‘Have you been introduced to my cousin Agnes, Sir Hugh?’ Lorne asked, looking from one to the other, observing how Sir Hugh’s eyes were frankly admiring Agnes’s upturned face, his good white teeth flashing in his handsome face, and not missing her cousin’s awestruck expression as she met his gaze.
‘I have had that pleasure,’ Hugh replied, bowing over Agnes’s hand and gently brushing it with his lips, positively enchanted when a maidenly blush rose in her cheeks. He grinned when he saw Iain bearing down on them. ‘I see your husband coming this way, so if you will excuse us, Countess, I shall whisk your cousin away to partake of a glass of punch and become better acquainted with her in private.’
Lorne watched Iain walk purposefully towards her. He looked like a predator ready to strike out at its prey.
‘I would like to leave. It has been a long day and we have been here long enough.’
Lorne looked at him in alarm. ‘So soon? But—can’t we stay a while longer?’
Iain leaned forward and said in an ominously calm tone close to her ear, ‘I said now, Lorne. Mark well what I say, the matter is not open to discussion.’
Fear of being alone with him was dire enough to make Lorne say anything that would delay their leaving—and she did genuinely want to stay, for this might be the last time she would have her family about her for a long time—but somewhere in the tumult of her mind, it dimly occurred to her that Iain might want to be alone with her. Raising her chin and squaring her shoulders, she nodded.
‘Very well. I am ready.’
Iain looked down into her lovely pale face and he had to stifle a spurt of admiration for her courage, and when he gazed into her glorious eyes his stomach clenched at the thought of being alone with her and making love to her.
‘Come, let us say our farewells.’ Politely he offered her his arm and she placed her trembling hand on it.
The first person Lorne saw when she entered Sir Hugh Glover’s grand, spacious house in Kensington was Archie Grogan. His cheerful, freckled face had not lost its habitual good-humoured expression. Genuinely pleased to see her, he beamed a welcome and bowed with the respect her station commanded.
‘Archie! How glad I am to see you!’ Lorne exclaimed brightly.
Iain’s manservant stared at her with nothing short of worship. He was as surprised and shocked as everyone else by his master’s marriage to Lorne McBryde, but unlike everyone else, Archie welcomed it. ‘And you, my lady. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.’
‘You’re my servant, not a lady’s maid,’ Iain growled. ‘Show my wife to her room.’ He turned to look at his wife. ‘I will be up shortly.’
Without a word Lorne accompanied Archie up the elaborately carved, wide oak staircase to a landing and a warren of bedrooms. Entering one of them, she thanked him and closed the door, leaning her back against it and feeling the tension begin to ease from her tightly strung body. She was glad of this respite before Iain would come to bed. However, she cherished the hope that a night spent in each other’s arms would rekindle the depth of passion they had shared at Norwood. She would have to think of some way to tell him about the baby. She hoped he would be overjoyed—but she was dreadfully afraid that he might not be.
With a fire burning in the hearth the room was lovely and warm. It was large and tastefully furnished, and dominated by a huge four-poster bed. Jenny paused in her task of turning down the covers and smiled at her.
Coming from a poor background in the village of Astley, Jenny was fifteen years of age when she had started work as a lady’s maid at the Priory. Two years older than Lorne and her devoted slave, she was known for her discretion and never indulged in idle gossip, which was one of the reasons why Lady Barton had insisted that she take care of Lorne in her new life.
When Lorne sank into a chair beside the fire, Jenny went to her, concerned when she saw the strain on her ashen face. ‘You look pale. Are you all right?’
Lorne nodded slowly, grateful for Jenny’s presence. She faced the night with trepidation. Everything had happened so quickly. ‘It’s not as though I’m ignorant as to what’s going to happen,’ she murmured on a wry note. Jenny knew about the baby—indeed, it would be hard to keep it from her since she was the one who cared for her every morning when the sickness came. ‘I’m glad to have you with me, Jenny—both now and in the future.’
A while later, clad in her cream silk-and-lace nightdress, Lorne sat at the dressing table while Jenny brushed the shimmering length of her hair. When she’d finished she placed the brush down and smiled at her mistress in the mirror.
