Bride By Mistake (14 page)

She knew it was childish, but she refused to take his hand.

They packed up the remains of their luncheon and washed their hands and faces in the mountain-cold stream. Again, Isabella recalled bathing in that other stream that dreadful day, and how Lieutenant Ripton had come and lifted her out of the freezing water and wrapped her in his shirt and comforted her.

It was hard to believe he was the same man.

The second half of the day passed more slowly. They still rode in silence, but it was the result of constraint.

Bella brooded over his brusque dismissal of her need to go to Valle Verde. She wasn’t happy about it at all, but the more she thought about it, the more she had to accept that for him, a bastard half sister was of little significance.

And that his engagement in England was obviously very important.

If she didn’t share his priorities, that was her affair.

I
n the late afternoon, a light drizzle set in. Isabella made no complaint; she just pulled out the blue hat and a gray woolen cloak from her bag, put them on, and kept riding. Luke was not so sanguine. The hat offered little protection. The misty rain caught in the tiny curls that framed her face. Droplets clustered on her lashes. The cloak was old and threadbare and was soon sodden.

What the hell was her aunt thinking, letting her embark on a long and difficult journey with such inadequate clothing? It was taking poverty and simplicity too far.

“Stop,” Luke told her, and with a puzzled look, she reined in her mare. He reached over, yanked Isabella’s cloak off her, and tossed it into the bushes.

“What are you doing? That’s my cloak. You can’t—”

He pulled off his many-caped greatcoat and held it out to her. “Put this on.”

“But—”

“Don’t argue. It’s warmer and drier than that blasted threadbare thing you were wearing.”

“But what about you?”

“I’m used to being out in all weather.” He rolled the sleeves up for her. “Now button it, all the way up.” He watched as she buttoned it tight to her throat, then nodded and led the way onward.

They rounded a bend, and a small cluster of buildings came into sight. “The village of Biniés,” Luke told her. “We’ll spend the night here.”

“I thought you wanted to get to Berdún tonight.”

“You’ve ridden all day and you’re cold and wet and tired.”

She glanced at him. “You’re wetter than me.”

“I’m used to it,” he said brusquely. “Even in so small a village, there’s bound to be an inn of sorts, though it might be a little spartan. We’ll find a room and wait out the rain.” And he had plans for the night that would warm them both, most thoroughly.

She hesitated, and then said, “Two rooms, please.” Her skin was moon-pale and wet with rain.

He reined in his horse and stared at her. “
Two
rooms?”

She moistened cold, berry-dark lips. “You said this would be a marriage of convenience.” She looked nervous, but her chin was braced and resolute. “Well, it is not convenient for me to share a bed with you… yet.”

She was punishing him, Luke thought, for his refusal to let her go on a wild-goose chase after her half sister by her father’s mistress.

But he was damned if he’d venture into the wild hills that had harbored the worst experience of his life. Bad enough he’d had to come to Spain to fetch her. That had stirred up all kinds of unwelcome memories. But to return to the hills where Michael had died so horribly… And all Luke’s fault. No.

Besides, her tale was nonsense as far as he could tell.
What man would expect his thirteen-year-old daughter to take care of his adult mistress and her illegitimate child? Provide for them in his absence, perhaps. But escort them across a war-ravaged country? Preposterous.

The man should never have let her know about them in the first place.

Luke was damned if he’d let it drive a wedge between them. This marriage had already started on a rocky and unorthodox footing, but he was determined to make it work. And bedding her well and often figured large in his plan.

Two rooms be damned. He opened his mouth to tell her so and noted the white-knuckled grip of her reins. He glanced at her mouth. She saw him looking and swallowed.

Oh hell! It was nerves, bridal nerves. What the hell was he thinking, planning a night of passionate lovemaking on the first night they were together?

She’d been attacked as a child. And had spent the last eight years locked up with a bunch of nuns. She was probably terrified of the wedding night.

He glanced at her again, all big, dark golden eyes and gorgeous, vulnerable mouth. Of course she was scared of him; scared of what took place between a man and his wife in the bedchamber.

For one long, enticing moment he entertained the thought that it would be better to get it over and done with, show her there was nothing to fear, introduce her to a world of pleasure…

One glance at her white face and the set, tight look around her mouth, and he relented.

It was his own desire talking, not her needs.

Dammit!

He’d promised her friendship, and forcing a frightened bride to his bed was not at all to his tastes. He looked at her beautiful mouth with more than a pang of regret. Perhaps later he would introduce her to the pleasure of a kiss. It would be something, at least. And who knew where it might lead?

“It’s not spite,” she said, surprising him. “When we get to England, I promise you I will do my duty as a wife.”

Do my duty.
That settled it. His body might ache for her, but
do my duty
killed any desire he had to bed her tonight.

When he finally made love to her, he vowed, duty would be the last thing on her mind.

They found a small tavern that could accommodate travelers. It was simple and rustic but very clean. “Two rooms,” Luke told the tavern keeper.

Seven

B
ella’s bedchamber was small and, to her eyes, charming, nestled high under the narrow eaves with whitewashed stone walls and a sloping ceiling. It had a bare wooden floor with a coiled rag rug, a small cast-iron stove in the corner, and a squashy-looking bed with a bright red coverlet. Best of all it had two small dormer windows that looked out across the tiled rooftops and down into the valley, though at the moment the view was just a glimmer of wet rooftops and a haze of rain.

It was as far from her bare, narrow cell at the convent as she could imagine.

Lord Ripton had ordered hot water and a tub to be brought up to her and a fire to be lit in her room. It glowed merrily, throwing out the heat. Bella hung up her damp clothing to dry in front of the fire and slid into the gently steaming water of the bath with a blissful sigh.

