My Hellion, My Heart

by Amalie Howard

  “There, my lord,” Monsieur Renaud said, dabbing the last of his wounds with his own homemade healing salve of egg whites, aloe, balsam, and God knew what else. Henry trusted the old man like no other, and having him tend to him now after so much time made Henry’s insides twist into nostalgic knots. He owed this family so much…for their loyalty, their service, and their discretion. Perhaps that was why he’d kept the estate for so long. It had been the Renauds’ home for more than a decade, and it would continue to be, for as long as he drew breath.

  Despite the short notice, Madame Renaud had a feast laid out upon the dining room table, including a selection of meats, bread, cheeses, and fruit. Irina had not yet come downstairs. Henry waited, pouring himself a healthy serving of whiskey while he sat in an armchair near the fire and stared at the flames.

  “My lord,” a soft voice said. He rose, the tight feeling in his chest returning at the sight of her. Irina stood there, dressed in a simple cotton gown. Her hair was uncovered. Her feet were bare. “It’s Helene’s,” she said with a small laugh, seeing his stare. “And far too short.”

  “I’ll send someone to the village in the morning,” he said, trying futilely not to notice the tantalizing display of a well-turned ankle as she walked toward him.

  “Thank you,” she said and reached for his glass. “May I?”

  “Of course.”

  Henry watched as she turned the rim to where he’d sipped last and placed her mouth to it. Amusement twinkled in her eyes when she sipped, watching him with a knowing grin over the rim. “Do you remember when I did this the last time?” She ran her tongue along the edge.

  “As if I could forget. You are a temptress,” he said in a choked voice, taking the glass from her hands and pulling her to him as if she were the banquet instead of the food waiting upon the table.

  Henry kissed her, savoring the whiskey on her lips and tongue and wanting to devour her. He wanted to lick whiskey from her throat, from her breasts, lap it from her smooth, bare stomach. He wanted to bathe her in it and feast from her body. His hand fisted at her hip, winding into the material of her dress as he explored the interior of her mouth, the combination of her intoxicating taste and his lewd thoughts making him senseless.

  With a reluctant sigh, Irina pushed him away and drew a breath. “Henry, wait. I need to tell you something. Before everything happened, I went to your residence. I wanted to tell you that I’d decided not to marry Max.”

  He reached for her. “I know.”

  “No, there’s more,” she said, stalling him. “I…don’t want there to be any more secrets between us. It’s about the wagers.” Flushing with shame, she turned away from him, and something slithered uneasily in his gut. Had she done something? Had Remisov done something? Had she done something with Remisov? Jealousy reared its ugly head inside of him while he waited in a numb state for her to continue. “I told Max to start the wagers. It was all my idea.”

  Relief flooded him. “I know.”

  “You know?”

  “Remisov told me as much.”

  Irina wrung her hands. “And the idea of getting married, that was mine. I didn’t think you…” she trailed off, swallowing, “that you wanted me.”

  “Irina, I have wanted you from the first day you touched your lips to my whiskey glass,” Henry said, gathering her into his arms with a groan.

  “I meant in marriage.”

  “I didn’t think I was…suitable.”

  Irina stared at him. “Is it because of what Max said…about your demons?” She faltered, nervous fingers twining into the linen of his shirt. “And not being able to stay the night with anyone?”

  Henry nodded and swallowed, stung by shame. “Remisov was right about that. Being touched in my sleep seems to bring back awful memories, ones my body has yet to forget. At night, I’m consumed by dreams brought on by the devil himself, and I lash out. I nearly hurt someone once. A courtesan. And I vowed never to put anyone in such danger from me again.” His knuckles skimmed her cheek. “I would never want to hurt you.”

  “You won’t hurt me, Henry,” she said.

  He drew a measured breath and realized something. Weeks had passed since his last night terror. He could not recall the last time he’d woken in a demented panic, though he was positive it had been before Irina had returned to London.

