Marjorie Farrell (25 page)

Had Gareth opened his eyes, had he touched her with just the tip of his finger, she would have been his in an instant. But though he moved once, it was only to roll over onto his back. This was far worse, for now she wanted to run her hand down his body, and she remembered how the sheets had lifted with the force of his desire, and she blushed at her own shamelessness.

At that moment, Gareth, who had been breathing through his mouth, began a gentle snoring. Arden had to bury her face in her pillow to stifle her laughter, which, she thanked God, broke the spell that her own desire had cast on her. She slipped out of bed, hoping to be dressed and away before Gareth awoke, and felt her foot land on what felt like a furry snake at the same moment Mott let out an indignant screech.

Gareth was awake in an instant, the sudden noise arousing his soldier’s instincts. He was ready to grab his pistol when he realized where he was, and began to curse the bloody cat without even begging Arden’s pardon for the profanity.

Gareth had never paraded himself, and had acted the Captain Rudesby role she had assigned him, but in that moment she saw the officer her father had so admired.

“I stepped on his tail,” Arden confessed. “I am sorry he woke you.”

“What is he doing in here?” grumbled Gareth. “When my mother is here, they are usually inseparable.”

“Maybe he expected her to be sleeping in her own bed. And you did close the door last night.”

“I suppose you are right. Where the hell is he now?”

“Under the bed, I think. Let me get him,” said Arden. She got down on her hands and knees and lifted the bedcovers to peer under. There was Mott, way back in the opposite corner. She chirped at him and scratched her fingers on the floor to no avail. His golden eyes glared at her, and it was clear he intended to stay right where he was.

As she backed out, her hand brushed against something on the floor. It was the small jawbone she had found on the scree, which must have fallen out of her riding habit weeks ago. As her hands closed over it, another wave of fear swept over her, and she realized that here she was, on her hands and knees again, and just as scared, although now she was on level ground. Because here she was, where Gareth had said she would have to be before he would consider making her a real wife.

She started to laugh at the thought that it was the pesky Mott who had brought her there, and then the laughter turned to tears, for she did not know if she had the courage to remain there and find the right words to win her husband.

She realized that Gareth was standing next to her, leaning over to ask if she was all right.

“Arden, you didn’t bang your head, did you?” Her shoulders were shaking and her hair covered her face. “Are you laughing or crying?” he asked, beginning to get down on his knees next to her.

“Don’t,” she said, as she realized what he was doing. “Don’t.”

He straightened up, puzzled by her tone and afraid she didn’t want him near her.

Arden pushed her hair back and turned to face her husband. He saw the tears and was about to reach down when she stopped him with a motion of her hand.

“Gareth,” she started, looking up at him and smiling to herself at the sight of him in his night clothes. She caught her breath on a sob, and continued, “You once said you would never force me…that the only way we could ever truly be man and wife was if I begged you on my knees.” Arden lifted her eyes and saw the look of wonder and disbelief in Gareth’s eyes. “Of course, I didn’t get down here to beg you, my lord, but now that I find myself here, I want to tell you…”

Gareth was afraid to move or speak, and so he said, slowly, his eyes burning down into hers, “You want to tell me what, Arden?”

Arden forced herself to keep looking at him. “I do beg you to make me your wife in more than name only. I love you, Gareth.”

“Do you truly mean this?”

“I think I always loved you, but I was too scared to know it. And then when I finally knew, I had been ‘Insufferable’ for so long that I couldn’t find a way to tell you. And I didn’t know whether you loved me,” she finished, so softly that Gareth had to bend down to hear her.

“From that very first moment I saw you looking down at me on the stairs,” he replied.

“I felt it then too, but I didn’t know what it was. I think I was angry, at first, that you seemed to see right into the real Arden.”

Gareth leaned down until his mouth was too close to hers to resist. He teased gently at her lips, and when she began to respond to him, kissed her harder. Arden’s arms went around his neck and her hands found his hair.

“I love the way your hair feels,” she said, when they had broken apart for a few minutes.

“Don’t let go,” Gareth whispered, as he lifted her up on the bed. “I am not going to give you a chance to change your mind,” he said, and climbing next to her, pulled her to him. Arden could feel him growing hard against her and felt her very bones soften. Gareth slipped her night rail off and then his own nightshirt. His body was solid and well-muscled, and the feel of it against her skin made Arden feel small and soft for the first time in her life, and not afraid to be so.

For one moment she lay there, willing Gareth to take her, right then, and in another moment she felt a great hunger. Having reveled in his tracing of her soft contours, she rolled over and knelt above him, her hair tickling and tantalizing him, her lips nibbling at his, her hands exploring every inch of him. This was what her strength was for: not to wound a man but to love him. To give to him and then to roll back and let him give to her, until finally, Arden didn’t know who was giving and who was receiving pleasure. And when Gareth took her, ever so gently, trying his best not to hurt her, she knew she had been right to be afraid all along, right to use her tongue only as a weapon, right to keep others away. For what if she had given herself away to just anyone? It was only with Gareth she could afford to lose herself, for only with him had she found herself.

* * * *

They made love more than once that morning, and after the first time, Arden felt as if she and Gareth were floating on a river of desire. When Gareth pulled her close and she felt him growing hard against her, she whispered against his chest, “Surely not again, my lord?”

“I fear that I have hungered for you so long that now I cannot get enough,” replied Gareth, as he lowered his head and teased her with his tongue and slid his hand between her legs.

As Arden began to utter little moans of delight, Gareth gave a sudden yelp when he felt Mott’s claws dig into his backside as the cat landed on the bed. Gareth rolled over and groaned, and Mott sat expectantly, looking from one to the other and then at the door.

“He wants to get out, Gareth,” said Arden, who couldn’t help giggling at the expression on Gareth’s face.

“I know, I know. And he won’t give us any rest until we let him out. All right, Motley, I’ll interrupt my lovemaking this one time,” grumbled Gareth as he stalked to the door followed by the complacent cat. “But you sleep with my mother from now on.”

He came back to bed and stood there looking at his wife. Her skin was as pale as he had imagined it to be against the black cloud of hair, and when he looked down into her eyes he thanked God and her father and her own pride for bringing them together. He crawled under the covers and pulled her close, her back to him, his chin on the top of her head. “My arrogant Arden, my Marchioness of Thorne, how lucky we are to be here like this after such a rudesby wooing.”

“You could not have won me otherwise. I know that now, Gareth,” replied Arden, snuggling into the curve of his body. “And, although I hope I have changed, I fear I have become no model of humility. I will never be a Celia.”

“Thank God for that.”

“Why, Celia is a lovely person and my dear cousin,” protested Arden.

“Aye. And tha art a sharp-tongued lass, and still a bit Insufferable, and reel glad I am to have you as my dear wife,” said Gareth, dropping light kisses on Arden’s neck, and bringing them both back to the lovemaking which he fully intended to keep them in bed all morning.

For my grandmother,

Adelaide Burke Powers,

and my “second mother,”

Marie Farrell Reilly

Author’s Note

I am grateful to Ruth Sawyer for collecting and publishing “The Princess and the Vagabond,” an Irish version of “The Taming of the Shrew” which was an inspiration for this story.

Copyright © 1992 by Marjorie Farrell

Originally published by Signet (ISBN 0451171942)

Electronically published in 2013 by Belgrave House/Regency

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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.