Harlequin Historical September 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: Lord Havelock's List\Saved by the Viking Warrior\The Pirate Hunter (11 page)

She shook herself. What did married ladies do when their husbands were out on business, that was what she should be thinking about. Drank tea, probably. There. That was something she could do. She would definitely feel better for a cup.

She rang for a servant, and before much longer she had not only tea, but also a selection of cakes and sandwiches brought up. As the waiter set them out on one of the many small tables scattered about the sitting room, she had to suppress a wild urge to giggle. It was like being a little girl, play-acting at being a princess, clapping her hands only to have invisible servants magic up food and drink out of thin air.

She couldn't look at him as he bowed himself out of the room, lest she really did burst out laughing. And so, when the door slammed, she was looking in exactly the right direction to see a sheet of paper, lodged under her husband's bedroom door, flutter in the draught.

Even from where she was sitting she could see it was some kind of list. And the moment she registered what it was, she recalled him saying how many things he had to remember, how he'd frowningly pulled not just one, but two lists out of his coat pocket the day he'd called to discuss arrangements.

Oh, dear, she hoped this one wasn't important. But if it was, perhaps she could summon up one of the hotel genies to whisk it to the meeting he was having. That would prove what a good and useful wife he'd married.

She bent down and pulled it out from under the door, her eyes snagging on the first item.

Compliant
, it said, in an elegant copperplate script. And then next to it, in heavier, darker letters, another hand had added,
A Mouse
.

What kind of list was this?

Needn't have any dowry.

Oh. Oh! She clapped one hand to her mouth as she read the next item:
Won't demand a society wedding.

This wasn't a list of things he needed to remember at all, but a list of what he was looking for in a wife.

A Mouse
, the heavier hand had scrawled next to the bit about the ceremony, and underlined it.

Not of the upper ten thousand
, her shocked eyes discovered next.

Orphan.

Her stomach roiled as she recalled the look on Lord Havelock's face when she'd told him, that fateful night at the Crimmers', that she'd just lost her mother. She'd thought he couldn't possibly have looked pleased to hear she was all alone in the world, that surely she must have been mistaken.

But she hadn't been.

She tottered back to the tea table and sank on to the chair the waiter had so helpfully drawn up to it. And carried on reading.

Not completely hen-witted
, the sloppier of the two writers had added. And she suddenly understood that cryptic comment he'd made about finding a wife with brains. Suggested by someone called...Ashe, that was it. How she could remember a name tossed out just the once, in such an offhand way, she could not think.

Unless it was because she felt as though the beautiful little dainties set out on their fine china plates might as well have been so many piles of ash, for all the desire she had now to put one in her mouth.

Good with children
,
Not selfish
, the darker hand had scrawled. Then it was back to the neater hand again. It had written,
Modest
,
Honest
and
Not looking for affection from matrimony
. And then the untidier, what she'd come to think of as the more sarcastic, compiler of wifely qualities had written the word
Mouse
again, and this time underlined it twice.

But what made a small whimper of distress finally escape her lips was the last item on the list.

Need not be pretty.

Need not be pretty. Well, that was her, all right! Plain, dowdy, mouse that she was. No wonder he'd looked at her as though—what was it Aunt Pargetter had said—as though his ship had come in?

But which of the men who'd compiled that list had harped on about the need to find a mouse, that was the question that now burned in her brain like a fever. Had Havelock's been the hand to scrawl that word, not once, but three times?

Getting to her feet, she strode to his bedroom door and flung it open. Somehow she had to find a sample of his handwriting to see if he'd been the one to...to mock her this way, before he'd even met her. And then she would... She came to an abrupt halt by his desk, across the surface of which was scattered a veritable raft of papers. What would she do? She'd already married him.

With shaking hands she began to sift through what looked like a heap of bills, some of them on the hotel's headed notepaper. Until she came to what was unmistakably a letter.
Dear Lady Peverell
, it began. There was another underneath, in the same bold scrawl, which started,
Dear Chepstow
. She flipped to the bottom of the page. The one to Lady Peverell was signed
Havelock
. And she couldn't help noticing, on her way to the end of the sheet, that he was informing her of his marriage. He hadn't got very far with the other letter, so there was no signature, but it began in the same vein. Except...

