“Your bride?” the marquess spat, looking as if he might very well choke on the word. “So the rumors are true, then?” He turned to Catriona. “When I left here last week, I thought we had an understanding.”
She returned his burning gaze with a cool one of her own. “Oh, I understood you perfectly, my lord. You made your intentions quite clear.”
Simon clapped a hand to his heart. “Why, darling, you never told me I had a rival for your affections!”
“I wasn’t aware you were the jealous sort, dear,” she replied. “But there’s no need to trouble your pretty head about it. Lord Eddingham was only a rival for my dowry, not my affections.”
Simon slid an arm around her shoulders and beamed at Eddingham. “I’m sure it was simply maidenly shyness that prevented Catriona from telling you that she was already spoken for. By me.” Before she could react, he tilted up her chin with one finger and pressed a tender kiss to her lips. He couldn’t have marked his territory any more clearly had he piddled on her kid boots like one of her aunt Margaret’s ill-mannered spaniels. For a breathless moment, Catriona felt as if she truly belonged to him.
Eddingham’s face looked so stricken that if she believed he had even an ounce of genuine feeling for her, she might have actually pitied him. “It can’t be true, can it?” he demanded of her. “Surely you know of Wescott’s reputation. Why, he’s waltzed his way through half the women in London! Tell me you don’t really intend to marry the…the…”—he spared a sneer for Simon—“bastard.”
Most men would have reacted to the insult as if Eddingham had whipped his riding crop across their cheek. But Simon’s smile simply deepened a dangerous degree. “I can assure you that Catriona is well aware of my character flaws…and the fact that I was born on the wrong side of the blanket. We have no intention of allowing the same fate to befall our first child, which is why we’re making for Gretna Green in such haste.”
At Simon’s blatant implication that he had already shared her bed—and her body—Eddingham took a step backward, his face paling. The look he cast her was beyond contempt. “The two of you deserve each other. I hope you both burn in hell.” He started to turn away, then paused, a nasty smile twisting his lips. “Oh, and Miss Kincaid? If you happen to see any of your Scottish kin during your honeymoon, make sure and give them my regards.”
He turned on the heel of his polished boot and went striding past Aunt Margaret and the crestfallen Alice as if they weren’t even there. Flinging himself on the back of his horse, he drove his spurs into the beast’s sides with a force that made Catriona wince in sympathy.
“Charming fellow,” Simon murmured. “Even more amiable than I remembered.”
As they watched him gallop across her uncle’s immaculately groomed lawn, his gelding’s hooves churning up raw clots of turf, Catriona sighed. “So who did you seduce? Was it his sister? His maiden aunt? His second cousin thrice removed?”
Simon’s profile was uncharacteristically grim. “He thinks I seduced his fiancée. But believe it or not, I was innocent and so was she. Our dalliance was nothing more than a harmless flirtation after she accidentally dropped a glove in my path at Almack’s nearly three years ago. She was in love with Eddingham and had every intention of going through with her marriage to him. But only a few days after he witnessed our exchange, she took a nasty tumble from her horse during an afternoon ride in Hyde Park and broke her neck.”
Catriona shivered, a sudden chill dulling the warmth of the spring sun. “The poor girl. You don’t think he had anything to do with her death, do you?”
“I’ve always had my suspicions, but nothing I’ve ever been able to prove.” His voice betrayed its first trace of bitterness. “After all, who would believe the wild accusations of a bastard over the word of such an upstanding gentleman?” Catching her troubled frown from the corner of his eye, Simon gave her shoulders a comforting squeeze. “Don’t worry, love,” he assured her, the casual endearment that flowed so easily to his lips stinging more deeply than any of Eddingham’s insults. “He can’t hurt either one of us now.”
Catriona watched the marquess ride away, her heart heavy with dread. If she told Simon just how very wrong he was, she might have to watch him disappear over the horizon as well.
Chapter 8
Catriona’s traveling companions sat in opposite corners of the carriage, balefully eyeing each other across the gap between the seats.
