Bride By Mistake (21 page)

Luke would not allow the demons of his past to contaminate
his marriage. Or his bride. He returned to the inn, calm, cool, and firmly in control of his body and his marriage.

He’d been gone longer than ten minutes. He knocked quietly before unlocking the door, so as not to alarm her. As he entered, she sat up, lustrous dark tresses spilling over pale shoulders, a siren by candlelight. Damn.

“I thought you’d be asleep by now,” he said.

“No.” Her eyes were huge.

“I won’t be long.” He turned his back on her and quickly stripped to his undershirt and drawers. He normally slept nude. No chance of that tonight. Or any other night until they reached England, he reminded himself.

He blew out the candles and climbed into bed, careful not to touch her in any way. “Good night, Isabella.”

“You’re going to sleep?”

“Of course.” His body ached for release.

“But I thought…”

He clenched his jaw. He knew what she thought. Damn him for a fool. “I promised you time,” he reminded her. “I keep my promises.”

Silence followed, and just as he was starting to hope she’d fallen asleep, she said, “I’m glad you came after me, today.”

What did one say to that? “Good,” he said crisply. And then, before she could turn it into a conversation, he said again, “Good night.”

The truth was, it was too damned intimate, lying there side by side in the dark, talking. He never shared beds with women. Not to sleep. And certainly not to talk. It was unexpectedly… companionable.

“In what direction will we ride tomorrow?”

He thought about not answering, pretending to be asleep, but in the end said, “We’re only a day and a half away from Valle Verde, so we might as well go on.”

She gasped. “But I thought—”

“You were right,” he admitted. “If Molly was in the hands of some villain, nothing would stop me from rescuing her. But if your sister isn’t at Valle Verde, I warn you now, we’re
turning around and going straight to England. I won’t go on a wild-goose—”

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” She hugged his back.

He stiffened. “Don’t do that!”

“But I was just thanking—”

“Unless you want this to be your wedding night—” He ground out the words. “Stay on your own side of the bed.”

There was a long silence. Finally, Luke thought, she’d settled for the night.

And then her words came out of the darkness, soft and low, but very, very clear. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Ten

T
he words hung in the stillness of the night. She wouldn’t
mind
?

Luke’s body reacted before he could think of a thing to say. Well, of course it did; it had been primed all evening.

For a moment or two he battled with himself. Why not? They were married, after all. Why deny himself if she didn’t mind? His body was on fire for her. All he had to do was turn over. There she was, warm, beautiful, and willing, there for the taking.

He repressed a groan. Could he get any harder?

But begin as you mean to go on. His earlier resolutions came back to him.

Her warm, soft body lay a breath away. He could smell the enticing, intoxicating scent of her, in the room, in the bed.

She wouldn’t mind.

He closed his eyes, trying to block out her gentle siren call.

He would not fall in thrall to a woman again.

“No.” He ground out the word. “Go to sleep.”

“Oh,” she said in a small voice. And then, after a moment, “Good night then.” Did she sound… disappointed? The bedclothes shifted as she turned on her side, away from him.

He didn’t move. He couldn’t move. “Good night.” Aware of how curt he sounded, compunction pricked him, even as the part of his brain that strove for control applauded.

From the outside, marriage had seemed so simple.

He closed his eyes again and tried to sleep. Beside him Isabella shifted and wriggled. And shifted again.

They were so far apart in the bed they weren’t even touching, but Luke was achingly aware of every movement.

She made little noises in her throat and thrashed her feet around. What the hell… ?

After a minute or two, he’d had enough. “Go to sleep,” he ordered.

“I’m trying.”

“It might help if you stopped wriggling around.”

“I can’t help it,” she said. “I think… Ouch! Something’s biting me. Biting my legs.”

Bedbugs? But nothing had bitten him. It was a ploy, he thought. Some feminine ploy to get his attention, to punish him, to torture him further. Though it was his own fault he was feeling tortured, he had to admit.

