“Me? I’m making a fool of myself?” Hadley laughed. “I’m not the one marrying soiled goods.”
Rogan grabbed the other man by the lapels of his coat. “Apologize, Hadley. Now.”
Hadley smirked. “Everyone knows the truth, Hunt. Why else would Belvingham marry the girl to a nobody like you? Because no one else would have her, that’s why.”
Rogan shoved the man into the next table, sending patrons scattering. “I shall have to demand satisfaction, Hadley, unless you apologize at once.”
“Pistols at dawn?” Hadley chuckled as he regained his footing. “Come now, Hunt. That’s not our style.”
“Your apology,” Rogan ground out.
Hadley glanced around at their interested audience. “Very well. I apologize for calling your future bride a whore.”
Gasps rose up from the crowd. Rogan fought back the urge to beat the sneering bastard to a pulp. He turned away.
“Thought you wanted the truth,” Hadley called after him.
Rogan swung around and smashed his fist straight into Hadley’s lying mouth.
The other man flew backward and shattered a table to bits as he landed, unconscious. Blood trickled from his mouth, but he lay still.
Rogan rubbed his knuckles, temper still simmering, and looked around the taproom. “Would anyone else like to make a derogatory comment about my future wife?”
Silence met his challenge.
Without another word, he strode away, the crowd parting before him. He paused to hand the innkeeper a wad of bills. “For the damage.”
Jenson nodded, his eyes wide. With one last warning look at the patrons, Rogan left the inn.
Having discharged her duties to both her coachman and Mrs. Trenton, Caroline sat back in her carriage. Her last errand had involved visiting the local modiste to be measured for her wedding dress. Mrs. Denworthy had her measurements, but she had wanted Caroline to try on the basted garment so as to make sure it fit perfectly for the most important day of her life.
As she had stood there in the white and silver wedding dress, the magnitude of it all had finally hit her. Come Friday, she would be a married woman. Her life would change forever.
She didn’t know if she was ready for the change.
She glanced out the window, then sat up straight as she noticed Rogan storming down the street. He looked neither right nor left, merely forged ahead with the intense concentration of the soldier he had once been.
And his hand was bleeding.
“Dear God,” she murmured. Her first instinct was to duck inside the carriage and pretend she hadn’t seen him. In what wickedness could he have indulged to cause such an injury? But then she remembered her resolve to take back control of her life. This man was going to be her husband. She would face him no matter what his mood or state.
“What is it, my lady?” her maid, Marie, asked.
“I see my fiancé.” Caroline stuck her head out the window and signaled to one of the outriders to stop the carriage. The equipage jerked to a halt a moment later, and Caroline leaned forward and opened the door. “Mr. Hunt!”
At first she thought he hadn’t heard her, but then he stopped and looked over at her, surprise flickering across his stern features. He didn’t move for a long moment, then slowly he began to approach the carriage.
“May I offer you a ride, Mr. Hunt?” she asked as he reached her.
“My horse is at the livery.”
“I can send one of my men to retrieve it.” He didn’t say anything, just watched her with that implacable expression. “Your hand is bleeding,” she said finally, keeping her voice low.
He glanced down and flexed his hand, as if surprised to find it still attached to his body. Then he reached into his coat for his handkerchief and slowly wrapped it around the split knuckles.
“Rogan.” He glanced up, and the ferocity in his eyes startled her. “Come into the carriage.” She gave him a little smile. “I feel safer when you’re with me, especially after my last trip to the village.”
He gave a jerky nod, and she sat back in her seat as he climbed into the carriage. Marie scurried to sit next to her mistress, leaving the entire second bench free for Rogan. He settled into it, stretching out his long legs, his face expressionless except for his blazing eyes.
The carriage seemed much smaller suddenly, the intensity of the emotions emanating from Rogan filling the small space with heat. Gooseflesh rippled along her arms.
