Wicked With the Scoundrel

by Elizabeth Bright

  He kept his eyes trained on the hulking form in front of him, but he caught a sudden flurry of movement to the side of his vision.

  Dear God, she was going to get hurt or killed!

  “Don’t!” he shouted, but it was too late.

  She did—something. Colin couldn’t see what. The blackguard’s large form blocked his view of her. The man let out a yell of pain as his legs buckled. His arms windmilled, but that did not save him from losing his balance. Down he went, landing hard. His head struck a rock, and he groaned. Then he lay still.

  Colin kicked the knife from his hand and bent down, checking for signs of life. He was still breathing, but unconscious.

  He looked up at Claire. “What did you do?”

  “I kicked him hard behind his knee and let gravity take its course. He was quite drunk, you know.” She turned her head, coughed, and spat at the ground. “And he tasted disgusting.”

  That was too much for Colin. He lunged for her, curling his body around hers as though he could shield her from the world, and buried his face in her neck.

  She made him feel too much, this maddening woman. Too angry, too afraid, too desperate, too needy. She went skipping merrily into danger without the slightest regard for his heart.

  She clung to him for a moment, then abruptly pulled away. “No! You lied to me.”

  He stared at her in disbelief. Of all the things to focus on. “You ran from me. I didn’t have the chance to explain.”

  She bit her lip, looking slightly abashed. But only slightly. “I should not have run away. It was childish. But that only means I react badly when I am angry. It does not mean my anger was unjustified.” She crossed her arms beneath her breasts and looked at him defiantly. “There’s no use pretending it didn’t happen. We must discuss it.”

  “Oh, we’ll discuss it, all right,” he said grimly. “At home.”

  Before she could protest, he scooped her into his arms. Let her try to escape him now.

  It was, by his count, the third such time he had carried Claire to safety.

  But by God, it would be the last.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The ball was still continuing when they arrived home. Colin sent a footman to discreetly inform Lady Chatwell that Claire had a headache and had taken to bed. Mayhap they would notice Colin’s absence, as well, but he very much doubted they would risk their daughter’s reputation with a scene.

  Quite frankly, he did not care whether her parents suspected he shared their daughter’s bed. He was marrying her, wasn’t he? The sooner the better, in fact. He distinctly remembered the word “obey” would be part of her wedding vows. He might even make her say it twice.

  After procuring a bottle of brandy, he hustled her up the staircase. He led her to his own room, guiding her with one hand low on her back in case she had any thought of escaping, and kicked the door closed behind them.

  “Bolt the door,” he ordered.

  She did as she was told. He unbuttoned his jacket and shrugged out of it, wincing as his stomach muscles contracted with the effort. Her eyes widened as he revealed his torn shirt, which then joined his tail coat on the floor.

  “You’re injured!” She rushed to him, pulling off her gloves as she went, and dropped to her knees.

  Ordinarily he would have quite enjoyed her position, but now he flinched as her warm fingers pulled threads of fabric from his wound.

  “It’s a scratch,” he said.

  “You were bleeding. Quite a lot, I think.”

  “It’s not deep enough to require sewing. It’s nothing.”

  “It might fester.” She wrinkled her nose. “His knife did not look clean.”

  Colin waved the bottle at her. “That’s what the brandy is for.”

  She rose to her feet. “Lie down on the bed. I’ll return in a moment.”

  He toed off his hated slippers and sat, which was so excruciating that he immediately rolled backward with a groan. Apparently, abdominal muscles were used for sitting and, well, everything else. He wiggled until he found a reasonably comfortable position, just as she returned with a dish of water, soap, and a cloth.

  Well. This was going to be painful.

  But she was gentle as she cleaned away the dry blood and remnants of his shirt. He wouldn’t call it pleasant, by any means, but neither was it unbearable—until she splashed the wound with brandy.

  He hissed a breath. “Is this my punishment?”

  “Lie still,” she said sternly. “The brandy was your idea. How could healing you possibly be a punishment? Would you rather I allow it to turn putrid?” And she applied the brandy again. “You deserve much worse for lying to me.”

  “I didn’t lie,” he said from between clenched teeth.

  “No?” She sat on the edge of the bed and pondered that, a little line between her brows. “No, I suppose you didn’t. What you did was much worse. Instead of telling me you were worried I was too delicate to travel to Egypt, you made me believe you wanted to stay.”

  “It was you who suggested we stay, not I.”

  “For your sake,” she argued. “I want you to be happy. You manipulated me. I thought you wanted to stay in London, near your mother, and wouldn’t say so only because you wanted the same for me. For me to be happy.”

  He frowned. “That was not my intention.”

  “No,” she said softly. “I see that quite clearly now, thank you.”

  He gave her a frustrated look. “I meant that I intended to make you realize how much you would miss your home and friends. I thought with the proper guidance, you would come to see that here is where you are happy. I thought you would realize you wanted what other ladies want—a home and children.”

  She regarded him. “But I don’t want that. Someday I might, but not yet. How could I bring another life into this world when I feel as though I have only just started truly living myself?” She twisted her fingers together in her lap. “Is that what you think I should do? Have babies and host parties to find investors to support your ventures? Is that what you think I should want?”

