The Rake's Irish Lady (Scandalous Kisses Book 2)

by Monajem, Barbara

  “One, two, three, heave!” Colin cried, lifting with all his might. The coach lurched, plunged over the debris, and rolled forward several feet along the stony surface of the road. The team came once again to a halt.

  “Well, I’ll be,” the first postilion said. “Hop in, lady and gentleman. Sure you want to try that there inn?”

  “We’re sure,” Colin said, adding to Bridget, “It’s a roadside inn, more of a tavern, but it’s the closest there is.”

  “Is there a decent stable?” Bridget asked. “The horses deserve a warm, dry night and an extra ration of feed. I’ll pay for it.”

  The second postilion snorted. “Stable’s good enough, but it’s not the sort of place you folks is accustomed to.”

  “We’ll be fine,” Bridget said, holding her hands out to be washed by the rain. “We need to dry off before we catch our deaths, and so do you.” She prepared to climb into the coach. Colin boosted her with a firm hand and then reluctantly removed it from her delightful arse.

  “What did you do, threaten to curse the nags?” Colin asked as he settled himself beside her.

  “Of course not! I would never curse a poor, hapless creature. I promised them a good stable and extra feed, just as I told the postilion.”

  Colin cast up his eyes. “And they understood that?”

  “I told you, it’s the Irish Touch,” she said with a self-satisfied smile.

  She shouldn’t let herself smile, because that invited a smile in return. The kind with dimples and a hunger that reached his eyes.

  Probably reached hers, too, so she sighed and turned away. Yearning to touch him had become a physical ache, and even a brush of his hand, much less a boost on her derriere, made it a thousand times worse.

  They wouldn’t get Sylvie tonight, but tomorrow, once the rain was over, they would find an alternate route and catch up. One more night of self-control . . .

  She was a fool to want him, but she couldn’t help it. What had come over her? Suddenly, stupidly, she was willing to risk another illegitimate child by him.

  They were almost at the inn. She dreaded another restless night. She needed something to distract her. “Where are those apples? The horses deserve a treat.”

  Colin passed her the basket. She took four of the wrinkled apples. They pulled up in front of a battered old building with weathered timbers and dormers peeking from under a thatched roof. No eager servant came rushing out of the inn to greet them.

  “House!” Colin bellowed, opening the coach door. Without bothering to let down the steps, he took Bridget by the waist and lifted her down into the rain. This time his hands didn’t linger. “Hurry up and give them the damned apples. Let’s get out of this bloody rain.”

  “Would you stop fussing?” she cried. “We’ll catch up to Martin eventually.”

  “That’s not what I’m fussing about,” he snapped, heading for the rear of the coach. Bridget offered apples to the wheeler and leader on one side and then stalked around to treat the others.

  A spare, grizzled man limped out of the inn. “Come in, come in,” he said, but his eyes widened at the sight of Colin, in his wet but obviously costly clothing, unearthing two valises from the boot. “I’m that sorry, sir, but I don’t have accommodation for the likes of you.”

  “Does your roof leak?” Colin demanded. “Do the fireplaces smoke?”

  “No sir, but—”

  “Will the horses be warm and dry too?” Bridget piped up, and suddenly she began to shiver.

  “Aye, the stables is fine,” the landlord said.

  “Then we’ll do fine, too,” Colin said, dropping the valises on the doorstep. “Warm and dry is all we ask, and I’ll pay handsomely for it.”

  A stout lady in an old-fashioned mobcap appeared in the doorway. “What are you waiting for, Stan? I’ll light a fire in the guest chamber. Let the gentleman and his missus in before they catch their deaths.”

  Oh, dear.

  The landlord still seemed uneasy. “I’m sorry, sir, but we’ve only the one small guest room, and not even a private parlor.”

  “We’ll do fine,” Bridget and Colin said simultaneously. Their hands touched and twined together. Clung together, as if one or the other of them—or both—was afraid the other would let go. Or as if they were about to plunge off a cliff and holding on for dear life.

