A Little Thing Called Love (6 page)

Chapter Nine

W
HEN
F
YCLAN S
TATED
his purpose, he’d watched Jenny because she was the only one who mattered.

Her eyes had widened at his proposal, then the words had poured out of her.

She would have launched herself from the step toward him, and he was ready for her. He’d waited eagerly for her letters but he wanted, no, needed her presence, in his arms, in his bed, and in his life.

For two weeks he’d been pacing the floor of his room wondering what she was doing, how she was being treated, whether she was happy. He hated that other men could call on her, and, finally, he’d realized that if he wanted Tarleton to take him seriously, then he must step forward.

It had been no trick at all to collect the colonel’s gaming debts. His debtors were happy to release them. They had doubted if Tarleton would ever pay. Some believed that, even if he did find a wealthy lord for his daughter, those gentlemen wouldn’t be as generous as Tarleton expected them to be. After all, Stowe and the others were not fools. Why should they pay another man’s debts?

Hearing this made Fyclan all the more determined to claim her. He would not allow a star as bright and sparkling as Jenny to be gossip fodder.

Now, she reached for him, her happy “yes” ringing in his ears, her eyes full of joy—­but her father blocked her path.

“
No.
I forbid it. No daughter of mine will accept the likes of you, Morris.”

“Are you going to give him back your gambling debts, Father?” Jenny challenged.

Tarleton held up the packet. “They’ve been handed to me. They are mine. Morris knows he should never have given them over.”

“They are a gift,” Fyclan answered. “You wish to barter your daughter’s hand for money. I have money. What is the cost?”

Before Tarleton could open his mouth, one of Jenny’s sisters came forward. “I want advancement for my husband,” she said anxiously.

“I want everything that Jenny has received,” the other said. “I want to be presented for a Season and wear the finest clothes and I want my own bedroom. And a dowry. I want a good dowry.”

It was clear that marrying Jenny wasn’t going to be an inexpensive proposition.

Fyclan could see that same thought in her worried eyes, and he wanted to laugh out loud. She had nothing to worry over. His fortune rivaled Stowe’s and was of his own making.

Well, he
had
a fortune. The Tarletons seemed bent on taking a huge amount of it, but he didn’t care. He’d been waiting for Jenny all of his life—­

“You’ll not be receiving anything from him,” Tarleton told his daughters, “because I would never let an Irish scoundrel touch any of you.” He scowled at Fyclan. “I prayed to someday put you in your place, Morris, and the time has come. You aren’t fit to polish my boots, and I’ll not have you in my family no matter how much money you wish to wave in front of me.”

“Don’t you believe your daughter has something to say in the matter?”

Tarleton snorted his opinion. “My daughters do what I tell them. My Jenny is going to be a fine lady. A marchioness or a duchess. That is one thing your money can’t buy. Now be gone.” He slammed the door in Fyclan’s face.

And, of course, the bastard had kept the gaming vowels.

But Fyclan wasn’t discouraged yet. He had done what was honorable. Regardless of what Tarleton believed, Jenny was going to be his wife. His Gran had seen it. Her gift never lied.

He walked down the steps.

The hour was the soft light just before the sun set. He knew Tarleton watched him from a window in the house. He walked to the corner and turned down the side street. He followed his instinct and took an alleyway behind the row of houses.

Jenny’s voice rang in his ear,
Yes
.
Yes, yes, and yes
. She knew her own mind. She was fire and lightning. No man could cow her, not even her own father.

And then there she was.

Jenny stepped through a gate behind one of the houses and into the alley. She was hatless and didn’t wear gloves.

For a second, he feared his eyes deceived him, and then she came
running
to him.

She threw her arms around him. She smelled of the spring air and her own delicate, wonderful scent, and he wasn’t about to ever let her go.

He kissed her, right there for all to see if they’d had a mind to, but she ended it quickly.

“We must hurry,” she warned. “Father will soon know I’ve left—­that is, if you will have me after all his angry words?”

He started to declare his love but she placed her fingers on his lips. “I warn you, Fyclan, I am coming to you with nothing but the clothes I’m wearing. I told him I needed to return to my room for something, then I went down the servants’ stairway.”

