Untamed (13 page)

He nodded. “I canna stay away from my business all that much longer, and my mate, Gavin, is a barrister on the Queen’s Counsel. But to do things proper, first I must speak with your father. When do you expect him home?”

For a smattering of seconds, panic flared. If he spoke to her father, the game would be up. Beyond that, now that he’d won the bet, why on earth would he wish to marry her?

From across the room, Bea called out, “Papa is ministering to the, uh … fallen women at Lady Stonevale’s academy. There is no saying when he will return.”

Kate sent her sister a grateful glance before returning her gaze to her “mark.” “Special license or not, I am afraid I shall require more of a proposal than that.”

He swept the napkin from his lap and rose. “Forgive me, sweeting, of course you deserve better.”

Rounding the tea table to her, he went down on one knee. Furious though she was, there was something enormously stimulating and more than a touch wicked about a big, brawny Scotsman kneeling at her feet.

Emerald eyes lifted to her face, the sight and his nearness bringing her breath to hitch. “I’m a plain-speaking man and not the poetry-spouting sort, but I’ll be a good husband to you, Kate, and a good father to whatever children the Lord sees fit to give us.”

Ah, so that was it. He wanted a brood mare to help him set up his nursery. The realization was akin to dousing her with chilly water. No doubt he figured she would do as well as the next woman, even better for being an earl’s daughter. It was all she could do not to rise up and dump the teapot’s contents, not tepid but quite scalding, over his head.

Reining in her temper, she focused on putting the wheels of her scheme into motion. “Ever since I was a very little girl, I’ve carried about a particular romantic notion of how my future husband would propose.”

“Tell me, then.”

She feigned hesitancy. “You will think me silly.”

“Nay, I willna.” Under any other circumstances, she might have found his eagerness touching, but not so now.

“Why not?”

She dropped her voice to a whisper. “You might even say it is a fantasy of mine.”

“A fantasy, you say?” Clearly that got his attention. His eyes lit, and he lowered his voice, as well, making Kate wonder what it might be like to hear that throaty burr whispering to her in the dark. “Tell me, milady. I swear I’ll make it come true, or as close to true, as a mortal man may.” He reached for her hand and twined his big, blunt fingers through hers.

The slight contact sent desire shivering through her. Gooseflesh rose on her upper arms; her nipples pebbled. “Very well, then.” Determined to stay on course, she cleared her throat. “My beloved and I wait until darkness falls.”

He winked at her. “I fancy the dark.” His big thumb stroked her palm, drawing forth the familiar fluttering from the far reaches of her lower belly.

Furious at him though she was, it was dashed difficult to concentrate on recalling her rehearsed lines with him touching her like … like
that.
“Once it is quiet and pitch-black, we set out for a moonlit stroll in the garden, a garden very much like the one at the back of this house.”

He turned her hand palm up and bent to press a kiss into the sensitive spot just inside her wrist. Kate shivered again.

Lifting his head, he smiled up at her. “I always fancy a moonlit stroll. Go on.”

“My intended takes my arm, and we stroll down the path to the farthest reaches of the garden, far away from the house and the eyes and ears of anyone within.”

He whetted his lower lip, and Kate remembered how succulent his mouth had tasted, and his tongue, too. “Aye?”

“I let him lead me to a darkened corner hidden by hedge and sit me down on the stone bench. Thus seated, I ask him to grant me a very special, very private favor.”

She looked over to the window seat where Bea appeared to have her nose buried in a book. Kate knew better, of course.

His eyes found hers, snaring her gaze and drawing it back to him. He lifted her hand again, this time drawing her middle digit into his mouth, so warm, so wet. “I’d grant you any boon you ask, you must know that.”

His mouth wasn’t all that was wet. Moisture spurted between her thighs. Without looking, she knew that the crotch of her silk panties would be soaked through. Squeezing her legs tightly together, she focused on regaining control. “I ask him to kneel at my feet, lay his hands most daringly upon my …”

“Milady?”

