A Ravishing Redhead (Wedded Women Quartet)

by Jillian Eaton

  Henry did not hear her. Reaching out, he gently touched the side of her temple and stared at his fingers when they came away stained with blood. “You’re bleeding,” he said dumbly.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “But it is nothing to worry about.”

  “You’re bleeding,” he repeated.

  Margaret reached out and clasped his hand. “Yes, dear, you have said that already. It’s just a little scratch, I think I may have hit the side of the stirrup iron when I fell and it really is nothing to worry –”

  “HASTINGS!” Henry roared, so loud that Margaret winced. “HASTINGS, GET OUT HERE THIS INSTANT! CALL THE DOCTOR!”

  Margaret rolled her eyes. “Henry, I have to say you are over reacting just a tad. I have fallen off a horse before I do not doubt I will do it again. If you would simply calm down we –”

  “And you,” he said, cutting her off. “You – you should be laying down! In a bed!” Ignoring her protests, he scooped her up in his arms and marched her inside, up the stairs, and into the master bedroom.

  “You’ve gone mad,” she gasped as he tucked her under the covers, surrounded her head with pillows, and ordered her not to move a single muscle until the doctor arrived. Ignoring him, Margaret threw the blankets off and sat up, her blue eyes flashing dangerously. “Henry, this is ridiculous! I know you are upset that I rode Finnegan without your permission and I truly am sorry, but going on like this is not going to help anyone.”

  Head bent and arms held rigidly behind his back, Henry turned away from the window where he had been watching for the doctor’s carriage and fixed Margaret with a glare so furious it had her hastily laying flat on her back as ordered and pulling the covers up to her chin.

  “Henry,” she tried again after a few minutes of strained silence. “I really am fine. A nick on my head and a few bumps and bruises here and there. If you would just let me take a hot bath I am certain I will feel better in no –”

  “YOU COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED!” he shouted.

  Stunned, Margaret dropped the covers. “Oh Henry, no,” she said as understanding finally dawned. Henry wasn’t angry because she had ridden Finnegan. He was angry because he was afraid of losing her. A sense of cozy warmth started in Margaret’s chest and slipped all the way down to her toes. She smiled, which only served to provoke Henry’s anger to a fever pitch.

  “You little idiot,” he snarled. “You could have broken every bone in your body.”

  “Would that have upset you?” she asked tentatively.

  Henry gaped at her. “Would that have – of COURSE that would have upset me! You’re my damn wife and I – you’re my wife, Margaret, and I forbid you to risk your life anymore. Do you hear me? I forbid it!” His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why are you smiling? It’s your head injury. You must be concussed. Bloody hell, where is that worthless doctor? HASTINGS! HASTINGS, GET UP HERE RIGHT NOW!”

  When the doctor finally arrived he prescribed Margaret laudanum and two weeks bed rest. She refused the laudanum and agreed to three days of bed rest, which the doctor consented to on the condition he never be called again to deal with “that woman”.

  Henry, who had watched the two argue from the corner of the bedroom, made no move to intervene on behalf the doctor. He simply put laudanum in Margaret’s tea after the doctor left and held her hand while she drifted off to sleep.

  “Henry?” she said, her eyes already closed and her breathing quiet and steady.

  “Yes darling?”

  “You won’t… really shoot… Finn?”

  Leaning close, he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, just below the bandage the doctor had applied. “No, I won’t,” he said.

  A troubled line appeared between her eyebrows. “You promise?” she whispered.

  “Yes,” he said, only slightly exasperated that his wife was fighting off the effects of the laudanum just so she could make sure the horse who had thrown her was safe. “I was only speaking in anger. But you are never to scare me like that again, do you hear me Margaret?”

  Her lips curved. “Not because of my dowry,” she said.

  The words made little sense to Henry, which meant the laudanum was finally taking effect. “Not because of your dowry,” he agreed.

  “Henry?”

