The Duke's Bedeviled Bride (Royal Pains Book 2) (3 page)

Maggie tightened her grip on Robert. “Is it safe to go on?”

“Aye. Unless I should bleed to death before we reach the inn.”

The blood! In all the mayhem, she’d forgotten completely about his injury. Drawing back, she checked his arm. Her heart wrenched at the sight of his sleeve, now scarlet from shoulder seam to elbow.

“You are hurt.” She reached for the stained portion of sleeve. “Let me have a look.”

He jerked his arm from her glancing hold. “There’s no need to make such a fuss. ’Tis naught but a flesh wound.”

She tried once more to have a look. “The wound may require binding to staunch the flow of blood.”

He captured her around the waist and pulled her into the warmth of his body. “I would rather you saw to something else.” He drove his hardness against the small of her back. “Unless you are too traumatized to be bothered. In which case, I shall see to my own needs.”

“I shall gladly see to your needs.” She ground against his erection for emphasis. “’Tis the least I can do to reward you for coming to my rescue.”

He pulled her toward the carriage and helped her inside. The instant they were underway, he reached under her skirts.

She gasped as his fingers found their intended target.

He stroked her dew-covered petals. “Sweet Jesus. You are as aroused as am I.”

Rolling onto her, he pushed up her skirts and pinned her to the bench. Wedging a knee betwixt her thighs, he nudged her legs apart before unfastening his fly.

“For better or worse, this shall not take long.” His voice was husky with passion. “Doing violence gives a man a furious cockstand.”

His prediction proved correct. The coupling did not take long. She was already so stimulated she began to climax after the first few forceful thrusts. Wrapping her legs around him, she lifted her hips to welcome every delicious inch of his phallus. As shuddering spasms of ecstasy shook her body, she dug her teeth into his shoulder to stifle her cries. She was mortified enough the coachman had seen her breasts. She would die of embarrassment if he were to now overhear her cries of rapture.

In fewer than a dozen savage strokes, Robert stilled and made a strangled sound as his own achievement pulsed deep inside her. He collapsed upon her so limp and heavy he nearly crushed her beneath his weight.
 

For several moments, his head lay beside hers, his breathing hard and loud in her ears. His intoxicating masculine bouquet—lavender, clove, sweat, and sex—engulfed her senses, making her head swim. Through the wall of her chest, his heart pounded out the same allegro tempo as her own.

Her bubble was broken by a sharp prick of affront and embarrassment. Those men had torn her gown, exposing her breasts to all present as if she were a doxy instead of a duchess. She did not want to think what they would have done to her had Robert and the driver not acted so swiftly.

Truth be known, she was glad her husband killed that awful man. Nay, not only glad, but proud as well. May both the thieves burn in the fiery pit for all eternity. Yes, the thought was unchristian, but she cared not. Her only concern at present was that Robert had acted to protect her at last.

“Thank you for saving me,” she whispered with tears in her eyes.

He pushed up and gazed down at her, his long, dark hair a widow’s veil around his handsome face. A gap in the wavy strands revealed the glint of tears in his gray-green eyes.

“Does that mean you forgive me?” The sweet smile he gave her warmed her to her cockles.

She lifted a hand to tuck some of his hair behind one ear. “I do. With the whole of my heart.” Then, looking up at him coyly from under her lashes, she added, “But I fear Mistress Margaret is not as generous as your Rosebud. She says she shall have her pound of flesh, come hell or high water.”

Chapter Two

Robert flinched at the pain in his arm as he sifted through the letters he’d found on his desk upon entering his library. The blade had merely grazed the skin, but the wound still smarted when he moved just so. If it did not improve by bedtime, he would consult David Cockburn, the local physician, on the morrow.

Still, the wound was trifling compared to what might have occurred. Thank the Saints and Martyrs he’d hidden his sword beneath the seat of the carriage. He’d have to be mad to travel unarmed, especially after what the Covenanters did last year to the Archbishop of St. Andrews. After intercepting his coach and killing the postilion, the nine assassins stabbed the poor man to death in front of his daughter.

