The Bastard's Iberian Bride (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 1)

by Alina K. Field

  “You must ask him to explain.”

  Anger tightened his voice, directed at whom, she did not know. Mr. Gibson perhaps. Not at herself, certainly, because as they entered the inn, Mr. Kincaid turned to her with a kind look.

  One lone maid—this one older, respectably dressed—worked the bar in the taproom. Two men put down their tankards and stood when they saw her, and started in their direction. Kincaid nodded to them.

  “Do you know them?” she whispered.

  “Aye. Good men, they are. We are dead on our feet. They will be keeping watch for a bit.”

  Watch for what? And then she remembered: Agruen. Perhaps he had another evil servant to send after her.

  There was no time to ask questions, as Kincaid led her through a door into a private eating room. Her eyes fixed on Mr. Gibson. Color rose under the stubble of his cheeks, and his lips curved up.

  His beard had roughened over the course of the day, and she itched to strip off her gloves and feel him, and that thought made her face as warm as his must be.

  Chapter 15

  A barrel of a man with his sleeves rolled up—the innkeeper surely—was smiling at her. “Ach. Here is the lass,” he said.

  She heard rustling and saw Mabel and Jenny and Johnny crowd in behind her.

  “Who gives this woman?” the innkeeper asked.

  “I do.”

  The words had come from Kincaid. She had no time to be startled though, because he was handing her off to Mr. Gibson, and the look in her groom’s eyes all but melted her.

  The rest was a whirlwind of breathless promises, hearty good wishes, and brimming toasts that included their servants and those of the inn. But no other inn guests, as there seemed to be none.

  She had no time to ask questions though. This time it was Mabel and Jenny who whisked her away to a chamber where a huge bed held center stage and a hot bath had been drawn.

  Mabel took the tartan cloth from her, and Jenny started on her lacings.

  “Do stop a-trembling, Polly.” Mabel folded the cloth. “T’isn’t cold in this chamber. A body would think you were nervous.” She laughed and traced a finger on the intersecting colors. “This plaid is lovely.”

  “Mr. Kincaid’s gift. His family tartan.”

  “Is it then? It’s very Scots, don’t you think?”

  “It is.” She pulled the bodice down and stepped out of the gown. “Help me out of these stays. I so need a bath. Where is your chamber? You must have them bring you hot water—”

  “Never you mind, miss.” Jenny unrolled Paulette’s stockings. “Now off with the chemise and into the water. I’ll take your things to be brushed and Mabel will do the rest.”

  “Go with her, Mabel.”

  “I’m not scared, miss. Mr. Kincaid promised we’ll all be safe here.”

  The door closed on her and Paulette sank into the water, letting it ease her trembles.

  Mabel unpinned her hair, pulled it over the side, and began to brush it. “Rest a minute while I untangle this.”

  Paulette closed her eyes, but no restfulness came. “Hurry.”

  “We’ll wash you up thoroughly, including your hair.”

  “It will be wet when—”

  “It smells a bit, Polly. I’ve brought the rosewater. And we’ll add a log to the fire in the grate if need be.”

  There was indeed a low fire burning. No wonder the room felt so cozy.

  When she’d been thoroughly washed, Mabel held up a lacy white gown. “Lady Hackwell sent this nightrail along. Said she’s never worn it.”

  Paulette fingered the sheer silky fabric. “It’s very dear.”

  Mabel grinned, her face reddening. “She said his lordship orders them by the dozen.”

  Oh. Her face must be flaming also. She slipped the nightrail over her head and swept a hand over the lace. It was scandalous.

  “Here is the robe.” Mabel helped her into the matching white silk and unwrapped her hair. “Now, over to the fire to dry off. Jenny and I will bring up the dinner, and then we’ll send himself up.”

  She nodded and let herself be led to a chair.

  “Polly.”

  Mabel’s eyes glistened with tears, and her own eyes began to water.