  “Go to sleep Margaret,” he said firmly. “I will still be here in the morning.”

  “You will?”

  “I will stay here all night,” he said. It seemed to be the reassurance she needed, for with a little sigh she finally fell asleep and Henry, as promised, remained by her side until morning.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  By the third day of bed rest Margaret was ready to murder someone. She would prefer it to be her husband, but really anyone would do the trick. Hastings, who watched her like a hawk and sounded the alarm if she even looked at the door. Angela, the poor dear, who burst into tears whenever she came into the room to change the linens. Even Petey the stable boy had managed to raise her ire without stepping foot in the bedroom. She had been forced to watch out the window, hands clenched into fists of frustration, as he led her beloved Poppy straight out to the field without allowing her eat even a nibble from the lawn.

  For a woman who was used to doing everything for herself, being forced to remain in one place and be waited on hand and foot was absolute torture. Unfortunately, no one else seemed to see it that way. They actually had the nerve to say she was the difficult one! Margaret’s lip curled in disgust as she set aside the book she had been trying in vain to read for the past two days. If she didn’t get out of this room soon she would not be responsible for her actions.

  Hearing the door knob turn, she looked up from her chair expectantly, only to scowl when she saw who it was and snatch her book back up.

  “How are you feeling today?” Henry asked pleasantly.

  He was, Margaret saw as she peeked over the top of the book, dressed in his finest riding clothes. Fawn colored breeches hugged his legs in all the right places and a scarlet jacket tailor fit to his muscular frame was buttoned to the throat. Even his tall leather boots had been polished to a sheen, which immediately aroused Margaret’s suspicion. Closing the book with a snap, she said dourly, “And just where are you going today? Fox hunting?”

  “Quite right,” he said, grinning broadly.

  Margaret’s mouth dropped open. “You wouldn’t. Oh, take me with you. I feel perfectly fine,” she pleaded. “Better than fine. If I remain locked in this room a second longer I shall go positively mad!”

  Henry walked past her to perch on the edge of the bed. Arms crossed, he began to tap his heel against the floor. “Per the doctor’s orders—”

  “Stuff the doctor’s orders!”

  He raised one eyebrow. “—your bed rest officially ended this morning.”

  “I always thought he was a dear, dear man.”

  Henry’s grin widened, but he was wise enough not to laugh. “I need to go to London for a fortnight. I was going to ask if you would like to accompany me.”

  Had Henry asked her to go to London last week she would have heartily declined, but after three days of doing nothing save staring at the ceiling a visit to the city sounded absolutely divine. “I’ll go,” she decided at once. “When do we leave?”

  “As soon as you are ready.”

  Margaret glanced down at her plain blue dress and frowned. “I shall need to change and to pack.”

  Henry stood. Crossing the room, he gently kissed her cheek, something he had been doing on a regular basis since she had woken up the morning after her accident. “You look beautiful just as you are,” he murmured. “And I had Angela ready your things last night.”

  “L-last night?” said Margaret, hoping he wouldn’t notice the quiet hitch in her voice. It quite undid her when he paid her compliments out of the blue or touched her lightly, as he was doing now, running his fingers through her hair without even seeming to realize it. Something had shifted between them in the past few days, something Margaret could not define, but defin
itely liked.

  Henry was… warmer, she decided. Softer. Kinder. He had treated her like a queen during her bed rest, flowering her with so many gifts (many of the chocolate variety) that she had started turning them away, protesting that she would get too fat, to which he had replied she was perfect no matter what.

  She should have been over the moon with happiness. After all, it was not every day one’s husband was so loving and attentive. And yet… And yet like a puzzle not quite complete, there was a piece missing. It was not a piece she could name or describe. It was simply something she felt.

  “Margaret, are you ready then?” Henry asked, interrupting her thoughts.

  Pasting a smile on her face, she nodded and pushed herself to her feet. “Yes. Quite ready.”