“My …
person
and … Well, I can’t very well finish telling you here, now can I?” She jerked her chin to the window seat where Bea sat with her head cocked and her hair tucked behind her upturned ear.

He nodded his understanding. “Very well, when, then?

“Meet me later tonight a few minutes before midnight. The house will be abed, and we will be quite alone.”

“Kate, are you certain?”

She nodded quickly. “Yes, quite. Come through the alleyway behind the mews. I’ll meet you at the gate and let you in.”

“Why must we wait ’til then?”

Kate let out a huffing breath, releasing the tension building within. Lord, was he to argue with her already? “We just must. Who knows, maybe it has something to do with midnight being the witching hour. I don’t know. Do you want to hear the rest of it or not?”

He nodded. “Aye, I do. Go on.”

“There is a bench at the far end of the garden. I want you to take me there, go down upon your knees as you’re doing now, and ask me to marry you—in a song.”

His brows shot upward. “You want me to sing to you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“What difference can it make for me to sing the words as opposed to simply saying them?”

“I’m not sure. It just does. That’s why it’s a fantasy, I suppose. Fantasies aren’t bound by reason or regular rules. Singing just seems so … romantic. I confess I can feel my heart fluttering and my knees trembling just imagining it. But if you’d rather not… I mean, if singing goes against the grain of some cherished principle, well, then, please forget I ever mentioned it. We can carry on as we are with a more traditional leisurely courtship—weeks, months, even years, if you wish.”

“Nay, if it’s singing you fancy, then it is singing you shall have.” Leaning closer, he whispered, “I can’t wait to have you, Katie. I’m half-mad with wanting you.” He leaned in to kiss her.

Not trusting herself, Kate jerked back. “And have me you shall, sir, only wait you must, at least until midnight.”

She flattened both palms against his chest, intending to stay him. She’d forgotten how hard-muscled and big and strong he was, not only to look upon but also to touch.

“But, Kate—”

She cut him off by laying her index finger across his protesting lips. “Please, Rourke, I’ve dreamt of this day, this moment, since I was a little girl. I want everything to be just right, simply perfect.” Lord, but she was laying it on with a trowel.

He looked dubious, yet resigned. “If it means that much to you—”

She cut him off with a flutter of her hand. “It does, I assure you it does.”

He nodded. “Then I’ll sing to you, of course. But be forewarned, I have a fantasy, too.”

“You do?” Even in the midst of playing coy, her body betrayed her, the slow strumming of her sex aching for release.

“Aye, I do. Someday, sweet Kate, I’ll want you to look into my eyes and call me Patrick.”

Rourke showed up at the back gate five minutes in advance of the agreed-upon meeting time. The sky above him was a canopy of grayish white, and the air held the knife sharpness that usually portended snow. The moon peeped out from a bank of clouds, its bleached rays breaking over the walled garden. Touched by its translucent light, the statuary shapes within seemed more ghosts than cold stone.

Stamping his feet and clapping together his gloved hands, he considered Kate’s odd request. A singsong marriage proposal was an odd romantic fantasy, but if indulging her whim meant her saying yes, then so be it. Betimes, the garden was deserted. It would be only the two of them. With no one but his future wife and the moon and stars to witness his folly, there was no good reason not to simply throw himself into the spirit of the thing.

And yet something beyond the fear of looking foolish wouldn’t let go of him. Earlier that day she’d seemed entirely too eager for a woman who but a week before had declared she meant never to marry. Sitting in her snug parlor sipping tea, suspicion had flared, but he’d tamped it down by telling himself his guilt must be reflected back to him. Damn the wager, damn Dutton, and damn him for letting himself be goaded into accepting. He’d been looking over his shoulder ever since accepting Dutton’s marker. Assuming the young lord made good on his word, Rourke meant to give the money to charity, either the Tremayne Dairy Farm Academy or Roxbury House, whichever institution’s need was greatest.

