Nothing but Trouble (12 page)

“So beautiful,” he murmured
.

Charity registered, in some distant corner of her mind, that this was not how ladies were supposed to behave
. Especially not
before
they were married. But, after all, they were in a carriage rushing pell-mell toward Gretna Green, which was, when one thought about it, only one step away from actually
being
married. And Charity was not one to quibble over trivialities.

Especially not now, when Graeme’s large thumb scraped over her nipple, his palm cupping and pushing her breast up to meet his mouth.

Charity closed her eyes and stopped thinking. Oh, God. He drew her nipple into his mouth and sucked. Desire arced through her, and she grew moist. She shifted, needing more, running her hands restlessly over him.

She found his erection, and at his sharp gasp, she knew
. She ran her palm over him, marveling at his hardness. Wanting to see, to touch. She stroked him and watched his eyes grow dark.

He took her other nipple in his mouth as she stroked him, his other hand playing with the one he’d lavished first
. Their movements became frantic. She couldn’t tell his moan from hers.

Finally he moved her hand
. “You have to stop that, or I will lose control.”

“Lose it, then,” she invited him, too caught up in the sensations he made her feel to be shoc
ked at her own audacity. “Only, don’t stop.”

He smiled. “I never said I was going to stop
. Only that we had to stop
that
.”

She paused, curiosity getting the better of her
. “You don’t want me to touch you?”

“Oh, I do,” he assured her
. “But if you keep touching me now, we will be celebrating the wedding night before the wedding.”

Heat filled her cheeks
. But then he assured her, “Don’t worry, sweetest. There are other ways to give and take pleasure.”

He dropped to his knees on the floor of the carriage, his hands finding the hem of her gown and slid
ing beneath it. He took her ankle in one hand, smoothing over her calf, pushing up her gown, exposing her undergarments—what little of them she wore. The theater gown was cut in the daring French style so favored among the London set this Season. Beneath the supple fabric, Charity had worn only a short corset to lift her bosom, and the thinnest of her muslin petticoats as a concession to propriety, or the possibility of an evening chill.

If Graeme continued touching her
…

She twisted away in sudden panic.

He looked up. “Too much?”

She thought about that
. He kept his hand still on her calf, awaiting her answer. The heat in his gaze reignited her own desire. “No. Not enough.”

“Ach, lass
. You definitely must marry me.” He returned his focus, his hands moving higher, massaging her thighs.

“We shall have to send to London for the remainder of your clothing,” he murmured
. “I find I quite like these new styles. They have not made it to the highlands just yet.”

“No, I imagine not,” Charity breathed, just before his fingers reached the apex of her thighs, and her ability to hold up her end of any conversation evaporated.

His fingers skimmed the folds of skin, teasing. He brought his lips to the inside of her knee and kissed her there. He trailed kisses higher, and again higher, until his lips reached the same folds his fingers caressed and took their place.

“My lord?”

“Trust me.”

She did
. Oh, she trusted him. Even when he was touching her in ways she’d never imagined. And when he began to lick, long, slow strokes in her most intimate place, she was lost. Her eyes closed and her head fell back. He traced her shape, then settled in, licking and massaging, over and over until her body felt like it had melted, her limbs all turned to liquid, all but the singular sensation of his tongue at her cleft. The sensation built, the ache and need spiraling, until she was twisting on the carriage bench, grasping his shoulders. More. More. If only—

Waves of pleasure rocketed through her, again and again, until she
shuddered and lay still. Limp. And utterly content.

Charity’s
eyes flickered open. Graeme raised his head. He looked quite…pleased.

Graeme stayed on his knees, heart pounding
. He wasn’t certain he could move if he tried. His need to make love to her was so intense it crippled him. He bowed his head, willing his raging erection down. He met with no success.

She was so damned sweet
. So damned passionate. He knew from the way she’d hesitated that she’d never had a man taste her before, but the abandon with which she’d given herself over to him once she’d realized…God. He’d never get tired of her passionate abandon.