“Marie,” she said, “please ride with Billings. And send one of the outriders to the livery to reclaim my betrothed’s horse.”
“Yes, my lady.” Casting a wary glance at Rogan, the maid scrambled from the carriage, closing the door behind her with a snap. The equipage rocked as she climbed up beside the coachman, and then they were on their way.
Caroline studied her future husband. “Rogan, what happened?”
He said nothing, just turned to watch the scenery pass by.
“Rogan, please talk to me.”
“What would you like me to say?”
“The truth.”
“Ah.” His lips quirked in a sardonic smile. “The truth.” He sent her a hot glance that pinned her to her seat with its power and left her breathless. “Most people can’t handle the truth, Caroline.”
“I’m not most people,” she managed.
“No, you’re different, aren’t you?” Speculation swept across his face, but then he looked away again. “Best not to start this conversation, love. My control is thin today.”
The endearment shook her on a deep, elemental level. Something had happened today, something that had brought out that untamed side of Rogan that she had sensed. He seemed…dangerous.
“I just want to be certain you’re all right. How does your hand feel?”
“Don’t worry, it’s nothing.” He looked down and unwrapped his hand, flexing his fingers and studying them. “I had worse than this as a boy.”
“How did you hurt yourself?”
He flicked her a glance that was both amused and hungry. “Are you certain you want to know?”
“Yes.” She held firm beneath that fierce stare. “Were you fighting?”
“Yes.” He leaned back in the seat, challenge in every inch of him. “Are you shocked?”
“No.” She bit her lip. “All right, yes.”
He laughed, a deep, sensual sound that made her insides curl with unnamed pleasure. “Sorry you offered me a ride?”
“Not at all. You’re going to be my husband. It seems to me I should become comfortable with you in all your moods.”
His lips curved into a knowing smile. “Be careful what you wish for, love. Some of my moods are not that pleasant.”
“Everyone gets cross sometimes. Even me.”
“You? I can’t envision that.”
“Just wait,” she warned, heart pounding from the predatory way he looked at her. “I can be the most shrewish of women.”
“Indeed?” He shifted, bringing his knee up against hers. “Then it will be my job to tame you, won’t it?”
“I…” She swallowed, suddenly out of her depth. “You didn’t say why you had been fighting.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
“It was a matter of honor. Let’s leave it at that.”
She shifted her leg away from his. He said nothing, just kept watching her with that amused, adult gaze. “Stop looking at me like that,” she said finally.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m a berry tart!” She crossed her arms. “I feel as if you’re laughing at me, Rogan.”
“Maybe a little.” His gaze dropped to her lips. “Though I must say that I tend to take my berry tarts very seriously.”
She honestly couldn’t breathe. “Rogan…”
“Calm yourself, little one.” He turned his head away, looking out the window again. “I won’t pounce on you.”
“Maybe…maybe I want you to.”
His head
whipped around, his eyes dark and hot. “What did you say?”
She pressed herself back into the seat, astounded by what she had said.
He smirked. “Change your mind?”
She didn’t reply, words and feelings jumbling together in nervous confusion. She could only look at him, torn by the urge to get closer, yet held fast by the fear of what might happen if she did.
At her continued silence, he gave a brief laugh, worldly cynicism shadowing his features as he turned back to look out the window.
Fear. Once more it stood between her and a normal part of living.
She pulled a lacy handkerchief from her reticule and worried it between her fingers, casting a surreptitious glance at her fiancé. Finally she steeled her resolve and shifted across to sit beside him on the other bench.
His head whipped around in surprise. Her first instinct was to scoot away, but she made herself remain still, even when those dark gray eyes settled on her with piercing interest. Swallowing hard, she avoided his gaze and reached for his injured hand. His fingers flexed in hers, then settled as she dabbed at the blood with the feminine scrap of lace.
“Playing with fire, Caroline?” His deep voice vibrated between them, he was so close.
“Tending to my betrothed,” she corrected.