I will take good care of you
, he’d said, and it was true.

It might have made her feel more special if Lord Ripton
had not also seen that their horses were well rubbed down and given a hot mash, and their tack dried, cleaned, and oiled.

Lord Ripton took good care of all his possessions.

Bella Ripton, stop miserating over nothing, she told herself. He could be the kind of husband who beat an unsatisfactory wife. He could be a poxed old
vizconde
. Instead he was handsome, kind, and took good care of her. And his horses, and that was good, because she loved horses.

If he was also impersonal, stubborn, and autocratic, that was nothing to complain about. She had no reason to feel melancholy. Or even wistful. If she did, it was only because she was tired.

And because for years she’d been spinning foolish, impossible dreams about him in which he performed brave and gallant deeds, all for the love of Bella Ripton.

Not for
duty
.

The solution was clear. Stop dreaming and get on with her life, her
real
life. With her real husband, not some impossible make-believe one.

She finished bathing and changed into her other dress. She’d just shaken out her damp plaits and was kneeling in front of the stove, drying her hair, when there was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” she called without getting up.

She heard the door open, and then nothing. She twisted around and peered from beneath the curtain of hair. Lord Ripton stood on the threshold of the room, staring. A bottle and two slender wineglasses dangled from his hand.

“Did you want something?” she asked.

He collected himself and stepped inside, closing the door. “You won’t want to dine in the public area, so I’ve ordered dinner to be served in my room in fifteen minutes. I hope that will be sufficient time for you. I brought you some of our host’s own brew, a kind of homemade sloe brandy; aniseed with a hint of coffee and vanilla. It’s different, but very warming.” He half filled the glasses and passed one to her.

“Thank you.” Bella put her glass on the tiled hearth that surrounded the small cast-iron stove. “I just need to finish drying my hair. I’ll join you in a moment.”

He paused, then said, “I’ll wait.” He sat down on her bed and watched her.

With him in it her little bedchamber was suddenly a great deal smaller. Bella felt very self-conscious. He watched with silent intensity as she ran her fingers through her hair, separating the clumps to help them dry more quickly. It had gone so curly with the damp, a comb or brush would only make it worse.

Dinner to be served in his room? Why? It would make it a very intimate meal. He hadn’t been at all pleased with her insistence on two rooms. Was this a ploy to get her alone with him? To seduce her? A delicious frisson, a mix of nervousness, excitement, and awareness, skittered across her skin.

She bent low to dry the underneath, and as she was curtained in hair, the scent of convent soap surrounded her. She’d washed her hair the night before. Now she felt a pang of homesickness.

Ironic when for so long she’d been desperate to leave the convent.

“Is the drink not to your liking?” he asked, his deep voice sending a tingle down her spine.

Startled from her reverie, she picked up the glass and quickly drank. She coughed at the bittersweet aniseedy taste of it as it burned its way down.

His mouth twitched in what was almost the beginning of a smile. “Not used to drinking?”

“No, we always drank water, except at Mass, of course,” she admitted. The rich, sharp liquid pooled in her stomach, warming her blood, and she felt suddenly ravenous.

Her hair was almost dry, so she twisted it into a knot and thrust a couple of pins into it.

Outside, the rain intensified, beating lightly against the windows. Her stomach rumbled. Had he heard?

“Good thing we stopped when we did,” he observed.

She hoped he was talking about the rain. “Yes, thank you. It was very considerate of you.”

She picked up a shawl, but he took it from her. He stood behind her and wrapped her in it. His arms encircled her. He’d shaved. The faint scent of his cologne water enveloped her.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready.” It came out in a squeak. The brandy, she decided.

L
uke was glad he’d been able to arrange the private dinner. In such a small village tavern, he wasn’t sure they’d be able to manage it, but the landlord and his wife bustled about happily—nothing was too much trouble for an English milord and his wife. The stableboy carted a small table upstairs to Luke’s bedchamber, and the landlord waited on them personally while his wife cooked.

It was a remarkably fine dinner, too, for such a tiny, remote place: vegetable soup, hare stewed with figs, a mutton pie, and an omelette filled with salt cod and herbs. Isabella ate everything set before her with relish, and he was reminded of what Reverend Mother had said: she did indeed have a healthy appetite. It boded well for his plans…

The candlelight danced lightly across her face, caressing her full, dark lips, turning her eyes into pools of mystery. She ate in silence, but he could look at her face all night and not be bored.

Luke drank a local wine with his dinner, finding it dry and very much to his taste, but after one sip, Isabella had grimaced and set it aside. He gave the landlord a silent signal, and the man nodded and returned in a few moments, telling Isabella his wife had sent up some of her very own sweet apple cider for the young lady.

Isabella tasted it with a caution that would have amused Luke if he wasn’t focused entirely on the way her mouth  seemed to caress the glass. She liked it, gave the man a dazzling smile, and sent thanks and warm compliments to his wife.

Would she ever smile like that at Luke?

Her hair, twisted high on her head, curled around her face in a riot of feathery tendrils, clustering around her temple and nape. Loose in the firelight, it had been a gleaming, silken waterfall of darkness against the pale delicacy of the skin at her nape, a dozen shades of ebony twisting between her slender fingers like a live thing.

He’d longed to plunge his fingers into that thick, silken mass, place his mouth against that tender nape. Instead he’d sipped the liqueur, the taste of which would forever remind him of her. Unexpected combinations: dark, yet sweet and sharp. Cool on the outside; a slow burn within. Firing his appetite.