Wickedly Yours (The Wickeds Book 4)

by Kathleen Ayers

  Rowan had promised Lady Cupps-Foster discretion and Arabella had saved his life, though, he considered ruefully, it could be argued his life wouldn’t have been in danger had he not been sent to rescue her in the first place. She’d been brave and defiant right up until Corbett fell from the window. A horrible, low keening sound came from her as he fell and Rowan had the impression she wasn’t seeing Corbett, but something else.

  He tried and failed to ignore the red chemise flashing beneath the remains of Arabella’s staid, mud-colored traveling dress. Given the situation, the color of her underthings, along with the sensations they aroused, should have been the last thing on his mind.

  MacLauren glanced at Arabella and nodded. “I’ll make arrangements for the body. I’ll be as discreet as possible.”

  “Both myself and His Grace are most appreciative. If there’s nothing else, I need to return Lady Arabella to London as soon as possible.”

  “Of course, Lord Malden.” MacLauren dipped his hat, shooting Arabella another glance before leaving the room.

  “While I make arrangements for our journey, do you have a place Lady Arabella can rest and change her clothing?” Rowan addressed the inn keeper. “I’ll also handle all the damages to the room, where the accident occurred.”

  “Of course, my lord. I’ll have my own wife attend her in our private quarters.” He bustled off to find his wife. Rowan heard him calling for water to be heated.

  Assured the man was gone, Rowan walked to Arabella. Kneeling down, he took her hand, flinching slightly at the coldness of her fingers. “Arabella, do you have a change of clothes? A trunk?”

  “I—" Her voice was low and scratchy. “I have clothes.” She cleared her throat. “His—I mean Corbett’s coach should have my things.” She pulled her hands away and pushed up from the wall, declining his help. Her eyes were dark, fathomless pools, so brown they appeared black. “I’m fine, Lord Malden. Perfectly fine.”

  He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Maybe some expression of gratitude? An acknowledgement of what they’d just been through together or some indication she needed comfort?

  Red chemise or not, Arabella was still Arabella.

  10

  “Are you ready to leave? The coach is just outside.”

  Arabella smoothed the skirts of her dark gray traveling dress. It was slightly wrinkled, but clean and high-necked which would hide the worst of the bruises left from Corbett’s fingers. With her hair brushed and braided along with a change of clothes, it was easier to pretend the last few days of her life had only been a bad dream. Or a nightmare. She certainly felt very different from the woman who had agreed to marry Corbett out of revenge.

  “I am.”

  Malden stared back at her, a concerned look lingering in the depths of his hazel eyes. He looked large and protective, and Arabella had the urge to throw herself against the breadth of his chest and snuggle against him for safety.

  She turned away, slightly embarrassed by her train of thought. It was natural, she told herself, to feel some sense of…connection with Malden.

  The knife slid into Corbett’s flesh as if his neck were no more than a pad of butter.

  She’d said those words to herself as she watched Corbett flail against the knife protruding from his neck.

  Corbett is dead.

  Hands shaking, she pulled on her gloves as Malden watched her, his brows knit together in concern. “I am anxious to return to London.” His attention to her well-being made her uncomfortable as no man, outside of her brother, had ever truly given a care for her welfare. Arabella reminded herself that she did not like Lord Malden, regardless of his aid.

  “As am I.” Malden moved closer.

  Her skin immediately prickled as he neared. His clothes were still in deplorable condition and he was in desperate need of a shave. The soap he’d used to wash smelled fresh and clean although it did little to wipe away the horse smell lingering about his broad shoulders. His eyes were hazel and tilted at the ends, something she’d never noticed before. Nor had she ever taken note of the high cheekbones and slash of his nose. He had the look of a Viking. Or at least, what she imagined a Viking to look like. The dark brown hair curling around his ears was the exact shade of fine French brandy.

  Dear God.

  Completely unsettled, she walked around Malden and headed outside to the courtyard. A large comfortable looking conveyance with matched bays awaited them.

