Gareth knew precious little comfort was to be found, but he didn’t need the lecture right now. “Shh. Don’t talk. That’s Mrs. Bowen’s best fruitcake. Have a bite.”
She did, her eyes widening at the sharp taste of more spirits. “Gareth Ripton-Jones! You are trying to get me drunk!”
“Not a bit of it. This won’t harm you.” He broke half the piece and popped it into his mouth. “Mrs. Bowen has won awards for this,” he said through the crumbs.
“From who? Benedictine monks? Take it away.”
“All right, but drink your tea. You’ll be grateful for the brandy when that ankle starts to throb.”
“It’s throbbing now.”
“I’ll be back with some warm water. I’ll make up an ice pack, too, and wrap it around your leg. That should help with the swelling.”
Gareth went back into the kitchen, feeling useful. He finished up the fruitcake—which was delicious, no matter what Annie said—and poured some of the tea kettle water into a basin to let it cool. The sun had already dipped below the tree line and it would be full dark soon.
He stepped into the yard and hacked off a wedge of ice hanging from the kitchen ell, wishing he’d worn his gloves. It had stopped sleeting but the air was cold enough to pierce his lungs with every breath he took. He glanced over to the stables, noting the curl of smoke from Martin’s fire. He must be back from wherever he’d spent his New Year’s Day.
Annie’s had not been much fun, except for this morning, he chuckled to himself. To have to deal with Ian and then find oneself unconscious in a freezing cellar was no way to start the year. Gareth would make sure the rest of her day was spent in all the comfort he could provide. And it absolved him from cleaning his study and his bedroom until she was on her feet again. He’d be much too busy taking care of her for the next few days.
He gathered up clean cloths under his stump and balanced the water, soap, and bandages on a tray. Annie was holding her cup, peering into its depths.
“Reading the tea leaves? Will you meet a tall, dark stranger?” he teased.
“That’s already happened, hasn’t it?” She put the cup down on the bedside table. “Thank you for going to all this trouble, Gareth. I’m supposed to be taking care of
you
.”
“I’ll get my turn before too long. You are not under any circumstances to leave this bed. I’m going to wrap your ankle first, then clean you up.”
He’d doctored his troops enough so that he made quick work of his icicle and the strips of linen, even one-handed. He set her leg gingerly on a pillow, then began to wash her dirt-streaked face, paying close but gentle attention to the abrasion over her right eye. She looked up at him in trust as he patted her freckled forehead dry.
“Will I have a scar?”
“I don’t think so. But you’ll probably look like I socked you in the eye. There’s bound to be some discoloration from where you hit your head. I think Cecily must have made an ointment for cuts somewhere. I’ll go look.”
Annie reached out and stopped him. “Wait. Th-thank you. For finding me.”
“No more snooping in cellars. There’s quite enough to keep you busy above stairs. But not”—he raised his hand—“today or any time soon. If you won’t eat fruitcake, what shall I fix you for supper?”
“That Welsh rabbit was lovely last night. I know there’s plenty of cheese.”
“And I bought fresh bread from Mrs. Bowen. With no brandy in it, in case you’re worried.” He smiled. “You’d best not tell her you didn’t care for her fruitcake when you see her. Not if you want to restore my good reputation.”
“I would not think to do so! But I feel half-drunk from just a bite.”
“Good. It will help you relax. Let me hunt down the salve—some willow bark, too—and get supper started. Why don’t you rest until then?”
“All right. It has been a busy day again, hasn’t it?”
She gazed up at him through gold-edged lashes, and his mind traveled back to this morning, when she was spread beneath him like a banquet. He might have her in such a position again tonight—she couldn’t run away, could she?
But he’d be a devil if he forced his attentions on an injured girl. Her head was likely to be pounding, too. Gareth would have to take it slow.
He’d once been a man of action. Confident. Deliberate. It chafed a bit to subdue the warrior within. But this campaign needed a different strategy, and Gareth was nothing if not adaptable to circumstances in the field.
C
HAPTER
16
A
nne
had
heard something in the cellar, she was sure of it.
