The Outcast Earl (6 page)

“What did I just finish telling you?” Meriden barked, reaching for her and grabbing her wrist before she could flit farther away. “If you try to walk on that ankle again tonight, I swear I’m going to turn you over my knee and paddle you for behaving like a silly child.” He grabbed her by the waist and lifted her, setting her squarely on his knees, locking one arm around her to hold her there.

“You wouldn’t!” Abigail gasped, unable to think of anything more profound on such short notice, and trying desperately to squelch the traitorous part of her gut that seemed to respond more dramatically every time he touched her. She didn’t know what she was feeling, but now was not the time or place to work it out.

Instead, she lifted her hand to push him away but he simply growled, “It’s either that, or this—” Then he slid his free hand around to the back of her head, and set his lips to hers.

Abigail had been kissed before, of course. She was twenty-one and had spent more than three full years in London society. While not the Winchester sister to inspire lust from the masses, she was certainly eligible, and had attracted her fair share of more serious, reserved men who were not attracted to the glamorous Gloria or the voluptuous, young Genevieve. Kissing, she had advised her younger siblings, was an art. Some men had practiced, did it well, considered little things like how they tasted and whether their partner could still breathe. Other men had no skill at all, and no interest in acquiring any. They pushed, suffocated, forced and followed it up with self-important pride. It had not taken Abigail more than a few brief experiences to decide that any man in the second group could be gently eased in the direction of some more desperate girl. Abigail had no interest in a man who used kissing as a means to press more invasive intimacies on the female. Men who were patently disinterested in pleasing a partner with something as simple as a kiss could not be expected to do so in any more important pursuit, and were therefore not worth considering.

Abigail was fairly certain Gloria had deliberately ignored Abigail’s opinion on the subject.

With such a preconceived opinion, Abigail tensed as Meriden touched his mouth to hers. Should he turn out so early on to be an insensitive clod, Abigail knew she would have difficulty with following through on the engagement, no matter the consequences. She’d have preferred to ease into such intimacy after she had learnt whether to guard against him or not. Nevertheless, she stilled and tried to take in the sensation of his lips rubbing over hers.

He was not gentle, precisely, but neither did he plunder selfishly. No, his mouth worshipped her lower lip, then the upper one, learning the shape and size of her mouth before he eased his tongue just inside her lower lip to taste her.

Meriden was definitely not one of the untrained, inconsiderate brutes. She closed her eyes, softened against the arm that surrounded her waist and leaned closer, her lips tingling in a rush of sensation where his tongue stroked hers.

He caught her fingers with his free hand, where she had pushed futilely against his chest. Trapping her hand in place, he murmured, their lips still touching, “I would, you know.”

Abigail breathed a soft sigh. “Would what?” she asked, a bit wobbly from the unexpected rush of warmth that had ripped up her spine with the kiss. She’d forgotten what he had said.

“I would spank you. Paddle you, if I had to,” Meriden repeated in a husky whisper against her mouth. He ran his hand up from her waist to tangle it in the hair at the back of her head, and instead of the indignant reaction Abigail felt was required, she leaned in closer, shivering when Meriden used his lips to examine the corners of her mouth in an exquisite intimacy.

When he pulled back, he still had his right hand tangled in her mass of pinned-up braids and, with his left hand, held her fingers against his chest. They stared at each other for a second, and deliberately he grasped her wrist and lifted it away from his chest and pressed his lips to the pulse beating there.

“It’s time to stop pretending, now,” he murmured, looking at her directly. “Clearly there’s something here, between us, to pursue. Society and honour demand that we wed. The Church and the Crown expect us to wed. I am not a monster, despite my appearance and whatever nonsensical tales you’ve heard. You are a lovely woman blessed with passion and loyalty and a sense of responsibility, not to mention a healthy, if exasperating, dose of independence—all traits I desire to see in my own sons. To have them personified in my wife and the mother of my children is a double blessing.”

“And yet you threaten to beat me for those very qualities,” Abigail returned after a moment of gathering herself. “The two positions are inconsistent.”

