He truly was off his head.
Shuffling her way, he nodded and muttered to himself. “McTavish and Ferguson will see it my way. They’ll not want the wench ruined and left unwed. Yes, I’ll sample her charms, and they’ll be grateful to have me take her off their hands. She’s been a troublesome lass, for certain.”
Frantic, Adaira shot a desperate glance to the door. She’d never make it. And what of Roark? She wouldn’t leave him to Brayan’s crazed justice.
He lumbered closer, weaving as the alcohol he’d gulped made its effects known. How much more had he drunk? He lifted his foot to kick Roark in the side.
“Don’t, Brayan! He’s already hurt.”
Her memory shifted to another time Roark lay unconscious. She’d spoken those exact words. Except now, she was desperate to protect him. When had her distrust and aversion become, well, she wasn’t certain what it was she felt for him, but the emotion warmed her heart and quickened her pulse.
At her cry, Brayan turned rapidly, causing him to teeter unsteadily. His cheeks flushed and eyes glassy, he chuckled. “I think I nipped a wee bit too mushhh.”
He glanced at Roark and glowered. “You’ll not be having your fancy English gent.”
Adaira scooted backward, until her back slammed against the landau. Something nudged her bottom. The whisky bottle. Sliding her hand behind her, she grasped its neck.
Brayan staggered closer.
“Brayan, please listen. Don’t do this. You’ve been my dearest friend.” She contrived what she hoped was a convincing smile.
Keep him talking and off guard. She braved a sideways glance at Roark. And keep him away from Roark.
She edged along the landau, halting like a cornered mouse when Brayan knelt before her. He touched her face with his callused, dirty forefinger. Adaira forced herself not to cringe as sweat, stale ale, and the ever present odor of fish assailed her.
“I mean to have ye, lashh. Once yer mine, ye’ll have to marry me. You’ll be disgraced.”
A dash of hope heartened her. He was feeling the effects of the whisky. His slurred speech and uncoordinated movements confirmed it. Bending, he tried to kiss her.
Adaira turned her head away, resisting the urge to retch. He didn’t stop, but rained wet kisses on her neck and shoulder. She shoved her free hand between them. “Stop it! You’re no better than Godwin.”
Brayan stiffened in fury.
Oh, she’d done it. Madness glowed in his drunken gaze.
He fell on her savagely, his weight driving the breath from her lungs and a scream from her throat. Her hand lay trapped beneath her, still clutching the bottle. Her shoulder shrieked in protest at the awkward angle and his great bulk bearing down atop her. His bristly stubble scratched her tender skin. His fat lips weaved a sloppy wet trail across her cheek before he slammed his mouth on hers.
No, this couldn’t happen again.
God, don’t let this happen again.
She yanked at his hair with her free hand. He didn’t budge. He forced his tongue into her mouth. Adaira gagged. She’d not make this easy or painless for him. She bit him. Hard. He roared in fury and slapped her face, leaving the coppery taste of blood in her mouth.
With one mighty jerk, he ripped her gown from bodice to waist. Seizing the arms, he shredded the remaining fabric. Her shoulders stung from the force of his violent assault on the gown. He raised the knife, then brought it flashing downward.
“Brayan, nooo!”
He slashed her stays, dropping the blade to fondle her breasts.
Great rasping sobs tore from her throat.
Adaira’s filmy chemise offered little protection from his lust-filled gaze. He dipped his head, slathering greedy kisses across her neck, before nipping across her collarbone and chest with his teeth. Reaching her breasts, he bit harder. Ragged pain seared her with each sharp tweak.
“Get off me you bloody bastart!” Wincing, her arm twisted beneath her, she struggled to free her hand.
Brayan roughly pawed and pinched at her breasts, grinding his thick hips into hers. She’d be covered with bruises from his groping. His heavy breathing mixed with her infuriated cries. Bucking and kicking, she managed at last to slide her arm and the blessed bottle loose. Without hesitation, she brought it down with terror induced fury on the back of his head.
It shattered. He collapsed like a stone wall atop her. Grunting, hysteria choking her, she edged from beneath him. She crawled away. Curling her knees to her chest, she wrapped her arms around them and buried her face. Sobs wracked her. Shock rendered her nearly senseless.
An object burst through the other window. Adaira screamed in renewed panic. At the rear of the long building, a lantern bounced off the coach’s coat of arms before exploding into flames. For a moment she sat stupefied. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her lungs refused to draw in air.
She’d escaped Brayan to be faced with this? The carriage’s glass window pinged and crackled. They exploded into a thousand shards, jolting her back to full awareness.
“Roark! Oh, God Roark, wake up!” Clambering to her feet, yelling his name, she raced to his prone form. She shook his shoulder none too gently. “Roark, you have to wake up.”
