The Care and Feeding of Your Captive Earl (What Happens In Scotland Book 3) (6 page)

This escapade would be in every paper in London. And if they were fortunate, it would only be offensive caricatures with their surnames and titles obscured.

Anger burned in his chest. She’d carelessly put her own reputation at risk by hopping into his carriage and insisting she travel with him to Gretna Green. Depositing her back onto the street would have only drawn more speculation and rumor. He’d had little choice but to entertain her demand.

The only hope he had of salvaging her reputation—because clearly he was in that business as of late—was dependent on him getting the hell out of this predicament.

Morning came slowly. After sleeping in fits, he woke to Gwen nestled against him, her face pressed to his neck, her hand on his chest.

It was a long, torturous hour before she gently awoke. Her eyes fluttered open as she stretched seductively, extending her long limbs—damn her. If he didn’t know better, he would say she was doing it by design.

“Mmmmm.” She glanced up at him and smiled. Then it appeared to dawn on her just where she was, and whom she was embracing. “Oh, heavens.” She jerked away from him, and he immediately missed her warmth.

“What were you doing?” she asked, her tone accusatory.

He rolled his eyes heavenward. “If you will notice, my hands are still tied. I am afraid you cannot place the blame
on me.”

He loved the way she looked in the morning—tousled and sleep drenched, her lips full and enticing. It occurred to him that before this trip, he’d never woken up next to a woman before—his business was usually completed and dispatched well before the sun rose.

She jumped off the bed, her eyes wide. But the cold seemed to hit her just then. Through the sheer fabric of her chemise, her beautiful nipples had beaded into tight little buds. His cock throbbed painfully.

As though she sensed the direction of his thoughts, she grabbed one of the blankets off the bed and held it up to her chest, covering herself.

“That” —she pointed to the bed, then gestured between them— “did not happen.”

“Again,”
he said.

She blinked. “Pardon?”

“We woke similarly back at the inn.”

“Oh. Right.
That
did not happen either. All of this will be forgotten as soon as we return home.”

“In that, at least, we are agreed.”

“Good.”

“Now untie me, or I shall see that you are properly punished for kidnapping me.”

Her eyes narrowed as she clutched the blanket with white knuckles. “Is that a threat?”

“Indeed, I believe it is. You’ve kidnapped a respected member of the
ton
. Surely you realize that must come with a consequence.”

Respected
was a tad over the top, but the general idea was the same. If news had already gotten out that he was the Earl of Hastings, then there would be no end to the outcry of his absence. Mothers would want to parade their daughters under his nose—and how could they do that if he was nowhere to be found?

“If I untied you, you’d be out that door in a trice,” she said. “So you can just forget about it.”

Oh, how wrong she was. The first thing he would do is kiss those damn lips. They’d been tempting him all night.

On instinct, he pulled against the rope binding his wrists—the headboard shook, but the rope held fast. His skin was raw, sore, but that didn’t stop him from testing the rope at every opportunity, in the event that it had spontaneously unraveled or unknotted itself—which, of course, it had not.

“You must be hungry.” Gathering the blankets up so they wouldn’t drag, she walked to the door. “Stay here. I won’t be a moment,” she said before disappearing.

Stay here.
As if he had a choice. Good God, he’d make her suffer. And he would take
great
pleasure in that suffering.

When Gwen returned, she was dressed—
thank God
—and carrying a tray with cheese and bread. She set the tray down on the nightstand and turned toward the darkened fireplace. Matthias watched as she leaned down, the tapes along the back of her bodice untied, hanging loose down her back.

Her dress was designed to have a maid cinch it up in the back. And with no one here to help her, she had no choice but to leave it unlaced.

Matthias allowed his gaze to rove over the enticing curve of her backside. What he wouldn’t give to peel that dress off her body and smooth his hands over her naked skin. She would be soft and feminine. She would taste like strawberries and cream.

Christ.
What was wrong with him? Imagining Gwen—of all the women in the world—naked beneath him?

