“Do you think so?”
“About which, my lord?”
Ash laughed. “I already regret it, Grim, but what can a man do. I married her you see.”
Grimsley paled and Ash made to explain, until he realized that he’d nearly forgot to let Lark surface, and when he did, she rose like a vengeful sea goddess and knocked him flat on his arse.
“I have had a great deal of experience with the male of the species,” she screamed like a fishwife, rising fully dressed, soaked and shaking with rage, “and you Ashford Blackburne are of the lowest variety.”
Ash met her head on then ducked to evade the facer she tried to plant him. “I won her in a card game,” he shouted to his valet above her screech of indignation.
“I am no prize,” she shouted.
“Obviously.” Ash pushed her back under.
“Good God,” Grimsley said, clearly unsure as to how he could extricate his master. “You won, my lord, and got that, er, her?”
She rose and tried to stand but Ash forced her to sit. “Uh … no, I lost. She’s a consolation, of sorts.” He held her by the shoulders to keep her sitting.
“What … what are you going to do with her?” Grim asked above her sailor’s curse.
“Bathe her … to begin with.”
“And send her away?” Poor Grimsley, he looked and sounded so hopeful.
“Ouch!” Lark had landed a blow to his jaw. In retaliation, Ash poured the remaining contents of the hot water bucket over her head. “I suppose I could, though I have need of her if you will remember. Here, help me unfasten some of these clothes.”
His hellcat bride did not agree with the notion. Though thrice wounded, Grimsley nonetheless persevered and attempted to help, without success, so Ash sent him away.
For good or ill—ill more like—Lark was his wife, and in the event he actually succeeded in his current quest to rid her of her clothing, he would not be flaunting her in the flesh before another.
Grimsley, of all his staff, would never speak of this night’s work. Loyal to a fault, Grim had been with him through his bloody days under Wellington’s command. He’d evaded bullets and bayonets and helped Ash off the field after his horse went down, when he might otherwise have been left to perish. Loyalty was Grimsley’s motto.
Ash attempted to strip Larkin himself, wishing he had a whip and a chair to hand, as he’d seen at Astley’s back when he thought his worst problem was finding a bride, before he knew that taming one could be the death of him.
Him? Wed to a guttersnipe, a smelly, foul-mouthed pig-chaser, a card-sharp’s scheming daughter? On the other hand, a schemer might understand his scheme to win his inheritance; a schemer might be more than willing to strike a bargain.
He needed to fulfill the will. Would Larkin Rose McAdams—no, Larkin Rose Blackburne, now—God help him. Would his new wife help him in his ultimate pursuit, he wondered, once she knew all the requirements?
Unfortunately, before he could inherit, he would first have to prove to his grandfather that he had made a good match, never mind getting his bride with child before Christmas, which stipulation said bride had yet to learn, and which blessed event would never take place if he could not bathe her before he tried to bed her.
He must also find a way to convince his bride to act the part of devoted wife, at least in the presence of his grandfather, if Ash decided to keep her, that was.
He stopped dunking her and tried to scrub wherever he could reach, which was impossible in the face of her struggle to get free, her screams, bites, kicks, and the occasional poke in the eye.
When soaping every available inch of her fully dressed did not work, Ash tried tearing her clothes off, which worked as regards to her socks and shoes, though her man’s shirt was a bit trickier. When he finally pulled her second arm free of the shirt, and won the tug of war over that piece of clothing, he tossed it over his shoulder as she crouched low in the water.
The hiss and sputter from the hearth, and sudden loss of light, told him her wet shirt had snuffed the fire. “Bloody brat.” Ash pulled her trousers over her hips. “These are miles too big for you,” he said, tugging and pulling so hard, he dragged her under again.
Her head and shoulders emerged and she sucked in air.
“Another rag pick, I suppose?” Ash said, holding her trousers by two fingers, and she slapped the water with both hands and splashed him like a tidal wave.
“I have never laid an angry hand on a woman in my life,” Ash said, wiping his face, “but in your case, I’ll make an exception.”