‘There now, you look lovely. I think I’d better go before your husband comes.’
Panic possessed Lorne and she spun round. ‘No, Jenny. Please stay with me a while longer.’
‘Well—just for a few minutes.’
The minutes stretched into hours and still Iain didn’t come. Pacing the room until her knees trembled, Lorne waited for him in a state of feverish anticipation, exhausted and her nerves exacerbated. When she could stand it no longer, she sent Jenny down to the kitchen on the pretext of fetching her a cup of milk. Perhaps she could find out what was keeping him. Jenny returned with the news that Sir Hugh had returned and the two of them sat drinking in the parlour.
Lorne’s lips tightened ominously and anger began to mix with all her other rioting emotions. Sir Hugh had told her he would not be staying at the house tonight, so what had brought him back? And how dare Iain keep her in suspense like this? This was their wedding night, and for him to sit drinking into the early hours with his friend was intolerable. Was he doing it with malicious intent—to punish her even more than he had already?
Jenny sighed in a gesture of helplessness at Lorne’s incredulous expression. ‘Perhaps it would be best if I put you to bed before he comes,’ she suggested hesitantly.
‘If he can be bothered to come at all,’ Lorne blurted out angrily. When she saw Jenny looking at her unhappily, she relented. ‘It’s all right, Jenny. I’ll stay up a while longer. You go to bed. I realise you must be tired. Whatever is keeping my husband so long has certainly more allure than I have. I have a good mind to go to bed and lock my door,’ she pronounced bitterly, which seemed to offer a little balm to her wounded feelings and her pride, which was suffering badly.
‘An action you would live to regret,’ a masculine voiced drawled from the doorway.
Immediately the two women spun round. Iain was leaning against the wood surround in a misleadingly indolent manner, his arms crossed over his chest. His face was grim and impassive, and his eyes were cold, with a compelling arrogance. Lorne’s heart slammed into her ribs when she saw him, for despite his stern appearance he looked remarkably impressive standing there, with his white shirt half-open to reveal the strong muscles of his neck, and his black hair tumbling over his brow. Motionless, she let her eyes feast on him, feeling the same wonderful, bone-melting excitement stirring inside her that she did whenever she looked at him. But this moment of weakness was not to last.
Momentarily the lovely young woman in the revealing nightdress arrested Iain’s eyes, the mere sight of her bringing all his desire for her into focus, but they went on to settle on Jenny as he strode inside. ‘Leave us,’ he said flatly.
His tone, cutting and rude, brought a protest bubbling to Lorne’s lips. ‘Iain—I think—’
‘Please leave us,’ Iain repeated on a softer note, indicating the door with a nod, which Jenny completely understood.
Warned by something in Iain’s eyes, Lorne looked at Jenny. ‘It’s all right, Jenny. Do as my husband says. Goodnight.’ When she was alone with her husband, she turned on him. She might have lost her heart to this Scottish laird, but she had certainly not parted with her temper when she had left Norwood. ‘Iain Monroe!’ she exclaimed hotly. ‘How dare you dismiss my maid so rudely? Jenny has been with my grandmother a long time. I will not have you upsetting her.’
‘Madam!’ he said mildly, his voice belying the scor
ching breath in his chest, the blood running hot through his veins, the pounding of his heart, for she was alone with him now—his wife, and he could do with her just as he pleased. ‘As his Majesty went out of his way to remind me, I am under an obligation to fulfil my conjugal duty. May I remind you that the same applies to you, too, my sweet,’ he murmured, advancing on her, his lips smiling about his white teeth, ‘and I can assure you that tonight you will have no need of a maid.’
‘Don’t call me that,’ she cried, surprising them both.
‘What?’
‘Your sweet. The endearment is empty and meaningless. I am not your sweet.’ It reminded her of Norwood and that night, and the lingering memory of their pleasure always weakened her.