  “No, no, you must not,” Mabel cried. “Doan’t mind me, girl. I wanted to say, I’ve watched over you since you were tiny, like you were my own little girl, and I’ve worried whether you’d find a man good enough for you. And I think you have. And I think your mother will be pleased, looking down from heaven, and even Jock if he managed to talk his way past St. Peter, and I don’t know about your father because I only met him the once.” She sniffed loudly. “There now. I’ve no need to wish you happiness. I know you’ll have found it. Dry your hair now.”

  At Mabel’s signal, Bink downed his last shot of whisky, accepted the back-slapping good wishes of the men, and found his way to the stairs. A warm whisky buzz filled his head and helped keep him at half-staff.

  Kincaid would send Johnny and Ewan off to bed and would retire in a bit, he’d promised. His absolute confidence in the inn and the men he’d hired reassured Bink. His knowledge of the district was one of the reasons they’d chosen Gretna over Coldstream.

  When he rapped on the door, quick footfalls sounded and the latch turned.

  Warm, rose-scented air greeted him, but no woman.

  She was hiding behind the door, poor lass. Probably nervous, wearing what, he could not imagine and didn’t care since he intended to take it off her, the quicker the better.

  His shaft swelled and he forced in a breath. Slow your bloody self down, Gibson.

  “I hear there is food here.” When he crossed the threshold, she stepped up.

  And he froze.

  A white dressing gown rippled from her shoulders to the floor, sheer silk covering lace that outlined the mounds of her breasts. Under the thin fabric he could see shadowy nipples already taut.

  Eating could wait. With tightly coiled muscles, he eased the door shut and turned the key in the lock, his eyes filled with her.

  She folded her arms over her breasts, then stretched them out again, curling and uncurling her fingers. His hands prickled and itched, needing to touch her.

  Tension rippled from her, reminding him the girl had a case of the virgin nerves.

  She scooped two hunks of hair and flipped them over her breasts, sending waves of heady perfume his way. He followed the two lines of dark silk down her shoulders to where the coiled ends reached her tiny cinched waist, and further, over curved hips, down to the bare toes peeking out from the puddled silk of her robe.

  Desire swamped him. He wanted her, and he could have her. She was his, his to have and to hold, and forever. He could rip off the white lacy gown and devour every inch of her, right down to those tiny feet. He could hold her naked atop him, the veil of her hair draping them, tickling his chest.

  He held out his hand, and when she gave him hers, the madness lifted and the famished need became more bearable.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  She frowned and shook her head. “You may eat, but please kiss me first.”

  He fixed his eyes on hers to help maintain his control. “Are you sure you would not like to eat first?”

  Her bottom lip trembled. “Now you are avoiding looking at the rest of me. Do I shock you?”

  He lifted her hand, kissed it, and her face puckered again. “Oh, aye. You look shockingly beautiful.”

  “Ah,” she breathed. “Well, if you first wish to eat—”

  His kiss stopped her, chaste, and short. Holding only her hand, he took a step back.

  Her lips trembled. “You’re teasing.”

  “Am I, lass? Well, then…” He pulled the tie of her robe, undoing the bow. She inhaled sharply, sending her breasts higher, unwinding that wild need in him again. He pushed her hair aside, and traced a shaking finger down her neck, over the top of one creamy mound.

  Her hand open and flew to his cheek landing softly. “Your
jaw feels a bit swollen from Spellen’s fist. And you haven’t yet shaved.”

  And surely he stunk of sweat and horses. He was a selfish brute.

  He lifted her hand from his face and kissed it. “Nor washed. I’d best go take care of that.”

  He tried to drop her hand, but she stepped up against him and enfolded him in her arms.

  “No.”

  Bink felt her grip tighten and the madness rose again. God’s bones, how he wanted her. He clamped his eyes shut and gripped fistfuls of silky damp hair.

  “I’ll have you just as you are.” Her breathless murmur warmed his chest as it had done in the room at the inn.

  He tilted her chin and kissed her again, working the robe from her shoulders, slanting his lips to plunge himself deeper. While her hands found his neck, he grabbed handfuls of sweet arse, squeezing like he’d wanted to do the day they’d first met.

