His Mistletoe Bride (22 page)

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Authors: Vanessa Kelly

BOOK: His Mistletoe Bride
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She huffed. “Now you are teasing me.”
Laughing, he dropped her onto the bed, where she landed on the large pile of pillows. She bounced a bit, scrambled up, and scowled at him.
“How rude,” she scolded, even though he could see she was trying not to laugh.
Leaning against the bedpost, he took a moment to study her. She looked utterly tempting, naked against the white sheets and wine-colored coverlet. Her skin glowed with a pearly sheen, her dark hair flowed onto the pillow, and he could even see the pink, sweet flesh peeking out from behind the curls at the apex of her thighs.
And the best thing was the smile on her lips and the happy gleam in her eyes. But as they stared at each other her gaze shimmered from laughter to intense longing and, God help him, a love as naked and beautiful as her body.
His heart clutched with a devastating emotion he hadn't felt in a very long time.
“Phoebe,” he rasped from a suddenly dry throat, “I can't wait any longer.”
She tilted her head and gave him a puzzled smile. “I cannot imagine why you should.”
That's all it took. In seconds, he ripped off his clothes and came down on her, pressing her slim body into the mattress. As her arms twined around him, he plunged his tongue into her mouth, drinking in the sweetest kiss he had ever known. His head roared and lust pounded through his body and brain, so acute he could have sworn the pounding was outside his head instead of in it.
Suddenly, Phoebe put her small fists on his shoulders and shoved with all her might as she pulled away from the kiss.
“Lucas,” she hissed. “Stop!”
He shook his head impatiently, swooping back down to her mouth again, but she inserted a hand between them and the kiss landed on her palm.
“Lucas, stop. It sounds like someone is at the door.”
He froze, finally understanding that the pounding was indeed coming from outside his head—on the front door, from the sound of it. And whoever was doing it was in one hell of a hurry. The bloody fool was using a stick, thudding repeatedly against the sturdy oaken door.
He groaned and dropped his head on the pillow, trying to ignore the throbbing urgency in his body. “Hell and damnation. I'll kill him. Whoever is pounding on my door—on my wedding night—I'll kill him.”
Chapter 19
Propped up on his elbows, Lucas stared down at her, every muscle rigid with disbelief and frustration. Phoebe pushed on his brawny chest again as she tried to wriggle out from under him. Lying trapped and naked under a large man on the brink of losing his temper struck her as a very bad idea.
The heavy pounding on the front door drove away the last remnants of her sensual daze. Lucas had unleashed unknown, delicious forces in her body. He had done it gently and skillfully and, she was certain, with tender affection. But his tenderness had now fled, falling victim to the untimely interruption of their lovemaking.
The rapid change made her nervous. “Lucas, please get off me,” she said breathlessly.
He blinked, staring down at her as if she were a stranger. Then he grimaced. “Forgive me. I didn't mean to frighten you.”
“I understand, but I would still be grateful to get up.”
Grumbling, he rolled to the side, then sat up on the edge of the bed. She scrambled under the sheets, which prompted another irritated look from her husband. “Phoebe, no one is going to burst in on us.”
She pulled the sheets up to her neck. “I happen to be cold,” she responded with dignity.
Lucas surged to his feet, looking more disgruntled by the minute. Not surprising, although she wished he would stop glowering at her. The interruption was hardly her fault.
The pounding in the hall finally stopped, but a moment later the sound of raised voices replaced it. Yanking on his clothes, Lucas stalked for the door.
“What are you going to do?” she blurted out.
He cast a disbelieving look in her direction. “I'm going to see who is trying to pound my door down. You stay here. I'll be back as soon as I get rid of the damn fool who had the nerve to ruin my wedding night.”
The door slammed behind him, sending a hollow boom echoing through the room.
Oh, dear.
Phoebe threw back the bedding and rushed to gather her clothes from the floor, shivering as she pulled her night rail over her head. The fire had burned down to embers, and in the fitful light of the candles, the room was cold and dreary, and seemed as shabby and out of sorts as she felt.
She hastily pulled on her wrapper and grabbed her slippers. As she crossed in front of her dressing table, she caught a glance at her reflection. Stumbling to a halt, she stared at herself. She looked exactly like a woman who had just been tumbled, hardly a presentable image.
Quickly, she wove her hair into a haphazard braid and then dug a heavy woolen shawl out of one of her trunks. Casting it over herself, she took another quick glance in the mirror. Although not likely to impress anyone, at least she looked respectably covered. Given the clamor of voices now issuing from downstairs, she could not afford to waste another second.