“You never told me about Eddingham or him,” Simon said, folding his arms over his chest and shifting his accusing glare to Catriona. She was sitting directly opposite him, having thrown herself clearly and without compunction into the camp of his rival.
Without lowering the leather-bound book she’d dug out of her portmanteau to pass the long hours on the Great North Road, she shrugged. “Since the two of you had met before, I hardly felt a formal introduction was necessary.”
“I wouldn’t have recognized him. What have you been feeding him? Ponies?”
Catriona gave Simon a disapproving look over the top of her book. “It’s hardly sporting of you to mock his girth. He’s quite sensitive about it, you know.”
“What is he going to do if I offend him? Eat me?”
She slammed the book shut and tossed it on the carriage seat. “Why, Mr. Wescott, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! I realize that my Robert is a bonny fine fellow who is certainly worthy of your jealousy, but all the same, it hardly becomes you.”
Still glaring at him, she reached over and hauled the enormous orange cat curled up on the seat beside her into her lap. As she began to gently stroke his coarse fur, a deafening purr rumbled up from his throat. He rested his monstrous head on his paws and blinked at Simon with his somnolent golden eyes, gloating like a paunchy sultan who had just laid claim to the last virgin in the harem.
Simon rolled his eyes. “You forget that the last time we met, he tried to bite off my finger. I’ve still got the scar.”
She sniffed. “He was simply defending my honor, which is what a hero is supposed to do.”
Their eyes met for a charged moment, both of them remembering that dangerous yet intoxicating moment in her rumpled bed when Simon had nearly stolen her virtue instead of defending it.
Then Simon muttered an unintelligible retort beneath his breath and sank deeper into his seat. As he scowled out the carriage window at the passing countryside, Catriona retrieved her book and lifted it to hide her smile. In truth, she rather fancied the idea of Simon being jealous, even if it was only of a cat.
She was thankful for the distraction of both book and cat. This was the first time they’d been completely alone since she’d awakened that morning with his mouth on hers and his hands…well, perhaps it would be wiser not to think about where his hands—or his fingers—had ended up.
Earning a disgruntled chirrup from Robert the Bruce, she leaned forward and shoved open the nearest carriage window. “It’s getting a bit stuffy in here, don’t you think?” she asked, bathing her flushed cheeks in the fresh air.
Simon simply lifted one eyebrow. The air had grown steadily brisker as they traveled north toward Scotland.
He nodded toward the portmanteau sitting on the floor at her feet. “Have you any other books in there?”
Remembering the rosewood box still tucked beneath the undergarments she had so hastily packed the previous night, Catriona felt a flare of panic. “No!” she exclaimed, making a frantic grab for the brocaded bag at the exact moment he caught the ivory handle on the opposite side of it.
Plainly intrigued by her violent reaction, he gave the bag a tug. “I’d be perfectly happy with a newspaper or a scandal sheet to while away the hours until we reach our lodgings for the night.”
“Well, I haven’t either one.” She tugged back, desperation giving her the strength she needed to wrench the bag out of his grip and whisk it safely onto the seat beside her.
Simon leaned back and stretched out his long legs, looking even more smug than if he had won the humi
liating little contest. “Why so secretive, darling? Is that where you’re hiding my money?”
“Here. You can have this book.” She tossed her book at him; he caught it without so much as a flinch.
He frowned down at the gilt lettering on the spine. “Pilgrim’s Progress? I was rather hoping for something more…stimulating.”
“Like The Randy Adventures of Naughty Nell, perhaps?”
“Oh, I’ve already read that one twice.” A wicked smile flirted with his lips. “Rumor has it that the author based the character of Nell’s most dashing and accomplished lover on me.”
Trying not to remember just how accomplished he had proved himself in her bed, she nodded toward the book. “There’s a character based on you in that book as well. They call him Satan.”