Iain shrugged, as if he couldn’t care less. ‘As you wish.’ Unable to tear his eyes away from so much loveliness so temptingly displayed before him, his body throbbed with the need to possess her. She was his torment. He couldn’t look at her and not want to touch her, he couldn’t be near her and not want her, and he had wanted her for so long that it seemed he had been denied her for ever. It was almost more than he could stand. ‘You really are quite extraordinary, my dear wife—stubborn and so quick to anger. But come,’ he said, sitting down and beginning to pull off his boots, ‘enough of these tragic airs and get into bed.’
‘I am past the age of being sent to bed—and when I do I prefer to go alone.’
Tossing his boots aside, Iain stood up and quickly removed his shirt. Lorne watched him, a blush spreading across her cheeks, and a tremor of alarm quaked through her at the sight of his nakedness and the mat of black hair curling on his broad chest. In the candles’ glow, the light cast bold shadows on his face. His skin was sleek, the heavy muscles of his arms and shoulders rippling as he moved. He was quite splendid, she realised, as splendid as she remembered, and her look became one of reluctant admiration, doing much to damage her resistance.
He didn’t say a word. His fathomless silver eyes gleamed as he looked at her intently, and he still had that infuriating habit of hiding his thoughts behind an inscrutable mask. With a pounding heart, Lorne backed away when he moved towards her. His thick black hair curled about his face, and his mouth was slightly curved in a mocking smile—it was the assured smile of a willing conquest. Stubbornly refusing to surrender to the call of her blood, her soft lips tightened and her eyes blazed her rebellion.
‘Don’t you touch me. You can go to the devil for all I care and find some other bed to sleep in. I am not someone to be used when the fancy takes you. My grievances are many and valid. From the moment we met in church you have gone out of your way to hurt and humiliate me, and if that wasn’t enough, you then keep me waiting half the night while you sit drinking with your friend, and then calmly walk into my bedchamber and expect me to meekly do your bidding? The insult is too great to be borne.’
‘And is this what this display of temper is all about? Are you complaining?’ he asked, with an infuriating, mocking smile, his eyes gleaming cruelly.
‘I would not give you the satisfaction,’ she fumed, his airy tone whipping up her anger by the second. He might at least show some contrition. But no. He was as calmly at ease as ever, and he even had the audacity to mock her.
‘Would you like me to explain?’ he asked with growing impatience, his eyes focused upon her slender form moulded so revealingly beneath the cream nightdress, and the hard peaks of her breasts up tilted and beckoning.
‘It seems a little late for that,’ she retorted, in what she meant to be a cool, disdainful tone. Unfortunately her voice wavered when a lump of nameless emotion constricted her throat. She became frozen as her husband’s eyes travelled over every inch of her in a long, lecherous perusal that took her breath away. She was unnerved by the unleashed sensuality she saw in his expression, which was like a flame to her senses. When his gaze finally came to rest on her lips she found her voice once more. ‘I told you not to touch me—and I meant it. Like a fool I gave myself to you once before. I shall not do so again until I am ready. Don’t you dare lay a finger on me.’
Almost before the words were uttered, his eyes had flamed and he had moved closer. ‘Is that a threat?’
Immediately Lorne saw her error. Unwittingly she had made it sound like a challenge. His breath was low and uneven as he advanced towards her. Alarmed, she retreated a step, wondering if she could make it to the door and escape.
Iain read her intention and his eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t even think about it. You aren’t going anywhere.’
‘Why don’t you go away?’ she whispered, feeling the anger draining out of her, leaving her with tears close to the surface. She bit her lip to hold them back.
‘Nay, madam. Your antics in Scotland made me a laughing stock. I will not compound it by letting it be known that my wife showed me the door on our wedding night.’
They stood facing one another, intensely aware of each other—how could they not be? It was warm, the light soft, the atmosphere charged with tension and something else each of them recognised, having experienced it once before and not so very long ago. Lorne was scared. She wanted Iain so much it hurt, but his high-handed manner and his arrogant assumption that he could do with her as he pleased made her stand against him.
Iain moved without conscious thought. He was finished with talking, and it was neither passion nor affection that drove him on, but a determination to possess. Placing his arms around her rigid form, he swung her up into his arms, marvelling at her lightness, her softness, and the subtle fragrance emanating from her body.