“Go to hell,” said his blushing bride, then she screeched as his hand chanced upon something that felt like a band about her breasts.
“Fancy this,” he said, learning the shape of it like a blind man. “Hiding our light beneath a bushel, are we?” He located the tucked end of the binding between her breasts. Thence began the fight to unwind her, and when he succeeded—though she tried to cover her exposed breasts at every turn—he found two hands-full more bride than he expected.
“Perhaps tumbling you won’t be as difficult as I supposed,” he said, testing her breasts as if he’d be using them for two plump pillows, a pleasant surprise given her willowy structure. “You’ll need fattening up, but not here,” he said. “Here, you are amazingly perfect.”
His bride took one of his happy hands from her breast and bit it … hard.
“Blast and damnation!” Ash pulled his hand from the jaws of death. “I think you’ve drawn blood.”
“Good,” said she, as she rose like a vengeful goddess, escaped her bath with a graceful leap, ran naked through his bedchamber and into the corridor. Hair in a wild, wet tangle, she knocked Grimsley on his arse, his pot of tea spraying the upper hall in puddling circles as it twirled like a dervish.
“Start the fire in the dressing room,” Ash said on his rushing way by, realizing as he ran up the stairs that he should have helped his man up, though he couldn’t spare the time.
He cornered his bride in a bedchamber housing two screeching maids, Nan and Mim, trying to cover themselves in their night-rails. “What are you screaming about?” Ash asked. “The mistress of the house is more naked than you are.”
That shut them up, for this was the first they’d heard of a mistress.
Ash had her now, cornered between a bed and a wall, and so he took off his shirt and threw it at her. She took it, half surprised, half haughty, and put it on, and then he lifted her into his arms and carried her out with all the dignity he could muster, given the fact that his chest was bare, his clothes soaked, and his temper near to exploding.
“I’m going to win every time,” he said, which words seemed to take the fight right out of her. Though she squeaked in token protest, she let her head fall to his shoulder, sighed as if with resignation, and said nothing more.
When Ash got Lark back to his dressing room, the hearth had been cleaned out, dry wood and kindling set, and the fire flaming to life. This time Lark let him undo her shirt buttons—his shirt buttons—then she climbed into the tub of her own accord. “Give me the soap,” she said, grabbing it from his hand with as much force as she’d previously used to fight him.
Ash reared back. “Is this a trick?”
“I had forgotten how good it feels to be clean,” she said. “You should put some dry clothes on.”
“Right, and leave you alone? Since I’m daft, of course I will do exactly as you suggest.”
“You’ll catch your death.”
“You wish.” He knelt and grasped her shoulder to try and wash her face, only to have her knock him off his feet, not for the first time that night, and wash her face herself.
As he righted himself, he saw emerge from beneath the grime, skin of lucent cream porcelain and eyes so deep and clear, they showed all the facets of a mystery and all the hope of a bright new dawn. Damn.
Her exposed innocence so tied his tongue, he did fetch dry things, but remembered the danger, grabbed them fast, and came right ba
ck, only to find she hadn’t moved. She was washing her hair, and the more she lathered, the more appeared a rich mass of cropped honey, gilded in firelight by licks of ivory and strands of pure gold.
Ash had been right; she had not stopped fighting. The minute he dropped his trousers, she stood screaming again, this time as if he were about to commit bloody murder.
Ash clamped a hand over her mouth. “I’m changing into dry clothes, nothing more, and I’m doing it here, so I can keep a close watch on you. Do you understand me?”
Larkin nodded, her eyes wide and fearful.
“I’m only changing, as you suggested. Sit back down and finish washing your hair. Just turn your head if you do not wish to see anything more of your new husband than that for which you are prepared. I will be dressed in a minute.”
As Ash took his hand away, his bride regarded him as if he might eat her alive, then she released a breath, turned her gaze, and lowered herself again to the water to finish washing her hair.
