The Wedding Night of an English Rogue

by Jillian Hunter

  “A painting club.” He shifted his weight, smiled down into her eyes. “That sounds innocent enough.”

  “Doesn’t it?” she murmured, remembering the risqué conversations, the wicked fun of her aunt’s female friends. Innocent they weren’t.

  “Have you posed as Aphrodite for this worthy endeavor?” he asked, clearly unaware what fate held for him.

  “No, I haven’t. I did stand in for a Trojan once.”

  His gaze traveled over her in expert appraisal. Her unbound hair draped in wild disarray down her back. He’d mentioned moments ago that her muslin dress was thin. Now, by the way he stared right through it, by the sensual glint in his eyes, she might well have been naked, laid bare by his scrutiny. He really was a shameless man. She wondered if he could sense the emotional turmoil that flooded her whenever he looked at her like that, the deep craving that could never be fulfilled. Of course he could. He was a clever rogue.

  She brought her arm back to her side. The pressure of his grasp had sent a tingling warmth through her wrist to her fingertips. “Are you going to close the shed door or am I?”

  He squared his shoulders. “Boscastle to the rescue.”

  “Be careful out there.”

  “Is the cat dangerous? Good Lord, Julia, you didn’t bring a tiger back with you from India?”

  “Of course not. That would be cruel, to take a wild creature out of its native home.”

  He pulled his collar up high on his neck. “I’m only asking. After all, I was attacked by a monkey today.”

  She pursed her lips. “I meant be careful in the rain. Don’t trip over a wheelbarrow or one of my boots. And don’t hurt the cat. He’s old and defenseless, as misplaced in England as I appear to be.”

  “You’re sure it was the cat that disturbed you?”

  She wavered. “Well, no. Not absolutely. Do you want my gun?”

  “No, thank you. I think you should keep it. Just don’t shoot at me from the window.”

  Heath stood for several moments in the light rainfall, orienting himself to the unfamiliar green-gray shadows. A large brown object curled around his ankles. He glanced down to see Julia’s cat rubbing itself dry on his trouser cuffs.

  “All right, Puss. Let’s put a stop to your nonsense.”

  He pulled his collar up again over his nape, hoisted the tomcat into his arms, and took off at a sprint down the flagstone path. The shed stood at the very end of the garden, dark and enclosed behind a tangled wall of chestnut trees.

  “Here’s your home, my boy, and what a nice kitty castle it—”

  The captive tomcat apparently did not appreciate being held. Without warning, it raked a razor-sharp claw across Heath’s exposed throat, bunched its muscles, and sprang free into the heavy pattering rain.

  “And she called you old and defenseless,” Heath muttered, pressing his hand to the stinging cut before he scooped the escaping cat back into his arms and kicked open the shed door.

  The shed was predictably dank and redolent of humus and mildewed bulbs. Heath froze in his tracks. The darkness, the angle of shadows, the scent of wet dirt assaulted his senses. Took him back to a time he could barely remember and yet was unable to forget. The brutal days of his torture, the pain that had seemed to have no end.

  From out of nowhere a sense of suffocating panic consumed him. His mind struggled against darkness; deep, unwelcome memories unleashed. A harsh black-gloved hand gripping his hair and forcing his head into a vat of stagnant water, the taste of mildew. Holding him under until his lungs screamed and black terror blanketed his brain.

  Then blessed air, and the soft lethal voice of the enemy. A hooded Frenchman expertly applying a red-hot poker to the most tender parts of his body. Armand Auclair’s father had been an executioner during the Reign of Terror, a man infamous for how many aristocrats he had murdered at the guillotine. He had passed down his passion for cruelty to his son.

  The cat in Heath’s arms fell still, its muscles taut. He had not remembered the details of his torture so vividly in years, hoping that the wounds to his mind would heal. Scars, perhaps, but he had believed he would lay his demons to rest one day. He’d never told anyone what had happened. He never would. The mere memory made him feel insane, violated, more animal than man. He would never allow himself to be that weak again.

