Ever His Bride (43 page)

“Oh, nothing, Hunter, I was just— Oh,
there!”

Hunter wanted to kiss her where warm fleece
and ardent flesh met pristine linen. Then, as if her thoughts were
his, the bulk of her skirt dropped onto his arms, and with it, the
single petticoat. He let the tangle of fabric fall around her
ankles and cover the tree stump at her feet.

“Will you never cease to amaze me, wife?” He
pulled aside a pantalet leg and spread his hand inside across her
belly. She was wood smoke and breezes, the damp fragrance of the
earth. And she was quaking, digging her fingers into his shoulders
and calling his name. He parted her gently with his fingertips,
playing softly there to hear her sighs, until she was open to him
like a flower. Then he slid his tongue along the sleek ridges and
lush folds.

“Yes, Hunter, do!” She gave a sighing sob,
and her knees buckled. He cradled her backside and took her weight
in his hands as she pressed her magnificence against his mouth. He
made love to her fire, and she lifted her voice to the night
wind.

But he took his time and teased her deeply,
and urged her legs apart; then kissed her there.

“Please, Hunter,” she repeated, a whimper
now, a plea.

He slid his mouth upward, his fingers working
at the annoyingly tiny buttons on her bodice. It was a
workingwoman’s shirt, built like a man’s but tailored to her shape,
and uncorseted. He met her hands halfway up the panel of buttons
and the shirt fell open, and her firm, tawny nipples dragged across
his lips and tongue, driving his need for her. He cupped her breast
and played at its velvet peak, and his hand found its way back to
the seductive split in her drawers, to waiting flesh and her
gasping sighs.

“I need you, Hunter!”

Yet he wondered if she needed him as deeply,
or as profoundly, as he needed her. He had almost walked out of her
life; he’d offered her freedom, wealth, and she hadn’t taken
it.

“Wrap your arms around my neck, sweet.”

She did as he bid, leaving a moan and then a
flickering tongue against his ear. He lifted her backside and fit
her dampness against his belly as he sat down with her on his lap.
The dying fire gilded her brow, smoothing her skin to golden
velvet. She was working at the buttons of his trousers, then his
drawers.

“Aren’t you cold without a shirt?” she
asked.

His “no” was more of a groan as she slipped
her cool hands into his trousers and cradled him. Ice and heat, and
he was blinded by ecstasy.

“Do you think, Hunter, that Lord and Lady
Meath have ever done this sort of thing?”

“Another question? Ah, woman!” Her hands
seemed to be everywhere at once, an erotic bliss pinning stars to
the backs of his eyes.

“I mean”—she whispered as she nibbled the
ridge of his shoulder and fondled him—“have they ever found
pleasure in their glasshouse among the bamboo and the orange
trees?”

“That isn’t the— Ahh . . . !” Hunter dropped
his forehead onto her shoulder. He blocked the urge to sheath
himself deeply; such an out-of control moment would send him over
the edge, and he wasn’t yet ready to leave the circle of her arms,
nor hide himself from her fiery fingers. “Not the sort of thing we
discuss at the Claybourne Exchange.”

She rocked forward and fit him against her.
“I was just wondering if this was . . . well, ordinary.”

“Dear wife,” Hunter said, gazing through a
soft haze at the dying fire and the ring of trees and the wild halo
of gold that the lamp made of her hair. “I haven’t done anything
ordinary since I met you. I doubt I ever will again.”

Her shirt hung open, exposing a perfect
breast made milky in the moonlight. He lifted his hips as she
enveloped him, and the pleasure was so great he went still. She
sucked in her breath and held him, as motionless as he, her arms as
sure as her faith in him.

“Oh, how I love you, Hunter.” Her laughter
caressed his cheek and then his shaft, and his restraint finally
fragmented.

“Wife!” He thrust himself to the hilt, a
peaceful and tormenting place to be held. The love in her eyes kept
him as tightly bound as her sheath, and he wondered how his dread
had turned to such unfamiliar delight. Half an hour ago he had
wished her out of his life, and now he couldn’t imagine living
without her.