Oh! He'd informed his friend that
She meets all the requirements we fixed on, bar one
.

The room seemed to swim as several facts all jostled rudely into her mind at once. This Chepstow person had taken part in compiling the wife list. Ashe was another. Were theirs the two sets of handwriting? And then there was Morgan. She'd wondered why Lord Havelock had come to such an unfashionable place as the Crimmers', but now she understood perfectly. He had been looking for a wife who didn't come from the upper ten thousand and Mr Morgan had made it possible to meet one, by taking him there.

So, Mr Morgan, too, must know about the infamous list.

And how many others?

She had a sickening vision of half a dozen drunken bucks sitting round a table in some crowded tavern, suggesting what Lord Havelock should look for in a wife who would be so grateful to receive a proposal at all, that she'd never dare lift her voice in complaint about any treatment he might decide to mete out.

With an expression of disgust, she dropped the list on to the rest of his papers and hurried from his room.

Which didn't look like a palace out of a fairy tale any longer, but a gilded cage.

A cage she'd walked into with her eyes wide open.

Or so she'd thought. But that was before she'd discovered he'd made out a list of what he wanted from a wife. Just as though he was going shopping for groceries!

She stood quite still, eyes closed, head bowed against the tide of humiliation that washed over her.

She was such a fool.

He'd been honest with her from the start. He'd told her he was looking for a convenient wife. That he'd been in a hurry to get one, so that he could get on with the far more important business of rescuing Julia.

At what point had she forgotten that? When had she started hoping there might be a glimmer of truth in what Aunt Pargetter said about him falling for her? Men didn't need to even
like
a woman to want to get her naked and in a bed. She knew that. She'd been brought up in a coastal town swarming with lusty sailors, for heaven's sake!

She clasped her hands to her waist as her middle lurched almost painfully. How on earth could she possibly have thought that such a handsome, wealthy, titled man would suddenly become enamoured of a penniless, plain little...
mouse
of a creature like her? She'd mistaken his relief at finding a compliant, orphaned, modest woman to be his convenient wife so quickly for delight in
her
.

She shook her head. It had been useless flinging the list back amongst his other papers. The words of it were scored into her brain as though carved with a knife.

The sound of footsteps striding along the corridor had her opening her eyes and gazing in horror at the door. She couldn't face him, in all his good humour, not now, not while she felt so...wounded!

To her relief, the feet kept on walking. It must just have been another guest returning to his room, or one of the hotel staff bustling about their business.

Still, it had been a warning. With fingers that shook, she poured some tea into her cup, selected a pastry at random and put it on to a plate. If he walked in now, he would simply see a woman taking tea. She would make her face show nothing of what she felt.

And she would
not
weep.

* * *

When Lord Havelock eventually returned, she was still doggedly dry-eyed. Sitting stock-still at the table with her cup of tea, untouched, in front of her.

‘Sitting in the dark?' He frowned at her as she started, then stared at him as though she wasn't quite sure who he was.

‘You should have rung for candles.' He strode across and tugged on the bell pull. ‘And the fire has almost gone out, too.'

She turned, slowly, to look at it.

‘At least you've had something to eat...' He frowned as he noted that nothing appeared to have been touched. Even her teacup was full.

Though her eyes were empty.

‘I've been a perfect beast, haven't I,' he said, pulling up the other chair to the table and grasping her hands. ‘To leave you alone for such a long time.' He raised each hand in turn, kissing it penitently.

She looked at him in confusion. No wonder she'd started to think he was developing some real affection for her. But this was just...gallantry. If she'd had any experience of suitors, in the past, she would have known that this was how men behaved with women. That it meant nothing.

He should have picked either Dotty or Lotty. Either of them would have coped with him far, far better than she was doing.

‘Well,' he said, starting to chafe her hands between his own. ‘I've achieved everything I needed to get done today, so now I'm all yours.' He gave an uneasy laugh. ‘Though from the look you're giving me that information doesn't exactly please you. Dash it, where's that waiter? Your hands are like ice. Your feet, too, I dare say.'

She thought she'd kept her face impassive, but something must have shown, for he shook his head and said ruefully, ‘Ah, Mary. You don't have anything to worry about. On my word of honour, I'll do better from now on. To start with, we'll have a slap-up meal, and...and talk to each other. Yes? Not downstairs in one of the public rooms, but up here, since you are looking a little...'

