"Scandalous Weddings" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Barbara Dawson, Joyce Brenda, Jones Jill, Becnel Rexanne)

Chapter Five

With a sense of relief, Alex shut the door to the bedchamber. He had passed the day in a frenzy of chores around the castle, carting piles of rubbish from the towers and sorting through the rusted weaponry in the armory. He had avoided the keep, preferring the frigid outbuildings to facing Helen.

Lady Helen, he contemptuously thought. A pampered aristocrat accustomed to being waited on hand and foot. He would not act like her adoring lapdog.

By evening, however, hunger proved a stronger foe than one small female. He stalked into the great hall, led by an enticing aroma. In an iron pot bubbled an appetizing stew made with the last of the ham, and though Helen took credit for it, he doubted her ability to cook. Dinner must have been Miss Gilbert's doing.

Helen appeared to have cheerfully accepted the end to their relationship. She did not flirt with him, though every now and then he intercepted a thoughtful glance from her. To his chagrin, even her coolness aroused him. It made her intriguing, untouchable, mysterious.

During dinner, she had shown far more regard for Abbott and Miss Gilbert, drawing out stories, from their childhoods, listening as if they were treasured companions rather than hired help. Only once did she address Alex, turning her big blue eyes on him. "Will the roads be clear by tomorrow?" "Aye," he'd replied gruffly. "We'll depart come morning.

For several heartbeats, her gaze had held his, and he'd felt the wild urge to seize her in his arms and carry her upstairs, to push up her skirts and find heaven again. Then Abbott had engaged him in a discussion of the vagaries of Scottish weather, and the moment of madness passed.

Now, alone in the bedchamber, he paced the stone floor. With a cold eye, he studied the room that had belonged to his mother. The tarnished silver brushes on the dressing table. The age-spotted mirror where no doubt she had spent hours admiring her beauty. The window seat where he'd once found his father weeping, a strong man brought to ruin by a woman. An Englishwoman.

How daft to worship a lady's pale breasts and come-hither smiles. He himself had always practiced more control-until last night.

Alex stopped by the crumpled pallet. In the center, a rusty spot darkened the lighter brown wool. Virgin's blood.

He could have impregnated Helen. The risk of it horrified him. He of all men should know better than to doom a child to be raised without a mother. He should not have given in to his lust. He should not imagine Helen undressing in a chamber close to this one. He should not fancy her coming here again, offering herself to him one last time

Hell. He kicked the blankets, hiding the evidence of his blunder. His mind rebelled at the notion of spending another night on the pallet where he had succumbed to i he wiles of a Sassenach lady.

Striding to the big bed, Alex stripped off the dusty counterpane and the yellowed linen sheets that smelled faintly of roses. He snatched up a pile of spare blankets, yanked off his clothing, and flung himself onto the icy bed. The feather ticking sank beneath his weight. The bare mattress had the neutral, vaguely pleasant scent of age.

He sprawled on his back and closed his eyes. With stern willpower, he kept his thoughts clean. He would not dwell upon the illusory paradise he had found with Helen. Rather, he would focus his mind on acquiring a proper Scots wife.

Aye, last night had proven it was long past time for him to wed. He needed the pleasure of a woman more often. There were several suitable prospects in the area, worthy Highland women who had made their interest in him known, and he considered them, one by one…

After a time, he must have dozed, for he dreamed of soft arms embracing him, feminine hands roving his chest and waist and legs. His wife. She teased him with coy strokes, skirting but never touching the place where he burned. And he could not seem to grasp her wrist and guide her fingers as he wished. He was at her mercy, frustrated beyond belief…

With great effort, he swam to the surface of awareness. Groggy, he opened his eyes to the shadowy room. She lay draped over his side, and this time, he could touch her. He groped for her dainty hand and brought it downward, wrapping her fingers around him. The pleasure of it seared him.

Her soft breathy gasp brushed his ear. Not his wife. She was an erotic dream come true. "Helen," he muttered.

"Mmmm." She slid against him, her lips nuzzling his throat, her fingers exploring him. She was naked. So was he.

His loins ached to the verge of pain. His sleep-drugged brain struggled to function, to fight the onslaught of sensual stimulation. Lust won the battle, and he lowered his head to her satiny breasts. "You shouldna be here," he said roughly into the fragrant valley.

"I know," she whispered. "But I couldn't stay away."

The wistfulness in her voice burrowed to a place deep inside him. She was his. His for the taking. He smoothed his hands down her womanly shape, finding lush hills and hidden vales. He could no longer remember all the reasons she was wrong for him. He could think only that he wanted her with a fierceness that defied understanding. "Bide with me then, lass."

