by Mia Marlowe
Finally, he took down a saddle from one of the hooks and began to clean it with the special blend of saddle soap Mr. Ferguson mixed up himself and kept in a stone crock in the stable. Rhys had tried to wheedle the secret recipe from the steward once, but Ferguson would only say, “Each man must make his own way of cleaning up the soiled patches in his life.”
“And haven’t I done a cracking job at that?” he muttered as he worked the creamy mixture into the leather.
“Cracking job at what?” came Mr. Ferguson’s voice from behind him.
“Never mind,” Rhys said. “It’s not important.”
“Aye, I can see how unimportant whatever it is to ye from the way ye’re wearin’ out that pommel.” Mr. Ferguson handed him a clean cloth when the one he was using became too damp. “We’ve a canny stable lad as sees to the saddles, ye know.”
“I know.” Rhys clamped his tongue between his teeth in concentration and continued to rub the leather.
“An’ ye dinna mind me sayin’ so, ye’ve a long face for a bridegroom,” Mr. Ferguson observed.
Rhys stopped rubbing and looked at the old man. “Maybe it’s because I realize I’ve done my bride a disservice by marrying her.”
“I dinna think the lass would agree with ye.”
She would if she knew the whole truth. If Olivia ever learned he’d descended on Barrowdell with the express intent of ruining her, she’d despise him for it as much as he despised himself. True, he’d been motivated by the hope of clearing his name and reclaiming his place in his family, but now he realized his conscience wouldn’t allow him to purchase his reinstatement at that cost. It wasn’t worth it. He never should have made that deal with the devil incarnate, Fortescue Alcock. He re-attacked the leather with vehemence.
“Ye’ll wear a hole in it like that,” Mr. Ferguson said. “Easy strokes, in a small circle like I taught ye when he were a wee lad.”
Rhys grumbled, but he followed the steward’s advice. The circular motion seemed to uncoil his frustration and he breathed in a relaxed lungful, taking in the aromatic smells of lanolin and beeswax, leather and dusty horse.
“I dinna think ye’re troubled about yer lass exactly,” the old man said. “I think this has sommat to do with that difrugalty ye met with when ye were over the water a while back.”
“I’ve been dishonored, Ferguson.”
“Did ye do something to warrant being shamed?”
Rhys had second-guessed himself plenty of times. He replayed the events leading up to the illfated battle, scrutinized all the decisions he made in the thick of the action, his vision obscured by the smoke of French cannons drifting over the field. But even he had to concede he couldn’t have done any differently, given the information he’d had at the time.
Except maybe for Lieutenant Duffy. He still castigated himself for spending his last round on his dying horse instead of ending the suffering of the gut-shot lieutenant.
“No, I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Then no man can truly shame ye, unless ye allow it,” Ferguson said. “If yer conscience dinna condemn ye, what right has anyone else to name ye dishonored?”
“That’s fine for the Highlands, Ferguson, but in London, the rules are a bit different.”
“Good thing ye’re no’ there, then, aye?”
“Aye,” Rhys agreed, echoing his old friend’s brogue. “Good thing.”
“Why d’ye no’ let me finish this saddle whilst ye see to that lovely young wife o’ yers?” Ferguson eased the cleaning cloth out of his hand. “Women have a way about ’em as makes whatever’s wrong with a man’s world turn right somehow.”
The steward’s round little wife had served as the estate’s cook as long as Rhys could remember. “Mrs. Ferguson does that for you?”
“Aye, so she tells me, lad. Every bleedin’ day,” he said with a grimace. “But never underestimate the power of a woman’s apple pie. Now go on wi’ ye.”
“Only one thing wrong with that, Ferguson. I don’t think my wife can cook.”
***
But Olivia could organize like an army of ants. When he entered the chamber that had been prepared for them, he found her ensconced at the escritoire near a large window.