Plain? Mousy? Not smartly dressed enough to be able to look the well-heeled clientele in the eye?

‘Uncomfortable,' he finished.

‘I...I don't feel very hungry,' she said. ‘Today has been...just a bit...rather...'

‘Hasn't it, though? Not two weeks ago I thought I'd
never
get married. Now here I am in a hotel room with my bride, on my wedding night. Takes your breath away, don't it?'

She nodded.

‘Do you know what I think?'

She shook her head. That was the trouble. She kept imagining he was thinking things he'd told her point-blank he wasn't going to think.

‘I think by leaving you hanging all afternoon, you've ended up feeling like a game bird ready for plucking. And that I ought to set about making you feel like a bride, instead.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I think you know very well what I mean,' he growled, pulling her to her feet.

She uttered a squeak of surprise when he hefted her into his arms.

A woman with more pride, she expected, would have put up some form of protest.

Mary put her arms round his neck, buried her face in his shoulder and clung to his solid warmth as he strode with her over to his bedroom.

Chapter Seven

H
e tumbled them both on to the bed and kissed her with an ardour that left her breathless. And strangely comforted.

Even though he'd only chosen her with his head, not his heart, he had chosen
her
. There must be dozens of poor, plain, penniless orphans in London, yet he hadn't looked any further once he'd met her.

And, yes, maybe that was only because he was in such a hurry to get married, but...

With a moan that was half distress, half desperation, she curled her fingers into the luxuriant softness of his hair and kissed him back for all she was worth.

They were married now. Did it really matter how it had come about? No. It was what they made of their future that mattered.

Her response brought a feral growl of appreciation from his throat. And then, for a few moments, it was as though he had been let off some invisible leash. His hands were all over her while his body strained against hers in a way that thrilled her to the soles of her boots.

His excitement called to something buried deep in the heart of her. Something wild and wanton that came roaring to life and swept aside her every inhibition. Her hands were every bit as greedy as his, seeking and stroking and learning. She couldn't get close enough to him. She wanted to wrap herself round him. Press every single inch of her against every marvellously thrilling inch of him.

Until, quite without warning, he reared back.

‘This is going too fast,' he panted, frowning.

‘What do you mean?' It all felt perfectly wonderful to her.

‘This is your first time,' he gritted out between clenched teeth. ‘I should be taking it far more slowly. Making it good for you.'

Well, she couldn't argue with that. After all the horrible things she'd read on that list, the dreadful afternoon she'd spent sitting alone, cold and brutally wounded, the least he could do was make
this
part of their marriage good.

He'd closed his eyes on a grimace. When he opened them again, only a few seconds later, he'd calmed down considerably.

‘I didn't even pause to get our shoes off.' He sighed, with a shake of his head.

He sat up, scooted down the bed and rapidly unlaced her rather worn leather half-boots. Aunt Pargetter had wanted to get her some dainty footwear to go with her wedding finery, but there hadn't been time. And she'd thought her own comfortable boots would stand her in better stead, considering the coldness of the season. Only now did she wish she'd taken them off herself, during the hours he'd been away seeing his lawyers.

He didn't say anything about the patched soles, or the worn-down heels, but his frown did deepen once his fingers encountered her stockinged feet.

‘Your feet are like ice! Well, that won't do.' Taking her left foot between both hands, he first chafed it, then raised it to his mouth to plant a hot kiss on the sole. The action sent her skirts slithering up her legs.

His hot eyes followed their movement. Swiftly followed by his hands.

‘I need to get these stockings off,' he said, as though warning her of his intent.

She shivered with pleasure when he deftly undid her garter, then slid one stocking down.

‘Cold?'

She shook her head. Far from it. It felt as though a bolt of lightning streaked from the heat of his hands against her bared skin, right to her very core. She subsided into the pillows again, luxuriating in the sensations he evoked whilst removing her other stocking—with slow deliberation.

Her eyes half-closed, she watched with growing interest as he got up, shrugged off his jacket, undid his shirt and yanked it impatiently off over his head.

