The Care and Feeding of Your Captive Earl (What Happens In Scotland Book 3) (9 page)

He shook his head. She’d set them both on this path the moment she’d climbed into his carriage and demanded she travel with him to Scotland. He’d tried to dissuade her, but a determined woman is difficult to dislodge. Rather than making a scene, right there in High Street, he’d allowed her and her maid to enter the carriage. And with no time to spare, they’d set off for Scotland.

That was when their fate had been sealed, he now realized. Though he didn’t think anyone had seen them, he couldn’t be certain. Even now, rumors could be running rampant in Town, her character and reputation torn to shreds by the mouths of vicious gossips.

There was only one way to remedy the situation, and it might very well kill him if he allowed it to. Marriage was not an institution one entered into lightly, but given his troublesome obsession, and her likely ruination, it appeared they had little choice.

He ducked out of the room and nipped down to the kitchen. He was relatively useless when it came to preparing food, but his governess had thought it pertinent to teach him the essentials. In case he was ever stranded, she would say.

His current situation qualified unequivocally.

The kitchen was simple, unadorned. Splayed out on the roughhewn table in the center of the room, were the groceries Gwen must have purchased in the village—butter, one loaf of bread, two more (dreadfully awful) meat pies, three potatoes, half a dozen eggs, a hunk of cheese, a few apples, and a head of cabbage. It was hardly enough for breakfast, let alone enough to sustain two people for a week.

Perhaps he should just be glad she’d thought to bring food at all. Ladies of her position occupied themselves with little more than fashion plates and embroidery. Preparing meals was not a diversion they often entertained—or cared to entertain, for that matter. That was why servants and cooks existed.

Grabbing a bowl from one of the shelves lining the wall, he set about making an omelet. It was one of three dishes he could cook and he was thankful in that moment for his governess’s foresight in teaching him.

She had been a remarkable woman—intelligent, witty, and one of the only women in his life to ever show him real affection—something even his mother was not inclined to do. She’d faulted him for looking too much like his father, and thus, her affection was not granted.

After lighting the fire in the stove, he cracked several eggs into the bowl. As he whisked the eggs with a fork, he wondered if Gwen would be such a mother to her children. Though she certainly had a sharp tongue, he could not imagine her being so harsh to a child. Indeed, he could envision her rocking a babe to sleep in her arms, a gentle smile on her lips.

Blinking, he shook his head. Where had that thought come from? It had always been impressed upon him that he would need to continue the family name, but never, until this moment, had he ever envisioned the child—or the child’s mother.

Outside, sheets of rain still blanketed the wild landscape. He was tempted to set out on his own and fetch a carriage to return for Gwen—but his conscience wouldn’t allow him to leave her here alone. If something were to happen to him, she would be left defenseless.

No, they would need to wait until the rain let up.

“You are cooking.”

Matthias turned at the sound of Gwen’s voice. She stood at the doorway, her long blond hair in a tumble around her shoulders. His eyes traveled down her body. She was wearing only her shift, the fabric so sheer he could glimpse her pale pink flesh beneath.

Christ.

“Ah, yes,” he said, shaking off thoughts of seeing her unclothed. “Omelets. Only one of three dishes that I can cook, truth be told.”

She smiled—actually smiled, and he felt his heart stutter against his ribs. “Then I suppose I should be grateful—lest we be eating raw eggs. What are the other two dishes you can make?”

“Cheese on toast and cawl.”

She lifted a brow at cawl.

“I had a Welsh governess.”

She stepped into the kitchen, pulling a shawl over her shoulders, hiding her magnificent breasts from view. He shouldn’t have noticed, but it was like trying to look away from an exquisite Grecian painting. She existed to be seen. By him.
Only
him.

“Your
governess
taught you to cook? What a clever woman. I only wish mine had been half as industrious. Such a skill would be useful right about now. As it is, I’m quite hopeless in the kitchen.”

There was something in her voice, in the way she looked down at the ground as she declared herself hopeless that stirred his more protective feelings.