  With one hearty leap she was up in his arms, her skirts up, her legs wrapped around him.

  Sweet Jesus, he could not be this blessed.

  He kicked the pooled silk of the robe aside and staggered to the bed, settling there while she pushed off his coats, her breasts straining the thin lace of the gown.

  She yanked at his shirt. “Lift your arms.”

  Bink laughed and complied, and her sigh almost undid him. “You have so many freckles.” Her palms skimmed his chest, a look of wonder in her eyes. “And the hair here is soft. Not at all like your beard.”

  Let’s see how soft is your chest.

  He should shave. A bloody gentleman wouldn’t burn his bride with his beard on their wedding night.

  But he was no bloody gentleman. He was a bastard and a beast and a raging cock.

  Hands shaking as he fought for control, he fumbled the gown’s straps over her shoulders, tugging until it fell to her waist, her mouth dropping with it, hands flying up as shields.

  He lifted them away and savored the view, his vision fogging and tunneling. The creamy smooth skin here was lighter. Never exposed. Uncharted territory no other man had explored.

  She was his.

  A surge of power, a desire to claim, roared through him. He bent his head and licked at her nipple, swirling his tongue on the rosy pink bead.

  Her sharp inhale sent her closer, deeper. When he suckled, she bucked, her soft core rubbing against his shaft.

  Bink froze and unlatched from the teat, trying to stay the urge to spill. Her answering tension he could do nothing about at the moment.

  “Did I…did I do something wrong?” she whispered.

  He held her close and tried to think of something—the account books, the autumn harvest, the repairs to the roof. Anything.

  “Mr. Gibson.” Her voice had gone timid.

  His Paulette feared him, feared this. Shame slowed his lust, and he gripped her hunched shoulders. “You’re a dream, Paulette. So beautiful, so right, I must slow a bit, or I’ll rush like a ravening barbarian and you won’t feel the pleasure I promised.”

  “Oh,” she said on a long breath, unclenching her hands.

  “And you may only call me Mr. Gibson when you’re angry—no, very angry—with me.”

  She dragged a thumb over his hairy cheek.

  She can’t stop touching me. His cock twitched against the fall of his breeches, raging to get down to business.

  “What shall I call you then?”

  “What do you want to call me?”

  “Your real name is Edward, Bakeley said.”

  “Bink is really my name also. It’s my middle name, true, but the one everyone knows me by.”

  The corner of her mouth lifted and he so wanted to kiss it.

  What she called him, he didn’t care, as long as he could have her in his bed every blessed night, just this willing.

  That was probably a dream all right. He’d be Mr. Gibson to her sooner or later. And he didn’t give a damn, as long as he had her in his bed tonight.

  “You don’t look like an Edward. And, you’re such a big man. Too big to be a Bink.”

  Let me show you just how big I am.

  “I suppose I don’t need to decide now. May we proceed? Have you rested enough?”

  He ran a finger down her cheek, her neck, her chest, and circled each breast. “Now who is teasing?”

  Her laugh sent a warm thrill through him.

  “Let me take off my boots, love.”

  “Let me.” Paulette clambered off of him and moved to pull up the top of her gown from where it rested on lush hips. From the top of her head to the crease of her hip and the soft swell of her belly, he could see everything.

  “Leave it,” he said. “Please.”

  She colored deeply, but complied, breasts bouncing as she struggled to pull off his boots and unroll his stockings.

  When she’d finished she studied the lump in his breeches, her parted lips sending sparks flaming through him, making the lump frantic.

  “Shall we take off your trousers?” she asked.

  Or your gown first? He took her hand and drew her next to him on the bed. “Do you know what to expect?”

  “You are… engorged?”

  “Because of you. Because of my desire for you.”

  “I hear a man can become that way with any woman.”

  He held his breath and fought down the memories. Battle lust had turned men into beasts at Badajoz. Not him. He had a man’s body and a man’s needs, and a man’s ability to stand down when it wasn’t right.

  Was this right?

  A cool hand touched his cheek.