He had, without doubt, the most impressive masculine torso she'd ever seen. And she had seen many. Sailors often worked in just their ragged breeches, when loading and unloading ships during the hottest months of the year.

But she'd always averted her gaze and hurried past. She'd never been even remotely tempted to pause and drink her fill of any single one of them. She hadn't struggled to keep her hands neatly placed at her sides, rather than reaching out and running her fingers over each clearly delineated muscle. Or thought about letting her tongue follow in the wake of her fingers. Or got a mad urge to lick her way up that strong column of a masculine throat to the stubbled texture of his chin.

Not that she was bold enough to do any such thing. Besides, he'd just said he was going to make it good for her. And part of her, the part that was still smarting over the things she'd read on the list, wanted him to exert himself to make it up to her. Not that he would be aware he was doing any such thing, but still, she would know.

Anyway, he inadvertently helped her to resist the temptation by sitting down on the edge of the bed to remove his boots, which gave her eyes an entirely new view to appreciate. His back. The broad shoulders, the ridges of muscle down either side of his spine, which disappeared into the narrow waistband of his breeches.

She was a little disappointed when he drew the line at removing them. Although perhaps it was only fair. After all, she was still in her gown. Not that it took him long to take it off her once he set to it. My, but he certainly knew his way round lacings, and corsets.

Her heart was beating nineteen to the dozen by the time he lay down beside her and put his arm about her shoulders. The dexterity he'd just displayed with her clothing convinced her that he truly could make this experience good for her.

Even though he wasn't all that proficient at flirting and charming his way into a woman's bed, it didn't mean he hadn't had encounters of an...earthy nature, with willing women.

Willing? Oh, what an inadequate word. If any of them had guessed what kind of body he concealed beneath his casually comfortable clothing, plenty of them would have ripped them off just to get their greedy hands on it.

Just as she wanted to get her own hands on it.

She was so glad he didn't wear the kind of clothing that showed his stunning physique to better advantage. If he'd needed a couple of valets to peel a tightly fitted coat from those bulging biceps, she would have missed the enthralling spectacle of him gradually revealing more and more of his masculinity for her eyes alone.

He wouldn't have been able to just take her to bed because he felt it was time, either. She liked that they could be spontaneous about this, rather than having to involve servants.

She reached for him as he ran his fingers through her hair—hair that had come out of its fastenings during their first bout of kissing on this bed.

As she ran her hands down his back, glorying in the fact that there were no longer any clothes to impede her exploration, it occurred to her that a ‘modest' woman wouldn't be doing this. Wouldn't have clawed her way under his waistcoat and writhed up against him like some kind of snake when he'd tumbled her on to the bed earlier, either. Nor would a ‘modest' woman let her husband strip her naked at four in the afternoon—even if daylight was fading—and be glad of the way firelight bathed the room in a warm glow, so she could feast her eyes on her new husband's magnificent masculine nakedness.

But then, nor would a man who truly wanted a modest wife be looking at her like that—as if he wanted to devour her.

Which was pretty much what he did next, tasting and nibbling her all over as though she was some rare delicacy. He didn't leave an inch of her unexplored. And everywhere he put his mouth, he left behind such glorious feelings she didn't know how to describe them.

She bit down on her lower lip when he finally stroked her legs apart and began trailing kisses up the inside of her thighs.

Her aunt Pargetter had warned her, during a private little talk the night before, that the things her husband might wish to do to her, once in the marriage bed, might seem strange and perhaps a little frightening at first. She had advised her against resisting, or protesting, because nine times out of ten he would have more of an idea what would end up making it lovely.

It was all she could do not to laugh out loud. Resist him? Protest about this? Oh, no. The slow slide of his tongue, the little nips of his teeth, combined with the firm caresses of those strong hands, those knowing fingers, were exactly what she wanted.

Oh, very well, so her aunt had got part of it right. He did know more than her about this.

And he was taking the time to make it lovely for her, too. Which was somewhat surprising, considering he'd so far given the impression of always being in a hurry to get things done.

There was just one awkward little interlude, after he'd shucked off his breeches, where what he did hurt quite a bit, but then he brought the lovely feelings back, with skill, with patience, until...until...oh, utter rapture. It was as if she had completely left her body behind. She was floating somewhere—somewhere he'd taken her. And he was there, too. She could tell. His whole body was quivering with it. Pulsing with it.

