Kathryn Smith (28 page)

Brave clasped his hands behind his back, willing his expression into one of outward calm. He even smiled a bit. “It doesn’t make one bit of difference what I tell her, Sir Henry. She can’t come down.”

“Why the bloody hell not?”

Rachel struggled against his hold. “Because you beat her so badly she can’t walk, you bastard!”

She cried out as her arm was brutally wrenched upward.

“All right!” Brave shouted. He couldn’t stand to hear her pain.

Sir Henry stilled. His flushed and fleshy face was bright with the prospect of victory. “What was that?”

Fighting to keep his expression neutral, Brave nodded. “I said all right. You can have Lady Marion.”

Rachel stared at him in horror. “Brave, no!” He met her gaze evenly, hoping she knew she could trust him.

Sir Henry smiled. “I knew you’d come to your senses.”

“But you have to go up and get her yourself.” God, let him be doing the right thing.

Disappointment shadowed Rachel’s stricken features. Brave couldn’t bear to look at her. He looked at Sir Henry instead.

Rachel’s stepfather cast her aside, flinging her to the floor like a discarded doll. “With pleasure,” he announced, moving toward the steps.

Brave nodded at Reynolds. The butler shut the door. Then Brave held his ground at the foot of the stairs.

“You can have Marion, Westhaver. But you have to go through me first.”

Sir Henry actually looked surprised by this turn of events.

“Did you really think I’d just hand her over?” Brave asked, his voice silky. “I’d let you break Rachel’s arm before I’d let you walk out of here with her mother.”

Rachel actually brightened at his words as she picked herself up off the floor. If he lived to be a hundred, he didn’t think he’d ever figure her out.

“I want my wife,” the baronet snarled.

Brave flashed a condescending smile. “And I always wanted an elephant, but some wishes just aren’t meant to come true. Now, why don’t you leave before I throw you out?”

“You can’t keep me from my wife! The law’s on my side!”

Smile fading, Brave cocked his head to one side. “Well, my title is bigger than yours, so I say I can do whatever I want. But why don’t you come back later, and bring the law with you, and then we’ll see whether or not they’ll let you take Marion back to Tullywood? Make no mistake, Westhaver, there’s only two ways you’re going to take her. Through me, or through the courts.”

Obviously Sir Henry was in a bit of a hurry, because he took the first option.

The first blow made Brave stumble. The second knocked him on his back on the stairs. Sir Henry reached down to
grab him, and Brave retaliated with a boot to the face, knocking the baronet to the floor.

“Get him out of here,” he instructed the footmen, and the three of them dragged the struggling and swearing Sir Henry across the floor to the door. Brave followed, half-hoping for another chance to pummel the bastard.

“You’ve not seen the last of me, Braven!” The baronet shouted from the steps. He raised one meaty fist and shook it. He looked ominous in the deepening darkness. “I’ll be back.”

“I’ll be here,” Brave replied, pressing a finger to the tiny cut inside his lip. “And so will Marion.”

And then he slammed the door.

“I notice Lord Braven has retired early this evening as well.” Meg grinned as she began unfastening the hooks on the back of Rachel’s gown

“Really?” Rachel tried to keep her tone devoid of interest.

Meg only smiled and nodded, her assumption clear. She obviously believed that Brave and Rachel had an assignation planned. If she only knew the truth! That their marriage had yet to be consummated—something Rachel planned to remedy that night.

Meg folded the discarded gown over her arm. “I’ll have this pressed for you, Lady Braven.”

“Thank you, Meg. You can go now. I’ll manage by myself.”

Meg flashed her a grin that said she doubted Rachel would be by herself and left the chamber with a cheerful good night.

It had taken three glasses of wine to gather the courage to seduce her husband. After that scene with Sir Henry, Rachel could think of nothing she wanted more than to make love to Brave. He’d stood up for them. He’d refused to allow her stepfather to take her mother—even as Sir Henry threatened her own safety.

Did he have any idea how much that meant to her? Of course she had a sneaking suspicion that Brave would have cheerfully killed Sir Henry if he actually had broken her arm. She’d never felt so safe and protected in all her life.

