Waking Up With a Rake

by Mia Marlowe

  Only the bridegroom’s face remained hazy in her maidenly imaginings.

  Now her bridegroom’s face was the only real thing. She’d never have been able to envision becoming a wife in a sooty blacksmith’s shop. Even though her insides were jumping with excitement over marrying Rhys, a small part of her was disappointed to miss the High Church rite of her dreams.

  “Angus MacDermot is me name,” the blacksmith said. His son Calum returned with a grinning, gap-toothed woman who must have been the smith’s wife in tow. “I’ll be needing your names as well, and make ’em your true ones, mind, else the rite’s no good.”

  “Lord Rhys Alexander Ford Warrington.”

  “Miss Olivia Marguerite Symon.”

  “Verra good, your lairdship, Miss Symon. Now stand ye here on either side of me anvil and clasp hands so.” Mr. MacDermot joined their hands palm to palm, Olivia’s right to Rhys’s left. Then he took a length of leather strap from his pocket and bound their wrists together. “Ye’ve stated your names. Now state your intention.”

  “We want to be married, of course,” Rhys said, his brows lifting a bit at being required to name the obvious.

  “Aye, and so shall ye be.” Mr. MacDermot cleared his throat and placed his hands on the anvil between them. “This anvil has forged many a fine blade for protectin’ what a man wishes to hold. So may this marriage forge together these two souls and be a safe haven for both parties to it.”

  Rhys’s dark eyes shone as he looked down at her. He had already proven his ability to keep her safe physically. Would he give her heart the same care? He was a rake, she reminded herself. It was a little late to have misgivings, but she couldn’t help a small flutter of unease under her ribs.

  “This anvil has forged a good many plowshares for tillin’ the land. So also may this marriage between Lord Rhys Warrington and Miss Olivia Symon prove fruitful,” MacDermot said with a wide grin.

  Fruitful? Children, he means. Oh, dear. I didn’t even think about that.

  Rhys would have enough trouble adapting to the married state. What sort of father would a rake make?

  “This anvil has wrought many needful things for the making of a prosperous home. So may this marriage provide needful things for the happy couple—enough so they know no want, yet not so much that they forget to share.”

  It wasn’t the Anglican rite, but Olivia found herself agreeing with Mr. MacDermot’s sentiments.

  “And may they never forget the most needful thing is love,” Angus MacDermot concluded.

  Mrs. MacDermot sniffed loudly at that and swiped her eyes on her sleeve. She smiled at Olivia and Rhys though tears still welled. The woman meant well, but since she didn’t know them, the tears rang false. Olivia wondered if she hired out as a professional mourner when business as a professional witness was spotty.

  “And that’s the end of me speechifying,” their anvil priest said. “Now I call upon Mary MacDermot and James MacDermot to witness and mark it well as ye make yer vows.”

  Silence reigned for half a minute. In the church rite, the vicar read the vow from his book of services and the couple recited after him. Rhys looked askance at MacDermot. “Aren’t you going to lead us?”

  “How should I know what ye intend to promise the lady?” He pronounced the word as if it were “li-dey.” “I’m no’ a real priest, ye ken. Speak but the words in yer heart, man, and I’ll pronounce ye marrit when the pair o’ ye reach an end of yer jawin’.”

  “Are you sure this is legal?” Rhys asked.

  “Oh, aye. Folk been marryin’ this way in these parts since the Flood. Once ye leave the presence o’ the anvil, ye’ll be marrit before God and man.”

  Rhys tipped his head in a gesture that suggested he was still dubious about the whole process, but he was willing to proceed. He met Olivia’s gaze directly.

  “Olivia Marguerite Symon, I have nothing you could want. No fortune compared to the one you’re leaving in your father’s house. No title. Once my father dies and my brother ascends to the marquisate, I’ll be plain Mr. Warrington.” A frown marred his brow. “Come to think of it, I can’t even offer you a good name because I’ve soiled mine rather badly up to this point.”

  He squeezed her fingers and gazed at her earnestly.

