The Care and Feeding of Your Captive Earl (What Happens In Scotland Book 3) (5 page)

Shaking her head, she banished that thought. It wouldn’t do to look at Matthias in that way—the way
other
ladies of their acquaintance looked at him. It never seemed to end well for the ladies.

“I have more dusting to tend to. So I will just...” She gestured awkwardly. “…be going.”

In truth, she didn’t plan on dusting another day in her life, but she needed a reason to leave. A minute or two longer, and she might have allowed her curiosity to get the better of her.

CHAPTER FOUR

Matthias leaned back against the pillow with an irritated sigh.

He was going to kill her.

Gwendolyn was more trouble than any other woman of his—admittedly broad— acquaintance. She was handsome, to be sure, in an ethereal, otherworldly sort of way. Her blond curls and vibrant green eyes were the envy of London and he knew of several gentlemen who had shown an interest. He’d taken it upon himself to put them on their guard.

She might look sweet, but he knew all women to be selfish, manipulative creatures. His mother had taught him that hard lesson. Looking to a woman for true affection was like asking a fish to fly. There was no sense hoping for the impossible—so he didn’t.

He turned his attention back to the rope coiled around his wrists. Where the devil had she learned to tie such a secure knot? In his experience, knot tying was not among a lady’s arsenal of accomplishments.

Twisting awkwardly, he attempted—for the hundredth time—to untie the knots that secured his wrists. The ropes cut into his skin painfully, but with just a fraction of an inch more, he’d be able to reach the knots.

Hours ticked by and the sun slowly began to set outside his window. Gwen had come in again with yet another pie for dinner, this one cold as well. He said nothing as she shoveled it into his mouth, allowing him to wash it down with ale.

The moment she left, he set himself once again to the task of escaping.

* * *

Gwen had given Matthias the only bedroom, which meant she would be required to find alternate sleeping arrangements for herself. The settee in the living area seemed the most hospitable choice—though slightly stiff-looking. She found blankets folded neatly in a cabinet, dusted the settee off, and set about constructing a nest for herself, balling one blanket up into a pillow, while leaving the other to drape over herself.

Undressing was a theatrical endeavor. Laces ran up the back of her bodice, and it took some very painful contortions before she was finally able to unlace herself. Her stays were farther up her back, and thus even more difficult to manage. But she
did
manage to unlace them—eventually—until all she wore was her chemise.

By the time she brushed out her hair and stretched out on the rock-hard settee, it was well past nightfall. She hadn’t any idea what time it was, as it appeared the previous occupants didn’t believe in timepieces. There wasn’t one to be found in the entire house.

She lay awake, staring up at the whitewashed ceiling. In London, nightfall was when life truly began—balls, dinner parties, masquerades. London came alive at night. It was rare, indeed, for her to be settling into bed at this hour—whatever that hour was. There were some nights she was just going to bed as the sun crept over the horizon.

With a deep breath, she settled back against her crude pillow of balled-up blankets, covered herself up and closed her eyes. She shifted once. Twice. But it was no use. The settee was obscenely uncomfortable. Her legs, for one, were several inches too long, and spilled over the armrest. She had to tuck the blankets beneath her legs to pad them, lest they go numb. And the settee was so narrow that any movement would surely deposit her on the floor.

Aside from her makeshift cot, being in new surroundings didn’t help either. She only ever slept well in her own bed. The familiar sounds of the house settling, the clopping of hooves on the cobbles outside her window…It all intermingled to create a soothing, chaotic sort of rhythm that never failed to lull her to sleep. Here…There was only silence.

Attempting to relax, she focused on her breathing. Slowly, she drew in a breath, and then released it. She drew in another breath…

A
thump
sounded upstairs. Not a loud thump, mind, but a soft, almost imperceptible sound. If the house weren’t so deadly quiet, she might never have heard it.

She lay there for a moment, wondering if she should get up. Matthias could be attempting to escape again. Indeed, that was
precisely
what he was doing—she was sure of it. Matthias was nothing if not persistent. And determined. In the end, she decided she had best not risk it.

