Sweet Hellion (The Marriage Maker Book 26)

by Tarah Scott

  God help him, even in the pale moonlight he marveled at her beauty. He reached for her, but she pushed his hands away and skimmed her palms down his abdomen. Her fingers grazed the base of his cock. He went rigid and watched as she lowered her head. She dragged her tongue over the tip of his cock.

  Pleasure streaked through hm. “Lass,” he began, then broke off when her mouth covered the head of his shaft and she lightly sucked.

  Her hand slid between his legs and cradled his ball sac in her palm. She took him deeper into her mouth. He growled and collapsed back onto the bed, arms flung wide. Her mouth slid down, then up again. Down, then up, then down again and yet again. Moonlight shimmered along her red hair. She was so beautiful. Pleasure mounted. He would climax. Rhys swore and tore his cock from her mouth.

  “Rhys,” she cried, but he dragged her beneath him and kneed her legs apart.

  He fitted his shaft into her channel. She felt like heated velvet, so hot, so wet, and so very, very ready to receive him. She wrapped her arms around him and, with one hard thrust, he filled her.

  “Rhys,” she whispered.

  He swallowed as she lifted her hips and met his thrusts. Her tight channel caressed him even as he feared to move, lest he spill his seed. She rocked against him in raw, undisguised need. With the state of their arousal, neither would last long. He’d nearly released into her mouth… God, what a mouth.

  She rolled her hips forward and grabbed his arms. Unchecked lust flashed through him. He took her in deep, wild plunges.

  “More.” Emma wrapped her legs around his buttocks to allow him to penetrate her deeper.

  He came hard and with no warning. His seed left him in a rush, flooding her channel. She was so tight around him. He drew a ragged breath, indulging in the last of his release even as the thought niggled that he might have gotten a child on her. He should have pulled free. Yet, even as he acknowledged the thought, he groaned in satisfaction, milking his cock in her heat as he gripped her hips.

  She cried out. Her body convulsed beneath him, her skin so pale and milky white in the moonlight. He continued to thrust into her, still hard enough to prolong her pleasure as her climax rose, then fell, leaving her breathless and panting on the bed.

  Finally, he slid free from her heat and rolled off her onto his back, half sprawling off the small bed. What had he done? He shouldn’t have taken her…most certainly, he shouldn’t have risked a child. He knew better. Why then, did he burn already to take her again?

  At his side, Emma sat up, her red hair spilling over her shoulders to fall down her back like a curtain. He entwined a curl around his fingers. She unexpectedly rose from the bed.

  “Good night,” she whispered without turning around.

  “Stay.”

  She shook her head. “I am but a passing fancy.”

  He opened his mouth to demand she stay, but she scooped her dress up from the floor, then escaped, leaving him alone in the darkness.

  Sleep eluded Rhys. That was hardly unusual. Tonight, however, instead of cannons, Emma filled his thoughts. Her cloud of red hair. Her voluptuous form. Her slender waist… Why had he been so irresponsible? When Tory implored Rhys to see to his sister’s welfare, he’d hardly been asking him to bed her.

  Finally, in the darkness before dawn, he gave up all pretense of sleep and hefted himself from the bed. By the time he heard the creak of the stairs as Emma descended, the sun stood high in the morning sky and he’d just finished repairing his second wheel.

  As the last step creaked, Rhys turned. She was spectacular, her eyes huge and blue, and her cheeks flushed a rosy pink. She’d gathered her auburn locks into a riot of curls at the nape of her neck. His body leapt at the thought of kissing the tender flesh there.

  “Good morning.” Emma cleared her throat.

  Rhys noticed her buttoned pelisse and the bonnet she held. “Allow me to escort you.”

  She blushed prettily. “There’s no need. I am off to the infirmary.”

  He set the mallet down and rose. “Then, it’s off to the infirmary we go,” he said.

  He was halfway to her side when she murmured, eyes downcast, “There is no need. You’re not…obligated, you know…simply because…” her voice trailed off.

  He closed the distance between them and finished for her, “…last night?”

  Emma turned quickly toward the door. Her reaction didn’t surprise him, but he was uncertain if her reaction was one of shyness or remorse.

