Mad About the Marquess (Highland Brides Book 2) (32 page)

Quince woke to a stream of early summer light in her eyes, the dawn call of the birds and sound of deep, heavy breathing in her ear. And the feeling of something stirring directly behind her. Not something. Someone.

In a burst of nonsensical panicked confusion, she catapulted herself from the bed and fell with a resounding thud onto the bare floorboards. And landed on her arm.
 

Agony echoed up and down her bones, and she let out a sound that was very near inhuman in its pain.

Another sound, louder and definitely human, roared from above. “Quince?”

Quince rolled onto her back to find Strathcairn towering above her, wearing only his small clothes, which were a ridiculous thing to call underclothes that weren’t the least bit small, if you asked her. But no one did. Because they were alone.

She was alone in a bedroom with a half-naked Strathcairn. Who she seemed to recall she had thrown herself at, last evening.

“Holy naked trollops.” She hauled a breath back her lungs, and tried not act like the veriest, most inexperienced ninny. “Is this how you greet the dawn every day?”

He was already scooping her up from the floor. “Every day that I’ve been married to you.”
 

“You can put me down, Strathcairn. I’m not a doll, or an invalid.”

“So you’ve said.” His voice was remarkably matter-of-fact. “But you couldn’t manage to get out of bed without falling over.” He deposited her on the edge of the bed.

“I didn’t fall.” She huffed. “I— Never mind.” Because whatever else she thought she was going to say went straight out of her mind. Because the bed was smaller than a teacup. And the bedclothes were in an absolute tangle. And she was wearing only her chemise and stays. And he was bare-chested and in his small clothes.
 

Oh, holy glassy-eyed stares. Which was exactly what she was giving Strathcairn.

Who smiled down at her, all sleek stretching tomcat, running his hand through his glorious bright red hair. “Good morning to you, too.”

“Oh, aye. Good morning.” But her voice has lost all its volume and force.
 

Because his chest was entirely naked. And his skin looked warm and smooth and dotted with intriguing freckles in the morning light. And his hair—a slim line of that blazing, vibrant red trailed from the middle of his chest down past the waist of his small clothes. “You’re a ginger all over.”

“Aye.” His smile slid to one corner of his mouth. “Very observant.” That was also the moment she realized that he was still holding on to her good arm, rubbing his thumb back and forth a bit before asking, “Did you sleep comfortably enough in your stays?”

She eased away from her half-naked husband, trying to act everything cool and collected, as if she weren’t entirely unequal to waking up next to, and covered with, a warm, half-naked man. “Aye,” she finally answered. “Well enough.”

“Good.” He let go of her hand, and crossed to the other side of the room, and then, with his back to her, simply shucked his small clothes.
 

And she was left gaping at his pale, sculpted buttocks and his long, lean legs.
 

She knew she ought to turn away for modesty’s, if not privacy’s, sake, but his sculpted backside was like a flesh and blood rendering of the Apollo Belvedere she had seen in German drawing books at the bookshop off the Grass Market in Edinburgh. Except she certainly wasn’t in a bookshop now.

She was in a country inn, alone with her entirely naked husband.

Unfortunately for her education, he pulled fresh small clothes and breeches on before he turned back to speak to her. “I’ll get hot water.”

“Oh.” She hoped she nodded. “That’s fine.”
 

He stuck his head out into the hall, returned with two steaming pitchers that had been left right outside their door, and proceeded to pour some into a shallow bowl. “You’re welcome to sit there, and watch me shave.” He gestured to the bowl of shaving water. “But I should advise you that we need to get upon the road as soon as may be while the weather holds.”

How extraordinarily straightforward and commonplace he was, standing there talking of shaving water. And how extraordinarily intimate it was, not only that they seemed to have slept together, but that even with his breeches covering his arse, the fine linen fabric left very little to her enlightened imagination.
 

What a finely built, braw man he was. Very finely built, indeed.

“Quince?”

“Aye?”

“You need to get up.”

“I’m sure I do. Oh, aye.” She pushed herself to her unsteady feet, and rummaged through the small valise with her toiletries and combs, to extract a flannel. Thought she hardly knew what to do with it in front of him. But if he could wash and dress himself in front of her—which it seemed he was doing—then she supposed she was required to do the same.

“Quince? Would you like some chocolate?”

“Hot? Ooh, aye!” The second pitcher was indeed full of steaming chocolate.

Quince immediately abandoned her flannel for something far more important to her morning, and poured herself a dishful. “Ahh. By jimble, that’s good.”

He regarded her in the mirror with lazy, narrowed eyes as he soaped his face. “Don’t drink it all.”

“Oh! Let me pour.” She served him a dish full. “Only, don’t get soap on the cup.”

He smiled around his beard of foam. “Thank you. I’ll wait until I’m done.”

 
Quince put the cup on the washing stand and watched with something more than mere curiosity as he tossed a Turkish towel over his shoulder and then drew the razor down across his face, scraping a clear path across his cheek. Her insides felt all strange and warm and liquid—all swirled up like the hot milk she had just stirred into the chocolate. She was nearly spellbound by the sight of all that bare man and moving muscle and soapy foam as he stretched his chin up and scraped away another swath.

And then caught her eye in the mirror. “You can breathe now, brat.”