“Come with me, Hunter. Stay with me forever.”
Felicity felt the solid shaft of him quake and shudder inside her,
felt the hot spill of his seed, and followed him into an ecstasy
that rolled on and on, until she was spent and drifting. And he was
calling her name, calling her
wife.

She began to giggle, try as she might not
to.

“I’ll thank you not to laugh, woman.” He was
still gasping for air and looked overly outraged.

“I’m sorry, Hunter, but I suddenly had a very
clear image of Lord Meath chasing after you and his wallet down
Threadneedle Street—”

“I made a point of not looking into
faces.”

She settled her cheek against his shoulder.
“Well, if you ever did steal Meath’s wallet, you’ve repaid him a
thousand-fold. You have everything to be proud of, Hunter—”

“It’s not a matter of pride, Felicity.” He
was still full and warm inside her, but he stood up with her in his
arms, and left her aching when he slipped out of her and set her on
her feet. He turned his back while he repaired the front of his
trousers.

“I am proud of my accomplishments. But you
must understand that I can’t risk my reputation—I’d be crucified if
they ever found out. Trust is the principal commodity of the
Claybourne Exchange. My clients want secure and sizeable profits,
and that’s what I give them. My honest pledge, my good name—I am
made of nothing else. I’m worth nothing if I lose that to a
tarnished reputation. I’m a breath away from gaining a position
with the Board of Trade, and I won’t risk that for anything in this
world. Not anything.”

He seemed to have placed deliberate emphasis
on the word “anything,” as if to remind her of her rank in his
life.

“I see,” she said, cursing the sting of tears
for her lack of faith.

“Felicity . . .” He turned back to her,
looking as embarrassed as he should for making such a statement.
“You see, I. . . it can’t be any other way for me.”

She wanted to give him a good kick in the
shins. “And you still consider me a risk?”

“The very biggest in my life. Ever.” He
seemed roundly serious and Felicity found a superior kind of
contentment in the idea. If he thought her such a risk, then she
must mean at least as much to him as his name, perhaps more. The
poor man just didn’t realize it yet.

“You’re a very great fool, Hunter.” She
plucked idly at the scattering of dark hair on his chest. “When I
was a little girl, my father had a saying for those times when I
held back in fear of some new adventure.”

Hunter looked as if he didn’t want to hear
it. “Go on.”

“Father would say, ‘Felicity, although a
train is safe in a station, that’s not what a train is for.’”

Hunter snorted. “No wonder the man left you
penniless.”

“Oh, but, he didn’t, Mr. Claybourne. He left
me the richest man in England.”

“W
ell done, Miss
Mayfield!” Mr. Dolan rocked back in his chair and tugged at his
mustache, then read on: “‘Among the insupportable evils of the
cheap-shoe trade is the employment of apprentice schools students,
wherein innocent and abandoned orphans are subjected to working
conditions barely tolerable to the most hardened of adults.’ Yes,
yes, fine copy!”

“It’s the truth, Mr. Dolan. I saw it with my
own eyes.” But as usual, Dolan was lost in his reading, and paying
little attention to her.

“Oh, and this is good, too: ‘No wages are
paid to these wretched children, who are fed floured water and must
work eighteen-hour days or be strapped for their slothfulness.’
This is wonderful, my girl!”

“There’s nothing wonderful about it, Mr.
Dolan. Calling an appalling factory an apprentice school is an
abomination. These are no more than institutions for enslaving
helpless children for the purposes of making cheap shoes for the
large emporiums and shops. Which, in turn make large profits for
factory owners behind these ‘schools’. I’ll have you know that my
own shoes are now made by hand in Hampstead, by a man whose
overindulgent wife feeds him too much roast beef. My aim is to
close down all of the apprentice schools.”