Now that she had nothing to read, it was Catriona’s turn to scowl out the carriage window. After several minutes of stony silence, she stole a look at Simon. He had drawn a pair of steel-framed spectacles from the pocket of his waistcoat and appeared to be thoroughly engrossed in the story. She felt her expression soften. With the spectacles perched low on his nose and a stray lock of hair falling over his brow, he looked less like a libertine and more like a professor from some hallowed university. She could only too easily imagine the subjects he would excel at teaching—dueling, gambling, flirting, wenching.
Breaking hearts.
Her smile faded. By tomorrow night, she would be his wife. She couldn’t help but think how different this journey might have been if their impending marriage was more than just a business arrangement. She would probably be cuddled up in his lap right now with no need of a book to while away the tedious hours of traveling.
She sighed. She could no longer afford to indulge in such dangerous fantasies. She had promised him a marriage of convenience and she had an obligation to deliver on that promise, no matter how inconvenient to her yearning heart. She would simply have to do everything in her power to hide that heart from him.
Simon glanced up to catch her studying him. She quickly dropped her gaze to her lap, devoting all of her attention to stroking Robert the Bruce’s velvety ears.
“Shall I read aloud?” he offered.
“If it pleases you,” she replied, trying to sound as disinterested as possible although there was nothing she would have liked better.
He flipped back to the very first page of the book and began to read. He had a fine and expressive baritone, honed by his years of observing the actors at the opera house. As the rich music of his voice cast an irresistible spell over her, Catriona soon found herself immersed in Bunyan’s grand old story as if she were experiencing it for the very first time.
Night was fast approaching, stealing the last bit of light from the page and making the words run together in an inky blur. Simon glanced up from the scene where Christian and Hopeful prepare to cross the River of Death to find Catriona slumped in the seat across from him, sound asleep. He had been reading steadily since they’d stopped at an inn to change horses and eat supper two hours ago. A reluctant smile touched his lips as he gently closed the book, laid it aside, and drew off his spectacles.
With her bonnet listing to the left and a feather drooping over one eye, Catriona looked like a little girl who had borrowed her mother’s finery to parade around in. A glowing curl had escaped her neat chignon to trail around the ivory curve of her throat.
Given the shameless way he had behaved in her bed that morning, he was surprised she still trusted him enough to relax her guard. She had every right to fear that the minute she closed her eyes he would fall upon her like some sort of rutting stag with no control over his baser impulses.
He would swear before the bewigged members of Parliament itself that he had only intended to steal an innocent kiss from her parted lips. But her lips had been so soft…so warm…so inviting…
When she had breathed his name into his mouth with a hint of an enchanting Scottish lilt, he had been well and truly lost.
If Alice hadn’t barged into the bedchamber looking for her infernal hair ribbons, he would be atoning for an even greater sin than just stealing a kiss. He still couldn’t decide if it had been relief or regret that had overwhelmed him in that moment.
He would do well to remember that he was nothing but Catriona’s hired gun. It would be impossible for her to petition the church for an annulment based on his failure to perform his marital duties if she returned to London with his child already growing in her belly. He’d learned how to prevent such mishaps when he was little more than a lad, but this morning when he had heard her moan his name and felt her shudder with ecstasy beneath his fingertips, all thoughts of coitus interruptus and French letters had flown right out of his head, along with caution and common sense. All he had wanted in that moment was to push his way deep inside of her and make her his own.
Desperate to distract himself from the provocative images that thought invoked, he glanced at the portmanteau resting on the seat beside her. This might be his best opportunity to find out exactly what she was so eager to hide from his prying eyes. But some ghost of conscience stayed his hand. Or perhaps it was just the fear of being caught. If she awoke to find him rummaging through her personal belongings like some Covent Garden footpad, she might never nap again.
The carriage jounced through a deep rut, bumping her head against the back of the seat. She frowned, her delicate eyelids fluttering. Simon turned to gaze out the carriage window at the rising moon, testing his resolve. He was nothing but her hired man. Her comfort was none of his concern.