He’d gladly bring her to pleasure a thousand times before finding his own, if it meant hearing that sweet cry of ecstasy, watching her beautiful skin flush from head to toe
.

But his young English beauty was not finished
. She pushed herself up on her elbows until her eyes were level with his. “Your turn,” she said.

For a second he forgot to breathe
. Then the blood rushed from his head and centered at his groin. His already-hard cock pulsed with the surge of fresh arousal, straining against his breeches.

“Tell me what to do,” she whispered.

“What to…” he repeated stupidly, the fog of need so thick his brain struggled to form a sentence.

“How to make you feel like
…that,” she clarified, an impish twinkle in here eye replacing the languid, satiated glaze of moments before.

Sweet
Jesus
. She was asking him to tell her how to make him come. “Do whatever pleases you,” he rasped. “As a general rule, if you liked a particular touch, I will, too.”

Her tongue darted between her lips, moistening them, and he watched her gaze drop to the bulge in his trousers.

Graeme hardly dared to breathe. He shifted himself back up onto the bench beside her.

“Earlier, you seemed to like this
.” She reached for him. Stroked him. A shudder ran through him.

Her fingers lingered at the laces holding his breeches fastened
. “But, if what you say is true, then I think you will like it better if this clothing is not in the way.”

“Aye,” he agreed hoarsely.

She unfastened the breeches slowly. He couldn’t tell whether her fingers were fumbling or if she was simply drawing out the act. Either way the torture was exquisite.

He shifted his hips, making it easier for her to tug his shirt up and away from—

Ach.
Her small fingers closed around the length of him. He pried his eyes open and found her studying his member with wide eyes.

Tentatively she moved her hand, and pleasure
shot through him. “Good?” she asked softly.

He nodded
. He couldn’t speak. She rubbed him again, pushing the fabric of his breeches further down to explore him fully. Her other hand stroked his inner thigh and cupped his balls.

She looked at him questioningly, then slid to her knees on the floor of the carriage, where he had been moments ago
. She bent her head.

He nearly came undone
. Maddeningly, she had taken his words to heart.
If you liked it, I will too
. She kissed the inside of his knee, her palms braced on either side of him for balance. His cock ached with the loss of touch, begged him to bury himself deep inside her. But he knew the path she was following. The same he’d done to her. Which meant that in mere moments…

Her lips touched the inside of his thigh
. Then her tongue. The sensation was foreign. Exotic. He never wanted her to stop, and yet if she didn’t touch him again soon, he might very well go mad.

She did touch him
. Her lips brushed the head of his cock tentatively. He groaned, his eyes drifting closed again. Her tongue traced the length of him.

She paused
. He was prepared for her to stop. Amazed she’d done this much. Well-bred young ladies, he’d been told, did not do such things. Naturally she might find it…disturbing.

He steeled himself against the knowledge he was likely to spend the next hour with a painful erection.

Then her mouth closed around him. He heard his own cry of pleasure. She gave a low hum of satisfaction in return, and the vibration against his cock was too much. His body clamored for release.

She
flicked her tongue against the sensitive head and sucked, the way he’d drawn her clit into his mouth just before she came. The memory of her taste as she came, shattering against his mouth, combined with the hot wet sensation of her mouth on him, pushed him over the edge.

With sheer will he pulled from her mouth, just as he came, his seed spilling out in a hot rush, his body racked with a tidal wave of pleasure
. His head fell forward and he rested it on hers.

When he could move again, he drew her up, pulling her into his arms and onto his lap
. “Charity, my love.” He tucked her head under his chin and stroked the soft skin of her arms. Would she regret what she’d just done? God, he hoped not.

“Did you
…that is, did I make you feel the same as what you did to me? Should I have gone about it differently?” She sounded uncertain, but hopeful.