Tears coursed from her eyes. “You great oaf, wake up. Please, wake up.” The flames streaked across the floor, igniting the spilt oil before snaking up the wall.
“I’ll not let you die in here, you arrogant, impossible man.” Clenching her teeth and grunting, she managed to roll him onto his back.
Her hair formed a curtain around his head and shoulders as she bent over him. She swiped at it angrily. “Confounded hair. Should cut it off. Nothing but a nuisance.”
Straining and grunting, she shoved at him, maneuvering his tall form so his head faced the door. Blister it, but he was heavy. She wiped her dripping forehead with the back of her hand. She squatted and slid her hands under his arms. A whiff of sandalwood wafted upward. She stepped backward, tripping on her gown hanging low on her waist.
Annoyed and verging on stark panic, she kicked at the hem. With gritty determination, she lugged him inch-by-inch in the direction of the door. Concentrating on saving him, she muttered aloud to force her fear aside.
“Rescuing unconscious lords is so proper.” Her gaze dropped to her breasts. “Especially with my bosoms practically exposed and touching his nose.”
She lugged Roark another couple of inches, her attention trained on him.
“Look at him.”
Step. Lug.
“That nose. Perfect.”
Grunt. Tug.
The fire roared hungrily, its voracious flames licking their way along the ceiling. The heat was overwhelming. Sweat beaded her brow and trickled between her breasts. Her chemise clung to her damp flesh. Breathing heavily, her focus sank to Roark’s face as she dragged him.
“No man should have lashes that thick.”
“Or hair that shiny and soft.”
Throwing a searching glance over her shoulder, she moaned. Still several feet to go. God help her. She must hurry. Sucking in a ragged breath, she jerked him a bit farther.
“And those lips—those utterly delicious lips.”
She lurched backward.
“Great pompous, delectably handsome brute.”
“You think my lips are delicious, and I’m delectably handsome?” Roark asked groggily.
Startled, Adaira yelped, dropping him and jumping away. Her heels tangled in the sagging gown. She tottered for a moment, arms flailing before careening to the floor. White pain crashed over her, centered at the back of her head.
Blackness zigzagged before her eyes. Squinting at Roark, she tried to lever to her elbows. She needed to save him.
He groaned and rolled to his stomach, then crawled to her. His eyes widened
, before narrowing to furious slits. “What the hell?”
Why is he swearing?
Blinding agony radiated through her head. In a daze, Adaira gazed at the stern, bloodied face hovering over her. Fire flickered in the background. Blackness swirled around her. An icy chill deadened her limbs and mind.
I’ve died and gone to hell.
CHAPTER 25
Enticing breasts hovered mere inches above Roark’s face.
He must be in heaven and this was an angel. Did angels go about scantily clothed? He was going to quite like the place if they did. It seemed at odds with the church’s teaching. He scowled. If this was heaven, then why was it beastly hot? And why were there flames?
The beautiful, lily scented angel suspended over him was mumbling something about delicious lips and delectable handsomeness. He hadn’t thought heavenly beings spoke of such things.
He must have voiced his thoughts, because full awareness rudely returned when his angel abruptly released him. His head and shoulders hit the ground with a heavy smack.
Holy Jesus.
Groaning, he closed his eyes and raised a hand to his head. Cracking pain surged against his skull. He could hear it snapping and popping.
He dared to half-open one eye. Flames leapt and danced before him. Fire? By God, the building was on fire.
Hearing a sharp cry and a thud, his eyes snapped wide open. Fighting the agony in his head, he rolled over. Adaira! He crawled toward her, every movement threatening to split his head asunder. Her gown was shredded to her waist, and her hair was a loose mass of snarled curls.
“Damn,” he growled, noting the vicious red handprint across her pale cheek and the bruises beginning to—
What the hell?
Were those bite marks marring her chest?
He dragged himself closer until he loomed directly above her. Her unfocused eyes rolled back in her head. The doors exploded open, crashing against the wall where they dangled on broken hinges. He shook his head against the unclear phantoms wavered before his eyes. A crowd surged through the entrance.
Thank God.
Three forms emerged from the melee. Tilting his head, he shouted, “Get Adaira out! I can manage.”
Roark attempted to lever to his feet. Swirling blackness stopped him. He collapsed atop Adaira, his face planted on her chest.
“Angel breasts,” he muttered as large hands lifted him.
Then, nothing but oblivion.
Stampeding cattle kicked up their heels as they frolicked around and around inside Roark’s aching skull. His mouth tasted like hogs had wallowed in it. After rolling in mire. Good Lord. How much wine had he drunk at dinner last night? He tentatively probed his head.
Wait. Memories deluged him, one after the other.
Fire. Adaira. Brayan.
“Adaira!” He lurched upright, then groaned, holding his head in his hands. “Holy bloody hell.”