  Bridget’s heart began to pound. She slid her gaze surreptitiously toward Colin. He wasn’t looking at her but rather straight ahead. A drop of water rolled from his wet hair, over his brow, and down to his upper lip. His tongue flicked out and licked it up.

  Desire roared through her. She shuddered. His right dimple appeared, but so briefly she almost didn’t see it.

  The landlady bustled away, and the landlord grabbed the valises. “Just you follow me, then. I’m Stan Butterworth, and that’s my rib, Martha.” He led them through the taproom. “You’ll want to change out of them wet clothes first of all, and then we’ll see to your supper.” He preceded them up a narrow flight of stairs. “My Martha’s a right good cook, and we had mutton stew to our dinner, but it won’t be what you’re accustomed to.”

  “I’m sure it will be delicious,” Bridget managed. Could food possibly have been farther from her mind?

  “It can get right rowdy in here on a fair evening,” Mr. Butterworth said, “but we won’t have much custom tonight, what with the storm and all. You’ll have a peaceful sleep.”

  Colin made a sound between a snort and a laugh, but he didn’t let go of her hand.

  Mrs. Butterworth bustled past them in the passage above, carrying a lit taper. “I’d just lit the fire in our chamber to ward off the damp,” she said. “It will take no time to get yours going as well. And the sheets is fresh today.”

  They followed the landlord into a bedchamber under the thatched roof. The small dormer window let in little light—just enough to see the small bed which would fit them both, but only if they slept very close together.

  Bridget said nothing. Nor did Colin. The landlord set down the bags, and Bridget shivered.

  “You poor young lady,” Mrs. Butterworth said. “Better get out of them wet clothes. Take care of the fire, Stan. I’ll get some towels.”

  Colin let go of Bridget’s hand and helped remove her pelisse, which clung to her wet sleeves. He set it over a chair, shucked off his own coat, unknotted his cravat, and tossed it to the floor. The landlady bustled in with an armful of towels. Colin grabbed one and passed it to Bridget, then toweled his own hair. It stood up every which way.

  Bridget couldn’t help but smile, but he didn’t return it, so perhaps she had read him wrong. Perhaps he intended to sleep on the floor or something equally stupid. She took refuge in toweling her own hair, which doubtless looked almost as ridiculous as his.

  The kindling caught hold, and the landlord plied the bellows. Flames licked around the logs.

  “There, that’s good enough,” Colin said. “I’ll take care of the fire from here on.”

  “Aye, Stan, leave the lady and gent to take off them soggy clothes and warm up,” Mrs. Butterworth said, driving her husband through the door. “Unless you need me to help with your laces, ma’am?”

  “No need,” Colin said, at the same instant as Bridget said desperately, “No, thank you.” She tried to stifle a breath of relief.

  The landlady smiled indulgently. “Such a fine young couple you are. I’ll have a good hot supper for you in the taproom whenever you’re ready.” She went out and shut the door.

  Chapter 9

  Colin grabbed Bridget, or maybe she grabbed him, but the instant they were alone, they kissed feverishly, a frenzied meeting of eager, yearning lips and tongues. Colin was falling and falling hard, gripped by and giving in to the inevitable. With each taste of her he plunged deeper, knowing he had no cho
ice, realizing he didn’t want one anymore.

  He broke the kiss and turned her away from him to fumble at the hooks of her gown. She stood quiescent but quivering. She said nothing and he was glad of it; he didn’t wish to spoil this with words. Pride didn’t wipe out cowardice, but rampant desire was doing a good job of keeping his fears at bay.

  One day at a time, came Emma’s distant voice. She’d told him that often in the first weeks after her death.

  Fine, but go away now, he said. This is private. She laughed and was gone.

  He peeled the gown over Bridget’s head. The knots on her stays were soggy wet, impossible to open. He cursed, went to his valise, and dug out his penknife. She watched, her gaze widening.