“You are all I want,” he said. “All I’ve ever wanted. And, of course, you are right—­your father will want my head, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except that you have chosen me. Come then.” He took her hand. He led her in a direction that he didn’t believe Tarleton would think to search first. After all, he’d learned in India that Colonel Tarleton was not the most resourceful of men. However, his daughter was his prized possession.

Or so he’d claimed.

“Where are we going?” Jenny asked.

“Scotland.”

She came to a halt. “We are eloping?”

Fyclan recognized his mistake. If he was going to take on a wife as quick as Jenny, he needed to start talking to her instead of keeping his plans in his head. “I meant what I said. I want you for my wife.”

She wavered a moment.

“You can return,” he said, even though the words felt as if he was ripping his heart from his chest.

“No, I can’t. The moment I walked out of the house, I threw my lot in with you. It is just that it give me a moment’s pause to think of leaving my mother, my sisters. Father won’t take this well.”

“He will not.”

“They might not as well.”

“If it is the eloping, we can try and think of another way.”

In day’s fading light, she gave him a smile, a brave one that said she was uncertain of the future, yet chose to go forward. “There is no other way. You are right. There will be anger, but I believe I’m in love with you, Fyclan Morris.”

“I
know
I’m in love with you, Jennifer Tarleton.”

“Love is enough, isn’t it?”

“It will be for us.” He held out his hand. “And we will stare them all down.”

She placed her palm in his. They laced their fingers together. “When you came to the door, I realized I didn’t want to live if living meant not being with you. And that isn’t a prophecy, Fyclan, it is the yearnings of my own heart.”

“You will never regret your choice, Jenny.”

She laughed. “I’m not worried about that, Fyclan. I fear you may be the one with regrets.”

“Never.”

“I shall hold you to that, sir.”

And he was fine with the challenge.

He found a vehicle for hire and had them driven to the Lion’s Head, a coaching inn. There he made arrangements for a post chaise, a fast team, and postboys to drive them to Scotland.

She didn’t waver in her decision again, and, within the hour, they found themselves traveling north.

T
HE TRIP TOOK
almost three full days. Fyclan did not let them stop except for meals. He thought her father might follow, but Jenny suspected differently.

Her father wasn’t one for defiance. His gaming debts were settled, so what more did he need? Fyclan had done what Tarleton would have asked her husband to do.

She was somewhat curious as to the amount of those debts but didn’t ask. However, between the settlement and the expense of the horses for their trip to Scotland, she was gaining a healthy respect for Fyclan’s financial standing.

She knew he worked. Then again, she’d heard that while many of the men in ser­vice with the East India Company were very wealthy, others not so much.

“Does your employer know you’ve left?” she asked Fyclan. They had just changed the horses and were on their way.

“I imagine your father has told them.”

“Will they be upset?”

Fyclan sat back in the seat. The weather was good for travel. He’d taken off his coat, and he now put his arm around her.

The first time he’d done it, she’d been quite shy and very conscious of the postboy riding the team of horses. Still, it felt good to be this close to him. His shoulders were strong and muscular. She liked resting against his chest. He seemed completely at ease with her but respectful. She appreciated his patience because, even though she had been raised in the country, she was uncertain what was expected.

Human mating couldn’t be like two sheep, could it? She hoped not.

However, in Fyclan’s arms, she felt safe.

“I may be asked to leave,” Fyclan said, “but if I am, I have no regrets. We’ll be fine.”

“I know we will. I’d live in a hut with you, Fyclan, and I’ll have you understand, I know a bit about cooking. I won’t kill you with it.”

He laughed, pleased.

After their first stop, he had returned to the chaise with a deck of cards and had quickly learned her father wasn’t the only gambler in the family, or so Fyclan claimed. They spent hours trying to best each other at piquet and vingt-­et-­un.

“I’m discovering you are
not
a gambler,” she accused back.

“Quite true,” he admitted.

“Then how do you make your money?”

He shuffled the cards a moment before saying, “With careful study. I don’t hope, I
know
what the return will be before I use my money.”

“And you have never lost money?”

“A time or two. I do not use money that I can’t afford to lose. That is my first rule.”

