An Unforgettable Rogue (7 page)

Myerson cleared his throat from the door of the servants’ hall, self-consciously turning his dripping hat in his hands. “Excuse me, your grace, but the horses?”

While Bryce oversaw the stabling and feeding of the matched pair he had borrowed with the carriage, Alex carried a candle and bedding up three flights of stairs to the attic tower.

Sure enough, the huge, sparse circular chamber appeared dry as toast and looked exactly as it had the last time they played there, except for the additional dust. Everything as they left it, including their old archery equipment
and
the dratted daybed.

Thoroughly annoyed by the sight, Alex placed her candle on a table, and the bedding on the lounge. She went for a bow and arrow and set them up, crossed the room, and in a fit of pique, she let the arrow fly, hitting the target dead center.

“Rotten roof leaks everywhere,” she muttered, choosing another arrow. “Wouldn’t you just know it would hold above this one blasted room.”

She set the second arrow in the bow, but changed her mind about its destination and turned her sights, and her weapon, upward. “Bloody, stupid roof.” She sent the missile skyward.

The arrow disappeared into the darkened attic rafters, and almost as it did, a drip hit the floor, then another, and another, until rain dripped down in a vapid, steady rhythm. “Oops,” Alex said. “Must have been ready to give at any moment.”

Her mind worked and her smile grew as she chose yet another arrow and aimed it, unerringly, toward the rafters directly above the chaise lounge. But when she let it fly, nothing happened, and she could not tell exactly where it disappeared within the shadowed labyrinth of beams closer to the tower’s peak. “Drat.”

Hearing footsteps on the stairs, she stashed the bow, saw the daybed was dry, and sighed with regret. Doomed to spending another night alone. Double drat.

As Hawksworth entered, she beamed a bright smile. “Only one, small leak,” she said with feigned pleasure. “Your bed is fine. See.”

Even as they regarded the makeshift berth, an arrow dropped, flat on its side, dead center of the bed, and rain poured, literally, down, soaking the bedding and the lounge, rendering it completely useless.

Rainwater must have eased the arrow from the rupture where it struck and stuck, Alex mused as she bit her lip and regarded her husband.

He raised a brow. “Are we under siege?”

“I was … practicing,” she said, by way of feeble explanation. “And I heard … something. And I jumped … in fright. And, accidentally, my shot went wide … accidentally.”

“Very wide. Accidentally.”

Alex swallowed a knot of hysterical laughter, but she could not quite stop it from rushing forward, so she clamped a hand over her mouth.

Hawksworth regarded the source and sorceress of all his dreams, her turquoise eyes wide with trepidation, yet brimming with merriment all the same.

He shook his head. Behold the thorn in his side, his hoyden … his wife.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Sleeping with me will not be as dreadful as you seem to think,” Alex promised as they made their plodding way, arm in arm, down the stairs toward the family bedchambers. “My bed is big. You will not even know I am there.”

Hawk scoffed, feeling all the restrictions of a cage. “Well you will bloody well know I am there. If it were not so late, and you did not look so tired, I would fight you on this. You will be sorry when I push and kick and trample you in my sleep. You may end up more severely wounded than I.”

Alex bit her lip, appearing not the least worried or repentant. “Oh, Myerson,” she said when they saw his man in the upper hall. “Welcome to Huntington Lodge. Do you think you can bring up a tub and some hot water to my—our, dressing room? His grace will want a bath before I cut his hair.”

“His grace will not want his hair cut,” Hawksworth said. “And you would not be doing the cutting, if he did.”

“The bath, please, Myerson,” Alex said. “And thank you.”

Hawk followed Alex into a well-appointed bedchamber. The curtains and counterpane, like the upholstery on the two wingback chairs by the hearth, were covered in the deep turquoise velvet of Alex’s eyes. Pillows of gold brought the color, the very room, to life.

Upon her dresser sat a Roman pottery vase, one of the childhood treasures they had unearthed near the Dyke, though this one had always been Alex’s favorite. Colored pale tan to deep blue-gray, and looking as if someone had combed a staff of shallow half-circles in the clay before firing, the vase lent an air of reality to Hawk’s illusory sense of homecoming.

While the bedchamber was not rich by any standard, it was in better condition than he would have expected. “You expected to share this room with your husband, did you not?”

“On occasion,” Alex said. “Which is exactly what I am doing.”

Hawk nodded, hardly daring to believe it. He could be comfortable in this room, with very few adjustments, if only Alex would not expect him to play the husband— Correction, if he had the right, and the confidence in his ability, he would gladly play the husband.

With the manner of an artist evaluating a work of art, Alex regarded him critically. “Your beard is as wild as your mane. I will trim both.”

“You will not.”

“Hawksworth, do you want me to awaken in the night and scream because I have a beast in my bed?”

“You will have a beast in your bed, make no mistake.”

“The one now growling beside me?”

A rather foreign and uncomfortable bubble of mirth caught in Hawk’s throat, making it ache, making him angry. “Indeed.”

