by Cheryl Holt
"Aren't you listening? I won't do it. Not tomorrow, not the next day, not the day after that. I never will."
"And why is that?"
"Because I don't like you."
"So?"
"So! You're rude and overbearing, and I won't have a husband who's an arrogant lout."
"A lout?" He rolled the word on his tongue as if testing its flavor; then he chuckled. "I've been called worse. And I will be called worse, once you get to know me better. You don't throw things when you're angry, do you? I hate women who throw things."
"Are you deaf?" she snapped, exasperated. "I won't marry you!"
She appeared mutinous, and her surging temper flushed her cheeks and deepened the emerald color of her eyes. Her breathing was elevated, drawing his attention to her bosom. Her pert nipples were enlivened and visible against the bodice of her gown.
He vividly recollected how those nipples had been pressed to his chest after he'd rescued her from the stream. As he thought of how soft and sweet she'd been, he was amazed to feel his cock stir between his legs.
His wedding night would be no chore, at all!
She was actually quite spectacular, and if he weren't so adamantly opposed to matrimony, he'd have been thrilled by how affairs had played out. If he had to marry a stranger, and in a hurry to boot, she was definitely a fine choice.
Sarah Carstairs stepped forward, positioning herself between him and Anne.
"She's said no, Lord Gladstone. As her elder sister, I insist that you respect her wishes."
"Why would you deem it appropriate to butt in?"
She blanched as if she'd been slapped. "It's my duty to watch over her."
"Well, you haven't done a very good job of it so far. She's a twenty-five-year-old, poverty-stricken spinster. Unless the two of you can prevail on my charity, she's about to be tossed out on the road. Yet you dare to suppose she should refuse me?"
He studied her casually—as if he hadn't a care in the world. And he didn't really. His life had wended its way around till it was just about perfect. The only nagging remnant that remained unresolved was his burning need to know who had aided his father in sending them away when they were defenseless children. He was also anxious to discover who'd finally felt guilty enough to tell the truth about what had happened.
He wouldn't rest till he had the answer to both questions.
He turned away from the two Carstairs sisters to face the others.
"The ceremony is tomorrow at eleven," he explained, "in this parlor. Ophelia, I trust you to handle the arrangements so that it's an event my bride will never forget."
He spun on his heel and walked out, Jack bringing up the rear.
In Jamie's wake, the family was shocked to speechlessness, and as he made it to the stairs and started to climb, he heard Anne say, "Would you all excuse me?"
Then, she was chasing after him, and he was tickled to note that she had the backbone for a confrontation, though he wasn't about to quarrel with her, so he kept going.
He'd been captain of his own ship for fifteen years, and now he was Earl of Gladstone. He was never denied. His orders were always obeyed.
She would be his wife. No matter what.
Three
“Lord Gladstone! There you are! I've been looking everywhere." Anne hovered in the threshold of the master suite. She was anxious to appear meek, so she bit down on all the furious remarks she'd like to add.
After his absurd demand for a marriage, she'd wasted the afternoon trying to catch up with him. He'd deftly evaded her till it was so late that the entire house was abed. Except for him. And her. She was frazzled. "Hello, Miss Carstairs." "I'm returning your coat."
She extended it like a peace offering, but when he didn't rise to take it, she felt foolish and she laid it on a table next to her.
"Thank you. Come in."
At the invitation, she hesitated. He was grinning as if he were the cat and she the canary, as if she'd cornered him precisely where and when he'd wanted her to.
His room was a mess, with Percy's belongings only half-removed, but Jamieson Merrick had been
determined to spend his first night at Gladstone in the earl's chamber. He'd definitely made himself comfortable. He was sipping on some of Percy's finest whiskey, and he was lounged in a chair by the hearth. Even though it was a warm June evening, a huge fire blazed in the grate.
"What's it to be, Miss Carstairs? In or out?"
"In." She took a few halting steps, but she dawdled, unable to begin with what she'd intended to say.
"Well... ?"
"Today in the woods ... why were you up on the ridge?"
"Why do you think? I was surveying all I own and gloating."
"Why would someone shoot at you?"
"I'm not wanted here."
"But who would do such a thing?"
"Percy. Or some miscreant Percy hired. Aren't you glad he missed?"
"Percy has many faults, but he's not a killer."
Jamie shrugged, indicating that her opinion was irrelevant. "Shut the door."
"I most certainly will not."
"Why? Are you afraid I'll bite?"
"No. I simply refuse to be in here alone with you. I won't have the servants gossiping."
"Who cares if they gossip? We're getting married in a few hours."
"We are not."
"Yes, we are. Shut the door." "No."
"Do you ever do as you're told?" "I'm a perfectly reasonable person—when I'm dealing with reasonable people."
No doubt, he was used to being blindly obeyed. She'd heard the stories, about his daring, about his bravery and treachery. He'd been a ship's captain for many years, but he had no qualms as to who hired him. Supposedly, he worked for the highest bidders, robbing and pillaging on their behalf and taking his share of what was stolen.
Others catered to his whims. They fawned over him and groveled to please, so in dealing with her he was in for a surprise.
