by Nina Mason
It took him a moment to grasp her meaning. Upon realizing, he said, “Oh, I see.”
She titled her head and her eyes darkened. “Is that all you have to say?”
“What would you like me to say?”
“That you are happy about it, of course.”
“Well, I’m not,” he said, his heart on fire. “In fact, I’m furious. Not about your condition, but about the cruel situation into which you were thrust. I should have been with you these past few weeks, as your husband, to comfort and care for you as we celebrated our good fortune. But those pleasures were denied us both by your father’s…”
“Pride and prejudice?”
He laughed. “Precisely.”
“So you do think it’s a good thing we’re having a baby?”
“A very good thing—especially if it is a boy.”
Her brow furrowed. “Why do you say that? Do you not want a daughter?”
“Of course I do.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “But a boy will displace Charles as your father’s heir, will he not? And that will be the ultimate revenge.”
She smiled and slipped her arms around him. As she came between his legs, he lifted his face in invitation. When she kissed him, he captured her mouth and coaxed her lips apart. She moaned as he swiped his tongue against hers. She tasted as sweet as Ambrosia, the divine nectar that bestowed immortality. He savored that flavor, drinking deep. She responded by pressing against him and tangling her fingers in his hair.
He rejoiced in the connection of their mouths and bodies. He had been so afraid he might never see or touch her again. Now, here she was, in his arms, ready to spend the night with him. Nay, not just the night, but the rest of her life. And he was ready to do the same. Because she not only made him feel wanted and desired, she also made him feel whole and complete. And no man alive could ask for more than that.
He held her tighter, closer. He would never let her go. If anyone tried to take her from him, he would kill them. It was that simple. Be it Charles, her father, or someone else. She was his, dammit, as was the child growing in her womb—a miraculous fusion of them both. He did not really care if it was a boy or a girl. Whatever the gender, he would love the child with all his heart.
Just as he loved its mother.
She sucked his tongue and pulled his hair. He grabbed her buttocks and dug his fingers into their supple flesh. His cock was hard and his passions so hot, it felt as if he was burning up from the inside out.
The kiss deepened. He pulled the pins from her hair and ran his fingers through the silky strands as they fell. He was a man consumed—with the desire to join with her, body and soul. If he could, he would scoop her up and carry her to the bed. Since he could not, he stood and walked her backwards until they collided with the side of the mattress. Together, they tumbled onto the counterpane, mouths locked and tongues thrashing.
He closed a hand over one of her breasts and ground his erection against her thigh. The needful moan she released called a drop of moisture to the head. He rose off her, planted his good leg on the floor, and pushed up her skirts.
As he unbuttoned his trousers, he said, “I’m sorry to be so unromantic, but I will die if I wait one more second to take you.”
“I want you just as much, my darling,” she rasped. “So you needn’t apologize.”
“You don’t mind if we keep our clothes on?”
“Not at all.”
He got up on the bed with great care and positioned his knees under him. Lowering himself onto her, he took possession with one savage thrust. Rather than protest his fervor, she grabbed him by the hair and pulled his mouth down on hers.
As she bit his lips and sucked his tongue, he withdrew from her until only the tip of his cock was still inside her. Then, he drove into her and, for added flourish, circled his hips. She moaned into his mouth and clawed at the back of his waistcoat. He pulled out and thrust into her again, the same as before. The feel of her was heavenly—so heavenly, in fact, he wanted to crawl inside her and stay there forever.
And still it would not be enough. Nothing would ever be enough when it came to Louisa. And nothing could ruin this perfect moment…
Except someone knocking on the bloody door.
“Christ,” he growled, pulling out of her. “That will be Churchill, back with the provisions for our trip to Scotland.”
She pushed up on her elbows and looked at him, her eyes shimmering with fear. “What if it is not? What if it is Charles?—or worse, my father?”
Theo, sobering, climbed off the bed and buttoned up. “Leave it to me.”
He suspected she might be right. Charles and her father were unlikely to surrender her so easily. Plus, he had that feeling in his gut again. When he reached the door, he took down his sword belt and strapped it on. Then, before releasing the latch, he asked, “Who is there?”
Getting no answer, he drew his cutlass with a spine-chilling whoosh of cold steel and slashed the blade several times to warm up his arm. He had no idea how adept Charles might be with a sword. Being a blueblood, he’d probably studied fencing, but as far as Theo knew, he’d never fought in a war. And therein lay his adversary’s greatest disadvantage. For there was a world of difference between banging foils with a competitor in a fencing match and crossing swords with an enemy combatant in a life-or-death struggle.
As Theo reached for the bolt, Louisa said in a fear-choked voice, “Do not open it.”
He threw a backward glance at her. “I’ve never backed down from a fight, and do not intend to start now. Nor will I steal you away like a disreputable scoundrel when I have a chance to win you honorably.”
“But…what if he kills you?”
He frowned at her. “Thank you for the vote of confidence.”
Then, poised for a fight, Theo threw the latch and opened the door. His heart hardened when he found himself eye-to-eye with a man he’d only glimpsed before.
“Am I addressing Captain Raynalds?”
