Captive (32 page)

She searched his face, and he knew she was waiting for him to say those three words. He did love her. But keeping it to himself seemed safer. At least until they were securely wed.

He watched the struggle going on in her face, while she decided whether what he had said was enough.

Finally she said, “I will marry you, Lion. And I promise to do everything I can to make sure our life stays exciting and interesting and wonderful.”

Lion smiled and shook his head. He believed she meant every word of what she said. He was afraid she did.

Lion could not wait for what the future had in store. Being held captive for the rest of his life by one impossibly unpredictable woman might not be such a bad thing after all.

The bride was late. The guests were starting to whisper. Lionel Morgan, Earl of Denbigh, stood waiting near the altar of the small country church in Sussex with his best friend and groomsman, Percival Porter, Viscount Burton.

“Where is she, Percy?” Denbigh asked. “What do you suppose is causing the delay?”

“You know Charlie, Lion. She is probably headed to the church neck-or-nothing as we speak.”

Lion raised a brow. “Not in breeches, I hope.”

“Olivia assured me a bridal gown was delivered to Denbigh Castle yesterday,” Percy said.

“That does not mean the chit will wear it.”

“Be patient,” Percy said. “It cannot be long now.”

“I hope not,” Denbigh muttered. He reached a
finger between his neck and the immaculate Waterfall his valet had created with his neck cloth that morning.

“May I be the first to wish you happy,” Theobald had said, as he gave the stiffly starched material one last tuck.

“How is your sister?” Denbigh asked.

“She cannot believe her good fortune, my lord,” Theobald said as he brushed a nonexistent piece of lint from Lion’s shoulder. “A cottage of her own. It is more than she ever dreamed.”

“Thank Charlotte,” Denbigh said. “It was her idea.”

Mrs. Tinsworthy had been in tears, her apron covering her face when he passed her in the hall. “It is a happy day, milord. I cannot wait to hear the patter of little feet.”

Denbigh had felt a shiver of expectation run through him. With Charlotte as their mother, who knew what imps and minxes might soon be galloping up and down the halls of Denbigh Castle.

He could not wait, either.

A commotion in the church vestry attracted Denbigh’s attention. Heads swiveled in the congregation to see what was amiss. Charlotte had invited everyone. Lords and ladies sat beside footmen and cook’s helpers.

When Denbigh had pointed out that English nobility and their servants did not usually mingle socially,
Charlotte had replied, “I want my friends around me, Lion. And Galbraith is as much my friend as Lady Hornby.”

Since Denbigh liked Galbraith a great deal more than Lady Hornby, he did not argue further.

It took Denbigh only a moment to recognize his grandfather and grandmother, the Duke and Duchess of Trent, entering the church.

Charlotte was not with them.

The duke stomped his way down the aisle to Denbigh, using the duchess’s arm and his hickory cane to support him.

Denbigh’s heart was pounding. “Where is she?” he asked the moment they reached him.

“The silly chit is out in front of the church. She says she will not marry you until she can speak with you privately.”

Denbigh had heard
she will not marry you
and only barely caught the last of the duke’s message. “What? She wants to talk? About what?”

“I think you had better speak with her, Lion,” his grandmother said.

Denbigh ignored the interested, curious looks from those in the congregation as he marched down the aisle. Everyone in attendance knew enough about Charlotte to understand that nothing was ever certain when she was involved. His heart was in his throat as he stepped out the front door of the church into the summer sunshine.

Charlotte was not there.

He felt an instant of panic, followed by irritation and relief when he saw her standing in the shadows of a nearby oak. At least she was wearing a dress, he thought, as he strode toward her. And a very pretty one at that—a light shade of green, with small capped sleeves, a square neck, and a delicate ribbon tied under her breasts.

There was no question in his mind of whether the wedding was going to take place. Charlotte must wed him.

Last night they had anticipated the honeymoon.

He had not intended for it to happen. He had been careful not to be alone with Charlotte, because he knew how much he wanted her. Every time he looked at her his body got hard. He had been reduced to walking behind the furniture every time he entered a room where she was, to hide the physical change that inevitably occurred.

Very late last night she had come knocking at his door. She had entered before he bid her to do so, closed the door behind her, and whispered, “Lion, are you awake?”

“I am now,” he had said. “What are you doing in here, Charlotte?”

The chit had crossed the room in the dark and climbed right up onto the bed and crawled across it until she ran right into him. He had sat up in alarm
and grabbed her arms. “What is going on, Charlotte?”

She had grabbed him around the neck and pressed her body against his and said, “Hold me, Lion. I’m scared.”

His arms had gone tight around her. He slept naked, and the feel of her with only her sheer nightgown between them was exquisite. “I have you, Charlotte,” he said. “Don’t be afraid. I will protect you. Nothing can hurt you now.”

She had clutched him tighter. “I love you, Lion,” she said. “I love you more than life itself.”

“I know, Charlotte,” he said. “I know you do.”

“Love me, Lion,” she pleaded. “Love me.”

She had not given him any choice. Her mouth had sought his in the darkness and her tongue had slipped into his mouth and he had been lost.

He had thought nothing Charlotte did could surprise him. But she had. Where he expected her to take the lead, she was shy. Where he expected her to hold back, she was far ahead of him.

He kissed her, he caressed her, he could not get enough of touching her. The feel of her small hands on him, on every part of him, had driven him wild.

