by Regan Walker
“Why, Martin, you sound like a professor of local history. Wherever did you gain that knowledge?”
“From our coachman. He was a wealth of information on Pentridge and the towns surrounding it.”
“Yes, he was,” she agreed.
Martin stared off into the distance, wondering what kinds of weapons and men could be mustered at such a factory. The coachman had offered little with sureness, but he’d used the word hundreds.
Chapter 15
What a strange journey she’d been on, Kit reflected as she continued to sketch the ironworks. The White Horse Inn was her seventh home in only a few months, if she counted those where she’d spent only one night, and Pentridge was a far cry from the parlours of London. Yet here she was with a new husband who was charming, intelligent and handsome—and proficient with a pistol and knife. He was more than she’d ever thought to have, and she was becoming very attached to him. Still, he remained mysterious; now even more so. This morning and here at the ironworks she had sensed some tension hidden beneath his otherwise calm surface. He was worried, but about what?
As she watched him staring at the ironworks, his ebony hair blown by the breeze in casual abandon, her heart warmed. She would have to remember that pose to sketch him when they returned to the inn.
“Come, Kit,” he said as she finished her picture of the ironworks. “Let us return. I must see to a few things with John this afternoon. Perhaps tonight our proprietress can find us some wine for our dinner. I’m already weary of English ale.”
They returned to the White Horse, where John was waiting. He had news, and once she and Martin dismounted the two men started off with the horses toward the stables, their heads bent and speaking in whispered words to each other.
As she watched, Martin’s head jerked up and he turned from John to look down the road into the distance. Then Kit heard the shrieks and screams, and she followed Martin’s searching gaze to the end of the village.
Martin returned to her side and commanded, “Stay here, Kit.” Then he and John mounted the two horses and kicked them into a gallop.
Something of great magnitude was obviously happening, and Kit would not be left behind. She hurried down the road after them and arrived to see villagers gathered around a fenced paddock. Martin and John had left their horses and were at the fence surrounding the large enclosure, watching as a drama unfolded before them.
A crying woman stood at the railing, her eyes focused on a large red-brown bull with pointed horns standing in the middle of the pen, shaking its head up and down and pawing at the ground. Several feet in front of the agitated beast was a small child, whom Kit thought could not be more than two, walking on wobbly legs.
The village men stood debating what to do. “I ain’t going in there,” said one. “That bull already skewered young Harry this week.”
Martin didn’t hesitate. He shouted an order to John, and both leapt the railing and dropped into the enclosure. The village men took a step back, expressing amazement, and the bull raised his head. Kit rushed the fence to watch.
The child stopped walking and sat roughly on his bottom, only now aware of the two approaching men and the bull. He began to wail. The woman next to Kit gripped the rough wooden railing with white-knuckled hands, sobbing as she stared intently at the child; then she made as if to climb the fence.
Kit put her hand on the woman’s arm, stilling her movement. “Let the men try first.”
Martin cautiously approached the bull while speaking to John. “Let’s circle him. I’ll draw him off then you grab the child.”
Working in tandem, the pair wove a path in front of and to the side of the bull, distracting it from the child. The beast dug one hoof in the ground and growled its displeasure at the invasion of its enclosure, darting its head from side to side and all the while keeping its eyes on the men. Then, suddenly, the beast dropped its head and charged.
Kit held her breath, her fist pressed against her clenched teeth as she anxiously watched the now aggressive and snorting bull aimed full tilt at her husband. She was shocked at how fast the large animal moved, but Martin must have expected it, or perhaps even encouraged it, for he made a sharp turn to the left. The bull, undoubtedly wanting him gone, tried to follow.
Having lured the bull half the pen’s distance from the child, Martin called out to John, “Now!” John dove to the ground, swept the crying child into his arms, and raced back to the fence where Kit stood next to the terrified mother. He handed the child over the railing, into the eager arms of the waiting woman, and scaled the fence himself. In the distance Martin jumped, but the bull’s horn caught his forearm as he cleared the far rail. Kit gasped, seeing the red on his torn sleeve.
