Moonlight on My Mind (8 page)

And the memory of that kiss they had shared—every bit as potent as any measure of guilt or doubt—now turned his proposal from something worth considering into something she was afraid she could not refuse.

She ran her tongue over her lips, trying to quell the way those thoughts made her skin flush warm. “You
must
accompany me on the morning coach, Patrick. Your future, and your family’s future, depends upon it.”

He did not move. Did not speak. Just regarded her in that familiar, stern way of his, his long face immobile.

She prayed her mouth continued to work well enough to finish this last bit, because she was quite sure she lacked the courage to repeat it. “So if that is the only course available to us, we need to marry. Tonight.”

P
atrick stared at the woman who had just demanded they marry and wondered if he wasn’t about to make the second biggest mistake of his life.

His cock, damnably independent organ that it was, disagreed with the question posed by his brain, and moreover demanded an equal stake in the debate. Because beyond all the myriad reasons both for and against this foolhardy path, he had neglected to consider a very greedy one.

Julianne was a beautiful woman.

Robbed of the distraction of the soiled green dress, the curve of her neck drew his eye. Beneath the scant layers of cotton, her bosom was indeed every bit as high and fine as he had imagined it would be. She was a painful sight. Patrick had kept to himself these past eleven months in Moraig, avoiding both the obvious interest of several lusty widows and the ready train of serving girls who plied their skills in the alley behind the Blue Gander. But as his body surged to life around the tempting image Julianne presented, he was reminded of a very basic fact: he was a man. And she was a woman who—despite the foolhardy nature of the emotion—piqued his masculine instincts.

There were worse reactions one could suffer from a wife.

His wife.
He massaged that thought a moment. She’d fallen right into his thinking. Truth be told, he’d hoped she wouldn’t. The Julianne he was coming to know didn’t seem to care about her reputation nearly as much as this sudden acquiescence suggested. She was clearly an intelligent girl. She had demonstrated a sharp wit beneath that fashionable exterior on numerous occasions—most recently with poor Reverend Ramsey.

But on the other hand, she’d boarded a train lacking both chaperone and common sense . . . not exactly a point in her favor.

It wasn’t gentlemanly of him to trick her into it, even if she deserved it. Hell, even if she
owed
it to him, for sending his life spiraling so far beyond his control. His conscience was intact enough—even after three rapid-fire whiskies—to admit some discomfort in using her in this manner, but he was hanged—quite literally—if he could think of another way to go about it. He had exaggerated the implications of their discovery together, although he hadn’t precisely lied about the
potential
in James’s wife’s connections, or the dangers of traveling together lacking a wedding band.

But the image of Julianne in her nightclothes did not appeal to the gentlemanly side of his nature. She had made her own bed—messy though it might be—when she left behind her maid and boarded the train to Scotland.

And a very ungentlemanly part of him was looking forward to lying in it with her.

“If you are sure,” he told her slowly.

“We need to do it quickly, if we are to make the morning coach.” She turned away from him to rummage through her bag, and her night rail swung dangerously about her hips. “Is there someone who can do it at this late hour?”

“The blacksmith.” Patrick swallowed. Thank God for Scotland and the irregular marriages made possible by the country’s lax laws. “He officiates half the weddings here. No doubt he’ll charge more to see us so late, but he’ll appreciate the business.” He took a step in her direction, probing the boundaries of her quick decision. No matter the practical advantages of what was being discussed here tonight, no matter the fact that by marrying her he might better protect her, he would not exchange those vows with a woman who was unwilling to accept him in her bed.

And unfortunately, there was precious little time to test the theory of her acquiescence.

“I shall offer him fair compensation,” Julianne said, pulling out a frothy blue confection of a gown.

He took another step, determined to keep his eyes on her face instead of her hips. But that proved every bit as distracting as her scantily clad curves, because his thoughts landed on a niggling incongruity and refused to budge. There, across the bridge of her nose, he studied the source of his confusion. There weren’t very many . . . a dozen at most.

But definitely—decidedly—freckles.

Her freshly-scrubbed face glowed a healthy pink, and carried far more interesting layers than he had seen before. He felt like a prospector who had unearthed a promising vein of gold but lacked all tools to extract it. He’d studied her enough to know that those freckles were not granted egress by day. She must cover them each morning, with rice powder or something of that ilk. There was something jarring about discovering such an intimacy, a secret he alone knew.

“I shall also require compensation,” he told her.

She looked up warily and wrinkled that fascinating, freckled nose. “You want me to pay you to marry me?”

He closed the remaining three feet between them and then he was within striking distance. The scent of her damp hair and soap-kissed skin rose up to greet him. “A kiss, to honor our bargain.”