He learned something else about her. Charlotte was a noisy lover. Not that he minded the sighs of pleasure or the groans of agonizing delight or her cries of “Do that again,” or “More, please, Lion,”
or “That feels so good!” He was sure Charlotte had no idea a proper English wife was supposed to lie still and quiet beneath her husband. And he was not about to tell her.

He had not wanted to hurt her, and he had gone as slow as he could when he broached her. But he knew there had been pain. She had gripped his arms hard enough to leave crescent imprints of her fingernails on his skin. But when he was fully seated she had said, “I feel so full, Lion. Full of you. Inside of me. Oh, I like it.”

He had, too.

She had been a generous lover, and a passionate one and, being Charlotte, a very enthusiastic one. He had been exhausted and sated and satisfied when finally she lay beside him, their bodies sweat-slick, their hearts racing, their breathing labored.

One of the hardest things he had ever done was to kiss her good-bye and escort her to the door and send her away to her own bed. Ever since, he had been looking forward to his wedding day. And his wedding night.

It seemed Charlotte was having second thoughts. Not that he was going to allow such rebellion at this point.

He felt a moment of alarm when he joined her beneath the shady oak and saw she had been crying. “Charlotte?”

When she saw him, she flung herself against
him. Charlotte never did anything halfway. He would say that for her.

His arms closed around her, and he held her tight for a moment, glad that whatever was troubling her was not something to do with him. “What’s wrong?” he murmured.

“Everything.”

He forced her back and tipped her chin up so he could look into her tear-bright green eyes. “Everything? That encompasses a great deal, Charlotte. Could you narrow that down? We have a whole churchful of people waiting to witness our wedding.”

“I can’t marry you, Lion.”

At first he thought she was simply being melodramatic. As he looked down into her eyes, he realized that something was greatly amiss. “What is troubling you, Charlotte?” he asked.

“Do you love me, Lion?” she asked, searching his face as though the answer were written there.

“What?” The question startled him, coming as it seemed to, from nowhere. “I’m marrying you, brat,” he said tenderly.

“Maybe not,” she said, lifting her chin stubbornly.

He frowned. “What crochet has taken hold of you now, Charlotte? What is this all about?”

“Do you love me, Lion?” she asked again.

He had not said the words, he realized. He had
avoided saying them when he proposed to her. And she had let him get away with the omission. Apparently, she needed to hear them now. Or there was going to be no wedding.

He caught a tear at the corner of her eye with his knuckle and brushed it away. “I don’t know why I have been so clutch-fisted with my feelings,” he said. “I think I have not wanted to admit how much I care for you, Charlotte, for fear I will find myself nursing another broken heart.

“But …” He lowered his head and kissed her lips. “I cannot imagine life without you, Charlotte. I cannot imagine the sun shining or the birds singing or life being fun to live unless you are there to live it with me.

“I adore you, Charlie,” he said, kissing her lips again. “I admire and honor you. I respect your right to be who you are.”

He saw her swallow convulsively.

“But do you love me, Lion?” she asked in a whisper.

He knew now why she had come to his room last night. Why she had been so scared. Why she had pleaded, “Love me, Lion.” She had not been seeking physical love. She had wanted to know if he was the other half of her, whether his soul cried out for hers, the way hers did for his. She had wanted to know the answer to the question she was asking now.

“Oh, yes, minx,” he said, smiling down at her. “I do love you. Very, very much.”

“Oh. Well, then we had better get inside,” she said matter-of-factly, slipping her arm through his and walking with a light step toward the church. “It’s getting late.” She flashed him a teasing look from under lowered lashes. “The sooner we finish the wedding, the sooner we can start the honeymoon.”

Inside the church, everyone exchanged grins of relief when they heard the familiar roar, “Charlotte!”

Dear Readers,

Hi! I’ve had a chance to meet many of you over the past ten years at writers’ and fan conferences, and I want to take this opportunity to thank you, and all of you I have not yet met, for your enthusiastic support. I love writing, and it’s thrilling to know so many of you are enjoying my characters and their stories.

I’ve written one more in the Hawk’s Way series, and those of you who loved the “bride” books should keep an eye out for
The Temporary Groom
, a Man of the Month from Silhouette Desire in June. I’ve also written a compelling, full-length contemporary novel titled
I Promise
scheduled for publication by Avon Books in June 1996. Ask your bookseller for the exact date it will be available.

As always, I appreciate hearing your opinions and find inspiration from your questions, comments, and suggestions.

If you would like to be on my mailing list, send me a postcard with your address, or you can write to me at P.O. Box 8531, Pembroke Pines, FL 33084 and enclose a self-addressed, stamped envelope so I can reply. I personally read and answer my mail, though as some of you know, a reply might be delayed if I have a writing deadline.

Best always,       

Joan Johnston     

May 1996

A L
OVING
D
EFIANCE
C
OLTER’S
W
IFE
T
HE
S
ISTERS OF THE
L
ONE
S
TAR
T
RILOGY
^*
F
RONTIER
W
OMAN
^*
C
OMANCHE
W
OMAN
T
EXAS
W
OMAN
^*
S
WEETWATER
S
EDUCTION
^*
T
HE
B
AREFOOT
B
RIDE
^*
K
ID
C
ALHOUN
^*
O
UTLAW’S
B
RIDE
^*
T
HE
I
NHERITANCE
^*
M
AVERICK
H
EART
^*
C
APTIVE
^*
A
FTER THE
K
ISS
^*
T
HE
B
ODYGUARD
^*
T
HE
B
RIDEGROOM
^*
T
HE
C
OWBOY
^*
T
HE
L
ONER
^*
T
HE
T
EXAN