The rule made sense. Her father hadn’t been able to afford any of the money he lost.

They didn’t stop to rest. Fyclan opened his arm, an invitation for her to snuggle against him that she couldn’t resist. Of course, the first night of their travel, she’d been tense. She’d sat away from him in the close confines in the chaise. However, now she was more comfortable. She was becoming familiar enough with him to snuggle up.

And he was pleased.

His lips brushed the top of her hair. “I may have more money than Stowe and many others,” Fyclan admitted. “But it wasn’t until I had you in my arms that my life became rich.”

Chapter Ten

T
HEY REACHED THE
Scottish border in late afternoon. Gretna Green was only another nine miles, and the horses were fresh. When they arrived, they had no difficulty finding the blacksmith’s shop.

The blacksmith, Joseph Paisley, took one look at them and knew what they wanted. He told them there was plenty of time left in the day for marrying, so why delay?

Fyclan and Jenny agreed, and the blacksmith offered Jenny the use of a private room to freshen up a bit.

“You can cool your heels under that tree waiting for her,” Paisley told Fyclan, “although you look happily ready to take on married life.”

He was right. Fyclan had always thought that a man besotted by love was a weak one.

He now knew the opposite was true.

He loved Jenny. Yes, she was a pleasing to look at, but it was her spirit that captivated him.

He adored the way she rolled her eyes before playing a card and giving away her intent. Or brought her brows together as she tried to analyze why he always knew her purpose.

He admired her strength of character. It had not been easy for her to walk away from her family, and yet she had done so to thrive.

And now, she was going to give herself to him.

She hadn’t even known how wealthy he was.

Now, as he waited under a spreading yew at the blacksmith’s shop at the center of Gretna Green, the first place over the Scottish border where lovers could marry quickly, he understood why bridegrooms were nervous. It was a heady thing to take a wife, but to claim one who so completely placed her trust in him was a weighted responsibility.

For the first time in his memory, he found himself praying. He hoped he was worthy of her. He was also anxious that no harm come to her. In three very close days of travel, Jenny had become the most important person in his life. He could not imagine going on without her.

So, what if childbirth did take her from him?

Fear of the story she told him about her heart rested heavy on his mind. He would do anything to care for her.

“I’m ready.”

At the sound her voice, he turned, and was immediately taken back to that first moment when he’d seen her on the street and she’d captured his attention. Her blond hair like strands of sunlight flowed loose around her shoulders. Her blue eyes shone with love for him.

She held out her hand. “Are you ready?”

“I am overwhelmed,” he said truthfully. “I will never tire of looking at you, especially when you are smiling as you are now.”

Her laughter was light. “Come, my love.”

With joined hands, they entered the blacksmith’s shop. Paisley waited for them by the door. He was a canny Scotsman, one who expected to be paid well for his ser­vices, and once that was done, he took charge.

“Stand here,” he ordered, placing them in front of his anvil with their hands joined on the cold iron. When they were in position, he didn’t waste time. He said to Fyclan, “Do you wed this woman?”

“I do.”

Paisley turned his stern features on Jenny. “And what of you? Will you take this man?”

Jenny tilted her head to Fyclan. They stood so close he could lean forward and kiss her. Her lips curved into an inviting smile. “I do,” she said in her calm, measured voice. “But I have something else to add”

“Carry on,” Paisley said. “It is your wedding.”

She smiled into Fyclan’s eyes, and said, “I love you as I could never love another. You have given me more than just your name. You have given the freedom to be myself. There is no gift more valuable.”

Had any man ever received a greater compliment? And here, only minutes ago, he’d been anxious about the fragile nature of her life. She’d reminded him that one must always live fully and completely.

He kissed her then. This was not the considered, sometimes devouring, kisses of the past days in the post chaise. He’d had a hard time keeping himself at bay.

No, this kiss was his promise to cherish her as she deserved. To hold her close as helpmate. To honor her as she honored him.

“Hey now,” Paisley said. “I’ve not named you husband and wife, yet.”

Fyclan broke the kiss long enough to say, “Then you’d best move on with it.”