With a heavy sigh, she tossed the blanket aside and rose to her feet.

She shivered, hugging herself against the chill.
“Heavens.”

Groping blindly, she trembled in the dark as she made her way up the staircase and down the pitch-black corridor. Approaching the room, she held her breath and listened. All was quiet, as it should be.

Inside the bedroom, Matthias was on the bed, his head turned toward her. One of the windows at the far end of the room was uncovered, allowing silvery moonlight to stream in.

“Come to torment me, have you?”

He looked disheveled—unshaven, his hair mussed—and a shiver of awareness coursed through her body. It didn’t escape her notice that in his current state, he looked…positively feral.
Enticingly
feral.

Heat rushed through her body and she swallowed—her mouth suddenly parched. She pulled her gaze away and cleared her throat. “I thought I heard something and I came to check on you.”

“How very kind of you,” he intoned dryly. “Your concern is heartening.”

Stepping forward, she inspected his restraints. His escape attempts had caused the rope to pull dangerously tight, cutting into his wrists, causing them to bleed.

“Look what you’ve done. You’ve injured yourself.” With a sympathetic
tsk
, she tugged on the knots and loosened them a degree, then wetted a rag in the water basin and smoothed it over his raw skin. He hissed in pain and her heart gave a twinge, but she tried to ignore it. Like it or not, his wounds needed to be bandaged, lest they became infected.

His body was close, and when she looked down, he was staring at her breasts—his eyes roving over her hungrily.

“What I wouldn’t give to have you tied to this bed and not me.”

Yes, that would be…

She licked her lips, her nipples tightening. It must be from the cold. Though her body felt flush, the room was glacial. She could practically see her own breath.

Glancing at the fireplace, she contemplated starting a fire. But it was too late at night to fumble around with all that—she hadn’t the faintest idea how to build a fire and she’d rather not learn now, under his watchful and critical eye.

Instead, she walked around to the other side of the bed and climbed beneath the covers. Sleeping in bed with Matthias was deplorably improper, but she clearly needed to keep an eye on him. And it was better than sleeping on the stiff, ridiculously narrow settee.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

She stole one of the pillows from beneath his head. “What does it look like? I’m going to sleep.”

He stiffened. “You cannot sleep in this bed.”

She smiled tightly. “Funny, that is precisely what I will be doing.”

He pushed out a heavy breath. “Damn it, Gwen. Think of your reputation.”

She flipped onto her side and glared at him. “Yes, the invisible housemaid will surely spread gossip. Besides, the settee is uncomfortable.”

He cursed under his breath. “Untie me and I will sleep on the floor.”

“Um…” She pretended to give it some thought. “No. I’m not foolish enough to fall for that. Excellent try, though. I commend your persistence.”

“I will make you pay for this, Gwen,” he threatened. “Shortly, you will be
my
captive and I will not be so kind.”

Adjusting the pillow beneath her head, she closed her eyes—attempting to ignore the heat radiating off his body. She wanted desperately to curl up against his warm body and settle into sleep.

Even tied up, he was powerful, imposing—like a chained leopard. But she couldn’t think like that. This was Matthias. She knew far too much about his exploits to turn a blind eye.

She heard him expel a puff of breath and settle back against the pillows.

“Why are you doing this, Gwen?”

“I already gave you my reasoning,” she said groggily.

“You would risk everything for what; to help Evelyn to her own ruin?”

What could he possibly know about the commitment one made to another person—regardless of the personal consequences? If the stories were to be believed, he could not even commit to
one
mistress. His behavior was deplorable.

“
Loyalty,
Matthias. I did it for loyalty. Something a man like you would know nothing about.”

And with that, she allowed sleep to embrace her.

CHAPTER FIVE

It was torment. Tied up, lying next to Gwen—unable to touch her. Anguish.

Matthias was lying on his back, staring up at the cracked ceiling—trying to keep his body as still as possible. Gwen had fallen asleep hours ago, and every shift of her curvaceous body, every soft moan, caused his muscles to tense—until he was wound excruciatingly tight.