“That is only because you haven’t had the opportunity to learn. Come, I will be your tutor. Fortunately for us, omelets are rather simple.”

When she hesitated, he reached out and grabbed her wrist, tugging her toward him. He placed her between him and the table, then placed an egg in her hand. Together, they cracked the egg over the bowl.

“Oh!” She laughed.

The curve of her backside fit perfectly against him, and it drove him to distraction. He was surrounded by her scent—an intoxicating mixture of lavender and something that was entirely Gwendolyn. The heat of her body, her very presence, was like a balm to his soul.

He imagined laying her down on the cold stone floor, spreading her thighs, and pushing his cock into her sweet, virtuous heat.

The sounds of her moans were forever branded in his mind. Should he be admitted to Bedlam, he would still never be rid of them. They were now a part of him—entwined with the very air he breathed.

Matthias shook his head and stepped back, placing himself on the opposite side of the table—putting at least that small barrier between them.

“May I try it on my own?” she asked excitedly.

He couldn’t help but smile at her eagerness. “Take an egg and crack it over the bowl just as I showed you.”

She took the egg in hand, but cracked it on the rim of the bowl a fraction too hard and it crumbled—shell and all—into the bowl. With a sharp intake of breath, she jerked her hand back, as though she’d just done something unforgivable.

With her gaze fixed on the floor, she clasped her hands in front of her as though she was afraid they would break free and cause more damage.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I am such an idiot. I did tell you I was hopeless in the kitchen. Truth be told, I am hopeless at most things. Or so my father has told me.”

Ah, he was beginning to see why she thought so little of herself.

Stepping around the table, he took the fork in hand and tugged her back toward the table. He placed the fork in her hand and guided her, sifting the shells out bit by bit, until none remained.

“There, you see,” he whispered in her ear. “No harm done. The omelet is not spoilt, after all.”

He stirred the eggs, then poured them onto a skillet, which he’d found hanging above the hearth, and placed it over the fire. He turned back to her, regarding her carefully.

“Why do you judge yourself so harshly?”

She blinked up at him, clearly surprised by his question. “I don’t judge myself harshly.”

“Calling yourself an idiot is not harsh?”

She pushed out a breath, glancing back down at the floor—which, at the moment, seemed to hold great fascination. “It was an idiotic thing to do. You instructed me, and I should have done it properly,” she replied quietly.

“Is that what your mother told you?”

“No,” she said. “My father. He could be quite difficult to please—for me, at least. Nothing I did ever seemed sufficient. My very presence in the world seemed to vex him greatly.”

It was one thing they had in common, then. His mother had never been outwardly cruel, but her indifference felt just as violent as if she’d inflicted a physical blow. Indeed, he remembered praying she would find some fault in him—for
any
acknowledgment would have been preferable to the cold, quiet nothingness she’d bestowed upon him as a child.

They ran in the same circles and Matthias knew Gwen’s father. He was a thin, austere man and took little pleasure in anything. It didn’t surprise Matthias that the man would find fault with a handsome, intelligent woman such as Gwen.

“Is this why you attempt to hide in the shadows when you are out in society, due to your father’s criticisms?”

She wasn’t a natural wallflower. She was bright, like a jewel that drew one’s attention. She had an innate vivacity that drew men to her. There’d always been the occasional gentleman who had not taken Matthias warnings about her, and insisted on sniffing around her skirts. She usually didn’t take notice. Instead, she sat in the quietly in the corner, watching the world from afar.

Her cheeks flushed a charming shade of pink. “I don’t hide.”

“I’ve watched you closely. At the Tisdales’ ball, you passed the night in the company of a potted palm, which was situated at the very periphery of the room.”

Her gaze fluttered up to meet his, and a glimmer of amusement lit in her eyes. “Oh, did I, sir?”

He realized his error then. In proving his point, he’d inadvertently confessed to watching her—something he did far too often to ever admit openly. Indeed, he could hardly keep his eyes off of her when she was out in society. Fortunately for him, she didn’t often come out. Indeed, he suspected she avoided it whenever possible.