"Yes," she said on a sigh.

Their mouths met in silken darkness. He pressed her against the feather mattress for a deep, drowning kiss. Her hand continued to stroke him, driving him mad. Ah, heaven. He was surely dreaming now, for nothing had ever felt so good. She made light forays up and down, circling the sensitive tip, teasing him to the verge of climax. He meant to curl her fingers around him, to show her how hard he liked it, but a primal urge beat inside him, and without further play he positioned himself between her opened legs.

Hot. She was hot and tight and wet. A perfect fit. So perfect that when he moved even slightly, he nearly went over the edge. He gritted his teeth and strained for control, reaching between them to caress her, taking fierce satisfaction from her unbridled enjoyment, her unladylike cries of passion. At last she arched against him, shuddering, sobbing out his name in the throes of release. Only then did he give himself into her power and allow the long, long fall into ecstasy.

Night enveloped them. Her soft body cradled him. Against his shoulder, she sighed in sleepy contentment. His insides clenched with something queerly akin to tenderness.

Helen. He had made love to Lady Helen again. He reached for resentment, but like a stone it skipped away and sank into the endless sea of darkness. Waves of weariness lapped at him, pulling him deeper and deeper until he knew no more.

A loud crash awakened Helen.

She blinked into the brightness of daylight, and for a moment could not place where she was, which foreign country, what rural inn. Her senses absorbed her surroundings. Tattered rose-pink bedhangings. A bare mattress. A chill against her back, while the front of her was toasty warm, snuggled to a hard male body, a soft woolen blanket covering the two of them.

Alex.

Memory returned in a fervid rush. Before she could assimilate the cozy pleasure of waking up in his arms, his grip tightened on her. She glanced up at his face, and his unshaven cheeks gave him a disreputable and dangerous aspect. But he was not looking at her; he stared across the room.

"What the devil?" he growled. "Get out."

Pushing up on one elbow, she followed his gaze. And gasped at the man standing in the doorway. This was a nightmare. She would awaken in a moment…Her lips moved, but no sound issued forth.

Papa.

Though small in stature, the Marquess of Hathaway commanded attention like a king. He stood staring at them, his face pale and grim. Dear God. He must have left Edinburgh and followed her. Cox would have told him about the accident, that she'd been stranded here…

She saw the moment when his shock turned to rage. His bushy white eyebrows clashed in a thunderous scowl. Redness spread over his grizzled cheeks. From his wind-rumpled graying hair to his snow-caked boots, he radiated an explosive fury.

Alex sat up, naked to the waist, the blanket falling to his hips. He half shielded her with his big body. "I said, get out."

Lord Hathaway stormed to the side of the bed. His stark gaze flicked beyond Alex to Helen, and she drew the blanket to her chin to hide her nudity. Chills convulsed her body. She wanted to cry out that it wasn't what he thought… but it was. She had given herself to a man who was not her husband. A man she barely knew.

Lord Hathaway's expression turned murderous as he focused on Alex. Through gritted teeth, he said, "What have you done to her?"

* "I dinna know who the devil you are, but you canna barge in here-"

"You've seduced her. You bloody lecher!"

In a blur of black cape, Lord Hathaway sprang across the bed. His fist connected with Alex's jaw, and Alex went reeling back against the headboard. The bed shook, a fine dust filtering down from the ancient canopy. Alex clapped his hand to his face. For an instant he sat stunned. Then a savage light entered his eyes, and Helen knew she had to act fast.

She launched herself between the two angry men. "Stop!" she cried. "That's enough."

Alex tried to thrust her aside. "I willna have a woman fighting my battles."

She pushed him back. "And I won't have you striking my father."

"Your father?" Alex jerked his head toward the visitor…

Lord Hathaway stood by the bed, breathing hard, his fists clenched. "I should kill you. Forcing my daughter into your bed-"

"He didn't force me," Helen blurted out. Regretting the need to cause him pain, she kept the blanket clasped to her taut throat. "I-I'm sorry, Papa. But you mustn't blame Alex. It was I who sought him out."

Hathaway's face went rigid. "I don't believe you."

She couldn't meet his eyes. "It started out as curiosity. I-I wanted to know what love was like-"

"It doesna matter what she did," Alex broke in. "Naught would have happened had I no' permitted it."

"You're damned right about that," Lord Hathaway snapped. "By God, you'll pay the price for ruining my daughter."

Alex said nothing. The two men shared a hard, angry, assessing look.

Confused, Helen glanced from one to the other. "But it's my fault," she insisted. "Papa, I won't have you blaming Alex. He didn't compromise me-he had my consent."

