His Rebellious Lass (Scottish Hearts)

by Hutton, Callie

  He waited for a few moments, and when she refused to add to her words, he cleared his throat. “I will obtain a special license. Today is Thursday. Shall we say Saturday?”

  “No.” She drew herself up. “I will not marry you until the women’s house is secured.”

  He nodded. “I will have Dunston take the necessary steps to purchase the last house we viewed.”

  “Whatever you say, my lord.” She stood and smoothed out her gown. “If you will excuse me, I find I have the beginnings of a megrim.”

  Cam put his hand out as she walked by. “Bridget…”

  She swept past him and left the room.

  Wearily, she climbed the stairs, feeling as though life was crushing her. Through no fault of her own she was now a scorned woman, left with no choices. She managed to hold her tears until she reached her bedchamber.

  After gently closing the door, she turned and leaned against the wall, wrapping her arms around her middle.

  She was disgraced.

  Lord Campbell’s honor was being called into question.

  He felt it his duty to rescue her, as if she were a princess in a tower and he a knight in shining armor.

  Slowly, she slid to the floor, resting her forehead on her knees.

  The worst part of the entire mess was being forced to marry a man who didn’t want to marry at all, who didn’t love her and probably never would, while she was desperately in love with him.

  That realization had hit her after they’d shared a bed. She had wanted, oh so much, to accept his offer of marriage, but to commit herself for the rest of her life to a man who saw her as only a responsibility—who would eventually grow to hate her because of the trap he’d been caught in—terrified her more than the disgrace and scandal.

  And the lack of faith in her virtue hurt more than it should have. It came down to one thing. He not only didn’t love her, he also didn’t trust her. He believed she was lying to him to cover up a more serious charge than being kidnapped.

  …

  Vows had been spoken in front of Mrs. Dressel and another witness provided by the vicar. With Bridget having no family, her friends from school scattered all over England, and both his sisters back in the country, there were no others to witness the rushed ceremony.

  Cam had secured a special license, which he held until the papers had been signed and filed with the court for the purchase of the house on Southwark Street. He had graciously put the property in her name, although by law as her husband, he still had control over it. Along with her inheritance, which would now be released upon her marriage.

  Which also belonged to him.

  For the sake of appearances, she had pretended a happiness she did not feel. She might have fooled the vicar and Mrs. Dressel, but she took her vows with a heavy heart.

  They shared a quiet wedding breakfast with just the two of them. She avoided looking at Cam and had met his eyes only once during the wedding ceremony. Aside from him insisting that he needed her presence to sign the papers for the house, they hadn’t spent any time together in the two weeks since they’d come to their agreement.

  Wedded bliss for a house.

  Mrs. Dressel had begged to be excused right after the ceremony, which reminded Bridget that she no longer needed a chaperone, so pensioning the woman off was probably for the best.

  When the meal had finished, she pleaded a headache and left Cam in the dining room slumped in his chair, staring after her.

  It felt odd being in Cam’s house, knowing she was now the marchioness and had inherited the job of running this home as well as his five estates.

  He’d mentioned, when they were still on speaking terms, that he wanted to retire to the country as soon as he arranged for renovations and furnishings to be started on the women’s house. It would take a while for the necessary work to be done and to deal with various issues and staffing. They would spend Christmas at his estate as well as another month or more before returning to London. The next session of Parliament would start around the time the women’s house would be ready for staffing and she’d set up a board of directors to handle donors.

  Once she was in her bedchamber—which was attached to the sitting room that joined with Cam’s bedchamber, she slowly turned in a circle, studying the room, finding it hard to work up enthusiasm for redecorating, which Cam had assured her she was welcome to do.

  Truth be known, she had little enthusiasm for anything. She was married—something she had never wanted. She had her money, but Cam controlled it. She had her women’s house, but at what price?

  She sat on the bed and drew up her knees, resting her chin there. Slowly a tear tracked down her cheek, soon followed by more.

  Wiping her eyes, she drew in a shuddering breath. What would her life be like now? A husband who viewed her as a punishment. A man she was in love with who would never love her in return.

  …

  Cam poured another brandy from the bottle on the sidebar in his bedchamber. He had not seen Bridget since she left him right after their wedding breakfast.

  He snorted. Wedding breakfast. Hardly a celebration. Just the two of them and no words spoken except “this is lovely beef” and “do you care for more wine?” They’d had more to say to each other when they’d first met.

  Now she was ensconced in her bedchamber and had sent word through her lady’s maid that she would have a tray in her room for dinner.

  What the hell did that mean?

  It was their wedding night, and he’d been having erotic daydreams about it ever since they’d shared a bed at the inn. Thinking about seeing her splayed naked on his bed, her hair spread over his pillow, her arms out to greet him, had kept him hard for the two weeks he’d waited for the house deal to close.

  The declarations had been repeated before God and the witnesses. They’d had their wedding breakfast, he’d spent time rearranging the books in his library while Bridget did God-knows-what in her bedchamber, he’d eaten his solo dinner, and now he was ready to consummate his marriage.