  He heard rather loud footsteps behind him and swung around to see a robust silvery-haired figure raise an object over his head.

  “Dear God, Lady Dalrymple,” he exclaimed. “Put down that flowerpot before you do me or those geraniums a fatal injury.”

  Hermia peered around the uplifted pot. The cat squeezed out of Heath’s arms and disappeared inside the shed.

  “For heaven’s sake, Boscastle,” she said as she lowered the flowerpot. “I nearly brained you. What are you doing out here in the rain?”

  “I should ask . . . did you see someone sneaking around the garden, too?”

  “Yes, you.” She nodded past him to the door. “I’d heard the shed door banging shut and came down to investigate. One cannot trust the servants with the job. They are fiercely loyal to Julia, but afraid of their own shadows. Between you and me, I think the lot of them have spent too much time out in the Indian sun.”

  “The sun?”

  “Bakes the brain, you know.”

  “I don’t think standing in the English rain does much for it, either. Would you mind waiting here a moment while I inspect the shed again?”

  She stared past him in alarm. “You did not think that someone was watching the house from the shed?”

  He brushed a bruised geranium leaf from his rain-spangled sleeve. “That remains to be seen.”

  He ducked inside the shed, his gaze lowering to the gleaming eyes of the cat in the corner. The pungent scent of mildew that he had detected earlier was fainter now, overpowered by the more pleasant aroma of moss and damp aged wood. After a thorough search he could not find a trace of a recent intruder. The rain would have blurred away any footprints outside the shed by now. His gaze lifted to a small window above the crowded shelf of bulbs and gardening tools. His skin began to crawl as he realized he could see into Julia’s bedchamber from where he stood.

  His eyes dropped to a dark object on the shelf. He reached up. It was a man’s black glove, placed beneath a gardener’s spade. The glove looked worn, more of a gauntlet style than part of a fashionable gentleman’s wardrobe. It seemed vaguely familiar.

  “Well? What is it?”

  He turned to see Hermia’s worried face, outlined in a halo of frizzy silver-gold curls, peeking into the shed.

  He stepped outside. “I don’t know.” He handed her the glove. “Have you ever seen this before?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t say that I have. Did the intruder drop it?”

  “No. It was sitting on the shelf.”

  “Well, an elderly gentleman did lease the house until a few months ago.”

  He glanced into the garden. The rain had eased, and through the misty gray veil of drizzle he could see Julia standing at the window watching them.

  If anyone had hidden in the shed, he would have had a perfect view into her room.

  He stood still. Was someone watching her or trying to discern whether Russell was in her room? Auclair, or an agent who worked for him, would surely know by now that Russell was on his way to Paris.

  His every instinct awakened, warned him not to let down his guard. Never underestimate the enemy.

  Hermia followed the direction of his gaze, shuddering in reaction. “Do you really think my niece is in danger? I admit that I’d hoped Russell was exaggerating.”

  “I had hoped the same, Lady Dalrymple.” He studied the glove, his mouth thinning. He was suddenly glad he was here. “For now perhaps it is wise to believe him.”

  Julia had returned to her room, convinced she had sent Heath on a fool’s mission. Of course it had been the cat she’d heard, not an intruder lurking in the garden. What on earth was he doing with her aunt? Both
of them appeared to be getting soaked, from what Julia could make out from her vantage point. She pressed her forehead to the windowpane. What had Russell gotten Heath into? She felt so very self-indulgent, claiming him as her bodyguard. Under other circumstances . . . She blocked the thought before it could bedevil her.

  The true danger was to Russell in Paris, a city not predisposed to welcoming English heroes, despite the fact that Wellington had been set up there as an ambassador.

  She felt dreadful, sending Heath out in the rain after he had been so generous with his time. She would apologize to him. Then she would insist he resign as her personal protector. For both their sakes.

  The door behind her opened. She turned, startled from her thoughts. He stood before her, his silky black hair plastered to his finely shaped skull. The front of his white linen shirt was molded to the superb musculature of his chest. He looked anything but happy, and no wonder. She shook her head in apology.