“There are beasts, and there are beasts,” Alex said, pointedly, shivering as if in anticipation. Damn.

“Just a little bit?” she cajoled, in the charming way that only Alex could. “I will only cut your hair a little bit. And after traveling all day, I am certain we would benefit from a hot bath.”

“We? One at a time, of course.”

“In a slipper bath? I should say so. As if there is any other—” Her grin shot an arrow of doubt straight to Hawk’s conscience. He was not the rogue of old and he should tell her so.

“There
is
another way, is there not?” she said, her ripple of mirth and sparkling interest speeding Hawk’s heart. “Chesterfield promised me,” she said, tapping her chin. “That he would teach me all manner of entertaining pastimes in marriage. Now I fear there will be no entertainment ... unless
you
teach me.” She released a sigh, heavy with irony, if only she knew it. Or did she?

Hawksworth began to sweat. He had known she would be like this, even about the marriage bed, eager for new experiences, excited, and exciting, drinking of life in huge greedy draughts. Bloody hell.

To protect her from Chesterfield, he had no choice but to remain her husband, Hawk told himself, which eased the constriction about his chest, somewhat, and allowed him to breathe again, barely.

A sad day, he thought, when the Rogue of Devil’s Dyke became the lesser of evils. Imagine a man of legendary prowess being pleased about that.

Imagine him being grateful.

Lo, how the mighty have fallen.

Part of him was relieved, and pleased, and grateful, that he had not broken her spirit, by leaving her to bear such burdens, as he might have done with a less lively individual, but another part was frightened by the very liveliness he admired.

Hawk looked up and caught his breath at the sight of her absently pulling pins from her hair before her mirror—watching him, in the glass, watching her. Her arms raised, her lush and generous breasts all but bared in proud invitation, she presented the ultimate picture of bewitchment, and seemed totally oblivious to the fact.

He should be shot for what he was thinking.

Drawn by her mesmerizing, almost come-hither, gaze, her eyes in candlelight the very color and depth of the sunniest south sea, Hawk could not keep from approaching. He moved her hands aside to savor the sensation of his own in her hair, and removed her hairpins, himself. He had no sooner buried his fists, wrists deep, in the silken bounty, than the cinnamon mane tumbled down to her tiny waist and beyond in one long waving sweep.

Why not make her his in every way? They were married after all.

To the beat of his speeding heart, Hawk combed his fingers through the silken treasure, top to tail, literally, stroking her perfect bottom, twice or thrice along the way, almost by accident. The satin against his hands enticed him almost as much as those womanly curves beneath, so deliciously near that his palms itched to explore every gentle swell and graceful hollow.

He was in trouble. Big trouble.

He wanted her. He could not have her.

But he would be forced to lie beside her every night. All night. Sweating. Aching—if today was any indication—both a hopeful, and a dangerous, turn of events.

Alex turned her back on him then, and lifted her hair, presumably for him to undo the buttons down the back of her rose silk gown. Hawk closed his eyes, remembering how good she had felt in his arms yesterday in the carriage, how much he had wanted to hold her in the bed last night. He inhaled the scent of her—violets, woman, softness and need.

Joy. Willingness. Life. Alexandra.

And just as he bent to place his lips against that spot at her nape begging for his kiss, Myerson called from the dressing room that his grace’s bath was ready.

Hawk stilled, cursed himself roundly, and after undoing the last of Alexandra’s buttons with all due haste, he took the opportunity to flee.

Once inside the dressing room, he shut the door and locked it, certain he would fail at the goal he had set for himself—to let her go. He hoped beyond hope that he would not, because Alex would pay an awful price for all of a lifetime if he failed.

After Myerson left, Hawk undressed and lowered his awkward and scarred body into the warm, lapping, incredibly soothing water. As heat radiated to his limbs and deep into his marrow, sweet and numbing, his screaming muscles calmed and so, too, did his fast-beating heart.

Alex had been right. A bath was just what he needed.

“I was right, was I not?”

Hawk jumped all of a foot, splashing them both, and feeling like an idiot. “How did you get in here?”

“Through the door. How else? I thought you might need my help. I could scrub your back.” There she was, again, that innocent three year old, coaxing him down a forbidden hill with no more than that wide-eyed look.

“Go away.”

“Why?”

The string of oaths Hawk released should have turned her face crimson and chased her from the room.

She grinned. “If you did not want me here, you should have locked the door.”

Hawk closed his eyes, because to see her was to desire her. “I did lock the door.”

At her ripple of laughter, he opened them.

“I know.” She allowed another salacious giggle to escape without a qualm. “The lock is broken. Everything in this house is.” She beamed as she approached the tub.

At the glitter of purpose in her eyes, Hawk reared back.

“Relax,” she said. “My intentions are honorable. I plan only to wash your hair, not to ravish you.”

Hawk sighed, inwardly, remembering ravishment with a great deal of wistful fondness, wishing it were possible, wondering what would happen if…. “Be gentle with me,” he said, tired enough to allow the good-ship Alexandra to stay her course, however fraught the waters with peril.