  “We’ll get new ribbons.” He sliced through the knots and removed the stays. She whirled to face him, pulling him into another breathtaking kiss.

  No woman had ever shaken his resolution like this. Destroyed it, rather.

  Nor had bedding a woman ever required courage before.

  Despite the eagerness of his kisses, Bridget sensed something grim about Colin. Something hard and yet brittle. She wished she could comfort him, reassure him that all would be well. He didn’t want children, but that was within his control. He could pull out at the last minute. Not that she’d ever experienced that, but she’d heard other women speak of its effectiveness, and she didn’t doubt Colin had plenty of self-control. And if he didn’t take care, she wouldn’t hold him responsible.

  Oh, but he would. Well, she would deal with that if and when it happened.

  She longed to murmur endearments, to tell him she adored him, but words of love would be taken amiss. She unbuttoned his fall and ran the back of her hand softly over his small clothes, up and down the hard ridge of his erection. He hissed, and she smiled against his mouth and pushed his breeches down.

  He stood away to step out of the breeches and toss his shirt over his head. Now he smiled too, running his eyes over her. She glanced down at herself. The wet shift clung so tightly that she might as well have been naked.

  He lifted it over her head, and then she was naked. He let out a long sigh and removed his small clothes. His erection jutted toward her, as beautiful as seven years ago.

  Otherwise, he had changed. Then, he’d been a very young man, and she not long past girlhood. He’d broadened, and now had a smattering of dark hair on his chest.

  She’d changed as well. She was no longer a girl but a woman who’d borne a child. She could have sworn her womb shivered at the thought of him inside her.

  “It’s been such a long time,” she whispered. She adored lovemaking. She’d missed it so much. She stretched languidly, suffused with happiness.

  Colin drew in a breath, his eyes dark and intent. “For me, too.” He pulled her close, his kisses soft and searching, and she put her arms around his neck and answered those kisses with a heady mix of lust and love. He nipped at her upper lip. His kisses travelled lazily from her ear to the hollow where her neck and shoulder met. He sucked hard.

  She let out a helpless moan.

  “I’ve marked you now,” he said. “You’re mine.”

  She didn’t want to question precisely what that meant. As long as he bedded her, and then bedded her again, and maybe a third time before they left this place . . .

  He grinned and whacked her sharply on the arse, making it sting, and nudged her toward the bed. He threw back the coverlet and lifted her to sit on the crisp sheets. He nudged her knees apart and kissed her again.

  She slid her hands between them, raked her fingernails gently down his chest, and took possession of his smooth, hot, hard cock. Mine. But she didn’t say it aloud. Much as she loved him, no one truly possessed the God of Dimples.

  But right now he needed her. She knew that much.

  She lay back, pulling him down on top of her. She spread her legs and rubbed the head of his cock against her sweet spot. She nudged her core with his shaft. She quoted him: “Hot and wet,” and shuddered at the words.

  “Ready for me indeed,” he said. “But I won’t last, Bridget. It’s been too long. I didn’t even pleasure myself the last few nights, because it wouldn’t have helped.”

  “I know,” she said. “I know, and neither did I. Just take me, please. And then again. And maybe again after that?”

  He laughed. “Not until I’ve paid proper homage to your charms.” It sounded like a vow, as if she were the deity of pleasure rather than he. He lay beside her and worshipped her breasts one at a time, bent to kiss and suckle and gently nip.

  She moaned and twisted, but her core ached for him. “That’s plenty of homage.”

  “Nowhere near enough.” He held her still, continuing to lick and suck on her nipples, while his free hand wandered over her heated flesh. He lingered at her waist, kneaded her hip, and pinched her derriere. He squeezed her thighs, making her jump.

  “Curse you, Colin,” she muttered.

  “You wouldn’t dare curse me,” he said. “You need what I’m going to give you.”

  “The need goes both ways,” she growled.