  “I’ll be true to you, Paulette.”

  He stood and stripped off his breeches and his smalls. Her look of shock made his shaft throb against him.

  Bink knelt before her. “Don’t be afraid.”

  “I’m not.”

  The sweet pink of her cheeks had drained.

  His bride feared him, and why shouldn’t she?

  She inhaled deeply, sending her breasts higher. Bink leaned in and kissed a breast, his hands working the hem of her nightrail up, up each shapely leg, over her knees with gentle squeezes.

  When he looked up, her color had returned, her eyes gleamed, wide and dark.

  He set his lips to her leg, kissing his way higher.

  “Wha-at are you doing?”

  “Shhh.” He pushed the silk up and saw the first dark coils. His fingers slid under the gown and swirled.

  “Oh.” She sucked in tight breaths. “B-bink.”

  Bink or Edward, he’d answer to either if only he could have her like this, every night.

  “Will you lay back, my love?”

  She made it as far as her elbows and lay watching, her interest sending ripples of pleasure through him. He dipped his head and inhaled. Even here, her scent was cloaked with the fragrance of roses.

  Kissing his way up each inner thigh, he stopped just before reaching her sweet-scented muff, found the soft button at her center and blew on it, watching her wriggle.

  “Shall I kiss you right here?”

  Real distress played on her face.

  “Will you let me, love?” He set his lips close and exhaled.

  “Yes.” She wrestled herself higher. “Yes. If you must.”

  Bink chuckled. Oh yes, he must.

  He slid a hand under her hips and lifted her. She was already wet with the flavor of woman, and he made her more so.

  He put a finger inside her. Gently.

  God, she was so tight. Her hips bucked, she writhed, and finally fell back, gripping fistfuls of counterpane and moaning.

  He took a long breath and went back to her, inching a hand up to her breasts, swirling his fingers over her nipples.

  Aye, please hurry, Paulette.

  The moans increased. Her fingers swept through his hair, clenched his scalp, pressed him to her in a writhing, mad, instinctive dance of need.

  And then came a soft keening.

  Yes.

  She choked, held his head close, and cried out, pulsing against him
.

  He was up in a flash, done with the selflessness, stretching her limp body on the bed, parting her legs and raising himself over her.

  “W-wait.” She wiggled the nightrail higher, whipped it over her head and lay back, spreading her whole bounty, every shadowed curve, every smooth mound, every enticing curl, every wriggling, needing, wanton bit of woman.

  Desire lit through him like the spark on a bomb fuse.

  He fought for breath, for control. You’re a savage, Bink. You’re a mad dog not fit for decent society.

  He could be gentle, must be gentle. She was so tight.

  She bent her knees and braced her feet, and reached for him.

  Now, his cock demanded.

  He poised himself at her entrance.

  “Please,” she said.

  He eased himself in. It was so tight, so tight. Bink closed his eyes, paused and went deeper.

  His shaft hit her maidenhead and he halted.

  She planted her small feet on his arse and squeezed, and the shock sent him plunging, burying himself deep in her softness.

  Beneath him, she’d gone still as death, and when he looked, her face had wrinkled into a fierce grimace.

  Remorse swirled around the frantic need to explode, the confusing, disturbing guilt of a necessary hurt.

  “I’m so sorry, love.” He kissed her hair. “So sorry. So sorry. It won’t pain you again.”

  She turned her face to his and took his mouth, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Kiss me,” she murmured.

  He did, pouring all of the passion that should be happening below into the kiss, waiting for what he knew not.

  And finally, her legs unwound from him, her hips rolled. He braced on his elbows, and lifted her to him, and one, two, three thrusts, and he exploded, all the pleasure of this sweet universe of Paulette throbbing through him.

  Paulette clung to him as he rolled to his back and she found herself straddling him. She rested her head on his chest and heard his great heart pounding.

  Pleasure still hummed in her, leaving her lightheaded and still throbbing below where the pain of his splitting her had soon enough passed. She felt itchy and needy for more.

  And he was still, somehow, inside her, though not as he had been.