The Bridegroom Read online

  Becky felt an ache deep inside at the thought of Mick with another woman in his arms and realized she wanted him all to herself.

  Why not marry him?

  It was impossible. She had been taught from birth the importance of her heritage, the need to marry well, to marry within her class. Mick was a whore’s bastard son. The social stigma of marriage to such as he would be unbearable. She would become an outcast, and her daughter along with her. And, to be honest, Becky was not sure she could live without the comforts she had been raised to expect with an inexhaustible income.

  Penrith had taken control of her trust upon her marriage to him and dissipated it entirely, so she had no wealth of her own. She could probably ask Papa for pin money, but she doubted Mick’s pride would allow it. And she was not entirely sure Papa would not cut her off without a farthing, if she married without his approval. And as much as Papa admired Michael O’Malley, she could not believe he would approve of Mick as the proper husband for a duke’s daughter.

  So. It must be a liaison, or nothing. She did not even consider marriage to another man, not after her experience with Penrith. But the thought of spending life as an unattached female did not seem so frightening when she imagined herself being held snug in Mick’s arms.

  There was only one problem with her solution. What if Mick did not want to be her lover? What if he was offended by the fact that she did not consider him a man worthy of her hand in marriage? What if their friendship was blighted as a result? Or, worst of all, what if she really was as unsatisfying in bed as William had always said and she could not please Mick?

  Becky had already chewed all her fingernails to the quick. She was forced to content herself with staring out the window at the rapidly passing countryside.

  At least she would have someone to share all her troubles. Reggie was in Scotland. Surely, between them, they could figure out a way to make life turn out happily ever after.

  Chapter 12

  Reggie swiped at a drop of sweat streaming from her temple, then returned her attention to the fernlike weed she was pulling from the base of a rosebush. Her knees and shoulders ached from the unnatural position in which she sat, and her hands beneath a pair of leather work gloves were swollen with blisters. But she could see the beginnings of a rose garden. Somehow the roses had survived, despite a choking mantle of bracken and thistles.

  Lightning streaked across the dark, distant sky and down into the sea. She waited for the clap of thunder that was sure to follow. One, two, three, four, five … The rumble in the distance was not so far away now. A zephyr swirled around her, bringing the sting of cool, salty air. The storm would be here soon, and she would have to stop.

  She leaned back on her heels and glanced upward, searching for Carlisle’s figure atop the peaked slate roof of the castle. Pegg had arranged for a bed and fresh bedding, but he had not repaired the hole in the roof above the bedroom. Fixing it had taken precedence over everything, even the journey to visit with her family that Carlisle had conceded she could make. That is, the visit with everyone except her father. He had insisted on accompanying her to make certain the duke kept his distance.

  She had been tempted to stay inside today and avoid the possibility of an encounter with Carlisle. After her wanton behavior yesterday—making love with him in broad daylight—she still was not able to look her husband in the eye without blushing.

  But a single glance through the ivy-choked bedroom window had revealed the weed-choked rose garden. She had not been able to resist the chance to begin the restoration of Castle Carlisle to its former beauty. Since there were no servants for whom she must keep up the pretense of being a countess, she had changed into the pair of Daniel’s breeches she had confiscated on board ship and gone to work.

  Reggie knew it would have been wiser to begin her repairs to the castle from the inside out. If she was going to be a prisoner in her own home, it behooved her to make her captivity as pleasant as possible.

  But ever since Carlisle had mentioned his mother’s rose garden, it had become a symbol to her of all he had lost. Perhaps if she could make the garden what it once had been, he might see the possibilities for what they could do with the rest of the castle—and their lives.

  She was also determined to mend the breach between her father and her husband, but she had no idea how to accomplish such a feat. Becky had always been the one to come up with the best solution for a problem; Reggie had been the one who carried it out. She would simply have to write to Becky and see what her sister suggested.

