The Duke Buys a Bride

by Sophie Jordan

  Alyse knew she looked bedraggled and hardly a proper match for the better dressed Mr. Weatherton. After a night spent sleeping in his clothes and road-weary from two days of travel, he still looked annoyingly fresh. His manner and bearing declared him a gentleman whilst all of her shouted awkward and peasant stock.

  The widow slid a registry toward Weatherton for him to sign. “I will put ye and yer wife in the yellow room. In the spring it ’as a lovely view of my garden.” Fingers laced stiffly before her, Mrs. Collins studied them carefully, likely to see if they would correct her assumption that they were man and wife. “I operate a good and moral establishment,” she added.

  “We would stay at nothing less,” Weatherton replied with ease, clearly not rattled by her judgment. “And we shall have to stop here for the night when we next journey south,” he added amiably, flashing her a devastating grin.

  “Och, that would be lovely, sir.” Mrs. Collins tittered, her double chin jiggling, the sharp condemnation fading from her eyes as she preened beneath Weatherton’s charm. “And might I inquire yer final destination?”

  “The Black Isle.”

  “Ah. I’ve a cousin who lives near in Inverness.”

  As they bantered back and forth, Alyse glanced down at the book, noting that he had signed them in as Mr. and Mrs. Weatherton. It was a necessary subterfuge. Just like the night before when they had let Mara believe they were married. They could not risk offending the proprietress and being turned away.

  Alyse did not spot many servants about the house as Mrs. Collins led them from the foyer. Just a young lass lugging two buckets down the stairs. The widow addressed the maid as they passed her on the stairs. “Gregoria, back tae the kitchen wi’ those buckets for more water.” She clapped her hands briskly. “Make ’aste now. Our guests want to wash before dinner.”

  “Yes, mum.”

  Once on the second floor, Mrs. Collins opened the door to their chamber and then glanced down at the watch pendant pinned to her bodice. “Dinner is in ’alf an ’our. Dinna be late. It be yer only chance tae eat. I dinna keep the kitchen open all ’ours.” She followed this stern warning with a softening smile for Weatherton. “I vow it will be worth it, sir. My scones ’ave been known tae keep a boarder ’ere an additional night.”

  “I can hardly wait,” Weatherton replied.

  It soon became clear that Mrs. Collins had a hand in everything that occurred under her roof. Not only did she herself admit guests into her home and escort them to their rooms, she served dinner downstairs in the dining room, carrying in the food with the help of Gregoria and presiding over the feast with a judgmental eye.

  When Alyse declined the leek soup, the old dragon poured some into a bowl for her anyway, tsking her tongue. “Ye’ll love it.”

  “Er, thank . . . you,” she murmured, picking up her spoon.

  They dined with three other guests. Mrs. Collins directed each of them where to sit with the authority of a queen. Alyse didn’t feel particularly social, but there was little choice if she wanted to eat. She was trapped, sandwiched between two of the other guests. One was a peddler who spent most of the meal trying to sell anyone who would listen one of his kettles. Another was a young vicar. At least he claimed to be a vicar. It was difficult to imagine him as a man of the cloth. He spent an inordinate amount of time drawing her into conversation and touching any part of her he could reach. He patted her shoulder, her arm. Once he brushed a hand to her chin claiming she had something there.

  Leaning close, he peered at her plate. “My child, you hardly have any meat on your bones. Help yourself to a second bread roll.”

  Weatherton watched from across the table, glaring back and forth between the two of them. Clearly, he was aware that she had earned the vicar’s undivided attention and he didn’t like it.

  She had the niggling suspicion that the vicar was no vicar at all and he laid claim to the title to gain the trust of females. She, however, wasn’t a trusting female. When she felt his hand close over her knee beneath the table, she slid her fork out from beside her plate and stabbed his hand.

  He gave a quick yelp before catching himself and pressing his lips in a flat line.

  She blinked innocently. “Something amiss, vicar?”

