The Earl Claims His Wife

by Cathy Maxwell

  Where his mouth touched, her skin tingled.

  Gillian pulled her hand away. “What was that for?” she asked, embarrassed at the chord of alarm in her voice. She had not anticipated his gesture, or her reaction.

  “It was for your kindness,” he said, making no move toward. “For understanding. I’ve not been able to speak to anyone as I did just now with you. It is a gift, my lady.”

  She raised her hand to her temple, feeling a bit foolish. She was on guard against his advances and so, of course, had overreacted.

  Even now, he didn’t seem to take offense at her confusion.

  He rose from the table. “Come. We are both tired. Let us go to our room.”

  She noticed he didn’t say “our bed.”

  Wright pulled out her chair, but made no move to take her hand or touch her. Gillian was thankful. Once she stood, she realized the wine had more of an effect on her than she had anticipated. Or she wanted to believe that this swimming dizziness was the wine. She refused to believe it was Wright, especially since now was the time when she needed to gird herself against him. She hadn’t decided how to handle the room situation, but she knew what the outcome would be.

  He indicated with his hand for her to lead the way. As they walked out of the dining room, he gently woke the sleeping innkeeper, slipping a coin into his palm for his good service.

  Mr. Peters’s eyes opened the second he felt the metal. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you.”

  Wright held up a hand as if to quiet the man, but Mr. Peters was anxious to be of service. “Do you need help going up the stairs? My Mary turned down the covers in your room and made a fire.”

  “You have done more than enough,” Wright said, trying to leave the dining room, but Mr. Peters followed him.

  “There is a lamp on the table at the foot of the back stairs. Take it to light your way. Oh, here, perhaps I should go with you?”

  He would have charged ahead of them except for Wright catching him by the collar. “We can see to ourselves, Peters. Clean the table and find your bed. You’ve worked hard this night.”

  “Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord,” the innkeeper said.

  Wright made an impatient sound before issuing a stern, “Good night,” and coming out into the hall to join Gillian. Wright indicated with a wave of his hand the direction of the back stairs where a lamp burned on a side table.

  “That was kind of you,” Gillian said over her shoulder as she walked toward the table.

  “What was?” he asked, truly puzzled.

  “Giving the man a vail for his service.”

  “He earned it,” Wright answered.

  “Yes, but most wouldn’t have given it to him,” she said. In fact, she’d overheard more than one servant in the marquess’s household complain over their employer’s tightfisted tendencies as well as those of his friends. Generosity, a quality Gillian greatly admired, was not a common virtue amongst the ton.

  Wright shook his head as if her praise embarrassed him. “You’d better be careful, Gillian, or you’ll be thinking me a better man than I am.”

  A sharp rejoinder was on the tip of her tongue to say that could never happen, but the words didn’t come out because he was different than anyone she’d come across in London. Perhaps the war had changed him or perhaps her instincts all those years ago in a crowded ballroom had not been completely wrong…

  She was such a fool. Even after years of his neglect, she was willing to give him the benefit of a doubt. She shook her head. It wasn’t all her fault. He was trying to be charming and it had been a long, stressful day. The sherry had mixed with the wine and she was not as alert as she should be.

  There was also still the matter of her sharing a room with him. Experience had taught her that Wright would do what was necessary to gain what he wanted.

  Gillian wasn’t worried about the room. She was certain she could set Wright in his place. In spite of what had turned out to be an enjoyable evening, she had not fallen under his spell. She knew a trick or two to keep him at bay.

  They had reached the staircase leading up to their room. She placed her hand on the solid sturdy stair post, leaving the lamp for Wright to pick up.

  She’d gone up one step, when she heard him say her name so softly she could have imagined it.

  “Yes?” she answered, turning to him—and that is when he caught her off guard.

  Before she realized what he was about, he swept her up into his arms and kissed her.

  For a stunned moment, Gillian couldn’t think, she couldn’t move. His kiss was an onslaught of her senses.

  Memories of her wedding night came rushing back to her. She’d been so enamored of him. So silly, silly in love. Kissing him had been as natural to her as breathing—and it still was.

  She attempted to think of Andres but his face wouldn’t form a picture in her mind. Instead, all she could see was Wright. Damnable, irritating, annoying Wright. How she wished their lips didn’t fit together.

  Gillian leaned against the banister for support as if to avoid him. His arms came around her, his hands gripped the rail, trapping her. Not that he needed to do so. With a will of their own, her arms went around his neck, flattening her breasts against his chest.

  Their hips fitted together as if pulled by two magnets. He deepened the kiss and, God help her, she followed him.

  A footfall sounded behind them as if someone approached.

  Her first thought was of Mr. Peters. She should not be seen smooching like a dairy maid on the staircase of a public house. She started to break away, but then Wright bit her bottom lip, soothing it with the tip of his tongue and she could have melted into his arms.

  Dear God. Who would have thought after all that lay between them, all he had to do was kiss her to make her forget pride and common sense?

  He’d performed this same trick on their wedding night. It had thrilled her, frightened her…tempted her, just as it did right now.

