Ever Yours, Annabelle

by Elisa Braden

  How had she lived without his taste? His touch? His hands? For six. Bloody. Weeks.

  He withdrew his tongue, gripping her face firmly between his warm, dry palms.

  “No, no, no,” she panted, reaching for him. “Come back. Kiss. Please.”

  “Where …”

  “Here.”

  “Where were you?” he grated as though anguished. Blue seared into her as he lowered his forehead to rest against hers. “I waited hours. Have you any idea what I imagined …?”

  She kissed him. Just stood on her toes and claimed those irresistible lips. And he kissed her back, sliding and caressing. She loved how they fit together. Their hands had always fit the same way, like puzzle pieces.

  Now, his hands gripped her waist. Ground her body against his, flattening her breasts and aching nipples in the most relieving way. She heard the clatter of his cane upon the floor. Felt the panels of the door at her back. Savored his flavor—tea and dusk.

  “Where were you?” he growled. “Tell me.” His lips claimed her throat, trailing suckling kisses down and down and down. She’d dispensed with her pelisse earlier, so all she wore was her walking gown, which was light, sheer muslin over apricot silk petticoats. The neckline was a scoop, which gave him perfect access to the upper third of her bosom. Her head fell back at the sheer pleasure of feeling his mouth there, against her softness.

  “Tell me,” he panted, his breath hot.

  She threaded her fingers through thick, dark hair. Groaned her need and writhed against his thighs.

  Once again, his hand gripped her nape, and suddenly, blue eyes were blazing into hers again. He looked wild. Rakish and hungry. He seemed on the edge of madness. “Where were you?”

  Her head felt thick like she was underwater struggling to surface. She clutched his shoulders, dug her fingertips into him. He was the only solid thing that existed. In that moment, for the first time, she heard his question. Slowly, her fingers traveled to his lips. “Robert,” she sighed. “You—you were worried?”

  He shook her using only the hand at her nape. “Answer me.”

  “Covent Garden. I wanted—”

  “What did I tell you about going near the Strand?”

  His hands were so big, one at the small of her back, the other on her neck. They didn’t hurt, but for the first time since he’d swung her to the middle of a river rather than watch her fall onto rocks, she realized the enormity of his strength.

  “I didn’t go alone.” Her voice was too thin. She mustered some force by tightening her abdomen. “Jane went with me.”

  “Why were you there?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “You will tell me everything, or so help me—”

  “I discovered who the imposter was,” she blurted. “She sells flowers most mornings.”

  “At Covent Garden. Do you realize how near that is to where Green was—”

  “No,” she snapped, tugging at his wrists. “Apparently, I am daft as a carriage wheel.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Why do you care? You’ve never approved of my work. And you’ll never understand the importance of learning who stole Edward Yarrow Aimes from me.”

  Despite her tugging, he kept his hands where they were, warming her neck and lower back. “Tell me what you discovered.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she explained how she’d found Mrs. Bickerstaff. Then, she described their encounter and her reasons for giving the actress funds to leave London. “She is not a good woman, and I despise what she did. But the one who truly betrayed me was Mr. Green. I’ll not have further violence done to anybody because of Edward Yarrow Aimes.”

  He sighed. “It was a woman, after all. A desperate one. I knew it must be,” he murmured.

  She frowned. “How?”

  “Because I have spent the last six days scouring London for answers about Green’s death. Did you think I was sipping brandy with the chaps at Boodle’s? I am trying to keep you safe. God, woman, don’t you understand yet? You are in danger. That is bloody unacceptable.”

  Her hands stilled, now lightly clasping his wrists rather than clutching. “I needed to know,” she whispered.

  “Now you do,” he said grimly. “And the risks you’re eager to take have grown past my tolerance. We are leaving.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “I’ve instructed Estelle to pack you a trunk sufficient for the journey to Nottinghamshire. She and your family will bring the rest of your belongings when they return to Clumberwood at the end of the month.”