Had someone not spotted him and Kate in the park and reported back—and he’d yet to discover who that creditable source was—he would have gladly allowed the wager to die. He hadn’t let his guard down all week. Sooner or later, word must get back to Kate, and once it did, he could only imagine her fury—yet another reason he felt in such a rush to finish up this wooing business and wed. If his luck held, he’d have her wedded and bedded and them both on their way back to Scotland before any gossip found its way to her ear. If he was truly fortunate, she might never know.

The soft crunch of footfalls drew his attention inside the gate. Lantern light bobbed like an apple dangled on a string, starting at the house and coming ever closer. Kate? Eagerness gripped him. Anticipation had his pulse picking up pace and his cock throbbing.

She met him at the gate, a fairylike figure attired in a fur-trimmed cape, its hood drawn up to cover her hair. “You came.” She pulled back the hinged gate door, and he stepped inside.

“Aye, did you doubt I would?”

“No, I would have
wagered
you’d come.”

There it was again, the word he’d come to loathe. Tamping down his guilt, he reached inside his coat pocket for his spectacles to better see. He had his proposal speech—or rather, song—in his pocket, as well, but without glasses, he hadn’t a prayer of seeing it.

Kate’s small hand shot out to his arm. “No, don’t. You look ever so much handsomer without them. Take hold of my hand. I could lead us through that garden blindfolded.”

“That would be the blind leading the blind, indeed.”

She made a face, or at least he thought she did. It was altogether too dark to tell. “You do trust me, don’t you, Rourke? Trust is the most important ingredient to a marriage, or so I’ve been told.”

“Aye, I trust you.”

Her small hand wrapped firmly about his wrist. Given that she was the woman with whom he meant to wed and spend the rest of his life, that ought to have been a comfort. So why was it he felt the hairs pricking the back of his neck and a feeling of dread dropping into his belly?

They entered the garden. He ran his free hand along the edge of the stone wall. His other hand remained in Kate’s. She held the lantern aloft and steered them along. They stepped off the path and cut across the frost-parched grass. Feeling his way through the darkness with his future bride and her lantern as his guidepost, it occurred to him he must really care for this woman; otherwise he would never have opened himself up to this vulnerability.

Out of the corner of his good eye, he glimpsed the sparse scenery in passing—a dilapidated gazebo, chalk-white statues, a boxwood hedge, and assorted topiary shapes, the latter grown shaggy for want of shears.

“We are here,” she announced in a carrying voice, letting go of his hand.

Feeling his way to the cold slab of stone seat, he wondered why she spoke so loudly. Surely the point of all this moonlit meandering was to evade calling forth attention from the house. “Indeed, we are.”

She set the lantern on the ground at their feet and took her seat beside him. “All alone.”

He moved closer, his thigh brushing her hip. “Aye, all alone.”

Cold though it was, her closeness was making his blood heat and his pulse hammer. Once he got through the business of making his proposal, and her accepting, he meant to take her in his arms and pick up where they’d left off in the park. After a week apart, another nibble of forbidden fruit, dare he say, a larger bite, was due.

But beyond any pleasure gleaned from the moment, it was the future he couldn’t wait to embark upon. Sitting beside Kate on the bench, he realized he was very much looking forward to taking her to his home. The castle he’d acquired was a shambles still, the steward he’d hired making slow but steady progress. Rourke had instructed him to focus his attentions on the grounds as his first priority, but now that he was bringing home a bride, he would need to alter that plan.

He found her shoulders with his hands, careful not to grip too tightly. That day in the park he’d forgotten himself and been rough with her, not that she’d seemed to mind. Still, he vowed to treat her with kid gloves from thereon. Slowly, gently, he turned her in his arms.

“I’ve always fancied the dark.” He leaned in, intending to claim her with a kiss. Only this time Kate didn’t open for him. Her lips, stiff and dry with the cold, remained locked. He drew back. “Shy, sweeting? I wouldn’t have thought it from your boldness the other day.”