The next bump jarred his own teeth and wrung an unhappy little moan from Catriona’s throat. Blowing out a sigh, Simon reluctantly shifted himself to her seat. He scooped Robert the Bruce from her lap, hoping he wasn’t about to lose a finger or perhaps even a thumb. The cat simply hung there in his grasp, boneless yet ridiculously heavy. He gingerly settled it on the seat he’d just vacated. The beast gave him a cross look before curling into a sullen ball and closing its golden eyes.
Simon tugged off Catriona’s bonnet, then drew her into the circle of his arms so his chest could cushion her against the blows of the road. But it seemed the greedy little minx was not to be content with using his chest for her pillow. Before Simon could fully absorb what was happening, she had wiggled her rump across the seat and slid her head into his lap.
As she nestled her cheek against him, trying to find the most comfortable spot, he swore softly beneath his breath. If she kept rubbing him in that maddening manner, it wouldn’t be any different than resting her head on a rock.
She curled one hand around his upper thigh and went still, her rosebud lips curving into a contented smile. She had no way of knowing that her bliss was his agony. The caress of her warm breath through the thin doeskin of his trousers was a taste of both heaven and hell. He rolled his eyes toward the carriage’s roof. If this was his punishment for the morning’s transgression, then God had a far more wicked sense of humor than he had ever guessed.
As the carriage bounced through another rut, he was the one forced to clench his teeth against a moan. Despite his reputation, he’d never had any problem controlling his lust when it suited him. Perhaps he was simply suffering from the novelty of denying himself a woman he wanted.
He brushed a curl from the downy softness of her cheek. The silky tendril twined around his finger as if to ensnare him.
He realized in that moment exactly what he had to do if he was to escape this woman with his heart unscathed. She’d promised to split the dowry with him after they were wed. Once she did, it would be easy enough for him to steal away. She might despise him for the charlatan he was, but at least he would have escorted her as far as the Scottish border. She could use the rest of the dowry to get her to the Highlands and into her brother’s waiting arms.
As for him, he would forget all about his London debts and use the money to flee to the Continent, where some hot-blooded Italian countess or swarthy Greek beauty would welcome him into her arms and
bed and make him forget all about Catriona Kincaid with her misty gray eyes and ridiculous freckles.
Catriona drifted into wakefulness with a hand playing gently in her hair. She kept her eyes pressed firmly shut, luxuriating in the novel sensation. Her uncle’s family had prided themselves on their newly won English reserve. They rarely touched one another and—unless one could count Alice’s stinging pinches—they never touched her.
The hand tenderly sifting through her loosened curls stirred long-buried childhood memories. Memories of her father hefting her over his head as if she weighed no more than a feather. Memories of her brother rumpling her freshly braided hair just to make her squeal in protest. Memories of sitting before the fire in their cottage with her mother stroking a brush through her unruly curls until Catriona nodded off and her papa arrived to carry her off to bed.
She sighed and nestled deeper into her pillow, feeling cherished and secure for the first time since the English soldiers had come and wrenched away both her family and her future, leaving her with nothing but a hollow ache where they had been.
A man’s husky whisper brushed like velvet across her ear. “Wake up, sleeping beauty. It’s time to find you a proper bed.”
Catriona’s eyes flew open in horror as she realized the hand deftly tucking a wayward curl behind her ear belonged to Simon and the pillow beneath her cheek wasn’t a pillow at all but his muscular thigh.
No matter how tempting the prospect had seemed earlier, she couldn’t believe she had been so foolish as to crawl into his lap. What if she had murmured something both idiotic and incriminating in her sleep—something like, Kiss me, darling, or I think I might love you?
She sat up so fast she bumped her head on his chin hard enough to make her see stars.
“Ow!” Rubbing his jaw, he eyed her warily. “I haven’t taken a shot to the jaw like that since the last time I boxed at Gentleman Jackson’s.”
Some Like It Wicked Page 8
