The Reckless Bride (21 page)

Demand grew; desire kept pace.

Until he had at least one answer to the questions crowding his brain.

He wanted her.

He’d known she aroused him, but that might have simply been because she was a delectable female and he hadn’t had a woman in more months than he wanted to count. But what she stirred in him was more than that.

Stronger than mere desire, more vivid than simple passion.

He felt need grow, unfurl, stretch. Like a powerful beast, it unsheathed its claws.

Scratched.

She shifted her hands, skating them, palms flat, up over his chest, to his shoulders, then further. He felt one small hand cover the sensitive skin at his nape, felt her other hand slide into his hair, and grip.

Another question answered: she wanted him.

He felt his muscles harden in response.

In reaction.

He recognized the signs well enough, but with her, his responses were stronger, the drive they fed more potent, more insistent.

Angling his head, he thrust deeper into her mouth, claimed, took, albeit with reined ferocity. He didn’t want to frighten her, even though fear seemed far from her mind as she shifted closer.

Her breasts brushed his chest.

Loretta felt her breath hitch, then tangle in her throat. Felt her breasts swell, then ache. Her nipples tightened, heating, sensitive.

Her senses were alive, stretching, reaching … she wasn’t sure for what.

Both his hands now clasped her waist; the long fingers of one flexed, eased … then his hand skated upward, palm to her gown.

Her senses focused, waited, teetered….

Smoothly his hand rose and closed, gently, about her breast. About her heavy, aching flesh.

Sensation streaked through her, rich, warm, enticing.

He squeezed, still gentle, almost reverent, and excitement flashed.

Her breath hitched again, tighter, more constricted, then she was kissing him back, pressing her lips to his,
sending her tongue to tangle with his.

The tenor of the kiss changed. Intensity flared, awareness closed in.

All she could think about was seizing more, tasting more, experiencing more, learning more. Recklessly demanding more.

Her hand at his nape tightened; she leaned closer, pressing her breast into his hand.

It closed more firmly, possessiveness riding the edge of his hunger. She tasted it on his tongue, sensed it in the increasing firmness of his lips as they pressed hers wider and he settled to plunder.

Her wits were waltzing, gloriously reeling—

Suddenly he wrenched his mouth from hers.

Lifted his head. Looked over hers.

Toward the door.

Suddenly she was standing two feet away from him. He’d picked her up and lifted her as if she weighed nothing and set her down, then retreated, leaning back against the bunk. His expression unreadable, he looked down, smoothed down his sleeve, tied the laces at the cuff.

She’d just caught her breath when Rose walked past the open door, then halted, stepped back and looked in.

“There you are, miss. Lady Congreve wondered where you were—she wants to speak with you if you’ve finished down here.”

“Yes.” Loretta swallowed, cleared her throat. Without turning, she spoke over her shoulder. “I’ve … done all I can for the moment.”

Rafe raised his head, slanted her a glance, then his lips curved. He inclined his head. “Again, thank you.”

She forced herself to nod briskly, bit her tongue against the urge to reply—God only knew what might come out of her mouth—then turned and made for the door.

Rafe watched her go.

Listened to her footsteps climb the stairs. Wondered some more.

He wanted her in his bed—not just as a woman, but specifically
as her. Wanted her, her unusual, quirky, original self, beneath him.

Yet where they were heading—and they were definitely heading that way—then given she was a gently bred young lady, that destination customarily meant marriage.

In the past, just thinking that word had been enough to have him backpedaling. Running if necessary. Yet with her …

He frowned. Was it really her, herself, that he so craved? Or was this change in his wants, his needs, more a function of his situation? Or perhaps his age? Was their discussion the previous evening, his recognition that he needed to find a role and a place—marriage and a home—to be fulfilled, coloring his perception? She was, after all, the only potential bride currently in his orbit; if his inner yearnings were predisposing him to marriage, then she was the only candidate for his needs, his lusts, and his eyes to fix upon.

