Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress

by Ann Lethbridge

  Even as his heart swelled in admiration, Garrick wanted to take his crop to her backside. He wanted to shake her. Make her promise never to risk her life in that fashion again. He had to catch her first.

  Never had he seen a woman ride so hard, better than many men he knew. Admiration outstripped anger as he watched the perfect harmony between horse and rider. She rode like a madwoman, but she knew her horse and by the time they were heading back to the barn, he’d forgiven her madcap dash. He laughed out loud when she raised a brow in question from beneath her cocked hat.

  As they walked the horses cool, a feeling of contentment washed through him. It was as if some great weight had gone from his shoulders, or some dark shadow had been erased from his soul. She made him feel…happy. A gift beyond price.

  A happiness he didn’t deserve, but would enjoy as long as it lasted.

  “I’m starving,” he said.

  “Me, too.”

  “Lucky I thought to bring lunch.” He retrieved the hamper he’d left in the barn’s cool interior and spread out a red-and-green plaid blanket on the grass overlooking the pond. She laid out the feast, small meat pasties in a feather-light crust, bread, cheese and fine red wine. Neither said much while they ate. It was good to see a woman eat with such gusto, unlike the ladies of his acquaintance in London, who picked at food as if it might be poison.

  Crickets chirped a merry tune in the grass. A dove on the barn roof cooed softly. Appetite sated, Garrick stretched out, leaning on one elbow so he could watch her face. She sighed and, resting against his thigh, sipped her wine. “Thank you for a most wonderful surprise,” she murmured.

  The pleasure in her voice filled his heart with unaccustomed warmth. It burned like frozen fingers brought back to life. “I’m glad it pleased you. Tell me, how on earth did you learn to ride and fight with a sword like a boy?”

  She hesitated.

  Would she lie? The warmth dwindled, but he tried to hold it fast. After all, he had his own dark secrets.

  “I told you I was brought up with the Castlefield children,” she said. “We spent a year or two in India. While travelling in some parts it was safer to dress the girls as boys. I took fencing and riding lessons with William…I mean, Lord Castlefield. I loved it. Sometimes I wished I’d been born a boy.”

  William. Her familiarity with the man sent the heat of anger flooding to his brain even as he analysed her slight hesitations and carefully chosen words. No doubt about it. She was lying.

  He kept his expression cool, detached. “I envy you. I have never been outside England. The war with France made the Grand Tour impossible.” Not to mention his uncle’s protectiveness.

  She set down her half-full glass and stared at the rolling vista. “It was the same for the oldest son, the heir. He hoped to go abroad once the war was over. He was killed in a carriage accident not long ago. Now William must return and take up the duties as heir. In a way, I’m glad.” Her voice caught. “I hated thinking of him in danger.”

  Garrick couldn’t see her face, but he heard the note of deep longing in her voice. Clearly no matter what he did, she would prefer this man. Jealousy surged, twisted in his gut, knotted with a cold, hard lump of anger and bitterness. The thought of this other man wounded him in a way he hadn’t expected, a way he’d never before experienced. He forced himself not to care. “Is it your wish to go to him when he returns?” The hard edge in his voice told him he’d failed.

  “Oh, no.” She sounded sincere, almost appalled.

  More acting? And why would he care? His plans for the future didn’t involve a woman. He eased away from her, rose to his feet and began packing away the remains of the picnic.

  “One of your servants came to Castlefield, once,” she said, passing him her wineglass. “He’d been in the same regiment as the old lord, and your father, I believe. A man named Piggot.”

  His stomach lurched. The ground beneath his feet seemed to shift at the sound of a name he’d not heard in years. He stood stock-still. “Piggot?”

  “I can remember the Earl being quite upset after his visit, but he did not say why.” She rose to her feet and dusted off her breeches, her small hands patting the round curve of her derrière.

