The Rusticated Duchess (35 page)

It was a gesture of trust and hunger that Clare was unable to resist. He withdrew and thrust hard, struggling to resist the animal urge he had to rut uncontrollably in her.
Hard
, he reminded himself, watching eager passion and dazed delight flood her.
Hard and heavy
, he reminded himself.

He settled to such a rhythm. The slow, rocking thrust, twist and retreat drove her into uncontrolled lust. She moaned, urging, “Faster, please God, faster,” she finally begged, and Clare heard his own voice rumble as he chuckled.

“Not God. Jeremy. Please, Jeremy,” he growled, his lips feathering her eyebrows before he increased the pace and force of his thrusts.

To his surprise, she tightened about him at the teasing words, then convulsed.

Clare felt the pulse of release trigger up his spine and jerked out of her, unable to do more than shove his cock into the bedding below her bottom and spill himself mere inches from her shuddering vulva.

Her eyes met his. In the dark room, they were open and focused on him. What did she see? A man with so little self-control that he’d not taken even a few precious moments to worship her skin before fucking her, or a man so desperate to possess her that he couldn’t bear to wait even a moment longer than necessary?

“Bloody hell, you drive me wild,” he murmured, bending his head and kissing her collarbone as he slid one hand into her hair. He gripped her scalp and kissed upward under her chin, then plunged intensely inside her mouth and spent long minutes re-learning every flavour in every crevice of her mouth.

When he lifted his head, she was having trouble opening her eyes. He watched her try, watched the lids fall heavily again. “Make me want to sleep,” she mumbled.

Clare smiled. He would never leave her to sleep in the wet sheets beneath her.

They would marry in the morning.

He slid off the bed, lifted her into his arms, blew out the candle, and carried her into his chamber, already rejoicing.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Gloria’s voice shook as she said the ancient vows that bound her to Clare. To Jeremy.

He was more than a lord, more than a ruler of men and lands. He was a man, and a compassionate, generous man. It was, she assured herself, one of the many ways he was not like March.

The nerves were a product of their location. Our Lady Kirk was an ancient chapel that had been built by ancient kings, hosted queens and remained a historic meeting place for those times when the Scots and the English negotiated. The aged stones arched above her head and red beams of light from the glazed windows of cut, coloured glass spilt across the bare stone floors.

The space was a sacred place, if not for the Creator, then for the legends that lived in the stones themselves and in the hallowed ground of the graveyard outside.

Clare’s voice was low but steady as he spoke. Jenson had given her to him, carrying Eynon on his opposite shoulder. Lauderdale and Arwyn stood with them as witnesses.

Beside her, Clare’s eyes drifted down away from hers, as if memorising every line and curve. He’d first seen her, already wrapped in her tiresome black pelisse, in the forecourt that morning. She hadn’t removed the wrappings until the carriages had crossed the Tweed and passed Captain Hammond’s border guards, then turned and curved along a road past the wide stone pavement and the gatehouse of Ladykirk House before they again reached open fields. Our Lady Kirk sat on the hill overlooking the river, and Clare had led her through the lych-gate and past the gravestones into the small narthex of the kirk.

Then she had removed her cloak in the shadows, and his breath had caught in his lungs and he’d stared at her, speechless.

He’d never seen her garbed in any colour but black. But this gown was muted blue-green turquoise and silver. Fit perfectly to her figure, it was the sort of silk a young matron of her age and standing ought to wear, if not precisely a traditional wedding gown.

Lauderdale’s eyes had widened and he’d smiled at her, and fastened a bracelet of diamonds and pearls around her wrist. “Something new,” he’d said, and kissed her cheek.

Arwyn had taken her hand next, bowed over her, and had said that he was happy to have her in the family. He’d then handed her a slim but ancient copy of Psalms from the Lauderdale library, with a white rose stitched on its cover and one pressed between the pages with its fragrant bloom displayed. “Something old,” he’d said, and looked as if he would say more, but Clare had glowered at both his father and son and led her away. Gloria smiled at him and patted his arm but he’d made a disapproving noise under his breath and led her to Jenson.

Gruffly, Clare had told her to stay there until Jenson led her in, and returned to his father and son. Jenson had drawn two silver, engraved cufflinks from his pocket and pressed them into the crown of her hair, wound in braided circles on the top of her head. She’d caught a glimpse of a crest on one and her entire body had shaken. “Something borrowed,” Jenson had murmured.