  He resumed eating, scowling at her as though seeing her for the first time.

  Her gaze lifted to meet Weatherton’s amused stare. Gone was his glare. His lips twitched and he looked on the verge of laughter.

  The rest of the meal passed tolerably without the vicar’s cloying attentions. Weatherton excused them as soon as they finished their desserts, pleading travel-exhaustion. Not an untruth. She was weary.

  Mrs. Collins offered to send up hot water so that they might bathe. Alyse had washed her hands and face before dinner, but she gladly accepted the offer of a bath.

  “Thank goodness that’s over,” she declared once in their room.

  “What? You didn’t care for Mrs. Collins’s mutton?”

  “I didn’t care for the vicar!”

  He chuckled. “You handled him aptly enough.”

  She huffed. “Vicar, my foot.”

  “Well, I would gladly have had the vicar fix his attentions on me rather than endure the peddler. He was relentless. I bought two kettles I didn’t want! What am I supposed to do with them?”

  She outright laughed. A deep laugh that swelled up from her belly. It felt good. Real. It was nice. She could not recall the last time she had laughed in such a manner.

  “Well. You could have conversed more with Gregoria. She had eyes for you.”

  “Did she? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “You didn’t notice how many times she asked you to pass her something?”

  He shrugged and she realized female admiration was likely nothing new for him. He probably never even noticed the stir he created in the female population. Even Mrs. Collins was caught under his spell.

  He sank down onto a chaise and started tugging off his boots, his face creasing in mirth.

  “And what did you think of Mrs. Collins’s infamous scones?” she heard herself tease. “As wonderful as promised?”

  His eyes widened and he pointed to his mouth. “I think I left a tooth buried in the one I bit into. Truly, they can’t be digestible. She could use them as artillery. The army should be notified.”

  Alyse giggled. “So we won’t be staying an additional night in order to indulge in more of them?”

  “Another night of enduring those scones and I fear I shall have no teeth left.”

  They were still chuckling when a knock came at the door. Weatherton admitted Gregoria inside the room. He quickly relieved her of one of her sloshing buckets.

  “Ah, much thanks, sir.” The young woman stared up at him with an expression of wonder. She moved slowly, casting him several admiring glances.

  Gregoria filled up the hip tub tucked behind a dressing screen. Finished with that, she carried both empty buckets to the door. Casting a final lingering glance Weatherton’s way, she promised to return with two more buckets and then departed.

  While she was gone, Alyse stared at the dressing screen, satisfied to see that it was not made of any kind of translucent material. It was impossible to see through the thick blue fabric. Even if Weatherton remained in the chamber whilst she bathed she should be afforded her privacy. That was some comfort.

  Gregoria soon returned and added water to the half-full tub. As soon as she left the chamber, Weatherton motioned toward the dressing screen. “Your bath awaits.”

  She nodded, not bothering to even decline the invitation. She was eager for a bath to wash away the rigors of travel.

  A few strides carried her across the chamber. Safely ensconced behind the screen, she made quick work of shedding her clothes. Aware that the water was losing its heat and there was little more miserable a thing than a cold bath, she hurriedly sank into the water and went about her washing. Stepping from the tub, she reached for the nearby towel, valiantly trying not to listen f
or Marcus on the other side of the screen.

  She rubbed herself dry, first her body and then her hair. Slipping on her nightgown, she smoothed her hands down her length and exhaled. When she emerged from behind the screen, she noticed that he was donning his boots again.

  “Er. Are you going somewhere?”

  He stood. “I thought I’d check on our mounts. Make sure they’re properly stabled and fed for the night.”

  She nodded a tad too jerkily, wondering why he seemed to have trouble meeting her gaze.

  “G’night. You’ll likely be asleep when I return.”

  “Oh. Of course. Good night then.” She supposed she should be thankful that he was giving her some time to herself. She’d fall asleep without any anxiety because he wouldn’t be there in the bed beside her. When she woke in the morning the worst of it would be over. She would have slept throughout their nerve-racking proximity.