  A tremor, so deep it did not disturb the surface of his flesh, quaked in his bones. Would Piggot have revealed the events surrounding his mother’s death to Castlefield? Did the information that could destroy him lie in Castlefield’s hands, awaiting imminent discovery? How Ellie would revile him if she learned the truth. And yet, in some dark corner of his soul lay a measure of relief at the thought of laying down a burden too heavy to bear.

  Unseeing, he stared at the blanket in his hands.

  “On guard.”

  A sword point flickered in his face. He recoiled. “What the deuce?”

  She laughed, her eyes sparkling. She twirled her blade, then raised it in salute. “You promised me a lesson.”

  Sweat trickled off his brow and ran cold down his cheek. He let go a long breath and smiled. “So I did.” He collected his weapon from the gig and took off his coat.

  He bowed, then saluted. “On guard.”

  She took up her stance, lithe and alert. As their blades hissed together, he recalled her amazing skill. She’d been taught by a master. A worthy opponent, indeed, though she did not have the strength of wrist or the reach to best him. He demonstrated his technique of twisting a blade free of his opponent’s hand. She grasped the theory quickly, but had trouble putting it into practice.

  “It will work for you with a weaker opponent,” he said.

  Clearly exhausted, the tip of her sword resting on the grass, she nodded and wiped her face on her shirtsleeve with a laugh. “Enough, my lord. I can barely lift my arm.”

  Her face was flushed, beads of sweat shone on her brow and her shirt was undone past what was decent. Delicious. Tantalising. His body quickened.

  “Aye. It is time you changed, before my servant comes to retrieve the picnic, and he recognises you as the highwayman I kissed.” He led her into the barn.

  Ellie tugged on his hand. “Why did you kiss me that night? There was no legend, was there?”

  He smiled at her frown. “Because, like a fool I’d left my pistol in the coach.” And lucky it was he had. God, even now she might be dead.

  “I was a fool to let you get so close. I’d not do so again.”

  “There will not be a next time.” Cold fear struck his heart. He pressed her against him, the urge to keep her safe overwhelming. “Will there?”

  Against his arm, her spine stiffened. Her grey eyes cooled as she hid her thoughts. “No. There is no reason for it any longer.”

  He kissed her hard, trying to break through the barrier she’d put up. It worked. She melted against him and his blood grew thick and heavy with need.

  “How do you do that?” His voice was low and husky with desire.

  A laugh caught in her throat. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  He hoisted her into his arms, while she laughed and kicked. He put her down on the blanket amongst the straw, a lovely wild creature as comfortable in a barn as she was on a feather bed. An enigma. Perhaps that was the root of her attraction. She was unlike any other woman he’d known.

  What was it about her that drove him to distraction? Perhaps not knowing how much of her was real and how much playacting held him enthralled. She’d been a virgin when she came to his bed, but there was nothing innocent about Lady Moonlight. Would he ever know the real woman behind the mask?

  And if he did, would she disappoint? Was it better not to know?

  She reached up and cupped his jaw in her small hand, dragging his face down to her lips with a saucy smile. Today, he had Lady Moonlight. God help him, he’d take whatever she felt free to give.

  He wrestled with the buttons of her shirt while her lips were fastened to his, only breaking away to pull it over her head. When she did the same for him, he felt humbled. Honoured. He lay beside her, kissing her lips, h
er throat, the rise of her breast. Her nipples leapt to life under his tongue. Passion and adventure all rolled up in one unique woman.

  While he nuzzled into her breasts to the sound of her delighted giggles, he unfastened her breeches, easing them over the curve of her hips. He caressed the soft skin of her buttocks and pressed her hard against his arousal.

  She pushed him away. She laughed at his disappointment and, leaning forwards, nipped his shoulder with her teeth.

  “Ouch!”

  She slid slowly to her knees, her hands trailing down his chest and then his belly until they reached the waistband of his breeches. The white skin of her back melded into the roundness of her plump firm buttocks at its base. Groaning, he reached down and unpinned her silky golden hair so it flowed softly around her as she unbuttoned him and his shaft sprang free, rampant and ready. She kissed him, a quick shy brush of silky soft lips.

