When a Girl Loves an Earl (Rescued from Ruin Book 5) (15 page)

However, as she was currently headed to her new husband’s birthplace, perhaps it was time to delve further into his past.

She cleared her throat. “So, you are a Scot.”

His deep hum must have been meant as assent.

“Why did you never say?”

“My name is Kilbrenner. Was this not a clue?”

She sniffed. “Your title is English. Your seat is in Derbyshire. Besides which, you do not
sound
Scottish.”

He shot her a skeptical glance.

“Very well, the frequent use of ‘aye’ and ‘lass’ might have given some indication.”

One corner of his mouth quirked. “Aye, lass. That it might.”

Oh, dear. He’d rumbled those words with a rolling, delicious brogue that played down her spine like a harpist plucking a perfect chord. Combined with the gleam of teasing humor in his eyes, it rendered her weak and warm. Why this should be so, when Lord Mochrie’s brogue merely sounded distorted and, at times, annoyingly incomprehensible to her ears, she could not say. But this was James. From the beginning, he had been the exception to every rule.

She finally caught her breath. “I assume others know of your background.”

“A few.”

“Why did you never tell me?”

Those massive shoulders shrugged. “No reason to discuss it.”

“Because you sought to rid yourself of me.”

He didn’t answer, merely turning his head to the squalling storm.

But she was not finished. “Well, I should like to know more about you.”

“Why?”

“You are my husband.”

Again, no answer. And his gaze remained fixed on the drenching rain.

She frowned. “James.”

Those shoulders rolled.

“Look at me.”

His head shook. “You are bloody well the most persistent female I have ever encountered, do you know that?”

“Yes, well. It has served me admirably.”

He snorted in disbelief, but his eyes did return to her. At least now she could see his expression, even if it was one of perplexed annoyance. “You engineered your own ruination, for the love of God. Not more than an hour ago, you stood in a toll house to hand yourself over to me, a man of whom you know so little, his origins came as a stunning revelation.”

“Not stunning, precisely. And I know you quite well in all the ways that matter. You are the finest of men. Why do you suppose I pursued you with such vigor?”

“Because you are daft and maddeningly stubborn?”

She stifled a laugh. He was still outraged, after all these months, at her determination to have him as her own. One would think he would accustom himself to the notion of a woman doing whatever was necessary to secure her heart’s desire. “Stubborn, perhaps.” She let a grin play about her lips, noting how his eyes followed and lingered there. “Have I ever told you about my Inkling?”

His frown deepened. But he did not look away from her mouth.

Her tongue moistened her lips automatically.

He swallowed. “No.”

“The Inkling is simple, really. It is a feeling of … rightness.” She splayed her hand over her belly, just below her ribs. “Here. I feel it here. Whenever I see something I must have. It has never led me astray. I felt it with you. More powerfully than ever before.”

His hands fisted where they rested beside his thighs.

“I just
knew,
James. I knew you belonged to me. And that I belonged to you. From the first moment I saw your splendid face.”

“My face is not splendid.”

“It is to me.”

“You have deceived yourself, lass. Fallen prey to the desire for something beyond your reach. You know nothing of the man I truly am.”

“I know this is right.” Her hand settled over his fist, stroking his knuckles with her thumb. “I am sorry for what I did, but I saw no other way. You refused to see reason.”

With a jerk, he withdrew his hand. “I refused to bend to your will. And you answered by denying me a choice that was rightfully mine.” As though snow had fallen upon a mountain, ice glinted in his eyes, stiffened his muscles visibly.

She nodded and dropped her gaze to her hand, lying open and alone upon the tufted seat.

“Shall I tell you of the man you married, Viola?” His voice was a lash, sharp and cold. “I am a blacksmith’s son from a tiny village in Scotland. Before an accident of birth granted me a bloody English title from an ancestor long dead, I was a stonemason. Not a lord. Not a landowner. Not even a merchant.” He took her chin between his thumb and fingers, forcing her eyes up to his. “Take a guid luik at yer husband, my wee bonnie lass. Fer this be the man ye will lie doon wi’ a’ the days of yer life.”

She blinked up at him, enchanted from scalp to slippers. “Oh.” Her voice was a panting moan. “Say it again, James. Slowly this time, if you please.”

Abruptly, his fingers left her. “Bloody hell, lass.”

“No, no. The other part.”

“You are completely mad. Do you realize what sort of man I am?”

She longed for him to touch her again, but he obviously did not possess similar fervor. He was too focused on giving her a disgust of him. For what reason, she could not fathom. Gathering her wits about her and stifling the near-painful heat that had invaded her midsection, she squeezed her thighs together and resettled herself against the cushioned seat. “I suspect you are about to tell me.”

