What the Marquess Sees (10 page)

She leaned forward again with a large grin fixed firmly on her face. “Don’t blow our cover, you idiot. We’re supposed to be happily married, remember?”

She leaned further down, her movements slow and seductive, and touched her nose to his neck. She inhaled his scent.
Mmm…
He smelled of sandalwood and leather and strong, virile man, her favorite scents.
La, that way lay danger
.

She pulled back, taking her time to know him. She pressed her lips to his jaw and felt the scrape of his evening growth. She kissed the corner of his mouth, lingering for a moment, her eyes closed. His arms gripped her waist in response, his hands all but spanning her sides, his thumbs pressing in just beneath her breasts. She couldn’t tell if he was pulling to bring her close or pushing to keep her away. Possibly both.

And she felt an altogether different sort of response stirring to life beneath her.
Hmm…
So, she aroused him, sexually. She filed that knowledge away for future use. For now, she needed to address the fact that he was failing miserably at acting the newlywed.

She pulled back and lifted her eyes as though reluctant to open them. His were dilated and hot.
Hmmm, better
. She responded in kind, despite herself, and all too soon, she began to wonder who was seducing whom. She studied his lips, both full and red, and the heat in the room notched up a few thousand degrees. She shivered and leaned forward, searching for another kiss.

“Mr. and Mrs. Churchmouse. Yer room be waitin’.”

Dansbury practically threw her off his lap, but stood behind her, the proprietress’s voice serving as a bucket of cold water and a dose of reality. Beatryce eyed the woman with not a little irritation. And Bertha looked back with a perceptive grin. She was as round and as clean as her husband and mustachioed just the same. She stood with arms the size of tree trunks crossed over a bosom the size of the highland Cullins, her foot tapping, and her beefy fist clutching a rusty old key.

It was clear she had no intention of leading them upstairs. “Here’s yer key. Last room on the left’s yers. We break fast at seven round here.”

Dansbury cleared his throat. “Th-Thank you, we’ll see ourselves settled, then.”

* * * *

As soon as they reached the door to their room, Beatryce whirled on him. She looked angry, but only for an instant. Then, her look turned sultry and heavy-lidded; seduction emanating out of every pore. He was a little worried by that second look; it spelled trouble in absolute terms. She stepped closer.

He took it back. He was a lot worried, actually.

With another step, she moved into his personal space and looked up, her heated eyes capturing his undivided attention. And in that moment, he had no further thought but for her. In the here and now. No history, no future. He and she and no one else. His senses flew south for the summer, an evacuation that had started with her pretend seduction downstairs, leaving only a glimmer of awareness of their mutual dislike.

Her voice was low, an alto, and slow, sultry. “You are rude and always act as if you hate me…” She placed her hand against his aching, turgid cock and pressed in. Firm and tight. Just like he liked. “…but this says differently.”

He hissed in a breath, and somehow managed to strangle the moan that threatened to give voice to the full depth of his desire.

He covered her hand with his, forcing her to press harder against him. He grunted and couldn’t stop the shift of his hips as they surged forward, deeper into her cupped hand. She squeezed him in response. God, she squeezed him hard. And he closed his eyes as she began to rub her hand up and down his swollen length. Oh, it felt good. Mind-numbingly-forget-your-name-fuck-me-now good.

“And if you’re not careful…” She gripped him even tighter and pressed that much harder “…you’ll blow our damn cover, Dansbury.” She all but hissed those last few words, snapping him back to reality.

She tried to pull away, but he held her in place. He searched deep, ignoring her warning. What did she expect? He’d hated her for too long to be able to easily act as if he adored her. But she had his attention now. Or at least his cock’s devotion at any rate.

Right. Time to take control of the situation
. He gripped the back of her neck and pulled her closer, cutting off her attempt to escape.

He leaned in close to her ear and whispered, “You are a beautiful, sensual woman…” He nuzzled her neck, then pulled back and glided his cheek against hers, caressing her with his opened lips, employing the barest touch, a whisper of feeling. “…and I would have to be dead not to notice.”

He reached her lips and hesitated. He breathed in, a slow and steady breath, absorbing her scent—all woman and earthy. He touched his forehead to hers and took a moment to pull together the threads of his crumbling senses. He felt her trembling and it nearly undid him.