  “Robert. Don’t be foolish. We cannot travel alone together. We are not yet married.”

  The hand at her nape tightened. He lowered his head until his lips hovered a breath above hers. “You are mine. You have been from the moment you agreed to become my wife. No clergyman’s approval will make that truer. And no protests about propriety will make it any less so.”

  Her heart both melted and rebelled, a strange, contradictory sensation. “I was yours long before that,” she said achingly.

  His head jerked back. It appeared she’d surprised him.

  “You wanted nothing to do with me. Yet now, I am meant to toss aside every sensible notion and follow your commands, simply because you’ve—what, precisely? Changed your mind?”

  Jaw tightening, expression hardening, he replied softly, “You wish to know my reasons, do you?”

  The cold sensation in her stomach told her she wouldn’t like his answers. She nodded anyway.

  “I shouldn’t want you. I shouldn’t dream of having you beneath me. Or all the things I will do once you’re there. This … need. It disturbs me. Yet, I cannot rid myself of it.” His chin tilted until the angle reminded her of a conqueror’s portrait. A small smile curved the right side of his mouth. “In your sketches, I was always a knight, is that not so?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wrong,” he whispered, that smile growing while blue glowed with purpose. “You never understood, Bumblebee. Never saw the truth.”

  She swallowed. “Th-the truth of what?”

  “Of me. I am not some noble knight but a warrior. Knights joust for show. I fight. Savagely, when I must. I claim territory and hold it with every weapon at my disposal, noble or not.”

  “You believe I robbed you of the chance to be an officer. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “No.” The hand at the small of her back suddenly forced her hips into his, pressing a thick, hard ridge against her belly. “No, love. I’m saying my claim has been made. You are mine. And I will fight to protect you, fight to keep you, fight as brutally as I must. Even when you defy me.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Especially then.”

  She gasped as the hard ridge against her swelled. Heat seared her cheeks. “Robert.” His name was both a plea and a protest. He could not mean half of what he was saying. Robert had always been honorable. Tough, yes. Strong, certainly. A bit of a bear, particularly when he’d gone without eating. But his decency had never been in question. He was not brutal or ruthless, as he’d described. He was not possessive or territorial.

  She was possessive. She was territorial. So, she knew the signs—jealousy of the women he’d considered for marriage, a desire to monopolize his attentions, constant cravings for his voice and hands and brooding gaze.

  No, his nature was noble. Even the lies he’d told her had been for her protection. All this talk of ruthless warrior impulses must be aimed at intimidating her into obedience. Yes, that was it.

  “You do not frighten me, Robert Conrad,” she said with mustered bravado.

  She expected his smile to fade. Instead, it grew. So did the infernal glow in his eyes.

  For that matter, so did the hard, male ridge that seemed to want its freedom.

  Oh, dear. Perhaps she’d miscalculated.

  “I should frighten you.” He kissed her long and deep. Suddenly, possessive and territorial seemed the only words capable
of describing him. He devoured her, invaded and claimed. He took her mouth with ownership.

  When he was done, she was boneless. Weightless. There was nothing left of her but heat and want. Certainly nothing left of her will to resist him when he muttered hoarsely, “Be ready to leave in an hour. The coach will be waiting outside.”

  *~*~*

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “I would sooner eat mud for supper than travel in it.”

  —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham in a letter to the Marquis of Mortlock expressing her conviction that foul weather and carriage wheels are fundamentally incompatible.

  *~*~*

  Dearest Robert,

  Do you ever wish the rain would either cease or carry you away in a flood? It seems the in-between is most trying.

  Ever yours,

  Annabelle

  —Letter to Robert Conrad dated March 2, 1814

  *~*~*

  In fair weather, the journey from London to Nottingham took two eight-hour days. However, while reliving the biblical Great Flood as they currently were, Robert thought they’d be fortunate to arrive at Rivermore within a fortnight—provided they arrived at all.