“You are, sir.”
“Do you know who I am?”
Hatred surged through Theo’s system. “I do, sir.”
“Is my daughter within?” The set of Sir Malcolm’s jaw suggested rage simmered beneath the mask of composure he wore.
Theo puffed out his chest. “What is it to you?”
“I am her father.”
“And I am her protector—and would sooner die than return her to your custody.”
“I am astonished by your audacity, sir,” her father returned as if scolding a naughty child. “But do not deceive yourself into believing I will ever give way. For I shall never consent to such a disadvantageous marriage—however much wealth you possess or social status you acquire.”
Theo narrowed his eyes. “And I shall never give her up—nor allow myself to be intimidated by someone so wholly unconcerned with her happiness. You want her to marry your nephew for your own selfish reasons, without the slightest regard for your daughter’s feelings on the matter. How can you imagine them well-suited? And how can you imagine yourself a good father when you would condemn your daughter to a life of cruelty and abuse? I am not the one in the wrong here, sir. No, indeed. That distinction and the attending dishonor belong to you; and, moreover, you have grossly mistaken my character, if you think I can be run off like some troublesome stray. I will not be, sir, and I must beg, therefore, to be importuned no longer.”
“You have no regard, then, for the honor and credit of my daughter? Have you not considered that a connection with someone so far beneath her would disgrace her in the eyes of the world?”
“I do care how the world will perceive our marriage,” Theo told him with daggers in his eyes. “But not as greatly as I care about Louisa’s happiness—and my own.”
The Baronet arched a shaggy gray eyebrow. “And just how happy do you think she will be when she is divided forever from her family?”
“We will start a new family together—sooner than is usual, it would seem.”
Si
r Malcolm flared his nostrils. “She is carrying your child?”
“She is.”
The Baronet grunted with displeasure. “Then I suppose there is nothing more to say on the subject. For I cannot allow my younger daughters to share in Louisa’s disgrace. And I can hardly expect my nephew to raise another man’s bastard as his heir.”
“I should imagine not.” Theo felt on the verge of victory. “Does that mean we have your blessing?”
“Certainly not,” Sir Malcolm said with a sneer. “The most I am prepared to give is my promise not to stand in your way. But be aware, Captain, that neither of you—nor your children—will ever be welcome at Craven Castle.”
“I can live with that.”
“You are determined to have her, then—without regard to the disadvantages to her or yourself?”
Theo locked gazes with the Baronet. “I do not consider love and happiness disadvantageous, Sir Malcom. On the contrary, I believe they make the most advantageous marriages imaginable.”
* * * *
Louisa heard everything that passed between Theo and her father, so there was no need for him to recapitulate after he returned to the bed. Though she would miss Mama and Georgie fiercely, she did not regret being banned from Craven Castle—at least while her father yet lived. And if she and Theo should have a son before Papa died, she would be able to take better care of her mother and sisters than Charles would have.
So, as it turned out, she was not the selfish monster her father and aunt had painted her to be.
She looked at Theo, now reclining beside her with his arms crossed behind his head. “When do we leave for Gretna Green?”
“Tomorrow,” he said, “if that is all right with you.”
“I have nothing to wear, having come away with only the clothes on my back.”
“I will buy you a whole new wardrobe—and one that will expand to accommodate your condition.”
“Speaking of my condition…do you have any thoughts on names? Are there any, for example, you especially favor or disfavor?”
Theo smiled at her. “To be truthful, I have not turned my mind to the matter before this moment. Though, now that you’ve brought it up, I can tell you this much: if you give me a son, he will not be named Theobald.”
She leaned over him. “Do you not care for your name?”
“Do you?”
“I like everything about you,” she told him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “But will agree to exclude your name from consideration if you will consent to do the same with Malcolm and Charles.”
He laughed. “I believe that goes without saying.”
Freeing his arms, he hooked one around her, bringing her closer. She set her hand on his chest and played with the buttons on his waistcoat while she came up with a list of names she favored. When she had a few, she said, “What about Robert, James, or Hugh, if it’s a boy?—or Elizabeth, Marianne, or Elinor, if we have a girl?”
“I have no objection to Elinor, but the others are too common for my taste.”
“Do you have a better suggestion?”
“I rather like Horatio.”
“Horatio?” She was appalled. “You cannot be serious.”
“And yet, I am. For Horatio was the Christian name of Admiral Nelson, the great hero of Trafalgar.”
She screwed up her face in aversion. “While I appreciate your desire to pay him tribute, I do not like the name Horatio in the least.”
He frowned at her. “What, pray, is wrong with it?”
“Well, for one, it has no nickname. If we named the poor child Horatio, whatever would we call him on a daily basis?”
“Why do we need to call him by any name but his own?”
“Did Admiral Nelson have a nickname?”
“He did.”
She waited, then, “Will you not tell me what it was? If it pleases me, perhaps we can reach a compromise.”
“Trust me, it will not please you.”
“I will judge that for myself, if you do not mind.”
He cleared his throat and licked his lips. “Very well. If you must know, Nelson’s nickname was Cyclops—on account of his missing eye.”