  A snort sounded behind her. “Lady Cupps-Foster insisted you’d be overcome with gratefulness should I come to your aid. I knew better.” He held out his arm to assist her into the coach, his lips twitching as if he held back a smile.

  “You do not know me at all.” An odd pressure filled her chest. The same as she’d had when he’d rushed in to save her from Corbett. “My apologies if I appear ungrateful. I am most appreciative for your intervention, Lord Malden.” She allowed him to help her into the coach.

  “Rowan,” he said softly. “And I will call you Arabella.”

  No, that would not do. She wished to only think of him as Malden. “I do not think—"

  “Arabella,” he drew her name out. “I have ridden all over England in the last few days looking for you. I’m tired. Filthy—"

  “Yes.” She wrinkled her nose deliberately. “You smell of horse. Perhaps you should ride instead of joining me in the coach.”

  His lips tightened just a bit, drawing her eyes to his sensual mouth. Something dark flashed in his eyes. “I’ve earned the right to call you Arabella, and I will. You’ve had a very traumatic experience, though since you are not weeping hysterically or fainting in my arms, I have to assume you are sufficiently well. I’m not sorry Corbett is dead. Had he not broken his neck I would have done it for him.” He climbed in behind her. “So please, stop hissing like a cat.” He took the seat across from her and crossed his arms. “And I’m bloody tired. If you don’t like the smell of me perhaps you could ride up top with the coachman.”

  Before she could utter a scathing retort, he’d closed his eyes.

  11

  Arabella snored.

  Not loudly, mind you, but just enough to be annoying. He’d been in the throes of the most amazing dream. Arabella was dressed only in the red chemise, and her hair was down, spilling over both of them as he moved between her legs. He awoke aroused with his stomach grumbling.

  Jesus.

  Another unladylike rumble met his ears.

  Staid. Cold. Those were words anyone would use to describe her. How odd Arabella would wear such a scandalous garment beneath her matronly attire. He’d always suspected she hid something behind her tightly braided hair and sour disposition. Not just the chemise. Rowan had glimpsed the curve of her breasts, full and high, beneath the ripped dress. When she’d stabbed Corbett, he’d witnessed the sleek, pale expanse of her back.

  Now he couldn’t stop thinking of what more her proper clothing hid.

  Sexual desire was not the same for everyone. What attracted one person might leave another cold. Rowan appreciated passion. A challenging intellect wrapped around a sensuous nature. Red underthings.

  He looked at Arabella, sleeping rather peacefully, blissfully unaware that every fiber of his being told him to claim her like spoils after a war.

  Wickedness.

  Arabella held a glimmer of darkness along with the red chemise which seemed in need of taming. Every curt word or sneer she bestowed upon him did nothing but stir his arousal. He wished to wrap the sable mass of her hair around his wrist as he thrust into her, naked beneath him. Hear her moan his name and rake her nails down his back. If nothing else, the last few hours had made Rowan aware of an inescapable truth.

  He wanted Arabella. Every deceitful inch.

  * * *

  Something heavy fell against Arabella’s foot as the coach rocked to one side. Half-asleep, she wondered if it was the hot brick she’d asked for as they left the coaching inn. Except hot bricks didn’t fall against your entire leg.

  Arabel
la’s eyes snapped open. Not a hot brick.

  Malden was sleeping, his long legs stretching out in front of him. The coach, while nicely appointed, was not terribly large and his boots, his very muddy boots, had fallen against her skirts. With a hiss, she pushed his leg away.

  The leg flopped back against her skirts. She tried to push it away again and found the leg, as well as the foot attached to it, wouldn’t move.

  A small sound of amusement came from Malden. His lips turned up at the corners though his eyes remained closed.

  He was awake and annoying her deliberately.

  “Stop this instant.”

  A grin moved across his lips. Lashes fluttered against the high cheekbones as his eyes slowly opened. “Stop what? I’ve been asleep. You sound like an enraged fishwife.”

