by Eloisa James
When Annabel spoke, her voice had taken on that slightly husky tone that he loved. “The water cools,” she pointed out. “I greatly dislike cold water.”
He had her dress off her shoulders in two seconds, her corset unlaced and her chemise over her head, and there she was, wearing nothing more than clocked silk stockings, direct from Paris, and beautiful little taffeta slippers. There was no courtesan in the world who looked as sensual as his own wife.
“Why don’t I help you?” she asked, probably because he was standing there like a schoolboy, gaping through a window at the butcher’s wife in her chemise.
She unwound his cravat, and Ewan let his fingers dance down the slim curve of her sides, down the lush swell of her hips. Her stomach had an enchanting curve, a belly—he stopped, struck by the thought of those children Rafe had mentioned.
“Did you think that you might be carrying a child?” he asked.
Her fingers stilled for a moment, about to pull his shirt over his head. “Oh, I doubt it. From what I have heard, it can take up to a year.”
Ewan grinned at her, but she shook her head. “No, truly, I think it often takes a year or even longer—”
“Or just one night,” he put in.
“That is most unusual,” Annabel told him. “And don’t tell me that you wish that I were lying about casting up my breakfast and scolding you? Because women are terrible scolds when they’re carrying a child.”
“I didn’t know,” Ewan said, lifting one of her elegant feet and pulling off her shoes. Then he rolled down a stocking and threw it to the side.
“It’s the truth,” Annabel said. “Lady Bendlemeyer threw a book directly through the window. She had aimed it at her husband, but he ducked.”
That reminded Ewan of Rosy, and he didn’t want to think of her now. Besides, he had Annabel’s second stocking off and there was his delectable, naked wife . . . about whom he’d been thinking all day. So he picked her up, hardly listening to her stream of evidence about the irritability of women with child, and sat down in the bath with her on his lap, facing him.
The water surged dangerously and almost splashed over the side.
“Oh!” Annabel said, startled.
He scooped up water and poured it down her breasts. They were pressed against his chest, their lovely round shape flattened. So he pulled back and they stood out, round and full again, her nipple standing out, a delicate pink against her white skin.
Suddenly Ewan wasn’t sure that he had time for the lengthy seduction he had carefully planned. Why hadn’t he just taken off her clothes and coaxed her onto the bed? He could have been inside her by now and—
But Annabel was never one to just sit about and let her husband admire her, as if she were a rather naughty statue. She wiggled off his lap until she was leaning against the opposite end of the tub. She’d seen that look before.
So, grinning, she raised her knees, and he actually closed his eyes.
“Well,” she said. “I think I should wash.”
“I can wash you,” he said instantly.
“Oh, no,” she said. “Why don’t you just watch this time? After all, washing is a delicate art.” She poured a small amount of almond oil into her hand. “For example, I never use soap twice in one day, and I already had a bath this morning. It’s too drying for my skin.” She came up on her knees, the water sluicing off her upper body as she rose. “I just rub oil instead . . . like this.” She poured the oil over her shoulder and began rubbing the sweet, gleaming oil into her arm.
His eyes were almost glazing over, his hands reaching toward her.
“Not yet,” she said. “You see, I put the oil everywhere.”
“Everywhere,” he breathed, his voice little more than a scrap of sound.
She cupped the oil and poured a little between her breasts and then began gently massaging it into her skin.
He was breathing deeply, to her enormous satisfaction. So she played it up a little, batting his hands away when he tried to help. But something wild was building in her too, with every stroke of her own hand, with the look in his heavy-lidded eyes, with the fact that he sat opposite her, leaning back against the bathtub edge now, his large body indolently sprawled for her admiration.
She rubbed the oil slowly down her stomach, unsure how bold she wanted to be, driven to recklessness by the intensity of his gaze. Her hand dipped lower. And lower. Finally he reached out a hand and this time his voice allowed no compromise. “I believe you cannot reach your back.”
“No,” she whispered, and then sank into the hunger of his kiss. When they surfaced, he turned her about so her belly was cool and slippery against the marble. And then his hands began smoothing the oil into her shoulders, sending little wakes of flames as water races from the prow of a boat.
Suddenly she heard a gurgling and knew that the water was draining away, but his hands were practicing magic, stealing around to her front, driving her head to arch against his chest. And when his body fit against hers, she arched back against him, her breath caught in a moan. She felt wild and safe at the same time, trapped against the side of the bathtub, trapped by the hard enclosure of his arms, braced on the sides. Safe.
They migrated to the bedroom sometime later, and Annabel lay in the sleepy circle of her husband’s arms and grinned to herself.
So she’d been wrong about the important thing in a marriage being a castle and a lot of money. Although her common sense compelled her to note that those things were very pleasant. The only thing that mattered was the sleepy man next to her, the hot curve of his body around her, the sweetness in his green eyes when he told the table—the whole table—that he loved her.
It was enough to make her giggle, even remembering. Ewan murmured something in his sleep and pulled her tighter, and she simply relished the memory . . .
She was never the sort of woman who thought she’d be in a love story. Whose husband would love her. Imogen, yes. Or even Tess, in her quiet way, because she was so eminently lovable. Annabel had always seen herself as desirable.