  What little sanity she had left shouted no through her mind. She must not let him kiss her this way. She must not let him seduce her. She had to remember how he’d been able to walk away from her. How he’d not had so much as an hour for her before he left to join Wellington.

  She had to remember the mistress he’d chosen over her.

  But that mistress was gone, the devil of temptation whispered to her. There was no one else but herself. Even the earlier footfalls threatening discovery had vanished from her doubts.

  Gillian tried to think of Andres, but couldn’t. Wright’s kiss obliterated all thought of her beloved Spaniard.

  His lips made their way up to her ear. “Let’s go to our room.”

  The brush of his breath against her skin almost sent her through the ceiling. Fortunately, his arms now held her fast. He smiled. She could feel his lips curve—

  The spell he wove was broken.

  He’d had her until he smiled.

  Wright left the lamp behind as he half carried, half backed her up the stairs, his lips barely leaving hers. In the upstairs hallway, he backed her against the door to their room. His arousal was hard and bold between them. He cupped her breast and she could have cried out because it felt good to be touched this way.

  She’d been wrong when she’d thought his kisses would remind her of their wedding night. Back then she’d been shy and he hesitant and slightly uninvolved.

  There was nothing uninvolved about him right now. He kissed her with a raw, urgent need.

  And she wanted him, too. She wanted to taste him, to feel him, to take him inside her. She barely remembered their joining. There had been nights when she’d tried to remember and had failed.

  Andres. She had to think of Andres. Noble, kindhearted Andres. Andres who waited for her.

  Gillian reached behind her for the door handle.

  The door opened and she practically fell inside—effectively breaking the kiss.

  “I need a moment of privacy,” she managed to mutter, her heart racing. She shut the door an
d leaned back against it, thankful to have escaped. The only light in the room was the warm glow from the hearth. The white counterpane on the bed seemed to take on an unholy glow in the firelight.

  There was no time to rest. She had to pull herself together. She could not, must not let him kiss her like that again. She had no defenses against him.

  All he had to do was touch her and she reverted back to the silly chit who had been so dovey eyed for him when they’d first married.

  “Gillian?” He rapped light on the door. His voice took on warmth as he said, “May I come in?”

  She couldn’t let him in. She’d worked too hard to be free of him to give it all up now. She raised a distracted hand to her head and knew what she was going to have to do.

  It’s what she should have done from the very beginning.

  Chapter Six

  Brian leaned against the door. He swore he could smell her light floral scent through the wood.

  Who had known Gillian could kiss the way she did? She was passionate, giving, and yet innocent. There was a hint of chasteness in the way she approached kissing. The Spaniard had not had her yet. Brian would have staked his inheritance on it.

  Memories of their wedding night came flooding back to him. He’d only been unfaithful to Jess once, and it had been that night.

  Of course, he’d been so angry at his father for forcing the marriage and so determined to keep his beloved Jess in mind, he’d done little more than was necessary with Gillian. He’d been young, full of brass, and arrogant.

  He’d also had the ill grace to tell her of his love for another.

  His callousness stunned him. No wonder Gillian wanted nothing to do with him.

  Dear God, he was seven kinds of fool, especially since Gillian was worth twenty-five of Jess. Time had proven his father right. Jess would not have been a worthy wife. The disappointment of the shallowness of her love still burned like an acid on his heart. He had wanted to offer Jess the world and she’d tossed it aside.

  But Gillian was different. She was quality. She had intelligence, grace, and the courage of her convictions. She was also educated. She’d make an honorable mother to his children.

  For the first time since his brothers’ deaths, since he’d been ordered home and discovered everyone he had trusted had betrayed him, Brian felt hope. His instincts had been to send for Gillian. He was now overjoyed that he’d taken matters into his hands and come for her.

  She was a jewel beyond price. A blessing!

  Brian leaned against the door, anxious to claim his wife. If he could reach through the door, he would. No woman had ever taken him to this level of arousal.

  “Gillian,” he whispered against the door. “Let me in. I’m ready for you.” He was also very aware that the door to the other room, the one the family was using, was right across the hall. He didn’t want to wake them.

  But instead of the sound of the door handle being turned, instead of a whispered, “Come hither,” he heard the sound of something being dragged on the other side of the door.

  He frowned and listened again. He wasn’t mistaken.

  Alarmed, Brian decided being gentlemanly and polite could be damned. Something was wrong on the other side of this door. Gillian might need his help. He grabbed the handle, opened the door, leading with his shoulder—and came to a halt.

  The door wouldn’t open more than a few inches of the way.

  Brian frowned and tried to shove it open, realizing something was blocking the doorway. Furniture. A big piece of furniture like a wardrobe had been placed in front of the door. “Gillian? What’s this?”

  Her voice came from the other side of the door. “It’s protection, Wright. I’ve pushed the wardrobe in front of the door. I’m not sleeping with you. Go make your bed someplace else.”

  “You’ve thrown me out of my own room?” he asked in disbelief.

  There was a moment’s hesitation and then she said, “Yes, yes, I have.”

  At first, he was confused, but as her words sank in, a red haze fell over his eyes. Had she played him for a fool? Was this some sort of scheme to exact revenge for their years apart?