“Yes, well—” He dropped his hand and cleared his throat. “I happened to be looking for Miss Quisenberry at the time.”

Her smile fell and her gaze drifted back to the floor. “Oh, Miss Quisenberry. Yes, of course.”

Once the omelets were done, Matthias spooned the contents onto two plates, setting one in front of her. Gwen found some utensils, and they both tucked into their breakfast.

Silence stretched between them, but there was no awkwardness.

When they were finished, they set about cleaning the dishes—that was, until the water was so dirty, it could not be used. And they still had several dishes yet to wash.

“We need more water,” she said.

He nodded, picked up two buckets from beneath the washing table, and handed one to her. She took it, her bare hand skimming his just briefly as she grabbed the handle. When their skin touched, a small jolt of electricity zipped through him.

If she noticed, she said nothing as he led her out to the well. Fortunately, there was a momentary respite from the rain, and all they were left with was mud, mud, and more mud.

Gwen set her pail on the edge of the well and glanced up at the darkening sky. More rain would arrive soon and they would do well to dispatch their business quickly.

Matthias placed his bucket on the hook and lowered it into the well. Gwen leaned against the mouth of the well, watching as he drew the water.

“Thank you for today.” She smiled. “I would never have believed I was capable of making an omelet. I feel quite accomplished.”

For some strange reason, her statement struck him square in the chest. In all of her life, had no one told her she was worth more than scornful looks and hurtful criticisms?

He turned to face her. “You are capable of a great many things, Gwendolyn Wilbraham. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.”

Her gaze dropped to the ground—the way they did whenever she felt uncomfortable—and she nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

He captured her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “You are a remarkable woman. And I say that as a man you kidnapped and seduced.”

Her lips turned up into a smile. “Seduced you?” she asked in feigned astonishment. “I am a lady. I did no such thing.”

“Indeed, my lady,” he said, inching his face closer to hers. “From the moment I saw you at that damned musicale, you have been tempting me. Seducing me with that coy smile and those nervous glances across the fountain.” Still holding her chin, he ran his thumb along the line of her jaw. “Shall I make a confession?”

He could see her throat move as she swallowed. “Go right ahead.”

“I went out there knowing you would come. I had been watching you, and I knew it was only a matter of time before you stepped out to take some air.”

The astonishment hit her swiftly, that much was clear. With her mouth slightly open, her eyes wide, she looked as though she could scarce believe it. He could scarce believe it himself. Never had he taken such an interest in a woman—but there it was.

He lifted her chin a notch higher. “You have been fixed in my thoughts since that damn musicale, Gwen. You have bewitched me. I have tried to put you out of my mind, but I cannot. Perhaps I should stop trying.”

And then he kissed her. Long and hard, pouring all of his need and frustration into her. Dropping his hand, he hooked his arm around her waist and pulled her flush with his chest. She fit against him as though God had created her for this very purpose–to be his.

Or perhaps it was the reverse.

With a soft moan of surrender, she melted against him, offering no resistance. Gathering her hem with his free hand, he found the soft, supple skin of her thigh. He raked his fingers upward, until he came to the globes of her backside.

The urgency inside him grew to a fevered pitch. If he continued like this, he would not be able to stop himself. He’d flick her skirts up and fuck her right there, in the mud, in front of God and country.

Abruptly, he pulled away, angry with himself for allowing it to get that far. But before he could step away, she pulled him back by the collar and kissed him quickly on the lips.

She was a siren. A damned temptress.

“You play a dangerous game, Gwen. Keep it up and I will take you right here in the mud, be damned the consequences. Is that what you want?”

CHAPTER NINE

Keep it up and I will take you right here in the mud, be damned the consequences. Is that what you want?

With him standing there looking so powerful and virile—she wondered if the price might be worth the prize. He’d proven himself kind and generous in these past few days. How many men would cast themselves as far as Scotland to prevent a friend’s sister from eloping? And when he’d woken to find himself kidnapped and tied up, he hadn’t been violent with her—as her father would have been.

But moreover, he made her feel…dare she say, intelligent?
Valued.