  “You’re soaked to the skin.” She came forward, her hands lifting to his shirtfront. The damp brought out the masculine scent of his shaving soap and starch, the pleasing musk of his skin. “I should—”

  “Not touch me like that,” he said in a rough voice. “Julia, please, I am only a man.”

  “As if anyone could forget that,” she retorted unthinkingly. “I’m sorry to have sent you out in this weather.”

  Their gazes met. The blue fire in his eyes took her breath away. “Try to think,” he said, his face giving nothing away. “What exactly did you see or hear in the garden?”

  “I heard a banging, and . . .” She noticed the thin trickle of blood on his throat. She raised her hand again, aghast. “What happened to you? There was an intruder.”

  “Julia, please do not distract me.” Dark humor glittered in the depths of his eyes. “I think I’ll survive. Compared to my past wounds—”

  “Let me cleanse it.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “It isn’t nothing,” she said in concern. “You’re bleeding. How did it happen?”

  “ ‘Old and defenseless.’ I believe those were your exact words,” he said with a droll smile.

  “My cat scratched you?”

  “Apparently it didn’t like me as much as that monkey earlier today.”

  “Take off your jacket and shirt this instant.”

  He unbuttoned, then shrugged the garments off his broad shoulders, grinning at her. “Anything else while I’m at it? Socks? Trousers? Boots?”

  “How can you joke when your throat has been cut?”

  He lowered his voice. “Because your cat did it, that’s why, and it is only a scratch.”

  She frowned at him. “Do you want that scratch to become infected?”

  “Sorry.” He reached into his pocket and removed the worn black glove. “Does this look familiar?”

  She shook her head. “No. I’ve never seen Russell wearing it. It certainly isn’t mine.” She glanced up at him again. “Where did you find it?”

  “On the shelf in the shed. Hermia thought it might have belonged to the previous owner.”

  “Possibly. Or one of his ancestors. Please let me clean off that scratch.”

  He leaned back in resignation against her dressing table while she located a clean towel from under the washstand. He did not move as she dabbed astringent on the cut. He didn’t feel the scratch at all. He couldn’t say the same for Julia. He felt every movement of her body, a sweet agony that built by the moment. God help him, he would disgrace himself if he didn’t find relief soon. His attraction to her had become unbearable, a physical as well as emotional ache.

  He tried to ignore the soft brush of her breasts on his upper arm. He succeeded at first, but soon his body began to rebel. She was standing too close to him for comfort. His trousers still felt damp from the rain, and Julia’s skin radiated a warm invitation. His cock stiffened, and he was certain she must be aware of his arousal, pressed against him as she was. He ground his teeth, studying her through half-closed eyes. He could just make out the rosy circles of her nipples through her nightdress. A dangerous fire ignited in his belly, spread through every part of his male body. He didn’t give a damn about the scratch. He wanted this woman.

  “Hold still,” she murmured.

  “I am holding still.”

  She leaned into him, and his throbbing groin was suddenly molded to the rounded softness of her stomach. He sucked in his breath, feeling her slight hesitation. By now she had to realize he was one hard, aroused man. Yet here they stood, a heartbeat away from each other, and he couldn’t have her. And he needed her. God, he needed her.

  He stared down at her as she drew a deep breath. He kept his hands braced behind him on the dressing table, but in his mind he was removing her nightdress, kissing her beautiful breasts, sucking on the dusky tips until she could not stand up. He exhaled slowly, tantalized by the yielding softness of her body, the scent of her hair, her sweet breath on his cheek.

  The bed was only a few steps away. He could have her undressed and gasping for mercy in seconds. He could put himself out of his aching misery, impale her, ride her for the rest of the night to slake the longing that he had suppressed for so long. He wanted to grasp her firm bottom and drive into her until she could barely walk. He’d never needed to take advantage of his appeal to the opposite sex before. He was sorely tempted to test his skill now.