“On the contrary.” Meriden smiled, stroking the smooth skin of Abigail’s cheek. “They are very much compatible, as you shall discover soon enough.”

Abigail shivered, more interested in the effects of his fingers than the low words, which seemed to be suggesting something more intimate than she could understand.

Blinking away the sudden urge to lean against him and arch her neck invitingly, she persisted with what was, for her, the main point of contention. “You do see that I have to care for Aunt Betsy?”

“As much as you see your aunt to be in your care, I see you as being in mine,” he answered soberly, continuing to explore her neck, then her ear and jaw with his fingers. “And, while I am absurdly grateful that you are not lying unconscious in your bed, it does not mean that my responsibility has ended. If anything, it only complicates matters because you are able to physically disobey instructions meant to safeguard you and hasten your recovery. How would you feel if Lady Arlington refused ice and the poultice for her head wound?”

“I’d insist,” Abigail said, amazed at how small her voice sounded, and even more stunned by how perfectly normal it seemed to be sitting on this stranger’s lap, being stroked and coddled and persistently lectured.

“Precisely. The instructions Franklin gave to you were to rest and keep off your feet, so that your ankle would heal more quickly, in order that you might be able and ready to help when she does wake. Dr Franklin gave her the laudanum to make it easier for everyone to rest tonight because he knows tomorrow will be difficult. If she was conscious now, chances are that she would be delirious and in pain, and we’d spend hours simply keeping her hands from clawing at the wound, and be exhausted before morning, when we’d have to start all over again. You know that.”

“Yes,” Abigail agreed, looking down at her lap. She was also beginning to see that Meriden was a man most unlike any she had encountered. He was neither the mellow society gentleman in the mould of her father, nor one of the patronising, drawling aristocrats who had habitually shadowed and courted her over the previous three years. She was realising that he was not the ogre the women of London presumed him to be, either, though the legendary scar was certainly a prominent feature along his jaw.

“How am I to keep you from testing that ankle or my temper again tonight?” he asked quietly, bending forward to brush kisses over her brow. “Would you prefer I tie you to your bed until Franklin pronounces you fit for nursing duties tomorrow? Or will you stay here with me, where I can be sure you rest until morning?”

Abigail stared at him in shocked silence for a moment, then started as a clock began to chime the fourth hour. She blinked and suddenly felt her face soften with exhaustion, as the adrenaline of the last hour began to dissipate. Softly, she spoke. “I was sleeping, before. I just woke up and wanted to see how she was doing, but Annie was asleep. And then nobody was there. Anyway, I really do want to go back to bed. And I will stay there for a few hours.” She swallowed and added in a faint whisper, “Without your tying me to it. I promise.”

Meriden sighed and grimaced. “I can see already that I will have a difficult time of it, to resist indulging you, little one. I must say I had hoped you would say that you preferred to stay here, but I understand.” He pressed a kiss to her temple and added, “However, if you leave your room in the morning without Dr Franklin’s leave, it had better be in my arms, or you will remember it every minute you are sitting beside Lady Arlington’s bed tomorrow. Is that clear enough?”

Wrinkling her nose, Abigail sighed. “Perfectly, but also I take your point about resting so that I can be my best tomorrow. I apologise for putting you in a position of having to insist I look after myself. Still, I do think I ought to call your bluff and point out that I am not a child in the schoolroom, after all, nor are we yet married.”

Meriden exhaled a slow breath. “Right then,” he said softly, as Abigail tried to remain erect. She struggled to suppress a yawn. Without a blink, he reached up into her hair and untied the ribbon that kept the mass on her head. It was long and pink, and, lifting one of her hands from where they rested demurely in her lap, he deliberately wound it around her wrist several times and tied a bow on top. “That’s to remind you that I’m binding you to your promise,” he said seriously. “Instead of the bed. Because, whether you believe me or not, I am not bluffing.”

Abigail blinked up at him and decided that, perhaps because of the hour or the intimate location or her exhaustion, silence was the best answer. She needed time to think about him, to digest what she’d learnt, to see how his behaviour fitted into her expectations. She needed to think about how the tingling sensation caused her to wiggle in the cold light of day.