He got out of bed and turned up the lantern. “Let me see.” He flipped back the bedclothes and bent over her legs. Sure enough, he could see half a dozen little red marks. And a black spot that jumped.

“Fleas!” he exclaimed. “Dammit, there are fleas in this bed!”

“I told you something was biting me.” Isabella jumped out of the bed and peered over Luke’s shoulder at the sheets. “What’ll we do?”

“Get the blasted landlord to change the blasted bed!” Luke strode to the door, flung it open, and shouted for the landlord. Isabella grabbed his greatcoat, shrugged it on, and waited on the mat beside the stove.

In a moment the landlord came hurrying up dressed in
trousers pulled hastily on over a striped nightshirt. He was followed by the improbable redhead, dressed in a bright pink flannel nightgown and shawl. Short, plump, and with her crimson hair pinned up haphazardly, she folded her arms and regarded Luke with disapproval. “
Señor?
”

He glared at her husband. “There are fleas in this bed, dammit!”

The woman sniffed. “Never! Not in my inn!”

“
Sí, señor
, this is a very clean inn—” the landlord assured him.

“The cleanest inn in all of Aragon!” his wife said, her black eyes snapping with anger.

“No fleas, no bedbugs,” the landlord finished.

“Rubbish!” Luke was outraged. “They’ve bitten my wife and I saw one for myself. Look!” He grabbed the landlord by the arm, dragged him across to the bed, and pointed. “Fleas!”

Then he turned to the wife. “And you, look at my wife’s feet!”

The woman sniffed again and marched crossly over to where Isabella stood, disbelief radiating in every inch of her small person. She bent down, made an exclamation, and bent lower.

“Fleas, Carlos!” she said in an outraged voice. “Fleas, in
my
inn!” She jumped, pressed a finger to her own ankle, then squished the trapped flea between her thumbnails. She peered at Isabella’s bare feet, and then at her own slippered ones, and then at the rag rug. “They’re in this rug!” she exclaimed suddenly. “Carlos, come and see.”

“Carlos, open the window,” Luke snapped.

The landlord, caught between his wife and Luke, chose to obey Luke.

In an instant Luke rolled the flea-ridden rag rug up and hurled it out the window into the street below.

Isabella clapped and danced restlessly on her toes, hopping from foot to foot.

The fierce little lady turned on her husband. “I
told
you not to let that man bring his dogs inside the other night, but
oh no, you were impressed by a title, bowing and scraping and accepting his bribes—and look where it’s got you! Fleas in
my inn
! Look at the lady’s poor feet!”

The man bent to look and she biffed him over the head. “Modesty!” she hissed. “You don’t stare at a lady’s bare feet! Don’t you know anything? Bitten to pieces she is, poor lady, and what must she think of this place?”

Luke suddenly realized why his wife was moving about so oddly. She was still being bitten, dammit. Luke picked her up and held her against his chest.

“What are you doing?”

“You were hopping around. I assumed you were still being attacked.”

She smiled. “My feet were cold, that’s all.”

“Oh.” But he made no move to put her down. The floor was still cold, after all. And she couldn’t wait in a flea-ridden bed.

“Aren’t I too heavy?”

He snorted. She was a featherweight.

“I want another room,” he informed the landlord. “With clean sheets and fresh bedding. And no rugs. Now!”

The man’s wife spoke for him. “A thousand apologies,
señor
, but this is a small inn and there is no other private bedchamber, only the public room, which is not suitable for a gentleman and lady such as yourselves. But I will put this right, be assured.”

She went to the doorway, put two fingers in her mouth, and emitted an earsplitting whistle. In seconds servants came running.

“Get rid of this mattress and bedding,” she ordered. “To the stables with it. You, fetch the gentleman a fresh mattress. You, clean sheets, the ones off the line this morning, and fresh bedding. And you—” She stabbed a finger at a sleepy-looking maidservant. “Mop the floor. Boiling water, steep in it a handful of sage, two of lavender, and one of mint, leave for five minutes, then strain and use it to mop the floor with.”

