Leslie LaFoy (7 page)

“I'm to conduct myself as a proper lady at all times,” she said evenly, her gaze locked with his. “That much has been made abundantly clear. What might I expect of you, Mr. Rivard?”

Devon gave her a half-smile. “That I'll conduct myself as a gentleman.”

Her brow arched slightly as she clasped her hands demurely before her. “Am I permitted to observe that your role in this farce grants you a latitude of conduct far greater than mine?”

“You may indeed,” he answered, deciding that he could bear being married to Claire Curran if she were to maintain the temperament she now displayed. If such were the case, he could afford to meet her halfway. “I assure you that I'll take reasonable care to be discreet.”

She nodded and stared down at the floor at her feet. After a moment she softly said, “How civilized of you.”

“Very.”

Her gaze came up ever so slowly to meet his. Her eyes were beautiful … sparkling sapphires and diamonds … and he heard himself seize a deep breath at the sight. Only as the smile curved her lips did Devon realize that until that instant he hadn't seen Claire Curran truly angry.

ROM THE INSTANT
he'd filled the doorway of Edmund Cantrell's office, Claire had known that Devon Rivard possessed an uncommon strength, a force of will wholly unlike that of other men. She was wrapped in it as she stood beside him, feeling tiny and frail and consumed by a sense of mortal dread that seemed to have taken up permanent residence deep in her soul. For the first time in her life she half doubted her ability to overcome an obstacle thrown across her path. The possibility oddly both chilled her to the center of her bones and warmed her blood.

Claire tried to still the trembling of her hands by focusing her attention on the others around her. Edmund Cantrell stood on her left, still holding the documents she and Devon Rivard had authored and signed before the ceremony had begun. On Devon's right stood his brother, Wyndom, shifting restlessly and casting sidelong glances at her. He wasn't anything at all like Devon. Short and slight and blond and exceedingly
nervous. He reminded her of some of the tiny, exotic birds she'd seen during the dozen or so trips she'd made to the Caribbean for her uncle.

The vicar was a portly, almost bald older man whose eyes clouded with pity whenever he happened to glance her way. Which thankfully wasn't very often. Pity only made the dread harder and colder and ever so much more paralyzing. She should have run when she'd had the chance in the tavern courtyard. Or bolted out the door of the parsonage in that moment when Devon Rivard had released his hold on her arm so that he could sign Cantrell's papers. But she hadn't. She'd foolishly stood her ground every time, for the sake of dignity. Not that dignity had done anything to help her escape or even delay her fate. Had she had her wits about her, she'd have demanded the moon and stars in exchange for her participation in this farce. Instead she'd settled for the hope of getting Crossbridge back. She was a mouse. A pathetic, timid, quivering little mouse.

“Mistress Curran?”

She started, instantly noting the quick, nervous glance the vicar cast at the man standing beside her.

Rivard didn't so much as turn to look at her as he quietly commanded, “Say ‘I do.’ ”

Oh, how she wanted to say “I don't. I won't ever.” How desperately she wanted to pick up her skirts, turn, and haughtily walk way. Only she had nowhere to go and no way to get there. And Hell's Hound would only come after her and drag her back.

“I do,” she said, grateful that at least the words hadn't come out in a mousy squeak. The vicar swallowed hard and gave her another pitying look.

“Go on, sir,” Devon Rivard said, his tone every bit as imposing as his physical presence.

Closing his book with an audible sigh of relief, the vicar said, “I now pronounce you man and wife. What
God has joined together, let no man put asunder.” He smiled weakly and glanced back and forth between them before venturing, “You may now kiss your bride, Mr. Rivard.”

Claire knew the instant he turned toward her that he intended to do just that. His knowing smile, the slant of his brows, and the hard glint in his eyes told her he meant to use the opportunity to punish her. Let him do his worst, she challenged inwardly. She wouldn't cringe in maidenly horror and make a fool of herself. If he wanted the clergyman, Edmund Cantrell, and his brother to see him behave like a beast, far be it for her to attempt to salvage his honor. She was busy enough trying to preserve her own. She let him slip his arms about her shoulders and waist without struggling; lifted her face and closed her eyes, determined to endure his assault without so much as a whimper.

He pulled her against the length of his body, not roughly as she had expected, but with a gentle persistence that caught her off guard and instantly sent her heart racing. Pressing his lips to hers, he slowly, thoughtfully caressed her mouth, his tongue reverently tracing the fullness of her lips. In a skittering heartbeat, he shattered her calm and sent a liquid heat singing through her veins. Of their own accord, her hands came up to lie against the broad, hard, muscled planes of his chest. His heartbeat strummed against her palms in welcome and set her own pulse dancing.

Slowly his arms tightened around her and his kiss deepened, devouring her softness. His mouth demanded a response and she instantly, willingly surrendered. She pressed her open lips to his, blood pounding in her brain and her knees trembling.