She threw open the heavy door and made her way quickly down the dark corridor. In her haste, she had forgotten to take a candle. A small branch stood on a table at the end of the hallway, barely penetrating the frigid gloom of the upper house. The angry voices down in the entrance hall, however, reached her with alarming clarity.
When she reached the top of the old staircase she pulled up short. The scene below could only be described as mayhem. The servants—most in their nightclothes—milled around the hall, talking in loud, excited voices. Several men in hats and greatcoats stood inside the massive front doors, glaring at the manor's inhabitants. One of the men, obviously the leader, was speaking to a furious-looking Lucas.
Phoebe's stomach churned when she saw that the intruders carried guns. They stood behind their leader, clearly agitated and unsettled by the volatile atmosphere swirling around them.
Her heart in her throat, she rushed down the steps and into the milling knot of servants. Several turned to her, all talking over each other and so loudly she could barely fathom a word.
Maggie, dressed in a bright red wrapper and with her nightcap hanging off her head, appeared by her side. “Oh, my lady, smugglers, right here at Mistletoe Manor. I swear I shall die of fright,” she cried with dramatic relish.
Phoebe gaped at her. “These men are smugglers? They dare to come to the manor?”
Maggie's vigorous head shake sent her cap sliding farther south, revealing a head full of papers.
“No, my lady. That fellow speaking with his lordship is the excise officer, and those are his men. They were chasing a gang of smugglers who came right onto the estate.” She gave an exaggerated shudder. “Who'd have thought we'd find such dreadful happenings down here in the country. And on our first night, too!”
Phoebe cast a quick glance around the hall. Unlike Maggie, the rest of the servants looked far from entertained. In fact, they seemed in various stages of worry and fright, and a few of the younger girls appeared to be on the verge of tears.
And both Mrs. Christmas and Mr. Christmas stood right behind Lucas, casting anxious, apprehensive glances between him and the excise officer.
As Phoebe gently pushed her way through the servants, trying to reassure them with a quiet word, she sensed a genuine degree of alarm in the hall, and not just because law officers had come banging on the door in the middle of the night. No, something felt off-kilter, for lack of a better term. Fear had come in the night to Mistletoe Manor. She could see it in the white faces of the servants, and in the grim, suspicious looks of the excise men.
She finally made her way to stand quietly behind Lucas. He noticed her only when the man he was speaking to broke off to stare at her. When Lucas glanced over his shoulder, meeting her gaze, his eyes narrowed and his mouth flattened into a thin line. “I thought I told you to stay upstairs.”
Phoebe repressed the urge to bristle at his tone of voice. “Since every other person in the manor saw fit to come down, I thought it only proper I join them,” she replied mildly.
Lucas swore. “Christ, this is all I need. Isn't there one person in this damned place who will listen to me?”
His words stung, but she managed to preserve her temper. Her husband was upset and frustrated, and emotional displays on her part would only worsen matters. Somehow, she needed to deflect the anger swirling around before it manifested into something even uglier.
“My lord,” she said in a clear, carrying tone, “perhaps you would be so kind as to introduce me to this gentleman. I wish to understand how we can help him.”
Lucas pressed his lips shut and, for an awful second, she thought he would refuse. Then he gave a terse nod. “This is Mr. Harper, the customs officer for the district. Mr. Harper, this is my wife, Lady Merritt.”
Mr. Harper, who had the look about him of a sensible man, gave her a neat bow. “Your ladyship, please forgive the intrusion. I deeply regret it, but it was necessary.”
“The matter must be of great import if you deemed it necessary to disrupt our peace so late at night,” Phoebe replied in a pleasant voice.
The man cast a quick, regretful glance over her attire. “Forgive me. I was not aware his lordship had returned from London when I disturbed your rest.”
“That hardly seems a good excuse for you to pound the manor's door down,” Phoebe said carefully, ensuring her nerves did not tip her into
plain speech
. “I will take your word for it but I must insist your men lower their weapons. You are in the hall of an English lord, not on a battlefield.”
Mr. Harper hesitated, casting a swift glance around the hall as if expecting one of the servants to pull out a pistol at any moment.
Lucas raised an imperious eyebrow. “You heard Lady Merritt, Mr. Harper. I can vouch for your men's safety, no matter how unruly the crowd,” he said, sarcasm inflecting his words.
Mr. Harper had the grace to flush, and quietly ordered his men to stow their weapons. As he did, Phoebe turned to her housekeeper. “Mrs. Christmas, please send the servants back to their beds. Their service is not required.”
Mrs. Christmas opened her mouth and then shut it, looking mutinous as she crossed her arms across her ample chest.
