Make Me Love You (9 page)

Then she did see them, at the foot of the bed. One was under a sheet, and the other, a big bare foot, lay on top of the sheet. He was receiving her while he was in bed?! That was so inappropriate it boggled the mind. She was mortified and prayed her cheeks weren’t showing it.

She raised her eyes and took in his face and his whole body. Her red cheeks couldn’t be helped now. He sat propped up in
bed against a dozen pillows, one leg entirely exposed! His whole chest was bare as well. The bedsheet was draped over his hips. She didn’t miss the leeches on his left thigh, which explained why his leg was uncovered.

She saw too much with that first glance so she kept her eyes on his face. She definitely wasn’t expecting this. He was more handsome than her brother, and she’d thought no one could overshadow Robert in looks. But this man did in a wild way. The bare shoulders, the upper chest matted with black hair, the thick neck and arms, were a study in stark masculinity. She’d never before seen this much bare male skin.

Did he
have
to be such a big, strapping specimen? Wasn’t she intimidated enough without having to worry about his size, too? She wouldn’t be able to outrun legs as long as his, and she definitely wouldn’t be able to get out of arms that strong. And why was a confrontation with him the only thing that came to mind at the sight of so much brawn and muscle? Because he really did look wild.

It was the hair, long, black, very, very unkempt. And the feral eyes. They were light brown with many golden flecks. Amber eyes—like those a wolf might have. She had to bite back a hysterical giggle. But who could blame her for being fanciful? Fraught by shredded nerves, fears, rumors of wolf men and curses, of course her imagination was going to run rampant.

“Brooke Whitworth?”

She banished the wolf from the bed and focused on the man. “Why aren’t you sure?”

“You don’t have warts.”

“No, none that I’ve ever noticed.”

“Gabe alluded . . .”

“Did he? Shame on him. Does he often tease you like that?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

She smiled, but only to herself. “You must not mind if he still has his job.”

“Unfortunately, we’ve been friends since childhood, so he takes advantage of that.”

“That is an odd way to describe a longtime friend . . . as ‘unfortunate.’ ”

“He is likely the only one who will cry when I’m gone. I regret that.”

What a sad thing to say, as if he might want her sympathy. Or was he just testing her to see if she had any? When his expression hardened, she decided it was neither. He probably hadn’t intended to reveal something like that to her, so she quickly said, “You have a wound?”

“A gift from your
brother
that refuses to heal.”

He said “brother” as if speaking of the most reviled thing imaginable. They really did have something in common, but she didn’t want to talk about her feelings for Robert.

Instead she glanced at the leeches on his thigh and said, “He wasn’t aiming for your heart, was he?”

“I think it’s obvious what he aimed for.”

A crude gentleman? No, he was no gentleman at all, or he was attempting to shock her. The latter was more likely, but it didn’t work. The long bare leg shocked her. The bare chest shocked her. That her brother had tried to make sure there would be no more Wolfes didn’t. But that wouldn’t be Robert’s goal. Robert would have aimed to kill.

So she said, “I disagree. What’s obvious is that he has no more skill in shooting pistols than you do.”

She realized too late that she’d just insulted him, so she was surprised when he admitted, “I’m not in the habit of dueling.”

“That’s too bad. With more experience you could have saved us both this . . .” She didn’t finish. Telling him she didn’t want this marriage was revealing too much.

But he guessed anyway, saying drily, “Unwanted marriage?”

She could have lied, but she chose not to answer. She’d meant she wished his aim, not Robert’s, had been true, but there was no point in clarifying that. He was going to think the worst of her simply by association. She was a Whitworth, the sister of the man he’d thrice tried to kill.

But she couldn’t hold back her curiosity. “Why didn’t you practice? Wouldn’t that be the logical course of action, practice first then issue your challenge?”

“Rage doesn’t acknowledge logic.”

Well, for some people such as
him
it might not, but—oh, very well, he had a point.

“Are you even old enough to marry?”

The question, out of context, drew her eyes back to his. The anger appeared to be under control for the moment, but she couldn’t be sure. She wasn’t getting a sense of the man yet, other than that he was quick to anger, quick to blunder, and was not giving her a welcoming smile. Perhaps he never smiled. But if he was going to be civil again, she could be as well.

“I don’t think anyone cares if I am or I am not—certainly not the Prince Regent, who is demanding that our families be joined in marriage—but as it happens, I will be eighteen in a few weeks.”

“And what would a spoiled earl’s daughter as young as you know about marriage?”

She stiffened only a little. “I understand what’s expected of me.”

“Do you? I highly doubt it. Your mind is more likely filled
with misconceptions, but how could it not be, when half the
ton
beget their children without ever taking off their nightclothes?”

Her mouth dropped open. She quickly closed it.

“Come closer.”

She didn’t. With two feet between her and the bed, she was close enough to a naked wolf. They weren’t married yet. He was
not
getting any samples. . . .

“Already you show that you don’t know the first thing about marriage, or did your mother fail to mention that above all else, you will
obey
your husband?”

She knew that rule, but she also knew that without some sort of mutual respect and devotion a marriage could end up being quite odious—for her. But what the deuce was he doing? Just making sure that she would be a dutiful wife? Or making sure that she knew that being
his
dutiful wife wasn’t going to be pleasant?

She took a step forward before he made the demand again. But when he just stared at her, waiting, she knew he wanted more. Decide! Call his bluff? Be compliant? Remind him . . . no, she
had
to marry him or else her family would lose their lands and title. He
had
to marry her for the same reasons. They might as well already be joined.