Leaning against his bunk, he picked up his waistcoat, shrugged it on. While doing up the buttons, he considered, weighed. He didn’t believe his recent deliberations on his future had influenced him all that much, at least not with respect to his desire for her. That had been strong, unexpectedly strong, from the moment he’d first laid eyes on her.

“So.” Standing, he reached for his coat, drew it on.

Frowned.

He needed to decide why he wanted her before he allowed matters to progress further. He liked her in a way he couldn’t recall liking any other female; the last thing he wanted was to hurt her in any way.

He had to be sure. First.

Before he or she gave into their natures and precipitated the next engagement.

The morning continued overcast and rainy. Esme had taken up residence in the salon, reading a novel, then writing letters.

Loretta, Rafe noticed on one of his frequent passes, was
also writing, a frown tangling her brows, her concentration impressive. But the next time he crossed behind the bar, she’d set aside her correspondence and had picked up her embroidery.

He walked into the salon, nodded to Esme, then halted before Loretta. When she looked up, he said, “It’s stopped raining for the moment. I wondered if you’d like to take a turn about the deck.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Esme grin and return to the novel she’d taken up again.

Loretta studied him, then to his relief she set aside her hoop. “I would like some air.”

She rose, shook out her skirts, settled her warm shawl more definitely about her shoulders. He stood back and she preceded him out of the room, past the bar and up the stairs.

At the top, she paused, drew in a deep, deep breath, then stepped out onto the wet boards. He joined her. The air was cold and damp. Dismal gray mist cloaked the nearby mountains and hung eerily in the dark forests the boat was currently sliding past.

He waved her on, then fell into step beside her on a slow perambulation around the deck. Hassan was on watch, tucked away in a corner protected by the overhang of the bridge’s roof.

Ignoring his friend, Rafe fixed his gaze on the slow-moving gray ribbon of the river. “I’ve been thinking of what we discussed last night. My putative future. As you know, I’ve been away from England and out of society for a decade and more, so I’ve lost touch with what’s feasible. With what options are available to me. Especially in terms of"—he had to fight to get the words out—"marriageable young ladies.” Baldfaced, he continued, “I wondered if you could help me better define my requirements.”

He felt her sharp glance like a lancet against his skin.

“Your requirements? In a bride?”

Gaze still on the river, still slowly pacing, he nodded. “Exactly. As our discussion last night demonstrated, I’m sadly
lacking in plans for my future. If I accept your suggestions of a house, an estate with a village or two to manage, then I strongly suspect my next requirement should be a wife.” He risked a glance at her. “Am I right?”

She looked a trifle bemused. She glanced up and caught his gaze, studied him for a moment, then nodded. “My reading of your situation suggests your supposition is correct.”

“So?” He arched his brows. “What sort of young lady should I seek as a wife? What criteria should I look for?”

Seeing her eyes start to narrow, he looked back at the river.

“I’m sure your sisters, and your sisters-in-law, too, will be delighted to assist you.”

He ignored the false sweetness in her tone. “I’m sure they would be, which is why I’m asking you. They know nothing of me—of the man I now am, let alone what I might need in terms of wifely support—but they will think they know me better than I know myself, and will enthusiastically fling themselves into lining up candidates none of whom will bear the remotest resemblance to the young lady I need.”
Her.
He glanced at her. “You can see my problem.”

The look she cast him was suspicious, wary, but intrigued. She was, he felt certain, following him perfectly well. One of the reasons why he wondered if … “For instance, I don’t believe a conventional young lady would suit me.” He faced forward, ambled on. “After all I’ve seen and experienced, I find convention overrated.”

“You reject adhering to convention for convention’s sake,” she said. “That’s something those who live by convention find difficult to accept.”

“Exactly my point. So we’re agreed my lady needs to be unconventional.”

“No—you want a lady who may or may not be unconventional herself, but who is not bound by
convention, and therefore won’t expect you to be, either.”

He smiled. “See? That’s why I asked for your advice. I
suppose I should also stipulate that she should not be too young.”

“Define ‘too young.'”