  “What in the world are you thinking about?” she asked unexpectedly.

  His smile gave him away, revealed every dark thought that he had entertained.

  “Never mind,” she said quickly. “That is a smile I recognize only too well. I don’t think you need to explain it.”

  “How perceptive of you.”

  “You’re right,” she murmured, ignoring his remark. “That scratch is not deep enough to kill you.”

  “Thank goodness. I hadn’t made out a proper will yet.”

  She looked up into his darkly mocking face and felt her heart miss a beat. She struggled for equilibrium. “What are we doing alone in my bedroom?” she asked in a hesitant voice. “There wasn’t anyone in the garden, was there?”

  “Only your aunt,” he replied, taking the cloth from her hand. “At least by the time I arrived, there was no one in sight.”

  “What did she think she was doing?”

  “She almost bashed my brains out with a flowerpot.”

  “A flower—” She shook her head in dismay, not quite managing to smother a laugh. “How traumatic for you. First my cat, and then my aunt. I do apologize. Being my protector certainly comes at a high price.”

  She had no idea. It was killing him to control himself. He leaned forward, his bare chest brushing against her breasts. “That grin on your face doesn’t look at all sorry to me.”

  “Do you need sympathy?” she asked, eyeing him in amusement.

  Cruel woman, he thought. “It never hurts in these situations.”

  “Odd,” Julia said. “I always thought of you as the stoic, long-suffering type.”

  “With everyone else.”

  She lowered her hand, gazing up at him in curiosity. “Am I different then?”

  He hesitated. “I think we both know you are.”

  Her eyes darkened. “I’m not sure whether you should have told me that.”

  “Neither am I,” he retorted. “Nonetheless, it happens to be true.”

  She swallowed, but he noticed that she did not draw away from him. He wished she would. He was going to take her into his arms in a moment and do something shocking to her. Something indecent and inventively sexual. She sensed that, too. She might not acknowledge it, but she must realize that he desired her. His treacherous male body gave him away all too well, and Julia was certainly experienced enough to recognize the signs of sexual arousal.

  Her voice broke the tension building between them. “I suppose it’s Russell we should be worried about. It has always seemed odd to me that Auclair would lure him so openly to France. What if this is a trap?”r />
  He narrowed his eyes. What a tactic. There was nothing like the mention of another man to dampen one’s libido. “Russell is prepared for that. I think he’s ready to end the game once and for all.”

  “But not his life.”

  “Are you afraid, Julia?”

  “Of course I am. I know you men believe yourself invincible, as did my husband.”

  He brushed a strand of hair off her shoulder, the gesture instinctual. She looked vulnerable again with her emotions unmasked; he reminded himself he was meant to defend her. And yet the drugging need spreading through his veins like molten wine made him feel more like an aggressor than protector. His body tightened like a fist. Her kiss today had intoxicated him, left him aching for more. His desire seemed to intensify every time he saw her. At this rate he would be raging mad by the end of the week.

  Resolutely, he placed his hands on her shoulders. “Go to bed.”

  “What about you?”

  “If I stay another moment—”

  “Don’t,” she said, pressing her forefinger swiftly to his mouth. “Don’t say it. If you say it, then I shall want it, too, and heaven help us then.”

  His hands moved slowly down her back, slid around her hips to draw her into the hot core of his body. He thought she would resist. But her spine arched as if she were magnetized to him. He groaned with longing into the luxuriant coil of hair at her nape. There was no other woman like her. He’d always known that.

  “God help me,” he whispered.

  “Go home, Heath,” she said softly. “Nothing is going to happen to me tonight.”

  Chapter 10

  He did not go home. Not to defy Julia, or to prove a point. He stayed because he had begun to wonder whether Russell’s fears for her might be justified. No matter what he had to do, he could never let her fall into the hands of Armand Auclair, the man who had broken his body and had hoped to break his soul. Although he returned to the garden several times that night, he could not find any evidence of an intruder. The shed remained undisturbed. The rain had washed away even his own footprints.