They hadn’t waited any longer than the time it had taken Lauderdale, Clare and Arwyn to walk down the centre aisle to the front of the altar. Jenson had leaned over and whispered in her ear, Eynon on his opposite side, “And your son says your dress is blue. That’s good luck to you.”

Gloria choked back a moment of tears. These men—Clare included—had taken the time to make a wedding that was supposed to be a matter of necessity something memorable to her. She would need to thank them for it.

Now, though, Clare’s eyes were fixed on her, and Gloria realised she’d missed several minutes of the cleric’s monotone prayer while her mind had wandered.

At last, the cleric bowed to Lauderdale and Clare, murmured a few more indecipherable words, took his fee in sovereign gold coin packaged in an elegant ivory satin case, and made note that Gloria’s family was represented by the presence of her son and her half-brother. They signed the parish record, and he droned on about the Lauderdales’ stability and the continuity of family, and then he prayed that their union would be blessed by children.

Gloria’s eyes flew to Clare, but his face was closed and uninformative. Whatever he thought of her refusal to bear his children, he was holding firm in his stance that it was her decision.

It seemed they had already been married for months before the blessing ended and they were presented to the small company of males who accompanied them.

How had Gloria gone from a family in which she was surrounded by women, to this one? From tiny Eynon to paternalistic Lauderdale, these men were now her family.

The thought terrified her for a moment, but Clare’s arm held hers securely as she calmed herself. He tipped his head towards her and kissed her softly, sweetly, and Gloria’s hands drifted up to clutch his shoulders.

The gloves were black.

Gloria stared at them in distaste as their mouths parted, then sneaked a peek at the ring on her left hand as Clare helped her with her pelisse. The entire wedding was a blurry haze, and if it wasn’t for the pearl and diamond ring twinkling on her finger that Lauderdale had brought from London, Gloria might have been tempted to label it all a dream.

But she was married. Again.

Perfectly calm and collected, her face stiff in its impassive public mien, she permitted Clare to help her into the carriage. 

Clare had brought extra men, of course. He’d had them organised and armed. The six of them would have fit in a single carriage, but with the extra footman on top and two on the back, Clare had deemed it reasonable to bring a second carriage. It, too, had an extra three men, all armed, as well as Jenson, Eynon, Lauderdale and Arwyn all inside.

The carriages pulled forwards, with Clare and Gloria’s following. Beside her, silent, Clare wrapped an arm around her, and Gloria tugged off her gloves, ostensibly to slip the ring beneath the glove and onto her bare skin, but mostly because her dislike of the mournful black was beginning to grate on her.

Her first decision as mistress of Norham Castle would be to hire a seamstress and send Astrid and Mrs Sinclair to Edinburgh for proper gloves and other fabrics and accessories. It simply couldn’t wait.

Three raps on the carriage ceiling denoted the first signs of trouble. They’d just passed the gates of Ladykirk House and were approaching the intersection ahead where they would make a sharp left and descend to the river, so Clare stood and threw up the hatch that opened to the high seat.

“Riders comin’ down hard from Swinton,” the driver called down to them. “I think His Grace’s carriage is far enough ahead to block them, he’s going to try.”

Gloria’s heart seized. Eynon and Jenson were both in that carriage; what would happen when their pursuers overtook the carriage only to find Gloria was not within?

Clare’s hand settled on her scalp, through her hair. She knew it was meant to comfort her as she twisted in agitation. “Pray that will delay them long enough for us to make the turn. We’ll have the rifles ready though,” he stated.

To her surprise, Clare left the trap open above his head and bustled her across to the opposite side, then unfastened the backward-facing seat. He drew out two long rifles and replaced the upholstered bench, standing on it and dragging the guns up. She watched as he positioned himself, then had to grab onto the door handle and hold tight as the carriage made a rocking motion and listed to the side as it turned.

The driver slowed, but now he flew down towards the bridge, screeching to a stop in the border area. Her face paled as the guards ordered a halt and she listened as Clare told of the bandits cornering their second carriage and now chasing them.