  Mon Dieu, it felt good. A breath of pure pleasure hissed between his teeth. But he wanted more. He wanted to feel her soft curves against him. He lifted her to him and kissed her mouth. He plunged his tongue deep into her and felt her bold response.

  “I need to be out of these clothes,” he whispered.

  She cast him a shy smile of encouragement. He sat up and quickly stripped off his boots and breeches and turned to lay beside her. She gazed deeply into his eyes, seeking…what? Assurance. The passion in her smoky gaze drove blood from his brain to his groin.

  He gathered her close, oblivious to everything except her warmth, her scent, the hint of vanilla. An honest, earthy scent. The sounds of desire from her throat while their mouths joined drove him wild with wanting. His fingers dipped into her moist, hot centre and he groaned. This was where he belonged. Somehow, he would make her forget her past.

  He nudged his knee between her thighs and she, generous and yielding, let them fall open. He entered her and they became as one. He drove into her, thrusting again and again. Her gasps of excitement, the breath warm in his ear, her nails sharp points of wicked pain on his back and buttocks, drove him to new heights of desire.

  The scent of her arousal filled his nostrils. Her cries, increasingly demanding, filled his ears.

  So close. His own release threatened, demanded, tortured, tightened his groin until he thought he would explode. He clamped his jaw. Strained to bring her with him. Fought for control.

  He shifted. Stroked her tight insides with his body, feeling the flutter and pull of her inner muscles goading him on. He reached between them, found the source of her pleasure, the swollen bud of her desire, and circled and rubbed, hard, fast.

  “Oh God, Ellie, now.”

  Her body clenched around his shaft, hot spasms against the sensitive head. He was going to die of pleasure. Not without her. Not alone.

  Then she shattered. Crest after crest of heat and tight, clenching, muscles. In a panic, he withdrew, spilling his essence on her belly as he followed her into the surf. He collapsed on his side, grabbing his shirt to clean her skin. The scent of sweet-smelling straw and lovemaking in his nostrils, a harmony of breathing and slowing hearts, a paradise on earth. Blissful, sated, sweat cooling on exposed flesh, he gazed up into the ancient beams. If he stayed in England with her at his side, perhaps his inner demons could be vanquished.

  With a smile, she nestled deeper in the crook of his arm, her straw-coloured hair trailing over her breasts like a silken veil. He ran a fingertip across her arm where it lay across her stomach, her hand resting on his hip. A beautiful, extraordinary woman.

  ———

  His eyes drifted closed. When he came to and looked at her next she had turned on her back. His first thought was to kiss her awake and make love to her again. But tears were sliding from under her long, golden lashes and running down her face.

  He reached out and captured a tear on his thumb and brought it to his lips. He tasted salt. What made her cry in her sleep? His stomach roiled as he forced his mind to recognise what his heart would not. She wasn’t happy.

  It was like a knife twisting in his chest, this sense of impending loss.

  Yet perhaps it was as well. What if this thing inside him caused her harm? He’d never forgive himself.

  Would he harm a woman he only wanted to protect? The legends spoke of blind rage. He was almost sure he’d experienced it first-hand three times now, the sensation of control and memory slipping away. His gut churned.

  Her eyes opened and she looked at him with a slight frown, as if she was trying to recall where she was, then her eyes cleared and she smiled.

  “Why are you crying?” His voice sounded tight and hard.

  “I didn’t know I was.” Her laugh shook. She rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. “A bad dream? I don’t recall.”

  A wave of guilt washed over him. He should have given her the money she needed and made her leave, instead of killing any dreams she must have of her noble patron.

  He only wanted to give her happiness. In his selfishness, he had tried to win her heart, to make her want to stay, but if she cried for Castlefield after a day as perfect as this one, she’d never been his. Sadness rose up inside him, painful and dark.

  He had spent years learning to control his deeper emotions, building a wall to keep out anything that might disturb his calm as a matter of survival. She had pierced that wall and he must make it whole again. He would tell her he was tired of her, send her away.