“Martin!” She rushed around the side of the pen toward him, but he was already striding around the paddock to join her. “You’re hurt,” she said as he closed the distance. His left forearm was bleeding.
“Fortunately only a scratch,” he said, holding his hand over the place where the bull had marked him, indicating they should join the mother and her child beside John.
Kit wrapped his wound with a handkerchief she took from her pocket. “This will hold the cut until we can return to the inn.”
They arrived at front of the enclosure to the cheers of the men who had done nothing but watch. The mother of the child was running her fingers over her son in careful examination, but by this time the child had stopped crying, happy to be in his mother’s arms.
The woman faced Martin and John, surrounded on all sides by her neighbors. “Oh thank ye, good sirs, thank ye.” She held her child close to her chest as tears ran down her cheeks. “I was so afraid.”
“We were pleased to help, ma’am,” Martin said.
John smiled in agreement and asked, “Is the child unharmed?”
“Aye, he is well,” the mother said. She stared at Martin in awe. “He’s nae hurt, Mr.—”
“Donet,” Martin supplied, “and this is my wife Mrs. Donet and my assistant Mr. Fournier.”
Kit wondered at that. Wasn’t John’s surname Spencer? That was how he’d been introduced in London.
“I am much in yer debt, all of ye. And I’m very sorry for yer wound, Mr. Donet. Is it bad?”
“No, ma’am. I’ve suffered much worse,” Martin said, making light of the injury that, to Kit’s dismay, still seeped blood.
“I’ve quite forgot my manners, Mr. Donet. I am Mrs. Moore. My husband Edward is the cobbler. And this little one you and yer friend rescued is my precious Johnnie.”
“He’s a beautiful boy,” said Kit, happy to bring a smile to the woman’s face, though she wanted to leave and get Martin to a place where she could properly tend the gash in his arm.
“’Twas a splendid quick move, sir,” John remarked.
Kit couldn’t help smiling at the pair, so quickly heroes in the eyes of the villagers. Heroes in her eyes as well. She wasn’t surprised Martin had rushed into danger to save a child; somehow she knew he would always be the first into the path of harm to rescue someone in need. He had rescued her more than once. But the knowledge both comforted and frightened her. While proud of his bravery, she suspected this would not be the last time he put himself at risk. That he might be put in danger—that she could lose him—was not something she wanted to think upon.
Accepting the congratulations of the villagers and ordering John to take the horses back to the stable, Martin turned his attention to Kit, a frown on his face. “It was less serious than I’d thought, Kit, but I see you did not see fit to stay where I left you.”
“I could not allow you to go into danger alone, not without knowing what was happening. I just could not, Martin.”
Holding her gaze for a moment, he finally shook his head as one might at the antics of an errant child, and taking her hand he led her back to the inn. “It was for your own good.”
“Yes, but—”
“I meant my words, Kit. I don’t deal lightly where your safety is concerned. You are
precious to me.”
She was precious to him? Her anger disappeared as joy leapt in her heart. With a pleased smile on her face she said, “I must tend your wound.”
He shook her off. “You need not bother with my arm, Kit. It’s only a small nick. Why don’t you have a bath before dinner and, as soon as I speak with John, I’ll meet you in our rooms?”
* * *
Martin hoped to be alone with his rebellious bride before dinner, and it was with that thought in mind, after he’d seen to the cut on his forearm, that he asked the proprietress of the inn to scour the cellar for some red wine. A young man returned dust-covered but victorious, and Martin was delighted. It might not be the finest Bordeaux, but it would suffice.
Carrying two glasses and the decanter of the rich red liquid upstairs, Martin was not disappointed when he opened the door and his eyes reached past the sitting room to their bedchamber. Kit was rising from her bath like Aphrodite rising from the sea, her auburn hair piled atop her head with a few tendrils loose around her neck. Water dripped enticingly from her alabaster skin.