"I don't care if he had the blessing of King George the Fourth."

Her father stomped around to her side of the bed, and for one horrible moment she feared he would strike her. He had never ill-treated her in all her life, yet never before had she infuriated him so mightily. She would not flinch. Though trembling within, she kept her gaze steady on him, bracing herself for another outburst of wrath.

But he merely tugged the blanket more securely around her, then snatched up the pile of her clothing from a nearby chair. Taking her by the arm, he pulled her from the bed, leaving Alex without covering. "We shall settle this matter immediately," Hathaway told him.

Alex nodded coolly. Helen permitted herself only a furtive glance at him. He looked magnificent in his nakedness, as dignified as any man can be when caught in the act by an irate father.

Heaven help them. If only she had returned to her bed last night…

Outside in the passageway, the marquess handed Helen her garments. His skin appeared gray in the dim light. "Dress yourself," he said in a heavy voice. "Then return here in half an hour." He pivoted from her and in ted back into the bedroom.

Stung by fear, she cried out, "Papa! Promise me you'll not duel with Alex."

Hathaway grimaced. "Murdering the lecher might prove satisfying. But it would never bring back what you've lost."

"You don't understand. If you'll let me explain-"

"No." Cutting her off with a slash of his hand, he gave her a look of contempt and disappointment. "I traveled half the night to reach here, to assure myself of your safety. Instead I find that you have tricked Miss Gilbert. You have ignored your moral upbringing. And you have betrayed my trust. Do not insult me now by making excuses for your misdeed." His boot heels ringing, he stalked into the bedroom and shut the door.

His harsh words hung like a miasma in the chilly air. Helen wanted to run after him, to beg forgiveness for causing him pain, but she knew he would scorn her apologies. Tears blurred her vision. Since her mother's death when Helen was just a girl, she and her father had had only each other to rely upon. Now she had hurt the one man who mattered to her.

She felt mortified and shaken, though oddly unrepentant. The secret truth was, she did not regret making love with Alex. Both times, it had been a beautiful experience, a celebration of human closeness.

But in the doing, she had destroyed her father's faith in her. Somehow she had to show him that she was still his loving daughter. She breathed that fervent vow as she hastened down the corridor to dress.

Whatever punishment he intended to administer, even if he forbade her to travel anymore, she swore she would accept it.

"You and the MacBrut shall marry."

Her father's edict echoed in the laird's bedroom some thirty minutes later. Dumbfounded, Helen glanced at Alex, who stood fully dressed in kilt and plaid and boots, his hands clasped behind his back and his features stony. Forgetting her vow, she sputtered, "That's impossible."

"When we reach the village," Lord Hathaway said, "you and he will be wed. There is no posting of banns here in Scotland, and no cause to delay."

"But… I'm not marrying him." Horror rising in her throat, she spun toward Alex. Her fingers clenched the silk of her skirt. "Surely you cannot have agreed to this."

"I proposed a handfast." He grimaced, his blue eyes dark with loathing. "But his lordship insists on settling matters the English way."

"Handfast is a barbaric custom," her father said with a derisive snort. "Joined for a year and a day without benefit of clergy. And if there is no child, then you go your separate ways-with the woman's reputation in ruins." He shook his head sternly. "No. You took my daughter's virtue. Now you will do right by her."

To Helen's dismay, Alex didn't argue. But she did.

She ran to her father and grasped his hands. He still wore his greatcoat and gloves since it was icy cold in the room. "Papa, you're acting rashly. We can cover this up. No one need ever find out. Miss Gilbert and Abbott are loyal to me. And the village men who guided you here are hardly likely to inform London society."

Her father's face looked haggard. "Helen, I spent most of my adult life hiding a secret and dreading discovery. Five years ago, I swore I would never, ever do so again. It is better face up to the consequences of one's actions than to practice deceit."

Her heart lurched. He referred to the time when the truth had come out about his bastard daughter by a courtesan. It had been both shocking and thrilling for Helen to discover that she had a half sister, Isabel. Helen knew her father regretted keeping the secret for so long. But she had not realized how deeply it had compromised his sense of honor.

"Besides," he added gravely, "you may be with child."

"No! I can't be. Alex said so."

"I said 'tis no' likely" Alex corrected. He stepped away from the hearth, where he'd been contemplating the cold ashes in the grate. "But the risk is there, and I knew it when I bedded you."

She felt crowded into a corner, without ally or weapon. Her father wished her to wed a man who despised her. To live in this drafty castle. To sacrifice her independence. Panic clutched at her throat. Was this, then, the price of winning back his love?