He ignored her response, lifting one massive hand for her inspection. His fingers were long and thick, the bones and knuckles large and visibly powerful. “These hands should not be permitted to touch your sleeve, much less your skin. Had I no title, and you entered a room where I happened to be laboring over a bit of stone, you would pay me no more mind than you might Lady Wallingham’s footman. Justly so.”

“Don’t be a silly goose. You
are
the Earl of Tannenbrook. Whether you feel deserving of your title or not is immaterial. The man I love is James Kilbrenner. Stonemason or lord. Englishman or Scot.” She tugged at his lapel. “Fine tailoring or no.”

“You cannot love me, because you know nothing of me.”

She clicked her tongue and released a sigh. “Why is it so difficult to accept that I admire you? Most men would be glad of such ardent affection, I daresay.”

He stiffened. Withdrew. The snow returned to the mountain in a sudden blast. “You did not marry most men. You married me. Do not ever forget it, Viola.”

“Well, as that is most unlikely to occur, I can safely give you my solemn promise: I shall not forget that I married you.”

He continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “Once we reach Netherdunnie, you will see.”

She tilted her head and raised her brows, smiling as though he’d issued an invitation. “Lovely. I look forward to seeing your home.”

His expression darkened. He turned to the window. Propped his chin on his fist. “You will see,” he repeated, his words low and quiet. “Very soon, you will understand how deeply you have erred, lass. And no amount of regret will save you.”

*~*~*

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Mortifying? Bah! I only mentioned that you named your favorite blanket Billy. Is it my fault Lady Willoughby assumed I was referencing a recent appellation rather than a childhood one?”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her son, Charles, in regard to a recent conversation with a certain widow.

“Only luik at them!” The small pair of boy’s breeches dangled merrily from his sister’s fingers. “Sae tiny. Can ye imagine Jamie—big, strong Jamie—fitting intae this wee little garment?”

“Oh, a handsome lad, he was,” his mam interjected fondly, heaping humiliation upon mortification.

Viola laughed in delight and fluttered her fingers toward the buff breeches. “May I?” she asked politely.

“Certainly,” Nellie cried, handing her the small scrap and picking another out of the trunk his aggravating sister had insisted on bringing with her. How else to mortify her brother sufficiently if not by combing through his boyhood possessions, displaying them with great fanfare for his new wife?

Upon entering the village, Viola had not reacted as he’d expected. Not at all. Those twilight eyes had devoured the poor, brown-and-gray cottages of Netherdunnie as though fascinated by hovels and mud.

And when they’d arrived at Mam’s cottage with its freshly painted door and familiar garden of delphiniums, he’d been momentarily unable to speak for the wave of longing and remembrance. Viola had hugged his elbow and patted his arm with dainty, soothing motions. Eventually, he’d recovered enough to knock on the door. Mam had cried his name and wrapped him in a hug. He’d managed to introduce Viola as his wife, but otherwise struggled to speak, his emotions choking him. Instead, it had been Viola who had greeted his mother with a smile of such warmth and sincerity, he’d only been able to stare.

“Mrs. Kilbrenner, it is the greatest honor of my life to meet the woman who brought James into this world,” Viola had said. “He is the finest of men, and you are to be credited for his superlative character.”

His mother had embraced her tightly, wept a bit about the joy of having a “new daughter,” and sent her maid out to fetch Nellie. Since then, the feminine conspiracy to embarrass him had only grown more expansive. The three women had gathered around to sip tea and giggle and trade stories as though they’d been doing it for decades. Now, he stood with his shoulders propped against the wall in his mother’s parlor, arms crossed over his chest, wondering whether to protest their antics. Likely it would only make matters worse.

“Mrs. Abernathy, is that a pair of James’s shoes?”

“Aye, indeed. Dae call me Nellie, dear,” Nellie said. “We are sisters now, are we no’?”

Viola’s gaze melted into a gloss of gooey, feminine sentiment. “I have always wanted a sister.”

Nellie nodded emphatically, grinning wide. “Weel, now ye have one. And a mam, too.”

Mam spoke up, as well. “And ye maun think of me as such, dear. Ye may call me Mam, as Nellie’s guidman Patrick does. Or, if it be more tae yer likin’, call me Bess.”

He worried for a moment that his wife would descend into a bout of weeping. Fortunately, she was made of sterner stuff. Sniffing, Viola nodded and thanked them, then gathered herself while sipping her tea. “I find it hard to imagine James as a small boy. Did he love fishing, even then?”