She pursed her lips and flared her nostrils. “Obviously, we are not going to call our son Cyclops.”
“Obviously.”
There was a long silence before she said, “What about Nelson?”
“What about him?”
“Not the man, the name. We could call our child Nelson if it is a boy.”
He smiled up at her. “That is an excellent suggestion.”
“We can call him Sonny for short, which is a perfectly agreeable nickname.”
“I am satisfied,” he said, still smiling. “If you are delivered of a boy, we shall call him Nelson.”
She beamed at him. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”
“As a matter of fact, you have not.”
“I love you.”
“Good. Because I love you, too.”
Just as their lips met, there came another knock at the door.
“Bloody hell,” he grumbled, struggling to sit up. “Who the devil could it be now?”
“Not Charles, I hope,” she said, fearing it was.
“That makes two of us.”
They both got off the bed, but Louisa hung back as Theo went to the door. Like last time, he took up his sword and asked who it was.
“Father Christmas,” came the cheerful reply.
Theo opened the door straightaway. In rushed Lt. Churchill and a young lady Louisa knew at once—and was exceedingly happy to see.
“Georgie,” she cried excitedly. “How did you manage to escape Paragon Prison?”
“I ran after you when you jumped from the carriage—and had the good luck to bump into Christian seconds after he put you in the chair.”
Only then did Louisa notice Lt. Churchill had a modiste’s bag draped over his arm. Before Louisa could ask about it, Georgie ran to her and locked her in a hug. “Oh, sister. I’m so happy for you—and wish you great joy.”
Churchill, grinning, laid the garment bag on the bed. “We brought you a present, Miss Bennet—for your wedding.”
“How kind of you,” Louisa said. “What is it?”
“Your bridal gown,” Georgie told her excitedly. “I knew it was ready and already paid for, so we stopped at the modiste’s before coming here.”
Louisa thanked them both before saying to her sister, “I do hope you are coming to Scotland with us.”
Georgie beamed at her. “Just try and stop me, sister. Just try and stop me.”
Twenty-Four
As the equipage rumbled and bounced along the road to Gretna Green, Louisa stirred against Theo’s chest. “Was I asleep?”
“You were,” he said, smiling down at her. “And though I missed your company, I let you rest for little Nelson’s sake.”
She had, in fact been sleeping the better part of the journey—much to his dismay. With the addition of Miss Georgianna to the party, they’d been obliged to pair off by gender last night, depriving him of the passionate reunion he so greatly desired.
“Are we almost there?”
“We have just crossed the border into Scotland, so it should not be long now.”
She beamed up at him as she ran her fingers over his morning stubble. “You will need to shave before we go to the chapel.”
Her remark inspired concern about her expectations. “Pray, do you not know how weddings are conducted in Gretna Green?”
She wrinkled her pretty nose. “Will we not be married in a chapel by a Justice of the Peace?”
“No, my sweet. We will be married over an anvil by a smithy.”
She stared at him, mouth agape. “Surely, you are teasing me.”
“I promise you, I am not.”
He was indeed being truthful—though not completely honest. Gretna Green’s so-called “anvil priests” were not farriers by trade, but professional witnesses who “forged” the union be
tween desperate English couples for a fee.
“Scottish law, you see, allows for what are called ‘irregular marriages’—an exchange of vows made before any two witnesses,” he explained. “And this grants the authority to preside over weddings to virtually anyone disposed to do so.”
“Forgive me,” she said, still looking skeptical, “but that blacksmiths should preside over weddings sounds so absurd to me, I find it hard to take you seriously.”
He moved his mouth nearer to hers. “Believe me or not, as you will. For you shall discover soon enough that I am speaking truthfully.”
She heaved a sigh. “Well, if that is so, it seems pointless to dress up for the ceremony.”
Her obvious disappointment unleashed in Theo a flood of guilt. “Does it? Well, in my opinion, a wedding is still a wedding, wherever it might take place. So I encourage you to wear whatever makes you feel most like a bride.”
“My dress is white, Theo.” She glanced toward the garment bag on the opposite seat. “It will be ruined if we are married at a forge.”
“Then it is lucky ours will take place at an inn.”
She smirked at him witheringly. “I cannot decide which is less romantic: marrying you in a blacksmith’s shop or marrying you in a tavern.”
“If it helps, the inn in question is the former home of a laird. Though even if it were a public house, I should hope marrying me in such a place would still rank above marrying your cousin in a cathedral.”
“Of course it would,” she told him. “I just need a few moments to re-adjust my expectations.”
He bent to kiss her. “I should probably tell you that the Maxwell Arms is not in Gretna Green precisely, but a half-mile away in a tiny hamlet called Springfield. The elopements there are presided over by one David Lang, formerly of the Royal Navy—albeit by impression. He was among those captured by the American pirate John Paul Jones, who forced his British prisoners to work aboard his ships. When the vessel Lang was aboard dropped anchor off the coast of the Solway Firth, he jumped ship and made his way home to Springfield, where he took over his father’s trade as an anvil-priest.”
Louisa regarded him with a sardonic glint in her eye. “So, we are to be married in a pub by a pirate?”