  She’d scarce gone three feet into the back yard before he caught up to her. Rhys caught her small hand in his and bowed. “I assure you, lass, ‘tis my honor to walk by your side.”

  She arched a brow. “Your presence at my side will set tongues wagging.”

  The dry smile in her voice summoned a smile of his own. “Perhaps, but in recent times, I’ve learned to ignore the words of others.”

  “I am learning to do the same,” she granted.

  He watched as she set her bonnet on her curls and tied the ribbons beneath her chin.

  She paused and tilted her head at the shop. “I do believe I heard the door slam.”

  Without waiting for his response, she sailed across the yard and stepped into the alleyway running behind the livery. He could watch the sway of her hips the day long…and night, as well. Reluctantly, he turned back to the shop, but when he entered, he found no customer there. Emma had misled him. He chuckled as he strode to the worktable and picked up his mallet. Next time, she wouldn’t trick him so easily.

  Whistling under his breath, Rhys set about his work.

  Chapter Eight

  Emma hurried past the limestone buildings hugging Inverness’s quiet, cobblestoned streets. The smoke rising from chimneys heralded the waking residents. Soon, carts and horses would crowd the streets. Through the trees ahead, the River Ness glistened.

  Lost in thought, she took the footpath leading to the infirmary. The glow she’d felt all night and this morning had dissipated in the wake of anxiety. What if she arrived at the infirmary to have Mrs. Worsley tell her that her services were no longer needed? How would she feed herself? Rhys was sure to feel obligated to help her then. But obligation wasn’t what she wanted from him.

  “Emma,” a voice called close behind.

  Emma whirled. Molly, the freckle-faced butcher’s daughter, ran to catch up. She arrived breathless, her brown hair slipping free from her bonnet.

  “Where are your thoughts?” Molly teased, huffing and puffing. “I called your name half a dozen times.”

  “Oh, I am tired, is all,” Emma fibbed. She quickened her step. “We’d best hurry before Mrs. Worsley has a fit of apoplexy.”

  Molly fell into step beside her. “I swear it’s as if Mrs. Worsley has never readied the infirmary for a charity event afore. She screeched herself hoarse with orders that everything be ‘spotless.’ ‘Tis fortunate you haven’t had to listen to her railing all week.”

  “I will hear enough today,” Emma commiserated, and prayed she was right.

  Molly smiled. “Oh, have you heard the news? They say we’re getting the lad from Edinburgh, the one who lost his mind. It’s so sad to have no memory of your family, even your very own name.”

  The sentiment summoned an image of Rhys seated at the table.

  “For some,” Emma murmured thoughtfully, “forgetting might be easier.”

  “Perhaps. This war has been a terrible thing.”

  Emma nodded, and they fell silent as they hurried along the river bank to the limestone walls of the Royal Northern Infirmary.

  “What are you going to wear for the celebration?” Molly asked as they joined other women lined up at the washroom door. Without waiting for Emma to reply, she continued, “I am borrowing my sister’s green muslin. Simple, as Mrs. Worsley instructed, but still quite pretty. Oh, Emma, I am so excited. I wouldn’t miss this for all the gold in the world.”

  “Then, you’re a fool,” a dour woman carped from behind. “We are not guests.”

 
; Several nearby women laughed dryly.

  Molly cast a frown their way, but said to Emma, “They say the Major General is bringing some of his men. Maybe I will catch the eye of some young lieutenant.”

  “You will find no husband in that lot, child,” a woman said.

  Molly cast the woman a sideways glance, then whispered to Emma, “Still, ‘twill be so much fun. There will be cakes, creams and ices, they say. Perhaps even the young soldier? He might even be a prince.”

  “Perhaps,” Emma replied.

  Molly grinned.

  They made their way inside, and after hanging their pelisses and bonnets on their wall pegs, they joined the line of women to collect their aprons, buckets and scrub brushes. Emma turned to find Mrs. Worsley standing three feet from her. Emma’s heart jumped into a gallop.

  The rail-thin woman locked gazes with her.