He opened his eyes and warned her with a hard look before he grabbed her with both hands and kissed her. Hard and fast and rough and inflexible. And on fire like he’d never been before. A one hundred and eighty degree contradiction to his soft caresses.

But this time he held on to his senses. Just. And in a flash, he pulled back the tiniest bit; though his lips remained close to hers, hovering and reluctant to leave.

“But you’re still a bitch.” Hard words spoken in a whisper with lust underlining the point. A contradiction all around.

He bent to kiss her again, but stopped short when she slapped him. Hard. His head jerked, and the sound shouted its anger as it echoed loudly in the vacant hall.

Ouch
.

His cheek was on fire and stinging like nettles. He blinked in astonishment, surprised she had cuffed him so solidly. But she just smiled, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pulled him in for her own fiery kiss. Another fast and furious and passionate kiss, but one that this time, she had initiated. He could not suppress his moan of delight at her boldness. He discovered he liked bold. He liked bold quite a lot.

He was lost to her passion and he no longer cared. He forgot he hated her. He forgot his mission. But he didn’t forget it was her. And all too soon it was over.

Beatryce pulled away this time. It was her kiss to end. She watched her hands as she drew them down his chest. She brushed away the wrinkles in his shirt. A domestic act. And he just watched her in return, slightly stunned. When she reached his waist, his abs clenched at her touch. This time, he held himself in check.

She tilted her head and looked him in the eye. She smiled, a knowing, confident smile, and said, “Yes. I am. And don’t you forget it.”

Then, she turned on her heel and slammed the door in his face.

“For every minute you remain angry, you give up sixty seconds of peace of mind.”

― Ralph Waldo Emerson

Dansbury lumbered down the rickety stairs, one step at a time, stalling for time as he shook off the shattered remnants of his lust. Actually, all sorts of emotions fought for dominance in his head, but desire played the starring role. He paused midway down, turned, and banged his head against the wall. Christ, she was…Well, he didn’t want to finish that thought. He still despised her, but now that he knew she kissed like…

No. No. No. No.
And No
. He refused to go there.

He reined in his runaway thoughts. Still, he was reluctant to move. His friends, the Scot and the rogue, were waiting. And they were going to tease him unmercifully for what all and sundry had witnessed. Or at least Kelly would. What to do? He decided to embrace his anger, one of the many emotions twirling around inside his mind. Yes. Anger would protect him from the ribbing and deflect any barbs aimed his way. She was a trollop and bold as brass. And she was hard and cruel and unrepentant. His heart thundered in his chest and he clenched his fists. Yea, that did it. He was angry.

He jogged the rest of his way down the stairs.

He spotted his friends as soon as he stepped into the main room and headed for their table. He felt every patron watching him, remembering the scene with him and Lady Beatryce. In this very room. At that table. Right. There.

He shook his head and looked at his friends. As expected, Ciarán Kelly, an Irish rake of the highest order, watched him with laughing eyes and a grin. Lord Alaistair MacLeod, the Scot, on the other hand, sported a look of concern and confusion. Definitely a change from his usual scowl.

“Stuff it. Do you hear? Don’t say a word.” He flung back his chair and sat with his legs sprawled out under table. He crossed his arms and dared them to say a word.

Kelly laughed. “Oh, but ye should see the look on yer face, my friend. Priceless. Got under your skin, has she?”

MacLeod, as usual, said nothing.

“That woman will be the death of me if I do not kill her first.”

“Aye, if lusty sex can cause death, sure. It looked like she was about to kill ye with it. Nearly strangled ye with her tongue, did she?” Kelly retorted.

“It was all for show, and you know it. So shut. It. I despise that woman and you know it.”

“Aye, ye’ve said as such before. Many times. Too many times. You know, this is the first time I’ve ever actually seen her. She is…”

“Don’t. Say. It.”

“All I’m saying, is that I wouldn’t blame you, if you…”

Dansbury slammed his fist on the table, making their mugs of ale, and some of the nearby patrons, jump. He and MacLeod reached for their respective drinks; his friends had ordered him one in his absence.

