The Earl Claims His Wife (8 page)

“I heard a cracking noise behind me. I knew the limb was about to break. The cat heard it, too.”

“And?” she prompted when he paused for dramatic effect.

“The cat was no fool. He jumped right into my arms and I leapt for the tree’s trunk. We made it just as the limb started to give way under my feet.” He laughed at the memory. “The frightened cat, who didn’t want to have anything to do with me only moments before, scrambled to the top of my head.”

Gillian started laughing at the picture that formed in her mind.

“I grabbed hold of the tree trunk and scaled down it wearing the cat on my head,” Wright continued.

“He’d balance this way and that while digging his claws in for good measure as I brought the two of us down to the ground.”

“Were you given a hero’s welcome?” she teased.

“Only by the men who had placed their bets that I would make it,” he answered. “The majority of them were not pleased to lose a quid or two on what they’d thought would be easy money.” He sat back in his chair, smiling at the memory. “Wellington commended me on my foolhardiness and then he rode off. The next day, I received orders to join his staff. He told me that any man who would go that far to accomplish his mission was a good one to keep close.”

Wright’s expression sobered. He looked into the flames in the hearth. “Saving that cat opened many doors for me. It may even have been the best thing I’ve done in my life. I learned a great deal from the general.” He reached for the wine. “Do you care for more?”

“Are you going to have more stories to tell?” she asked, quite liking him when he was this way.

He smiled. “You aren’t bored?”

She shook her head. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be somewhere else beyond England. I can read books but it isn’t the same as talking to someone who has been there.”

“Well, if that is the case,” he said, topping off her glass, “let me tell you of the time my men decided to make goat cheese that exploded and sent everyone running for shelter.”

It was a delightful story as was the next one and the next.

Gillian found she actually liked Wright. She’d forgotten he was different from his father. The two of them had the same mannerisms but experience separated them.

Wright’s stories about the Portuguese, the peasants, and the soldiers he obviously admired brimmed with good humor and kindness—but she knew he had other stories to tell as well. Her husband had seen battle. There was a small scar over his lip and another larger one across the back of his hand.

She used to follow the reports of the battles in the papers wondering if he’d been in them. She knew the fighting was often desperate. She’d prayed for his safety and well-being.

Now, sitting here by the fire after a good meal, she realized those prayers had been answered. He had returned in one piece and, thankfully, with no more damage than those few scars and with his spirit intact.

In fact, she was so involved in the stories he told that she hadn’t noticed how late the hour had grown. The fire in the grate was low. A chill was creeping into the air and the family who had dined at the table beside theirs had long gone to their beds. Mr. Peters sat in a chair by the door, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes closed. It was one of his snores that finally interrupted their conversation and made them realize they’d talked most of the evening.

Wright smiled at the innkeeper. “Shall we let him go to his bed?” he asked her.

“I think it would be kind,” she agreed. She lifted the wine bottle. It was empty. No wonder she felt mellow and pleased with the world.

His fingers brushed the side of her cheek.

She turned to him in surprise.

“I’m sorry. I had to touch you, that’s all. I wanted to know if your skin is really as smooth and soft as it appears.” His gaze seemed to stroke where his fingers had touched. “It is.”

Gillian felt a stirring deep inside, a stirring she’d felt for him before. She shook her head. “This is not what I had expected.”

“What isn’t?” he asked.

“You.” She tried to explain without committing herself. “When we first set down, I expected this meal to be one of verbal sparring. Instead, it was quite enjoyable.”

He moved his empty wineglass away from the edge of the table. “You expected me to ravish you at the first opportunity,” he suggested.

“I had thought that was your intention,” she admitted, feeling a bubble of laughter at his description.

“Would I have succeeded?”

“Absolutely not. I didn’t like you.”

“And now?”

Gillian hesitated and then confessed, “You are not what I remembered.”