  He muttered a curse as one of the carriage horses staggered through shin-deep mud, causing the travel coach to lurch to the right.

  “If only someone had recommended waiting another week to travel,” came a tart voice from the opposite seat. “But who would be so prescient as that? Hmm. I suppose we’ll never know.”

  Glaring at the woman who vexed him like no other, Robert pounded on the ceiling of the coach and shouted at the driver to stop.

  “Oh, must we?” Even her pout dripped sarcasm. “I find being thrust from one side of the coach to the other so … what’s the word? Invigorating.”

  She had her arms extended outward, bracing dainty hands wide on the wall and seat. She wore a blue pelisse and matching bonnet. Her gloves were white, her lips tight and pursed in displeasure.

  Why was she so beautiful to him?

  Even now, with her fury manifesting in sarcasm and wrathful glares, she made him hard. It was a bloody illness, this mad desire to take her body with his. Part of being a territorial sort, he supposed. And male. Yes, everything male in him wanted to claim everything female in her.

  God, she was soft. Tasted like honeysuckle. Sweet and wild and—

  “A shame Lady Wallingham couldn’t accompany us,” she grumbled. “One of her diatribes about England’s roads would be cathartic right now—and all too accurate.”

  “She lent us her coach,” he pointed out, reaching for his cane as the coach came to a sliding stop. “Asking her to chaperone us might have been too far.”

  “Well, so long as we’re not making unreasonable demands of anyone.”

  He sighed and threw open the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To untie Dewdrop and Methuselah.”

  “Why?”

  He climbed down, wincing as his boots sank deep into slick mud. Rain drenched his hair and shoulders within seconds. “Stay here.”

  Closing the door upon her reply, he first spoke to the coachman, a pleasant fellow he’d hired from a livery stable in London. He gave instructions for the remainder of the journey, to which the sodden driver nodded agreeably before climbing down to help him ready Methuselah and Dewdrop for riding. God, what a relief it was to have someone respond to his commands with cooperation rather than vitriol.

  He and Annabelle had spent two days in that coach together. The first day had been bad enough. She’d demanded to know his findings about Green’s murder. He hadn’t wished to frighten her, so he’d kept his brush with death to himself, though he’d relayed his conversation with Thomas Bentley.

  “Nonsense and rubbish,” she’d replied. “Mr. Bentley would never kill anyone.”

  “Not intentionally, but if they argued and things got out of hand—”

  “He was at Lady Darnham’s fete the night the murder occurred.”

  “He arrived late, remember? Besides, he’s already admitted striking the man.”

  “I still don’t believe it. Are there others you suspect?”

  “Some.”

  She’d waited, strumming her fingers on the seat. “Robert, I have been most patient with you.”

  He’d sighed. “Patient is not the word I would use.”

  That had infuriated her, which had led to six hours of cold silence. They’d stayed in separate rooms at a coaching inn last night. This morning, she’d been in better spirits. Then, the rain had begun, and matters had slid downhill at an alarming clip.

  Now, he and the coachman led the two geldings around to the middle of the road, where the mud wasn’t so deep. Robert went to open the coach door and found a fuming Bumblebee inside.

  “Come,” he said gently. “If we ride straight through, we shall be at Rivermore before nightfall.”

  Brown eyes flared wide. “Ride? It is a deluge out there, Robert.”

  “In a carriage, it will take us another two days to reach Nottingham. The wheels will keep getting mired.” He shrugged casually. “But, if you prefer to stay dry—”

  “Oh, God.” She rubbed her forehead with her fingers and thumb. “I cannot bear another hour, let alone two days.”

  He nearly grinned, but in the interest of keeping her anger within manageable proportions, he forced himself to frown instead. “Come along.” He extended a dripping hand. “It is only a few hours’ ride.”

