My Scandalous Bride

by Christina Dodd

  "You're a good man."

  Leighton's praise made the tall lad flush with pleasure.

  Propelled by the crowd behind him, Robinson moved farther into the room. At least half a dozen men with firearms clustered around him. Laura had seen them all at one time or another in Leighton's anterooms. She had despised them, thinking these respectable men had turned to crime for the promise

  of wealth. Now, she realized, they were part of Leighton's government operation, catching spies to maintain England's integrity during the war. They all stared, first at Leighton and Laura, then at Ernest and Farley, openly betraying their bewilderment.

  "What is going on here?" Robinson demanded.

  Ernest stood and dragged Farley off the floor. "Here's yer villain. Ye'd best take him before he bleeds

  to death."

  Obviously the man in charge, Robinson didn't seem to be able to grasp the situation. "That's not Jean,"

  he protested, "that's Farley."

  "Your scornful tone explains very well how Farley has been successful in his disguise," Leighton said.

  The men murmured while Robinson considered. At last, in a tone that pleaded for credence, he asked, "That's Jean?"

  The men all looked to Leighton for acknowledgment, and Leighton nodded. "That, my friends, is our spy."

  "Oafs." Farley lunged for Robinson and succeeded only in falling to one knee.

  Examining him with all the fascination of a boy with a frog, Robinson asked, "What's wrong with him?"

  Ernest grabbed Farley by the hair and twisted his head back. "M'lady shot him."

  "My ... lady?" Robinson asked.

  "The Countess of Hamilton." Ernest pointed. "There."

  Laura moaned. When she'd told her little fib, she'd never thought it would spread so far and provide

  her with such embarrassment.

  "That's not the Countess of Hamilton," Franklin said loudly.

  Ernest puffed up like a blowfish. "It is too, ye stupid boy."

  Leighton said nothing, but when Laura strove to sit up, Leighton clutched her more tightly and admonished, "You need to be put to bed."

  Laura glanced up to see a dozen astonished eyes turned in her direction, and she stopped struggling

  and hid her face in Leighton's chest.

  No doubt just what he planned, for he said, "As you can see, my lady and I require privacy."

  "M'lady?" Franklin's round eyes got rounder. "Tell me it ain't so, m'lord. Tell me ye never got married."

  Leighton ignored him. "Robinson, if you and the men would take Farley—"

  "Ah." Robinson stood as if paralyzed. "Yes, sir."

  "Robinson?"

  Leighton's voice sounded polite, but Laura looked up in time to see the faint smile which curled his lips. She wanted to hit him, but his reminder seemed effective, for Robinson leaped toward Farley. The other men surrounded the now-helpless spy.

  "Franklin." Leighton winked at the boy and nodded toward the men as they hustled Farley out of the room. "Aren't you going to help them?"

  "Yes, m'lord." Franklin backed out of the room, his gaze still fixed on Leighton and Laura. Pausing at

  the door, he shook his head sadly. "I still can't believe ye're married."

  Leighton only smiled. "You'll have to imagine the wedding ceremony. I did." Raising his voice, he called, "Robinson?"

  Robinson popped back into the doorway. "Sir?"

  "You know what to do with Farley?"

  "We'll do our best to save his wretched life, sir, so he can be questioned. Then"—Robinson's mouth creased with satisfaction—"he'll dance the hemp jig."

  "Good man." Leighton dismissed him, and Robinson took the disgusted-looking Franklin by the shoulder and urged him away.

  Now Ernest stood alone in the middle of the room and tried to smile. Leighton frowned back at him,

  and Ernest wilted. "M'lord, I just want to say that I never knew he was anything but a smuggler."

  "I know, Ernest." Leighton clutched at Laura as she again struggled to scoot away. He whispered,

  "You're the only thing keeping me decent."

  Bustling over to the fire, Ernest knelt beside it and built it up. "If ye can see yer way clear not to arrest me, I swear I'll not have further dealings with spies."

  "Nor smugglers," Leighton said.

  Ernest sighed. "Nor smugglers." He brightened. "I've built up my stock of brandy, anyway." Seeing the bottle of wine sitting on the table, he walked to it and, using the corkscrew he kept at his belt, opened it. Taking two cups out of his pockets, he set them beside the bottle, then stepped back with a flourish.

  "I'll leave ye, then, m'lord and m'lady, to finish yer honeymonth."

  With a start, Laura realized she was about to be left alone with a very naked, possibly vengeful Leighton. He wasn't the wicked smuggler or the ruthless murderer, but when she looked closely she still saw the twitch of a tiger's whisker and the gleam of a tiger's sharp tooth.

  She needed to get away. She needed to get out now. Trying to slide away from the clutch of his paws, she said, "I'll just leave with Ernest so you can dress."

  His query jerked her to a halt. "In what?"