He sat back in his chair. His gaze shifted away from her. “War changes a person. What I once valued no longer seems to matter. You talk about how ill at ease you felt under my father’s roof. Imagine how I felt returning home from the war to be surrounded by talk of inconsequential things like gossip and blathering on about who uses what tailor. Men are dying, giving their lives to the honor and protection of their country, and here at home…” His voice trailed off as he studied the walls, the chairs, the peacefulness. He finished his words with a wave of his hand. “It’s as if the war doesn’t exist.”

“People can’t always relate to what they don’t see or what doesn’t affect them immediately,” she said, not as an excuse but in an effort to help him understand. She placed her hand on his arm. “You mustn’t judge them too harshly.”

His lips pressed together as if he disagreed but then he conceded her point. “And perhaps that is the reason men seem to need war. They haven’t experienced it. Don’t know it. It seems simple on the surface, especially when one is far away from the battlegrounds. But up close, it’s a different matter.”

He looked down at her hand, reached for it, held it as if feeling its weight, and then raised it to his lips. He pressed a kiss into her palm.

Where his mouth touched, her skin tingled.

Gillian pulled her hand away. “What was that for?” she asked, embarrassed at the chord of alarm in her voice. She had not anticipated his gesture, or her reaction.

“It was for your kindness,” he said, making no move toward. “For understanding. I’ve not been able to speak to anyone as I did just now with you. It is a gift, my lady.”

She raised her hand to her temple, feeling a bit foolish. She was on guard against his advances and so, of course, had overreacted.

Even now, he didn’t seem to take offense at her confusion.

He rose from the table. “Come. We are both tired. Let us go to our room.”

She noticed he didn’t say “our bed.”

Wright pulled out her chair, but made no move to take her hand or touch her. Gillian was thankful.

Once she stood, she realized the wine had more of an effect on her than she had anticipated. Or she wanted to believe that this swimming dizziness was the wine. She refused to believe it was Wright, especially since now was the time when she needed to gird herself against him. She hadn’t decided how to handle the room situation, but she knew what the outcome would be.

He indicated with his hand for her to lead the way. As they walked out of the dining room, he gently woke the sleeping innkeeper, slipping a coin into his palm for his good service.

Mr. Peters’s eyes opened the second he felt the metal. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you.”

Wright held up a hand as if to quiet the man, but Mr. Peters was anxious to be of service. “Do you need help going up the stairs? My Mary turned down the covers in your room and made a fire.”

“You have done more than enough,” Wright said, trying to leave the dining room, but Mr. Peters followed him.

“There is a lamp on the table at the foot of the back stairs. Take it to light your way. Oh, here, perhaps I should go with you?”

He would have charged ahead of them except for Wright catching him by the collar. “We can see to ourselves, Peters. Clean the table and find your bed. You’ve worked hard this night.”

“Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord,” the innkeeper said.

Wright made an impatient sound before issuing a stern, “Good night,” and coming out into the hall to join Gillian. Wright indicated with a wave of his hand the direction of the back stairs where a lamp burned on a side table.

“That was kind of you,” Gillian said over her shoulder as she walked toward the table.

“What was?” he asked, truly puzzled.

“Giving the man a vail for his service.”

“He earned it,” Wright answered.

“Yes, but most wouldn’t have given it to him,” she said. In fact, she’d overheard more than one servant in the marquess’s household complain over their employer’s tightfisted tendencies as well as those of his friends. Generosity, a quality Gillian greatly admired, was not a common virtue amongst the ton.

Wright shook his head as if her praise embarrassed him. “You’d better be careful, Gillian, or you’ll be thinking me a better man than I am.”

A sharp rejoinder was on the tip of her tongue to say that could never happen, but the words didn’t come out because he was different than anyone she’d come across in London. Perhaps the war had changed him or perhaps her instincts all those years ago in a crowded ballroom had not been completely wrong…

She was such a fool. Even after years of his neglect, she was willing to give him the benefit of a doubt.