  Grudgingly, she placed her hand in his and descended onto the coach’s step. There, she halted, grimacing as she saw how deep the mud was. She shook her hem and pulled her skirts up high enough that he could see her lightweight half-boots. She sighed. Already her bonnet’s brim was dripping. “Well, I suppose a bit of mud won’t hurt. Apart from my pelisse. And petticoats. And the boots, of course.”

  He eyed the distance to the horses, then the mud, then his cane. “Wait,” he muttered before presenting her with his back. “Climb on.”

  “Robert, I didn’t mean—”

  “Climb on.” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “You remember how, don’t you?”

  “This is silly.”

  “Never stopped you before.”

  She clicked her tongue and swatted his shoulder, which made him grin. Then, her arms wrapped around his neck. Her breasts flattened against his back. When he turned his head to the side, her lips were right there.

  He used the repositioning of her hands as an excuse to caress her. “Lock them like this,” he murmured.

  “Yes. All right.”

  “Hold on to me.”

  “I shall.”

  He started forward, using one hand to grip his cane and the other to secure her thigh against his hip. He thought he heard her gasp, but he was focused on maintaining his balance in the slippery mud. He managed to carry her without incident the ten paces to where Methuselah waited.

  “Y-you put a side saddle on him?”

  Gently, using only his good leg, he lowered them both until her feet touched the ground. “I assumed you’d need one. Or, do you prefer to ride astride?”

  She either missed his dry tone or was somehow distracted, because she didn’t answer for the longest time.

  He spun and found her eyeing his shoulders. “Annabelle.”

  “Hmm?”

  “I’m going to help you mount, now.”

  “Yes.” Her gaze moved to his lips. “Mount.”

  “Bloody hell, you’re getting soaked.”

  She sighed. Then, her tongue darted out over rain-wetted lips. “Robert?”

  “Yes?”

  “I want you.”

  For a moment, all he heard was rain and his own thundering heart. Then, right there in the midst of a biblical deluge, arousal flooded him until his legs shook.

  “Did you hear me?”

  He ran a wet hand over his face, hoping to cool himself down. “You have the damnede
st timing, Bumblebee.”

  A little smile curled her lips then disappeared. “Why have you not kissed me since we left London?”

  “Because.”

  “Tell me why.”

  Because if he kissed her, he would not stop until he was buried deep inside her. And he wanted to reach Rivermore first. She deserved a bed and a fire, a ring and vows. Not to be taken against a door or on a desk or in a closet or a blasted coach. He was not a barbarian.

  Well, he was. But she didn’t need to know precisely how barbaric she made him.

  He swiped his face again, shifted his weight to accommodate his aching cock. “We should go.”

  Her brow crumpled. She dropped her gaze then nodded.

  Before he could change his mind, he lifted her onto Methuselah’s back and ensured she was settled before climbing onto Dewdrop. With a nod of thanks to the coachman, he led the way, keeping to the center of the road. Both horses were heavy-boned and strong, but he’d thought Methuselah’s stamina would hold out with Annabelle’s lighter weight.

  Within an hour, however, he heard her call his name from too far behind. When he glanced back, she was nudging the horse with her heel, bending forward and patting his neck. “What is wrong with your horse?” she asked. “He appears to be … napping.”

  Robert glanced skyward. At least the rain had eased to a drizzle. “He is napping.”

  “I—I cannot seem to move him. Or wake him.” She laughed. “Oh, my.” Another burst of laughter. “This is the most …” More laughter. Her eyes filled with tears. Overflowed. “The most extr—extraordinary … Oh, heavens.” She covered her face with both hands. Her shoulders shook and shook.

  At first, he thought she was laughing the way one did when fatigued—a bit uncontrollably. Then, he heard a sob, and something vicious clawed at his gut. Within seconds, he’d spun Dewdrop and raced to her side. His only thought was to hold her. Now.

  Now, now, now.

  He must stop whatever was causing her distress. He took Methuselah’s reins from her hand and wound an arm around her waist to lift her onto Dewdrop. Into his arms, where she belonged.