  Dear God, Mrs. Worsley was going to discharge her.

  “You are to scrub the women’s ward,” Mrs. Worsley said. “Give wings to your feet, girl.”

  Emma had never been so happy to hear that she was to scrub floors. “Yes, Mrs. Worsley.” Emma picked up her bucket and brush and rushed to the stairs.

  She reached the third floor, slightly out of breath. The women’s ward offered a fine view of the river, but with so much to scrub, Emma had little time to look out the windows. Silence reigned. Two elderly women lay asleep in the beds that lined the wall. The remainder of the beds stood empty, their crisp linens smooth and white, ready for the next patient.

  Emma tiptoed to a corner and began quietly scrubbing. The work was cold and wet, and the lye soap burnt her hands, but her mind dwelled on Rhys’ predicament.

  Lunch was a quick sharing of fish pie with Molly, and then Emma returned to the ward with a fresh bucket of soap water, this time, scrubbing the walls.

  Finally, after what felt like years, the day ended.

  “We will need ye on the morrow, Emma.” Mrs. Worsley called over the heads of the other women as Emma collected her pelisse and bonnet. “The wards must be spotless, I say. Spotless.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Worsley,” Emma replied.

  “Spotless, I say,” Molly huffed under her breath, mimicking Mrs. Worsley.

  The women around them snickered.

  “Until tomorrow, then.” Emma slipped through the door before Molly could join her.

  She couldn’t risk the girl inviting herself for supper, as she sometimes did. Emma hurried through Inverness’s darkening streets, past the street vendors hawking roasted chestnuts and jellied oranges. She’d just turned down Ballifeary Lane when she spied Mrs. Babcock marching in her direction.

  “Emma?” Mrs. Babcock called.

  Feigning deafness, Emma skipped across the cobblestones and ducked into a narrow alley to take a different route home. When she arrived, night had fallen, and from the back yard, she spotted the warm glow of firelight through the shop windows. She slipped in through the back door to the thump of a mallet strike.

  So, Rhys still labored. She rubbed her raw, sore hands, then removed her bonnet and pelisse and hung them on the hook by the door. The continued ringing of the hammer announced Rhys hadn’t heard her arrival. Emma crept up to the shop door and leaned against the doorjamb. Rhys stood, his back to her, hammering the spokes into the wheel hub with strong, accurate blows. She watched his massive muscles clench and bulge beneath his white shirt. What a handsome beast of a man. Trying to shoot him had been the most foolish—and best—thing she’d ever done.

  He strode to the worktable, picked up a chisel, then seated himself on the stool. Her heart began to thump as she started forward. When she reached him, she touched the back of his neck. Rhys jerked, but as he swiveled to face her, she threaded her fingers through his dark hair.

  “Emma,” he breathed.

  The wonder in his voice made her heart jump. He pulled her close. She straddled his thighs and fumbled beneath his plaid. She found him easily enough. Already, his shaft stood erect, announcing he wanted her as much as she wanted him, but as she angled her hips, he caught her about the waist and held her down.

  “Nae, lass,” he murmured.

  Emma froze. The blood rushed to her ears. He didn’t want her?

  He studied her face and chuckled softly. “A kiss first.”

  “A kiss?” Emma caught her breath.

  The vicar had always gotten down to business at once, only sometimes squeezing and pinching her breasts before pumping away. Rhys slid a finger under her chin and tilted her face up. With spell-binding gentleness, he brushed his lips against hers. He cradled her face in his hands as if she were made of the finest china.

  She molded herself against him, opening her mouth to let his tongue sweep inside. He tasted like leather and spice. Slowly, he teased her tongue with his. Her heart squeezed. Who knew a kiss could summon such feelings? She closed her eyes and let him do as he willed.

  For a time, he licked, nipped, and nibbled her lips, but the more their tongues tangled, the more the fire burned in her belly. She needed him inside her. Tarnal, but she couldn’t hold still.

  Finally, Rhys pulled back. With a glint in his eyes, he whispered, “I want you, Emma.”