She licked her lips, lips he had tasted, once upon a time. “We’ve had one,” she countered, clasping the dress she still held in her hands like a shield between them. “Or have you forgotten?”

He reached out and plucked the blue dress from her fingers, tossing it onto the floor. Her mouth opened in protest, but he pulled her to him. “I haven’t forgotten.” The thin whisper of her night rail met his jacket, and then his fingers circled around to cup the delectable, cotton-covered curve of her arse. A gasp escaped her lips, but she didn’t shrink from the contact.

A wicked surprise claimed his focus. He’d half expected her to retreat, cry foul, retract the offer she’d thrown down. After all, these were nowhere near the same happy circumstances as their first kiss. This time, she believed him capable of murder.

He gave his hands permission to roam northward, skirting the edges of night rail, belly, and breasts to finally settle on her face. He lowered his mouth, urged on by the encouraging beat of pleasure in his ears. His lips settled over hers in a kiss that offered no quarter and sought a raw truth. The taste of her was a flooding memory, sharp sweetness and languid heat. Christ, what man could forget such a thing? It carried a sting, this woman’s kiss. Even with a plan and a stiff resolve, it was nigh on impossible to brace oneself for impact.

Her lips moved confidently under his, her breath mingling with his own, her unbound breasts a soft pillow against his chest. His body responded to eleven months of denial with predictable speed, and it rocked him to have such a physical confirmation of his need. She was warm and pliant, and his control was like a curtain being yanked from its moorings. He sought a more complete claim to her mouth, his tongue sweeping against hers.

And that was when she pulled back. Her hand was a gentle reminder against his chest, though the flush on her cheeks and her accelerated rate of breathing provided pleasurable testimony to her body’s reaction. “I trust this is adequate compensation until the vows are completed?” she said softly.

The muted tenor of her voice was comical, really. She might as well have shouted.

She’d been inexperienced during their first kiss, though even untutored she’d been beautifully responsive. But that had been a restrained sort of kiss, an exploration of what she could learn to be. This was a fulfillment of the promise. Because the woman who had just wrestled control of the situation into her own small hands was not the same green girl she had been eleven months ago, experiencing her first kiss. Julianne knew the lay of the land now, and she was shouldering her way along a well-trodden path.

As his palms fell away from the temptation of her night rail, he tried not to think of how she knew this, or from whom she had learned it. She was a coquette and a flirt. It should not surprise him that she knew something of matters between a man and a woman.

Had she kissed his brother this way, once upon a time? Eric had certainly regarded the delectable Julianne Baxter in a proprietary fashion. They had even argued over her in the minutes before the accident that took Eric’s life.

He shook his head clear of those damning thoughts. Claiming now the woman his brother had wanted then was just one more egregious sin to add to his mounting tally of reasons to burn in hell. And no matter his dislike of the idea of her recent experience with kissing or worse, the issue was moot, given the pressing need to dismantle the danger she posed to his family and his future. She would be a willing participant in the marriage bed, that much was clear. No shrieking, no hysterics.

He lacked the audacity to think he deserved anything more.

“It will do for now.” His voice, thankfully, retained its faculties, even if his head felt pelted by lust and doubt. He stepped back, breathing hard. She made him feel unhinged, and
that
made him uneasy. The thought of knocking her off her composed pedestal once they finally tumbled into bed gave him a dark pleasure he didn’t care to examine overmuch.

“But make no mistake, I expect a complete marriage, Julianne. If you marry me, you shall be mine, and no one else’s. I refuse to be a cuckold.”

He could almost see the cogs turning in the depths of those green eyes. There would be no outside lover. No opportunity for a later annulment. He was reminding her of who he was, and what he expected
they
would be.

Miraculously, she nodded by way of an answer.

“My father will not be happy we’ve done it in this manner.” She inhaled deeply, flattening her palms against the front of the night rail he had just been contemplating removing. “But I suppose it is a match he will not be able to dispute. You possess a title, certainly. He was good friends with the late earl, and your father certainly believed in your innocence.”

He searched her eyes for some kernel of truth. Her kiss had convinced him that a marriage would not be all jaw-gritting duty, but neither did it tell him what he needed to know. “And what of you, Julianne? What do
you
believe?”

She looked startled by the question. “I believe I shall enjoy being a countess.”

Patrick held himself steady, but he could admit some disappointment in Julianne’s ready evasion. So this was how it was to be. He was to marry a woman who believed him capable of murder. Of course, without that bit of it there would be no need to marry her at all, so why was he warring with his emotions on this matter? He would spend the rest of his life side-stepping the suspicion in his wife’s eyes, and she would be granted a title and an estate as fair compensation. It wasn’t as if either of them harbored hopes for something more.