He sighed and rolled his eyes as his mother and sister gabbled on about him while his wife cooed and gasped and laughed. This was excruciating. He’d half a mind to join the footman and coachman out in the stables.

“How stunning it must have been when you learned of his title,” Viola was now saying, her eyes wide, her mother’s ring flashing blue and gold in the gray light from the windows.

He’d been handed the ring by her father the previous night and told to “remember she is a precious daughter, as well as your wife, Tannenbrook. Care for her accordingly.” James had accepted Walter Darling’s challenge and tucked Viola’s ring into his waistcoat pocket, promising to protect her with his life. The vow had appeared to set Mr. Darling’s mind at ease, as the shorter, balder man had nodded, sniffed, and shaken James’s outstretched hand.

“We were fair conflummixt, nae doot aboot it,” Nellie answered Viola’s query. “But none more sae than Jamie. He had his whole life planned, did ye no’, Jamie? Doon tae the last, wee detail. Inheritin’ an English title wisna part of it.”

Viola’s gaze turned to him, curiosity shining. “What were your plans?”

He glowered at his sister, who raised a brow and took a drink of tea as if to say, “This is your punishment for staying away so long, Jamie Kilbrenner. Savor the experience.”

Clearing his throat, he searched his mind for an answer that would suffice. “Stonemasonry.”

Head tilting, Viola’s eyes narrowed upon him suspiciously. “For a detailed plan, I daresay it has striking simplicity.”

“I am a simple man.”

“Hmmph. Well, perhaps that is what sets you apart from other gentlemen.”

Nellie intruded again with her unwanted perspective. “Nae. He’s a great, muckle giant. That’s the difference.”

For some reason, Viola’s eyes lowered to his thighs. Then, she blushed, a pretty, rose pink. Then, she hid her face by sipping her tea.

His smile grew. It was about time someone other than he was made to feel out of sorts.

“Ye’re stayin’ fer supper, Jamie,” Mam said.

He opened his mouth to answer, but she held up a calm hand.

“It wisna a request.”

Feeling like a chastened boy, he nodded. “Aye, Mam.”

Thankfully, Nellie departed a short time later to cook for her own husband and children. She hugged him farewell, whispering in his ear, “Come back sooner next time, Jamie, ye big, dense daftie.”

Supper was his mother’s lamb cottage pie, as deliciously salty and robust as he remembered. He watched Viola eat with dainty little bites, closing her eyes and marveling aloud that Mam was able to find such a talented cook. Of course, when Mam informed her she had made it herself, Viola pretended surprise then marveled further at his mother’s many talents, particularly the ones involving pastry.

He watched his new wife’s face, the candlelight playing over her perfection lovingly. The tiny nose. The long, black, fanning lashes. Those delicately curved lips. Then, he let his eyes explore lower. The lush, rounded breasts. The skin above her gown’s pink, beribboned scoop.

He sucked in a breath. He wanted so dearly to touch that skin. If he could, he would lay her atop this very table and devour her. Lap her up like cream. Let her pour over him until she screamed his name.

“Jamie!”

Jolting at his mother’s sharp, two-syllabled douse of cold water. “Aye, Mam.”

“If ye intend tae take rooms at the inn, ye’d best be off while the light yet lingers.”

He nodded, swallowing and using his napkin to wipe his mouth. In truth, he was delaying while his body cooled.

For the love of God, man. At your own mother’s table.

“Oh, are we not staying here, James?” Viola pleaded. “I was so looking forward to a longer visit with Mam.”

He could not tell whether she was sincere or merely flattering his mother again. Her eyes were pleading most prettily. “The cottage does not have enough rooms to house the coachman and footman,” he lied. It was bad enough fantasizing about Viola at his mother’s table. Making love to her under his mother’s roof, with his mother sleeping one wall away, was horrifying to contemplate.

And he
would
make love to Viola. Tonight. There would be no waiting.

“Right ye are, Jamie,” said Mam, shooting him a wry, knowing grin as she stood and helped the maid begin clearing the table. “The inn will serve ye weel this night. Come mornin’, bring yer bonnie lass here fer a guid breakfast afore ye gae.”

Viola followed suit, assisting the maid in carrying the forks and glasses into the kitchen for washing. He watched her leave the room, his eyes lingering on her hips.

To avoid further embarrassing himself, he stood to help, as well, and returned Mam’s smile with one of genuine gratitude. “Thank ye.”