  A vision of his clothing soaking in the mud ripped through her mind, and she said feebly, "Perhaps

  Ernest can find something"—she glanced toward the door—"that you can wear." It was closed.

  The room was empty except for a tiger and his prey.

  CHAPTER 7

  "He's gone!" Laura didn't know why she was surprised. Ernest showed a talent for disappearing just

  when she needed him.

  "He probably realized I would want to commend your bravery in private."

  Again she tried to ease away from Leighton. This time he let her. Raising a brow, she inquired, "Commend?"

  "You did save the life of one of His Majesty's most important agents."

  "So I did." Perhaps getting away from Leighton hadn't been such a clever idea. True, it was a relief to escape his embrace, but now she had to look at him. All of him. Especially the part that towered over

  her when he rose to his feet and stalked toward her.

  "You captured a known spy," he said. "I don't even know why my men and I bothered to come to this event."

  She backed toward the desk. "I don't think you're being fair."

  "Fair? Why should I be fair?" He smiled at her with every evidence of courtesy, but she couldn't relate

  his society civility with his naked body. It was amazing how large he appeared when stripped of his clothing. Much larger than when his shirt, breeches, and coat gave him bulk. Now she could clearly see the breadth of his shoulders, the ladder of his ribs, the muscles of his thighs.

  His legs were longer than hers, too, but he didn't move more quickly than she did. If anything, he seemed to be enjoying the chase, taking care not to overcome her.

  "Of course, you did need me." His mouth twisted. "I served you admirably as bait, did I not?"

  "I did not tie you to the bed as bait."

  "That's true." He nodded genially. "It was revenge, I think you said?"

  The desk bumped her thighs and she grasped the edge with her hands. A sense of dejà vu overcame her—they'd done this before. "Revenge seemed like a good idea at the time."

  "Not now?"

  "You're not tied, now."

  "You are a very astute woman." He loomed over her and took her chin in one hand. "Did it never

  occur to you I would, one day, be untied?"

  "I didn't expect to be here when it happened."

  "Bad planning, but I'm grateful." He tried to embrace her, but she shrieked and ducked under his arm.

  Skittering toward the door, she tried it and wasn't surprised to find it locked. Ernest had proved himself quite handy with the key.

  She turned, expecting to find Leighton behind her. Instead he was pouring wine into the cups and smiling genially. "You're nervous," he said.

  "Have I reason to be?" Her tone was a challenge
, but she retreated toward the fire.

  "A woman as courageous as you should never be nervous. Wine?"

  "I don't think—"

  "After all, you threw yourself into danger to save my life." He walked toward her, still unashamedly

  nude, and offered the cup.

  At first she didn't want to accept it, but the need for some artificial fortitude overcame her. Taking the cup, she took one sip, then drained it in one long, cleansing swallow. Handing it back to the startled Leighton, she squared her shoulders. "I didn't do it for you, I did it for Ronald. You were just in the way."

  "For Ronald only?"

  "Anyway, I promise I will never rescue you again."

  "I agree." He placed the cups on the floor. "You won't." He efficiently began to strip her of her clothes. "Because I'm going to tie you to the bed until you've learned better."

  Now he allowed her to see beyond the cordial smile and play of hospitality. He was, she realized, truly aggravated with her. When she tried to struggle, he treated her like a two-year-old, overcoming her physical objections with plain, overbearing competence.

  "This is not acceptable!" she exclaimed, trying to hold the hands that roamed over her so effectively.

  "Having my wife step in front of a bullet is not acceptable either." He wrestled her out of her gown,

  her petticoats, and her shift, and apparently decided he could leave the stockings and garters.

  "All right! I'm sorry I told Ernest I was your wife. I didn't know you'd ever find out about it. I certainly didn't know you'd take unfair advantage of a woman traveling alone."

  He chuckled. "Why not? You took unfair advantage of me."

  "I most certainly did not!"

  Swinging her into his arms, he said, "It's quite unlike you not to take responsibility where you should."

  She wanted to answer him tartly, but in the place where their flesh met, she experienced a sensation

  not unlike the one she'd discovered earlier in the evening. Horrified, she muttered, "You've imprinted

  yourself on me."

  "What?"

  "I said"—she tried to regain control of herself, at least—"I admit I'm responsible for coming here and trying to find Ronald's killer, and I admit I'm responsible for telling Ernest I was your bride, but of what crime can you accuse me?"

  He dropped her on the bed and the feather mattress poufed up around her. Leaning over, he trapped

  her between his arms. "Of stealing my heart."

  "Don't joke about these things."

  Coming closer, and closer still, he touched her lips with his. It wasn't a kiss, not really. More of a suggestion, or a promise. With his lips still on hers, he said, "I'm not joking."

  She wanted to ask for clarification, but as she told him, she was a coward.

  When she didn't speak, he straightened and rubbed his hands together. "I've never done this before,

  and you took all the ready material the first time. What shall I use to bind you?"