“I name you husband and wife,” Paisley said. He brought his hammer down on his anvil, and Fyclan swept Jenny up in his arms.

“You may kiss your bride,” Paisley finished, but Fyclan was already too busy kissing Jenny to pay him much mind.

T
HEY TOOK A
room in Gretna Hall. Fyclan had let her have some privacy before he joined her in the bed.

Jenny was nervous. She had bathed, using the washbowl, and had combed her hair with her fingers. The hour was still early, the sun had not yet set.

If this had been her wedding night in London, she would have been pampered by Mandy and had a nightdress to wear. She had nothing here, so she wore her chemise and petticoats. They were so sheer, she felt practically naked, yet she had a feeling Fyclan would not object.

She hoped he wasn’t disappointed in her for many reasons. She’d overheard her sister Alice complaining with some women friends that fulfilling marital duties was a chore. Jenny hoped not.

Kissing Fyclan was better than breathing. She’d come to yearn for his touch and the scent of his skin. She believed there was nothing finer in the world than to have him by her side. She’d not even realized how lonely she’d been until the day she’d met him in the library and had recognized a kindred soul.

After their letters and traveling with him in the confines of the coach, she understood him very well, and she knew he had some grave concerns. He thought about her heart, about her expectations and fear of death, and she knew she was the only one who could set his worries to rest—­or make them worse.

There was a knock on the door.

She’d been sitting on the bed with her legs tucked beneath her. The mattress was lumpy. After nights spent sleeping in Fyclan’s arms, Jenny didn’t know if she wanted wool-­stuffed bedding. She unfolded her legs and stood.

“Yes?” she said.

“May I come in?” Fyclan asked. He sounded so formal.

Here was the moment.

She crossed to the door. She could feel his presence on the other side, and she thought of their letters. She placed her hand on the cool wood. They had said so much to each other without the danger of confrontation. She wished she could write him now and tell him not to worry.

The letters had taught her that some things were easier to say in writing . . . or when one didn’t need pretense.

So, she did not open the door. Instead she leaned close to it, and said, “Do you know how deeply I love you?”

He had not been expecting her words. He had been waiting for a door to open.

Another man on his wedding night might demand the door be opened and enough with talking, a man who didn’t care for her or who considered that she had a thought or opinion of her own.

Fyclan was not that man.

She could feel him move closer to her. “If it is half of what I feel for you, then no ocean could hold it.”

Jenny smiled, loving the melodic sound of his voice.

She spoke from her heart. “You have changed my life. I once feared everything, did you know that? I was always conscious of being different. I was more a doll than a woman. I believed them when they told me I was frail, that I had no right to want more.

“And then you came into my life. I’d yet to meet a man who spoke to me as an equal, who valued what I had to say. And we shared a dream together—­”

“Jenny, I would die myself if anything happened to you.”

There it was, his fear. “I’m not fragile. I will not break,” she whispered, knowing for the first time in her heart it was true. She wanted to live, to enjoy life fully.

“But what if being with child was too much for you—­”

Jenny threw open the door.

He stood there as if lost.

She reached out and placed her hand against his jaw. “So handsome and so sad. I could feel it coming to you. Don’t be afraid, Fyclan. Love me.”

Before he could speak, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him with the fullness of her being.

He kissed back, moving her into the room and kicking the door closed. This was what she wanted. All, she realized, she’d ever wanted. A joining, a meshing of two souls.

He broke the kiss, his voice harsh. “If anything happens to you because of my lust.”

She held his face so that he must meet her eye. “You gave me a dream of a child who would become a great woman. This afternoon, you made me a promise that we would be one. I’ll not settle for anything less, Fyclan Morris, than what you pledged to this marriage. Whether I die tomorrow or next year or decades from now, I want to live knowing that I’ve tasted everything life has to offer—­including loving my husband in a manner that will make the heavens sing. Have no fear,” she urged him, running her palm along the breadth of his shoulder. “The love I feel for you will always be there, even after death. But for today, let us live as lovers.”

She kissed him then, and he responded openly and generously. He lifted her up and carried her to the bed, his hands already untying her lacings. She pushed his jacket down his arms, hampering his efforts. He shook his coat off, anxious to return to her. She pulled his shirt out and slid her hands beneath it, feeling the contours of hard muscles. They were clumsy, they were silly, and yet they had the same goal.