  “Are you all right?” he asked, studying her closely. “You seem a bit… off. If you are not feeling well I can postpone the trip. Go next week when you are feeling better. Let me just ring Hastings and tell him to send the carriage away.”

  “No, no,” she protested, placing a hand on his chest. “I am fine. I promise.”

  Henry frowned. “If you’re sure…”

  “Quite sure,” she said brightly.

  Still not looking entirely convinced, Henry wordlessly extended his arm. She took it and together they went to the waiting carriage outside.

  For the first week in London it rained unmercifully. Henry could tell by Margaret’s glum expression that being stuck inside their townhouse was driving her crazy, but she did her best not to complain, and he did his best to keep her distracted with games of chess and reading in front of the fireplace well into the night.

  He had not told her the real reason he had decided to come to London: to track down Peterson. About a month ago the accountant had disappeared into thin air. Henry had hired the best detectives money could buy and when they had come up with no leads he had decided to attend to the matter himself.

  Three dead ends later he was almost ready to admit it had been plain arrogance that had made him think he would be able to succeed where trained detectives had failed. Like a weasel gone to ground Peterson was truly gone; whether he even remained in London was yet to be determined, but something in Henry’s gut told him he was still out there… somewhere.

  Pulling his watch out of his vest pocket he glanced down at the time. A quarter past ten. He sighed and stretched out the stiff muscles in his neck and shoulders. Another day gone with no answers. Another night to spend alone.

  He had foolishly hoped that a change in scenery would be the spark he and Margaret needed to ignite the flames of desire that had been licking at their heels. Yet every evening she wished him good night as she always had and made a point of going to her own private bedroom and locking the door behind her, shutting him out until morning came and they began the entire bloody dance over again.

  It infuriated him to no end to hear that tumbler click into place night after night. Did she honestly think he would force himself upon her? He had considered breaking down the door just to prove that he could, but had ultimately decided that would serve no purpose save to incite her anger, something which he definitely did not want to do. His wife was terrifying when she was angry, but damn it all to hell he was tired of on walking on egg shells in his own bloody house.

  His thoughts troubled and his mood dark, Henry shoved away from his desk and stalked up the stairs. Before he quite knew what he was doing he had stopped in front of her door and was pounding against it with a raised fist, loud enough to wake the dead. He heard the mattress squeak and then the patter of bare feet. The lock clicked and turned. The door opened.

  “Henry?” said Margaret, her face registering her shock. “Is everything all right? What are you doing?”

  He took in the rumpled waves of fiery hair that spilled across her shoulders and the soft clinginess of her ivory nightgown. With a low growl he pushed his way past her and shut the door behind him, plunging the room into darkness.

  “What in the world?” Margaret exclaimed. “Henry what is going on? Why are you – oomph!”

  He silenced her with a kiss. Even without light to guide him he knew where she was purely by touch. He pulled her hard against him, wrapping one arm around her waist while the other held the delicate curve of her jaw as if it were made of glass. Dimly he felt her tiny fists striking at his chest and her bare feet kicking at his shins. With a savage oath he drew back, his breathing heavy, his body aroused beyond measure.

  “Have you gone insane?” Margaret hissed.

  His reply was a bitter laugh. “I went insane ages ago. Every second, every hour, every night spent without being inside of you is one wasted.” He heard her little gasp of surprise at his lewdness but he plunged recklessly forward, no longer caring about the consequences for they could be no worse than the hell he was already enduring. “I want to be with you as a man is with a woman, Margaret. I want to feel your naked skin slick against mine. I want to touch you in all the places you secretly desire to be touched. I want you writhing beneath me, gasping my name as you come.”

  “Well,” Margaret said after a long pause, her voice shaky but determined. “You only had to say so.”

  Henry felt as though he just had been kicked in the solar plexus. Blindly he reached for her and together they tumbled onto the bed. Their lips met, their tongues entwined. He drank her in as his hands explored her body, slipping easily beneath the hem of her nightgown to explore her flushed skin.