“Hmm … less than twenty-two? I mean that she shouldn’t be of the wide-eyed-innocent-who-has-never-experienced-anything-beyond-the-ballrooms-and-drawing-rooms type.” He glanced sidelong at her. “Perhaps a lady who has seen a little of the world. At least one with a wider experience.”

“I believe that criterion can best be stated as ‘possessing a certain degree of maturity.'”

He quashed a grin. “That sounds right. And no giddiness or giggling. She must be a lady I can have a sensible conversation with.”

She glanced at him. “You’re asking rather a lot.”

“Nonsense. I’m sure there are ladies capable of conducting intelligent discussions. Of course, I would expect her to behave intelligently, too, and not get herself into idiotic scrapes or create unnecessary fusses.”

“I hesitate to ask, but what about the physical? What are your preferences there?”

He frowned. “To be honest, I’m not all that set in my ways as to the specifics—as long as she’s the epitome of beauty in my eyes, the details won’t matter.”

Her lips twitched; she inclined her head. “An estimable answer that adequately covers that aspect.”

“So I think. So, what have we thus far? A lady unbound by convention, possessing a certain degree of maturity, intelligent, and of sufficient beauty to inspire my devotion.” He arched his brows. “That seems to cover it.”

“I suspect we should add ‘with a temperament capable of dealing on a daily basis with you.'”

“Do you think so?” He opened his eyes wide. “I wouldn’t have thought I was difficult to get on with.”

“I’m beginning to suspect you have hidden depths and are by no means the charming, lackadaisical rogue you allow the world to see.”

He hid a smile. A wolfish one that would have proved her point. He inclined his head. “Very well—we’ll add a calm and unflappable temper.”

“Plus a managing disposition and a backbone of steel.”

“What the deuce will she need those for?”

“To manage you. Once back in England dealing with your house, your estate, and, as I understand it, your fortune, you’re going to need managing on the social and practical fronts. You’ve admitted you’re not socially adept. Being who you are, what you are, you won’t be able to simply avoid society—your presence, or lack of it, needs to be managed in such a way as to appear unremarkable.”

“Just as you’ve managed your social absence over recent years?”

“More or less.”

He frowned. “I’ll take that—the disposition and backbone—under advisement.”

Loretta snorted and strolled on. The exchange had held her attention, held her absorbed. Although she knew it was cold, that the wind had a biting edge, she hadn’t felt it. She felt energized, alert, her mind engaged, her nerves tense, tight, but pleasurably so. She felt challenged.

“So now we’ve dealt with me. What about you?”

She felt his gaze on her face.

“What sort of husband do you want? Clearly that’s a question to which you’ll need the answer by the time you reach England’s fair shores.”

He was right. He was also … engaging with her in a way she’d never imagined. A verbal foray of dizzying directness veiling a deeper purpose; she wasn’t foolish enough to miss his underlying objective.

“The man I want as my husband …” She didn’t need to follow where he’d led, yet she couldn’t back away from the challenge, couldn’t not reply. However, like him,
she’d never thought to put her requirements into words. To formulate them clearly. “He … would have to be a gentleman, and I mean in temperament, not just station. He would need to
value women, ladies—me—need to acknowledge and appreciate my strengths and my achievements.”

His gaze was on her face. “You have achievements?”

“Several.” As
A Young Lady About London
she was one of the most popular columnists of the day. “As well as paying due deference to my worth, he should be able to provide all the usual, accepted things. I have no ambition to live in a cottage.”

The sound he made suggested he couldn’t imagine her doing so.

“Other than that … he would need to be courageous, enough to let me be myself, and while he might be protective, he would need to be careful not to attempt to stifle me.”

“Stifle you?”

“He would need to learn not to get in my way.”

“Hmm. It’s been my experience that to protect someone, one often needs to stand in front of them.”

“True, but not in the sense of blocking the one protected unnecessarily. Protection should never become obsessive prohibition.”

He frowned. “So—a gentleman of substance who worships at your feet, who will leap to protect you from any danger, but who will otherwise allow you free rein. Your hypothetical husband is not destined to have an easy life.”

“No.” She glanced at him, took in the quality of his frown, managed to keep a straight face. “The position will be a challenge.”