“I’ve written a letter to my mother to let my parents know where we are. The driver can carry it for me when he returns the coach to Barrowdell tomorrow,” she said as she displayed the stack of correspondence she’d completed. “I also took the liberty of writing to your parents.”
“My parents?”
“No matter what your situation with them, I gather they’d rather not learn about your marriage from reading about it in the Times,” she said. “And speaking of which, here is the announcement for the paper.”
He glanced at it. “So the happy couple will make their home in Mayfair, will they?”
“That’s where Papa’s buying a townhouse for us.”
He stalked over to the window and frowned out at the ice-rimed brook. Where they’d live was a fight he didn’t want to have just now. Not when remnants of their last argument were still swirling in the air above their heads.
“What did you write to my parents?”
“You may read it if you like,” she said, handing the foolscap pages to him. “I haven’t a signet ring to seal it with. I was waiting for you to put your stamp on the wax.”
He unfolded the pages. Olivia’s script was neat and precise.
Just like her.
She had introduced herself, and then went on to describe their “whirlwind courtship” and hasty marriage in the most glowing of terms. She even included a brief account of the way he’d saved her life when her horse bolted. Though Olivia’s father had given their elopement his blessing—hell, he was the scheme’s sole architect—Rhys knew his straight-laced father would think the whole Gretna Green ceremony tawdry and common.
But the next paragraph of the letter was anything but common. Olivia expressed gratitude to his parents. And of all unlikely things for which to thank them, she was thankful for him.
You’ve raised a remarkable son. Rhys is a wonderful man—brilliant, courtly, and brave. Given his attributes, one can only surmise he was blessed with equally wonderful parents. I thank you for the nurture which created his great heart. I am honored to be part of the Warrington family.
Of course, I am cognizant that there is a schism between you and your son at present. It is a state of affairs which pains my husband deeply as I’m sure it does you. I can only hope the fact that he has taken me to wife will not further complicate or extend your estrangement. Rhys is too fine a man for you not to have him in your lives.
When we have established our London home, I will write again. I hope to meet you soon. If, however, you decline, your wishes will be respected. Whether we meet in this life or the one to come, I want you to know that I’m thankful to you for the man who is now my husband.
The lines on the page seemed to blur. Rhys blinked hard and the spacing resumed its proper form. That lump in his chest threatened to burst. Mr. MacDermot had assured him over the anvil in Gretna Green that women seemed to know all about the business of being married. The man was right. Olivia’s staunch support overwhelmed him.
“Do you mean this?” he asked.
“Every word.”
“Olivia, I do want us to have children,” he said earnestly.
“That’s a change. Is it accompanied by an apology?”
“More like the beginnings of an explanation. You know I admitted at our first meeting that I was a libertine.”
“As I recall, it was a fairly titillating revelation,” she said, a smile tugging at one corner of her mouth. “You were without doubt the wickedest person I’d ever met and the most forthright about it.”
And yet she was thankful for him. Was it any wonder she was a puzzlement to him?
“Be that as it may, even rakes have certain standards, and one of mine was making it a point of honor not to sire any bastards.”
“A
worthy goal given the preponderance of bastards in the world. In that, you have eclipsed the Duke of Clarence by a magnitude of ten.”
“Then I suddenly find myself married.”
“And no one is more surprised than you, I’m sure,” she said, her tone turning prickly.
“True.” He took one of her hands to soften his admission. “But before you take offense, let me add that I’m glad for it. I’m glad I married you. At our wedding, I’m pretty sure I promised to protect you. Childbed can be a dangerous place, and that’s why I thought I should protect you from it.”
The prickliness melted away and she reached a hand up to his face. “Oh, Rhys. That’s sweet. If you’d told me that when we first argued, there wouldn’t have been a fight about this.”
If he’d thought it would have worked then, he would have said it. He wisely clamped his lips shut now but made a note that he didn’t do his best thinking immediately after making love. He’d have to make sure Olivia didn’t draw him into any more important conversations when all the blood in his body was still pooled somewhere besides his brain.