“Yes, yes,” Dolan said, waving away her
enthusiasm as he scanned the pages. “Here you’ve got store names,
too. Good. Good. And proprietors—”

“Wherever I could find the names. And holding
companies, as well. You remember Adam Skinner, the reporter who
left you for the
Times?
He helped me immeasurably.”

“Well, my girl, you’ve done a right good job
of raking up a dust cloud here.”

“So, you’ll print the article in the
Hearth and Heath?”

Dolan leaned forward in his over-sprung chair
and rubbed his palms together. “Oh, I’ll make sure it’s printed.
And widely circulated.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Dolan! Thank you.” She’d
submitted so little lately, and nothing of her travels, she was
sure the man would send her packing. “This will mean so much to the
children.”

“So much to us all—Mrs. Claybourne.” He
smiled significantly, and Felicity wished he weren’t quite so eager
about her name.

“Perhaps I should use a pen name, Mr. Dolan.
Or my maiden name.”

He lifted himself from his chair and guided
her toward the door. “Oh, no, no. You must use your married name,
Felicity. Think of the influence you will have over the opinions of
the public, with a name like Claybourne. Who would listen to an
unknown Felicity Mayfield crying out against the abuse of children?
Boo- hoo!”

“Well—”

“There, you see! No one would give your
opinions the time of day. But Mrs. Hunter Claybourne—now, there is
a name that draws attention! If Claybourne’s wife says that these
vile, apprentice-school prisons need to be closed down and their
proprietors sent to jail, then people in authority are bound to
listen.”

Felicity had made quite sure that Hunter
hadn’t invested his money in any company that used these apprentice
schools, nor did he employ children. No possible way to sully his
name. Lady Meath herself had praised him for allowing his wife to
do charity work in the slums. He would be admired, not vilified.
And no one would have any reason to question his past as a result
of her story.

“All right, then, Mr. Dolan. Use my married
name.” Miss Felicity Mayfield might not be able to save all the
children single-handedly, but Mrs. Hunter Claybourne was going to
set the public’s collective ears on fire.

She left Dolan’s office and met Branson on
the stoop.

“A good meeting, Mrs. Claybourne?” he asked,
helping her into the carriage.

“A fine meeting, Branson.” The man seemed to
have endless patience with her errands, and she blessed Hunter for
letting her use Branson’s services whenever she needed him. So much
more efficient than hailing cabs on her own, or walking from one
end of London to another.

She sat down in the carriage and found Giles
sitting across from her, looking more apple-cheeked than ever.

Branson stuck his head in the doorway. “The
boy said he had a delivery for you.”

Giles patted a huge, brown paper-wrapped
bundle on his lap. “Donations,” he said, his grin way too
prideful.

“Donations of what?”

“Shirts.”

“Where did you get them?” Fearing the worst,
she retrieved the bundle and began unwrapping it.

“In Leicester Street. ”

“And someone gave these to you as a
donation?”

Giles laughed hard. “Give ’em to me? Oh, no,
Mrs. Claybourne, I ‘propriated ‘em from a cart out back o’ the
linen shop.”

“Oh, Giles, no.” She groaned at the boy’s
admiration of his own cleverness, but couldn’t fault an
enterprising lad who was so like the man she’d married. “You stole
the shirts?”

He threw up his hands. “Well, the clerk isn’t
going to just give ‘em to me. Pretty good pickin’s for a pup in a
poke.”

Felicity glanced at Branson. He’d been
waiting for directions to the next errand. He raised an eyebrow.
“To Leicester Street, ma’am?”

Felicity nodded. “Thank you, Branson.”

Giles threw himself back into the seat, arms
crossed against his chest and pouted as Branson turned the carriage
into Fleet Street. “They have a million shirts in that shop.
They’re not going to miss a few.”

“That’s not the point, Giles. Stealing is
wrong. And besides, if you’re caught, you’ll find yourself
stitching more than shoe-tops this time around. And then I’ll have
to rescue you again, and Mr. Claybourne will be very angry, and I
know you don’t want to go through that again, anymore than I
do.”