“Jenny,” he whispered, breathing her name as if it were a benediction. He began kissing her nose, her eyes, her hair, and, finally, her mouth.

Live.
She wanted to live, and in this moment she was. They were two ­people hungry for each other. His touch was magic. He knew what pleased her. He kissed the sensitive skin beneath her jaw and tickled a line to her ear.

He had her undressed first. Her fine lawn of her undergarments fell around her on the bed. He kissed the curve of her breasts. His kisses lowered until he touched her nipples—­and she caught fire.

Her blood pounded in her veins. She had never realized they were so sensitive. Her heart, that very heart that so concerned everyone in her life, felt ready to burst with joy. Her fingers buried themselves in his thick hair.

At her touch, he started to stir as if alarmed. “Jenny, is this all right—­?”

“
Don’t stop.
” Now it was her turn to sound harsh. What Fyclan was doing with his mouth was the most delicious experience. Had he learned this in some exotic port of India? Or was it what every sensible Irishman knew?

She hoped it was the latter because, because truth be told, she would not want to rob any woman in the world of this pleasure.

And what pleased her even more is when she copied what he was doing to her. He liked when she nibbled his ear or the line of his throat. Her hands smoothed over his chest. His nipples were as tight as hers. She let her hand wander lower.

When he brought his hand down to hers, she thought he was going to stop her. Instead, he began unbuttoning his breeches. She pushed him aside, eager to do it herself as his mouth found hers again. This time, she tasted his tongue. Here was Temptation, especially when the back of her fingers brushed against the hardened length of him.

His shoes dropped to the floor as he kicked them off. She traced the curve of his buttocks as she pushed his breeches down. His hand flowed down to her waist and pulled her intimately to him.

Jenny hadn’t realized her eyes were closed. She’d been too busy enjoying herself, learning him with her other senses. Now she opened them, and the love in his eyes threatened to overwhelm her.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

“
You’re
beautiful,” she countered. “
This
is beautiful.”

He grinned as he leaned her back on the bed, the weight of his body upon her. He brushed her hair from her temples. Deep within, she felt a need beginning to build. A pull he’d stirred into wakefulness when he had been teasing her breasts.

His hardness brushed against her, and she knew she undone. She opened her legs to him. “Please,” she whispered, not even certain what she asked.

His mouth covered hers, and she felt him press toward the very core of her being.

For a second, she was startled. His shape was alien, yet her body quickly adjusted. In fact, she was a bit frustrated there wasn’t
more
.

“Fyclan, if you don’t do this, I fear I’ll ignite from wanting you. I will.”

He rose, and, in one smooth thrust, entered her. There was pain, but the pain was nothing compared to the wonder of understanding. This is what it meant to be joined to a man, to be one with him.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice anxious.

She looked him, stunned by the question. “Fyclan, make love to me.”

And he did. He opened a new world to her. She had never dreamed of the bliss that came from this act of joining. How could anyone complain about this? It was joyful, exhilarating. The things he did to her body made her toes curl and her senses sing.

She moved with him. She could not hold back. She loved him so much, and now, this was just the grandest reward, and it seemed as if it would go on forever. She
hoped
it would go on forever. Her heart pounded in her ears, her brave, loving heart. She’d never been so proud of it.

Suddenly, her desire, her need burst inside her. She was no longer herself. He was all around her, and she was all around him.

Deep inside, she felt his seed fill her.

It was a miracle, she marveled. Their souls had actually become one.

Fyclan fell on the bed beside her. She turned to him, immediately missing his heat and that wickedly hard shaft that knew how to give her so much pleasure.

They were naked in a tumble of clothing. Fyclan shoved it all to the floor and flipped the counterpane to cover them. He moved closer, and she curled up next to him.

He pressed his lips to her temple. “Are you all right?” His tone was anxious.

She took his hand and rested it against her racing heart, right over her breast, the nipple still hard and swollen. “I have never been better.” She lightly touched his crisp, black hair and tested her new name. “Mrs. Fyclan Morris.”