She nodded, her eyes filled with understanding. He was reminded of the day Hargrave had come for him. Mam had known even then what it meant. For him. For her.

Setting his dishes on the table, he came around to embrace her. “Thank ye,” he said again, holding her against him, feeling her thinner, slighter frame. “I am sorry, Mam. Sorry I stayed away.”

“Ye’re my son, Jamie. And I do miss ye. But I ken ye hae yer reasons.”

“I should have returned sooner.”

She pulled away, patting his shoulders affectionately and swiping her cheek with her thumb. “Ye mauna fret aboot it. Gae now. Take yer wee bonnie bride tae the inn. She’s a delight, Jamie. I’m moost proud of ye.”

He dropped his gaze and nodded, unwilling to explain further about how this marriage had not been of his choosing. There was little sense disturbing Mam’s obvious happiness. The deed was done. The circumstances of their union mattered not at all.

As he and Viola entered the inn a half-hour later, James thought again about how little any of it mattered—his resistance to the match. Viola’s scheming. Lady Wallingham’s intervention. Nothing mattered but that they were married. She was his wife. And this night, at Netherdunnie’s lone inn, he would make her his in truth.

*~*~*

James had been acting strangely ever since they’d arrived in Netherdunnie. During the carriage ride from Coldstream, he’d been combative and surly by turns. Then, when she had eagerly commented upon how charming she found his home village, he’d gone silent. Later, at his mother’s cottage, when she’d been getting on famously with the warm, welcoming Mrs. Kilbrenner and Mrs. Abernathy—or, Mam and Nellie, as they’d asked to be called—he’d behaved as a sullen youth, standing with his arms crossed and answering in single syllables. One would think him resentful of being discussed in glowing and affectionate terms. But that would be silly. Perhaps it had been something he ate.

As they were shown to their room by the rotund innkeeper, a nervous flutter sprang forth inside her stomach. The inn was humble but clean, the room appointed with a sturdy, wood-framed bedstead half the width of the one she’d slept in at Grimsgate. It was covered with plain, brown woolen blankets. A small dressing table in one corner held a chipped white basin and pitcher and a low-lit oil lamp. Outside the paned window, thunder echoed, but it was gentler and longer than before, as though the storm had reached the end of its strength.

She felt him close behind her. Heard him breathing. The creak of the wooden planks beneath his boots.

A knock at the door made her jump.

She felt him turn to answer, heard him murmuring with the innkeeper about the horses. She wandered further into the room, removing her bonnet. She’d worn the blue one with the white feathers. Smiling, she ran her fingers lightly over the silk. Then, she placed the hat on the bed and began unbuttoning the frog closures of her lightweight, silver silk pelisse. It was the finest one she owned, redolent with tucks and pleats and shimmering white embroidery. And beneath, she had worn her ball dress from the evening before, because it, too, was the finest one she owned. On this day, she had wanted to look beautiful for him.

She shrugged away the pelisse, letting it slide from her shoulders in the low glow of the lamp. She removed her gloves and moved to the dressing table. Poured a bit of water and dampened a cloth. Wiped away some of the day’s dust and rain from her face and neck. The light caught on her mother’s ring. Now hers.

She examined the thing in the crossfire of flashing lightning and steady, warm lamp. It was one of the few items she had of her mother’s. She’d never known the woman. And now, it represented her union with James.

The door clicked closed. Boots creaked across the floor then stopped.

She reached up to begin unpinning her hair. One by one, she laid the pins on the dressing table. One by one, her curls came down.

“Bloody hell,” he breathed.

She glanced at him over her shoulder. Eyes of deep green were riveted to the place where her hair met her backside. A valise thudded to the floor at his feet.

Her mouth curled in a helpless grin. “See something you like, my lord?” she teased.

“Bloody hell,” he repeated, running a hand through his own hair. The motion stretched the fine, dark-green wool of his coat over his abdomen. Emphasized the sheer magnitude of his shoulders and arms and hands and thighs.

Stole her breath clean away.

She turned, bracing her hands and backside against the edge of the dressing table. For a moment, she simply let herself look at him. James. The square jaw and firm lips and heavy brow. Eyes the color of a forest near dusk. He melted her. Made her ache and go soft. Made the heat rise beneath her skin.

“Do you need help removing your coat, James?” she inquired, her voice a raspy purr.

His chest rose and fell at a rapid pace, his nose flaring with every breath. Then, his jaw flexed. And he began pacing. Back and forth. Across the small room. In two or three strides, he reached one wall, only to pivot and, in another two or three, reached the opposite wall. Then, he repeated the process.