Phoebe frowned. “Is there some difficulty?”
“Only that it's like to be a miracle if we're not all killed in our beds, what with all the shooting going on,” she said.
Startled, Phoebe grabbed Lucas by the shirtsleeve.
“People were shooting at each other? Was anyone hurt?”
He cast her another impatient glance. “Everyone, including you, should go up to bed. I will deal with this situation.”
Phoebe propped her hands on her hips, causing her shawl to slide off her shoulders. That had the unfortunate effect of bringing Mr. Harper's gaze—and his men's—right back to her and her unfortunate state of undress. With a sharp intake of breath, Lucas stepped in front of her. His rigid posture sent out an unmistakable warning to every man in the hall.
Groaning, Phoebe snatched up her shawl and wrapped it closely about her chest. Embarrassment stained her cheeks with heat, but that would not deter her. Stepping up to Lucas, she touched his arm. “Please tell me if anyone has been hurt.”
“I have no idea,” he snapped.
A mournful voice piped up from the small knot of excise men. “I was shot in the arm, my lady,” a man said. “Hurts like the devil, too.”
Mr. Harper cast an annoyed glance behind him. “It's just a graze, Williams. I'll have someone ride for the surgeon once we're finished with the search.”
This time Phoebe did bristle. “A man has been shot and you expect him to just stand there and bleed onto my floor? That is hardly the behavior of a Christian, sir.”
“Phoebe,” Lucas growled, “stay out of this.”
She ignored him, glancing at the housekeeper and butler standing beside her. “Mr. Christmas, we must tend to this man's wounds. Please have a fire lit in the—” She hesitated, suddenly aware of how little she knew about the house.
“I would suggest the study, my lady,” Mr. Christmas said morosely.
“Very good. Please light the fire in the study and light several branches of candles as well.”
Lucas heaved a tired sigh, as if giving up any hope for the rest of the night. She understood his frustration, but there was little she could do about it until order was restored, wounds tended, and Mr. Harper and his men sent on their way.
Quickly, she gave Mrs. Christmas a few orders. The housekeeper nodded grudgingly and disappeared behind the door leading to the kitchen. Phoebe turned back to the wounded man, a big, burly fellow who gave her a shy, snaggletoothed smile. He, at least, seemed harmless enough.
“Mr., ah, Williams, was it? Please come into the study.”
The man stepped forward but Mr. Harper held up a restraining hand.
“My lord,” he said, “I must ask you again to allow us to search the premises, particularly the cellars. I'm certain the smugglers have taken refuge in one of the manor's buildings.”
“That's a serious charge to make,” Lucas replied in a hard voice. “What's your proof, man?”
His ruthless tone sent a shiver trickling down Phoebe's spine, but she had to give Mr. Harper credit. He did not back down before Lucas, who towered formidably over him.
“Because there was no other way they could give us the slip, my lord. We surprised them, right enough. They dropped their load and ran, but we were hard on their tails. Then, within sight of this house, they disappeared. Vanished into thin air.”
Mr. Harper cast another suspicious glance around the hall. “It's the only reasonable explanation. There has to be a tunnel or hidden cellar around here somewhere.”
While Lucas stood frowning over that, Mr. Christmas hurried back into the hall, moving with a fair degree of alacrity. “The study is ready, Lady Merritt,” he said, slightly out of breath.
Mr. Harper looked ready to further pursue his demands, but Lucas waved him to silence. “Enough, Harper. I have no intention of letting you rummage through my house at this late hour. It's bad enough that my wife has to spend her wedding night tending to bullet wounds,” he said, casting Phoebe an irritated glance. “I'll be damned if I'll add a search for smugglers on top of it.”
He glanced at the knot of excise men, then back to the officer. “Harper, my butler will take your men down to the kitchen where they can warm up. They are not, however, to leave that room. Do you understand?”
Mr. Harper clearly heard the warning and nodded his reluctant assent.
“Good,” Lucas said. “You may come into the study with me while my wife tends to your man's wounds. I'd like a better explanation of what's going on than what I've gotten so far.” He glanced down at Phoebe. “Does that meet with your approval, my lady?” he asked in a sardonic voice.
She blushed. “Yes, my lord. Thank you.”
He took her hand and pulled her toward the study, not bothering to see if the others obeyed him. Of course they would. When Lucas spoke in
that
tone of voice, everyone obeyed him. He stalked across the hall and Phoebe almost had to skip to keep up. Inside, she sighed. He obviously had his temper now firmly under control, but that did not fool her. His cooperation was razor thin, and would surely come with a price.

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