  And he was furious that she was now hiding behind a wardrobe like some spinster when only moments before she’d been panting in his arms.

  “Open this door,” he said in a voice that brooked no disagreement.

  There was no reply.

  There was also no compliance.

  He threw his weight against the door. It slammed against the wardrobe but didn’t move it. He pushed against the door with all his weight. “You’d best move, Gillian. I’m going to knock the thing over.”

  “You’ll damage it,” she warned.

  “I’ll pay for damages later.” Right now, he wanted his wife to know who was in charge. Matters had gone out of hand long enough.

  But the wardrobe didn’t move. He made another attempt. It didn’t budge, not even an inch.

  “Gillian,” he said, not bothering to keep his voice down. “Move that wardrobe or I shall take it apart in splinters.”

  “You haven’t been too successful so far,” came her prim reply.

  Brian roared his frustration. He shoved at the door again and when that time wasn’t any more successful than his first attempt, he pounded the door with his fist, needing some sort of release before he exploded.

  The door opened across the hallway. Wearing his night cap, the father of the family peeked out into the hall. Targeting him as a focus for his anger, Brian all but growled before ordering, “Back in your room.”

  But when the wide-eyed man pulled back to obey, Brian had a new idea and stopped his neighbor’s door from closing with one hand. “Let me have a look in there.”

  “In here, my lord?”

  “Yes,” Brian answered absently as he took charge and shoved the door wider to take a look around the room. He knew he was being rude but this was war. A war between a man and a woman. Not even the French could be as formidable opponents. And he was not going to let Gillian best him.

  In the glowing light coming from the hearth he could see the family huddled in the room’s two beds and a few cots. Brian wasn’t interested in them. Instead, he noticed the two windows on the far wall. He’d wager his room was laid out much the same way.

  A chubby toddler came suddenly awake. The child stared at Brian as if he were a mad man, which right now he probably was, and then opened his mouth to cry. His mother scooped him up into her arms, trying to shush him—a scene that finally made Brian snap to his senses.

  “So sorry,” Brian said to the child’s mother. He backed out of the room, nodding to the father. “Again, beg pardon. But thank you for your indulgence.”

  The door was slammed behind him. That slam was echoed from his room across the hall. Gillian had repositioned the wardrobe so that he couldn’t push open the door at all.

  He narrowed his gaze, wishing he could see right through his door. She probably thought she had him beat. He wondered why she’d run so hot and then cold…and decided it was because the intensity between them had frightened her off. He’d upset her avowed dedication to her Spaniard. He’d made her question herself and Gillian didn’t like questions. He understood that about her now. She wasn’t one to flirt easily or to be jaded about morals. That was the reason she’d left his father’s house. He would have staked his career on it.

  She’d said she wanted a divorce. Brian almost laughed. There would be no divorce. Not in his marriage.

  Besides, he couldn’t lose her. She was all he had left.

  He went down the back stairs of the inn. Not bothering with the still-burning lamp, he walked toward the front door where he paused only long enough to remove his jacket and hang it on a peg in the wall before going outside.

  Four windows to the taproom lined the front of the inn. Besides the dying fire in the grate, two candles were still burning. Peter must still be up doing chores.

  Not wanting to be discovered slinking around outside, Brian hunched
over so he couldn’t be seen and ran past the windows.

  At the corner of the inn, he stopped to study the side of the house. There were two windows on the first floor, exactly as there had been in the family’s room. However, he decided to try the window over the taproom. There was a tall oak at this corner whose branches came close to those windows. Brian could have danced a jig. He was going to enjoy the look on Gillian’s face when he climbed through one of them. And the irony was he’d shared the story of his tree-climbing abilities with her. It seemed poetic justice.

  He jerked off his boots and socks, hiding them against the house. The ground was cold and damp beneath his bare toes but he’d need them to help him scale the oak.

  Removing his neck cloth, he used it as a strap. Throwing it round the tree and holding each end, he began his ascent.

  Some ten feet over his head was a good, steady limb that should hold his weight. If he stood on it, he’d be able to reach the first window.

  As he passed the taproom windows, Peters came out and blew out the candles. Although his arms screamed in agony, Brian held still, not wanting his movement to draw the innkeeper’s attention toward him.

  When all was dark, he started up again.

  The climb actually went better than he had anticipated. His muscles hadn’t had a good stretch or challenge for months and his night vision, something he’d always prided himself on, was coming back.

  Gillian had lit a candle. The lead and glass window was covered with curtains but he could see the glow of the candle flame and occasionally, her shadow as she moved around in the room. He was surprised she hadn’t gone to bed. Perhaps she was nervous about where he’d gone?

  She should be.

  He grinned in anticipation of her reaction when he surprised her.

  However, when he reached the limb, he realized it wasn’t as steady as he had estimated. He pulled himself up, holding the tree trunk by one arm while he debated his next move, realizing he had another problem. In the dark, it wasn’t easy to tell if there was a way to open the window on the outside or not. Chances were there wasn’t, and he hadn’t brought a knife with him to attempt to pry them open.