Which was quite different.
But at dinner . . . Ewan said he loved her.
Annabel felt as if she were daydreaming. Someday her children would sit at that same table, likely taking sides between their father’s beliefs and their mother’s lack of them . . .
It was a lovely daydream. She had never imagined, in those miserable days in her father’s house, that life could ever be so safe, and that she could feel so beloved.
Dreams are like bubbles . . . beautiful, gleaming, quick to break.
Annabel managed to keep her dream intact for a few more hours.
Chapter Twenty-six
Ewan called on Rosy every day, but Annabel had been busy with her family and had not yet visited the cottage. But the next morning he asked her to join him: “Not that I don’t enjoy Rafe and Tess and all the rest of them, but it would be nice to see you alone.”
“You do see me alone,” she said, smiling. “We are quite alone at the moment, for instance.” They were curled in bed together.
“But we’re never alone during the day,” Ewan said. “Before half of London descended on us, I used to see you in the morning.”
“But you work in the morning.”
“I would change my schedule for you.”
Annabel rolled away from him and hopped out of bed. “All right. I’d like to see Rosy. And I haven’t been on Sweetpea in days. The poor horse must think I’ve deserted her.”
“’Tis I who’ve been deserted. Here we’ve been married over a month, and already I never see you.”
She turned around and planted a kiss on his lips. “You stop all those Scottish lamentations,” she told him.
“Lack of sleep,” he said. “You sleep like a starfish, you know.”
“Like a what?”
“You’ve never seen one? They’re animals of the sea, with five arms spread out like the rays of a star.”
“You’ve seen one of these creatures?�
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“Gregory has a dried one, bought from a trader who happened by. At any rate, every time I ease into sleep, you throw out your arms and legs and wake me up.”
“So that’s your excuse for all the times you have woken me up?” she asked impudently.
He grinned at her, enjoying the curve of her waist as she sat before her dressing table. Then he remembered. “We have to make a decision about Rosy.”
“Isn’t she happy in the cottage?”
“I am worried that she might wander away if her nurse turns her back. The cottage is one of those that are farthest out, so that no laborer is likely to stray by the place and frighten her, but if she were to walk into the forest, she might get lost.”
“Rafe is already talking of returning to London,” Annabel noted. “As soon as they’re gone, she can return to the castle.”
“But the children,” Ewan said, loving the thought of them more every moment.
“What children?” she asked absentmindedly, pushing a few more hairpins into the coils of her hair.
“Our children,” he said, watching her in the mirror.
Her face went very still. “Oh.” And then: “You think Rosy might grow dangerous toward children?”
“Felton also pointed out that she might be happier in a house that held only women.”
“Ah. That’s quite thoughtful of him.” And then: “Whatever you decide, Ewan. I don’t think it would be right for me to judge what happens to Rosy.”
But he’d made up his mind.
They had been riding for almost an hour when they finally reached a small clearing and the stone cottage where Rosy now lived.
“It’s lovely!” Annabel exclaimed. Rose briars curled up and over the threshold. The briars seemed to hang in a pink haze created by little coral buds; in a few weeks they would be heavy with blooms. The cottage lay dreaming in the sunshine, with no sound but that of bees, like a fairy-tale house belonging to a princess in disguise.
“Rosy likes it,” Ewan said. “I do believe she—” He stopped his horse suddenly and frowned.
“What is it?”
“I thought I saw someone on the ridge there. I’ve made it quite clear that no one is to approach the house.”
“I don’t see anything,” Annabel said. The hill behind the house was covered with gorse, and gorse was so scratchy to the legs that it was hard to believe anyone would willingly tramp through it. Horses loathed it.
“Must have been my imagination,” Ewan muttered, starting down the path to the cottage.
Annabel followed him, enjoying the way the buttercups gleamed through wavy grass, as if they were made of gold and had been polished by a footman. She glanced at Ewan’s back as he rode down the path before her. He would say that God was doing the polishing.
Not that she believed the way Ewan did, but she had to admit that the effect was beautiful.
They tied their horses at the side of the house and Ewan stepped aside to allow Annabel to enter the door before him.
One moment she was walking into the dusky coolness of the cottage, and the next a strong male arm whipped around her chest and jerked her to the side while a hand covered her mouth. She tried to scream, to take a breath, but the hand stifled her. A second later Ewan entered, head bent as he came through the low stone lintel. None of the three men in the room tried to physically control him. One simply leveled a long rifle at him.
Ewan looked quickly at Annabel and then backed against the stone wall as directed. “Where’s Rosy?” he barked at them, ignoring the rifle entirely.
These were ruffians with nothing in common with the robbers in London except their weapons. They were the kind of men who instill fear merely walking down the street: dirty, with filthy snarls of hair and a swaggering walk.
Annabel could see two men, neither of whom answered Ewan. One of them laughed, a coarse, raucous cough, and the other just stared at him with his mouth open, like a freshwater trout.
Then a fourth man lounged out of the door leading to the room beyond. He had a black beard and terrifying eyes, like black, shiny river rocks.