He set down the wine and glasses and strode to her, reaching for the drying cloth. “Can I help?” he asked, his eyes feasting on her lush curves.
She gasped and turned, grabbing the linen from him, wrapping it around her and depriving him of the view. “You frightened me. I didn’t hear you come in.”
He couldn’t resist the pull of her. While she turned her back to him to wrap the cloth more tightly around her, he pulled the pins from her hair and ran his lips across her damp shoulder. The now familiar scent of roses intoxicated him, and kissing the base of her neck he pulled her against his chest.
“How is your arm?” she asked.
“I’ve cleaned it; it is fine.”
She looked at his forearm now in front of her and peeled back his coat. The shirt had been cut away. She placed a kiss on his hand and said, “I was worried.”
“Ah…Kitten.” Her lips were warm on his skin. “You worry about my meager cut, while I have thought of little else all afternoon but this beautiful body of yours. Surely we know each other well enough now. The young man who works here managed to find some wine, and we’ve time to enjoy both it and each other before dinner.” He leaned down and nuzzled her neck. “I want you.”
* * *
As Martin’s hands caressed her breasts, Kit realized she very much wanted him, too. He had played the overprotective but sensitive husband, become a hero to a village child. How could she deny him what she wanted herself? Doing so would be cruel to the both of them.
She turned in his arms, her heart beating a fierce tattoo. The smells of horse and man were strangely titillating, and the thin cloth did nothing to prevent her every nerve from coming alive. Drawn into his heat, she felt her nipples harden into tight buds. She had only to cast aside the towel and give him his way.
She gazed into his eyes so dark with desire. “I think it’s time.”
“Time?” he said, wrinkling his brow.
“I want to be with you again. To make love with you.” To become his wife in truth.
A slow smile spread across his face, and he came alive at her words. “Kitten, are you sure? I’ll not ask twice.”
“Yes, quite sure.” And she was. They had said the vows that bound them, but that had been a marriage of necessity. This was now a marriage of love, for she had fallen for this man to whom she had given herself that night at Willow House. Mary predicted it, and her fear for his safety as he confronted the bull convinced Kit. She would no longer deny him.
“I must be the happiest man in England tonight,” he said.
He gathered her up in his arms, and she embraced him eagerly as he kissed her, a deep penetrating kiss that foretold all that would follow. Then he pulled the towel from her body and cupped her breasts with his palms. He bent to kiss the base of her neck while he slid his warm hands to her buttocks.
“You smell of roses. So warm, so lush. So beautiful. You’ve driven me half mad waiting for you, Kitten.”
She nearly purred when he ran his lips over the sensitive skin of her ear then kissed her neck. His hands, still on her bottom, drew her tightly against him. She shivered and felt her whole body respond as he carried her to the bed and laid her down.
That look in his eyes. She had never felt so powerful. Staring at him she commanded, “Now it’s your turn to undress.”
* * *
He cast aside his clothes quickly, Kit watching him with rapt fascination, her blue eyes already glazed with beginning passion fixed on a particular part of his anatomy.
“I have been in this condition since we married, Kitten,” he said, unable to resist a smile. “It only takes seeing you.”
She blushed. “I know after our…beginning, Martin…you may find this hard to accept, but I am still new to lovemaking.” Her words were a nervous whisper.
“You need have no worry, Kitten. I am looking forward to teaching you everything you need to know.”
To be honest, he was delighted that she was still new to what lay before them. That innocence was something he noticed the first night they came together.
He moved to the bed and in one fluid movement slipped in next to her, taking her into his arms. She was all softness, skin like the smoothest silk, hair a long fiery stream on the pillow. He pressed his full length against her. For a moment he just held her, stroking the round softness of the side of a breast, then her ribs and the curve of her hip. He was hard as a rock and he murmured, “I am so hungry for you.”