Traveling the roads of the border shires had never been safe, but now the meschants would kill a man for his beliefs as well as his purse.

Was naught sacred anymore?

Shaking the distressing thought from his head, Robert opened and sorted the letters into two piles. On the first, he put bills to be paid and other correspondence pertaining to matters of the estate. On the second, social inquiries and invitations for Maggie to answer. As his duchess, she was now responsible for their social intercourse—an additional burden he was pleased to delegate. He would advise her, of course, until she grew accustomed to the social protocols as well as his preferences.

Though a bit of a loner of late, he enjoyed company. Here in Dunwoody, a small village twenty or so miles from the English border, occupation was dull, amusements few, and intercourse with the larger world impeded by the lack of roads at once safe and carriage-worthy.

Invitations to visit neighbors, therefore, generally received a favorable answer.

Generally, but not at present.
 

If they called upon their peers in the nearby towns, they’d be regaled with food and drink and pressed to stay the night. Normally, he’d be delighted to oblige, but being a new bridegroom had altered his outlook. As much as he craved society and escape from the drudgery of ducal life, he desired unhampered time with his wife even more.

Chilled by a sudden draught, he looked up from his task, taking in the library’s towering bookcases, dark paneling, and carved mantelpiece. Despite the fire, the room was cold. Like the rest of the castle, thanks to the icy air forever sneaking through the ill-fitted windows and doors. The lack of draperies and carpets only made matters worse.

Shivering, he rubbed his hands together to warm his fingers. He could do with a bowl of hot broth, but, alas, there was no bell-pull with which to summon the housekeeper. Thus, he’d have to bang on the floor with a poker or the heel of his shoe.

In the manner of a bloody barbarian.

He heaved a sigh and shook his head. After the luxuries of London, returning to Scotland had been akin to stepping back in time to the middle ages.

The bedchambers were even more antiquated than the public rooms. Most were not even equipped with fireplaces and, in all but his and Maggie’s chambers, which he’d exhausted his savings to bring into the 17th-century, the beds were recessed into the walls.

Further improvements, unfortunately, were unmanageable due to the scarcity of funds. The duchy encompassed a modest estate upon which sat an array of small crofts more fertile in weeds than grain. The rents they produced were miserably mean and oft paid in sheep, eggs, poultry, yarn, or so many bolls of barley, oats, and pease.

In five short years, he’d grown to dread the quarter days when the rents came due and the tenant farmers trooped up the road on their half-starved, over-burdened horses. What a disheartening procession to behold! They’d put their grain in the storehouse and there the lot remained until consumed or sold to raise the funds needed to cover the household expenditures. More often than not, the stores were spoilt by long keeping or rats.

The fare, too, was tiresome. Meals consisted incessantly of salted meat and broth made from husked oats or beaten barley. Only in summer or autumn, when the cattle were returned to the pastures to graze, did their flesh become tolerably edible. A scrawny hen was roasted now and again to break up the monotony, but their stringy flesh hardly excited the palate. Luckily, there was strong ale and whisky aplenty to wash it all down.
 

Compared to London, life in Dunwoody was all bleakness and tedium. Thank God he now had Maggie to add flavor and cheer to his days and nights. Or did he? She was still angry with him, despite his attempts to appease her. He could hardly blame her. If their roles were reversed, he’d be mad with jealousy.

But, then again, ’twas the nature of woman to be constant and the nature of man to hunt and conquer. Even his father—God rest his soul—had slept around, despite his devotion to his wife. Soon enough, Maggie would learn the ways of the world and all would be well. Just look how far she’d come from the innocent convent-raised lass he’d married. And in only a few short weeks.

What a sweet, unspoiled rose she’d been—his for the plucking. The time and care he took to deflower his bride nearly killed him, but ’twas well worth the sacrifice, because he loved her as he’d loved no other. The sex was the best he’d ever had—and he’d had considerably more than his fair share.