  Reggie sighed as she perused the rosebushes, noting the absence of weeds and the fecund smell of the earth. She had never in her life done so much physical labor, been so sore, or so exhausted. Or so satisfied. Which was quite different from contented or happy. She was neither of those. She was drawing lines, of course, but what else could one do, when one was married to a man who fought the devil every day—and sometimes lost.

  Reggie watched as the rising wind whipped at Carlisle’s shirt, which was open at the throat and clung to his chest in sweaty patches. She had stolen glances at him throughout the afternoon as he stood with one hip cocked to maintain his shaky balance on the steep roof. Several times she had feared he would fall, but somehow, despite several near misses, he had not.

  She knew he must be as aware of the coming storm as she was. Why did he not come down? It was dangerous to be so high above the ground in the midst of so much lightning. She had no desire to be a widow before she had really been a wife.

  She had opened her mouth to shout at him to come down when a gust of wind stripped a lock of hair from the knot of curls at her crown. She tore off her gloves and reached up to try to keep her hair from falling down entirely. Her efforts came to naught as the wind tore at her curls, loosing pins that she could not find in the newly turned earth.

  She gave up and pulled out the few remaining pins, shaking her head, running her hands through her hair, and rubbing her fingertips against her scalp to ease the pain where the pins had held her hair tight against her head. The stone in her wedding ring caught in a tangle, and she eased it free, then held her hand out before her to gaze at the ring.

  The diamond was brilliant in the sunlight, a bright, beautiful symbol of their union. Except Carlisle had never intended their marriage to be a joining of two souls. She had been so unbelievably foolish for someone who had tried to be so careful. The encircling band of gold reminded her of a prisoner’s manacle, and she suddenly wanted it off. But her fingers had swollen in the heat, and hard as Reggie tugged, she could not free herself.

  When she looked up, she found Carlisle watching her, his dark hair riffled by the gusty wind that made his stance on the pitched roof so perilous. She felt herself go still inside.

  Reggie thought it was fear for Carlisle’s safety that made her skin prickle, made her heart begin to pound so hard it threatened to burst from her chest. But it was not. It was something else entirely. Something much more sinister.

  Desire.

  It was appalling to feel so much need for a man who had sworn to destroy her father, a man who had deceived her, disgraced her, and then coerced her into marriage. And this was not even love, it was lust. Reggie felt ashamed. And then angry because Carlisle had no right to put himself in such mortal danger that she was compelled to worry about him, as she would worry about anyone in such dire straits.

  “Come down,” she mouthed distinctly, knowing her voice would be whipped away by the wind long before it reached him.

  He shook his head and mouthed back, “Not yet.”

  She glanced worriedly at a flash of lightning over her shoulder and counted, one, two, three … before she heard the thunder. Dangerously close. The storm was nearly upon them. She stood up, her eyes never leaving Carlisle. He was down on one knee hammering again. She was so absorbed, she never heard Pegg coming until he touched her shoulder.

  “Make him come down,” she said, her voice sharp.

  Pegg didn’t even look up. �
�He’ll come down when he’s done, lass, and not before.”

  “But the storm—” she protested.

  “Canna ye see he loves it? He dares the wind to blow him away, dares the lightning to strike him.”

  Reggie looked up and discovered Carlisle standing with his eyes closed, his face lifted to the storm. “Why isn’t he afraid?”

  “I dinna believe he fears death. Sometimes I think he might even welcome it.”

  Reggie had no experience with wounds so painful that death would be a blessing. How could she hope to heal her husband if he nursed his hurt so carefully that it was still alive this long after it had been suffered?

  Lightning crackled so close that the hairs on her arms stood on end. A boom of thunder followed almost immediately. She bolted for the tall wooden ladder that lay against the back wall of the castle, determined to bring Carlisle down. She could hear Pegg yelling at her to stop, but that only made her run faster.