Impulsively, she lifted her arms and clutched his shoulders.

With a small smile, Meriden obliged.

* * * *

Ten minutes later, Charles reclined on that same green couch and pondered. She’d be back in his arms and his bed soon enough, he thought. It ought to be enough for tonight to know that she was under his roof, safe and dry. The terror that had struck him in the half hour it had taken to reach her carriage and assure himself she was well was not to be repeated. In the meantime, he could pretend that she’d reached up for him, asking to be carried to the bed they shared, instead of to one at the opposite end of the house. He’d decided tonight—they would share the big bed in the main bedchamber. She would have her private boudoir and dressing room, and he had this sitting room and a dressing room, but at night they would share a bed.

He’d ask the staff later to remove the bed he’d ordered for her boudoir, and send for a daybed from the Birmingham furniture maker he favoured.

She truly was charming and so very alive. Responsive. He didn’t care a jot if she wasn’t classically blonde and sleek in the Norman style. Her curls had been falling out of her braids and bobbing around her neck in a tempting, unintentional manner. She did not have Irish green eyes or English blue ones, but the brown depths were alert and followed him as he moved. In the firelight they had revealed emotion even when she had restrained her reactions. His attention had rewarded him with a truly classic example of the guilty look, and, if he found that expression on her face charming, who would deny him the right to enjoy it? The soft moan that had come from her lips when he’d kissed her had been the perfect inspiration. His body had immediately fallen into intense and utter lust. Again.

Only the critically important need to clarify his role as her overseer demanded he pull back from pressing further intimacies.

At the end, when he’d tucked her into bed himself, noting Annie still asleep in the chair beside her, her eyes had been dimmed with sleepiness.

By all rights, she was under his roof. In some company that meant he was honour-bound not to seduce her.

That was all well and good, for that company.

Charles, however, had every intention of using the days of their engagement to his full advantage. He had several days before they would marry, so he remained quietly still, rubbing his hand idly over his reawakened erection as he considered the next few days.

Of all the stories he’d heard about men and their wedding nights, the only happy ones had been from men who had not had truly innocent brides. Despite her flirtatious tongue, Charles was convinced that Abigail was not schooled in the sensual arts. Her response to his touch had been instinctive and tentative, neither terrified nor expectant. In his fantasies, Abigail would lust for him, and be ripe with the need to mate with him. In reality, Charles sensed an undeveloped sensual awareness in Abigail. Her naturally responsive body and their isolation from her family would favour him, if he could ease her into an understanding and acceptance of the shockingly intimate relationship he most secretly desired, without unwarranted, unhelpful instruction from other women.

Until Abigail’s name had been put forward as his wife, Charles had been convinced such pastimes would be confined to encounters with whores or, at best, an acquiescent mistress kept well away from family and friends. Of course, it remained to be seen if Abigail could one day welcome the illicit escapades in which he delighted, or if she would be convinced to indulge him for the sake of pleasing him, or if she would simply come to gracefully accept his rule of their marriage and marital bed because she had no expectations other than the ones he created.

Charles considered any of the three possibilities to be immensely pleasurable. It remained only to carefully guard her feisty nature while at the same time shifting whatever her expectations were so that they would parallel his.

Smiling, Charles wandered into the bedchamber and walked confidently to the window in the dark room. A fire burned in the grate, but the room was dark enough to cast a low glow on the furniture. Abigail belonged here, her naked body in his bed. She might not believe him yet, but he wouldn’t have had any compunction about using her hair ribbon to tie her wrists to the headboard of a bed—either the one she slept in or this one they would share. In fact, he rather looked forward to the opportunity, and planned to enact it as soon as he was certain she wouldn’t panic.

Charles wanted to wrap the ribbon through and around her wrists and knot it tightly so that her hands were clasped, then pull them above her head so that her arms were stretched out to display all of her gleaming, ivory skin. He wanted her rich curls fanned across the pillows as she rolled her head back and forth in agonised ecstasy. He wanted her sleepy eyes bright with lust and desperation. He wanted to hear her begging for him to pinch her, to bite her, to squeeze her, to spank her, to fuck her.