A tiny cry of regret escaped her lips when he drew away and set her from him. Mortified at her eager acceptance of his kiss, she bit her lower lip and stared at
the floor. She would have preferred death to the ache that now battered her body and soul. Lord, what he must think of her.

“We'll have to do that again,” he whispered in her ear as he took her elbow and turned her toward the door. “There's no telling where it might lead us.”

“You… you…” she sputtered, choking on a curious mixture of elation and fear. She swallowed, focusing on the entry hall and willing her courage to the fore. “You promised I'd leave this marriage untouched,” she finally managed to say.

“I did, didn't I?”

Clear notes of amusement rang in his admission, and she inwardly groaned. “Indeed you did,” she answered, her voice remarkably even.

“Ah, my dear Madam Rivard,” he said, his tone easy and laughing. “I do believe that you're going to have to make some adaptations.”

“You have no honor,” she retorted, trying to wrench her arm from his grasp.

His eyes darkened and he tightened his grip. “I'm a man in debt up to his chin. What honor I ever possessed, dear wife, I mortgaged long ago.”

T
HE WIND WAS HOWLING
out of the north, the skies leaden gray and dropping lower with each passing second. Devon scowled up at them, thinking that they matched his mood perfectly. And then, as though God had decided that he was entirely too optimistic, the first hard spittle of snow blew in from the west.

Swearing under his breath, Devon drew his unwanted wife to a halt on the front steps of the vicarage and surveyed his options. The carriage sat in the road on the other side of the stone fence, the driver hunched into his cape and standing beside the door, waiting. Two horses—his own and Wyndom's—were tethered to the
rear of the vehicle, stamping their hooves and sending up great clouds with every breath. Part of him wanted to get away from the woman at his side, to put as much time and distance between them as possible. Another part of him argued that the sooner they reached a full understanding of his expectations, the better.

“Beastly weather, isn't it?” Wyndom asked as he and Edmund Cantrell came to stand on the steps with them. “I loathe these spring snowstorms. The best that can be said for them is that the thaw comes quickly and melts it all away. I sincerely hope the driver thought to heat some bricks for our feet.”

“You'll be taking your mount back to Rosewind,” Devon declared, his decision made.

“You can't be serious. I'll freeze to death.”

“Considering your role in today's disaster, it would be a just fate.”

“Maybe I'll stay in town this evening.”

“Maybe you won't.”

“Maybe,” Edmund snapped, “the two of you might continue your petty conflict after the lady has been seen out of the elements.”

Before Devon could do any more than glare at the man, Edmund stepped to Claire's other side and presented his arm. She took it, leaving Devon with no other gentlemanly recourse but to let her go. He stood there, hearing the whistle of the wind but only vaguely aware of its bite. He was, however, keenly aware that wild boars had better manners than he'd displayed in the last ten minutes. He hadn't just kissed Claire Curran at the conclusion of their vows, he'd practically consumed her in front of God and everyone else. And then, angry with himself for his lack of control, he'd manhandled her out the door to let her stand in the raw wind while he bickered with his brother.

She might well be only a half step up from a guttersnipe, but she also seemed to be a hapless victim caught
in the web of her uncle's scheming and his own desperation. Until proven otherwise, she deserved to be treated with basic kindness. And it rankled that Edmund had recognized and acted on that fact before he had. The smile she gave the lawyer as he handed her into the carriage rankled even more.

“You'll ride your horse and be home in time for dinner tonight,” Devon declared, leaving his brother on the steps and striding forward.

Wyndom was still whining in protest as Edmund blocked Devon's way through the gate. “It's not her fault that her uncle's a blackguard and your brother has cotton for brains.”

“Agreed and point taken,” Devon admitted. “I intend to apologize for my lack of manners.”

“Good,” Edmund countered, making no effort to move away. “Although I wouldn't blame her if she refused to accept it. You've behaved like a complete ass today.”

“I don't like being blackmailed.” He didn't like being scolded, either.

“I'd venture to say that Mistress Curran isn't at all happy about being given away like an old shoe. She is, however, enduring the unpleasant situation with far more grace than you've managed to exhibit.”

Edmund would be singing a decidedly different tune if he knew about the woman's masquerade in the tavern. Devon smiled tightly and held his peace. “I said that I'd apologize. Now kindly get out of my way so that I can get on with it.”

After a moment's hesitation, Edmund stepped aside, saying as Devon walked past, “I'll be out to Rosewind to check on her welfare as soon as the weather clears.”

“Bring your own brandy,” Devon called without looking back. As the coachman snapped open the carriage door for him, he said, “The younger Mr. Rivard will be riding the sorrel. Please see that it's left for him.”

The man nodded and closed the door, instantly plunging Devon into a dark world without the slightest evidence of heated bricks. He lowered himself into the rear-facing seat and reached over to lift the window curtain. Light, meager and gray, spilled in on a wave of cold air and allowed him to see the woman on the opposite seat. She sat primly, her gloved hands folded in her lap, her gaze meeting his squarely. Even in the dim light, he could see the spark of anger in her dark eyes.