She wasn't in awe of him, nor did he frighten her. His attitude was all bluster, meant to intimidate, so he could snipe and bark to no avail. The very worst thing he could do was kick her out of her home, but that's what she'd been expecting to have happen. He had no hold over her; he had no way to coerce her.
He uncurled from his chair, like a cobra about to strike, and he sauntered over but walked right past her. He closed the door himself and spun the key in the lock. She was stunned, and her mouth fell open in dismay.
"Give me that key!"
"No."
He placed it atop the door frame, putting it so far above her that he might have set it on the moon. "Let me out!"
"No," he said again. "Now then, you had something to say to me ... ?"
He leaned back, arms folded over his chest, making it clear that she couldn't leave until he was ready for her to go. Her temper flared.
"Yes, I have something to say. As a matter of fact, there are several topics I'd like to address."
"Where would you like to start?"
There was a twinkle in his eye, a galling sign that he was humored by her, and she grew even more irate.
How dare he laugh at her! How dare he poke fun! Her world was crashing down around her, the only existence she'd ever known destroyed by a few pieces of paper she'd never even seen, and all he could do was snicker and tease.
"I won't marry you."
"Yes, you will. At eleven tomorrow morning."
"Who are you to strut into Gladstone and command me in my private affairs?"
"I am the new earl. And as you are here in my residence, eating my food, and living off my bounty, you'll do as I bid you—and you'll do it gladly."
"I won't do it, I tell you! I won't! I won't!"
"You're acting like a spoiled child."
He was correct. She was carrying on like a toddler having a tantrum, and she took a deep breath, struggling for calm. There had to be a way to make him see reason. She just needed to stumble on it.
"Why on earth would you w
ed me?" she asked more levelly. "And so suddenly, too! When you've so recently reclaimed your heritage, there must be a thousand women who would beg to be your bride. Why not pick one of them?"
"I don't want one of them. I want you."
"But you don't know anything about me!"
"I know enough."
The comment sounded like a threat, or a censure, and she wondered what he'd heard, who had spoken of her. Before traveling to Gladstone, he'd been in London. Who in the city had been so familiar that they were competent to discuss her?
"And with this vast store of information you've gleaned, you're content to forge ahead?"
"Yes. Will that be all? If there's nothing else, I'd like to return to my warm fire and my whiskey."
He was dismissing her! Just like that! As if she were a lowly scullery maid or a stranger on the street! In his authoritative universe, was this the sort of one-sided dialogue that passed for conversation? If he actually ended up pressuring her into matrimony, he'd drive her mad the first week!
"This isn't the Middle Ages," she tersely reminded him. "You can't force me."
"No, I can't, and I wouldn't presume to try."
"Then how will you gain my agreement?"
"Once you're countess, you'll decide who stays and who doesn't."
"So?"
"Your sister can stay—for her entire life. She can remain single and benefit from my charity, or if she ultimately chooses to wed, I'll dower her so she can find a husband."
"And if I'm not willing to sacrifice myself for her?" "Then you and she will pack your bags and depart." "Where would we go?"
"Wherever you wish. You'll no longer be my responsibility."
He was silent, letting the import of his cruel words sink in; then he grinned his devil's grin. He'd trapped her, and he knew it.
She would do anything for Sarah. He'd learned Anne's greatest weakness, and he planned to exploit it. How could she fight him and win?
"So you see," he stated, "I won't have to bully you, at all. You'll consent of your own accord."
"But I don't even like you."
"So? Why would your personal feelings toward me matter?"
"If I were ever to wed, I'd want to love my husband." He gaped at her as if she were babbling in a foreign language, and she stupidly added, "I could never love you."
The bounder chuckled. "Well, I'm glad we got that out on the table."
"What about you? Doesn't it bother you that you'd have a wife who doesn't like you?"
"Not particularly."
"What if you eventually discover that you hate me? You'd be stuck with me forever." "I certainly would be." "I might annoy you with my frivolity." "All women do."
"Or I might be rude to your friends." "I don't have any."
"What if I have atrocious manners or laugh like a donkey?" "Do you?"
"I often talk too much. What if I chatter like a magpie until your ears are full?"
"Then I'll order you to be quiet."
"And if I don't heed you?"
"Then I'll bind you and gag you and throw you in a closet till I feel it's safe to let you out."
"You would not."
"I might. If you were sufficiently irritating." "Would you be serious?"
He chuckled again. "You might be right. Maybe I'd merely gag you, but we'd skip the closet."
She shook her head in consternation. "I don't understand you."
"You don't need to understand me. You just need to marry me. Tomorrow morning."
Her shoulders slumped with defeat. Why couldn't she make him listen?
She'd nearly been engaged once, at age seventeen, but her beau had run off with a rich heiress, instead. Anne's heart had been broken, her confidence shattered, and it had taken years to recover from the sting of his rejection.
Afterward, she'd sworn off men, and she wouldn't be so vulnerable ever again. She couldn't bear the wild swings from giddy joy to pitiful misery. She yearned to continue on as a staid, sedate spinster, where each day was the same as the next.
Jamieson Merrick was volatile and unpredictable. He'd bring havoc and change, and she didn't want what he was offering.