Not
mice. The odd scraping sound below had roused her from her book and she’d peered down, unable to make out anything in the dark. She’d done a foolish thing stepping on the ladder—she should have rucked up her skirt and gone down backward. Her foot had slipped as if the rung were greased and she’d flown straight down, hitting her head before she could break the fall. She remembered her left foot hitting the treads all the way down, so it was no wonder it gave her such agony now.
But in all other respects, she was exceedingly comfortable. She’d eaten a delicious dinner and drunk quite a bit of Gareth’s forbidden brandy, feeling rather grateful he hadn’t poured it out as she’d asked him to. Even a piece of the fruitcake had reappeared and been consumed. She was wrapped in blankets, and the little hearth in her room hissed and crackled merrily. Gareth had made her willow bark tea and was currently cradling her as he lay on the edge of her bed, his fingers lost in loose coils of her hair. Earlier he’d played lady’s maid, brushing her tangled hair so gently she hadn’t felt a thing, and helping her to dress in her nightgown without taking any liberties. Well, hardly any. Perhaps his fingers had skimmed over her skin more thoroughly than they might have, each fingertip inciting a tiny spark of awareness. Anne had shivered, and Gareth had mistaken her arousal for cold and bundled her up.
He’d ordered her not to get up or peer in a mirror, so Anne supposed she must look a fright. But she was too languid to care, resting against his chest. They hadn’t spoken for an age, just lay next to each other in quiet companionship. Anne had not been so relaxed since—she could not remember when. She was not a relaxing sort of girl. Her childhood had been spent in one scrape after another, and she’d done nothing since to improve her character.
Even as a little girl, she’d been restless, pushing boundaries and making her mother accordingly vexed. They had lived apart from Lord Egremont most of the year in their own little queendom, ensconced in the Dorset downs not far from the sea. Her father had been involved in government and had little time for his wife and only child.
Until her mother died, and Anne was sent to London. All her girlish expectations of entering society had been cruelly shattered almost at once.
She was
not
going to spoil this pleasant evening thinking of her father. She burrowed her head into Gareth’s shoulder and closed her eyes.
Could she fall asleep in a man’s embrace? No, not any man. Gareth specifically. Did she trust him enough to find her ease? She wasn’t sure.
“Penny for your thoughts, Annie,” he rumbled quietly.
“Oh, I’m not thinking much. Too muzzy-headed from all the brandy. However did you function all these months?”
“Not well, I’m afraid. And that was the point.”
“Well, you have all the reasons in the world to stop drinking now. Thousands of pounds worth.”
He turned her face to him. “It’s not about the money now, Annie. It’s about you.”
Anne felt heat wash over her. “Never tell me you’ve fallen in love with me after a day. I won’t believe it.”
“Nay. It might not be love. Not yet. Maybe never. And I’m not even sure I believe in love anymore. But there is
something
between us.”
The something she felt was lust, plain and simple. “Nonsense. You’ve just been lonely, and I—”
He reached around and tapped a finger to her lips. “Hush. Don’t ruin this. Let a man have his fantasies—like having a warm compliant young woman at his side, ripe for the kissing. Someone soft. And freckled.” He winked at her.
“As if freckles appear in anyone’s fantasy,” she said dismissively.
“Ah, but you don’t know me, not really. Who’s to say that I have not always desired a copper-haired beauty spangled with gold spots? Everywhere, I might add, in all the most intriguing places.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “You are full of moonshine. I liked you better when you were quiet.”
“I liked you better when I was kissing you. May I again?”
She couldn’t claim a headache, although she was sure there would be one tomorrow. But tonight she was floating on a cloud, her past troubles somewhere down below and out of reach. A kiss—or three—would be delightful. She nodded.
Clearly the key to kissing Gareth was to do so in a bed. His mouth was just where it needed to be and she didn’t have to pull any muscles to stretch up to him on tiptoes. Not that she could stand on two feet at the moment. But she could lie, and press her body to his, and receive the benediction of his kiss.