  He’d heard the footmen carry buckets of water for her bath. That was an hour ago. She should have been bathed, perfumed, dressed in her wedding-night gown, and ready for him. But he felt unsure. She’d had him off-balance ever since they’d agreed to the wedding.

  As he knocked back the shot of brandy, he admitted that they had not agreed on a wedding; she’d merely acquiesced to his high-handed threat. But he’d had no choice. He could not allow her to remain in disgrace and to have Society treat her with disdain. It had killed him to see the hurt in her eyes when she’d been mistreated.

  He paced a bit, running his fingers through his hair, and then decided he’d had enough. She was his wife, he had husbandly rights and needs, and it was time to confront her. He placed the glass on a table, tightened the belt of his banyan, and strode to the door separating their rooms.

  He listened for a minute and heard no sound, so her lady’s maid must have left her for the night. With a light tap, he opened the door.

  Bridget sat on a blue-and-white striped chair in front of the fireplace, resting against the padded back, staring into the fire. She didn’t turn but stiffened when he entered the room, telling him she was aware of his presence.

  Not sure how to play the next few minutes, he opted for ignoring the coldness between them. He stepped in front of her and took her hand, pulling her up. She studied his face with no expression on hers. No welcoming, no joy, no anger, no anything. It was as if he looked into the face of a painted doll.

  Gently, he cupped her face with his hands and brought his lips to hers. She attempted to remain impassive, but when he shifted her head so he could take the kiss deeper, she sighed, and her hands moved to grip his upper arms.

  When she allowed him to enter her warm, sweet mouth, he pulled her closer, the curves of her body fitting exactly where they should. His hands moved lower to cup her buttocks, squeezing the perfect globes.

  He pulled away from her mouth and kissed the soft skin und
er her ear. “I want you so much. It’s been hell waiting for tonight.”

  At first he thought she would pull back, but then she smiled up at him and wrapped her hands around his neck, pulling him to her mouth. Their tongues tangled, sweeping and touching, playing the game of lovers.

  With one swift move, he picked her up and strode across the room, through the door to his chamber. He placed her gently on his bed, untied the belt on his banyan, and let it drop to the floor. He climbed onto the bed, and with barely any effort, divested her of her nightgown, tossing it to the floor, on top of his dressing gown.

  She did not extend her arms in welcome as she had in his daydreams, but she wasn’t pushing him away, either. He stretched out alongside her, watching the guardedness in her eyes. Something was missing from her that he hadn’t noticed until now, most likely since he’d spent very little time with her of late.

  Was her spirit lacking? She seemed to be holding herself back. Not exactly angry with him anymore, but certainly not the warm, loving woman he’d grown to know over the past few months.

  Afraid that words would put a wall between them that was already halfway built, he took her chin in his hand and kissed her. All the passion and wanting in his heart was in that kiss. He wanted her, desired her like no other woman in his life. Did that mean he loved her?

  He’d been so adamant about never marrying that he’d never thought much about love. This was lust, he convinced himself. He desired her body, liked many things about her person, and felt those things were the only necessities for a successful marriage.

  He was pleased when Bridget allowed her hand to wander down his chest, her fingernails raking his skin, past his belly button and the wiry hair at his groin to cover his swollen cock with her delicate hand. He drew in a sharp breath between his teeth and closed his eyes.

  Heaven.

  He returned the favor by covering the warmth and moistness between her legs with his hand. His fingers caressed and stroked the stiffened piece of flesh at the entrance to her opening as Bridget moaned and pressed her pelvis against his hand. “Yes.”

  Again he watched her, but this time her eyes were closed, her plush lips slightly parted, ragged breaths coming from her mouth. He stepped up his ministrations, smiling at the flush on her face, the strain in her muscles as she thrashed, attempting to reach her climax.

  He moved his mouth close to her ear and nibbled on her lobe. “Relax, sweetheart. Don’t strain. Let me do the work.”

  Her head tossed back and forth on the pillow, a fine sheen of sweat covered her body as she continued to moan. Cam edged down and took her breast in a strong suckle, his teeth grazing the pebbled nipple. Within seconds, she called out his name and arched her back, pressing her center against his hand, her fingernails digging into his flesh.

  Slowly, she lowered herself to the mattress and opened her eyes. He felt as though someone had punched him in the gut at the look on her face.

  She loved him.

  Before he could dwell on that and what it meant, he moved on top of her and settled between her opened legs. With one swift thrust he was inside her warm, tight moistness. He leaned his forehead against her, his eyes closed as he slid in and out in the timeless dance of lovers, all his senses focused on the one spot.

  With as much as he’d desired her and the waiting game they’d been forced to play, he didn’t last very long. As he poured his life force into her, he was thankful that he’d given her pleasure before he took his own. He rolled over her and tucked her against his side, both of them still attempting to catch their breath.

  He was nearing sleep when Bridget rose up on her elbow and leaned over him, her glorious hair falling around them like a silk curtain. “I need the use of the carriage in the morning, my lord.”

  Cam awoke, confused at this request and the odd time she raised it. He stared at her. “Why?”