  She blinked up at him as if worried by his silence. “You can’t truly believe you will hurt me.”

  “No.” Henry shook his head, a sense of wonder filling him. “You are right. I don’t believe I will. You calm me, Irina. I don’t know what it is about you, but my body, my mind…you speak to me, you lure me from the edge, even when you say nothing at all.”

  He trailed his fingers down the elegant curve of her throat. “I’ve never thought about anyone as much as I’ve thought about you. You’re so ingrained in my thoughts that, lately at least, when I do manage to sleep, somehow the terrors remain at bay.” A wicked grin curved his lips. “Though I haven’t woken up with torn bedding, I do tend to find myself in a very uncomfortable state.”

  “Uncomfortable?”

  “Aroused, then.” His smile turned wolfish, and a becoming blush flooded her cheeks.

  “Oh.”

  “Though that is vastly preferable to the alternative, I assure you,” he said with a laugh as he took her lips in a sweet, swift kiss. She met him as she always had, with urgency and passion, and with complete honesty. No wilting wallflower, his Irina.

  His Irina.

  Drawing away, Henry sobered as his eyes drank in her features. Her dark, glossy hair fell in cascading waves around her face, and her eyes were a blue so deep, a man could happily float in them for eternity. Her cheeks remained flushed from his teasing and his kiss, and her lips were plump and rosy. It made him want to devour her again. Want to haul her up against him and never let go. To think of how close he’d come to losing her on that ship. The realization had loosened something buried deep…he wanted more time with her. He needed it. He wanted to make her laugh, to see her skill with a sword, to bask in her sparkling wit and curiosity. But most of all, he wanted to please her with a desperation that he’d never felt before. Not for anyone. And not since France, when the monsters inside had chased anything good in him away.

  Irina’s courage was humbling, and her faith in him was staggering. It buoyed him and terrified him at the same time. He did not deserve her. He could never deserve someone so perfect.

  “I still think I’m not the man for you.”

  Irina’s hands reached up to cup his face, her eyes sparking with anger or passion, or some fiery combination of the two. “You are the only one for me,” she whispered fiercely. “That was what I was coming to tell you in London. That I didn’t care if you didn’t want to marry me, but I couldn’t marry anyone else knowing what I feel.”

  “And why is that?” Henry rasped, an aching feeling taking hold of him.

  “Because I love you, and I always will,” she said with a shy laugh. “You’ve ruined me for any other man.”

  “Irina—”

  She shook her head as if anticipating his response and smiled brightly at him. “No, don’t say it. I can’t bear any of your reasons why you think we won’t suit or why you are somehow not good enough for me. For now, for this moment, I just want to enjoy your company. Will you please allow me that? And then we can return to life as we know it, where you are a cantankerous, unlovable earl and I am a foolhardy, frigid ice princess.”

  A tentative knock on the slightly ajar door drew their attention, and Madame Renaud entered. “May I serve the supper, my lord?”

  Henry stared down at Irina at a complete loss for a response before nodding to the housekeeper. He had so much he wanted to say to Irina, but words failed him. Exhaling softly, he escorted her to her chair, and then took the one at the head of the table.

  They ate in silence
, though he could feel her glances settling upon him from time to time. It was a companionable silence, and one which Henry strangely seemed to enjoy. Just the feeling of having her near set him at ease. He delighted in watching her delicate hands rise to her mouth, seeing the look of decadence on her face as she tasted one of the cheeses, hearing her soft sigh of satisfaction as the meal ended. He could stare at her forever, he decided, watching her do any mundane thing. She brought so much grace and joy to the simplest of tasks.

  After Madame Renaud had cleared the plates, Henry offered Irina a glass of sherry. “Whiskey, please,” she said, and he grinned. He should have known.

  “Would you like to sit on the terrace?” he asked, handing her the glass.

  “The terrace?”