She trusted him. Not just with her own life, but with her mother’s as well. She loved him. Loved him so much that when he’d first told Sir Henry he could have her mother it had felt as though her heart had been ripped right out of her chest.

She wanted to be a wife to him—a proper wife. Giving him her body was just the first step. He’d willingly offered his. She only hoped that when she offered him her heart he’d be equally as generous.

Rachel was glad for the wine-induced fog in her brain as she turned down the bedclothes. Had he found her note yet? Did he know what she had planned?

Smiling, she didn’t even look up at the knock upon her door. “Come in! Did you forget something, Meg?” she asked as the door opened.

“I’m not Meg.”

The sheets dropped. She didn’t look up. He was early.

“I got your note. You mentioned something about a drink before retiring?”

Rachel raised her head, trying to retain a measure of calm—or at least give the appearance of it.

Brave stood by the door that separated their rooms. She hadn’t even noticed which direction the knock had come from. He was wearing a gold-velvet robe. And judging from the way it hugged his shoulders and revealed a shocking amount of muscular chest, Rachel guessed he wasn’t wearing much—if anything—beneath it.

Oh yes. A drink would be good.

“Shut the door.” Oh, that was subtle! Why didn’t she just tell him to drop his robe while she was at it?

He did as she bid, turning to face her with a curious expression.

“I thought we could sit by the fire,” she blurted, gesturing to the rug. It had seemed like such a good idea earlier, but now she thought it was entirely too transparent. He had to know why she invited him to her room.

But blast him, he wasn’t giving it away if he did know. His bare feet were silent on the carpet as he walked toward the fireplace and the thick, plush rug where a bottle of wine and two glasses waited. His robe flared around his legs as he walked. Rachel caught a glimpse of a strong, hairy calf. No, he wasn’t wearing anything underneath that soft velvet.

Her mouth dry, Rachel trailed after him, clutching the neckline of her wrapper closed with one hand. The velvet didn’t just cling to his shoulders, it hugged his hips and buttocks as well. Would he feel as firm as he looked?

He knelt on the rug before the fire and set both glasses in front of him. Rachel stood to the side, not sure if she should join him or not.

Brave didn’t even look at her as he liberally filled both glasses. Recorking the bottle, he set it aside and picked up both glasses. He held them both at chest level and gazed up at her.

Subtle.
With a sigh, Rachel sank to the floor as gracefully as her gown would allow. Despite all her efforts at modesty, she still ended up showing a shocking amount of ankle. She’d set out to look seductive but ended up—literally—with cold feet. But what did it matter when the man across from her displayed both his legs from the mid-thigh down? Why, he was just inviting her to stare at the dark V between his legs! If that robe fell open any farther…

Yanking her gaze away from his legs, Rachel took the glass he offered her and downed half of it.

“Your mother shows much improvement,” he remarked.

Her mother? This wasn’t the kind of conversation Rachel expected. She expected him to ask her what she was up to, or even play upon their attraction. This talk of her mother was…was…
disappointing
.

“I believe she’s recovering quite well, yes. Dr. Phelps believes it will still be several weeks before she’s able to move around very much.” She took another drink of wine and tried again to tug her gown over her chilled toes.

“What’s wrong?” He gestured toward her feet.

Her smile was sheepish. “They’re cold.”

“Stretch them out so they’re closer to the fire.”

Doing so would reveal even more of her legs to him, but the idea of warming the frigid appendages won out over modesty. Tentatively, she uncurled her legs. Brave didn’t even seem to notice. He drained his glass.

He poured himself more wine and topped up her glass as well. She shouldn’t drink it, but it tasted so good and warmed her insides. Was it more than one drink if she never finished a whole glass?

“Are your feet still cold?”

They were. She nodded.

Setting aside his glass, Brave patted his lap. “Put one up here.”

There? Rachel stared at his hand and at the bulging velvet just behind it. Why did he want her to put her foot there? And why did it suddenly feel as though she was the one being seduced and not the other way around?

“I’ll rub it,” he explained when she didn’t move. “It will warm it.”

“There’s no need—”

He scoffed at her hesitation. “I did it the night I pulled you from the Wyck, remember? It worked then, and you’re not nearly as cold now.”

