Waking Up With a Rake

by Mia Marlowe

  “I love you, woman,” he said. Then he covered her mouth with his before she could make fun of him for being so maudlin. All his longing and hope poured into her through that kiss.

  He’d finally settled on the true name for that expanding lump in his chest that ached at the sight of her. It really was love. He’d thought himself dead to that heart-pumping anarchy, and yet, here it was, surging through him like a rain-swollen river.

  He loved her—Olivia Symon, gardener, equestrienne, relentless tease. She was either a gift or a curse. A gift because from the crown of her head to the soles of her delicately arched feet, she fit the wrinkles in his soul perfectly.

  And a curse because, having once had her, it would kill him to lose her. He’d spend the rest of his life trying to be worthy of her.

  But if he didn’t take her right now, he’d die on the spot. Slowly, he pushed her hips down, gently impaling her on his rock-hard erection. He groaned, awash in the pleasure of her slick, hot flesh. When he reached the thin barrier of her purity, he didn’t stop. With one quick thrust, he made her take all of him.

  She cried out, but it didn’t sound like pain. The gasp that tore from her throat was the feral sound of feminine triumph as she engulfed him completely.

  He tumbled onto the bed with her. Once they came to rest with her beneath him, he moved inside her, reveling in her softness. Her skin was heaven against his; her responses added fuel to the flame in his groin.

  He’d never have guessed she was a virgin if he hadn’t felt the rending of her hymen. There was no hesitation in her. Olivia moved with him, meeting his thrusts in an undulating rhythm. Heart on heart, they joined in perfect concert. They strained against each other.

  Pleasure was their goal and their guide as they took and gave in equal measure. He’d thought to teach her, but she was schooling him.

  A touch here, a gasp there.

  Stop. Start. Speed up. Slow down now. Oh, that. Yes, please God, yes.

  Their hands, mouths, bodies, and hearts joined. If they stopped kissing, it was only to tumble into each other’s eyes. When Rhys looked down at her, he was lost in the wonder of the connection they were building.

  Rhys had known countless women. But he’d never let one know him. When Olivia looked up at him, with trust shining out of her, with acceptance in her tremulous smile, he realized he’d never truly made love before. He might have joined his body to another body, but he’d never joined his heart to someone else’s, never committed that misshapen part of him to another’s care.

  Olivia made him feel it might be safe.

  There is surrender in shared bliss, a kind of dying that the body welcomes like the faithful soul longs for its reward in the afterlife. They teetered for just a moment on the brink of the abyss, then plummeted over the edge together. He felt her contract around him in spasms of joy as his seed pulsed into her.

  He didn’t know how long it lasted. Didn’t care. Eternal things aren’t bound by time, and they’d done something that would stay with him for the ages.

  He’d made Olivia his.

  Unwilling to part from her until he must, he lay his head on the pillow beside her and inhaled her sweet scent. Her heart hammered under his. Gradually, their breathing fell into an easy rhythm together as the fever of lust subsided.

  When he finally slipped out of her, he shifted to settle by her side. He nuzzled her neck, utterly spent.

  There was no need for words. Anything he might say would seem redundant. Though he wouldn’t have minded hearing her say she loved him too.

  He wouldn’t press though. Her body had said it. Love was in every hitched breath, every shuddering cry. It enveloped him, sending delayed shivers over his skin. It was in the air he breathed. With this joining, he’d claimed her forever.

  She kissed the crown of his head and hugged him close, relaxing beside his body with the same lethargy that was stealing over him. In a few moments, her even breathing told him she’d escaped into sleep ahead of him.

  He propped himself up on one elbow and gazed down at her. Her lashes quivered on her cheeks and he knew she was dreaming.

  “Let it be a good dream,” he whispered. He’d let her sleep for a while. Then after Mrs. MacDermot brought them supper, he’d torment her until she begged him to take her again. No point in having been a rake if a man hadn’t picked up a few useful insights into feminine sexuality.

