by Cheryl Holt
The vicar blanched with alarm. "You wouldn't."
"I would. Where is Miss Carstairs?"
The man was no fool. He didn't hesitate. "Second door on the right, at the top of the stairs."
"Thank you."
Jamie pushed past him and stalked up. He could sense Anne listening to his approach, could practically feel her consternation. She'd been positive the vicar would be able to reason with him.
What a ninny she was! Jamie had been raised in a world where there were no rules, where only the fittest and most brutal survived.
What force, what power, could one such as she—an indigent female, with no name or family—hope to wield?
Without pausing, without missing a stride, he entered the room, as she stood—mute and mutinous— and stared him down.
In her straw bonnet and worn traveling cloak, she looked so young, so lost, and he steeled himself against any tender feelings.
"Have you something to say to me?" he inquired.
She bit her lip, struggling as to what her response should be. His fury was palpable, and she didn't want to further antagonize him. At the same time, she wasn't sorry for running off, so she wouldn't display any meekness or contrition.
"Spit it out," he pressed, and he stomped across the floor till they were toe-to-toe.
"I can't marry you."
"Why would you presume your opinion in the matter to be requested or welcome?"
"I saw you with Ophelia!" she accused. "On the very night before my wedding! I won't have a husband who is so... so ..."
She couldn't finish the sentence, so he finished it for her. "Who's so what? Dissolute? Reprehensible? Foul in his habits?"
"If you insist on putting it that way ... yes."
"Miss Carstairs, I am a blatant fornicator. I admit it, but my personal associations are not—and never will be—any of your affair. If I choose to copulate with a dozen women, with a thousand women, it's none of your business."
To his amazement, the atrocious comment appeared to wound her.
"You care so little about me. You could be marrying anyone."
"You're correct, I could be, but in order to stabilize your life and your sister's, I agreed to have you over all others. However, it recently occurred to me that I have no idea why I sought to exhibit any compassion when it is so unwarranted and so unappreciated. Now let's go."
"Go?" She was incensed. "To where?"
"To Gladstone Manor."
"I'm not going anywhere with you."
"It's not up to you, Miss Carstairs. And you need to realize that it will never be up to you."
He wrapped his hands around her slender waist and, in a smooth, brisk move hoisted her onto his shoulder as if she were a sack of potatoes. Her head dangled down his back, her feet down his front, her shapely bottom hovering next to his ear. Amid much outraged screeching and pounding, he carted her out.
"Vicar!" she cried as they passed him in the foyer. "Vicar! Help me! Stop him!"
Jamie glared at the vicar, flashing a warning.
"Ah, I think this is for the best, Miss Carstairs," the sleazy preacher said, easily selling her out to the fattest purse. "I really do. You'll see. It will all work out in the end. I'll call on you in a few days to check how you're getting on...."
He continued to prattle, but Jamie ignored him and proceeded out to his horse. He tossed Anne over the saddle and jumped on behind her. Within seconds, they were galloping to Gladstone, and she spent the short journey casting aspersions on his mother's character and hurling curses he was surprised she knew.
Once they drew up in the yard, he leapt down and pulled her down, too, and though she fought and complained, he wrestled her up to the master suite. She was like a slippery eel, all arms and legs, and her determination to escape was very intense, but his determination to prevent her was even more strident.
He slammed the door, spun the key, and stuffed it in his pocket.
"Let me out!" she seethed.
"No."
"You can't keep me here against my will." "Yes, I can."
"You're a bully, and I hate you."
She stormed to the door, rattled the knob, and banged on the wood, begging for assistance, but the corridors were suspiciously empty, and no one rushed to her aid.
She whirled around, her eyes blazing. She was spitting mad, a ferocious sight, and he could only marvel at her foolishness.
The pins were gone from her hair so that it was falling. Her bonnet and cloak were lost in the fray. The sleeve of her dress was ripped, as was some of the stitching along the waist, and he couldn't remember how the fabric had been torn.
He'd never been acquainted with a female who spurred him to such pinnacles of temper, and he couldn't decipher what it meant. She was lucky he wasn't holding a switch. If he had been, he'd have thrown her over his knee and given her a good paddling.
"I'm tired of fussing with you," he advised. "I'm not too keen on having to deal with you, either."
"Get your ass into my bedchamber."
"What?"
"You heard me."
"What are you going to do to me?" He hadn't decided, but he threatened, "I'll let you know when we arrive." "Tell me first."
"Walk in there on your own, or I shall carry you." "No." She didn't budge.
"Go!" he shouted with such vehemence that she skirted by him and raced into the other room.
He followed her, and as he entered, he was annoyed to note that she was trembling with terror. He wasn't an ogre unless driven to act like one, and she seemed to have no clue that his current ill humor was all her fault. She'd humiliated him in front of his enemies, yet she hadn't the vaguest notion of how he'd been wronged. The woman was a menace!
When the Prince had insisted they wed, he'd obviously never met her. What rational man—royal or no— would deliberately burden a husband with such a fickle, ridiculous wife?
"I demand to speak with my sister," she bravely said.
"You demand?" Jamie bellowed, causing her to cringe. "By what gall do you demand of me?"