Ash wondered what prompted her fear and nearly laughed. Her father had all but sold her to a stranger, and he, the stranger in question, had stripped her naked, and scrubbed her porcelain skin, as if it were tree bark.
From her perspective, his actions did appear frightening, but what had she said about knowing men and knowing them well? It made no sense, though it did remind him to send for the doctor the minute he left her, so he could be certain, before he attempted to sow his seed, that the seed of no other had previously taken root.
“The bedchamber through that door is my wife’s,” Ash said, now clothed in his inexpressibles, shirttails hanging out. “You will sleep there, of course. My bedchamber is through the door opposite. ‘Tis the chamber we came through when we arrived.”
After a silent minute, Larkin nodded and returned her attention to her bath.
“Grimsley is bringing you another pot of tea,” Ash said. “And since you’ve decided to behave yourself, I shall send a maid up to help you finish and show you to your room. No tricks, mind. I stationed guards at all the doors.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Ash poured himself a third cup of the bitter brew the East India Company had introduced a century or more ago as coffee, which Grimsley said should set him right for this night’s work. Though he’d prefer black tea, this should sober him better.
He’d see.
Dutifully sipping, despite his dislike of the stuff, Ash sat in the butter soft leather chair beside his bed and thought that perhaps he should not have imbibed quite so much brandy, after all, while waiting for Doctor Buckston to examine his bride.
Though curious as to why the medical man raised a brow as he pronounced Larkin untouched, Ash dismissed the quandary as of no consequence. “May as well put an end to her maidenhead, as soon as I can,” he said to the empty room.
He finished a second pot of the brew, and set the empty cup on the table beside him. “Arky.” Ash scoffed and reminded himself that all he had to do was mount her, close his eyes—as Myles suggested—and plant his seed. After all, he’d been practicing for years. How hard could it be?
He looked down at his flaccid self and sighed. “Not half hard enough, by damn, to pull this one off.” He took the key player in hand. “Liven up there, soldier, and give us a salute,” he said, closing his eyes as he tried to work himself into a semblance of arousal.
Ash imagined his bride as he’d last seen her—cropped hair, clean and honey gold, sparkling cat’s eyes intense, full creamy breasts, heavy in his hands, dusky nipples pouting, as if for his mouth.
He moved a hand along his length through his breeches, as he imagined the taste of her on his tongue, the feel of her gloving him….
No more than a minute later, he groaned, opened his eyes, and stopped short of spilling.
Pleased with his ready state, he rose.
When he entered his wife’s bedchamber—his bravado born of self-stimulation, and a great deal of sexual experience—Ash knew she would enjoy his attentions, if she cooperated for once, so he might keep his arousal long enough to do the deed.
‘Twas the least she could do. He’d done her the favor, after all, of taking the irritating brat in boys clothes, and turning her into a wife—a Lady, no less—while removing her from a life of ale-stink drudgery.
But when he beheld the clean and sweet-smelling seductress who sat in his wife’s bed, she bore no resemblance to the filthy hoyden he’d rescued, but more like the fantasy siren who’d hardened him to granite not three minutes before.
All sleepy sensuality and burgeoning promise, Larkin Rose sat in wait, her ripe breasts damned-near spilling from the ebon brocade dressing gown he’d leant her, a profusion of milk and honey curls tumbling toward the shoulders he would cup while kissing her senseless.
“This is not me,” she said, halting him.
“Not you?” Ash cocked a brow. “Well, whoever you are, I find myself pleased to find you awaiting my pleasure.”
“I await no man’s pleasure.”
Ash wished he’d taken a third pot of coffee, or never drunk the brandy at all, for she spoke so softly, he was not certain this was the same woman to whom he had pledged his troth at pistol-point.
A sultry seductress had replaced the she-cat who’d throttled him through the bath from hell. “Your hair,” he said, “is like the wheat on the stained glass in the chapel when the sun shines through.”
“It’s clean, you drunken dolt.”
Could one ever be too sober? “Larkin, I presume?” He stepped her way.
“Come one step closer and die, you whelp of Satan! I peeked into your room on my way in. I saw how bosky you were.”