  Margaret moaned, her head thrashing side to side as his thumb flicked across her nipple. When he pinched the sensitive nub she cried out and arched against him, grinding her hips against his hips, her slender thighs against his thighs.

  “Lift your arms,” he panted and when she did he ripped her nightgown off with a savage growl. It floated to the floor and was soon covered by his shirt and trousers. Both naked they rolled across the bed, he on top and then she, neither willing to give up control.

  His fingers tangled in her hair and pulled back, exposing the slim column of her throat. He suckled eagerly, working his way down until his mouth settled with ravenous hunger over her breast and his tongue swathed her nipple in lingering circles that had her purring with pleasure.

  Agile as a cat she rolled to the side and then crawled on top of him, hitching her long legs on either side of his hips, letting her hair rain down across his chest as she took her turn. He groaned as her nails raked down his chest, and exhaled with pleasure as she soothed the scratches with her tongue.

  Henry’s body was on fire and every thought was of her. Her touch burned him from the inside out, making him yearn for something he could not name, something he had never felt before. Grasping her shoulders he flipped her beneath him once again. His fingers dipped, danced, and explored the heart of her heat. She writhed in ecstasy as he coaxed her higher, then higher still, until on a quiet sigh she came into his hand.

  His arms braced on either side of her head as he entered her gently, distracting her from the inevitable pain with soft murmurs and gentle, teasing kisses. She quivered beneath him, her body taut as a bow, her eyes closed tight.

  “Margaret, look at me,” he demanded, his voice rough with need and the effort it was taking to hold himself back.

  Her eyes opened. She gazed up at him, her blue eyes swirling with unsaid emotion and he found himself drowning in their depths, succumbing to her as a sailor would a siren. She whispered his name and he was lost.

  Henry slid in to the hilt and she gasped but did not cry out. Her nails clung to his back, digging furrows that he did not feel; could not feel above the waves crashing against his body, pounding into him with the force of a tempest.

  One thrust. Two, three. Together they hovered on the brink of the cliff and with each other’s names on their lips they hurtled blindly over the edge.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The next morning Josephine and Grace came to call. Margaret met them at the front door and immediately ushered them into the sitting parlor where they spread out
amidst the tidy furniture and all began speaking at once.

  “When did you get to London –”

  “Where is Henry and why do you –”

  “Are you going to Lady Devonshire’s ball –”

  They burst out laughing. Josephine recovered first. Unlacing her hat and setting it down beside her, she leaned forward and said, “You go first, Margaret. And do start with the reason why you are practically glowing from head to toe.”

  “I am not glowing,” Margaret said.

  Grace tilted her head and studied her friend through narrowed eyes. “There is definitely some sort of glow,” she decided after a pause. “Look Josie! She’s blushing. You’re blushing.”

  “Only because it is quite warm in here,” Margaret said defensively. Jumping out of her seat she went to a mahogany chest in the corner of the room and selected a fan from one of the drawers. Expanding it, she began to wave her face vigorously, sending loose curls fluttering back to form a red halo around her head.

  “This would not have anything to do with a certain husband of yours, would it?” asked Josephine, arching one eyebrow.

  Margaret scowled. Had she known her friends had planned on putting her through an inquisition she never would have invited them over for morning tea. Sitting next to Grace – the lesser of two evils, as far as she was concerned – she snapped her fan shut and fixed Josephine with a hard stare. “If you must know, gossiping old biddy that you are, my imagined ‘glow’, as you put so eloquently put it, may have something to do with a certain husband of mine. But that is all I am going to tell you about that,” she said primly.

  “Oh pooh.” Josephine waved her hand in the air. “You are no fun at all. What about you Grace? Are you glowing?”

  “Me?” The youngest woman exclaimed in surprise. “I’m not even married yet!”