Ever His Bride Page 9

  Felicity heard the footsteps slow to a stop on the other side of the pantry door. She turned to motion Giles to hide, but he was already behind the plate rack, bunched up among a bank of aprons, poking cheese into his already bulging mouth. The child had eaten as if he intended stocking up on enough to last the rest of the year.

  Claybourne burst through the door just as she was fitting the lock back into the hasp. His hair drooped against his forehead, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, his collar and stock missing entirely. The brawn she’d imagined beneath his coat was an extraordinary fact.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  Felicity lifted her gaze to his and found there a carefully banked flame. Dear God, had he seen her looking?

  He left the doorway and came toward her in that deliberate, overbearing stride of his. “Did she feed you?”

  “She? Mrs. Sweeney, you mean?”

  He looked exasperated and charmingly rumpled. “I understand that my servants neglected to find you a bed. I feared they’d neglected to feed you as well.”

  “No. I was fed well, thank you.”

  “But you haven’t a bed.”

  Giles poked his face out from behind the bank of aprons. She frowned at him in a warning to stay hidden.

  “It’s no bother, Mr. Claybourne. I was going to sleep here, next to the fire.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you hadn’t a chamber when I ordered you to bed?”

  “I didn’t think you’d be interested. You seemed occupied. And there’s no need to disturb your household. I don’t plan to stay that long. The kitchen will be fine with me.”

  “But not with me.”

  “Then where shall I sleep, Mr. Claybourne? On top of one of your everlasting crates? Give me back my bedding and I will.”

  “You’ll sleep the night in a bed, on a mattress.”

  “I won’t have you evict one of your hard-pressed servants from their own bed—”

  “You’ll sleep in mine.”

  Tangled in his bedclothes, wrapped in the searing kind of heat he was throwing off at the moment— “I will not, Mr. Claybourne!”

  “You’re my wife. You’ll sleep in my bed. This way, Miss Mayfield.” He turned away just as Giles took the fool notion to race toward the garden door.

  “No!” she said, unsure who she was talking to.

  Giles made it as far as the rocker before Claybourne whirled back on her.

  “No?” But the rustling of Giles’s dive for cover drew Claybourne’s eyes as the flicking tail of a rabbit draws a wolf. He looked past her, scanning the counters, the cupboards. She fancied him sniffing the air. The only sound was the rasp of the rocker runners against the floor. Her folio lay exposed on the butcher’s block. Dear God, if he found it, he would quiz her without mercy to learn how it had been returned.

  She tapped on his chest and drew his gaze back to her. Now, she was the rabbit, caught in the wolf’s cold gleam.

  “All right, I’ll sleep in your bed, Mr. Claybourne, as long as you don’t.”

  He snorted. “You have my word.”

  Feeling roundly displaced, and utterly unattractive by the conviction in his voice, she followed him through the butler’s pantry into the dining room. Needing to return for her folio and for one last word to Giles, she stopped abruptly.

  “My clothes,” she said, backing toward the pantry. “They’re drying in the kitchen. I’ll need them in the morning.”

  He seemed skeptical, but Branson chose that moment to enter the dining room, nearly dragging Ernest behind him.

  “Be quick,” Claybourne said to her. “There you see, Branson, I’ve located Miss Mayfield. No thanks to you.”

  “Mayfield?” Felicity heard Ernest ask innocently as she dashed back into the kitchen. If Giles was still in the room, he’d hidden himself well.

  “Eat your fill from the larder, Mr. Pepperpot,” she whispered into the dimness, wondering if she spoke in vain, “then sleep in the stables tonight. I’ll come find you in the morning.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Claybourne.” The whisper came from behind the stove.

  Yes, the lad would survive. She hoped he wouldn’t steal too much from the house.

  “And I thank you, Mr. Pepperpot.” She wrapped the folio in the folds of her still-damp skirt and hurried back to the dining room.

  “But I swear to you, Branson,” Ernest said, “I heard something in the stable. That’s why we were awake when you come home. Willis heard it, too.”