  He glanced her up and down as she stood in her nightgown, her bare toes peeping out from beneath the hem. She fidgeted self-consciously. It was just a hasty examination but her face burned from it. She didn’t know why his glance should unnerve her. He’d seen her in her nightgown before.

  Over the course of this journey there would be all manner of intimate moments between them. She understood that now. Traveling together—just the two of them—modesty would be elusive. Still, knowing that and accepting it were two very different things.

  Without another word, Weatherton spun around and exited the room.

  She sank down into the chair before the fireplace and began combing out her hair, pausing more than once when she heard footsteps in the hall, wondering if he was returning. And wondering why her pulse leapt at the possibility.

  Marcus took his time checking on Bucephalus and the mule. He lowered himself down onto an old wood stool as they munched on fresh hay in their stalls. Stretching out his legs, he watched them distractedly, sticking a stalk of hay in his mouth and rolling it idly between his lips.

  He needed a little space. He actually welcomed the bite of cold air. It shocked his body and helped get rid of the infernal warmth he had felt as he heard Alyse getting undressed behind that screen . . . the swish of water and her throaty sigh as she eased into the tub, the scratch and drag of the sponge against her skin.

  It was a torment he had not anticipated. He’d had no choice but to listen to the sounds of her bath and imagine her naked, all that warm and wet flesh . . . sudsy water running down the curves and hollows of her body. It wasn’t to be borne.

  He fully intended to avoid that room . . . avoid her in that room until he’d put such manner of thinking from his head and came to his senses.

  He lingered on the stool until the chill started to seep into his bones. Confident she was in bed by now and likely asleep, he left the stables, telling himself he was being cowardly. She was but one small female. He didn’t need to run from her. He frowned as he considered that he had been running from a good many things lately. His life, in fact.

  Mrs. Collins waylaid him in the foyer and invited him to help himself to some of the whisky she kept in the parlor for her gentlemen guests.

  Deciding a drink wouldn’t hurt—nor would warming himself back up by the fire in the parlor—he accepted the offer and settled himself in an armchair with a glass of fine whisky and a week-old Edinburgh newspaper. He must have dozed off because he woke with a jolt sometime later. Running his hands through his hair, he groggily rose from his chair and made his way upstairs.

  The room was mostly dark, only the dim light of the fire saved the chamber from complete darkness. He made out the vague shape of her lying in the bed. As still as stone. Although he knew she wasn’t stone.

  She had a fierceness to her, without a doubt. But there was a softer side to her, too. He’d seen it. Watched her as she interacted with the crofter’s wife. There had been something in her eyes . . . compassion that he rarely saw in the drawing rooms of London. She’d been dealt a difficult life, to be sure, but she still possessed a tender heart and cared about others.

  He’d never really considered how privileged he was . . . never counted himself particularly fortunate, but she made him think about that. She made him feel like a churlish, ungrateful wretch.

  He approached the bed, his eyes acclimating to the near darkness. Peering down at the outline of her body, he identified that she slept with her back to him, her hair a loose and flowing trail winding over the lighter counterpane.

  Inhaling, he caught the clean, soapy scent of her. She might be still as stone, but she was no inanimate lump. She was flesh and blood—a living, breathing female for whom he was responsible.

  The idea pinched at the center of his chest and he couldn’t fathom why. He was accustomed to having servants. Why should the addition of one more give him pause? His lips twisted wryly. He supposed she was different from the rest. He had never shared a bed three nights straight with any of them. That made her a little different, indeed.

  He moved away from the bed to stand before the fire. Holding out his hands, he let the warmth penetrate. A small sound from the bed drew his attention. She stirred and he held his breath for some reason, not releasing it until she settled back down, falling to stillness.

  He removed his clothing, garment by garment, draping them over the back of a chair. Moving back to the bed, he stopped at the edge. His hands twitched at his sides as he stood there, hesitating. Damn. They really needed to stop sleeping in the same bed.