  He also decided he’d never ask God for another thing for the rest of his life. He’d already received more than the full measure of happiness. Another drop of joy might be too much.

  Olivia was his. It was more than a rake had a right to ask. More than enough.

  Chapter 24

  “I’m perfectly content to remain here in Gretna Green for our honeymoon,” Olivia told him over their breakfast the next morning.

  Mrs. MacDermot had sent over a platter of eggs, fresh bannocks, and plenty of clotted cream with an assortment of jams. There was also a savory covered dish of hot, juicy, perfectly spiced sausages. Rhys suspected they’d enjoy them more if their true list of ingredients was not questioned.

  “Mr. MacDermot said we could have this cottage for a month,” Olivia said between sips of her tea. She darted an inquiring glance at him. “If we wish, of course. If it’s a question of funds—”

  “It’s not a matter of money. Never fear. I’m sufficiently flush to support you for at least the next month.” The day he couldn’t afford to lease a simple Scottish croft for a goodly stretch of time was the day he’d cock up his toes. It irked him that she thought he might not be able to adequately house her.

  They’d made love no less than three times last night and indulged in one quick swive this morning. But while their bodies found perfect harmony, their breakfast conversation had been stilted and filled with awkward silences. They communicated just fine in the marriage bed, but now that they were out of it, the strangeness of their new situation made them skittish with each other.

  Something was bothering Olivia, but she hadn’t come right out with it. Rhys wasn’t sure he wanted to know what it was.

  Instead she’d been hinting around that they’d need to access her money sooner rather than later. The idea chafed him more than wearing wet socks.

  And she still hadn’t told him she loved him, which was beginning to irritate him more than he wanted to admit.

  “Why should my bride sleep in a crofter’s cottage when my family has a small estate near here?”

  “Oh! I didn’t know the Warringtons had Scottish roots.”

  “We don’t.”

  Rhys slathered his bannock with clotted cream and bit into it. He was sure the warm bun was fine, but as long as he felt this niggling sense that Olivia was disappointed with him for some reason, he couldn’t completely enjoy Mrs. MacDermot’s baked goods.

  “The marquisate acquired a Scottish holding back in the days of Edward Longshanks,” he explained. “And since no Warrington has ever yielded a foot of earth once it came into his possession, my father holds it still. Though the family seldom uses Braebrooke Cairn for more than a hunting lodge, there’s a decent manor house on the estate.” He used the rest of the bannock to sop up his eggs. “Besides, I want to be able to send back your father’s coach as soon as possible.”

  There should be at least one serviceable conveyance they could use at the Scottish Warrington estate. Besides, the idea of being indebted to Horatio Symon for anything curdled his soul. Especially after the man thought he’d have to get Rhys thoroughly foxed before he’d marry Olivia.

  “I wonder how your family will take the news of our hasty wedding,” Olivia said, biting her lower lip.

  “I doubt any of the family will be in residence there if that’s what’s worrying you,” Rhys said. “Father may be in London if Parliament has been called into session, but Mother will be in the country still at the ancestral seat. My sisters and brother are all married with homes of their own. No one in the family lives at Braebrooke Cairn full time.”

/>   “Oh,” she said, chasing a bit of sausage around her plate without actually spearing it so she could eat. “Once the Season starts, should we plan to go to London so I can meet your family?”

  “No. I mean, we may go to London. After all, I believe you’re going to be the proud owner of a townhouse there shortly.” He scowled at the thought of living in a home for which only his wife held title. If not for the fact that he needed a safe place for Olivia to live, he’d refuse his father-in-law’s generosity. As soon as he was financially able, Rhys would arrange for his own townhouse and move Olivia out of the one her father was going to buy for her. A man had to have some pride. “Wherever we live in London, we won’t be seeing my family.”

  “Why not?”

  “They don’t want to see me.” One of the reasons he felt comfortable going to Braebrooke Cairn was because he was fairly certain only the estate’s servants would be there.

  “Nonsense. I’m sure they do.” She cast him a smile that would normally have made him melt.

  He stared at her until the smile left her lips. “Let it go, Olivia.”