“Where is Rosy?” Ewan demanded again, looking to the man who entered.
“If by Rosy you mean the female yonder, she went a wee bit berserk on us, and we had to put her out. But she’ll be fine. The older woman may be a loss. She took quite a crack on the head. And you must be the laird of these parts.”
“I’m no laird,” Ewan said. “I’m the Earl of Ardmore, and you know it well. I would gather you’ve been living on my land.”
“’Tis true, ’tis true. I do know a bit about you, milord. For example, you’re quite the religious type, aren’t you?” He cast up his eyes, clearly enjoying himself. “Lord, forgive me for killin’ yon old lady in the next room. There.”
“Do you want money?” Ewan asked quietly, when it seemed that the leader had done with crossing himself and spitting.
“We never turn down a shilling, but we came here for a woman. We heard all about the pretty little duck you was keeping here in the cottage, the one you wouldn’t let anyone see. Course, there was a few things we didn’t know. That she was barmy, for one thing. And that you was the kind who brings the wife along to meet the mistress. Perverse, I call it. But then, I’m an old-fashioned man.”
“If you take Rosy,” Ewan said steadily, “I will hunt these hills until I find you, and I will take every single one of you, and you will hang until you are dead.” His eyes swept the four ruffians. Only the fishlike one showed a reaction. His eyes widened and he closed his mouth.
“You’d better start praying,” the leader said, sounding bored. “Because people have been searching for Black Haggis for years and they ain’t find him yet. And in case you’re wondering, I’m Black Haggis. Haven’t you heard of me?”
“Certainly. You’re wanted for murder. You’re also a coward, who once left your men in the hands of the village watch and ran for your life.”
“Ain’t you heard the one about how I killed me own mum? No? Disappointing. On to business. I reckon there’s a problem with yon Rosy. She’s a berserker as wouldn’t keep a man’s bed warm because she’d have to be tied up. This one, though”—he nodded toward Annabel—“she’ll do nicely.”
Annabel’s stomach dropped into her feet. “No,” she gasped, or tried to, but her mouth was stifled by a large, dirty hand. She tried to twist free, but the man holding her just pulled her tightly against him.
Ewan didn’t even look in her direction. “You cannot hope to escape with the Countess of Ardmore. You will be hunted down within a matter of hours and killed.”
“No one knows these mountains the way I do,” Black Haggis said. “Fang, me lad, you’d do me a favor by taking out your pistol and leveling it at his lordship here. Seems to me that the man may try a bit of derring-do in order to rescue his wife, and two weapons is better than one.”
Fishlips snapped his mouth shut again, and a second later Ewan was being guarded by a deadly-looking pistol in addition to the rifle.
Annabel swallowed. She could stand this, if she had to. She could. Ewan would get her back. She wouldn’t go mad the way Rosy had.
“If I have to burn down every inch of pine on these mountains to find your hideout,” Ewan was saying, “I shall do so.” The look in his eyes would have made Annabel shiver, but Haggis didn’t flicker an eyelash.
“I’m afraid you won’t be around to make the attempt,” he said, turning toward the man holding Annabel. “Nisbit, I’ll thank you to tie up that lady you’re holding and get the crazed one, Rosy. I’m thinking that she’ll be good for one night at least.”
The man who was holding Annabel kept a hand over her mouth, but the other slid from her waist to her breast. And all of a sudden he was pressing against her from behind. He was unmistakably—obscenely—aroused. He made a sound in his throat, and then started to move her toward the door by bucking against her backside to move her forward. His hand scrambled at her breast, squeezing it painfully.
She heard an astonished oof, and then she was free of his stench and his arms and was running across the room, heading toward Ewan. But Black Haggis was laughing, and he put out his foot.
Annabel struck it and flew forward, off her feet, careened into the robber holding his pistol on Ewan. He dropped his weapon and she fell hard on top of it, knocking the breath out of her lungs. For a moment she just lay there, stunned by the pain in her breast where it struck the pistol. The only thing she could hear was Black Haggis’s coarse voice. “Damn it, Fang,” he growled, “you’re no better than a butterfingered lad. If you cost us our honey, I’ll floor you.
“All right. I think it’s time to put his lordship out of his misery.” He kicked Annabel in the side. “Your husband has done naught to save you, girl, although you show a pleasing bit of life yourself. You might want to remember that. Nisbit, take out his lordship, if you please.”
Just as the man who had been holding Annabel took a pistol from his pocket, Annabel launched herself from the floor and hurled toward Ewan, pressing the pistol she had been lying on into his palm.
“Where the hell is Fang’s—” Black Haggis exclaimed.
Ewan jerked the pistol up, toward Haggis, and a great burst of light and noise came out of it. Annabel screamed because the fire burned her arm. But at that same moment she saw a flash of movement from the doorway behind Haggis and, for a second, caught a glimpse of Rosy’s crazed face and her arms swinging something over her head.
Later Annabel decided there were two cracks of noise, sounding like an echo of each other. The one killed Haggis, and the other . . .
The one that killed Haggis was made by Rosy whacking him over the head with a firestone that she should never have been able to lift to her knees, let alone over her head.