She stared at him in wide-eyed wonder. She brushed a wisp of hair off his forehead.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asked seizing her hand and kissing the palm.
“Nae, don’t stop,” she whispered, a hint of Scottish brogue coloring her words. “Make me forget.”
Roark gathered her in his arms once more. He kissed her forehead, her eyes, nose, cheeks, and finally settled on her sweet mouth. She relaxed against him, sliding her hand inside the opening of his shirt.
A groan broke from him as her hand stroked and fondled his chest. Nudging her, so she lay on her back, he pressed hot kisses along the slender column of her neck and her delicate collarbone. Her breathing quickened when he trailed his kisses gradually lower. He untied the ribbons holding her nightgown closed.
“Oh, Roark,” she breathed against his mouth.
Her sweet fragrance wafted from her exposed skin. The lone lamp cast her ivory flesh in ethereal light. Parting the fabric of her gown, he stared at the full, plum-tinted nipples thrusting skyward. Brayan’s marks had already begun to fade. A fresh wave of rage crashed over Roark. He forced it aside, concentrating on the trusting woman in his arms.
Adaira arched upward, instinctively asking him to take her into his mouth. With a smile he willingly obliged, laving the tip with his tongue.
She moaned, urging him closer.
“You like that, vixen?”
She nodded, moving her legs restlessly. Roark cradled her breast and lowered his mouth over the fullness, sucking and kneading. Adaira’s breath caught. A long, sultry moan floated from her mouth.
Turning his attention to her other breast, he edged up her nightgown. He skimmed practiced fingers along the softest skin he’d ever caressed. Roark teased her, adoring her breasts with his mouth, tongue, and teeth, while his fingers made a slow, sensual journey along the inside of her quivering thighs.
Adaira ran her hands over his shoulders and back, her movements urgent, almost frantic. “Roark—”
“It’s all right, love. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.” He nuzzled his face between her breasts, his hand nearly upon the black curls at the apex of her thighs.
“Trust me, Adaira. I’ll stop the second you tell me to.”
“Don’t stop. Oh. . .”
He swirled a finger across her curls, gently flicking the bud of her femininity. She arched her hips into his hand. Little whimpers of passion and want purred from her throat. Taking her mouth with his, he tasted her sweetness, while expertly stroking and plying her folds. He barely slid one finger, then two, into her hot wetness—enough to intensify her pleasure without frightening her.
Roark increased the rhythm of his fingers, amazed at the uninhibited response of the woman in his arms.
Adaira needed a powerful memory of passion and fulfillment to obliterate the horror embedded in her memory. Though he threatened to explode in his breeches, this night was for her. He’d not frighten her with his need. He wanted her feverishly, but if he took her now, he wouldn’t be as gentle as she needed him to be.
She deserved to experience sweet release without a man’s selfish demands overshadowing her pleasure. That would come later. After they were married, and she’d learned to trust him. He might be spending a good deal of time swimming nude in the lake in the meantime.
Her whimpers against his mouth deepened. She clutched at his shirt, her hips rotating against his hand. Stiffening, she gave a gasping cry followed by a lengthy sigh. With a final shudder, she lay still. Roark caressed a plump buttock, then smoothed her nightgown over her hips.
“That was . . . amazing,” she whispered against his neck.
He levered onto his elbows, smoothing back her hair before kissing her on the nose. “And that’s just the beginning.”
A frown flitted across her delicate features. “But you didn’t. . .”
An adorable blush pinkened her skin.
He chuckled and sat up. No, he hadn’t. His hard-as-marble, painfully throbbing member was none too pleased either. He hoped to walk from her chamber with his dignity intact.
If he could manage to walk at all.
“Not this time, vixen. This time was for you.” He stood, with his back to the bed. His attempt to adjust the protesting, ill-behaved monster in his breeches proved futile.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
There was no help for it. Roark turned, ignoring the angry twitch in his groin. Adaira’s eyes widened at the eye-level lump before her.
“Oh dear.” She sent him a questioning look, a hesitant smile on her rosy lips. She stretched out her hand, her fingers grazing over him. “Does it hurt?”
Roark closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and cursed the day he’d sworn to be a gentleman. “Not too terribly much,” he managed, although even to his ears, his voice sounded strangled.
The serpent jerked angrily.
Bloody liar.
Roark tugged the covers over her. After tucking them snuggly around her shoulders, he bent and gave her a kiss.
“Goodnight, soon-to-be-wife.”
Something flickered in her gaze before Adaira curled her mouth into a beatific smile. “Goodnight.”
Roark swiveled on his stockinged heels. He snatched his coat off the chair. If he walked slowly, and if he was very lucky, and if God showed him the minutest amount of favor . . . he might make the door before he exploded.
The moment the chamber door clicked shut behind him, Roark collapsed against the carved wood. Eyes closed, he released a gravelly groan. He cracked open an eye, taking in his damp lower half, and groaned again. This time in chagrin, not satisfaction.