  Their first night together he had simply climbed into bed with her, giving it little thought. Then, she was nothing more than a woman he had bought at auction. Someone he’d taken pity on and helped through a difficult time.

  Now she was something more.

  No longer a stranger.

  In the matter of days, it was no longer so simple to dismiss her from his mind.

  Scowling, he pulled back the covers on his side of the bed and slid in beside her, determined to not let this affect him.

  When he left London alone it was because he wanted to be alone—and yet here he was. With her. Decidedly not alone.

  But that wasn’t the real problem. The problem was that he liked her. He was enjoying her. Enjoying not being alone. Bloody hell. He was enjoying being with his new housekeeper.

  The sooner they reached Kilmarkie House the better.

  Chapter 14

  The dove was unaccustomed to being touched.

  The cage bars were narrow and made it difficult to be reached.

  She didn’t know what woke her, but it wasn’t a nightmare. Not this time.

  She lifted her head with a tiny gasp. It was still night outside. Dark air peeped around the edges of the curtains and pressed against the narrow strip of visible glass.

  The fire in the hearth had burned low but there was enough of a glow to make out the shape of the window and a framed landscape hanging on the wall beside it. A single cow marked the landscape, facing the viewer, wearing an expression that was much too shrewd for a cow.

  Despite the waning fire, she was warm and snug beneath the covers. She contemplated rolling over, but she was aware of a weight draped over her, pinning her in place on the bed.

  Her heart raced as she grew more and more aware of what that weight was: an arm around her waist and a leg draped over her thigh.

  She was wrapped up in a man. A big man.

  Even after these last two nights of sharing a bed it was a shocking and alien sensation.

  She twisted her neck to risk a peek behind her.

  It was indeed Marcus Weatherton, dead to the world. He slept soundly, his lips parted, emitting a slight snore. She hadn’t noticed he snored before. It only made him all the more human to her.

  Some of her unease faded. Of course, he slept. He wasn’t falling on her like a slavering beast. He wouldn’t do that. He wasn’t even aware of her existence in the bed next to him.

  She looked down at the bare arm wrapped around her. She inhaled a ragged breath and willed her compo
sure to remain in place. After a moment, she lowered her fingers to his skin, warm and lightly roped with sinew just beneath the flesh. He might be hugging her like a pillow, but he was unaware that he was doing so. It was quite safe. A harmless snuggle.

  Then why were her nerves all tangled? They were not man and wife. There would be no consummating of marriage vows. By now she knew that.

  Her fingers relaxed on his arm, easing, tracing idly.

  She could not help wondering if this was what it would be like every night to sleep with and be held by a man who loved her. Her parents had been a love match. Once upon a time she had assumed she would marry for love just as they had. Before Papa died and life became about what was necessary.

  Her eyelids grew heavy again. She trailed her fingers up and down his arm, pretending, believing in the fantasy for a moment that she had that.

  He released a sigh. She felt it against the back of her head, ruffling her hair.

  Suddenly she was pulled closer, her back dragged up against his hard chest. She swallowed a squeak. Her eyes flared wide and she stilled her touching of his arm.

  She shifted slightly, trying to put some space between them, but that didn’t work either. He pulled her back against him.

  The heat of his chest radiated through the cotton of her gown. How much clothing was he wearing? Or rather . . . how little? Had he reverted to his tradition of sleeping naked?

  That great leg of his still draped over her. It bore down on her thigh like a tree trunk, pinning her.

  And then she felt it. An increasing hardness against her bottom. It stirred and grew, nudging into her backside until she had a fairly good idea she was feeling the swell of his manhood. She sucked in a breath.

  She understood the mechanics of sex. She’d lived too long on a farm not to know such things.

  He was asleep. Completely unaware of his body’s reaction. She could wake him and he’d withdraw, no doubt with an apology.

  Only she was awake.