He had a point, and her feet were awfully cold…well, what harm could a little rub do? Eager to be warm, Rachel
plopped her right foot into his lap. It nestled comfortably in the hollow between his legs—just scant inches from his groin.

“Oh!” she cried when his hands touched her chilled flesh. Oh dear, but he was warm!

There was a chair behind her and Rachel propped one arm up on the cushion so she could lean against it. Sipping her wine, she sighed in pleasure as Brave massaged warmth back into her toes. This was becoming a habit, him rubbing her feet.

As he rubbed, he talked and Rachel began to relax. The sound of his voice, the heat of his hands and the mellow flavor of the wine all served to make her muscles as languid as a kitten’s.

Brave told her stories—humorous, personal stories about his days at school with Gabriel and Julian. Some of the stories were hilarious. Some were touching, and others were so scandalous Rachel couldn’t possibly believe they were true.

“You did not!” she protested when he told her about the time they paid a prostitute to dress up like a nun and proposition one of their classmates.

He held up one hand and reached for the bottle with the other. “I swear it is the absolute truth. Brentwood thought he was quite the rake after that. Poor fellow didn’t even know enough to realize that the nun wasn’t a virgin.”

Rachel took a long swallow from her glass, and then held it out for Brave to fill again. “Can you tell?” At his puzzled glance, she added, “If someone’s a virgin?” She’d always wondered about it, ever since Belinda told her about a girl in London pretending to be a virgin on her wedding night so her husband wouldn’t know she’d been ruined.

He choked on his wine. Rachel laughed at the coughing that ensued. She’d shocked him!

“For the most part,” he responded, wiping his eyes with the back of one hand. “The maidenhead is the easiest way to
prove virginity, but all women are different and some have thick barriers and others have little or nothing at all.”

“And how does it feel?” She took another sip.

Brave actually blushed. “That’s different for every woman as well.”

She shook her head.
Whoa!
Spots danced before her eyes. “No, I meant what does it feel like for
you
, for the man?”

His flush deepened. “I don’t know. I’ve never made love to a virgin.”

“I’m a virgin,” Rachel announced, leaning heavily on her chair. It felt naughty and deliciously scandalous to discuss such things with him. It was also dangerous and she liked it.

Something brightened in Brave’s gaze, like the flare of a lamp in a dark room. “I know.”

“So I’m afraid I can’t tell you how it feels either. Mmm.” She moaned as Brave’s hand slid up her foot to her calf and massaged the muscle there.

Closing her eyes, she lost herself in the gentle motion of his caress. Lord, but it felt good! His hands slid higher. He was rubbing both legs, and his fingers brushed the sensitive skin behind her knees. She gasped.

“Do you like that?” His voice was barely a whisper.

Rachel squirmed. “It tickles.”

Something soft rubbed the inside of her legs. It was Brave’s robe. Opening her eyes, Rachel raised her somewhat fuzzy gaze to see him kneeling between her splayed thighs. When had that happened? And how had her nightgown ended up around her hips? It was indecent. He could see her privates.

Curious, but she had no desire to cover herself. Let him look. And the thought of him looking led to the thought of him touching and that led to a flood of warmth rushing to the very spot revealed to him.

Licking her lips, Rachel watched as his fingers spread across her thighs, inching closer and closer to the bunched
hem of her gown. His fingers were dark golden brown against her pale flesh, and just as hard as she was soft.

His hands slipped back down behind her knees and Rachel gazed at him questioningly.

Suddenly, he yanked her closer. Her elbow slipped off the chair. Wine spilled down her arm, and the glass fell to the rug as he jerked her body to his.

Heart hammering, Rachel stared up at him. The firelight illuminated one side of his face, the flames reflected in the golden darkness of his gaze. His lips parted as his fingers brushed her upper thighs.

Her nightgown was now up around her waist, and his knees were flush against her backside. The soft velvet against her naked skin was one of the most erotic sensations Rachel had ever experienced.

He knelt above her, an expression on his face that she had never seen before. He looked intense, dangerous, and utterly determined. She shivered.

His palm drifted from her thigh to her hip and up to her belly. A trail of fire seemed to blaze in the wake of his fingers. “Would you like me to stop?”