“Take her ladyship into the guardhouse,” she heard Wickers order, then Clare was tugging on her, tumbling out onto the stone pavement. Almost unconsciously, Gloria’s hand went deep inside her pelisse, and there was the little pistol, where she had last carried it.

Captain Hammond shouted orders and soldiers scrambled about, even as Clare dragged Gloria across the stones and inside a low brick building.

It was obviously nothing more than an office and holding area, but Gloria ran to the window as Clare checked a long-barrelled pistol that had mysteriously appeared in his hands.

Six horses came barrelling down the road. The riders pulled hard at the shouted orders to halt, but they had not expected resistance—or perhaps had not known where they were headed. High-pitched screams from the steeds followed, and the redcoats were simply pushed down or aside.

Gloria gasped. “Troutwell,” she moaned, and Clare clasped his arm about her and held her close. “And Winchester.”

Sykes had already jumped from his horse and checked the carriage. Looking about wildly, he drew the obvious conclusion, running towards them as the ranks of redcoats tried to form and close in the others. Gloria could see Winchester and Troutwell screaming at Captain Hammond, but Lieutenant Wickers was shoved to the side by Colchester, landing on the stone so hard that he actually bounced.

Clare threw her behind him and stared down Sykes when that cretin rushed the door. He sneered at Clare’s level pistol, and pointed his own at them both with a wicked gleam in his eye.

“Here! I’ve found the blighter!” he yelled, and even as he did, Winchester appeared in the doorway, his hand on Captain Hammond’s shoulder.

The captain appeared a bit worse for wear, but Clare glared at him significantly.

“Did you marry the girl yet?” the captain asked Clare, wiping his forehead. “This earl says he’s out to stop a runaway marriage, you know. Didn’t think you’d be one to kidnap and force a girl, m’lord, but it does explain why the lass doesn’t have a chaperone.”

“Don’t be a fool, Hammond,” Clare raged. “Make these poor fools put down the pistols before you start thinking.”

Hammond hmphed, but Winchester nodded to his henchman and Gloria breathed a sigh of relief when Sykes’ pistol was again tucked into a holster. Clearly the earl believed Hammond would be convincing, especially when Clare lowered his gun, still trapping Gloria behind him in the corner of the room. Winchester smirked at the couple, and Gloria glared back at him with distaste and distrust.

“Now then, my girl, there’s no reason to be afraid. I’ll just take you home—”

“What home?” Gloria said. “The one my brother-in-law foreclosed the mortgages on and evicted you from? Or do you mean that rogue Troutwell’s home, where whatever standing I had as a daughter-in-law to His Grace of Lennox would be erased and I would be considered an exile from society? How much of the dowry Lennox funded would it take to pay off your gambling debts? After the lawyers get their share, of course.”

“Gloria.” Winchester frowned at her condescendingly, even as Captain Hammond’s eyes narrowed in consideration. “Such disrespect is unwarranted. You clearly need a strong hand to guide you—”

“If you mean Troutwell, I’d throw myself down the bloody stairs first,” she threw at him acidly, grasping Clare’s coat and holding on tight with one hand. She gripped the pistol in her pocket with the other.

She would never be Winchester’s captive again, no matter what the cost.

“I can arrange that,” Troutwell pronounced, a sneer on his face, as he entered the room. “What, haven’t you taken your own daughter into custody yet, Winchester? Your lack of initiative is what got you into this mess—”

“He has no right to take me,” Gloria spat out, her eyes suddenly meeting Hammond’s. She realised—as Clare must as well—that they were outnumbered unless more soldiers pushed through the doorway. Shouts and clamour outside meant that the few soldiers on duty were still trying to subdue the remaining members of Winchester’s party. Gloria had to convince Hammond of her standing if they were even to have a chance. “I am Clare’s wife, legally wed in Our Lady Kirk, with the marriage recorded there in the parish register and with the blessing of the Bishop of Carlisle. We’re just returning to Norham.”

Hammond glanced at Clare’s face, and apparently saw all he needed to confirm. Troutwell growled, and Winchester’s face lit with fury.

Gloria had never seen such a look on the earl’s face, and her stomach heaved in horror. Instinctively her hand slipped from the pocket and she withdrew the pistol, levelling it over Clare’s shoulder directly at Winchester. “You whore!” he burst out, rushing them in a furious blur of motion.