Despite his own good judgment, he wondered what her lips would taste like. He vaguely remembered pressing his lips to hers before he’d passed out in the carriage and feeling a rush of white-hot desire spread through his body—but was that hazy memory merely a dream, or had it been real?

Gwen had always fascinated him. She had a quality about her that was intriguing, almost bewitching—with her wide, innocent eyes and pink, expressive lips.

But ladies like Gwen weren’t fit for tupping and then leaving. They weren’t interested in casual affairs. Women like Gwen were wives, mothers—the type of women who lured men with their charm and accomplishments, ensnared them with marriage, and then became cold and distant.

That’s what marriage was. His parents had been in love once. When he was a child, is nurse had regaled him with the stories of their romance. His mother had been the most beautiful debutante of the season, and his father had been infatuated with her. But after marriage, their ardor quickly melted into resentment. His father could be a cruel man, and his mother was selfish. Qualities that were volatile when combined.

For that reason, Matthias had vowed to himself long ago that he would not become ensnared—not for a good long while, at least. Eventually, perhaps, to continue the family name and all that rubbish. But that was years away.
Decades.

Now, during his prime, all he desired was a good fuck and a stiff whiskey. In his world, happiness was simple. Uncomplicated. And it did
not
involve a troublesome wife, who would only come to despise him in the end.

But with Gwen lying next to him, in only her shift, he felt his hard-won determination begin to waver. The heat of her body, the promise of her soft, lush curves...

Christ.

He attempted to angle himself away from her, but the bed was so small, there was no escaping the temptation of her body.

How had he gotten into this tangled, muddled predicament?

Right now, in London, he would be at White’s, languidly nursing a snifter of brandy while slaughtering Lord White at a game of whist. Later, on his way home, before the sun crept up over High Street, he would stop at Katherine’s townhouse to avail himself of his mistress’s charms.

It was a good life, and one he had no desire to alter.

But now it appeared that would happen with or without his consent. He was now the Earl of Hastings.

The very idea of being addressed as such filled him with dread. Most notably, when the news got out, every unattached female within a twenty-mile radius would hunt him down like an injured fox.

Christ.

With a soft moan, Gwen shifted toward him, pressing her lush curves against his side. If he moved away, he would end up on the floor—and he wasn’t entirely sure his restraints would extend that far. They were pulled taut as it was, rubbing his flesh raw with the tension.

So he just lay there with her plump, rounded breasts nestled against him. And despite the cold room, his body was on fire. His cock strained against his breeches painfully, hungry for the heat of her body. All the desire he’d successfully repressed since he’d known her was now coming to the fore. Without the ever-present eye of society watching their every move, resisting her would be damn near impossible.

Closing his eyes, he forced himself to ignore her warm, pliant body.

The pox. Cats. Whitfield’s breath after eating sardines.

He groaned. This was not helping.

An image kept circling in his mind. Gwen. Tied up. Vulnerable. Pleading. Her naked breasts exposed, begging to be devoured. He would go slowly, tasting every inch of her. Every hill and valley. Every enticing peak. And then he would fuck her so thoroughly, she’d be too exhausted to talk, let alone argue.

She shifted again, and he nearly groaned aloud. His cock twitched.

If he had a rock, and he weren’t tied up like a hog, he’d hit himself over the head with it—anything to save himself from this misery.

For a brief second, he considered yielding to the clawing hunger burning inside him. He was a rogue, a dissolute rake. It was no secret, so why should he protect her from his ravenous appetite? She had kidnapped him, had she not? She had ruined her own reputation. Willingly.

I did it for loyalty.

What in the devil did that mean?

He shook his head. Her motive was of little consequence now. There was no returning to their life before Scotland. If they had returned to London in two or three days’ time, as he’d planned, they could have concocted some sort of believable fabrication. But with them gone a week, possibly longer, it would look questionable. There were too many witnesses, too many unknown variables. Indeed, at this moment, as they lay here, rumors were already spreading about Town. He was certain of it. The gossips of London were nothing if not observant…and vicious.