Untamable Rogue (Formerly: A Christmas Baby) (6 page)

He must also find a way to convince his bride to act the part of devoted wife, at least in the presence of his grandfather, if Ash decided to keep her, that was.

He stopped dunking her and tried to scrub wherever he could reach, which was impossible in the face of her struggle to get free, her screams, bites, kicks, and the occasional poke in the eye.

When soaping every available inch of her fully dressed did not work, Ash tried tearing her clothes off, which worked as regards to her socks and shoes, though her man’s shirt was a bit trickier. When he finally pulled her second arm free of the shirt, and won the tug of war over that piece of clothing, he tossed it over his shoulder as she crouched low in the water.

The hiss and sputter from the hearth, and sudden loss of light, told him her wet shirt had snuffed the fire. “Bloody brat.” Ash pulled her trousers over her hips. “These are miles too big for you,” he said, tugging and pulling so hard, he dragged her under again.

Her head and shoulders emerged and she sucked in air.

“Another rag pick, I suppose?” Ash said, holding her trousers by two fingers, and she slapped the water with both hands and splashed him like a tidal wave.

“I have never laid an angry hand on a woman in my life,” Ash said, wiping his face, “but in your case, I’ll make an exception.”

“Go to hell,” said his blushing bride, then she screeched as his hand chanced upon something that felt like a band about her breasts.

“Fancy this,” he said, learning the shape of it like a blind man. “Hiding our light beneath a bushel, are we?” He located the tucked end of the binding between her breasts. Thence began the fight to unwind her, and when he succeeded—though she tried to cover her exposed breasts at every turn—he found two hands-full more bride than he expected.

“Perhaps tumbling you won’t be as difficult as I supposed,” he said, testing her breasts as if he’d be using them for two plump pillows, a pleasant surprise given her willowy structure. “You’ll need fattening up, but not here,” he said. “Here, you are amazingly perfect.”

His bride took one of his happy hands from her breast and bit it … hard.

“Blast and damnation!” Ash pulled his hand from the jaws of death. “I think you’ve drawn blood.”

“Good,” said she, as she rose like a vengeful goddess, escaped her bath with a graceful leap, ran naked through his bedchamber and into the corridor. Hair in a wild, wet tangle, she knocked Grimsley on his arse, his pot of tea spraying the upper hall in puddling circles as it twirled like a dervish.

“Start the fire in the dressing room,” Ash said on his rushing way by, realizing as he ran up the stairs that he should have helped his man up, though he couldn’t spare the time.

He cornered his bride in a bedchamber housing two screeching maids, Nan and Mim, trying to cover themselves in their night-rails. “What are you screaming about?” Ash asked. “The mistress of the house is more naked than you are.”

That shut them up, for this was the first they’d heard of a mistress.

Ash had her now, cornered between a bed and a wall, and so he took off his shirt and threw it at her. She took it, half surprised, half haughty, and put it on, and then he lifted her into his arms and carried her out with all the dignity he could muster, given the fact that his chest was bare, his clothes soaked, and his temper near to exploding.

“I’m going to win every time,” he said, which words seemed to take the fight right out of her. Though she squeaked in token protest, she let her head fall to his shoulder, sighed as if with resignation, and said nothing more.

When Ash got Lark back to his dressing room, the hearth had been cleaned out, dry wood and kindling set, and the fire flaming to life. This time Lark let him undo her shirt buttons—his shirt buttons—then she climbed into the tub of her own accord. “Give me the soap,” she said, grabbing it from his hand with as much force as she’d previously used to fight him.

Ash reared back. “Is this a trick?”

“I had forgotten how good it feels to be clean,” she said. “You should put some dry clothes on.”

“Right, and leave you alone? Since I’m daft, of course I will do exactly as you suggest.”

“You’ll catch your death.”

“You wish.” He knelt and grasped her shoulder to try and wash her face, only to have her knock him off his feet, not for the first time that night, and wash her face herself.

As he righted himself, he saw emerge from beneath the grime, skin of lucent cream porcelain and eyes so deep and clear, they showed all the facets of a mystery and all the hope of a bright new dawn. Damn.

Her exposed innocence so tied his tongue, he did fetch dry things, but remembered the danger, grabbed them fast, and came right back, only to find she hadn’t moved. She was washing her hair, and the more she lathered, the more appeared a rich mass of cropped honey, gilded in firelight by licks of ivory and strands of pure gold.

Ash had been right; she had not stopped fighting. The minute he dropped his trousers, she stood screaming again, this time as if he were about to commit bloody murder.

Ash clamped a hand over her mouth. “I’m changing into dry clothes, nothing more, and I’m doing it here, so I can keep a close watch on you. Do you understand me?”

Larkin nodded, her eyes wide and fearful.

“I’m only changing, as you suggested. Sit back down and finish washing your hair. Just turn your head if you do not wish to see anything more of your new husband than that for which you are prepared. I will be dressed in a minute.”

As Ash took his hand away, his bride regarded him as if he might eat her alive, then she released a breath, turned her gaze, and lowered herself again to the water to finish washing her hair.