  “I don’t give a damn about should,” he growled. “I do give a damn about you. Have parties, don’t have parties. Either suits me just fine. If you decide that wearing top hats and collecting frogs is what makes you happy, I will hire a hatter and dig you a pond myself.” He cupped her chin in his hand so she was forced to look at him. “Claire, I do want your happiness. Never think I don’t. But I also need your safety. I don’t know how to ensure both, when your idea of happiness is my idea of danger. It’s impossible.”

  It was a stupid thing to say. She didn’t understand words like “impossible” and “no.” That was what came of remembering everything, as she had once told him. It was one of the things he loved best about her, and he was too tired to attempt an explanation once again.

  Not to mention his stomach hurt. So, he did what he always did when words failed him.

  He kissed her.

  She lifted her hand—to push him away, because she was still angry. But as he sweetened the kiss, she clung to him instead, her fingers curling round his upper arm.

  When he pulled away, she looked dazed. “You almost died,” she whispered.

  Well, no, not really. The blade had cut a four-inch line across his upper abdomen. It was long but not deep. He hadn’t even lost enough blood to feel woozy. But he did not correct her.

  He kissed her again, and this time he was not gentle. He moved his mouth boldly over hers, firm and reassuring, and she tightened her grasp, holding onto him with both hands.

  He slid one arm around her waist and pulled her closer. She fell against him eagerly.

  Which hurt rather a lot, actually.

  His yelp of pain was muffled against her mouth, but she still heard it. She pulled back abruptly, her lips wet from his kiss and her cheeks flushed.

  “Oh, we can’t. Not with your wound.”

  As the scratch was on his belly and not his cock, he wanted to argue that they very muc
h could, that he could slip inside her right now and be happy about it. But then she might come to her senses and realize his life hadn’t truly been in any more danger than the usual amount. Then she would remember that she was still very angry with him.

  He didn’t want that.

  “There are other ways. Positions where you don’t touch me there.” As he spoke, he rearranged their bodies so she was beneath him. Then he rolled her onto her belly. He hovered over her, kissing her neck while plucking hairpins free until her curls tumbled down her back in a silky brown river.

  He contemplated removing her dress, but then he would just have to get her back into it. Instead, he looped an arm under her and lifted her hips. She turned to look at him over her shoulder.

  “I’ve seen this position,” she said. “With horses. The mare didn’t seem to enjoy it much.” There was a question in her eyes.

  “You will. It will feel so good, love.” He hoisted her skirts, revealing first her stockinged calf, followed by a sweet garter, and then her creamy white thighs. Farther still, and there was her lovely rounded bottom. “If it doesn’t, you have but to say the word and I’ll stop.”

  She gazed at him with such trust that he felt an odd pressure in his chest, as though the organ inside had suddenly expanded in size and there simply wasn’t enough room for it. She trusted him here, with her body.

  It was not enough, but it was a start. He could show her all the things he could not say—that he loved her, that he could make her happy here, if she would only let him try.

  He smoothed his hand over her satiny skin until he reached the juncture of her thighs. He nudged her legs wider with his knees and stroked gently. She whimpered, her head dropping low. He slid one finger inside her and then another. She squirmed slightly, then relaxed.

  “Good?” he asked hoarsely.

  She moaned her assent.

  He withdrew his fingers to unbutton his fall. Gripping her hip with one hand, he guided himself to her entrance and pushed inside. Pleasure nearly made his eyes cross, but he held still, giving her time to adjust to the invasion.

  Then, slowly, he began to move. With every thrust, she made a low, keening sound and squeezed him with her inner muscles, driving him wild. He drove into her deeper and faster.

  And then she was pushing back against him, meeting his thrusts with thrusts of her own. Pleasure was relentless now, and in moments it would consume him.

  “Come, please,” he begged. “I cannot—”

  She did, gasping, moaning, her sweet heat tightening around his cock in delicious spasms. He dug his fingers into her hips, preparing to withdraw for his own release. For if he stayed—

  Well, that would solve everything, wouldn’t it?

  Except her happiness.

  With a rough cry, he pulled free and spent on the bed linens.

  He collapsed, remembering just in time that he was injured, and twisted to land on his side.

  She gave him a sleepy smile. “You were right. It did feel nice.”

  “Nice?” He growled and nipped at her shoulder, making her laugh. “It was heaven.”

  She smiled again, and his heart stuttered. People smiled from happiness. That was the entire point of smiling.

  So, why did she look so sad?

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Claire stared into the darkness. There was no cheerful fire, as the night was warm. They had not lit a candle. Not even the faintest glimmer of moonlight peeked through the dark draperies covering her window. The entire household was asleep. There was no sound, no light. Nothing but this yawning void of nothingness. And that was all there would ever be.

  The years stretched before her, dreary and dark.

  Well. Perhaps she was being a touch dramatic.

  After all, she was not alone in this void. There was Colin. She craned her neck to see him as he slept next to her, but alas, it was too dark to make out anything save a nebulous shape. But he was there, as evidenced by the weight of his arm thrown across her belly. She felt the gentle rise and fall of his body as he breathed the deep, slow breath of the unconscious.