Anne had spent the last two years kissing too many men trying to drive away her demons. No one had ever been as persuasive in banishing them as Gareth Ripton-Jones. She breathed in pleasure as he took control, licking her doubts to the farthest corner of her mind. She might not love him, but she loved kissing him. He was tender, yet she felt the steel behind each thrust and parry of his tongue. Here was a man who knew what to do with a woman in the most profound way.
Anne had been pawed at and used, but Gareth touched her now as if she were some kind of holy relic. Immaculate indeed, if not in deeds. He had eased his arm out from under her and was unfastening the buttons of her night rail with welcome nimbleness, not breaking the kiss although his body had risen and shifted so he could gain access. His hand slipped between the gap of fabric and cupped a breast. She spilled into his hand, her nipple peaking. Gareth flicked it, almost idly, sending a slither of desire straight to her clenching womanhood. Anne fell deeper into the kiss, her body awakening. Suddenly the cheap cotton of her nightgown was too heavy, the blankets too burdensome. She was hot everywhere, most especially between her thighs, where moisture seeped waiting to be discovered. Her own traitorous hand tossed the covers aside and fisted the gown, tugging it upward.
Gareth broke the kiss, his brows lifted in question. “Do you want me to kiss you there again, Annie?”
She shook her head, unable to explain. She wanted his mouth on hers, to be close to him, heart to heart. Kissing as if tomorrow and rationality would never come.
“Ah. Perhaps I may just touch you there, aye?”
Aye, that would do. He threw a leg over her and climbed to the other side of the bed, taking care not to crush her with the transition. His back was squashed now up against the wall, but his hand was free—his beautiful, long-fingered hand, brown and callused and perfect. He sent the obstructing bed linen to the floor and parted her folds.
“Soaked,” he whispered into her neck. “Sweet honey, all for me. I thank you.”
Anne didn’t want any lover-like speech at the moment, so she parted her thighs and opened her lips, consuming his mouth in one desperate swallow. He gave her the reins to the kiss, which was not half as skilled as his but twice as needy. Anne had no idea what had come over her, but she gloried in the hot dark sinking of her body. She felt as though she was plummeting to a mysterious landscape, but knew Gareth would catch her and make her rise up again. With a deftness that left her breathless and silently begging, he inserted one slow finger into her wet slit. He was lodged snugly within her, but it was not enough.
Somehow, he knew. Of course he did—he was a rake, or had been before his unhappy homecoming. Gareth circled and pinched the knot of flesh buried by her curls with his thumb and forefinger until she felt herself stiffen and swell. The finger within slid out, then plunged back in as he tugged her to erect bliss. His tongue worked in absolute mastery with his hand until she was lost to his taste and touch, cresting higher, her bottom leaving the mattress as scorching waves coursed through her body.
Sweet heaven. He did not stop until she rose up again, her skin damp, her eyelids sparking with stars.
And then he kissed the bridge of her nose, as if she’d been a very good girl.
Anne didn’t want to be good, not with all the black lightning crackling through her. With grave deliberation, she placed her hand on the placket of his trousers.
Duw
. His whole body shook. He had done without a woman’s touch too long—he would disgrace himself in minutes. Her hand was small but determined, unfastening, revealing, stroking. She bit a kiss-swollen lip and stared as if she were committing the shape of him to memory.
Gareth wanted her luscious mouth on him, but he supposed he could be satisfied with the vigilant little hand that pumped him slowly from root to tip. Her touch was fairy-light, too gentle, but he’d take it. Gladly. She did not seem horrified, but curious, assessing. Then she shut her beautiful gold-flecked eyes but didn’t stop her hesitant touch.
He wondered how many men she’d seen in such a state—surely no one could have been bursting with such desperation as he.
Annie said she’d had a bad experience, but Gareth was almost positive she was still a virgin. He’d worked his way past her hymen to her tight passage with one finger—she could not have taken two. But there
was
something about the way she expressed herself physically, something she might be ashamed of. Worse still—frightened. She was shy and skittish still, after all that they’d already shared, as if she were forcing herself to overcome an insurmountable barrier.
It didn’t matter to Gareth what she had done or with whom she had done it in that cesspit of vice that was London. There was no need for her past to catch up with her. He would keep her safe and secure in Wales.