Ash wondered what prompted her fear and nearly laughed. Her father had all but sold her to a stranger, and he, the stranger in question, had stripped her naked, and scrubbed her porcelain skin, as if it were tree bark.

From her perspective, his actions did appear frightening, but what had she said about knowing men and knowing them well? It made no sense, though it did remind him to send for the doctor the minute he left her, so he could be certain, before he attempted to sow his seed, that the seed of no other had previously taken root.

“The bedchamber through that door is my wife’s,” Ash said, now clothed in his inexpressibles, shirttails hanging out. “You will sleep there, of course. My bedchamber is through the door opposite. ‘Tis the chamber we came through when we arrived.”

After a silent minute, Larkin nodded and returned her attention to her bath.

“Grimsley is bringing you another pot of tea,” Ash said. “And since you’ve decided to behave yourself, I shall send a maid up to help you finish and show you to your room. No tricks, mind. I stationed guards at all the doors.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Ash poured himself a third cup of the bitter brew the East India Company had introduced a century or more ago as
coffee
, which Grimsley
said
should set him right for this night’s work. Though he’d prefer black tea, this should sober him better.

He’d see.

Dutifully sipping, despite his dislike of the stuff, Ash sat in the butter soft leather chair beside his bed and thought that
perhaps
he should not have imbibed quite so much brandy, after all, while waiting for Doctor Buckston to examine his bride.

Though curious as to why the medical man raised a brow as he pronounced Larkin
untouched
, Ash dismissed the quandary as of no consequence. “May as well put an end to her maidenhead, as soon as I can,” he said to the empty room.

He finished a second pot of the brew, and set the empty cup on the table beside him. “Arky.” Ash scoffed and reminded himself that all he had to do was mount her, close his eyes—as Myles suggested—and plant his seed. After all, he’d been practicing for years. How hard could it be?

He looked down at his flaccid self and sighed. “Not half hard enough, by damn, to pull this one off.” He took the key player in hand. “Liven up there, soldier, and give us a salute,” he said, closing his eyes as he tried to work himself into a semblance of arousal.

Ash imagined his bride as he’d last seen her—cropped hair, clean and honey gold, sparkling cat’s eyes intense, full creamy breasts, heavy in his hands, dusky nipples pouting, as if for his mouth.

He moved a hand along his length through his breeches, as he imagined the taste of her on his tongue, the feel of her gloving him….

No more than a minute later, he groaned, opened his eyes, and stopped short of spilling.

Pleased with his ready state, he rose.

When he entered his wife’s bedchamber—his bravado born of self-stimulation, and a great deal of sexual experience—Ash knew she would enjoy his attentions, if she cooperated for once, so he might keep his arousal long enough to do the deed.

‘Twas the least she could do. He’d done her the favor, after all, of taking the irritating brat in boys clothes, and turning her into a wife—a Lady, no less—while removing her from a life of ale-stink drudgery.

But when he beheld the clean and sweet-smelling seductress who sat in his wife’s bed, she bore no resemblance to the filthy hoyden he’d rescued, but more like the fantasy siren who’d hardened him to granite not three minutes before.

All sleepy sensuality and burgeoning promise, Larkin Rose sat in wait, her ripe breasts damned-near spilling from the ebon brocade dressing gown he’d leant her, a profusion of milk and honey curls tumbling toward the shoulders he would cup while kissing her senseless.

“This is not me,” she said, halting him.

“Not you?” Ash cocked a brow. “Well, whoever you are, I find myself pleased to find you awaiting my pleasure.”

“I await
no man’s
pleasure.”

Ash wished he’d taken a third pot of coffee, or never drunk the brandy at all, for she spoke so softly, he was not certain this was the same woman to whom he had pledged his troth at pistol-point.

A sultry seductress had replaced the she-cat who’d throttled him through the bath from hell. “Your hair,” he said, “is like the wheat on the stained glass in the chapel when the sun shines through.”

“It’s clean, you drunken dolt.”

Could one ever be
too
sober?  “Larkin, I presume?” He stepped her way.

“Come one step closer and die, you whelp of Satan! I peeked into your room on my way in. I saw how bosky you were.”

“Ah.” Ash grinned. “The Lady Arky, I presume?” He gave her a mockery of a bow.  “I stand before you, bosky no more.”

His red-faced bride did not look inclined toward belief, but she raised a blanket with a trembling hand to cover her breasts. “Get out!”

Ash caught the concern in her look and wondered if she were playing the kind of game any tavern wench might, a coy pretence of innocence, though the doctor
had
proclaimed her virtue.

“A bit late to act the prude,” Ash said, “given your cheating sire, our forced marriage, and your salty selection of sailor’s curses. While I suppose your profanity should not be a surprise, I would like to commend you on the intact state of your maidenhead, so the good doctor swears.”

Larkin licked her lips, her panic receding, until she slyly slipped her hand beneath the covers
…
and Ash expected her to produce a form of titillation.

His manhood gave a hard willing salute at the notion as Lark rose to her knees, increasing his appetite, his imagination, and his lust.

As he stepped closer, her blanket fell away, and the dressing gown she wore parted down the center, revealing a perfect sliver of naked womanhood.