"Papa, I beg you, please think about this for a few more days-"

"Waiting will not change matters." His hands clasped behind his back, Hathaway regarded her with a level, disappointed stare that brought tears to her eyes. "I remember what it was like to be young, hot-blooded. But I also know there are consequences to be faced. And face them you shall."

Alex stood with his bride in the tiny kirk.

It was the same ancient house of worship where he had been baptized, the same stone altar where his parents had been wed, the same place where his father had been buried with the rest of the MacBruts. Alex seldom attended services anymore. As a boy he had lost faith when it had become too painful to watch his father praying, always praying for his wife's return.

Now Alex was taking an English wife.

Despite the chill in the air, his back prickled with sweat. He wanted to turn and run. To flee before the chains of matrimony bound him to a woman he loathed.

Helen wanted this marriage no more than he did. He would be doing them both a favor.

It is better face up to the consequences of one's actions than to practice deceit.

In his wildest imaginings, he'd never thought to find himself agreeing with an English nobleman. Yet Hathaway had challenged his honor. Now, his throat dry, Alex heard himself parroting his vows. And then Helen speaking hers in a subdued voice.

The deed was done.

She turned to him, her face uptilted for his kiss. Wariness clouded her blue eyes, and her fine pale features wore no smile. His wife. Lady Helen Jeffries was his wife now. She looked coldly beautiful with her blond hair swept up and secured with an ivory comb, her curves hidden by an ice-blue gown with a high neckline. But he knew every inch of her shapely body.

Even here, in the sanctuary of the kirk, he felt a dark, damning lust.

Deliberately he did not kiss her. He merely offered his arm as they walked back down the narrow aisle, past Helen's grim-faced father and a weeping Miss Gilbert, and the hastily assembled congregation of his people. They were avidly curious, he knew. Never in his twenty-eight years had he shown any inclination toward marriage.

The bell in the tower pealed joyously. In the chilly sunshine of the kirk yard, Alex had a moment alone with his bride before the guests trooped out. He bent close to her ear, and she smelled faintly of roses. "My people expect a wee celebration. You will behave as if you are enjoying yourself."

She lifted her chin. "And you will do the same."

Her challenge rankled him. Then it was too late for further remonstrations as the congregation filed out the doorway. Lord Hathaway kissed Helen's cheek and shook Alex's hand. "Treat her well," he said gruffly.

Alex comprehended the warning. He couldn't fault the marquess for wanting to protect his daughter. He would do the same for his own child.

If there was a child. Pray God there was not.

The villagers thronged around Helen. At first they were cautious in their greetings, but they warmed up as Helen played the gracious lady, smiling and accepting the good wishes of everyone, from auld Tarn the cobbler who pecked her cheek to wee Jessie, thumb in mouth as she stared up in awe at the bride.

Alex and Helen led the winding procession through the village, past the smithy and the bakeshop and the scattering of homes. The setting sun cast a golden light over the verdant valley with mountains rising all around and cattle grazing near a loch that glistened a deep blue in the distance. Melting snow had muddied the path, and he waited for Helen to complain. But she lifted her hem above the muck and showed a bright-eyed interest in the whitewashed stone crofts with smoke drifting lazily from chimneys. The scent of smoldering peat perfumed the brisk air.

"Are we all going back up to the castle?" she asked.

"Nay." He relished her puzzlement and wished he could prolong it. She surely must be wondering which of these humble dwellings could hold so many wedding guests. He wanted to punish her by letting her think the worst-yet he had a perverse need to prove his worth to her as well.

At the other end of the village, they rounded a bend in the path and came upon a stone fence surrounding a rambling estate. Oaks in autumn glory shaded the overgrown garden. Shooing her through the opened gate, Alex watched in cynical expectation as she spied the grand stone mansion that perched atop a low hill. It might have been an English country house, complete with mullioned windows across the front and a score of chimneys rising from the slate roof.

She looked at him quizzically as he escorted her up the wide front steps. He fought the maddening urge to haul her inside to a private corner and consummate their ill-favored union. "Come awa' in," he said. "You'll want to assess the silver and see if 'tis fancy enough to suit you."

"To suit me?"

"Aye." He pulled open the heavy oak door. "Make yourself to home."

Her steps faltered on the threshold. Her chin shot up and she regarded him in accusing surprise. "You live here. Not in that tumbledown castle."

"My father built this pile to please my lady mother. But she couldna even wait for it to be finished." Conscious of the parade coming up the walk, Alex spoke for her ears alone. "How long will you last, I wonder?"