  With a smile, he opened the French doors and taking a crocheted lap blanket from the back of a chair, wrapped it around her shoulders. Irina gasped at the sight that greeted them. A clear expanse of rolling ocean lay below, spread beneath the pale white glow of the moon. Foamy, silvery-topped waves lapped at the shore, lending a magical air to the view.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said, tucking the blanket around her.

  “Yes,” Henry said, but he was not looking at the sea. He was looking at her. Holding her gaze, he closed the foot of space between them and reached down to grasp her hand in his, but the right words were still elusive. “You’re not a frigid ice princess.”

  “I’m not?” she whispered.

  “Not to the right man.”

  Something like hope bloomed in her moonlit eyes. “And who is that?”

  Henry stared at the woman who carried his heart in hers. Suddenly, he was not afraid anymore. He knew he would never be, not when she was at his side.

  “I have something to say to you,” he said softly, “and I want you to listen.”

  The expression in her eyes shifted to one of uncertainty. “Very well.”

  “You told me once you wanted me to be happy, and this is when I am happy. When I am with you. Tonight, on that ship in the midst of it all, I felt more grounded than I have in years, and I realized it was because of you. You were my anchor in that storm. I am flawed in so many ways, Irina. Stubborn. Unyielding. Cantankerous, at best.” Her eyes were damp already. So were his, he suspected, but Henry smiled at her, taking their glasses and placing them upon a small stone table before resuming his hold on her fingers.

  “Any cracking noise will bring back memories I never want to relive. I will run my course for hours, running from nightmares that will never end. I will no doubt be unable to love you as you deserve, but I find myself out of excuses, out of reasons not to take a chance.”

  He pressed her knuckles to his mouth, drawing his lips back and forth over her lavender-scented skin. “God knows I’ve done this all wrong. I should have asked your sister and North properly for your hand in marriage. I haven’t even told my own mother, but I can’t wait anymore when the one I want is standing here right in front of me.”

  “The one you want.”

  “The one I love.” With an inarticulate sound, he dropped to one knee, still holding her cool, trembling palm in his. “I want to marry you. Will you take me as your husband, Irina?”

  Wide-eyed, she stood there, staring down at him for an endless moment, a single tear trekking down her cheek. She lifted her fingers to touch the hair at his temple, as if to determine whether he was real. Henry turned his face into her hand, kissing the heart of her palm.

  “You love me?” she whispered, and Henry nodded. “You want to marry me?”

  “With all my heart. Will you give me your answer, my love?”

  “Yes, oh yes,” she cried, dropping to her knees beside him and throwing her arms around his neck. Henry kissed her then, gently, his lips sealing the promise he had just made.

  They broke apart to clapping and turned to see Madame and Monsieur Renaud standing behind the windowpanes, their cheeks wet with tears. Smiling as he rose, Henry drew his bride-to-be to his chest and held her there, staring out at the sea and feeling like he had finally come home. They stood in silence for what seemed like an eternity, holding each other, until Irina stirred in his arms, her eyes finding his.

  “I’m wondering when I will wake and realize that this is all a dream.”

  “It’s no dream, my love.”

  Irina laughed. “I also don’t think I’ll ever get used to you saying that.”

  “One day you might become bored with me,” he teased.

  “Never,” she said, poking him in the ribs.

  Smiling, Henry kissed the tip of her nose and then her lips, because they looked so soft and inviting. It was some time before he escorted her back inside and saw her to her chamber. The Renauds had already retired, but Madame Renaud had left a light burning near Irina’s bedside. At the sight of the bed, his fantasies took flight, but Henry sighed, steeling his desires. The hour was already late enough, and his bride-to-be needed to sleep.

  He, however, needed an ice-cold bath or a dip in the frigid waters of the Channel.

  “Rest well,” he told her at the entrance to her room.

  “Wait.” Irina placed a hand on his chest, stalling his departure. His muscles leaped reflexively beneath it as his breath rolled to a pained stop in his lungs. Irina’s eyes met his, and the unconcealed desire he saw there nearly drove him to his knees. “I don’t want you to go.”