“Oh, I will.” Like warm, soft toffee, her words melted on her tongue, rich and honeyed with promise.

It was the most glorious experience of his life, Hawk thought, as Alexandra worked his hair in soft soothing strokes, with lots of rich lather, turning the process into a seductive dance.

With her talented soapy fingers, she stroked his neck, his shoulders, a way down his back, a longer way down his front, her slow, creamy, circling strokes teasing his senses and bringing him pleasure with just her touch.

Almost as good as sex, Hawk mused, though after a year and a half, he had about forgotten what that was like. Almost.

When he became aroused, Hawk waited with baited breath, to see if his erection would last, but it diminished, or he nodded off; it was difficult to tell which happened first.

Ultimately, he must really have slept, because he awoke to the sound of clipping, except that he was still in the tub, afraid to move, lest he lose an ear. “Are you cutting my hair?”

“I think so.”

“I would rather you were certain,” he said. “How did you go from washing to trimming in one step?”

“You must be exhausted, because you slept as if you had not slept in ages. I rinsed your hair and trimmed your beard a bit, but you never woke.”

“I did not get much sleep last night.”

“True. Bryceson?”

He was almost afraid to respond. Her very tone made him skittish. “Alexandra?”

“I rather prefer your hair like a lion’s mane, albeit a tamer lion. Would you mind if I only just trimmed that as well?”

Hawk released the breath he had been holding. “Fine.”

“The longer length fits with your beard, I think, and makes you look wickedly piratical. I expect you are too sleepy to plunder and pillage?”

Hawk bit back a new flurry of mirth. “I
am
sleepy. I do not think I have felt this comfortable or this relaxed since— Very.”

“Come, let me help you step from the tub, so I can help dry—”

“No, I will step out and dry myself off, after you return to your bedchamber.”

“But Bryce—”

Hawk pointed toward the door. “Out.”

“But we were children together. We swam together. Your scars cannot be that bad.”

“They are.”

Like a heartbroken pup, Alexandra turned away.

Hawk caught her hand to stop her as she passed. “Lexy, you have seen enough of my ugliness. Leave me some dignity. Please.”

Alex sighed and grudgingly recovered her spirits. “Well, if you express it that way, what choice do I have?” She shut the door quietly as she left, and Hawk breathed a heavy sigh.

Never having owned a nightshirt in his life, he prudently donned his dressing gown, thinking that medieval armor might prove worthless with the tenacious Alexandra. He grabbed his cane, snuffed the candles, and made his toe-stubbing way to the bed, cursing as he went.

“Serves you right,” Alex said, from somewhere across the room. “Am I to bathe in the dark, then?”

Hawk climbed onto the far side of the bed and arranged the covers. “I humbly beg your forgiveness. Re-light the candles, if you wish. The light will not disturb my sleep.”

He heard her exasperated huff, and when the candles were lit, she, too, wore only a dressing gown, and that, not well fastened. Hawk both raged and salivated as he watched her delightful breasts, better fit to spring free than in her seductive nightrail the night before. And as she stepped into her dressing room, she gave him an amazing glimpse of one long and shapely leg, ankle to thigh, almost by accident.

Despite himself, Hawk imagined her dropping her dressing gown and stepping naked, about then, into the tub in which he had just bathed. If he had not vowed to set her free, he would go and join her, bedamned to his scars, her modesty, or anything else.

But he did not have the right, and no matter his bride’s reassurances, seeing each other through the gauze of wet garments at the age of ten, and seeing each other naked now, were nothing like.

Her innocence might remain intact, despite her denial to the contrary, but
his
certainly did not.

“I think you should come and wash my hair,” she called. “I washed yours.”

Hawksworth mentally applauded her tenacity and considered the tower room daybed with longing.

Accidentally, indeed.

He had been right, he mused, as he closed his eyes and drifted toward sleep, living again just might kill him. Then again, for the first time since the battle of Waterloo, living again felt rather … hopeful.

Hawk yawned. For a dead man, he had had a tiring day.

Alex was thoroughly disgruntled by the time she climbed into bed beside her husband. She was no expert, but she did not think that marriage beds were supposed to be tedious or dull as ditchwater. Neither did she believe that any of Hawk’s former mistresses had found him unconscious when they climbed into bed with him.

Though she was very much tempted to slip the bedcovers off and examine him at her leisure, she supposed that in fairness to his dignity, she should wait until she was invited, if the blasted day ever arrived.

She must, also, face the fact that Hawksworth had not chosen her as his bride in the truest sense, which might mean that he did not care to touch her, or could not bear to, which made her want to smack him as he slept, the paper-skulled jackanapes.

To be fair, however, ‘twas only a little more than a year ago that he had been so badly wounded, he was taken for dead, and he could still be recovering his strength. She had caught the pain in his eyes too often to count, today, though he tried to hide it.

She had not seen the damage to his leg, not yet, at any rate, but the limb might very well be festering still. Leg wounds often did.