“But given that the future is unclear,” she added, stooping to snatch her blue dress from the floor where he had tossed it, “it would be best to organize a settlement that protects me in the event of an unfavorable outcome.”

Unfavorable outcome.
That was one pleasant euphemism for hanging, he supposed.

The lingering heat from their kiss cooled thoroughly with such talk. “Most of the estate is entailed, but I can ensure a respectable income, at the least. My friend James MacKenzie is a solicitor. We can have a settlement drawn up tonight, if that is your wish.” If the worst happened, he would leave her financially protected. And if the best happened and by some miracle he was able to evade the noose . . . well, he would deal with the consequences of their union then.

“Might I have a moment to dress?” She held up her dress by way of answer. “I would prefer to meet the solicitor in something more substantial than my night clothes.”

“Of course.” He pulled the key out of his pocket and handed it to her. “I’ll be waiting downstairs. But lock the door, if you please. The Blue Gander has a bit of a reputation for unruliness.”

“Apparently, so do I.” She smiled sweetly at him, and he was nearly struck dumb by the blinding simplicity of her unadorned night rail and those upturned lips.

He pulled the door shut in a muddled fog, trying to dissect why something as simple as a smile from his future bride should bother him so much. He landed on an answer just as his feet made contact with the top step and he
still
hadn’t heard the key turn in the lock.

Her smile hadn’t appeared friendly in the slightest. It was a deceptive strategy, a means of distracting her prey so she could bend the situation to her will. Good God, what a complicated woman. But simple or complicated, it no longer signified. The only thing that mattered was that she had agreed to marry him.

And then he could keep her from testifying against him.

Chapter 7

F
or Julianne, the ceremony was a blur.

A
laughable
blur, given that it was conducted over a still-smoking forge and presided over by a great, burly beast of a blacksmith who still had the remnants of his dinner clinging to his beard. For the first time in her life, Julianne was glad her mother was no longer alive to see what had become of her daughter.

Patrick’s friend Mr. MacKenzie had come along with them. She had expected frowning disapproval, considering the scandalous circumstances of the event unfolding with such blinding speed. But the dark-haired solicitor was cordial to her, if not outright encouraging.

If the details of the ceremony were difficult to recall, the walk to Patrick’s house from the blacksmith’s shop was equally dim in her memory. No doubt it was cold. And dark. She allowed that there might have been stars. Heavens, there might have been wolves for all that she paid attention. But any physical perils to be encountered on the walk paled in comparison to the emotional dangers of the journey. Every step seemed fraught with the sort of tension that can only occur when one of the married parties was less than enthused by the prospect.

And it was clear that
she
was not the one with the most misgivings.

As Julianne stepped into Patrick’s pitch-black foyer and breathed in the unpleasant things that waited in the darkness, all she could think was that he seemed angry. No matter the earth-shattering kiss he’d offered to seal this devil’s bargain, he’d been closed off and silent from the moment the blacksmith had pronounced them husband and wife. Not that she blamed him. If their situation had been reversed, she might have liked to know the person she was marrying believed in her innocence.

Or, barring that, regretted his role in the suspicions others held.

But no matter her feelings, no matter her thoroughly hatched doubts, she wasn’t sure what to say in this moment.
Something
had happened that November day, something terrible and unchangeable. Marrying Patrick carried a sizable risk, one she hesitated to examine overmuch. She faced far greater ruin if he was eventually convicted of murder than she would have by remaining a soiled spinster. But her shifting memories were leading her to a completely different conclusion regarding his guilt. Surely others would be able to see it as well.

And while Julianne could perhaps be faulted for often leaping into the fray without proper forethought, she knew this small truth: their wedding night was not the time to dredge up such painful memories.

The direction of her thoughts was disrupted by eager paws and an even more eager tongue.

“It looks like Gemmy is happy to see me again,” she offered to the darkness.

She heard the unmistakable thud of her valise hitting the floor. A metal tin rattled, and then somewhere in the darkness a match flared. The meager bit of light settled around Patrick’s shoulders as he set the flame to the wick of a lantern that hung on the wall. “Gemmy doesn’t know you like I do.”

She struggled to keep a rein on her own spark of temper. “You do not know me as well as you think.”

That, finally, earned a backward glance in her direction. “I imagine I shall know you well enough by morning.”

She swallowed hard. She could admit to herself that she was nervous about things to come, but to hear that
he
was thinking about it was disconcerting. “Perhaps you’ll even discover something you like.”