While they scrambled to do her bidding, she turned to Luke and Isabella. “My deepest apologies for the inconvenience,
señor
,
señora
, but last week my idiot of a husband allowed a gentleman to bring his hounds inside.” She darted an evil look at her husband. “Against all my rules. This is what happens when I go to visit my sister!”

“He assured me they had no fleas—” the big man almost tearfully protested.

“Pfft! Have you ever seen a dog without a flea?” she said scornfully and turned back to Luke. “The dogs must have slept on that rug, and the fleas have bred in the warmth. Never mind, it will be all clean and good again in a few minutes and Carlos will bring you some of the best brandy,
señor
, and maybe some hot chocolate for your lady.”

Carlos disappeared, and the servants removed the old mattress and bedding and carried in a fresh one.

“Wool stuffing,” the landlady told Luke and Isabella. “New washed and dried in the sun. And the same with the sheets and blankets.” She gave Isabella a smile. “Now then, my lady, you let your good man take care of you while I fetch some salve to take away the itch.”

“Perhaps I could wait on the chair,” Isabella suggested.

Luke stood her on the chair. There could still be fleas on the floor.

She sat, drawing her knees up to her chin, and waited wrapped in his greatcoat. She looked like a little street urchin in his too-big coat, with her bare, bitten toes poking out.

The maid arrived with a mop and steaming bucket. Under her mistress’s supervision she thoroughly mopped the floor while the other servants shook out the clean sheets and bedding.

In minutes the bed was made up, the floor gleamed, and the room smelled of lavender and mint. The landlady handed Isabella a small jar of ointment, saying, “This will help with the itching. Sleep well, my lady. Once again, my apologies,
señor
. Now, out, out the rest of you, the gentleman and lady wish to sleep.” She swept everyone from the room. As the door closed behind her, they heard, “And Carlos, you can explain to me why I should not make you sleep in the stable on that flea-ridden mattress?”

Isabella giggled. “Poor Carlos, do you think she’ll carry out her threat?”

“Serves him right if she does,” Luke growled.

Isabella unstoppered the jar and cautiously sniffed the contents. “Not bad.” She began to apply the ointment to her bites.

She twisted awkwardly to reach the back of her thighs. “Do you want a hand with that?” Luke asked her.

“Yes, please.”

She gave him the jar, turned her back, and raised the hem of her nightgown, revealing slender, creamy limbs that caused his mouth to dry.

“Behind my knee,” she said, and he dipped a finger in the mix and dabbed it on the small red mark at the back of her knee. Her flesh was silky and tender there, and he stroked it under the guise of applying the ointment.

“Can you see any more?” she asked and lifted the nightgown higher, almost to her bottom.

He wanted to run his hands up her legs, caress her softness, but he’d made a resolution and was determined to stick to it.

“That’s it,” he said. His voice sounded hoarse. He replaced the stopper and set the jar down on the washstand. “Now, perhaps we can finally get some sleep.”

But he knew before she even turned around on the chair to face him, before she said, “Thank you,” in that soft voice, that he’d lost the battle.

She turned and swayed toward him. Or did he sway toward her? He didn’t know. All he knew was that his arms wrapped around her almost of their own accord, as if separate from his will.

For a long moment he held her, pressing his face against her stomach, breathing in the scent of her through the cotton nightgown. He felt her fingers in his hair, caressing him, and he carried her to the bed and laid her down on the sweet-smelling sheets. Her hair spread out over the pillow, a tangle of twisted darkness, like the feelings seething inside him.

He kissed her then, a gossamer touching of lips at first,
barely a taste—she was an innocent, he had to remember to go slowly—but she made a little humming noise deep in her throat, twined her arms around his neck, and drew him closer.