  She scurried up the ladder, anxious to get to the top before lightning struck again. The blisters on her hands protested as she clutched the rough wood, and she bit her lip to hold back a sob of pain. She was so intent on putting one hand above the other that she was startled when she found herself staring into Carlisle’s dark, angry eyes.

  He was down on one knee holding the ladder steady and greeted her with, “What in bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

  A gust of wind shoved her backward so suddenly the scream of terror was caught in her throat. She felt Carlisle grab handfuls of the man’s shirt she wore and yank her forward onto the roof. A moment later, she lay prone next to him, her head aimed toward the peak of the slate roof, her body tucked in the cradle of his strong arms. Icy rain splattered against her cheek before he pressed it hard against his chest.

  “You willful little fool,” he muttered in her ear. “You could have been killed.”

  She could no longer feel the cold rain, no longer smell the salty air. She could only feel the heat of his body along the length of her own and smell the sharp, acrid odor of male sweat which, surprisingly, she did not find unappealing. His hand palmed her head and held her tight against him as the storm raged over their heads.

  “Did you finish?” she asked loud enough to be heard over the rain clattering against the slate.

  “What?” He released her enough so that she could see his face.

  She brushed a raindrop from his eyebrow. “Repairing the roof. Did you finish?”

  “Just. At least we will sleep dry tonight.”

  Reggie shivered as lightning struck again, too close for comfort. “Assuming we are still alive. Why didn’t you come down?”

  Carlisle lifted his face to the threatening sky. “All the times I begged God to strike me dead, He never did. I doubt He would bother with me now.”

  “You’ve forgotten one thing,” Reggie said.

  “What’s that?”

  “He may decide He wants me and get you by mistake.”

  Carlisle grinned. “Then I had better take advantage of the opportunity to do something I’ve been wanting to do all day.”

  His lips were cold from the rain as he caressed the tiny, almost invisible scar near her upper lip, but his tongue was warm as he slid it into her mouth and tasted her thoroughly. She felt her body heating from the inside out, and the thunder overhead was eclipsed by the roar of her own blood rushing in her ears. Her hands crept around his waist, pulling him closer, while his hand settled on her hip, pressing their bodies together as she arched toward him.

  Their precarious perch on the roof, the lash of the wind and the rain, and the urgency of Carlisle’s kisses all combined to leave her breathless, aching for him, needing him desperately.

  And then his kisses stopped.

  Reggie opened her eyes and looked up at him, confused. “What’s wrong?”

  “The worst of the storm has passed,” he said. “We can go down now.”

  She looked up at the sky and realized there were patches of blue among the clouds. She had been lost in some other world, and she was not yet ready to leave it.

  Reggie felt bereft as Carlisle eased himself off of her and found purchase on the slippery roof, and then guilty, because she had succumbed to the desire—the lust—she felt for him, despite his avowed intentions toward her father.

  “Be careful,” he warned.

  “I don’t understand your concern for my well-being,” she said. “I would have thought it would please you to leave my father with one less daughter.”

  “He will suffer more if you are alive, yet lost to him,” Carlisle replied. “Besides,” he added, “I don’t yet have my heir.”

  Reggie could hardly believe this was the same courteous gentleman who had courted her so successfully in London. The man she had married had no heart, no shred of decency, no mercy for her or her father. When Carlisle reached out to her, she jerked her shoulder free. “Don’t touch me.”

  She lost her balance and would have fallen, if he had not grabbed a handful of her shirt. She glanced down and saw Pegg waiting far, far below, at the bottom of the ladder. Her heart was thumping crazily in her chest as she realized how close she had come to death.

  She looked at Carlisle and realized she owed him thanks. But the words stuck in her throat. He had saved her because her death did not fit into his plans of revenge. In order to punish her father—and get his heir—he needed her alive. Well, he would have to wait to get his heir. She had no intention of giving him what he wanted before she had what she wanted.

  “You will get your heir when you make peace with my father,” she said. “And not before.”