  She rolled off the bed and shrugged into her nightgown, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I am moving into the women’s house.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The next morning, Bridget looked around the room she’d occupied only long enough to take a bath and sleep one night. After her announcement to Cam, she’d left his room and returned to her bed—her cold, empty bed—and cried herself to sleep.

  He’d said nothing in response to her words, either because he didn’t care now that his honor had been restored, or he didn’t believe she would do it.

  But do it she would. She would not live day and night with the man who did not return her feelings of love. The pain would be too great. Perhaps, given time, he would one day feel love for her, but too much stood between them for that to happen. He had forced her into marriage by threatening to take away her dreams. He hadn’t yet apologized for his accusations about her lack of virtue, which told her he still didn’t trust her or believe her claim of innocence. And he hadn’t even seemed interested enough in her to try to stop her from leaving.

  He obviously had very few feelings for her.

  All her belongings had been packed. They’d barely been unpacked from Dunmore’s Townhouse and here they were being loaded onto Cam’s carriage for the trip to Southwark Street.

  With furniture scarce at the women’s house and no need for elaborate hairstyles and fancy gowns, she had arranged for Fiona to be sent to Lady Dunmore’s estate in the country. Mrs. Dressel had been happily pensioned off. For herself, she would make do with what had been left behind by the previous owners. It was a good thing she knew how to cook so she wouldn’t starve.

  She looked around the room that she barely knew, searching for anything she’d forgotten, and then went down the stairs. Fenton opened the front door with a nod, and she stepped outside. The day was as dreary as her mood. She looked through the slight mist to the carriage at the end of the pathway.

  Cam stood in front of it, his body stiff, his face pale.

  So, he was here to see her off. Probably anxious to make sure she left.

  Her heart hurt.

  My, aren’t I full of self-pity today?

  He looked uneasy as she approached the vehicle. “I am sending two armed footmen with you to stay there. I don’t want you in that neighborhood without protection.”

  She wanted more than anything to throw herself into his arms and cry, demand that he forbid her to leave. Well, not forbid, that would only annoy her. But at least try to discourage her from leaving. But he stood straight as a flagpole and opened the door for her.

  Well, then.

  “Bridget…”

  She stopped with her foot on the bottom step, her heart pounding in her chest. “Yes?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing.” He bent and kissed her on the cheek and stepped back as the door closed. He clasped his hands behind him as the carriage rolled away. She swiped at the tears rolling down her cheeks and slowly drew the window curtain.

  This was a mistake. She shouldn’t have done something so rash and foolish. Perhaps if he’d shown some inclination to stop her…but he’d just let her go. However, now that she had, and he seemed to be quite comfortable with her decision, there was nothing to be done except follow through. At least she would have her work with the women to keep her busy and not be thinking about the husband she loved with her whole body and soul, who was willing to let her go.

  …

  Cam watched the carriage roll away with a heavy heart and the urge to chase it down the streets of Mayfair like some loon. Bridget had not come down for breakfast, and the first time he’d seen her all day was when she’d walked down the stairs and out of his life.

  What the hell was he doing? He should have insisted she stay. They should have at least talked it over, but he’d been so surprised and then hurt that she’d left their bed to announce she was leaving him right after he’d had the best sexual experience in his life. His stubborn side had kicked in, and he’d spent the night tossing and turning in his bed, not really believing she would leave him.

  As the carriage disappeared into
the mist, he turned and made his way back to the house.

  Even though he’d lived alone all his adult life, and Bridget had spent only one night here, the house now seemed empty. Even when Bridget had been living in his sister’s house, she had seemed near. He could call upon her mostly any time he wanted and escort her to the theater, the museums, on rides in the park, dinner parties, and soirees.

  Rather than wallow in self-pity, he grabbed his umbrella and took a walk to White’s. The carriage would be tied up for a while with Bridget’s move, and he needed the exercise afforded by walking the few miles to the club.

  He shook out his umbrella and handed it and his hat and greatcoat to the man at the door. Pleased to see Mr. Harris, third son of the Earl of Grisham and the physician Cam had spoken with about abused women, he headed in his direction. Harris was a pleasant man, happily married with several children, and someone with whom Cam would enjoy sharing a drink or two.

  Although they had been in school together, they had never really socialized until Mr. Harris stood for Parliament’s House of Commons and had worked with Cam on his veterans’ bill.

  “Well, if it isn’t the new bridegroom. Word has quickly traveled through London that you married yesterday.”

  “Yes. Lady Bridget MacDuff.”

  “Your ward?”

  “Yes.”

  Harris raised his coffee cup and grinned. “Felicitations. One would think you had better things to do than spend time with this sorry lot.”

  Cam shrugged and settled into the seat across from Harris.

  The physician placed his coffee cup in the saucer. “What’s wrong?”

  Cam waved to the footman to bring him a cup. “Why do you think something is wrong?”

  “Perhaps the arrival of the new husband the afternoon after his wedding, and in not so great a mood.” Harris studied him carefully.

  Taking the cup of coffee from the footman, Cam said, “She left me.”