  Probably Giles, sneaking around, trying to find a place to hide.

  “Hire a rat catcher, Branson,” Claybourne said. “Do it tomorrow. I’ll have no vermin living in my stables.”

  “Yessir.”

  Giles would be safely gone by then. She could feel Claybourne’s gaze shift between her nightshirt and Ernest’s matching one, and knew the sight wasn’t sitting well with him.

  “To bed with you, Miss Mayfield,” Claybourne said with a jerk of his head.

  She wanted to ask where he would be sleeping, but the question would answer itself come morning. And she was weary enough not to care. “Good night, Mr. Claybourne,” she said.

  His chamber was warm; his sheets fresh and smelled of lime and folded sunlight. She’d just settled into the mound of pillows when the door opened. Claybourne stood in the doorway, oil lamp in hand, and studied her for a moment before tossing an armful of blankets onto the other side of the bed.

  “I have plenty of blankets, Mr. Claybourne.”

  He said nothing as he set the lamp on the mantel, trimmed the wick to a pale glow, then walked around the foot of the big bed. The mattress dipped with his weight, a compelling force that tried its best to draw her toward him. When his first shoe hit the floor, she started, the sinister sound sending her heart up into her throat.

  “What do you think you are doing, Mr. Claybourne?”

  The other shoe hit the floor and he grabbed a handful of the blankets he’d brought in.

  “I’m going to sleep these few hours left to me.” His voice drowned in a groan as he lay back against the bank of pillows.

  Felicity pushed herself up against the headboard. “You’re sleeping here? With me?”

  “No, Miss Mayfield. You are sleeping with me.”

  “You gave your word that you wouldn’t sleep in your bed.”

  “I’m sleeping on my bed, not in it.”

  “This isn’t proper.”

  “It’s our wedding night, if you recall. Go to sleep.”

  “But …” The blasted man had a point. They were married, and sharing a bed on this night, of all the nights in a marriage, was altogether proper, if not expected. She wasn’t sure what would have been expected of her in an ordinary marriage bed. More than a kiss, certainly. But theirs wasn’t to be an ordinary marriage, and gave no hint that it would ever be. Her husband lay atop the counterpane, still in his clothes and covered by an entirely different pile of blankets. And he didn’t seem at all interested in her.

  Not at all. Which disappointed her more than she cared to admit. She’d been fighting an unreasonable urge to touch him, one that had stirred when he’d come back into the room just now. The same stirring she’d felt last night in the Cobson’s parlor when he’d pulled her close—stark terror and a superb sort of singing in her pulse. And it had come again later, just after she had signed her name in the marriage registry: when his gaze flitted to her mouth, then away, their marriage kiss evaporating with his disinterest. Which had been all for the best.

  But still, there was that odd whirlpooling commotion that seemed intent upon dragging her toward him. He didn’t seem to be affected by it in the least. He lay on his side, facing away from her, his hair dark against the pillow, his shoulder and back a wall.

  He was handsome in a frightening sort of way, like the dizzying view from atop the cliffs at Tintagel, like the terrible beauty of a dangerous storm.

  No, beauty wasn’t the right word; beauty was the bliss that happiness brought to a smile; it
was hope shining up from a fearless soul. Hunter Claybourne was sorrow and despair and bone-chilling dread. He seemed to thrive on this bleakness, proud of his ruthless ways, of taking advantage of his power.

  “Mr. Claybourne, did you know my father?”

  He didn’t answer, and she was about to give up and settle in for the night when his voice rumbled through the mattress, settling low in her chest.

  “I knew him only from a distance.”

  “He was a great railway engineer.”

  “He was a miserable business man.” Claybourne shifted his weight and stuffed his blanket beneath his folded arms.

  “That doesn’t matter to me in the least, Mr. Claybourne. The railways he designed and built will last a hundred years. He made me very proud.”

  “Your imprudent father left you with nothing but a feckless uncle and nearly bankrupt railway—”

  “Which you then stole from me.” She sat up and stared down at him.