  His brows lowered. “Are you refusing to lie with me?”

  “I will fight you tooth and claw,” she assured him. “Now, let me go, my lord. I can make my own way down.” When he released her, she felt much less safe, but she was determined not to rely on him any more than absolutely necessary.

  “I will go down first,” he said, stepping in front of her. “To catch you if you fall.”

  “I have no intention of giving you the satisfaction of telling my father I am dead,” she retorted. But he had already gone before her. She stepped onto the top rung of the ladder the instant his hand had left it. When she was ten feet above the ground, her foot slipped on a still-wet wooden rung, and she fell.

  “Clay!” she cried. To her mortification, she landed in his outstretched arms. “Put me down!” she said, struggling to be set on her feet.

  “You’re shivering with cold,” he said. “I’ve asked Pegg to draw a bath for you. I suggest you stay in it until you are warmed.”

  It would be idiocy to say she would not bathe. She barely managed to refrain from uttering just such a refusal. The dirt that had collected on her clothes in the garden had turned to mud in the rain. Her hair straggled around her face in wet clumps, and her body ached—and stank—from the hard afternoon’s work. “Put me down,” she insisted.

  He slid her along his body, and in the sensual riot that resulted, she made the mistake of laying her blistered hands on his shoulders.

  “Aaah!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she said, curving her injured hands close to her chest and turning away.

  He reached out a hand to curb her, and she cried out in anguish. He grasped her wrists and turned her hands over, revealing the raw flesh and bleeding blisters. “Dear God. What have you done?”

  His eyes were filled with concern as he met her gaze, and the defiant response she had intended caught in her throat. “I …”

  He turned his gaze to the rose garden. Reggie looked along with him, feeling a great deal of satisfaction at all she had accomplished. A circular pattern of rosebushes could be seen, the dirt around them freed of weeds, the bushes themselves pruned so they might begin to grow again.

  She waited for Carlisle to acknowledge her effort, hoping he would be pleased. Instead she heard, “You should have left this work to someone better suited to it.”


  “I wanted to do it,” she said. For you. For us. But those thoughts remained unspoken.

  His gaze focused on her again, but what she saw in his eyes was not gratitude, but annoyance. “If you will not set limits for your own welfare, I will set them for you.”

  “No one tells me what I can and cannot do!”

  He lifted an arrogant black eyebrow. “If necessary, I will keep you locked in your room.”

  Reggie’s heart was thumping hard, and her body felt hot. Her throat ached from the wound to her pride he had so carelessly inflicted. “My father could not manage it when I was six, and I have learned a great deal since then, my lord.”

  He glanced at the roses again, then lifted her injured hands gently in his own, turning them to survey the damage. “Will you at least take better care of yourself?”

  “It is only a few blisters,” she protested, awkwardly pulling her hands free. “They will be gone in a matter of days.”

  “Come,” he said, placing a firm hand at the small of her back and urging her toward the front door to the castle. “Pegg will know what to use on those blisters to ease your hurt.”

  Pegg met them as they entered the castle, and when Carlisle asked whether he had a salve that might help, the big man insisted that she bathe first. “Ye’ve got to get those hands clean, lass, or there’ll be trouble later. I’ll give Clay somethin’ to put on them when ye’ve finished yer bath.”

  “But—”

  “I have found it is a waste of breath arguing with him,” Carlisle said. “You might as well do as he says.”

  Reggie looked from one imposing male to the other, then turned and headed up the stairs.

  “That’s a braw lass ye’ve married, lad,” Pegg said as he poured a cup of hot tea and set it on the kitchen table. “Not many a wife would have worked so long nor so hard for ye.”

  “I know,” Clay conceded as he sat down and added a lump of sugar to the hot tea Pegg had poured for him.

  “Maybe ye ought to reconsider and—”

  “Forgive Blackthorne?” Clay interrupted brusquely. “Never.”