  Bouncing up, she said, "Don't be ridiculous."

  "Look at this." He lifted his scarf off the floor. "Lucky for me, you must have missed it when you

  threw my clothes out the window."

  "Lucky."

  "Now lie back down again." He crawled onto the mattress to enforce his command. "And put your

  hands up by the railing."

  In frustration, she asked, "Are you always reduced to tying your mistresses?"

  "Not my mistresses, no." He straddled her. "But I've never had a wife before. It would seem they're a little harder to subdue."

  "I'm not your wife."

  "You will be."

  He looked quite serious as he lifted her hands to the rails over her head, and she realized that it wasn't that she thought he would dishonor her. It was that she objected to being a part of his obligations.

  "You're doing this for Ronald."

  His look of surprise lasted only until he looked her over, naked and waiting. "Believe me, your brother

  is the last thing on my mind right now."

  "I'll not be married out of duty. I'd rather be your mistress."

  Throwing back his head, he laughed until she stung with embarrassment and wrestled away. "Whoa."

  He caught her immediately and tried to regain a respectable amount of gravity. "That is an offer I will treasure. However, I won't marry you out of duty."

  He fit the scarf over her wrists and tied them to the rail, and she stared at him in frustration.

  "Then why?"

  "Tug on your hands," he instructed.

  She did as she was told. He'd managed to wrap that scarf around securely enough to keep her in place, yet gently enough the circulation still flowed.

  He sighed with pleasure. "That's a relief. I'd hate to think you'd shot the spy and tied a better knot than

  I. It would be such a blow to my ego."

  He wasn't going to answer her. He wasn't going to tell her why he proposed marriage when he could

  have her for so much less, and that made her think that it was duty, or his promise to Ronald, or some other stupid, manly honor thing that reduced her to an obligation and made a mockery of her love. She turned her face away.

  He sighed, his breath a faint feather on her skin. "You'll never forgive me, will you?"

  "For what?"

  "For sending Ronald to his death."

  "Oh." She shrugged. "That."

  He paused, then complained, "You tie me naked to the bed and leave me for anyone to find in revenge for your brother's death, then you say, 'Oh, that'?"

  She could almost have laughed at his disgruntled tone. Almost, if only he weren't pressed so close

  against her, torturing her with what he offered and withholding so much. "If you'd only told me that

  Jean was a spy for France, I would have understood. Once Ronald had a chance to work for England,

  no one could have kept him from it."

  "Ahh." He kissed her, a light comforting press of the lips on her cheek. "You knew him well."

  "It's the curse of being a loyal soldier's child. We'll all fly into danger for Mother England." She mocked herself and her courage. "It was the thought of Ronald dying for something as trivial as French brandy that made me angry."

  "If that was angry, I'd hate to see you furious." He tugged at the scarf. "Not even this would keep me safe, I suspect. So if it's not anger, what is it that keeps you from having me?"

  Placing his hands on her wrists, he ran them down her arms. She didn't want to feel anything, but his caress made her squirm. "Laura," he called softly. Never lifting his hands, he smoothed them over her breasts, down her stomach, along her thighs to the garters at her knees. "I should take these off," he said. "But I like them. They remind me of you. You're lying here gloriously nude, exposed, trusting me enough to let me tie you, yet not trusting me enough to tell me your secrets. Yet I can tell you mine." Holding her lips, he laid on her, giving her his warmth. "I love you, Laura Haver."

  Startled by his words, his fervency, his need, she turned her face to him and stared.

  "You're going to marry me because I'm not going to give you a choice. I've compromised you in front

  of my men and in front of Ernest."

  She wiggled, wanting to grab him by the ears and make him talk. "Never mind the compromising. What about the love?"

  "I can't 'never mind' the compromising. My grandmother knows everything that goes on on this estate, and when she hears about this, she'll take a switch to me. You, too, if you won't marry me."

  "Love?" she urged.

  "You'll learn to love me." He kissed her cheek, then nuzzled the place behind her ear. "You already like to make love with me, I could tell, and that'll just get better and better." His hands stroked a long, slow line from her hips to her throat. "Say you'll marry me, and I'll demonstrate."

  Something like a shiver slid up her spine. "If I don't?"

  "I'll demonstrate anyway." He kissed one breast, then grinned
at her wickedly. "I'll demonstrate to you the same way you demonstrated to me ... earlier."

  He'd make her want him, then leave her unsatisfied. Her eyes widened as she heard his purr of amusement. No wonder she had seen sparks of the tiger in him. Beneath that placid facade hid a man determined to have his own way and ruthless enough to do anything to get it.

  Well, she wanted her own way, too, "I'll marry you," she said.

  Taking her nipple between two fingers, he rolled it. "Why?"

  Pressure sprang up between her legs, and she pressed her hips toward him to relieve it. But he moved away, still touching her, and she mumbled, "I love you."