  Henry huffed a laugh. Irina had never been shy about what she wanted.

  He licked his lips. “Irina—”

  “Stay.”

  “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  Her palm slid down to his stomach. Henry sucked in a sharp breath as her finger slid in between his waistband and his shirt. “Yes, I do.”

  “But…what if I do hurt you?” he asked, a beat of panic struggling to take shape within him.

  “You won’t. We have already agreed upon it,” she said, then blushing wildly, “Besides, I don’t plan to fall asleep for quite some time. I know exactly what I’m asking, Henry. I want you to stay here. With me. Tonight.”

  The whispered words were his undoing. With a strangled groan, Henry took her lips as her hands wound up around his neck. Her mouth opened eagerly to him, her tongue boldly stroking against his, and Henry was lost. He kicked the door shut behind him as his hands roamed over her back, plying her against his full length and leaving her in no doubt of the state of his arousal. A gasp escaped her lips, but she arched against him, erasing what little space remained between their bodies.

  “Oh God, Irina,” Henry muttered as he swelled even more. He wanted nothing more than to bury himself in the heat of her, feel her body undulate around him, but he forced himself to slow. He would take his time, even if it killed him.

  Henry drew small kisses along the column of her throat, his fingers inching down toward the simple neckline of the gown. His mouth followed their path, nudging and nibbling her skin and making her moan. Her head fell back, and he supported her with one hand as his mouth devoured the swelling rise of her breasts. He pulled her bodice low, exposing one crest to his greedy gaze, and then the other.

  “You are perfect,” he said, kneading the rounded flesh gently and taking one peak into his mouth. Her fingers tangled in his hair as he suckled, his tongue curling over her taut nipple. Irina whimpered as he turned his attention to her other breast, his own blood turning to fire in his veins.

  Lifting his mouth, Henry eased the dress down over her hips until it fell into a pool at her feet. He pulled back slightly to look his fill. A radiant flush suffused her body as she stood there in plain cotton drawers, her eyes never leaving his. Henry decided that she had never looked lovelier. She was breathtaking. And she was his.

  “I do not know how I managed to resist the sight of you unclothed for so long,” he murmured. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

 
Irina blushed and laughed. “Surely not the most beautiful? You flatter me with poetic words, my lord. But I am far too lean, my breasts are too small, and I have muscle where most women should have softness.”

  Henry shook his head. She was perfect from the top of her head to her pert breasts and narrow waist, to those long slender legs that he’d obsessed about for hours on end.

  “Your breasts are perfect to me.” To prove his point, he bent forward, lingering over each of them, making her gasp as he scraped his teeth over each of her nipples. “I love every inch of your trim, firm body.”

  Kneeling, he kissed a path down the center of her flat belly and dipped his tongue into her navel, making her fingers dig into his shoulders. Henry’s hands wandered down her rib cage, sliding over her hips and over the sides of her thighs. “And these legs were made to bring a man to heaven.” His hot breath fanned against the embroidered edge of her drawers as he drew his tongue along its length, tugging at its ties with his teeth.

  Growling low in his throat, Henry stood and in one smooth motion, hooked an arm beneath her knees and lifted her, carrying her to the bed and pulling back the bedclothes. He moved to snuff out the light, but she stopped him. “Leave it. I want to see you, too.”

  “Irina—” he began, his usual self-consciousness rising.

  She sat up, clutching the edge of the sheet to her breasts. “You have nothing to hide from me, Henry. No more secrets, remember?”

  After a moment, he nodded. She would be his wife, and he knew he could trust her. He pulled the shirt over his head. Though he was careful to keep his back away from her, he joined her on the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. She moved to touch him, her hands sliding along the bunched muscles of his torso, and Henry exhaled sharply. “You’re beautiful, too,” she murmured. “So strong. So powerful. When I see you like this, I think of a lion. Long and lean and dangerous.”