  “God, yes.” He kissed his way down her belly and slipped his fingers between her thighs. He dipped in and licked her.

  She cried out, sharp and yearning, but tried to push him away. “Not now.”

  “Are you sure? I’m good at this,” he said, his dimples assaulting her with full force. His tongue offered another tantalizing sample.

  “Next time, Colin. I want your cock inside me and I want it there now.”

  “If you insist.” His smile was almost tender as he positioned himself over her. She guided him to her opening. He nudged, pushed, nudged and pushed harder until he was seated deep within her.

  Oh. She closed her eyes on pure happiness. “There’s nothing like it.”

  He laid his forehead on hers, breathing heavily, hovering quite, quite still for one perfect moment. “No, nothing.”

  And no one else, thought Bridget as he began to move.

  “I’m ravenous,” Bridget said afterward, when their breathing had finally slowed to normal. It was a noisy old bed; they could count on some knowing grins belowstairs.

  Colin raised himself on one elbow and grinned at her. He’d managed to pull out in time—just barely, and now he wasn’t entirely sure why he’d done so. If he was done with fears, why bother?

  Perhaps because he found it hard to believe—but now that Bridget knew the worst about him, it didn’t seem so very bad after all. “What about again and again?”

  “After we eat. If you don’t need to replenish your energy, I certainly do.” She ran a finger across his cheek. “I love your dimples. That’s why I came to your bedchamber that day.”

  “Because of my dimples?”

  “They’re adorable. Sylvie got them from you.” She frowned. “And don’t start fretting. She’ll be fine.”

  “I’m not fretting. I’m not one to fight fate. In fact, I’m rather pleased with it at the moment.” His fears made less and less sense by the second, but why hadn’t he seen that before? “I know now why I remembered our previous encounter so clearly. The costume was memorable, but what really struck me was . . .” He cupped her cheek. “Your enjoyment of bed sport.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “No, your sheer joy in it.”

  “Don’t most women enjoy it?”

  “Some more than others, but none like you. Your joy and delight made me joyful—a rare emotion.” He wondered if his smile was as besotted as it felt. Another new experience…

  He kissed her and sat up. “Let’s dress and go sample Mrs. Butterworth’s mutton stew.”

  The only occupants of the coffee room were an old gaffer who greeted them with a wave and a toothless grin, and a somewhat threadbare gentleman about thirty years of age who came in from the ra
in just as they settled themselves at a table. He nodded pleasantly, shook himself like a shaggy dog, hung his greatcoat on the coat tree by the fire, and took a chair next to the old man.

  “Evening, Vicar,” the old man said. “How’s old Miss Jenkins?”

  “She’ll be in this world a while yet,” the vicar said, calling for a tankard of light ale. Colin ordered the same for himself and small beer for Bridget.

  The gaffer motioned to Bridget and Colin with his chin. “We has guests tonight. Newlyweds, I’m guessing. I’ve no problem with my hearing. Makes me wish I was young again.”

  Bridget blushed in the lamplight.

  The clergyman bade them good evening. “James Delbert, vicar of this delightful parish.”

  Colin introduced himself. “And Grandfather over there is quite right—we are indeed newlyweds. My wife, Bridget.” He glanced at her, wondering how she would take the continued pretense that they were man and wife. Perhaps he should make it clear to her that it wasn’t truly pretense, or wouldn’t be for long.

  “Congratulations to you both.” Mr. Delbert beamed. “What brings you good people to these parts?”

  “Our home’s near Preston. We’re on our way up from London, but the road became impassable, so we’re here for tonight.” Mr. Butterworth set their tankards before them.

  “And tomorrow as well.” The vicar passed a coin to the landlord.

  “You’re expecting still more rain?” Not that Colin would mind spending a whole day in bed with Bridget, but now that he could think straight again, he wanted to get back on the road and retrieve Sylvie. There would be an infinite number of trysts with Bridget in the future.