She was a damn temptress and he had no diversion, no defense. In Town, when he observed her standing in the corner of a ballroom, looking shy and ethereal, he would divert himself with brandy, whist, or a flock of comely widows. It had worked brilliantly—until he next saw Gwen and the cycle would begin all over again.

Here, there was nothing to divert him.

It was just her, him, and this damn cottage.

“Blast it,” she huffed, standing up. She dusted off her skirts with clipped movements. “We shall freeze to death before this fire lights.”

From what he could see, she was trying to light the log itself instead of catching a piece of kindling first. He could help her, but he decided riling her would be far more amusing.

“Come here, Gwendolyn.” He smiled. “I’ll keep you warm.”

He was not above using his skills in the bedchamber to seduce her. Women, when worked up into a lather, could be quite pliable. Though how he could accomplish such a task while restrained was another matter. He was good, but he was not quite
that
good.

She turned to him, hands placed on her hips. “That will
not
be happening.” She narrowed her eyes. “It’s a good thing you’re tied up.”

“Yes,” he said. “It is. I’m tempted to teach you a lesson about kidnapping men and carting them off to remote cottages. Alone.”

“
One
man,” she corrected. “And it’s not as though you are a stranger.
Really
.”

She moved toward him, sitting on the edge of the mattress—as far from touching him as possible—and cut a piece of cheese with the knife she must have found somewhere in the cottage. She held the cheese up to his lips.

He opened his mouth, and she placed it on his tongue—a second before his lips came around her finger. With a sharp intake of breath, she jerked her hand back and scowled. He smiled at her show of innocence.

“You are a hopeless rake,” she hissed.

That sharp, indignant outrage was what intrigued him most about her. She was among the only members of her sex, apart from his mother, who dared to tell him how she truly felt.

But he could see the curiosity in her wide azure eyes. He’d sparked something inside her—something he intended to fan into a white-hot flame before this was all over.

“Release one of my hands, and I would be happy to feed myself. Though, I must admit, your feeding me is quite enjoyable.”

“Cur.”

She cut off another hunk of cheese and shoved it into his mouth. He coughed, chewing only briefly before she shoved another piece in after it.

He eyed the knife she held in her hand. It had a sharp, serrated edge, and if he could just get ahold of it—
he
would have
her
tied up to the bed, and then the
real
fun could begin.

“What does a chap have to do to get a spot of tea around here?”

A flash of horror crossed her face. It was as though he’d asked her to make a ten-course meal. Then he remembered...She was a knight’s daughter. She’d never made tea before.

He flicked his chin toward the fireplace at the other end of the room. “On that mantel, there is a tinderbox. Inside there should be a flint and firesteel.”

She walked to the fireplace and picked up the box, looking at it curiously. Opening the small box gingerly, she pulled out a small piece of flint and the O shaped firesteel. “These?”

“Bring them here.”

She hesitated only a moment before finally conceding. She handed them to him. He took the flint and firesteel in hand and showed her how to use them.

“Light the fire like this and then place the water over the heat, love. Then place the tea inside the pot. There must be a pinch around somewhere. No self-respecting Scot would be without tea.”

She sobered and glared at him, indignant. “Well, of course.” She pushed out a breath. “I suppose tea would warm us both. It would delay the frostbite, in any event.”

Getting up, she walked to door, turning back around just before she reached it. “Don’t go anywhere,” she said with an amused glint in her eye.

He clenched his jaw, and focused on the one sobering thought that circled in his mind. When he finally managed to free himself, he was going to taste those candied lips, and then he was going to strangle her.

CHAPTER SIX

It had taken thirty minutes of fumbling with the flint and firesteel before she finally created a spark fit enough to light the kindling. She discovered the trick was igniting the twigs first, which would then smolder and kindle the larger logs.

But she’d done it, and she felt quite accomplished.

She had then fetched water from the stone well outside, which was not as difficult as she feared it would be. Indeed, it was quite simple.

The difficulty came when she set about
boiling
said water. She put water inside the white porcelain teapot she’d found above the hearth, and placed it on the grate suspended over the flame.