Letting her settle on her back, he rolled atop her, kissing her deeply. Purposely he slowed his movements, relishing the feel of her body, trying to take his time. They had all night. They had the rest of their lives.
She threaded her fingers through his hair. He loved the touch of her hands and he said so, pressing his body closer to hers.
“I like touching you,” she responded.
“I had hoped to go slowly, but—”
“Perhaps another night,” she whispered. Her voice was breathy, and she dropped her hands to his shoulders pulling him more tightly against her.
Martin swept his hand the length of her body. It was perfect, though he already knew that. He had an exceptional memory where she was concerned. He bent his head to the base of her neck and kissed her there, his hands gliding over her belly to her woman’s mound where warm, willing flesh greeted his fingers. She responded as she had before, with a soft moan and an eager kiss on his ear.
He brought his mouth to her full breasts and could not resist licking them. Her skin tasted like salted honey. Taking a warm nipple into his mouth, he slid his hand down her body and back to the wet folds at the apex of her thighs, and there he slipped a finger inside. She pressed her body against his hand, writhing in response to him teasing that tender bud.
She was ready, and he was beyond restraint. Unable to wait any longer he raised his body over hers and, in one thrust, claimed her. His bride gasped as he did, but she soon began to move with him.
“Oooooh,” she moaned as her tight, hot flesh gripped him, nearly causing him to lose his seed. Only years of self-control and his desire to see her satisfied allowed him to stave off the overwhelming urge.
She threaded her fingers through his hair as he drove into her. His heart beat rapidly, and they were both panting. They moved together, lost to passion. Kit’s breasts rubbed the hair on his chest, teasing him into a frenzy as they neared the precipice of their pleasure, and as she writhed beneath him his control was lost. He took her mouth in a deep kiss before lifting his head. “Now, my love, now.”
Her muscles spasmed in release and she whispered, “I love you, Martin.”
Those words sent him over the cliff. “Ah, Kitten.” His release came fast, and he collapsed into her embrace. Nothing had ever felt so sweet, so right. Was it possible he had found love twice in his life? His love for Elise was lost to the past, but this woman he held in his arms, she was his future. And, she loved him!
<
br /> It was more than he’d hoped for yet all he desired.
* * *
Kit woke in darkness to Martin’s hands roaming her breasts, his fingers gently teasing her nipples. His erection pressed against her bottom, hard and demanding, and she found herself already aroused though still rising from a deep sleep. Eager for what she knew was coming, she turned in his arms and pressed her lips to his.
“The feel of you is too great a temptation. Sleep has eluded me.”
His chest hair tickled her breasts. Kit had no desire for sleep either.
He began with a teasing rain of kisses on her breasts and then slid down to her belly. Spreading her legs with his hands, he ran his lips over her inner thighs and finally settled his mouth on the dark red curls between her legs.
What was he about?
“Don’t be alarmed, Kitten,” he said as she stiffened. “I want to love you this way.”
His tongue dipped into her, and she melted at the slow erotic torture as he circled the sensitive place that brought her pleasure.
“Martin, Martin.” She shivered, wanting more.
“Yes, I know.” Crawling up her body like a predatory cat, he kissed her. Then she felt him enter her. Joined together they began to move, her hips rising to meet his thrusts. Whatever they’d shared, whatever they would share, even if he never returned the love she’d admitted earlier, they had this passion between them.
In only a moment she reached her peak, and with another thrust, he joined her.
Chapter 16
Martin awoke more content even than that morning at Willow House. A great sense of peace flooded him. He had his kitten. All was right with the world.
Donning his clothes, he watched his wife sleep, beautiful and tousled, her auburn hair scattered on the pillow. Best to let her rest after that night. That magnificent night. It was past time he caught up with Sidmouth’s spy, Oliver. Time to turn to the business that had brought him to the Midlands.