"Would you really put us out on the road?" she inquired, not quite able to imagine him doing it to her.
"It will be difficult for me to establish myself as master here. People will remain on my terms, or they'll leave."
She stared at the rug, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment. "Would you ... would you at least give me some money, so Sarah and I can support ourselves while we figure out what to do?"
He didn't speak, but she could feel him studying her. The silence grew, and it underscored how pathetically she'd begged. Had he any compassion for her plight?
"Anne," he started, inappropriately using her Christian name, "would marriage to me really be so terrible? You'll live at Gladstone, and you'll be a countess. You'll be mistress of this grand house and several others. You and your sister will have everything you desire. You'll never go without. I swear it to you."
"It's not about the things you can give me."
"Then what is it? Why are you so reluctant? Are you scared of me? Do I disgust you? Are you pledged to another? What is it?"
She knew her reservations were silly, but with the exception of Sarah, she'd always been alone. No one had ever loved her. No one had ever cared about her. And she was so lonely. Was it too much to ask that any potential husband possess a shred of affection?
"It doesn't matter," she mumbled. "I just can't do it."
He sighed with resignation, or perhaps aggravation.
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
He reached out and took her hand. "Come with me." 'To where?"
"I want to show you something."
"What?"
"You'll see."
He spun and led her toward the inner chamber where his bed was located, and it loomed up at her, hinting at behaviors about which she'd always been curious but couldn't unravel. It was large and wide, fit for a king, situated on a pedestal and positioned so the exalted occupant could gaze out the window on the land below.
She was such an innocent that she'd never peered this far down the matrimonial road to where it would end, and the mysterious possibilities frightened her. She dragged her feet, trying to slow their forward progress, but to no avail. He was bigger and stronger, and he was clasping her hand so tightly. She couldn't pull away.
"I'm not going in there with you," she insisted.
"You keep telling me all the things you won't do, and I hate being denied. It annoys me."
She yanked away and sprinted for the door, but she'd forgotten it was locked. She whipped around and glared at him, but he merely grinned, delighted by her predicament.
"You're not afraid of me, are you, Anne?"
"Of course I'm not. Don't be absurd."
"Then prove it. Come into my bedchamber with me."
He took a step, then another, and she extended her arm, palm out, to ward him off.
"You stay right where you are, you scapegrace."
"No."
"Lord Gladstone!" "Call me Jamie." "No."
"Call me Jamie!"
He swooped in and scooped her off her feet, and though she kicked and hissed, she couldn't wrestle away. In a few fleet strides, they were in the other room. He walked over to the massive bed and dropped her onto the mattress.
"Lord Gladstone! Stop it!" He climbed after her, panicking her as to his intentions. "Mr. Merrick! Jamieson! Jamie!"
At her capitulation, he was very smug. "I love it when I get my way. And so soon, too."
He lunged, grabbing her and hauling her under him, his body weighing her down.
"Get off me!" She pushed at his shoulders, but the oaf wouldn't budge.
"You're very pretty when you're angry."
The comment flummoxed her. He'd said much the same when they'd been out in the forest, and his compliment had the same effect now as it had had then. She was thrilled that he fou
nd her attractive, but why would she be? Was she desperate for male attention?
"Get off me!" she repeated. "Don't touch me; don't maul me. Just let me out of this asylum."
"In our dickering over my marriage proposal"—he ignored her protest—"I've been remiss in clarifying some of the more intimate benefits you'll enjoy on becoming my wife."
"There aren't enough benefits in the world to convince me to marry you."
"When I was lying with you in the grass, in the woods—"
"I was not lying with you. You tackled me to the ground. Against my will, I might add. You're a brigand who has lunatics shooting at you."
He kept on as if she hadn't spoken. "It dawned on me that you're precisely the sort of female who ought to have a husband."
She scoffed. "What would I do with a husband?"
"You'd be surprised. Have you ever been kissed before?"
She blushed and glanced away. "Just this afternoon. By you."
"Did I kiss you this afternoon? I don't recall."
Their brief kiss had been wonderful, stupendous, amazing. He didn't recall it?
"You forgot? How could you?"
"I was teasing you. I didn't forget." The swine laughed, then sobered. "Close your eyes."
"Why?"
"I'm going to kiss you again, and this time, I'm going to do it properly."
"I don't want to kiss you," she insisted, but the breathy quaver in her voice belied her words.
"I don't care what you want. I'm going to do it anyway. Now close your eyes."
She should have argued, should have refused, but he looked so beguiling, as if he might possess some fondness for her, after all. The protective wall around her heart started to melt, and suddenly she wanted to be kissed by him more than she'd ever wanted anything.
Her eyelids fluttered shut, and she braced, expecting to be manhandled, but he didn't move, and she grew impatient. She was about to tell him to hurry when his lips brushed hers, the caress light as a butterfly's wings.
Their mouths were barely joined, and it was the sweetest, most enchanting interval of her life. She couldn't have said how long they lingered—perhaps a few seconds, perhaps an eternity—but when he drew away, she was bereft at the loss.
Gradually, she floated out of her sensual malaise and murmured, "Oh my ..."