  Malden had the loveliest eyes. Light brown shot with green and gold framed by lashes that any woman would envy. The rough shadow of a beard clung to his jaw, the hair a shade or two darker than that on his head. He had tiny creases at the corners of his eyes a sure sign he laughed often, something he was struggling not to do at the moment.

  “You snore,” she countered. A fluttering rose up and caressed her breasts as those hazel eyes surveyed her.

  “As do you.” He didn’t sound the least put out.

  “I absolutely do not. I would never.” She turned to peruse the passing scenery. There wasn’t much to look at. Drizzling rain. Muddy roads.

  “You do. Like a bear coming out of hibernation. We should talk about Corbett.”

  The quick change in topic sent a dull throb to her stomach. “No. I’ve told you I’m fine. There is nothing to discuss.” How quickly his concern would dissipate should he find out the truth. She didn’t wish to speak of Corbett. Her discomfort was all centered on the guilt of Malden nearly dying because of her and her own stupidity. She gave little thought to Corbett. Which probably made her a monster.

  “I’ve no need of your ministrations.” She refused to look at him.

  “Ministrations? I can see you are determined to remain stoic and show not a shred of weakness. Most women—"

  “I am not,” she choked out, “most women.”

  “That is an understatement.” He shot back.

  Arabella’s jaw clenched. “I am not like the giggling women who surround you in the ton, fainting if they so much as see a spider. I beg you, stop hovering about me like an overzealous nursemaid. I do not seek comfort from you, nor would I wish it if you offered.” Did he hear the lie in her words? She wanted nothing so much as to crawl into Malden’s lap and wedge herself inside his coat. Horse smell or not. The feeling was most unwelcome.

  “Why? Why not me?” Confusion lit the hazel eyes.

  “You know why, Malden.”

  “As you wish, Arabella.” He put his hand up to stop her from saying more. “No need to bore me by reciting all the things you dislike about me, my family, my cousin, your family’s honor and whatever additional ills you seek to leave at my door.”

  Arabella inhaled sharply. It was time to put their familiarity with each other to an end. Perhaps the distance would staunch the constant fluttering of her chest when she looked at him.

  “Lady Arabella. I’ve given you no leave to speak to me so informally.”

  Malden snorted with laughter. “I think given the fact I rode over nearly half of England for you, I’ve earned the right to call you by your first name. Arabella.”

  “How,” she tried to sound imperious, desperate to regain her control, “much longer to London? I am anxious to be out of this coach and—”

  “Away from me?” One hand flew up to his heart. “I’m wounded.” He gave a shake of his head and shut his eyes before she could say more.

  * * *

  Rowan watched Arabella from beneath his lashes not surprised to see her scowling at him, before turning to look out the window. She raised a hand to brush a wisp of hair off her forehead, her fingers trembling. Her dark eyes held the sheen of tears and her bottom lip quivered briefly as if she would weep.

  Rowan resisted the urge to climb across the seat and pull her into his arms whether she wished comfort or not. Clearly, Arabella was distressed but he sensed any attempt to offer her solace would be met with a scathing remark. He shut his eyes and forced himself to relax despite Arabella’s presence. An impossible task.

  12

  Rain beat against the walls of the coach, the window panes shaking as thunder sounded in the sky. The horses slowed as a small coaching inn came into view, it’s courtyard empty but for one other coach. The storms had intensified, the rain giving way to sleet and gusting wind.

  The coach slowed to a stop. Malden opened his eyes, barely sparing her a glance before he exited the vehicle. She could hear the muted tones of the coachman speaking to Rowan.

  A bolt of lightning snaked across the darkening sky.

  The door to the coach flew open and Malden’s dark head popped through, raindrops dotting his hair and shoulders. “We need fresh horses and something to eat.”

  “No. We should push on. My aunt will be concerned as will my brother. We can’t afford to stop.” Aunt Maisy would be concerned. She wasn’t so sure that Nick would be.

  “We’re stopping and for longer than it would take to only change horses. The roads are becoming dangerous. Hopefully the storm will pass us by as we refresh ourselves.”