"She's my only family, and I... I wish to see her."
"Sarah has left."
"Left?"
"The terms of our bargain, Miss Carstairs, were that your sister would stay if you married me. Your chance to secure her future passed at eleven o'clock. She was evicted thirty minutes later."
"You sent her away?"
"Why wouldn't I? Do you think this a game? Do you think we play for jest? For sport?"
She was horror-stricken, on the verge of weeping. · He felt as if he were kicking a puppy.
"But where will she go? What will she do?"
"What concern is it of mine?" he heartlessly asked, shamed by his ruthlessness.
He was a hard taskmaster, but he strutted and blustered for the benefit of recalcitrant men. At having reduced her to tears, he was disgusted with himself. What was the matter with him? Why did he allow her to goad him to insanity?
"Have you any idea of where she is?"
"No, I don't. Perhaps you should have thought of her plight a tad more carefully prior to your sneaking off."
"Oh, Jamie, how could you?"
At her use of his Christian name, he was thoroughly chastened, and his cheeks reddened with chagrin. His wrist began to ache, the old memory suddenly plaguing him, and he could barely keep from rubbing it to soothe himself.
She collapsed onto a chair, her head bowed, her hands clasped in her lap. She looked so beautiful, so forlorn, like a Madonna in a painting.
He fidgeted with dismay, trying to deduce what his next move should be. He spent such a small amount of time around women, deigning to fraternize mainly for carnal purposes, most of his encounters having been with whores in port towns. His exchanges were strictly business, money paid for services rendered.
At witnessing her anguish, he was so far out of his element that he might have been standing on the moon.
He was prepared to bestow a life of wealth and ease. Why would she r
eject such a boon? Why wasn't it enough?
He walked over to where she was sitting, and he reached out, as if he might comfortingly stroke her back or shoulder, but he let his arm fall away.
"We'll wed tomorrow, instead," he gently told her. "I'll have Jack find your sister and bring her home."
It was the largest stab at an apology Jamie had ever taken, yet she peered up at him and said, "Why won't you listen to me? I can't marry you."
"Can't? Can't?" .
Rage made his voice shrill. His gaze narrowed till her saw her through a red haze. A vein pounded so violently at his temple that he wondered if he was about to suffer an apoplexy.
"We'd have to speak vows before God," she explained. "You'd have to promise to be true to me, but we both know you never would be. I can't let you lie to God."
He was offering her the world, yet she balked over petty details like infidelity and God's displeasure! Was she deranged?
Appearing dignified and insulted, she rose. "I'd like to leave now. If I may?"
"If you may ..."
Like a half-wit, he was repeating every word she uttered. He studied her, bewildered and speechless and positive that her absurd feminine hysterics had driven him to imbecility.
When he'd dragged her home, he hadn't known what he'd do with her. He'd simply wanted her back where she belonged. But the fog had cleared, and his motives were gradually growing defined and imperative.
"Take off your dress," he commanded.
"I most certainly will not."
"You will remove it on your own." He grinned wickedly. "Or I will remove it for you." "You wouldn't dare!" "Wouldn't I?"
As if an alien creature had slithered inside him and seized control, he clutched the neckline of her gown and ripped it down the center. The material dropped away and pooled at her feet.
She stood before him, clad in her undergarments, and at being so rudely bared she squealed with affront and crossed her arms over her torso.
"My dress! My dress!" she wailed.
"I'll buy you a dozen more—after the wedding."
He turned and started out.
"Where are you going? You can't leave me like this."
"That's where you're wrong, Anne. I am lord and master at Gladstone, and I can do anything I like—to anyone. At this moment, I'd like you to remain here, and remain you shall."
"But I'm trapped in your bedchamber, and I don't have any clothes!"
"Precisely. I doubt you'll hie yourself off to your precious vicar in corset and drawers."
He started out again, when she snapped, "Lord Gladstone!" When he didn't halt, she implored, "Jamie!"
He stalked over and pulled her to him. At feeling her so exposed and so vulnerable, he was inundated by a wave of lust so potent that he was amazed it didn't knock him over.
"You have tried my patience," he fumed, "beyond what any normal person should have to endure."
"I've done nothing but what I felt was right, which is to keep both of us from making a terrible mistake."
At having her describe their pending union as a mistake, he saw red all over again.
"I am struggling to honor you as I should—when I am not an honorable man." He gripped her shoulders and gave her a slight shake. "I've sworn to myself that I will wait for our wedding night, when you will be my respected and esteemed bride, but I am in such a state that if you continue defying me, I will shed my vow and proceed at once as if you were the lowest sort of harlot. Trust me: You won't enjoy it."
"You would . .. would .. . ravish me?"
"To force this marriage? Absolutely." He stepped away from her. "Stop fighting me, Anne. You can't win."
He strutted out, slamming numerous doors and spinning several keys, sealing her in like a dangerous prisoner, but attired only in her unmentionables.
He tarried a few seconds, then a few more. As her shock abated, she began hammering with her fists, yelling and cursing him again, but it wouldn't do her any good. She wouldn't be able to escape, but if she somehow managed it, he'd make sure the staff knew not to aid her in her folly.