  “So all I can offer you is myself and hope it’s enough,” he said, his voice husky with emotion. “I’ll try mightily not to shame you with bad behavior, though you know as well as I, I’ve had little practice with good. I’ll provide for your comfort as best I can and protect you as long as I have a beating heart. I’ll stand by you, in sickness or in health. I’ll love you with my body and honor you with all that is in me. And if by some miracle we reach old age together, I’ll sit beside you as the shadows fall and hold your hand, until we are dust.”

  Olivia’s mouth gaped a bit and tears trembled on her lashes. Mrs. MacDermot sobbed aloud, but Olivia no longer thought she was putting on her emotional response. Who would have guessed her rake had the soul of a poet?

  “These things I vow. Am I enough?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Oh, yes, Rhys Warrington. You’re enough.”

  “Weel, then, that’s grand, isn’t it?” Mr. MacDermot said. “Now then, have ye a ring to seal yer promise with, yer lairdship?”

  Rhys frowned. “No.”

  “No worries. ’Tis a rare couple as has thought that far ahead by the time they reach me shop. So I’ve prepared a few what ye might call placeholders for just such a situation. ’Tis only ’til ye can buy the lady a proper ring, mind.” Mr. MacDermot squinted at Olivia’s left hand for a moment, then rummaged along his workbench and retrieved a nail that had been curved into a small circle. “Reckon this’ll do for the now.”

  He handed it to Rhys and motioned for him to put it on her. The iron circlet was surprisingly smooth and fit her ring finger almost perfectly.

  “Speak the words, man. Ye ken the ones I mean.”

  “With this ring,” Rhys said, “I thee wed.”

  Mr. MacDermot beamed at them. “I now pronounce—”

  “Wait a moment,” Rhys said. “Isn’t she supposed to make a vow to me?”

  “The lass consented to marry ye, did she no’? After that litany of what ye dinna have, I’m thinkin’ a canny man might be wantin’ me to hurry things along lest she change her mind,” Mr. MacDermot said out of one side of his mouth, as if only Rhys could hear him. “If ye’re still desirous of a promise from her, I’ll help ye, but let’s make it quick before she has a bit of a think about things.” Then he went on, directing his speech to Olivia alone. “Tell me, lass. According to the laws of God and man, will ye be a good and faithful wife to this undeserving wretch of a man?”

  “That’s helping?” Rhys said.

  “Whist, man. Let the lass answer.”

  “Yes, I’ll be his good and faithful wife.”

  “Then the necessaries having been satisfied—trust me, man. Her vow, simple as it is, will stand ye in good stead. Women have more sense about the doing part of being marrit than men do. She’ll do ye proud, I’ll be bound. Where was I? Oh, aye, I now pronounce ye man and wife.”

  Mr. MacDermot handed Rhys a dirk.

  “Yer first task as her husband is to cut her free. Ye’re bound together yet, even though the strap binding ye be gone, but after, when ye come to each other, ’tis always of yer own free will.”

  Rhys slid the tip of the dirk between them, taking care not to nick her wrist, and sliced the leather in a quick stroke. Olivia’s hand still wasn’t free though. He laced his fingers with hers and held her fast.

  “Now ye can kiss yer bride,” MacDermot advised.

  Rhys didn’t need to be told twice. He gathered her close and kissed her deeply. The wedding ceremony had had the hazy quality of a slightly comedic dream, but Rhys’s kiss was as real as life could ever be.

  “Easy, man,” MacDermot said. “Save a trifling for the weddin’ night.”

  Olivia’s face flushed hotly.

  Weddin
g night.

  All those lovely, filthy things Rhys had done with her were suddenly lovely, pure things. Didn’t the Good Book say Adam and Eve were naked and they were not ashamed? If she had her way, Rhys would run around without stockings or anything else all the time. Her imagination was already running rampant with some previously wicked ideas that were now perfectly good ones.

  They were the same things. How amazing that a few words said over an anvil should change them so utterly.

  “And speakin’ o’ the weddin’ night,” MacDermot said, “while it’s true what we’ve done here is legal, a bedding makes it completely legal, if ye take me meaning. To that end, may I suggest that your lairdship might take his ease with his wife in yonder croft?”