‘Mary.' He sighed, as she began to drift back to reality. A reality that had somehow been transformed, though she couldn't have explained how. And anyway, she felt too peaceful to rack her brains over what had changed between them, or within her, or...

He shifted his weight to one side and dropped a kiss on her forehead. Though how he found the energy to move so much as one eyelid, she couldn't imagine. She felt as though all her bones had melted. And as for muscles—there was not one left, in her entire body, that wasn't completely and utterly drained.

‘Thank you for being so generous,' she heard him murmur, as he tucked her into his side.

Just before she drifted into sated oblivion.

* * *

There was no need to panic. He'd managed to bite back his urge to tell her that the way they'd reached the pinnacle of rapture together had been just about the most blissful experience of his life. He'd turned it into a far more temperate expression of gratitude, thank God.

And he was grateful. Grateful that they were so compatible, sexually. He'd specifically sought a woman he could enjoy taking to bed, hadn't he? So that getting an heir wouldn't be a hardship. She'd just ticked off another item on the list, that was all. His heart wasn't going to be at risk, just because he'd had a momentary, overwhelming feeling of rightness. Of belonging.

No. It just meant he'd made a very sensible choice of bride.

* * *

The next time Mary opened her eyes, it was because someone was insistently shaking her shoulder, pulling her up from a dream that featured her new husband, shirtless, skilfully skating away from her and disappearing into a thick swirling fog while her own useless legs melted away from under her.

‘I am a little sorry to have to wake you,' said Lord Havelock gruffly.

She blinked up at him sleepily. Last thing she knew he'd been wrapped round her like a living blanket. Now there was a real blanket tucked up to her chin, and he was... She frowned. He was dressed and standing over her looking a touch reproachful.

‘Lying there like that you look...'

He paused, searching no doubt for a polite way to tell her she looked a mess, with not a single pin remaining in her hair, which was more than half over her face. Still, at least that would be concealing the sleep creases she'd no doubt have from the embroidered pillow slip.

‘Absolutely edible,' he finished with a wicked grin. ‘And speaking of edible, while you slept I ordered that supper I promised you earlier. And it's arrived. I'm having them set it out in the sitting room, if you'd care to join me?'

He indicated the foot of the bed, where, to her astonishment, she saw the nightgown and wrap her cousins had given her, because, they'd said, her much darned and patched nightgown and a woollen shawl would simply not do for her wedding night.

The nightgown was of the sheerest lawn she'd ever seen. Even when she'd folded it into her portmanteau she'd been able to see the outline of her hand through it. And the wrap was of scarlet silk, patterned all over with lush oriental flowers of some sort.

But he was indicating he wanted her to wear them and join him for supper in the sitting room.

‘I thought you'd prefer a private supper, up here, rather than go through all the bother of getting fully dressed and dining in one of the public rooms.'

Well, there was that.

And also, she'd like to see how he reacted when she walked around wearing a nightgown that revealed as much as it covered. With her hair loose, she suddenly decided, and flowing unbound all the way down her back to her waist. She'd wager he wouldn't reprove her for not being modest. Given the way he was watching the blankets now, which were only just covering her breasts, he was more likely to enjoy the show.

But all she said was ‘That was very thoughtful of you.' Because, to be fair, it did sound as if he'd actually thought about how she might feel. This once.

‘I will join you in a moment.'

After catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she had to steel herself to walk into the next room. It wasn't as easy to walk about wearing attire that was outrageously seductive as it had been to roll about on the bed stark naked.

But she wasn't, most definitely wasn't, going to let him get away with claiming he wanted a modest bride, when his behaviour earlier had shown it was the exact opposite.

She made it to the threshold, and paused, certain that her face had gone the same shade of scarlet as the silken wrap. For it wasn't only her husband who could see her in her scanty nightclothes. But also the two waiters who were setting out their supper.

‘Ah, here she is now,' he said, drawing the eyes of the two male staff in her direction. Her face went a shade hotter as they looked her up and down before swiftly bending their heads to concentrate on their tasks.

As if that wasn't bad enough, she now noticed that he wasn't fully dressed at all, but only wearing his breeches and the shirt he'd earlier tossed on to the floor.