly down the hall and down the stairs. He could do nothing but follow, heedless desire raging through him.

Kestrel stood in the shadows and watched her until she finished lighting enough candles to chase most of the shadows away. She wore a simple high-necked brown dress decorated with a few bits of cream lace, and a cameo brooch at her throat. She looked prosaic, practical, respectable, and most of all, unapproachable. Sabine had looked cool and unapproachable when they first met—for all of twenty minutes. Then she had dragged him out into a moonlit garden.

"
I trust you will not insult me by making such personal comments again, my lord. I came here to be your child's governess," Abigail Perry informed him before he could say a word. "I did
not
come here to audition for the role of mistress. Keep that in mind, and we will deal quite well together
."

He was outraged at the chit's daring to address him in so bold a fashion. He was the master of this household! And knew quite well that a higher-handed, harder-to-please, worse-tempered employer than himself had never existed. He went through a lot of help, but the ones who stayed were well paid for what he made them put up with. "Who are you to tell me how we will deal, Miss Perry?" he demanded.

"The woman who is going to devote herself to looking after your child," she shot back. "I do not know about you, my lord, but I will not allow a breath, not a hint, of scandal, old or new, near Patricia. I saw how you looked at me just now, and I also know it had nothing to do with me. So I am willing to ignore it this once."

"Nothing to do with you? You were the one I was looking at." As angry as she made him, he still found looking at her more than pleasant.

"If you feel you must take revenge for your wife's behavior by indulging your carnal appetites, you
will keep that behavior well outside the confines of this household."

Martin seethed with outrage and stared at the young woman until silence built up around them like a heavy storm front. Their gazes were locked, and furious fire and physical awareness crackled between them. But he was never at a loss for words for very long.

"I see," he said at last, the fire in him banked, but still burning. "You are instructing me on how to behave in my own home." He took a step forward. "If I were to touch you now, what would you do?"

"I would scream," she answered.

"Scream? Would you really?" He was tempted to see if she would. He was tempted to touch her, for her skin looked so warm and inviting in the candlelight. Women wanted to be touched, didn't they? Even when they professed to be honorable and pure. "How very weak and feminine of you."

"I would scream very loudly. Loudly enough to wake Patricia."

Like being hit in the face with icy water, these words finally brought him back to his senses. He blinked and saw his child's governess standing defiantly in front of him, instead of an object of seduction. He gave his head a sharp shake, took a long, deep breath, and said, "I apologize, Miss Perry." He gestured toward the villa's main door. "I would not be surprised if you chose to walk out right now."

"And leave Patricia alone in a foreign land? I think not."

Though she didn't say it, Martin had the distinct impression that she also had no intention of leaving a little girl alone in a household where the mother ran off, the uncle got into duels, and the father appeared to be at least half-mad
. Good for you, Miss Perry,
he thought
, good for you.

"
I take your point, Miss Perry," he told her. "And I make you a promise
—
never, ever, during your tenure as my daughter's governess, will I make any improper advances upon your person." He held out his hand. "To seal the bargain, will you shake on it
?"

She did not hesitate for an instant; she boldly stepped forward and shook on the pact. "You will not regret this promise, my lord," she said.

But he did. Not then, or for years afterward, but he certainly regretted it now.