“Very wifely of you.”
This time she met his gaze. “I told you I intend to be a good wife.”
“Shall we test your resolve?” Raising his other hand, he traced her cheek with his finger. “Or would you rather I allow you to escape back to your side of the coach?”
“That rather depends on what you have in mind.”
His mouth quirked with amusement. “Don’t worry, love, I have no intention of ravishing you in a coach.”
“I…see.” She crumpled the handkerchief in her hand, suddenly wondering at the wisdom of her boldness.
“A kiss,” he said. “Perfectly acceptable for an engaged couple.” He slid his hand behind her neck.
“Just one?” she whispered as he bent closer.
“One,” he agreed. “For now.”
His warm, ale-scented breath brushed her cheek as he lowered his mouth to hers. Her heart skipped a beat, then settled as their lips touched.
Soft. Skilled. After that first impression, coherent thought swirled away on a wave of sensation, and her eyes slid closed.
He took his time about it, learning the curve of her mouth, teaching her how to respond with a patience she hadn’t expected. His fingers massaged her nape, and when she leaned closer, a low growl rumbled from his throat. Encouraged, she lifted a hand to his chest and let it lie there, his heartbeat thundering beneath her palm.
The carriage hit a bump, jolting them apart. With a groan, he pulled her tightly against him, burying his face in her neck. He held her like that, his arms like iron bands around her, his breathing shaky.
“Rogan.” She shifted, hoping he would release her. “Rogan, are you all right?”
He made a muffled sound, his breath hot against her throat. She wriggled again, more strongly this time, but he didn’t release her. His teeth scraped her neck.
Panic exploded. Trapped. No! Can’t get away. Let-me-go-let-me-go-let-me-go!
A whine ripped from her throat, and she clawed at his chest, wrenching from side to side to break his hold.
He jerked his head up, startled. “Caroline?”
“Let…me…go!” she panted. Her heart raced, her breath coming so fast, she thought it would choke her. Blackness crept into the edges of her vision, and she pounded a fist against his chest. “Let me go!”
He relaxed his arms. “Caroline, it’s all right. It’s Rogan.”
She shoved, breaking free of his encircling arms, and threw herself across the coach to the other bench. There she pressed herself into the farthest corner and stared at him, lifting one trembling hand to cover her mouth.
He hadn’t moved. “Caroline,” he said quietly, “you’re safe. I’m not going to touch you.”
Mortification swept over her. She realized she was shaking, that tears stung her eyes. Five-year-old memories lingered in her mind like the scent of fresh blood at a fox hunt.
She squeezed her eyes shut, wanting to hide from the world. She had thought she could do it, could get close to him and handle the attentions of an attractive male. But no, she had panicked like a lunatic, just as she had that night at her come-out ball. Everyone had looked at her like a bedlamite that night, and she couldn’t bear it if she saw the same look in Rogan’s eyes.
“Talk to me, Caroline.”
She opened her eyes to see him looking at her with honest concern. She wanted to forget the last few minutes, pretend they never happened.
Except for the kiss. The kiss she wanted to remember.
Rogan leaned forward in his seat, his hands draped over his knees. “I need you to tell me what I did wrong, Caroline,” he said quietly. “I need to know so I don’t do it again.”
His gentleness nearly undid her fragile control. “I can’t…I can’t talk about it.”
“You have to.” Slowly he extended a hand to her. “Hold my hand, Caroline. I promise I’ll stay right here.”
She shook her head. “I can’t. Please, just forget what happened.”
“I can’t forget.” He didn’t move. “You held my hand the other night, and nothing bad happened.”
“I know.”
“I won’t scare you again, I promise.” He kept his gaze steady on hers, compassion in his eyes. “I was angry before you met me today and then when we kissed…” He sighed, his mouth twisting with self-disgust. “When we kissed, all that anger turned into something else. I lost control.”