If she would let him.
He covered her hand with his and showed her what he needed and how hard he needed it. He watched her as her cheeks flushed and her lashes flicked.
“Look at me when I come for you, Annie. I want you to see what you do to me. I’m humbled by you. Unmanned.”
“Hush,” she whispered, but she obliged, her eyes large and dark. Dark and soft as moss in an ancient forest and somehow just as old. A thread of understanding knit and braided between them until Gareth felt his balls tighten and his heavy cock twitch. “I am yours,” he rasped. “At your precious mercy, my love.
Duw
!”
The orgasm seemed endless. His belly and her hands were slick with come and still he spurted. Her eyes never left his as she performed this miracle for him. Someday he would have the right to more from her, but now this was exquisitely enough.
She lay back onto the pillow, breathing almost as raggedly as he. How ridiculous that he was still clothed, if bootless, and she wore her wrinkled night rail. Gareth wiped her hands with the tail of his shirt, then his stomach. More laundry for him to do.
He sat up unsteadily. “I’ll fetch some water. God in heaven, Anne.” It seemed right to call her by the formal name he’d marry her with—Annie seemed far too light-hearted for tonight. This congress between them had been as serious as a wedding vow.
“I p-pleased you?”
“Need you ask? I’m not sure I can even walk to the kitchen. I may trip and sprain
my
ankle. You’ve bewitched me.”
She gave him a shy smile. “You pleased me, too.”
“Today was simply unsurpassed. Better than Christmas, I think.” Certainly better than last week when he shut himself up all day with his gin, no Christmas goose in sight. “We have gifts to give to each other, I think. If you will receive them.”
“I—I might now. You are very—” She blushed, unable to find the right words.
He wanted to lighten the mood, keep her at ease. He didn’t want to frighten her off, make her think too much on what she’d just let herself do. “Skilled? Large? Most certainly biddable where you are concerned. You may lead me around by my cock all you like, Lady Anne. I’ll be your devoted serf.”
“Gareth!”
“I’ve shocked you. I’m sorry. No, I cannot be. I find you delightful, whether you are trying to rule my life or surrendering to me. Thank you, either way. I’m quite looking forward to our marriage. I hope you are, too.”
A shadow passed across her face. “I’m not very steadfast in my resolve, am I? A marriage of convenience was what I wanted. This”—she waved a hand between them—“was not precisely convenient.”
“I should say just the opposite. It is most convenient to satisfy one’s urges. Healthy, too. I am not so decrepit that I’ve lost all my manhood, just my arm. And you”—he cupped her cheek, tracing a constellation of freckles with his thumb—“you are young and fresh and perfect, your life just beginning. You have honored me to begin it with me.”
“Perfect! You really are full of rubbish.” She frowned but didn’t pull away.
How could she not know what a treasure she was? “I cannot stifle my tongue where you are concerned, Annie. Don’t ask me to try. I may follow your edict about the drink, but not the topics of conversation. You make me want to spout poetry and quote Shakespeare.”
“Make yourself useful instead and fetch the water. I’m sticky.”
He took one sticky hand in his and brought it to his lips. “I am at your service, my lady. But you should know we Welsh have a strong bardic tradition. Expect a few verses now and then.”
She stuck her tongue out at him. It was pink and pretty and irresistible. His departure from the bed was delayed by necessity, and Gareth didn’t think Annie minded much at all as he kissed her most thoroughly—no simple peck, but a pledge straight from his heart, solemn and sincere. If he didn’t disengage soon, he’d wind up on top of her and in her, God willing.
He knew it was too soon. What would it be like to spend all night in her bed, buried inside her for much of it? Well, not this bed. It was much too small for a fellow like him to share, no matter how small in stature his bride was. Gareth’s parents had not shared a room, however, and they had been devoted to each other. It was not done in ton circles, and his mother had aspirations in that direction. The Riptons were one of the oldest families in the county, more established even than the Lewyses. His grandfather Jones had readily agreed to tack Ripton to his name to inherit the property from his father-in-law. According to Ripton lore, a dwelling had been standing here since the time of Llewelyn the Last.