He would not fail in what the Prince had ordered, and she would not foil him in his matrimonial plan.
In the morning, they would be wed, and he would have the chance to fornicate with her as he was burning to attempt. After seeing her, with her hair down and her clothes off, the notion sounded more exciting by the minute.
He left her to her fury, and he hurried down the stairs, eager to find Jack and have him fetch Sarah Carstairs back to the manor.
Six
Anne slowly came awake. She was so warm and cozy that she couldn't open her eyes, but she knew she had to rouse herself. There was something important she was supposed to do, but she was too comfortable to remember what it was.
She sighed and smiled, wanting her drowsy malaise to go on just a while longer.
Suddenly, she jerked to full consciousness as she recollected that she was locked in Jamieson Merrick's bedchamber without any clothes.
The man was a demented fiend!
After he'd stomped off and left her, she'd pounded on the door till her limbs grew tired and her voice raw. Finally, exhausted and disheartened, she'd fallen onto his bed and dozed, but from the sunlight streaming in the window she'd slept all night—when she hadn't intended to.
She was about to sneak over and try the door again when it occurred to her that she wasn't alone. Someone was stretched out on the mattress behind her. Their
bodies were spooned together, her back, bottom, and thighs touching where they had no business touching. An arm was lazily draped across her waist, a hand firmly planted on her belly.
She peered over her shoulder, and as she might have guessed, Jamieson Merrick was snuggled with her, but she had no idea of when he'd returned. She attempted to ease away, but he scowled and dragged her to him, as if—even in slumber—he refused to relinquish the slightest authority over her.
She was determined to escape, though, and she shifted away, but the second she moved he was alert and grinning as if he'd played a wicked joke.
She was ready to scold and berate, but he flummoxed her when he murmured, "Good morning, my beautiful Anne."
"Lord Gladstone."
"You call me Jamie when you're angry."
"Then I'm sure I'll be calling you Jamie very soon."
He chuckled and snuggled nearer.
"Can I go now?"
"No."
She was curious if cajoling would work where arguing never had. "Please?" "No."
She could have started another quarrel, could have harangued about Ophelia, about his arrogance and conceit, but she was weary of their constant bickering.
"Have you found my sister? Is she all right?"
"She's fine. Jack was with her; she never left the house."
"Don't send her away again."
"It's up to you, Anne. Not me. Whether she stays or not is completely your decision."
She yearned to tell him what a lying swine he was. She had no actual control over Sarah's fate. Anne could do everything he asked and he might still renege on his promise not to evict Sarah, but any dispute was lost in the fog of their burgeoning intimacy.
Their bitter feud of the previous day had ended with him as the winner, but it wasn't a fair fight. Anne hadn't any weapons with which to battle him, and it was draining, going up against ail that masculine certitude. He was bigger and stronger, and he wanted events to happen much more than she did.
His plans for her seemed inevitable. Wasn't it better to simply relent?
He came over her, his torso pressing her down. His naughty fingers caressed her hip. His lips were mere inches from her own.
Down below he was wearing his trousers, but the upper half of his body was bare. Instantly, she was awash in too much male flesh, but she wasn't alarmed. When he tucked away the bluster, he could be very charming.
"You smell good," he sweetly told her.
"Do I?"
"Yes, and you look
so pretty, with your hair down and the sun shining on your skin."
He dipped under her chin and nuzzled her nape. He hadn't shaved, so his face was rough and scratchy, and it tickled, causing goose bumps to cascade down her arms.
He positioned himself between her thighs, and he flexed his loins, the odd gesture making him groan with what could have been pain or a strange sort of ecstasy.
"I'm always filled with lust first thing in the morning," he said.
"So it's a common condition that has nothing to do with me personally?"
"Oh, it has everything to do with you, my dear scamp."
She smiled, a glutton for his compliments.
"After we're wed," he continued, "there'll be no separate beds for us. We'll sleep together every night—so that I can wake up with you just like this."
He kissed her, one of those long, lush embraces he was quickly teaching her to relish. With his anatomy crushed to hers in several delectable spots, she should have pushed him away or at least pretended maidenly outrage, but she didn't want to object. The moment was incredibly precious, and even though he was a bully and she was furious with him, she was bowled over.
He was fussing with the laces on her corset, and as he yanked it away without her protesting, she wondered where her moral fortitude had gone. Whenever she was with him, he swiftly goaded her to iniquity, and he was so clever at tempting her that she forgot to complain or resist.
The thin fabric of her chemise was scarcely a barrier to any advance, and his hand easily drifted to her breast. He fondled the soft mound, gently squeezing the rigid nipple.
She couldn't understand how she'd failed to note that the rosy tip was so sensitive. It seemed to be directly connected to her womb, and with each pinch and tug her insides wrenched in an enchanting way.
"You've never had a lover, have you, Anne?" he asked.
"Of course not. When would I have?"
"So no man has ever touched you here but me?"
"No."
"Not even your beau, when you were seventeen?" She scowled. "How do you know about him?"
"I know all about you. I made it a point to know." "But... why?"
"I had to find out if I was getting a shrew."