  “The opportunity presented itself to me. Your uncle approached me—”

  “And you thought him quite the pigeon, didn’t you? Easy to pluck, ready to spit and roast. Didn’t expect a mouthful of feathers, did you?”

  Claybourne rolled up onto his elbow and glared at her through weary-lidded eyes, their color gone to silky black smoke in the dimness.

  “It was business, Miss Mayfield. I wanted the Drayhill-Starlington to extend a branch line into Ravenglass. If I hadn’t purchased it, then another man would have. And your fate would have been the same.”

  “Except, Mr. Claybourne, that I’d be married to someone else instead of to you.”

  The fire popped in the grate at the end of her statement, then fell to hissing.

  “Or you’d be in jail.” He snorted and presented his broad-shouldered back.

  Deserted again. And yet that immodest urge to have him kiss her, to finish off the business of their wedding ceremony nearly took her breath away. The urge would soon pass, never to be rekindled.

  “Good night, Mr. Claybourne.” She settled into the pillows and pulled the counterpane to her chin. Claybourne didn’t move, but his breathing eased after a time.

  Her wedding night. She tried to imagine herself lying next to a different man: someone who might smile now and then, someone less imposing, less baffling. Someone she loved with all her heart, a man who loved her in return.

  But no matter the strength of their character, every man she conjured had one trait in common—the face of Hunter Claybourne.

  Chapter 7

  Hunter lay awake all night, waiting. For what, he wasn’t sure, but he did know it had a great deal to do with the young woman lying beside him in his bed.

  His wife.

  His bedmate—one who endlessly roamed the mattress in search of the best place to nest. He’d suffered the brush of her hand across his temple, and her soft breathing against his arm. He’d spent most of the night aroused by the scent of her, by the very real fact of her alliance with him, and by that damned nightshirt, which was too thin and too big and belonged to Ernest, his blasted footman.

  Giving up on the notion of sleep before dawn, he bathed in the adjoining room, dressed in his crispest linen, put on his coat, and hurried downstairs to his breakfast.

  Ernest met him at the dining-room table with the usual dry toast, a plate of stew, and a steaming pot of tea. The young man seemed even more skittish than usual.

  “Uhm, sir …”

  “Yes, Ernest. Speak.”

  “Will she … be joining you, sir? I mean your wife … I mean Mrs. Claybourne—”

  “I have no idea what my wife will do for her breakfast.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Ernest bowed and started for the pantry.

  “Ernest, come back here.”

  “Yessir?” Ernest skidded to attention, shielding his chest with the tarnished breakfast tray.

  “Whose nightshirt is my wife wearing?”

  “Nightshirt? Oh, God!” The tray clattered to the floor and Ernest followed after it, sputtering. “Curse me, sir—I didn’t mean anything by it! She brought no clothes with her. Mrs. Sweeney said…”

  “Never mind, Ernest.” He should have turned the man out years ago. Loud noises seemed to send him over the edge. “Just see that it doesn’t happen again.”

  Ernest leaped to his feet clasping the tray, embarrassment staining his cheeks. “Sir, I would never presume to, that is—”

  “To the kitchen, man.” He watched his young valet plow through the pantry, nearly taking the door off its hinges. When he turned back to his breakfast, his wife was standing across from him on the other side of the table. She looked fresh as the day, her hair tucked into a springy bundle, her eyes sparkling with the same kind of mischief that had mocked him in his half-awake dreaming.

  “Good morning, Mr. Claybourne. Did you sleep well?”

  “Like a rock.”

  “Good. Then you won’t mind that me asking for a loan.”

  He was in the midst of swallowing a mouthful of tea when she threw this challenge at him, and the tea went down the wrong way. He spun out of his chair to deal with his fit of coughing, and when he finally recovered she was kneeling at the table, ladling blackberry preserves onto a square of his toast.

  “I’m sorry to have startled you, Mr. Claybourne. But, as you rightly pointed out yesterday, I was blindsided by an enterprising young urchin and now I haven’t a penny to my name.’’

  “And you want a loan? From me?” He sat again, amused at her brazen request.