  The tenderness in his voice made her melt. I want you. Simple words, full of such power. He trailed kisses down the side of her neck as her fingers crept back into his hair. He skimmed a palm over her breast, caught hold of her gown, and pulled the muslin down to expose her breast. His lips felt like fire, branding her nipple with a hot kiss before he took as much as he could into his mouth and began to suckle.

  “Rhys,” she choked.

  Again, and yet again, he suckled and nipped at her breast as the tingling in her channel grew. Sweet Heaven above, who knew a man’s mouth could elicit such wonders? The sight of his dark head nuzzling her breast made her shiver with want.

  All at once, she was done waiting. Emma pushed his plaid back from his thighs. This time, he didn’t stop her as she grasped his hard shaft and guided the head to her entrance. She moaned as she slowly sank onto him. How he stretched her so pleasingly wide. When he’d filled her completely, she began to rock.

  He answered by flexing his hips, driving himself into her, slowly at first, then gradually increasing his speed. He pulled her gown down to her waist, freeing her second breast, and fondled one, then the other.

  “More.” She arched her back.

  Rhys stood and backed her up until her buttocks pressed against the worktable. The position let him penetrate her fully, deeply on every thrust.

  “Yes,” she moaned.

  He thrust hard, each powerful stroke bouncing the tools on the table. Excitement further tightened her sex. Pleasure ripped through her. The force of her climax made her scream. In the midst of her shudders, he grasped her hips and locked her against his groin, as with a groan, he took his pleasure. The sight of his eyes closed thrilled her to her core. She had pleased him as much as he had her. It hadn’t been like this with Joseph—ever. To her surprise, the need to cry rose.

  The thump of bootfalls outside the shop snapped her from the spell.

  Rhys tensed. As the latch on the front door rattled, he yanked from inside her and set her on her feet. Emma raced from the room, clutching her gown around her. She’d barely sprinted into the hallway as the shop door creaked open.

  How had they forgotten to lock the door?

  At the scuff of boots entering the room, she pulled her dress sleeves over her shoulders and peered around the corner. Rhys stood before a distinguished, silver haired man in dark, Spanish leather boots and a red coat embroidered with gold braid that proclaimed him a commanding officer.

  “Major General.” Rhys saluted.

  The elderly man stared down the length of his hawk nose at Rhys. Again, the door opened. This time, Lord Munro entered, dressed in a gray coat, a fine blue waistcoat, and a well tied, matching cravat. Emma’s heart pounded. Only the crackling of the fire could be heard as the Major General cast a slow, searching glance abo
ut the shop before returning his sharp gaze to Rhys.

  “Lord Munro speaks the truth, I see,” he said, at last.

  “Pardon, sir?” Rhys asked.

  “You are living here,” Munro said.

  Rhys hesitated.

  The Major General’s mouth thinned. “There was a time when I thought you an honorable man. You have not only disgraced yourself on the battlefield, now you tarnish the reputation of a respectable woman, a sister of—”

  Emma hadn’t realized she’d charged into the room until all three men faced her.

  “Major General, I assure you, Captain Macleod has offered me only—”

  “Captain?” the major general interrupted coldly. “Captain, no longer.”

  “That is a wrong that should be righted,” Emma said.

  “Nonsense,” the major general said. “Miss Bamfield, I presume? Leave us. These are matters for men.”

  Emma blinked. Had the man just dismissed her in her own home? She lifted her chin. “Forgive me, sir, but if you’re here to disparage Cap—Mister Macleod, then you should know that it is he, alone, who has sought to put bread on my table, to keep me from a destitute life—”

  “Good God, woman,” the Major General snapped. “Leave these matters to men.”

  Emma stared in shock. Clearly, the man was used to folk obeying his orders without question.

  Rhys smiled gently at her. “Miss Bamfield, thank you for your kind words, but the major general is right. Leave this business to us.”

  “Indeed.” The major general waved Emma aside and returned his attention to Rhys. “I came with a purpose, Macleod. You are under arrest.”

  Emma drew a sharp breath. “Under arrest. On what charge?”

  “He is a deserter.”

  Rhys drew a long breath but said nothing.

  “But why now?” Emma demanded. “You discharged him from the army. Why arrest him now?”