“If women began fearing childbirth, where would we all be?” she said. “Besides, I saw you with little Alex. You’ll make a wonderful father.”
He was going to explain that he didn’t think they should start a family until he was reconciled to his, but the words died on his lips. If he never patched things up with the rest of the Warringtons, it would be all right.
Olivia was his family now.
He drew her close and kissed her. It started as a sweet kiss, a grateful kiss, but quickly deepened into something tinged with more urgency. When he cupped both her breasts, she pushed against his chest.
“I didn’t mean you ought to start siring a child now,” she said.
“Why not? There’s no time like the present.” He nibbled on her neck the way he knew she liked, and she stopped pushing against his chest.
“I know we dallied in the coach on the way here, but”—she gasped when he bit down on her earlobe—“surely these things ought to be done by night in a proper bed with the lamps turned down.”
“Not necessarily. How am I to see the sights with the lamps turned down?” He waggled his brows at her as he began unbuttoning her bodice.
“You’re not taking this seriously.”
“Of course I am. There’s nothing more serious than when you and I come together. But that doesn’t mean we have to act as if someone’s died. Loving is supposed to be fun.”
“Are you sure?”
“Trust me. It’s one of my areas of expertise.”
“Well, aren’t you full of yourself?”
“Yes, I am.” He picked her up and carried her to the waiting bed. He laid her down on the thick feather tick and looked down at her. “But I won’t be happy until you’re full of myself too.”
She laughed out loud then and lifted her arms to welcome him.
Chapter 29
Her laughter warmed him to his toes. When she ran a hand down his flat belly and cupped his genitals, the warmth pooled in another place. He leaned down, bracing himself on his palms, and nipped her earlobe as her palm slid over his groin. He was fully erect and straining against the wool. She waggled her brows at him and slanted him a sidelong gaze.
“I think I’m going to like not being serious with you,” she said.
“As long as you seriously love me as much as I love you,” he said with a laugh. Then his laughter died as he looked down at her. She hadn’t said it outright, but it was suddenly something he needed desperately to hear. “You do love me, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes, Rhys,” she said, her eyes shining. “I think I loved you from the first moment I saw you and you took my breath away.”
“I’ll do my best to do that with regularity, madam.” He stretched out beside her and they sank into the coverlet in a hailstorm of kisses.
***
Rhys was torn between wanting to draw this loving out and the desperate need to sink into her sweet flesh and find release.
She loved him. All his flaws. All his failures. She knew what he was and she didn’t look away. The wonder, the grace of it, made him weak and strong at once.
She bleated a piteous little sound as he nuzzled between her legs, drunk on her scent. Her knuckles were white where she fisted the linens.
“Only a little longer, Olivia.”
She groaned with wanting.
His balls tightened in response to her need. He wanted to give her the best, and to do that he knew, as she didn’t yet, that delay would mean more delight. He’d taken his time undressing her and working every sensitive place on her body into a frenzy. But now he couldn’t bear her sweet agony for another second.
Without even realizing he’d done it, he found himself positioned between her legs, his cock knocking at her gate, poised to slide into her.
His shaft throbbed at the nearness of her soft, wet core. Rhys could deny their need no longer.
He rushed in with one long stroke and she molded around him in a warm, tight embrace. Then his balls drew up into a tense mound, coiled for release. He held himself motionless, willing the urgency to subside so he could revel in the joy that was Olivia a little longer.
Only a little.
She wrapped her legs around him and hooked her ankles at the top of the cleft of his buttocks. His heart pounded in his cock, but he forced himself to be still.
Her mouth gaped. Her brows tented in distress. He couldn’t keep her suspended between need and completion any longer. He had to let her go.
He covered her lips with his and flicked his tongue in and out, loving her with his mouth and his cock in tandem. She rocked beneath him, urging him in deeper with little noises of desperation that threatened to shred his control.