Kelly just smirked, completely unruffled. “I don’t understand why ye despise her so much. She nearly married Stonebridge, so she can’t be all bad. And I hear tell yer uncommonly rude to her. She is…”

MacLeod dropped his mug to the table, just hard enough to gain their attention. “Och, he’s rude because he wants to tup her, ye ken?”

Dansbury spewed his drink…all over his friends…the scarred table top…himself. He caught a bit of dribble with his hand using it as his handkerchief. Quite gentlemanly.

MacLeod wiped his face on his sleeve—his only acknowledgement to the mess. “Now, cannae we just get doun to business?”

Dansbury fisted his hands, crumpling the soiled linen. “But I feel compelled to address your last point…”

“Deny it all ye want, my friend,” Kelly interjected, “we all know the truth. The Scot is right. I’m telling you, the rest of the room fairly burned in the wake of yer lust, yer chemistry. Even I gave
Bertha
an extra look.” Kelly shivered in disgust.

Dansbury barked out a laugh. They both did, him and Kelly. And just like that, his tension ebbed, and he was his usual easy self. How could one survive at life if you couldn’t laugh at your own foibles? Besides, arguing just made their declarations look truthful. Which they weren’t. They were so far off base, they…

He stifled that train of thought and turned to MacLeod, seeking him around the barmaid who’d come to wipe down the table. “How are you, my friend? Enjoyed your trip here with this here talkative rogue, I take it?” He knew Kelly was probably driving the Scot daft.

MacLeod just glared at him. He didn’t take the bait. He never did.

Sigh.
“Right. Out with it then,” said Dansbury.

MacLeod didn’t waste another breath. “There were people here, asking aboot ye, before we arrived. It was a good thing ye changed yer clothes, they were asking aboot a pair of aristos.”

MacLeod’s eyes were fixed on him, though they flickered to something over his shoulder. Dansbury turned to look, but all he could see was the American woman laughing at a patron seated at the bar. The barmaid had finished cleaning up his mess and had moved on.

“Yea, what was Lady B wearing by the way, a tent?” Kelly laughed.

“Nearly. Who were they? Do you know? Did you find them?”

“Nae. But it doesna sit well that they looked fer ye here. This place isna easy to find and not the most obvious of places to search, ye ken?” The Scot’s eyes flickered to the bar.

“You’re right. It is a concern, though they could have gotten lucky. I’ll be more vigilant, just in case. Any leads on who is pulling the strings?”

“Nae. Stonebridge has everyone in his command on it, though. Middlebury is the link.” Again, MacLeod glanced at the bar. Dansbury peeked over his shoulder, but still, only the American and the anonymous patron were there.

“Well, it can’t happen fast enough. Lady Beatryce is driving me mad,” he added when he turned back around.

“Yea, it sure looked like it a little while ago,” taunted Kelly. Dansbury ignored him.

“Aye, I hear ye. We’ll be trailing ye for added protection, ye ken?” Kelly nodded his head in agreement with MacLeod.

“Thanks. Now, why do you keep looking over at the American, MacLeod?”

Alaistair didn’t answer, but looked over again, then jumped to his feet. His chair scraped the wooden floor as he stood. Dansbury stood, too. Habit that. But Kelly continued to lounge, a shrewd grin covered his face. Speaking of rude.

“What’s with all the brooding? You gentlemen look like you could use another drink,” assumed the American as she approached their table.

Dansbury begged to differ. The American woman had it all wrong. Only the Scot brooded.

“I’m Mrs. Amelia Chase. From America. You know, the colonies?” She laughed at her own joke. “How are you gents this fine evening?”

“Clifford Churchmouse. It is a pleasure. This man is Lord Alaistair MacLeod and the man impolitely seated is Mr. Ciarán Kelly.”

“Churchmouse? Are you the strong silent type then?” She laughed, again, and continued, “Lord MacLeod, Mr. Kelly. May I join you?”

“Nae.” MacLeod shook his head no.

“Of course, allow me.” Dansbury spoke over him and pulled out a chair for Mrs. Chase. She was bold and brassy, and he admired her spunk. She was a refreshing change from the usual timid English lady. Lady Beatryce didn’t count among their number.

Kelly seemed to agree. He sat straighter and undressed her with his eyes. And she was indeed attractive, and quite young. MacLeod, however, just sneered as if she were some piece of offal he’d found on the bottom of his boot.