Reckless Viscount (21 page)

They had arrived at the posting inn late into the evening. It had been obvious that Leif would have preferred to keep going, but the exhausted condition of the driver and horses, not to mention his bride, must have changed his mind.

The small rural inn was brightly lit and filled to capacity for the night.

Upon entering the common room, Abbigael and Leif had to side-step a family of four small children being gathered from the dining table and ushered up the stairs to their beds. The youngest babe was propped to his weary mother’s chest, his long pale eyelashes brushing his round cheeks and his mouth slack with sleep.

Abbigael felt a gentle tightening in her womb.

Across the room, a trio of young men lounged haphazardly around a table in the corner with large cups of ale in their hands. They appeared well on their way toward forgetting the rest of the evening.

Leif led Abbigael to a table near the stairs, then went to arrange for a room and a meal.

They ate their meat pies in relative silence.

Leif had maintained an attitude of distraction throughout the day. Once again, Abbigael endured the lengthy drive without a willing conversationalist. She considered forcing him into talking with her, but she didn’t exactly know any good tactics to accomplish such a thing. Her typical attempts at conversation were quickly met with short, monosyllabic replies that only succeeded in increasing her irritation. Finally, she surrendered to the routine she had developed on the drive north and turned sideways on the seat to train her gaze out the window.

She figured it was either that, or she would start searching the carriage for items to throw at her new husband.

After the silent drive and the equally silent meal, Leif muttered something about needing to check on the carriage and horses and that she should go on up to the room and he would be up once he finished with his tasks.

That had been at least—Abbigael stopped her pacing for a moment to recalculate how much time had passed—four hours ago. Which meant it had to be sometime after two o’clock in the morning. She stared at the closed door of her room, feeling heavily dejected.

He had said he would be up, hadn’t he? It was their wedding night, after all.

She sat on the edge of the bed. It was a surprisingly large bed for the otherwise smaller proportions of the rest of the inn. Even the innkeeper and his wife had been petite in stature.

Where was he?

She looked down at her hands lying motionless in the virginal white folds of her nightgown. Her fingers were bare. Ringless. There was nothing about her at the moment that felt even a wee bit like a wife. Her fingers curled toward her palms until her hands formed tight fists. This is not how she intended to start her marriage. Alone in her room, waiting helplessly, and rather breathlessly, for a husband who may never come. She wanted a partnership, an equal share of wishes and desires, compromise and understanding. She was not going to sit and wait to find out what her husband wanted from her. She was going to find him and tell him what
she
wanted.

She wanted him.

Abbigael stood and strode purposefully to where her shawl was draped over the back of a chair. She whipped it around her shoulders, covering herself from neck to knee.

There was no time for dressing.

Then she left her room, marched down the short hall in her bare feet and descended the narrow stairs with head held high. At the bottom of the stairs, she stopped, her strong advance halted by the warm velvety sound of Leif’s distinctive laugh. It was a sound that had sparked warmth in her blood many times, yet this time it created an icy clutch of dread around her heart.

She tightened her fingers in the material of her shawl as she forced another step, then another until she could peek around the corner.

She found him immediately, sitting amongst the group of young men she had noted on their arrival. The gentlemen, who had already been enjoying their ale hours ago, now swayed in their seats and bobbed their heads dangerously close to their ale mugs. They shouted over each other in boisterous conversation.

But Leif didn’t bob or sway.

He sat steady and secure, though undeniably relaxed in spite of, or perhaps because of, the buxom barmaid who enjoyed the comfort of his strong thighs beneath her buttocks and his large hand at the curve of her hip. The bold woman was leaning against Leif’s chest, her breasts pressed nearly up under his chin, to whisper something in his ear. The maid’s pouty lips caressed the curve of his ear as she spoke.

Abbigael felt sick.

Backing around the corner out of view, she pressed her back to the wall as she took long, steady breaths to dispel the deep nausea that churned in her stomach.

Stupid, stupid girl. What had she expected? The man was what he was.

A womanizer, a seducer, a scoundrel.

She had known that from the beginning. Hadn’t she even warned herself against him that very first day? So why would she expect marriage to make any difference to a man like that? He had told her from the start that he needed her money, not her. Clearly, he had a bevy of females falling over themselves to claim a spot in his lap and in his bed.

Somehow, she made it back up to her room, though she didn’t remember climbing the steps or closing the door behind her. Standing there, she looked at the bed with a frozen glare. The bed where she had envisioned her wedding night.

It mocked her now, empty and cold. Nothing in the entire world could convince her to climb between those sheets now and lay still as she waited for her husband to come to her after his dalliance.

Turning in a sharp half circle away from the sight of the offending piece of furniture, Abbigael threw the shawl from her shoulders and whipped her nightgown up over her head until she stood naked in the center of the room. Though a light film of frost layered the window, she felt no chill. Rather, she felt the heat of indignant anger and fierce disappointment. Grabbing her borrowed dress with stiff fingers, she yanked it over her head, almost grateful for the pain in her scalp when a button caught in her hair. After securing the dress, she quickly plaited her hair in a long braid and gathered her meager possessions.

She was forced to pause as she realized she would have to somehow make her way through the common room without being noticed in order to get to the stables.

In the end it was surprisingly easy. A quick glance at the noisy group of men proved that they were all engaged in a serious debate over whether Wellington’s were as functional as they were fashionable. The barmaid was nowhere in sight, but Abbigael didn’t doubt for a moment that she would be back.

She lifted the shawl over her head, partially concealing her face, and with only the briefest glance at Leif to ensure he remained preoccupied, she crossed the room and slid out the door. She didn’t release her held breath until she was outside and confident no one had noticed her momentary intrusion and subsequent escape.