He chuckled. The heavy sound blanketed the narrow walls of the hallway with its sheer unexpectedness. “And perhaps the dog Skip has sprouted a new limb. I’ll need a moment to check for this miracle.” He held out the lantern to her. “Stay here, please. And then I’ll escort you to bed.”

Julianne took the proffered light and then her new husband disappeared around the corner.
Stay here.
Lock the door
. He might chase the words with a “please,” but it did not change the nature of the commands. He was already ordering her about like one of his canine patients. Clearly, he needed a lesson in the way things would go on between them.

She picked up her bag with her free hand, though the weight of it gave her pause. He had insisted on bringing it with them. Which meant he intended to spend their wedding night here, in a house better suited for a barn. The issue of cleanliness aside, the coming night sent her thoughts spinning on an uneven axis. She wanted to wrestle back the upper hand she had briefly enjoyed in that room above the Blue Gander. She wanted to strip away Patrick’s hard façade and make him lose all coherent thought.

And, if she was honest, she wanted to give in to the wicked fever that threatened to consume her, as well.

At her feet, Gemmy whined and scratched at her skirts. “Does he order you about as well?” she murmured, lifting the bag higher and wondering if she possessed the strength to haul it up a flight of stairs. “I imagine you don’t want to stay in this lonely hallway either.”

She received a nudge from Gemmy’s nose in return. She wondered how the scruffy animal would get along with her elegant little dog, Constance, who was probably missing her by now. But wondering would not provide the answer, and so she dragged the bag over to the stairwell. Gemmy scrambled along by her feet, his nails clicking on the floorboards.

“Does he sleep up here then, fellow?”

Gemmy squeezed past her, and then she was following the little dog up the stairs, hefting her bag up each mile-high step. At least
someone
knew where they were heading. She would have a look at the room where she would lay her head tonight. And her gruff new husband would learn she was not planning to be a biddable sort of wife.

H
e already regretted it.

Not the act of marrying the woman who had accused him of murder. No, that, in the end, had been surprisingly easy. But the subterfuge behind these vows didn’t sit well. He was a man who had always prided himself on hard work and truth. None of those things had accompanied him into this marriage, and that guilt made him edgy. His instincts urged him to tell Julianne the truth, confess the reasoning behind this plan. Perhaps she’d even understand—the need to protect
her
neck was every bit as tied up in this drama as the need to guard his own.

But he needed to be careful. For all her antics, he’d also seen a side of Julianne today that suggested a sensitive heart beat beneath his new wife’s very fashionable exterior. She had been kind to Gemmy, and quick to help an animal in need. She had admitted remorse over the trouble she had caused his family. Had traveled all the way to Scotland to find him on account of that guilt. It would not do to hurt her feelings, merely because of his own festering emotions.

And he needed his wife happy with him if MacKenzie’s plan was going to work. Because not being compelled to testify against him was not the same thing as not being
willing
to. And he had a feeling that if scorned, Julianne would prove a formidable enemy, indeed.

He turned up the lamp he had left burning on the kitchen counter, to find the black and white dog awake. He crouched down, relieved to find the wound still closed and the sutures tight. The dog’s tail thumped once, twice. A good sign, but not surprising. He had every confidence Skip would be up and walking come morning. He had long since ceased to be amazed by the power of animals to recover from wounds that would have felled the strongest of men. It was one of the reasons he had studied at the veterinary college in Turin instead of seeking out a medical program.

As a species, humans left much to be desired.

He set down a bowl of water, which the dog lapped gratefully. “It appears you’ll recover.” He rocked back on his heels, eyeing the dog objectively. He couldn’t logically take an injured dog with him on the journey Julianne had planned for them. David Cameron owed him, particularly after the trouble the man had tossed Patrick’s way. He grinned, imagining his friend’s reaction to a few new pets. “Tomorrow is a new day,” he told the animal. “I’ve in mind a permanent new home for you, as far away from the vicarage as possible.”

And given Cameron’s long, sordid history with Reverend Ramsey, it seemed sure those two would not cross paths in this life or the next.

Skip blinked up at him. Patrick stifled the urge to continue the conversation, and instead settled for the requisite pat on the dog’s head. He told himself he didn’t care if Julianne overheard him, or whether she would think him deranged to hold a conversation with an animal. He often did such things—his profession had a way of turning the strangest of creatures into sounding boards.

But of course, he didn’t want the
dog
to think he was touched in the head.

Patrick left his patient to its healing and stepped into the hallway, only to realize Julianne was nowhere to be seen. And she’d apparently taken Gemmy with her. It seemed the little dog would follow anyone with a gentle hand and a pretty smile.