“Oh.” She felt entirely foolish. “I just didn’t want to be responsible for startling you into slitting your throat on the day after our wedding. What would people say? ”

His smile curved up one freshly sleek cheek. “It’s the second day after our wedding. But I thank you for your concern.”

He was taking such pains to be charming and convivial that she did the same. “You’re welcome. This isn’t so bad, this being married business.”

He eyed her in the mirror. “Isn’t it?”

“I’ll admit to being rather put off by the whole idea. And I was rather disconcerted when I woke to find you…there. But this isn’t so bad.”

“Faint praise, but praise nonetheless, so I’ll take it.” He turned his cheek and shaved a long swath down the other side of his neck, and dashed the last of the soapy foam off his razor into the basin. “And rather than press my luck in extending our not-so-bad interlude by offering to un-lace and re-lace you this morning, which will undoubtedly delay us by hours, I think I had best finish dressing quickly, and then send a chambermaid up to assist you.”

Quince dismissed the strange fluttering in her stomach at the thought of Strathcairn disrobing her as hunger pangs—she hadn’t eaten the previous day—added to the cacophony of other aches and pains making themselves felt this morning. “Thank you, Strathcairn.”

He stood before her in all his shirtless, russet glory, looking down at her with a strange expression of pleased forbearance—all smiling eyes and sideways mouth. “Alasdair, I think, when I’m half-dressed, and alone with my wife.”

Heat, and something else, something more dear, and therefore more worrisome, closed down her mouth.

For some reason she couldn’t— No, she didn’t
want
to say his name. It was too intimate. Too much of an invitation. An invitation she was not yet ready to give.

She was nobody’s pet, to be jumping when she was called.

Quince waited until he had drawn his linen shirt over his head, looped a cravat around his neck, donned his coat, and was half way through the chamber door before she gave into the temptation. “Thank you, Alasdair.”

Alasdair stopped in the doorway. “You’re very welcome, wee Quince.” He took his time with her name, rolling it around his mouth like fine wine, enjoying the astringent tartness of the word on his tongue.

And soon, very soon, he would taste the rest of her in the very same way. As soon as he could manage. As soon as they reached the privacy of Cairn, where she could heal, and he could woo his curious, prickly, passionate bride in private.

It had been a tortuous heaven to lie next to her last night, after her amorous overture. But after the laudanum had worn off, it had been something of a revelation to see her for the first time without her defenses, unprotected by the chain mail of her formidably clever wit. He had stared at his new wife for nearly an hour, marveling at the twists and turns of fate that had made her his bride.

He had from the first thought her an attractive lass, but much of her charm had come from the vivacity of her over-large personality. In sleep, her lively, out-sized personality was less evident, less able to divert his attention or challenge his views. But she still possessed something that was more than mere beauty. Something more than the combination of sandy brown hair, golden eyes and fine, pale skin. Something beyond the delicate architecture of her strong chin, and the perfect bow of her lips.
 

Something quick and curious and playful and strong, which made it all the more difficult for him to understand how she could be so utterly feckless. How she could choose a life of larceny, violence and deception. How she could use her gifts—her strengths—for ill.

Yet her strength also made him hopeful for the woman she might become. What would she be like if all that playful curiosity and clever purpose were put to good use? What an ally and helpmeet she would make. If only she hadn’t chosen—convinced herself—to be bad.

He would take her to Cairn and convince her otherwise. He would be clever and patient and would woo her while she healed. He would teach her how to go on in the world, and how to be good.

And she would remind him to laugh at himself now and again.

They made excellent progress through the morning, traveling on good roads higher into the hills. Such good progress that even after five and half hours, they were drawing close enough to Cairn for Alasdair to order the carriages to press on, north into the mountains toward home.

He was, after years away—years spent thinking only intermittently of his highland family home—suddenly anxious to be there. No, anxious was not the right word—hungry was what he was. Ravenous for the soft air and familiar comfort of a place that was as much a part of him as his bones.
 

His feeling must have been apparent. “Are we near?” his reluctant bride asked.

“Nearly. Within an hour’s journey, if I remember correctly.”

“Another hour, still? We’ve come so far north we must be running out of country soon.”

She put her bandaged hand on the sash of the open window, as if she would lean out, and then instantly withdrew it as they passed close by a group of people—all clothes the color of dirt and wide, terrified eyes—who had flattened themselves against a stone wall to avoid being run down by the coach on the narrow country lane.
 

Alasdair was about to call a caution to his driver, when Quince forestalled him by immediately pounding on the roof. “Stop the coach!”

“What is wrong? Do you know those people?”

“Nay. Of course something is wrong,” she contradicted herself. But she was already halfway out the door, clambering down into the lane, and heading back down the road toward the uneasy group before the coach had come to a complete stop.
 

“Quince!” He tried to call her back.

“In a minute.” She didn’t turn, but brusquely waved him off while she approached what he could now see was a family group, with a mother gathering her younger children to her skirts, and a father moving rather more bellicosely in front of the whole pack of ten or so.
 

“Quince.” He followed at a slower pace, trying to put caution into his voice, to warn her to be wary, but Alasdair would certainly not stand back and watch—whatever it was he was watching—without being ready to take action.