He’d never hear the end of this from Pepperhill.
Never.
CHAPTER 32
Three days later, Roark at her elbow, Adaira made for one of the remaining barns, her well-used crop once more in hand. Fading hues of peach, pink, and lavender attested to the sun’s recent arrival on the horizon. A riding tour of Cadbury Park was planned for those braving the early hour. Later, a visit to Ashby, a nearby village, to sample the best spice cake in all of England, according to Roark, was on the day’s program.
Three blissful days of peace and quiet had passed. Well, as much peace and quiet as there could be with a house full of giddy guests. The worst disaster befalling anyone had been Sir Harrison’s bout of gout and Lady Arterbury’s tendency to spill whatever beverage she had in hand. Usually on the unfortunate soul nearest her.
Roark sent to London for a special license, and an intimate wedding was planned in three weeks’ time. Adaira stopped arguing against the match. She’d reconciled herself to the inevitable.
Truthfully, she wanted the union. After Roark’s visit to her bedchamber, her opinion on marital intimacies had improved dramatically, although she yet harbored a few qualms. Well, perhaps more than a few.
“Are you sure you’re feeling up to a ride?” Roark eyed Adaira, giving her a smile that would melt the ice of Loch Arkaig in February.
Her pulse danced a distracting jig before settling into a steady rhythm once more. “I’m fine. The wound was scarcely more than a scrape. I never even—”
Pounding hooves and the creaks and groans of a fast-moving carriage interrupted her. Startled, she turned to look over her shoulder. “What in the world?”
Roark thinned his lips at the lathered horses. “By thunder, there had better be a good excuse for abusing horseflesh in such a manner.”
He reversed their direction. With firm strides, he closed the distance to the coach. Adaira trotted beside him striving to keep up with his long-legged gait. The door swung open before the driver alighted. Ewan jumped to the ground. He turned and spoke into the carriage. Swinging around, he loped to the house’s granite steps.
“Ewan!” Adaira waved at
him. “Oh, wait until he hears we’re betrothed. He’s not going to believe it.”
Spying the dark look on Ewan’s face, her steps faltered. Confused, she tossed Roark a glance. “Do you think something’s amiss?”
“I’m not sure, but I’ve never known Sethwick to misuse horseflesh. He’ll have a good reason for the team’s condition.”
As he spoke, the driver handed Yvette down. Instead of her usual cheerful smile, worry shown in her eyes and pinched face. She hustled behind Ewan who, uncharacteristically rude, didn’t wait for his wife.
Ewan reached them. Without a greeting, he blurted, “Clarendon, Adaira, I don’t know what the hell happened here, but I’ve arrived three, maybe four, hours ahead of the Bow Street Runners. And that’s only because we traveled throughout the night.”
“Bow Street Runners?” Adaira and Roark exclaimed at the same time.
A wicked suspicion niggled in the recesses of her mind.
Ewan plowed a hand through his hair. “Let’s go inside. We must come up with a plan, and quickly.”
Minutes later, Adaira and Yvette sat on the settee. Roark relaxed against his desk, watching Ewan pace. His long legs periodically disrupted the bright rays slanting through the windows onto the carpet. With each stride, Ewan absently slapped his gloves against his thigh.
“If the matter is urgent, shouldn’t you get on with the telling of it, Ewan?” Running a finger along the corded braid edging the pillow in her lap, Adaira raised a brow. She sent her sister-in-law a questioning glance.
Yvette attempted a smile. It failed to reach her troubled eyes. She obviously knew what the hullaballoo was about. Her serious expression spoke volumes, as did her hands clenched in her lap. Unease flipped Adaira’s stomach and tripped across her nerves.
Ewan planted his hands on his hips. “The head of the Bow Street Runners, Edmond Fletcher, has issued a writ for Adaira’s arrest.”
“Pardon?” She gasped, grasping the reassuring hand Yvette extended.
“The devil he has!” Roark bolted upright, hands fisted at his sides. A ferocious scowl distorted his face. “On what charge? Who filed the complaint? When was it laid?”
“Roark, I’m capable of questioning my brother,” Adaira said quietly, her mind reeling with shock.
“As your betrothed, it’s my responsibility to protect you!” Roark thundered. He looked rather like a wrathful god glaring down at her.
“Betrothed?” Ewan and Yvette exclaimed simultaneously.
Adaira gave them a tight-lipped smile. Despite this appalling situation, the astounded expressions on their faces were priceless. Laughter from the garden wafted inside. Adaira whipped her gaze to the French windows. Closed. There’d be no eavesdropping from that quarter again.
Roark, now pacing about the study, waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, she saved my life during a fire, after McVey attempted to ravish her. She was compromised past redemption and a betrothal was necessitated.”
Adaira stared at him. His flippant callousness pierced her to the core. She squished the pillow in a crushing grip. Icy disdain dripping from each word, she said, “Thank you, for that concise rendition, my lord.”