She took the step that brought her upper thighs to the edge of his mattress. His arm closest to her slipped around her waist and up her back as he drew her closer. It was so sudden she almost sprawled across his chest, but caught herself in time, placing one hand on the bed’s headboard above his shoulder. But he was still pressing her closer, and his arm had too much strength for her to resist. Her mouth got captured by his, and the heavy arm around her back kept her there.

He kissed her. His anger made it seem passionate. It
was
passionate. It was illuminating, a promise of what could be had in his bed if he accepted her. A promise that there would be no clothes between them if he did, that he was a lusty man who would take what he wanted when he wanted it. Her heart pounded erratically, loudly. Her senses were assailed with the rasp of a persistent tongue, the scrape of stubble on his upper lip against her skin, fingers at the back of her neck that caused her to shiver, the smell of whiskey on his breath. She was in no way repulsed, rather she was lured to the forbidden.

But she quickly stepped back when his arm left her back, his tongue left her mouth. She imagined he’d just gotten bored with the lesson, and she didn’t doubt that was all it was.

He verified that when he said, “That’s what you can expect.”

She wanted to bolt from the room, but she stood her ground. She knew what her father would do to her if she refused to marry Lord Wolfe. Tucking an errant wisp of hair back into her coiffure as she took a deep breath to calm herself, she noticed the glass and the bottle of Scotch whiskey on his bedside table. The wolf drank during the day? That didn’t bode well. Or was he taking the whiskey as medicine for his wound?

“Are you in pain?”

“Why are you still here?” he grumbled. His golden brown-eyes narrowed on her. “Does it matter?”

“If you are a drunkard, then, yes, it would.”

“Then, yes, I am a drunkard.”

She tsked. Was no part of this meeting going to go well? They’d almost had a normal conversation when he’d asked her age. She tried to get back to that.

“I told you when my birthday is. When is yours?”

“It was last week.”

“So you just turned twenty-five and expect to die at some point during the next twelve months?”

“Or, thanks to your brother, in the next few days from this wound. But how do you know of the curse?”

“Last night at the inn near here we heard more’n one rumor.”

“And that didn’t scare you off?”

“I don’t believe in such things, so it wouldn’t.”

“Too bad.”

She stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

“You are sister to the man responsible for my sister’s death. You will never find welcome here.”

Good God, what had Robert done? It took a moment for her to absorb how much this man hated her. Of course he did, if Robert had harmed his sister.

“What did he do?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know!”

Brooke wasn’t sure what to do in the face of such rage. If she wasn’t going to be welcome here, did that mean he had no intention of marrying her? So why had he agreed to see her? And why had he tried to shock her with that kiss?

“Should I leave Rothdale?”

“Yes.”

She gasped and turned, about to head straight for the door. If she’d done so more quickly, she would have missed his adding, “If that is your choice.”

She paused to say bitterly, “You know very well that choice isn’t mine.”

“Nor mine!” he growled behind her.

I
N THE UPSTAIRS HALLWAY,
Alfreda was drawn to the far end of it where Gabriel stood with his ear pressed to Lord Wolfe’s door. She approached to do the same, but he stepped back, saying in an urgent whisper, “Wait! I think she’s about to burst out the door.”

“It’s not gone well?” Alfreda said with a frown.

“Indeed not.”

After a few moments when the door hadn’t opened, they both pressed their ears to it. Facing each other, Alfreda saw Gabriel grinning, as if he did this sort of thing often. Alfreda was only concerned for Brooke and would enter the room without permission if she thought Brooke needed help. Gabriel’s amusement annoyed her. She didn’t like sharing an intrigue of any sort, even one so minor as eavesdropping, with such an impertinent fellow.

Halfway between the bed and the door, Brooke was having trouble dealing with her own anger. She understood Lord Wolfe’s rage. Her father had been just as furious after the
Regent’s emissary had left. Men who commanded everything around them naturally balked when they had to accept commands from someone more powerful than they were. But she shouldn’t be on the receiving end of that rage when she’d played no part in causing it. Robert had caused it.

You are sister to the man responsible for killing mine.

Brooke didn’t doubt that her brother was capable of any perfidy, but murder?
Responsible
could mean all sorts of things. But she couldn’t ask the wolf again for an explanation no matter how rampant her curiosity now was, not after the way he’d reacted to the subject. He might get out of that bed to demand an eye for an eye by killing her. She didn’t know him and what he was capable of, and he obviously wasn’t going to let her find out.

She didn’t leave the room. She was still angry enough at him for refusing even to pretend to be civil anymore to march right back to the side of his bed. He’d no doubt thought he’d just chased her out of his house. Too bad for him.

But he didn’t look disappointed, though his single raised brow spoke volumes. Was he waiting for a fight? Hoping for one? Or just curious about why she hadn’t fled?

As she gazed at the half-naked viscount who lay before her, she thought it was a good thing that she’d been raised by down-to-earth Alfreda rather than a proper lady. Otherwise she would be more embarrassed by Lord Wolfe’s undress. She noticed the sweat on his brow. It was early summer, but the room wasn’t warm enough to cause it. He must be running a fever. She stepped closer to the bed and looked at the wound on his left thigh to see if it was inflamed.

Watching her, he asked, “The sight of leeches doesn’t bother you?”

“I’m not repulsed by something that helps to heal.”

Brooke knew some herbs that could draw out the poisons in his wound more effectively than leeches, but she didn’t say so.

Instead she said, “May I?” Without waiting for his answer, she gently pressed a finger to his flesh near his stitches to see if yellow liquid would drain from the wound. It didn’t occur to her, at least not immediately, that she shouldn’t be touching him at all, that she was breaking a clear rule of etiquette. She felt her cheeks warming but she willed away the blush, reminding herself that he’d broken a couple of more important rules by insisting she enter a room where he lay less than half-covered by a sheet and by kissing her!