She glanced down at his extended hand, then back to his face. “I thought I was the one who lost control.”
“Maybe we both did,” he agreed, a gentle smile curving his lips.
“They thought I was mad, you know.”
“Who did?”
“Society. The people at my debut ball. When I collapsed, they thought I had been driven mad.”
“I don’t think that.”
She gave a disbelieving little laugh. “You must.”
“I think you’ve been hurt, and that something I did scared you.”
“You held me too tightly.” The words tumbled from her lips before she thought about it. She pressed them together.
“Then I won’t do that again.”
She let out a long breath and rested her face in her hands. “I thought I wouldn’t be afraid. I wasn’t two nights ago.”
“This isn’t something that goes away overnight. And I’m afraid that if you don’t take my hand right now, we’ll be worse off than when we started.”
He was right. She stared at his hand, and he didn’t move a muscle. Slowly she reached out, rested her palm against his. He curled his fingers lightly around hers and left their hands entwined. She knew that with the slightest tug of her hand, he would release her instantly.
Her pulse slowed, the panic draining away. She was still wary but no longer felt the urge to flee.
“Caroline, I’ve been to war,” Rogan said. “I’ve seen women who’ve been…hurt…by men. I understand that it will take time—maybe a lot of time—before you’re completely comfortable with me.”
She nodded, unable to speak.
He squeezed her hand, waited until she met his gaze. “I can wait,” he said softly.
She looked down at their joined hands, grateful for his strength, willing to believe that miracles could happen.
Chapter 6
It poured rain on their wedding day.
Caroline and Rogan were married in the family chapel at Belvingham. It was a small, quiet ceremony witnessed by Caroline’s father and the select members of local society who had been invited, followed by a lavish wedding breakfast at the manor house.
Rogan hadn’t bothered to invite his own family.
He stood beside his bride, wearing the new clothes that had been ordered for
him from the tailor, and accepted congratulations from the well-wishers. Caroline smiled politely to everyone who congratulated her, but he could feel the stiffness of her body, sense the strain she was under. While the number of people at the wedding was much smaller than the number of guests at her debut ball, he could tell that the crowd still made her uneasy.
During a break in the well-wishers he leaned down and murmured, “Are you all right?”
“I’ll be fine,” she whispered back, smiling at a passing guest. “I refuse to succumb to the vapors at my own wedding!”
He chuckled. “That’s my girl. After all, you made it through the ceremony.”
She glanced up at him, a vision in silver and white with a wreath of white flowers in her dark hair. “Now I just have to survive life as your bride, sir, and all will be well.”
The twinkle in her eye delighted him. “Why, Lady Caroline, are you flirting with me?”
Her cheeks pinkened. “If a woman cannot flirt with her own husband, who can she flirt with?”
Her teasing words brought forth a burst of possessiveness. “No one else.”
Her eyes widened at his tone, and she glanced away.
He frowned. “Caroline?”
She didn’t look at him. “As if I could flirt with anyone but you, Rogan. As if I could stand to be with anyone but you.”
Her words grabbed him by the throat. “Caroline—”
“What’s he doing here?” she groaned. “I had hoped he had another engagement.”
“Who?” Distracted, he followed her gaze to where a good-looking young man had just entered the room.
“Randall.” She sighed. The humor was back in her eyes when she looked up at him. “My father’s heir. I was hoping he wouldn’t come. He has a tendency to treat me like a mad aunt who should be locked in the attic.”
“That’s Althorpe?” Rogan watched with interest as the fair-haired young man made his way through the crowd toward them, exchanging greetings with the other guests as he did so.
Althorpe’s blond hair fell across his brow in the latest style, and his coat of Spanish blue denoted an excellent tailor. He acknowledged acquaintances with sophisticated charm, smoothly moving along after a moment or two of pleasantries. Yet upon closer scrutiny, his eyes never reflected the warmth of his smile, and he tended to glance about him as if measuring some sort of threat.
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