  “I think we should press on. I’m not hungry.” In truth, her stomach had been grumbling for hours but she didn’t wish to be in Malden’s presence any longer than necessary. Her thoughts were jagged. Sharp. And she’d been thinking of her parents which she never welcomed.

  “I insist.” As if to make Malden’s point the wind gusted up and the coach rocked. The light was beginning to fade, and more thunder grumbled somewhere in the distance. He held out his hand to assist her out of the coach. “Besides, the driver refuses to continue in this weather no matter how much I pay him. Come, let’s make the best of things.”

  Rowan was not wearing gloves and the sight of the large masculine hand held out to her caused Arabella to shirk back.

  “As you will.” He shook his head in disgust and turned from her. “I’ll be inside, Arabella. When you decide you’d like to get out of the rain and have something warm to eat, then you are welcome to join me. Your mood is as foul as the weather. Should you decide to continue your sour attitude you may stay in the coach.”

  She opened her mouth to reply but Malden was already out of hearing, and rapidly disappearing from view. His coat, worse for the wear, stretched against the breadth of his shoulders as his long legs churned up the muddy ground between the coach and the inn. The riding breeches he wore were dirty and seemed pasted to the muscles of his thighs.

  Indecently tight.

  Arabella blinked and shook her head. Exhaustion was making her delirious. She didn’t give a fig for the cut of Malden’s breeches.

  The wind intensified, slamming the door of the coach closed.

  “My lady?” The driver, his cloak whipping about his form, forced the door back open. “I need to see to the horses.” He held out a hand to help her down.

  “Yes, of course.” Taking the driver’s hand, she nodded, silently cursing Malden for abandoning her so quickly. Clutching her own cloak tightly, Arabella struggled against the wind as she made her way inside.

  * * *

  “We will have to stay the night, unfortunately.” Malden stood before her in his rumpled clothes looking as disappointed as she was that they were destined to spend a night in each other’s company. She’d assumed Malden meant to drive all night to reach London, but that was impossible now. The storm prevented further travel.

  Arabella looked out the window of the small common room she found herself in. The wind had picked up, tossing tree branches and leaves against the inn. She could barely make out the barn.

  “I see.” She pushed back the cup of weak tea she’d been nursing.

  The common room smelled of damp and spilled ale, the f
ire barely able to keep the chill from the room. An older woman, wisps of gray hair hovering about her temples, moved among the tables, carefully stacking empty plates in her arms. The common room must have been quite busy earlier.

  “I hope that you do,” Malden snapped, before taking a deep breath. “The inn has no more rooms to let. As you may have guessed, this establishment typically only feeds travelers, as close as it is to London. Few stay the night. The lone guest room is occupied.”

  Dear God, she’d have to bed down on the floor before the fire. She looked down at the dirty floor. There were bound to be vermin hiding somewhere in the corners. “Full?”

  “An elderly couple traveling to London to visit their daughter. The only other room belongs to the owner and his wife.” He nodded towards the woman stooping to sweep the floor. “I would not presume to ask either couple to vacate their lodging.” The look he gave her brooked no discussion on her part. Deep shadows were etched under his eyes and his hair stood on end. He still smelled vaguely of horse.

  Arabella found him absolutely breathtaking.

  “The owner has graciously,” Malden emphasized the word, “offered us the use of his parlor. I’m sorry you won’t have a bed, but under the circumstances, it’s the best we can do.”

  “That’s very kind.” If he thought she would throw a fit over sleeping in a parlor after all that had happened, Malden would be sadly disappointed.

  A tiny frown etched his lips. “You don’t mind?” He sounded a bit incredulous as if he expected an argument from her. Possibly had they been here prior to her running off with Corbett, she may very well have objected. Her comfort, given the circumstances of the last few days, no longer seemed of the utmost importance.

  “It is better than the barn, where you will be. Or are you planning on sleeping in the common room?” She asked sharply, panicked at the thought of having Malden in her direct vicinity. Arabella had hoped for some privacy.