  “I see.” She dabbed her lips with her napkin and laid it beside her plate.

  The silence became so oppressive he finally asked, “All right, I give up. What do you see?”

  “You’re ashamed of me.”

  “Now you’re being ridiculous.” On the contrary, he was ashamed of himself and the whole Warrington clan. His family had all but cut him off. And frankly, he feared a hasty wedding to a commoner, albeit a wealthy heiress of a commoner, wouldn’t do anything to endear him to his rigid father. If the marquis wouldn’t see his son when he was on what everyone supposed was his deathbed, he likely wouldn’t hesitate to snub Rhys over marrying a commoner wife.

  The last thing Rhys wanted to do was bring Olivia into that nest of briars. He didn’t want her hurt. But taking her to Braebrooke Cairn was a calculated risk he was prepared to bear. He wasn’t likely to see any of his family, though the steward would probably send word that he and Olivia had been there. A thrifty soul, Alpin Ferguson sent detailed ledgers of the estate each quarter without fail. He’d have to notify Lord Warrington that his second son and his new wife were at Braebrooke Cairn in order to account for the extra consumption of everything from butter and eggs to the burning of costly beeswax candles.

  But at least at his father’s Scottish holding they’d be surrounded by loyal servants and miles of rugged countryside dotted with crofters who owed their living to the distant Lord Warrington. It would undoubtedly be safer for Olivia there than this cottage in the middle of nowhere.

  Now that he’d had time to consider it, Rhys wasn’t so sure the attacks on her at Barrowdell happened because someone wanted her match with the Duke of Clarence to go away. Those thorns seemed like a message, and a more personal method of dispatch than a political assassin would use.

  He rose, leaving the rest of his sausages untouched. There was nothing wrong with the hearty country fare. The thought of someone targeting Olivia made him lose his appetite. The sooner he had her firmly ensconced behind the gray granite stones of Braebrooke Cairn, the better.

  “Gather up your things,” he said. “We’re leaving.”

  “Just like that?”

  “What do you want? A trumpet fanfare?” Couldn’t she see that he was just trying to spare her, both from his family’s vitriol and a killer’s further attempts on her life?

  “What I want,” she said, her eyes blazing, “is a husband who isn’t an insufferable tyrant.”

  “Too bad. What you’re stuck with is me. I’ll be back with the coach and driver in a quarter-hour.” He strode to the door. “Don’t make me wait.”

  After he closed the door behind him, he heard the unmistakable crash of crockery on the heavy oak. No doubt Mr. MacDermot would add that to their bill.

  Across the short distance between the cottage and the forge, Mr. MacDermot called out to him. “Mornin’, lad. I see yer lass has a temper. But dinna think ye suffer alone. Ye bear the pangs that have afflicted all men. No matter who a man weds, he wakes to find himself marrit to someone else.”

  Rhys wondered how he found himself married at all.

  Oh, that’s right, he thought with a scowl. Absinthe.

  ***

  Olivia stared out the coach window as they bumped along on the winter-rough road. It wasn’t quite cold enough for the muddy ruts to freeze, so the conveyance’s wheels were occasionally sucked into gelatinous goo. Fortunately the team of horses managed to keep their momentum going, though each time they slowed, she expected to be ordered out to lighten the load while the pair of bays struggled up increasingly steep grades.

  The Scottish countryside was stark and misted with cold rain that occasionally found its way in around the isinglass. The moist breath of winter made her hunker beneath her woolen cloak and bury her hands deeper in her fur muff.

  Still, she might have found the coach trip pleasing, because she always enjoyed seeing new places. But for the fact that she had to share the small coach with her new lord and master, Rhys Warrington.

  Or at least that’s what he seemed to think he was.

  She sneaked a glance at him, but he seemed content to sleep away the journey. Drat the man. This was supposed to be their honeymoon. How could he begin their tenuous marriage first by bullying her and then by ignoring her?

  “Checking for holes?” she asked in a loud voice.