He moved faster then. Rougher. She rose to welcome his bone-jarring thrusts.
A little longer, please. He was lost in the heat, the friction, the animal joy of rutting, but something else was happening inside him too.
The door to that sheltered part of himself, the part he’d never opened to anyone, was being battered down with every thrust. Olivia was suddenly in there with him, wrapping her sweet self around his secrets, guarding them, loving him in spite of them. All the scattered bits of himself, those pieces of his heart he’d carelessly given away, were zinging back into him. One at a time, Olivia put them back together until his heart was whole.
She pulled her lips from his and turned her head to the side. “I can’t wait any—”
He felt it start. “Now, Olivia, now.”
Rhys arched his back, driving in as deep as he could as his life shot into her in steady pulses. Her inner walls contracted around him.
It’s like being born, he thought disjointedly. But instead of going out, he was trying to come in. Into her joy. Into her bliss. Into her love.
Pleasure, sharp as a blade, sliced through him, rending him soul and marrow.
Olivia’s whole body convulsed around him, pulling him into her warmth, her light. He laid his cheek against hers as their connected bodies continued the mad dance of lust for a few more seconds.
When it finally stopped, his cheek felt damp.
He raised his head and looked down at her with concern. “You’re crying.”
She smiled up at him. “Only because I’m so happy.”
He kissed her again, a soft shared breath. And he knew the years of wandering were over. Even if he was never received in his father’s house ever again, it no longer mattered.
He was already home.
***
Olivia had her way. The next morning, she’d sent her father’s coach back to Barrowdell with all the letters and announcements she’d written. She and Rhys stayed on at Braebrooke Cairn. Each day, relations with Rhys’s sister and brother-in-law improved. By end of the second week, they had formed a jolly house party during the day, though Sarah and Blakesby were careful to give the newlyweds time to themselves.
Little Alex was less
thoughtful and latched on to his uncle fiercely. Rhys went galloping through the ancient keep with the laughing toddler on his shoulders. Of the two of them, Olivia didn’t know which was having the most fun.
But Rhys and Olivia enjoyed plenty of privacy by night. And if by the end of their honeymoon she wasn’t with child, it wouldn’t be for lack of trying.
At the beginning of the third week, she was a little distressed to see her father’s coach lumbering back up the long drive. Several large trunks were strapped to the top of the conveyance. Surely even a busybody like Beatrice Symon knew a man wouldn’t welcome his mother-in-law on his honeymoon.
Olivia needn’t have worried. Only Babette and Rhys’s valet, Mr. Clyde, climbed out of the Symon coach, along with Jean-Pierre and two of his best seamstresses.
“Your mother, she thought you would need a trousseau so she set Monsieur du Barry to work,” Babette said as she shook the wrinkles out of the new gowns and hung them in Olivia’s capacious wardrobe. “Now all that’s wanted is the final fittings, and bien sur, when you and your bridegroom move to London, you shall take the city by storm.”
Her mother must have ordered the trousseau the day after Olivia and Rhys ran off together. No doubt, she’d driven poor Jean-Pierre and his seamstresses ragged to complete so many pieces of a new wardrobe in so little time, but she always paid them extra for quick work. There was a new mauve traveling suit, a peacock blue riding habit that would put all the other matrons who rode on Rotten Row to shame, several dresses suitable for receiving guests at home, and a breathtaking cloth-of-gold gown that would outshine royalty.
As Olivia ran an appreciative finger over the exquisite satins and silks, she realized her mother had some very fine qualities after all.
Rhys made himself scarce while Jean-Pierre and his minions made short work of marking places where the darts in Olivia’s new wardrobe would need to be taken in. But he was pleased to be present for a showing of the new gowns, bonnets, pelisses, fans, and other fripperies. Then he dismissed the fawning Jean-Pierre so he could investigate Olivia’s new stays, chemises, and stockings in private.