Take
that
, Father. In his eyes, she could do
nothing
right. Though she had learned
precisely
how much sugar and milk to add to his tea—he never failed to comment on her inability to mix it properly. Or complain that she had allowed the tea to cool too long before pouring out.

But she had
lit
a fire, and not even her father could snatch that small victory away from her. Though lighting the fire was only half the battle—there was still the actual making of tea to conquer.

How long did it take for water to boil? What did boiling water
look
like? Her education in the kitchen was quite lacking. She’d always had servants to prepare meals and serve the tea.

Opening the lid, she dipped her finger into the water. It was still tepid.
Drat.
She crossed her arms over her chest, and glared at the teapot, willing it to boil.

As she waited and waited, and
waited,
her thoughts drifted to Matthias. When she’d walked in on him a moment ago, he’d looked far too comfortable for her liking. It was astonishing how powerful he looked, even tethered and leashed. And of course there was no reining in that mouth of his. He was a hopeless rake. But his words would have no effect on her—she was determined to ignore the chaotic myriad of feelings he inspired.

Even if those feelings were…
stimulating.

Several minutes later, she thought she heard something happening inside the teapot. She lifted the lid, and instantly jerked her hand back, dropping the lid of the teapot into the fire. “Ow!”

The lid was scalding hot, and she’d managed to burn herself. Her fingertips stung painfully, and she blew on them.

“You must boil the water in the pot.” The low, masculine voice came from behind and Gwen froze, her feet rooted to the spot. “But I applaud your efforts. If the teapot doesn’t shatter, the tea may yet be palatable.”

When she’d gathered her faculties, she turned slowly to find Matthias standing a few feet away, his large, masculine frame leaning against the doorway. In his hand, he held the cheese knife she’d left behind in the bedchamber.

Drat.

She should have known. Matthias was far too clever. It was now clear—he’d sent her on a fool’s mission to prepare the tea, anticipating she would leave the cheese knife behind. He’d laid the trap and she had fallen into it blindly.

Sauntering forward with that all-too-confident swagger, he stopped in front of her—his body so close, she could
feel
the heat of his nearness. Slowly, she lifted her gaze from his chest, up, up, until she was looking into his beautiful face. She shook herself mentally. His perfectly normal, slightly
attractive
face, she corrected.

She took a step back, but she was met with the hard edge of the kitchen table. She couldn’t go any farther. She was completely trapped.

“I, um…” She shrugged, laughter bubbling up from her chest. “You aren’t
angry,
are you?”

His eyes narrowed, and she had the sense that he was not going to laugh this off. “You have drugged me, kidnapped me, carted me off to God knows where, and left me trussed up to a bed for days.” He leaned down, his lips hovering a hairsbreadth from hers. “Angry doesn’t even
begin
to describe how I feel.”

He took one more step toward her—just one, but it was enough. Their bodies touched, his hard chest pressed against her. She couldn’t breathe—all the air was trapped in her lungs—and her face felt flushed.

He gripped her upper arms and pulled her into a hard, delicious kiss. It took her breath away. Blood rushed to her head and she suddenly felt dizzy.

She swayed under the onslaught of sensation and his strong hands curled around her upper arms—holding her steady. She was surrounded by the smell of him, the taste of him, the
heat
of him, and it did strange and alarming things to her body.

Just as she sank more deeply into the kiss, he growled against her lips, and then pulled away.

“H-how dare you.” She’d intended for the words to sound strong, but they emerged breathless and uncertain. Perhaps she should have slapped him, but truthfully, she couldn’t move, even if she wanted to. She was completely stunned. “That was…That was wholly improper…”

A smile pulled at the edges of his full lips. “It was an impulse, and I never ignore an impulse.”

She shoved at his granite chest, but he didn’t budge. He was too strong, and clearly not in the mood to give her even a fraction of space. What a brute.

Her every nerve hummed with the memory of his kiss, but somehow, miraculously, she was able to summon a scowl. “Well, ignore it in the future. This” —she gestured between them in the little space there was— “is not…proper.”