“Love, ye made me feel everything you felt and more
. You are more than a man could dream of.”

She turned her head into his right arm and he could feel her smile. “I think you flatter me.”

“Not a whit. How did I get so lucky? To think, I almost didn’t attend Lord Madrigal’s costume ball.”

She gave a muffled laugh
. “I was not exactly supposed to be there, either, if you recall. So it was really I who am the lucky one, for you were the one good thing that came of my rash decision.”

He hugged her tighter
. “Then ‘twas fate.”

“You believe in fate?”

“I do. Don’t you?”

She absentmindedly tugged at a lock of golden hair
. “I don’t know.”

He bent his head to whisper in her ear
. “Wait until the wedding. Wait until I can take you to bed and make love to you, join our bodies as one, the way a man was meant to love a woman. I daresay I can convince you to believe in fate.”

Chapter
9
:

In which
Charity dares, as all brides should, to hope.

Three and a half days later, Charity was not looking her best. They’d stopped occasionally to change horses, to eat, and to stretch their legs, but that was it. They’d passed long hours kissing until her lips were swollen, her breasts aching, her body straining for more. He’d pushed her over the brink of pleasure more than once, and yet she’d wanted more. Wanted
him
.

But he wouldn’t make love to her
. Yet. “When ye marry me, I will take you to bed and make love to you,” he’d promised. “And I will do it again the night after, and every night after that.” He’d whispered naughty descriptions of what they would do in that bed, how they would luxuriate in each other’s touch, until she was half senseless with desire.

By day three
, though, the wait for a bed had become torture in more ways than one. Charity had caught snatches of sleep in the coach, wrapped in Graeme’s arms or with her head on his lap. He’d done his best to make her comfortable. She knew his muscles had to be stiffer than hers, his exhaustion warring with the restlessness of having been cooped up for so long.

Yet she wasn’t so very tired as to not care about the fact that she was arriving
for her wedding in a gown—
theater attire
, no less—she’d been wearing for three days straight, with her hair unwashed and unkempt.

The only saving grace had been that the interrupted nature of her slumber meant she’d never had a chance to fall deep into dreams
. No night terrors. No paralyzing fear. No shrieks of despair, sure to frighten her new fiancé more than anyone.

As every mile that
passed, she’d fallen harder for him, become more and more certain that this crazed rush to Scotland was the right thing to do. She couldn’t lose him now. Somehow, she would find a way to keep the nightmares at bay.

Finally, t
he coach rolled to a stop in the yard of a little inn bearing a sign that proclaimed it “The Dog and Anvil.” Graeme stepped down, then turned to help her. Charity stumbled out, blinking in the bright sun. The air smelled clean, the ground still damp from a spatter of rain the night before. Lord only knew what the innkeeper must think. She surely looked a fright. Probably smelled one, too.

Graeme looked back down the road, as he’d done each time they’d stopped
. This time, he looked at her curiously. “We’ve arrived. It does not appear we’ve been followed.”

Charity had thought of this already
. By the time Lord Maxwell’s message had been delivered to her mother, they’d have had at least twelve hours’ head start. But a single rider on horseback could have traveled faster than their coach, making up the time. So Graeme was right. They hadn’t been followed.

Which meant
…what? That her family supported their elopement? Well, of course they did. They had all encouraged Lord Maxwell’s suit. Even though Charity had asked them not to pressure him, they were unlikely to protest if the Scot was the one doing the pressuring.

Charity gazed
around the inn yard again. The unobtrusive but ever-present guards she’d grown accustomed to were also absent. The duke would not have overlooked this detail. If Alex hadn’t sent them to follow her, he must think her safe enough under Graeme’s protection.

She was free.

It was an odd feeling.

The door of the inn opened, and a bearded man of indeterminable age came toward them, arms open in a welcoming gesture, a broad smile cracking through his beard
. The innkeeper.

Graeme smiled back in acknowledgement, but held up one finger.