“Ah.” Ash grinned. “The Lady Arky, I presume?” He gave her a mockery of a bow. “I stand before you, bosky no more.”
His red-faced bride did not look inclined toward belief, but she raised a blanket with a trembling hand to cover her breasts. “Get out!”
Ash caught the concern in her look and wondered if she were playing the kind of game any tavern wench might, a coy pretence of innocence, though the doctor had proclaimed her virtue.
“A bit late to act the prude,” Ash said, “given your cheating sire, our forced marriage, and your salty selection of sailor’s curses. While I suppose your profanity should not be a surprise, I would like to commend you on the intact state of your maidenhead, so the good doctor swears.”
Larkin licked her lips, her panic receding, until she slyly slipped her hand beneath the covers … and Ash expected her to produce a form of titillation.
His manhood gave a hard willing salute at the notion as Lark rose to her knees, increasing his appetite, his imagination, and his lust.
As he stepped closer, her blanket fell away, and the dressing gown she wore parted down the center, revealing a perfect sliver of naked womanhood.
His body roared to raging life, until she cocked the pistol that appeared as if by magic in her steady hand. “A man will swear to anything,” said she, “with a pistol to his ballocks. The good doctor is no exception.”
With him now in her sights, Larkin lowered said weapon toward his bollocks. “Get out.”
“Like your father’s henchman,” Ash said. “I expect your pistol is as empty as your threat.” No hoyden this, but a fantasy—beautiful, seductive, and all his.
Though he heard footsteps behind him, he stood so near, Ash moved swiftly forth.
“Wait! Milord! She has a pistol!”
Reaching for his bride, Ash turned toward the speaker … and a shot rang out.
* * *
Before he opened his eyes, Ash realized that he hurt everywhere. His head pained and pounded like a military tattoo, as did his eyes, his limbs, and especially his left butt cheek, like some unknown force stabbed a knife into it, over and over, again.
Finding himself flat on his belly, a position he detested, suggested that he’d been abandoned on a battlefield far from England’s shores.
Odd, for he’d dreamed the war had ended.
“Where am I, Grim,” Ash asked, his eyes too sore to open.
“In your bed, Sir.”
“What country? What year?”
“The master bedchamber at Blackburne Chase. In the year of our Lord, eighteen hundred and eighteen.”
“The war is over, then? Good. I thought I’d gone for dead in battle.”
“Well … nearly. Do you not remember your wedding?”
“My bride jilted me before the wedding, Man, do you not remember? Found someone with more blunt, Ellenora did.”
“I mean your second bride, My Lord.”
“The actress? What was her name?” Ash managed to peel back an eyelid. “Bloody hell. What the blazes fell on me? Why does every part of me hurt?”
Grimsley held a cup of tea to Ash’s lips, for which Ash was supremely grateful. “You have two black eyes,” Grim said. “And assorted cuts.”
Ash nodded imperceptibly and swallowed dutifully. “I do not remember how it came about.”
“I see.” Grimsley appeared pained, portending some disagreeable duty. “You also have cracked ribs, according to Buckston, various scrapes and bruises, a minor gunshot wound in your ah, backside, and oh yes … a wife.”
Ash raised his head, groaned, and lay it down again. “Oh God, it’s coming back.”
“I was afraid it would, Sir.”
“She shot me? She actually pulled the trigger on a loaded pistol and shot me? Did she threaten the doctor, as she told me she did, so he would give me a false report? Was she telling the truth about that?”
Grimsley nodded with regret. “If Buckston had tried to examine her, he would not have been allowed to keep all his manly parts, he swears, and hopes you understand his predicament.”
“I shall beat her, as soon as I am able to raise my head.”
“She wishes to see you.”
“Not bloody likely.”
Grimsley stood his disapproving ground.
“Bloody hell,” Ash said. “Send her in then, but on your head be it.”
“Yes, My Lord. She is understandably afraid, My Lord.”
Untamable Rogue (Formerly: A Christmas Baby) Page 4