  But not yet. Not today.

  “Come, Dan will return soon. Let me help you dress.”

  ———

  On the drive back to the village, Ellie rested her head on his shoulder, her body rocking against him with the horses’ steady rhythm. Unconsciously he pulled her closer and she snuggled into him, nuzzling his neck. His heart felt tattered, torn to shreds, and he welcomed the pain.

  They pulled up outside her front door. “Goodnight, Ellie,” he whispered into her hair. He tipped her chin and brushed her lips with his thumb, aching for more.

  “Goodnight, Garrick. Thank you for a wonderful day,” she murmured.

  Tomorrow, he’d gather the strength of will to set her free. After all, she’d never been his to keep and a man with a stain on his soul didn’t deserve happiness.

  Chapter Six

  Eleanor closed the door the moment the gig drove away. She busied herself preparing supper, trying not to think about the path she’d chosen and what it meant for her future.

  He’d given her a beautiful day in idyllic surroundings and it hadn’t been too hard to imagine herself spending the rest of her life with him. He was thoughtful, charming and fun. Most of all, when he made love to her, she forgot his reputation as a rake, forgot the duty she owed to her family, forgot she was ruined. It wouldn’t matter how good he was to her, he could never marry her now.

  Nor could anyone else.

  And until their bargain was over, she must not let him steal her heart.

  That foolish organ gave a funny little skip, a happy little hop in her chest. Too late, apparently.

  She jabbed the fork into a slice of bread. What a fool. Each time she thought about bidding him goodbye, she cried. If she didn’t take care she’d turn into a permanent watering pot. She’d always despised lachrymose females who complained about their lot in life. She’d made her bed and she’d lie on it, cheerfully, and think about the future when it arrived.

  If she had a future. Drat it, there she went again.

  She stared at the toast and jam she’d put on the plate, but there was no room in her stomach for food. Tea. She needed a nice cup of tea. In bed. And a book. She put the kettle on and changed into her nightdress and robe.

  Her front door creaked open. Her spirits soared. Garrick had returned. She ran to greet him.

  It wasn’t Garrick outlined in the doorway, but a stranger. Large and threatening, with a wind-reddened face and heavy black brows above a red-veined, bulbous nose, he barged over the threshold. Oh, God. She must have forgotten to throw the bolt.

  She backed a
way, her mouth dry and her heart beating loudly. While not tall, he was heavyset and could overpower her in an instant. Her stomach lurched as small black eyes ran down her body, eyebrows lifting. The worst thing about him was his grin, loose wet lips drawing back over broken yellow teeth beneath a greasy black moustache.

  “Get out.” Her voice shook. She clasped her hands together, seeking strength. “You have no right to be in here.”

  “Now, now, my lady, don’t get excited, I’ve come with a message from his lordship.”

  “The Marquess of Beauworth?”

  “The very same.”

  Something jarred about his words. She gasped. He had called her my lady. Garrick knew? Her rapidly beating heart clogged her throat. She swallowed. “Get out.”

  He made no move.

  She glanced around for a weapon. If only she had not left her sword at the barn.

  The man closed the door with his heel, following step by step as she backed away. She daren’t take her gaze from his face in case he attacked.

  A weapon. She needed something heavy. She sidled into the bedroom, working her way to the brass candlestick on the night table. Breathing steadily, clutching fast to her courage, she backed around the bed. The table nudged her back. Her fingers fumbled behind her and found cool metal.

  She held up her other hand in a warning. “No closer.”

  He reached into his pocket. He must have a pistol or a knife. She had to act.

  She grasped the candlestick firmly, hefting it in her hand where he could see it. “Stay back or I will put a dint in your face so large your mother will never recognise you.”

  His hand emerged with a small brown bottle. He laughed, an evil, sneering sound. “Them’s fighting words, my lady.” The sound of the front door opening sent a chill down her spine.

  “Where the hell are you?” a male voice called.

  More of them. Bile rose in her throat.