The man raised his eyebrows, but a quick glance at the luxurious traveling coach must have told him all he needed to know about his newly-arrived guest, for he retreated just as quickly.

Graeme Ramsey Maxwell saw the confusion on his bride-to-be’s pretty features
. But there was one thing he needed to tell her before they took their vows.

He
placed his hands on her shoulders.

“
If we’re going to do this, there is one thing you ought to know. I should have told you earlier.”

Charity gave him a questioning look.

“I have a little boy.”

Her lips parted in surprise
. “A…a natural child?” she stammered. “I hadn’t considered…”

Graeme mentally curse
d himself. Lord. She thought he meant he had a by-blow, a child born of a union outside of marriage. And she was wondering why on earth he’d been so indelicate as to mention it, let alone doing so moments before their wedding.

He’d approached this all wrong
. He shook his head, held up a hand. “No, no. Nathan is not my own…though he
is
mine, now. My sister’s son. She and her husband have both passed on, leaving the lad an orphan. He came to live with me when they died.”

Understanding lit her expression, and she visibly relaxed
. “Poor soul,” Charity said softly, and he saw in the tilt of her eyes that the sentiment was genuine.

H
e gave a rueful chuckle. “That boy has had to deal with more than anyone his age ought to. He loves me, but he won’t say it. He’s afraid. Everyone he’s loved, he’s lost.”

“He had no siblings?”

“No. I’ve come to think of him as a son, though Nathan would only become heir if I had no sons of my own. But I want him to know, always, that he is loved and welcome. That I raise him out of love, not just duty. I need to know my wife will feel the same.”

“Of course
. How could I feel any other way? He is lucky to have you for an uncle,” she said. “When my father died, my uncle also came to help my mother. But I am quite certain
he
did not feel the same way about the responsibility.”

“I’m sorry to hear that
.”

She shuddered
. “You have no idea. If it hadn’t been for Alex…”

“Don’t tell me the lofty duke has won your affections in addition to those of your sister,” he teased.

She laughed. “My undying gratitude, yes. But my affections…seem to have settled elsewhere. Though on no less worthy a target.”

“Ach
. That is a great relief. I shouldn’t enjoy having to compete with the duke.” There was a kernel of truth behind his teasing tone—not because he doubted his fiancé’s loyalty, but because everyone she was related to seemed to have an opinion about her every action. Though Charity’s sister and the duke seemed nice enough, Graeme couldn’t help but be glad they all lived a considerable distance from his primary home.

She looked at him through her lashes, clearly enjoying their flirtation
. “I do imagine you would hold your own in such a competition, my lord.”

“I shall have to sharpen my skills, just in case His Grace comes for a prolonged visit
.” He was clearly joking now.

Not to be bested, she leaned forward, blushing madly, and whispered to him, “I believe the skill of your tongue will serve you better than the skill of your lance, when it comes to maintaining my, ah, affection.”

“You have yet to experience the skill of my lance,” he returned, loving it when her eyes sparkled and she let out a burst of shocked laughter. It was all he could do not to snatch her up right then and there and carry her into the inn. But they hadn’t raced all this way just to put the wedding night before the wedding.

“I think,” he suggested, “we had best go inside and satisfy the innkeeper’s curiosity before he falls through that window.”

She turned quickly, laughing as the innkeeper’s form ducked out of sight.

She nodded
. “Indeed, we should. But why did you wait until now to tell me of your nephew?”

Guilt twinged him
. “I should have told you earlier, but I wanted to be certain you were completely convinced that we would suit. Convinced of the wisdom of marrying me, before adding extra responsibility into the equation.”

“You thought I would reject you because you
took in your sister’s poor little boy?” She sounded incredulous. “Who could be so cold-hearted?”

He could think of a few women, but that was neither here nor there
. “Not really. But I wanted to be sure your choice was about
me
. Call it selfish if you will, but when a Maxwell marries, that marriage is forever. Long after Nate is grown, and any other children who come our way, you and I will still be together. I want us both to be happy with that choice.”