As he headed up the stairs, anticipation and irritation warred with every footfall. He nudged the door of his bedroom open with his boot, his eyes confirming his suspicions. Julianne sat on his bed dressed in her night rail, the frothy blue gown she had worn to the blacksmith’s folded meticulously beside her. Gemmy’s head rested on his new mistress’s lap, and the faithless terrier eyed Patrick warily, as if he knew his master’s intentions to evict him.

He stared at her, his body already stirring to life. The marriage required consummation to be considered legal. MacKenzie had been most clear about that—something about Scots law, and that he should leave no cause for an outsider to question the validity of the union. He was still numbed by the whirlwind turn of events that now found him married to one of the most notorious gossips in London, but not so numb he couldn’t admit a delicious anticipation for what came next.

Of course, he was angry that he
wanted
to bed her.

Hell, he was angry she made it so easy, negotiating the terms of a marriage settlement wearing only a filmy night rail. But it was an interest that would not be dissuaded, no matter his stern mental lectures on the topic.

The sodding truth was she made a beautifully tidy package there in the clutter of his room, buttoned up and prim amid the comfortable rumple of his bedclothes, as if she was waiting to be unwrapped. She had taken her hair down, and he had to swallow his surprise at the sight of it, half dried and curling against her shoulders. Her hair didn’t fall in a neat, orderly pile. No, nothing about Julianne would be so predictable, or so obedient. Each copper-colored coil writhed with life in a separate but downward journey. He wanted to catch one in his hand, run his fingers over it before moving on to touch other interesting parts of her.

Instead, he set the lamp he had carried from the kitchen on the top of his bureau, then shrugged out of his coat. He tossed it over a chair littered with open books and periodicals, causing a small army of paper to slide onto the floor in an ungracious heap—not that a few more made much difference on his hazard-strewn floor. The brewing altercation made the blood in his veins contract. “I asked you to wait in the hallway for your safety, Julianne. The stairwell is in disrepair, and half the boards need to be replaced. I am amazed I didn’t have to step over your broken neck to get here.”

“You didn’t
ask
me to wait.” She smiled, and he was struck again by the sense that despite the graciousness of the gesture, she was merely baring her teeth. “You ordered me to.”

A potent melding of exasperation and lust claimed Patrick’s focus. Trying to force Julianne to do anything was a bit like playing at the hazard table: one never knew what was going to turn up on the dice. He was her husband, and just an hour ago, she’d promised the blacksmith she would obey him. But she was proving a handful to steer in a straight line, and that made him uneasy on the matter of convincing her to withhold her testimony.

Her gaze lowered to the terrier still lolling happily in her lap. “And I confess some surprise to hear you care about my safety,” she continued, her lips more a hesitant quiver now, “given that you derided Gemmy for greeting me with any measure of affection.”

Christ. Is
that
was this was about? There was no denying she was a bloody, beautiful mess when she was angry. Indeed, she appeared nigh on luminous in her nightclothes, her unbound curls twitching about her shoulders. But there was nothing of affection in his reaction to such a sight. Did she expect platitudes and whispers of love?

Because if she did, she had sorely overestimated his esteem.

“I like you well enough, Julianne,” he replied, his voice a cautious drawl. And he did. Or rather, he liked her as a solution to his problem. He supposed he should soften his tone, but the woman brought something out in him. It seemed they were always sliding on the razor’s edge of a row, her words as sharp and cutting as any knife.

But his cock did not seem to care. It had embraced its own ideas from the moment he’d seen her sitting in the middle of his unmade bed.

“How does the patient fare?” Her words burrowed beneath his distraction, pulling him back to the intellectual dilemma she presented.

“Awake. Drinking. All good signs.”

“What will you do with him in the morning? Surely you won’t give him back to that odious vicar?”

Patrick shook his head. “No, David Cameron owes me a favor, after having such loose lips in Brighton.” He smiled grimly. “Skip will be in good hands with him. I’ll try to convince him to take the lamb too.”

“And what will you do with Gemmy?”

At the sound of his name, Gemmy’s tail thumped hopefully against the bed. Was she really so heartless to imagine he would leave his dog behind? “Gemmy will come with us,” he said firmly. He would entertain no opinions to the contrary, no matter how dazzling her smile.

“I am relieved to hear that.” She ran a hand over the dog’s fur in a manner that made Patrick’s stiffened spine relax a fraction of an inch. “I confess I’ve grown attached to him.” Clearly returning the sentiment, the terrier rolled over and offered her his belly, wriggling in the sheets. She stared down, and her brow pinched in thought. “When was the last time your bed linens were changed?”