Leif glanced toward the stairs for the hundredth time. The ache in his groin throbbed back to life.

He should just go up there. He wanted to. Desperately.

But something held him back. A strange, tight feeling around his chest that constricted every time he thought of his bride. He imagined her curled up in the center of the bed, warm, content and oblivious to the lascivious thoughts that had been consuming him for the last two days. From the moment she became his wife and he comprehended the fact that she belonged to him in the most elemental and primitive way, he had been hard-pressed not to toss her over his shoulder and carry her to bed for a wild and thorough debauching.

He imagined a thousand ways he would claim her body and give her pleasure. Things came to mind that he had never considered doing with anyone else. Part of him wanted to shock her and scare her with his sensual craving. He wanted to strip her of her innocence, take her with him into unknown carnal depths, until all she knew of sex and passion was what he taught her.

The only way he managed to keep his greedy hands off her in the carriage was to ignore her completely. But in closing his eyes to block out the tempting image she made curled up on the opposite seat, he invited his imagination to conjure up all sorts of deviant images of his new bride.

The poor girl did not deserve such wicked treatment, even if the lustful acts he imagined were securely contained within his mind.

For now.

He had hoped to drown his desire in country ale and lose himself in familiar masculine diversions. But his chosen entertainment was weak and didn’t come close to keeping his thoughts away from the woman above stairs. The drink was not as bracing as he’d hoped and the revelers he’d joined were not nearly as witty. In fact, the longer he nursed his ale and forced himself to laugh with the obnoxious trio he had chosen as companions, the more he longed to slide into bed alongside her and assuage the fire in his blood.

It scared him, terrified him really, the depth of the need he felt for that slip of a girl. He had hoped after having her once his lust would be sated. He imagined his desire to be for the novelty she presented. A pure innocent. Angry and vulnerable. Dependent on him.

He had been so utterly wrong.

If it was novelty, then it hadn’t worn off yet. In fact, his need for her seemed only to grow exponentially with every hour that passed.

Raucous laughter exploded at the table. His companions were so far gone they would likely be snoring into their pillows before too long. Leif looked toward the stairs again. Sweat broke out on his brow and he pushed his hand back through his hair. If he weren’t feeling so damned pathetic, he would be laughing at himself. Who would have thought he could be brought so low by one small woman?

He shook his head, the band tightening further around his chest.

The poor girl
really
didn’t deserve him.

“Wot’s the matter, luv? Ye can’t seem to keep yer mind on the present.”

Leif eased a careless smile into his lips. It was a practiced gesture of thoughtless charm, one he’d used so many times it came automatically. The barmaid had been none too subtle in who she wished to give her favors to that night. She had thrown herself into his lap so many times, he guessed his thighs would be tender on the morrow. The maid’s softly padded arse was overridden by her total lack of grace.

“I promise, my thoughts hold nothing of interest to you, sweetheart.”

The maid gave a shrug of her rounded shoulders and her bosom nearly fell from her bodice.

“I doubt that verra much.”

Leif smiled at her persistence. “You are astute enough to know by now that I am not a taker tonight.”

Her pout was almost pretty. “I dinna like to give up on wot I want.”

“Neither do I, sweetheart.” Leif pushed back from the table and stood. Bowing jauntily to the maid and then nodding to the other gentlemen, he said, “Time for me to retire. I bid you all good night and offer my condolences on the horrific morning you are all likely to share.”

His departure was met with a few heartfelt if sloppy protests, but he was glad to see the maid turn her attention to a gentleman who appeared to still maintain a modicum of awareness.

He made his way up the stairs. Everything was dark, nearly pitch black in this hour just before the dawn, and he welcomed the lack of visual assistance as he was forced to train his focus on not running his nose into a wall.

Even so, as he got closer to his destination, he was helpless against the visceral memories of Irish starting to clamor through his brain. The sensual catch of her sighs. The wildflower scent of her skin. Images of her slight form arching in ecstasy, her arms reaching for him, her legs wrapping about his hips. The soft sea-green of her eyes turning dark and turbulent with desire. Details flew in one after the other until every sense was inundated with elements of her.

When he reached for the door handle to enter their room, he saw that his hand was shaking. What the hell had she done to him?

Ignoring the disturbing evidence of his weakness, he pushed forward into the room and closed the door quietly behind him.

The room was dark, but his eyes had fully adjusted. There was no mistaking what he saw, or didn’t see. The tight constriction in his chest squeezed unmercifully and his breath was stalled.

Irish was gone.

Chapter Nineteen

Abbigael stepped cautiously from the carriage to the sidewalk in front of the Blackbourne townhouse. She looked around, half-expecting her sudden appearance to cause some sort of neighborhood pandemonium.

The lost heiress is returned.

Albeit looking bedraggled and exhausted in her borrowed gown, dusty from the road and terrified of what faced her inside the double doors ahead.

But all was quiet on the street. No one stared or pointed in her direction. Bow Street Runners did not appear from the shadows, bombarding her with questions.

It was as if she had never left, as if life in London had continued on its course with no visible disruption. The concept made her irritable.

For her, the last two days had been an uncomfortable exercise in self-examination. The anxiety that traveled with her had been oppressive as she kept expecting her husband to catch up to her at any moment. He could have been as close behind her as a couple hours. If he had been determined, he could have easily made up that time during the stops she took along the way. Then again, there was no telling how long it may have taken for him to even notice she had left. If he had found another place to bed down, he might have slept well into the next day. He could be as much as a half day behind her, and that was only if he felt the need to follow right away. He could just as easily have decided to take his time in trailing his errant bride.