“Ah, sir, you’re awake at last.”
Roark forced an eyelid open. His valet, Pepperhill, stood beside the bed holding a glass of liquid. He thrust the glass beneath Roark’s nose. “Drink this, my lord. It will ease the pain.”
Catching a whiff of the murky contents, Roark nearly gagged. What in God’s name was it? He started to shake his head, instantly regretting the movement. Pain plowed through his brain. Instead, holding perfectly still, he said, “No, I don’t think. . .”
“You don’t need to think, my lord. Doctor Kimball left me instructions. I’ll do the thinking for both of us. Now, sir, do drink it. You look horrid.” Bone thin and scarcely two inches above five feet, the diminutive former actor never hesitated to order Roark about.
He eyed the valet. A wholly unrepentant gaze, stared coolly back at him.
“Exceptionally bold this morning, aren’t we, Pepper?”
Grimacing, Roark took the glass and gulped the bitter contents. A shudder rippled the length of his spine before he placed the glass on the nightstand. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, gripping the mattress until the room stopped spinning. Shoving to his feet, he gingerly yawned and stretched.
Pepperhill yanked the draperies open. A fresh slice of agony pulsated behind Roark’s eyes. “Devil it, man. Are you trying to kill me? Close the infernal draperies.”
“No need to be peevish with me, my lord. I’m not the one who passed out with my face pressed against Miss Ferguson’s bosoms.”
Roark paused in the midst of donning his navy and burgundy striped banyan. He glared at his man. “Pepperhill, you go too far.”
The valet shrugged his slender shoulders. “I’m but telling you what the tittle tattle is, sir. You’re sure to hear it yourself. Not that anyone’s blaming you. No indeed. What with the fire, and that monstrous buffoon—”
He gave a dramatic sigh, and turned a watery glance on Roark. Were those tears? Pepperhill swiped at his eyes, before attending to the breakfast tray. “Miss Ferguson saved your life by dragging you to the door. Such a tiny, little thing. And she lugged you all the way across the burning carriage house.”
Clasping his heart, Pepperhill sighed theatrically. “My, my, she’s got mettle, she does.”
Saved his life?
Roark tied his banyan closed. He couldn’t remember much of what happened after ham-fisted Brayan planted him a facer, except for snippets about Godwin, stones, and a loch. Roark had awakened in what he believed was heaven.
There was something about breasts and delicious lips, but the precise details escaped him. A vague image of full nipples pressed taut against damp fabric flitted enticingly across his memory. The scent of lilies teased a corner of his mind too.
Adaira, he vaguely recalled, had been a bruised and ravaged mess. Worry consumed him. She was completely compromised. While he’d been unconscious, had Brayan ravished her? The Scotsman’s ugly accusations rang in Roark’s ears. What was truth and what were the ravings of a jealous, no mad, drunk?
Trying to sound casual, he asked, “How is Miss Ferguson?”
Pepperhill, clucked his tongue. “Well enough. She’s a nasty lump on her head. You’re quite the pair. Doctor Kimball says you’re both fortunate not to have split your skulls or perished from smoke inhalation alone.”
He unfolded the serviette, placing it beside the plate, and then drew the chair away from the table. “Imagine, such chaos, and you snuggled into her chest mumbling angel breasts.”
Flushing, Roark closed his eyes. Damn, damn, and damn.
Pepper snickered, and in a sotto voice continued. “Even Cook was tittering on about how romantic it was when I went to fetch your breakfast tray.”
Humiliation and anger converged on Roark. “Pepper, it escapes me why you find this humorous,”
“Of course, it does,” Pepperhill said, entirely unrepentant.
“If you value your position—”
The valet ignored him, like he always did when he didn’t like a topic of conversation or Roark’s opinion. Which was often. If Pepperhill weren’t impossibly talented at his job, and equally perceptive to Roark’s moods and preferences, he’d have dismissed the man for his impertinence long ago.
Roark was tempted to give Pepperhill his congé if only to see his reaction. The servant was entirely too confident of his position. It would do him good to be set back a pace or two.
“By-the-by, my lord, your clothing from yesterday was beyond repair.” Pepperhill wrinkled his nose in distaste. He eyed Roark. The gleam in his eyes changed from cocky to compassionate. “You’ll feel better if you eat something. Doctor Kimball advised the draught should be taken with food.”
Pepperhill turned his attention to the table. After arranging the dining utensils, he poured a cup of coffee, and then lifted the dome from the sausage, bacon, poached eggs, and toast. Raising a brow, he stood waiting
behind the chair.
Lying down and yanking the covers over his head was much more appealing, but Roark had a houseful of guests to attend to.
And a fire to investigate.
He obligingly sat in the chair Pepperhill held for him. He took a sip of tepid coffee.
The Earl's Enticement (Castle Bride Series) Page 25