She shook her head. It wasn’t all her fault. He was trying to be charming and it had been a long, stressful day. The sherry had mixed with the wine and she was not as alert as she should be.

There was also still the matter of her sharing a room with him. Experience had taught her that Wright would do what was necessary to gain what he wanted.

Gillian wasn’t worried about the room. She was certain she could set Wright in his place. In spite of what had turned out to be an enjoyable evening, she had not fallen under his spell. She knew a trick or two to keep him at bay.

They had reached the staircase leading up to their room. She placed her hand on the solid sturdy stair post, leaving the lamp for Wright to pick up.

She’d gone up one step, when she heard him say her name so softly she could have imagined it.

“Yes?” she answered, turning to him—and that is when he caught her off guard.

Before she realized what he was about, he swept her up into his arms and kissed her.

For a stunned moment, Gillian couldn’t think, she couldn’t move. His kiss was an onslaught of her senses.

Memories of her wedding night came rushing back to her. She’d been so enamored of him. So silly, silly in love. Kissing him had been as natural to her as breathing—and it still was.

She attempted to think of Andres but his face wouldn’t form a picture in her mind. Instead, all she could see was Wright. Damnable, irritating, annoying Wright. How she wished their lips didn’t fit together.

Gillian leaned against the banister for support as if to avoid him. His arms came around her, his hands gripped the rail, trapping her. Not that he needed to do so. With a will of their own, her arms went around his neck, flattening her breasts against his chest.

Their hips fitted together as if pulled by two magnets. He deepened the kiss and, God help her, she followed him.

A footfall sounded behind them as if someone approached.

Her first thought was of Mr. Peters. She should not be seen smooching like a dairy maid on the staircase of a public house. She started to break away, but then Wright bit her bottom lip, soothing it with the tip of his tongue and she could have melted into his arms.

Dear God. Who would have thought after all that lay between them, all he had to do was kiss her to make her forget pride and common sense?

He’d performed this same trick on their wedding night. It had thrilled her, frightened her…tempted her, just as it did right now.

What little sanity she had left shouted no through her mind. She must not let him kiss her this way.

She must not let him seduce her. She had to remember how he’d been able to walk away from her.

How he’d not had so much as an hour for her before he left to join Wellington.

She had to remember the mistress he’d chosen over her.

But that mistress was gone, the devil of temptation whispered to her. There was no one else but herself. Even the earlier footfalls threatening discovery had vanished from her doubts.

Gillian tried to think of Andres, but couldn’t. Wright’s kiss obliterated all thought of her beloved Spaniard.

His lips made their way up to her ear. “Let’s go to our room.”

The brush of his breath against her skin almost sent her through the ceiling. Fortunately, his arms now held her fast. He smiled. She could feel his lips curve—

The spell he wove was broken.

He’d had her until he smiled.

Wright left the lamp behind as he half carried, half backed her up the stairs, his lips barely leaving hers. In the upstairs hallway, he backed her against the door to their room. His arousal was hard and bold between them. He cupped her breast and she could have cried out because it felt good to be touched this way.

She’d been wrong when she’d thought his kisses would remind her of their wedding night. Back then she’d been shy and he hesitant and slightly uninvolved.

There was nothing uninvolved about him right now. He kissed her with a raw, urgent need.

And she wanted him, too. She wanted to taste him, to feel him, to take him inside her. She barely remembered their joining. There had been nights when she’d tried to remember and had failed.

Andres . She had to think of Andres. Noble, kindhearted Andres. Andres who waited for her.

Gillian reached behind her for the door handle.

The door opened and she practically fell inside—effectively breaking the kiss.

“I need a moment of privacy,” she managed to mutter, her heart racing. She shut the door and leaned back against it, thankful to have escaped. The only light in the room was the warm glow from the hearth. The white counterpane on the bed seemed to take on an unholy glow in the firelight.

There was no time to rest. She had to pull herself together. She could not, must not let him kiss her like that again. She had no defenses against him.