“When a man speaks like that, how could a woman refuse
?” The words could have been teasing, but for the way Charity looked up at him. What he saw in her eyes gave him hope. Dreaminess, yes, but also trust. Desire. Respect. It was a foundation on which a man could build.

Together, they turned toward the inn.

“Lord Maxwell! Welcome, welcome. When ye said ye were headin’ to London to find a wife, I did no’ expect to see ye again so soon.”

“I stayed here on my way down,” he explained to Charity
. To the innkeeper, he said, “As luck would have it, I met the woman of my dreams almost the same night I arrived. This is Miss Charity Medford, who has done me the honor of agreeing to become my wife.”

“Did ye now?” the man chortled
. “Ach, I do so love a good love story. But mayhap the story should wait. Do I take it right, that your arrival here means ye wish to be wed, my lord?”

“Indeed, we do
, Mr. Partridge.”

“And ye, lass
? I mean, Miss Medford?”

“Yes.”

He clasped his hands together, obviously proud that the Scottish lord had chosen
his
inn for the nuptials. “Well, then, welcome to Scotland, ye lucky lord and lady, where we hold that the only thing necessary to host a wedding is the willingness of the bride and groom.”

The ceremony was simple
. All she and Graeme had to do, he explained, was speak a vow to one another, declaring themselves husband and wife, in the presence of witnesses, and the deed would be done.

In England,
weddings were far more complicated. Parents had to give consent for a bride or groom under the age of twenty-one, banns had to be read for three weeks in a row, or a special license obtained, a clergyman arranged to officiate…and that was for even the most basic of weddings.

In Gretna Green, though, weddings were a business
, with various establishments competing for the patronage of the runaway couples who came to be married there. Mr. Partridge, puffed up until he resembled the bird with whom he shared a name, did his best to make each and every wedding—but this one in particular—special.

“An honor, indeed
, Lord Maxwell. Shall we proceed immediately?” He, too, glanced down the road, as though at any moment a rider might appear at breakneck speed, bent on stopping them. “Or shall I have your things brought up to your room, so that you may refresh yourselves?”

“There’s nothing to be brought up,” Graeme informed him.

“Ach. I see.” He seemed to take this as confirmation that resistance was, indeed, on the way. “Then, let us be about our business. Would you prefer to stand near the fireplace, or in the flower garden?”

“The flower garden,” they answered unanimously.

He nodded approvingly and escorted them to a small but cheery garden at the back side of the inn. He stopped near a trellis where climbing roses had just begun to bud.

“
Have you rings?”

To
Charity’s surprise, Graeme produced a small pouch and shook two golden rings into his large hand. The sun caught them, and the unmistakable green of an emerald winked at her from his palm.

“I did, after all, come to London in hopes of finding a wife,” he reminded her.

Her eyes grew misty. Their wedding might not be traditional, but he’d planned for the most important things. A lifetime together, he’d promised her, and the rings that symbolized that promise.

Graeme was an honorable man
. She could have done far worse. “I don’t deserve you,” she told him, though she barely managed more than a whisper. “But I do want to marry you.”

“
As I do you. And don’t be silly. You deserve everything your heart desires,” Graeme replied chivalrously. “Since fate was kind enough to place you in my path, I am honored to be the one who gets the chance to fulfill those desires.”

Mr. Partridge smiled widely
. “There is little more that must be done. If ye will join hands, I’ll read the blessing.” He pulled a small book from his vest, opening it to a dog-eared page. The book was only for show—it was clear as he spoke the words, short and traditional, that he knew them by heart.

Graeme held her gaze through the prayer, sliding his ring onto her finger at the end
. When it was her turn, her fingers trembled, but she managed to get the gold band over his knuckle and onto his ring finger, where it gleamed proudly.