  On the other side of the forge stood another thatch-roofed cottage, as like the smith’s home as two peas.

  “It belongs to me oldest son, Seamus. He and his brood have gone to London in search of work. Calum started the fire in there afore we began the ceremony, so I’ll warrant ’tis toasty warm now, and me missus keeps it clean enough to eat off the floor. Me son lets me lease it out to deserving couples such as yerselves for a fair reasonable price.” MacDermot named a sum that bordered on highway robbery. “I can let ye have it by the month or the week, milord.”

  “We’ll take it for the night. One night only,” Rhys said. “But I’ll pay you for the week if your good wife will bring us some supper in a couple hours.”

  Mrs. MacDermot bobbed a quick courtesy and scurried back into her home to make preparations while her husband handed over the iron key to the oak door of his son’s home.

  Rhys offered Olivia his arm. “I’m sorry you had to be wed with a nail for ring. I promise you a real one as soon as possible.”

  “I rather like this one,” she said, holding her hand aloft and pretending to admire the lead-gray metal. “I suspect it will fit your nose well should I ever feel the need to lead you around by it.”

  Rhys threw his head back and laughed. “Come, wife. Like the man said, I’m ready to take my ease with you.”

  “Prepare yourself, husband,” she said with a grin. “I plan on a little ease-taking myself.”

  Chapter 23

  As they neared the cottage door, Rhys scooped Olivia up to carry her over the threshold.

  “I had no idea you were so old-fashioned.” She draped her arms around his shoulders and peppered his neck with kisses. Then she suckled his earlobe.

  His eyes threatened to roll back in his head, but he somehow managed to hold her one-handed while he worked the key in the iron lock and threw open the door.

  “Haven’t you ever heard it’s bad luck for a bride to trip on the threshold? If she does, the marriage starts with a bad omen.”

  “What if the bridegroom trips?” she asked.

  “Then the bride realizes she’s married a clumsy lout, but by then it’s too late.” Rhys set her down inside the tidy cottage. He’d barely closed the door behind him when Olivia wrapped her arms about him.

  He placed an arm around her waist and drew her close. Then he caught one of her hands and pressed it against his chest, letting her feel the pounding of his heart. “You’re stuck with me, Olivia, and I don’t intend to let you think long enough to reconsider.”

  He’d meant to hold back, to wait for her to respond, but blood pounded in his ears, the drumbeat of lust. He claimed her mouth, nearly overcome by her sweetness. Her clean scent surrounded him, intoxicating him more thoroughly than that cursed absinthe. When she answered his kiss and pressed herself against him, the pounding in his ears grew so loud he thought she must be able to hear it. Then the drumbeat moved much lower, to his hard cock. It throbbed with the rhythm of his life in ever-quickening pulses.

  Rhys knew he should be gentler as he cupped her bum and lifted her against him. This was her first time, for pity’s sake. He ought to go slow. If he didn’t hold back, she might shatter in his arms.

  Olivia didn’t seem to think she was that fragile though. When he started to release her, she pulled his head back down with a soft moan, urging him to stay.

  Olivia nipped at his lower lip. His groin ached all the more. The desperate little noises she made at the back of her throat nearly drove him mad.

  His hands roamed over her, finding and exploring each dip and valley, the exquisite line of her back, the curve of her bum. He gathered the bombazine of her traveling gown in his fists and worked the column of fabric up. She raised her arms in surrender, and he pulled the garment over her head.

  Her hands were busy too, plucking at buttons here, shoving clothing out of the way there. She stepped out of her slippers and he toed off his boots, balancing one-legged all the while so as not to interrupt the drugging effect of her mouth beneath his. If he’d been capable of rational thought at the time, he’d have applauded his athletic prowess.

  They moved together in a stylized dance of lust, garments dropping unheeded to the clean-swept plank floor as they worked their way toward their destination—the soft-looking string bed in the corner of the cottage’s single room.

  When Olivia stood before him in naught but her shift, he paused for a moment, drinking in the sight of her. Her pale skin was gilded with light from the fire, setting her aglow like some ethereal being. She was as out of place in the homely cottage as an angel in purgatory.