  He jerked awake and sat upright. “What?” Her new husband rubbed his hand over his damnably handsome face. “Holes in what?”

  “Your eyelids, of course. You’ve had them closed for so long I assumed you’d discovered a flaw which required closer study.”

  He grimaced at her and then looked out the window. “Time goes by faster when a man sleeps.”

  “I find time has wings when I’m having fun,” Olivia said, then muttered under her breath, “which accounts for why this trip feels so interminable.”

  “Sorry. I don’t recall pledging to keep you entertained,” Rhys said. “But I did promise to protect you, and that’s what I’m doing.”

  He was certainly protecting her from meeting his family. She couldn’t imagine a time or place when she’d be ashamed to have Rhys on her arm. He evidently couldn’t say the same about her, and the sting made it hard to draw a deep breath. Why didn’t he want to bring her into the Warrington fold?

  Another gust of cold wet, air slipped into the carriage, and she shivered.

  “You’re cold,” he said.

  “How observant you are.”

  He moved over from the opposite squab to sit beside her and draped a long arm over the seat back behind her. “Come. I’ll warm you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not.” He scooted closer so his muscular thigh pressed against hers. “Your lips are turning blue.”

  Even through her cloak and the layers of her traveling gown, chemise, and stockings, she could feel the heat of him. “My lips are none of your concern.”

  “Yes, they are.” He cupped her chin and turned her head so she had to face him. “All of you is my concern.”

  What about her heart? Didn’t he care that he’d hurt her? Did he even know?

  He leaned toward her and closed the gap between their mouths, stopping just shy of her lips. He didn’t shut his eyes, didn’t turn his head so their noses wouldn’t bump. He merely peered down at her like a sleek tomcat by a mouse hole.

  “If you meant to kiss me, you’ve miscalculated the distance,” she said without moving so much as an eyelash.

  “You called me a tyrant this morning. I’m just trying to show you I’m not.” He leaned back with a sigh and stared up at the coach ceiling. “I meant to give you opportunity to accept my kiss by meeting me partway.”

  A sob tore from her throat. “If you’re too ashamed of our marriage to introduce me to your family, why would you want to kiss me?”

  His face jerked toward her, and she read surprise on his fe
atures. “That’s what you think?” He palmed her cheek. “Nothing could be further from the truth. I’m very proud to have you as my wife.”

  A little candle of hope flickered inside her. Then he dropped his hand and the flame guttered.

  “I may as well confess to you now that you have nothing to be proud of in your choice of husbands. I’m in disgrace, Olivia. My family doesn’t want to see me.”

  “Why?”

  In halting sentences, he told her of the less than honorable end to his military career and the disastrous battle near a small French hamlet called Maubeuge.

  “There were even whispers of treason in connection with the defeat. I was suspected of espionage, along with two of my friends,” he said dully.

  “I don’t believe it,” she said staunchly. Rhys Warrington might have been a rake and a wastrel, but he was no traitor.

  He smiled sadly at her. “Thank you for that. But it doesn’t change the fact that there is a cloud on my name, a stain I haven’t been able to scrub clean no matter what I try.”

  “If you’re in such disgrace, how did you ever come to be the Duke of Clarence’s representative to me?”

  “God knows.” A wall rose up behind his dark eyes and he heaved a sigh. “Actually, the devil may have had more to do with it than the Deity.”

  Did he regret the odd turn of fate that threw them together? “It’s how you met me.”

  “For which I’m grateful, but I doubt you should be,” he said. “I’m blacklisted by the ton, which hasn’t troubled me much. I was always more at home with the demimonde. But I’m a pariah, Olivia. I haven’t been received in my family’s home since I returned from France.”

  Olivia bit her lower lip. Her father may have bundled her off to marry in haste, but she knew he’d welcome her back with open arms. Her mother, too. Once she got over the scandal of an elopement, Beatrice Symon would probably find ways to romanticize the tale of her daughter and the young lord fleeing to the Highlands together. Her family was odd in many ways, but she knew they loved her and would never reject her.