  “Ten pounds should do it.” She rose from her kneeling and studied the stack of crates along the pantry wall.

  “Ten pounds?”

  “I have only the outfit I’m wearing, Mr. Claybourne.” She fingered the dingy blue folds of her skirt. “And it will fall to shreds long before this year is out.” She carried a small crate back to the table, placed it on the floor, then sat down on it. “What would your business associates say, if your wife was discovered in such a threadbare state? I don’t want to give you cause to blame me for tarnishing your precious reputation. And I also need travel money to cover my expenses until I can be paid for my articles.”

  If he hadn’t been looking so closely at her, he’d never have seen it: a glossy piece of straw caught up in a strand of hair just behind her ear. Where the devil had she been this morning? And when? She’d been asleep in his bed when he left her not a half-hour ago.

  “You’ll not be traveling any time soon,” he said more sharply than he’d meant, but his mind was fixed on that damning piece of straw and the sudden intake of her breath.

  “Article Two, Mr. Claybourne,” she said with equal sharpness. “I can travel as I please. My business is reporting on interesting travel spots, country inns, natural wonders, festivals. In order make the money I need to support myself, I must travel by train and coach to various locations across—”

  “Why would anyone want to read about such things?” The only place that piece of straw could have found its way into her hair was in his stable. And what in blazes had she been doing in his stable? Meeting someone? Ernest? Or that skinny reporter fellow from the Times? A shaft of pure jealousy pierced him; the shock of it set his head spinning.

  “Do you ever travel, Mr. Claybourne?”

  “As my business requires.” His fingers itched to pluck the straw from her hair and present the evidence to her. He wanted most of all to know how it got there.

  “Have you ever stayed in a comfortable-looking inn, but discovered upon retiring that the beds are saggy and the food indigestible?”

  “I learned a long time ago which places to avoid.”

  “Exactly. And my job is to see that the traveler doesn’t make that mistake in the first place. In any case, I’ll be going to London today.”

  “What were you doing in my stable this morning?”

  “In the stable?” Her headlong confidence faded; her gaze flitted its meadow green across his face, then flew off to appraise the ceiling.


  “What were you doing in my stable?” he repeated slowly, his hand shaking as he reached for the straw.

  She dodged his hand, then glared at him. “What are you doing?”

  “Fetching this.”

  “Fetching what, Mr. Claybourne?”

  He steadied her with a hand to her shoulder, and then worked the stiff piece of straw from its refuge among the softly curling silk. Would have tarried there if he could, would have run his fingers through it and touched it to his cheek to study its textures and ease the burning in his chest. But he took a steadying breath and produced the length of straw.

  “Now, Miss Mayfield, why were you in my stable this morning? This didn’t come from my bed. My mattress is made of fine French wool.”

  A frown of concentration touched the corners of her captivating mouth. Whatever she was about to say was going to be a lie, carefully prepared to deceive him. He watched her lips part, watched her moisten them with the tip of her tongue. The heat left his chest, headed for his belly, and lodged in his groin.

  “I took a walk around the estate yesterday evening, Mr. Claybourne, after my bath. And I soon found myself in the stable, looking at your horses. They’re very nice. I must have gotten straw on my bonnet when I fed the big grey.” She crunched down on her toast and came away with a dab of preserves on her upper lip. She wiped it off with a fingertip, licked the dab from her finger, then looked up at him.

  “Well, Mr. Claybourne, do I get my loan?”

  He heard her question, but he’d begun to imagine his mouth on the end of that finger, and on her lips, and wasn’t sure he was prepared to answer. His throat had gone dry.

  “Ten pounds on loan, Mr. Claybourne. Do you agree to it?”

  He was about to mindlessly agree to anything, but he caught himself in time. Damn the woman for keeping him from beginning his day! And damn her for being right. She needed clothes. He couldn’t very well have a wife traipsing around London, looking no better than a Ragged School missionary.

  He stood up from his congealed, uneaten breakfast. “I’ll have a letter of credit drawn up for one of London’s best dressmakers.”