Truth be told, he’d been secretly smitten with her for years. He’d done his best to drown his feelings—in wine, whisky, and women who paled in comparison to his Rosebud.

Her goodness shone from within—heaven’s light calling his soul back home. He was at once attracted and repelled by her virtue. She was a saint, like his mother, and he a black-hearted rake who’d rejected goodness.

But lo, how he’d pined for her. Pined to worship and adore her, to corrupt and possess her, to pleasure and be pleasured by her. The day she accepted his proposal was the happiest of his life. Every night leading up to the wedding, he laid abed, cock in hand, contemplating the carnal delights they would share and the joy he would find in teaching her the finer arts of marital relations. As she’d been raised in a convent, he believed her ignorant of such matters—until he learned on the eve of their nuptials ’twas she who’d raided his collection of erotica.

The wee vixen. How she both surprised and enchanted him at every turn.

Only lately did they learn she was the illegitimate daughter of James Stuart, the king’s younger brother and heir presumptive to the throne. Robert’s late father had taken her from a convent at the age of twelve to be a companion to his only surviving female child.

Keep Maggie on as your ward, my son. Look after her. Marry her if she’ll have you. She is better than you know.

Only now did Robert comprehend the full meaning of his father’s deathbed statement.

Robert looked toward the window. The sky outside was as blue as Maggie’s eyes. ’Twould be a fine day to enjoy the outdoors—something his wife did on her own whilst he attended to the tedious affairs of the estate. He’d much rather be with her, enjoying the fragrant roses and herbs—along with more fleshly pursuits.

Not that she’d welcome his company. Last night, she’d locked him out of her adjoining bedchamber. This morning, he’d risen early and frustrated. How she meant to punish him hovered in the back of his thoughts, keeping him equal parts anxious and aroused—a confounding distraction, to say the least. The wee vixen required no instruction when it came to milking his anticipation for its full worth.

A loud knock called his attention to the door. Please, let it be Maggie come to tempt him away from his mind-numbing duties.

“Your Grace? Are you in there?”

The sound of the housekeeper’s voice withered his hopes. “I am indeed, Mrs. McQueen, but excessively occupied. How may I be of service?”

“The morning post has come,” she said, louder. “There’s a letter for you from Master Hugh. I presumed you’d wish to read it straight away.”
 

She’d presumed correctly. Hugh, two years his junior, was currently in France, where Robert had sent him to impede his pursuit of Maggie. Last he’d heard, his brother was happily installed at Versailles as an honored guest of King Louis XIV, who, by all accounts, had as roving an eye as his cousin Charles. He sincerely hoped the penchant for adultery did not run in the family.

“You may enter.”

The door groaned open and in came Mrs. McQueen, a short, stout middle-aged woman who always brought to mind a busy hen. She offered a silver tray upon which the letter lay. Taking it, he turned back to the desk.

“Do you need anything more, m’lord?”

“Aye, Mrs. McQueen. A stoup of hot broth, if you please.”

“As you wish, m’lord.” She bowed her head in deference. “I shall fetch it forthwith, m’lord.”

When she was gone, he examined the letter. His younger sibling’s familiar penmanship was scrawled across the front panel. Hugh had the delicate, flourished cursive of a woman.

As Robert rubbed his eyes, which burned from lack of sleep, Hugh’s portrait took shape inside his mind. They resembled one another. No, wait. They resembled their mother, who’d gifted both her sons with her wavy dark hair and changeable gray-green eyes. Hugh was almost his equal in height, but lankier in build and far more particular—some would say
foppish
—about his mode of dress.
 

Boyhood memories blotted out Hugh’s face. Wrestling matches, horse races, games, and dares, many of them ruthless. Like most brothers, he and Hugh had always been competitive. They’d even chosen the same woman—though for different reasons.

Cloying French perfume wafted up from the folded letter, bringing him back to the desk. The stamp, too, was French. Robert turned the letter over and broke the red wax seal with his letter knife.