Lorne cried out in protest. ‘Let go of me you—you loathsome beast.’
One brow lifted and he looked sourly amused. ‘You certainly know how to flatter a man,’ he drawled. ‘And I may be what you accuse me of being, and more. I can also be ugly when crossed, Lorne. I advise you in future to remember it.’ His soft voice was a threat of revenge for the agonies he had suffered since their parting.
Carrying her to the bed, he dropped her unceremoniously on to the quilt. Beside herself with rage, Lorne erupted in a storm of anger, and, far from compliant, she thrashed out frantically, writhing and clawing at him, wanting to strike out at him and hurt him with all the anger inside her, unwilling to give him total power over her. In her heart she was already his, but still she fought him with a boundless fury. She was supple and slippery as an eel, but her hair was proving to be a problem, coiling round her like silken ropes.
Swearing beneath his breath, Iain took hold of her wrists and pinned them above her head. But then he hesitated, never having forced himself upon a female. There was something distasteful in the thought. He wanted to tell her that he forgave her rash actions with Kilpatrick, to tell her he wanted their marriage to work, that he wanted her to be happy and to assure her he would never do her harm, but when he saw her soft lips and felt her flesh warm and firm beneath him, his moment of hesitation passed.
‘Let me go,’ she hissed. ‘I don’t want to sleep with you.’
Plunging his hands into her hair, he forced her head back to meet his gaze, burning with furious triumph. ‘I don’t intend to sleep,’ he said evenly, amazed by the savagery in her eyes. ‘At least, not yet.’
‘You know what I mean. I don’t want to go to bed with you.’
Silver eyes gleamed down at her and he drew a deep breath, keeping his temper under tight rein. ‘I don’t recall asking your preference on the matter,’ he said, his voice dangerously low. ‘You are my wife.’
‘Aye, your wife—forced on you by circumstance. But you will not force yourself on me. If I choose to reject you, I will.’
‘You can try. But just in case you didn’t understand the proceedings in church, you promised to obey and serve me.’
‘Serve you? Never.’ Her lip curled scornfully. ‘I do not serve.’
Iain’s eyes were merciless as he grasped her chin and forced her to look at him. ‘Do not deny me, Lorne. I warn you, I will not allow it. You will subject yourself to me. If
I want you, I will have you. I will own you, possess you, body and soul,’ he said through clenched teeth, enunciating each word so she was left in no doubt of his determination, ‘and be damned to your maidenly protestations.’
Falling silent, he stared down at her, and then he smiled, almost tenderly. She was lovely, like a delicate flower, and feeling the warmth of her, he felt a rare peace when he looked into her eyes. ‘Come,’ he said, brushing her cheek with his lips. ‘Why this outraged modesty? ’Tis not the first time you’ve shared my bed.’
Mesmerised, Lorne gazed up at him, his warm breath on her face and his husky voice caressing her. She could feel herself beginning to melt. ‘Do you think I could ever forget that?’
‘I sincerely hope not,’ he murmured, proceeding to assault her lips with his own.
In one last bid to defy him, Lorne tried to wriggle away, squirming beneath him, but it deterred him not at all from his inevitable path; in fact, her movements only succeeded in inflaming his desire. With all the skill of an experienced soldier, he began his siege, and the fortifications of her secure stronghold began to fall to him—the invader. He was a man in full possession of his strength, and he crushed her beneath his weight.
The candles’ light showed Lorne her husband’s face close to her own. It was grim, his mouth a tight, determined line. Then his lips closed on hers, capturing them even as she tried to draw away from him, but he moved her beneath him to make her more accommodating.
‘Be still,’ he ordered huskily. ‘Cease your struggles. You’ll wear yourself out for no purpose. No matter what has gone before, or what our future together holds, I ask you to forget all that and remember that this is our wedding night. You are my bride. Out of the shambles of our lives, let us have this one good thing to remember. We owe it to ourselves, do we not?’ Pinning her to the bed, he slid his hands beneath her and held her hips firmly, keeping her immobile, holding her helpless under him.
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