His head snapped up. “I. . .”
He took in Ewan’s disapproving expression, then Yvette’s puzzled one before finally meeting Adaira’s eyes. She made no attempt to hide the wounded disappointment she knew simmered in her gaze. She felt it settle, a sickening glob, in the pit of her stomach as well.
Roark wiped his hand across his face exhaling a hefty puff of air. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Please, don’t take umbrage. . .”
“It doesn’t matter.” Adaira sought Ewan’s attention. “So, a complaint has been lodged against me? The charge?”
He spread his hands. “Take your pick: abducting and imprisoning a peer, assault, arson, robbery, attempted murder—”
God above. Complete fabrication . . . except for the first.
Roark scowled, his brows drawn into a tight vee. “Seize it, someone dared to lay a complaint on my behalf?” He jabbed at his chest with his thumb. “What unmitigated gall.”
Adaira held up her hand. “Let me guess. Where these charges brought by Helene Winthrop?”
The bloody, fat trollop.
“Her and a Count von Schnitzer, Lord and Lady Bradford, the Marquis of Hedonford, and Lord and Lady Bellingsworth.” Ewan paused, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “There were a couple more, but I don’t recall who they were.”
Her heart plunging to her half-boots, Adaira slumped into the settee, hugging the pillow to her chest. “How can there be so many?” she whispered.
She’d just met Mrs. Winthrop and the count. The others couldn’t even be claimed as acquaintances. Why would strangers bring such malicious allegations against her?
As if sensing her bewilderment, Roark rested his hand on her shoulder, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “Surely Sir Lawrence didn’t believe such claptrap.”
“As magistrate he had no choice. He might have been persuaded to ignore one, or even two complainants, if the charges had been less serious. But you know the English’s hatred of the Scots. That many influential peers combined with those serious allegations, not to mention von Schnitzer’s status as a foreign diplomat, persuaded Sir Lawrence.”
Ewan shook his head. “Sir Lawrence couldn’t disregard the complaints, especially after seeing Mrs. Winthrop’s, ‘pitiful swollen and bruised countenance.’ Those were his words, not mine.”
Adaira smothered a snort and pretended absorption with the weapons displayed on the wall.
Ewan folded his arms and cocked his head. “What exactly did you do to her, Adaira, if I may ask?”
“I hit her with a parasol. After she and those Austrian curs pointed guns at me, Mother, our sisters, and a maid.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “I think I broke her nose.”
“Well done, then.” Ewan grinned. “I only wish I’d been there to see it.”
Yvette clapped her hands, a broad smile lighting her face. “Me as well. Good show!”
Expecting censure not praise, Adaira wasn’t sure how to respond.
Ewan sent her an apologetic glance before meeting Roark’s agitated gaze. “Sir Lawrence directed Fletcher to issue the writ.”
“Speaking of which,” Roark said, while stepping to his desk, “how did you come by the information?”
Withdrawing a key from his coat pocket, he proceeded to unlock a drawer. After removing a thick stack of sterling notes, he set them atop the desk. A pistol followed. He sank to the padded leather chair behind the desk, sliding another drawer open. Roark retrieved three crisp sheets of paper, and after placing them on the desktop, closed the drawer.
Whatever was he doing? Adaira sent Ewan, now sitting on the arm of the settee beside Yvette, an alarmed glance.
Roark looked up to see everyone staring at him. “The information, Sethwick?”
Ewan took Yvette’s hand in his. “Harcourt sought me out. If you recall, Sir Lawrence is uncle to Harcourt’s brother-in-law. He let slip the news. Harcourt suspects the blunder was deliberate, to allow us a little time.”
Dipping a quill in the ink bottle near his elbow, Roark began writing. The nib scraped across the page with his quick, deliberate strokes. Done with the first paper, he set it aside, and scratched away at the second.
“Who is Harcourt?” Adaira asked softly. Must be a decent sort of fellow if he went out of his way to inform Ewan.
Roark and Ewan’s gazes swung to her.
Roark answered. “His Grace the Duke of Harcourt, a chum from our university days.” Returning his attention to the paper before him, he signed his name. He sprinkled sand on the wet ink. Setting it aside, he began scribbling on the third sheet.
Standing, Adaira shook
out the folds of her pale blue riding habit. The forgotten pillow tumbled to the floor. She’d never been more frightened in her life, and she’d experienced a pair of colossal scares in the past few days. Clasping her gloved hands, she strove for composure. “What am I to do?”
After setting his seal on the pages with his signet ring, Roark scooted them to the edge of his desk before gathering the money and pistol. Stuffing the notes into the inside pocket of his coat and the gun into his waistband, he angled his head at the missives. “Sethwick, one of those is for Sir Hugh. One for Yancy. The third is for my solicitor, which I hope Yancy will do me the favor of conveying posthaste.”
The Earl's Enticement (Castle Bride Series) Page 32