  “You’re not stopping?” she asked, her voice dusky.

  “Not for worlds,” he promised as he pulled the chemise over her head, leaving her bare as Eve in glory.

  Her breasts shuddered with a sigh. Then her gaze swept down over him and she giggled.

  “What’s so funny?” He’d been so intent on seeing her naked, he hadn’t realized she’d done a fair job of disrobing him at the same time.

  “You’re still wearing your stockings.”

  He bent down and yanked off the offending socks. Then he straightened and looked his fill of her. His conscience had flayed him while he tried to seduce her in her father’s house. Now they stood before each other, man and wife, naked as God made them.

  And for the first time in a very long while, Rhys felt no shame.

  “Now what?” she asked.

  “Now, my love, I show you that being even a knowledgeable virgin is overrated. Stand still.”

  Slowly, he reached out a hand. Starting at the base of her throat where her pulse fluttered like the wings of a hummingbird, he traced a lover’s journey over her flawless skin. She shivered under his touch.

  Oh, the feel of her, all warm and soft and willing!

  He paused to dally in every crevice, the crease beneath her slender arm, the delicate skin at the bend of her elbow. Defying the urgency of his cock, he took his time, learning her by heart.

  He ran his fingertip around the outline of her hands, to the deep base of each finger and threading his way around her knuckles. He taunted the soft curve beneath each breast. He thumbed her nipples and watched them tighten to hard little nubs.

  “Rhys,” she chanted his name with urgency. He couldn’t tell if it sounded more like a prayer or a curse.

  “Hush, now.” He kissed her again. “It’ll be all right. Trust me.”

  She absolutely could this time.

  He drew circles around the shallow indentation of her navel. Then his touch dropped lower and he teased her legs apart. His fingers launched a gentle invasion, though his gaze never left her face. He wanted to watch as he pleasured her.

  She was hot and slick and ready. That little spot had risen for him to stroke and torment. Need parted her lips and made her eyes go languid.

  When she reached out to touch him as well, he stopped her. “Not yet, love. You first.”

  “No, Rhys.” She lifted her hand again to press her fingertips against his lips. “You’ve given me pleasure and taken none for yourself before. It brought me such joy, but no ease. Because if I can’t give to you, I think I’ll burst. We go together into this madness or not at all.”

  Then to his deep delight, she sm
oothed her palm along his jaw and down his neck, her touch a balm and a firebrand at once. A slight breath of wintery air found its way in around the nearby window, cooling the fever heating his bare skin.

  “I’ve enjoyed being a knowledgeable virgin,” she said, her voice sultry as she eased his hand away from her soft folds, “but I think I’ll enjoy being a knowledgeable wife far more. Now it’s my turn. This time you stand still.”

  He had difficulty drawing breath as her clever little hands fluttered over him, tickling along his ribs, teasing his nipples into hard knots. Then she cupped his ballocks. Her gentle massage only sent his cock into a deeper ache. She ran her hands over his hard thighs and stepped close enough to reach around and cup his buttocks as he’d done hers. Her breasts taunted him with glancing brushes as she moved closer. Then Olivia stepped back a pace.

  “You’re a quick learner,” he said huskily.

  “I had a good teacher.”

  But she carefully avoided the throbbing shaft that yearned for her touch more than any other part of him. Instead she raked his ribs with her nails and splayed her fingers across his flat belly. When she finally grasped him, it was all he could do not to erupt in her hands.

  “Olivia, I can’t—” Rhys began, but then she surprised him by leaping up, hooking her hands behind his neck, and wrapping her legs around his waist.

  “Can’t what?” she asked with feigned innocence as she pressed herself against him, her hot moistness tormenting the tip of his cock. “Seems to me you definitely can.”

  She lifted a brow at him.

  “You’ve been close to taking my maidenhead before,” she said. “Now there’s nothing stopping you.”

  Not God. Not man. Not guilt over how he’d meant to ruin her. She was his, well and truly. Or she would be in another moment or two.