  Her heart ached and yearned. She loved him. God, how she loved him. She would have followed him to the ends of the earth, if he had but crooked his finger at her.

  But she did not love him enough for this. Not enough to make them both miserable for the rest of their days.

  No. It was not that she did not love him enough. It was that she loved him too well.

  He did not want to remain in England. She did not want to remain in England. And yet, stay they would, if he had his way. Stay and be miserable.

  It would have been quite another matter if they had chosen to stay due to illness or necessity. She would have accepted her fate with kindness and good grace. Naturally, she would have been vastly disappointed. But she still would have been happy. She wouldn’t have adventure, but there would still be jam tarts and friends and Colin. It would have been enough, just to have him.

  It wasn’t fair. She wanted him so badly, so deeply. Why couldn’t she have him?

  For she knew she could not. Not like this. He had tricked her. He had lied.

  For her own good, he had said. To protect her. To keep her safe. As though that was all that mattered in life. As though such a thing were even possible. He was so utterly wrong about so many things, she didn’t have the faintest idea even how to begin setting his mind to rights.

  The life he was proposing was the life she had always expected to live. She had been raised from birth to be the wife of a peer. She had never wanted anything different, for the simple reason that it had never occurred to her that different was even a possibility.

  If she had never met Colin, that life would have been hers. She would have married an earl or a duke and raised a son to carry the title forward and a daughter to marry a peer of her own. Her days would have been spent running the household, planning the dinner menu, visiting friends.

  So many ton marriages were a misery. But if she were fortunate in her choice of husband, they would remain fond of each other despite the drudgery of marriage. If she had never met Colin, she would have been content with such a life, the way a trout is content with its pond. If the trout does not know of the ocean, it cannot yearn for it.

  But she had met Colin.

  And she yearned.

  How could she possibly be satisfied with a pond, now that she had swum in the ocean?

  And how was it that the same man who had once encouraged her to swim now warned her she would drown?

  Slowly, she wiggled free of his arm, taking care not to wake him. She sat up, drawing her thighs to her chest, and wrapped her arms around her knees. For long moments, she sat like that next to him, watching the shadowy outline of his body rise and fall with his breaths.

  Her heart ached.

  When the blackness lessened to gray, she rose. It was nearly dawn. The servants were likely just waking up but hopefully had not yet ventured downstairs. She crept on bare feet to her own room and breathed a sigh of relief when she found it empty. Meg had not yet noticed her absence, thank the heavens.

  She threw herself down on her bed. Lud, but she was tired!

  Sleep, however, continued to evade her. Instead, her mind tortured her heart with all the moments she had spent with Colin. All the times he had frowned at her, and the far fewer times she had made him laugh. And all the dear, sweet moments he had looked at her as though he liked her very much, indeed.

  When Meg had said she knew too much for a lady, for example.

  And when she had wiped sweat from his brow as he carried her.

  The moment just before he kissed her for the first time.

  She waited for the tears to start as the memories ticked off one by one. It would have been a relief to cry, to release all this heartbreak in one passionate tidal wave.

  Alas, tears were no more forthcoming than sleep.

  So her list continued with the way his eyes had looked when he said, “You can make anything happ
en. Don’t ever let anyone convince you otherwise. Especially not me.”

  She blinked. And bolted upright.

  By heaven, she could do anything.

  She had set out to find the Cleopatra Emerald and make Colin fall in love with her, and had she not accomplished exactly that? Surely, if she could find a two-thousand-year-old treasure, she could make one surly, misguided man see reason.

  Perhaps he thought gentility made her fragile and love made her biddable, but he was quite mistaken. She was not fragile, and love had made her fierce.

  He thought she would stand meekly by while he destroyed the happiness that she had worked so hard to obtain? Truly?

  To hell with that.

  …

  It occurred to Claire that while she knew quite a lot about almost everything, she knew almost nothing about men. She needed help. Fortunately, Adelaide was familiar with stubborn men in general, having married one, and Riya was familiar with Colin in particular, having spent the last few years in his company.

  Rather than wait for the proper visiting hour, Claire arrived on Adelaide’s doorstep directly after breakfast.

  As Claire had hoped, Adelaide and Riya had quite a lot to say on the matter, although their advice was not without issue.

  “Kidnap him,” Adelaide suggested. “Give him a strong dose of ether, toss him aboard the ship, and by the time he wakes up you will be in the middle of the ocean. There won’t be a thing he can do about it.”

  That was more tempting than it ought to have been. “You’ve been reading too many Gothic romances, I think. I can’t kidnap him. He would be furious.”

  “He would thank you one day.” Adelaide took a complacent sip of tea.

  “Would Mr. Eastwood feel the same?” Claire asked curiously. It was hard to imagine.

  Adelaide wrinkled her nose. “He would likely turn me over his knee—or try to, at any rate.”

  Claire gave her a horrified look. “I have no wish to be spanked.”

  “Colin wouldn’t lay a hand on you,” Riya interjected. “He would, however, lock you in a cabin and turn the ship around, weather and schedules be damned. He is quite terrible and stubborn when he believes himself to be in the right. Especially when he’s wrong.”