The Wrong Way to Catch a Rake, page 25
He wrapped his hand about her elbow, stilling her touch.
‘Do you know how much I love you, my amazing, brilliant, delectable Phoebe?’
Her eyes, wide and golden like their son’s, darkened, and her voice was hoarse when she answered.
‘You never let me forget. It’s very annoying.’
‘I know. I’m insufferable.’ He eased the sleeve of her gown off her shoulder and bent to brush his lips over the warm curve. ‘We have an hour before dinner. A whole hour. Or rather...only an hour.’
She let him press her back, her face taking on that glow of love and warmth that rocked his insides no matter how often he saw it.
‘That will be one definite benefit of going on a mission alone.’ She sighed with pleasure as her body took his weight. ‘No children opening our locked bedroom door in the middle of a mutual ravishing... I told you it was a bad idea to teach them how to spring a lock before they can even spell.’
‘Thank goodness we were so randy we hadn’t even bothered to undress. But Ginnie is a marvel, isn’t she? Magical hands. And speaking of magical hands...’ He sucked in his breath as Phoebe slipped her hands up under his shirt.
‘Mmm... Your own magical hands shall be needed soon. I’m very randy right now, but I want that shirt off or I might have to tear it off like your calcio admirers.’
‘You’re more than welcome to tear anything you want off me, sweetheart.’
She shook her head, wrapping her arms around his nape. ‘You said that once, remember?’
He thought back and smiled, touching the lobe of his ear. ‘God, yes. That day at the Gioconda with that ridiculous ruby earring. I can still feel your fingers right here. I was hot and bothered before I even knew what that meant.’
‘So was I.’ She rose to brush her lips over his earlobe as lightly as a butterfly flitting by a flower. ‘I love you so much, Dominic. So much. Some days I think of those hours on the ship to Pescara, running away from you. I was so close to losing you, us. I never thought I could be happy. Content, satisfied, yes, but not joyful and so full of love for you and our children that I feel ten times more real than I ever did. When I think I might have walked away... It frightens me.’
Dominic rested his palm to her cheek, his heart echoing the rapid tattoo of her pulse against his body. He could feel the fear still there, the yearning—set free but still wary. Phoebe. His love.
‘I’m very, very glad you turned that ship around. But I wouldn’t have let you walk away, love. Not without a protracted and highly annoying pursuit, and probably not even then. I adore you with every fibre of my being. You know that, don’t you?’
Her eyes filled with tears, her lips pressing together hard. She swallowed and answered.
‘I do now.’
‘It took me a while to believe you loved me, too, my heart. Trust was not our strong suit. But even old dogs like us can learn new tricks. And once we are alone and not at risk of having our budding little thieves find a way to defeat even our chair-shoved-under-the-doorknob method, we shall learn a few new tricks together.’
‘New tricks?’
‘Signor Martelli very kindly sent a gift for our tenth anniversary. An Italian translation of a book of erotic lovemaking from India...’
Phoebe’s eyes widened. ‘What? Where is it...? Why didn’t you...?’
Dominic pressed a laughing kiss to her lips. ‘Such enthusiasm. I knew I should have kept it a secret until we were in Vienna. I’ll need all the weapons at my disposal for when you encounter your old admirer. I don’t trust that damned icicle von Haas. He’ll be showing you all those enticingly manicured Viennese gardens and seducing you with tales of thick, spiked fences.’
‘Were you truly jealous of von Haas?’
‘I would have happily shoved him off a bridge. Pity there aren’t any canals in Vienna. There’s always the Danube, though.’
Phoebe smiled and shook her head.
‘You have no cause to be jealous, Dominic. You’re the only man I’ve ever wanted to ravish or be ravished by. That hasn’t changed one iota. We shall have a grand time in Vienna rooting out our traitor, with or without books about lovemaking. In fact, we can always write our own book.’
‘Excellent idea. I can already see it gracing Martelli’s shelves: Lovemaking Manual for the Late-Blooming Lover by Her Grace, the Duchess of Rutherford.’
‘No, no. I shan’t take credit. And we need a shorter title. What do you think of How to Bed your Bemused Betrothed? Referring to myself, of course.’
‘In that case, I think How to Catch and Keep your Reluctant Betrothed is more accurate. I was definitely better at the catching than the keeping.’
Phoebe huffed in disdain even as she slipped her hands under his shirt, sending shivers of anticipation through him. ‘As I recall, I all but threw myself into your net before you even left port, Dominic.’
‘Perhaps that was my plan all along, Rosie mine? Imagine if all along I knew precisely what I was doing, reeling you in, inch by devious inch.’ He demonstrated by tracing ever-tightening circles on the swell of her breast above her shift, delighting in watching her breath turn shallow and a flush rise over her cheeks.
‘Perhaps this was my plan all along,’ she said, her hands tightening on his back, nails pressing into his skin. ‘Perhaps we should call our book The Proper Way to Catch a Reluctant Rake.’
He kissed the swell of her breast, slipping his hand under the covers to find the hem of her shift. ‘Oh, no, love, I wasn’t in the least reluctant, and there certainly was nothing proper about the way we caught each other. Everything we did was highly improper, often wrong, and...absolutely perfect.’
‘Mmm...’ Phoebe let her eyes drift shut, concentrating on his magical hands. ‘All those titles are too unwieldy. I think we should call it simply And They Loved Happily Ever After...’
* * *
If you enjoyed this story, be sure to read
Lara Temple’s The Return of the Rogues miniseries
The Return of the Disappearing Duke
A Match for the Rebellious Earl
And why not check out her other great books?
The Reluctant Viscount
The Duke’s Unexpected Bride
The Earl She Should Never Desire
Keep reading for an excerpt from One Night with Her Viking Warrior by Sarah Rodi.
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One Night with Her Viking Warrior
by Sarah Rodi
Chapter One
Ryestone Keep—ninth-century England
The Northmen were coming.
Rooted to the spot, Lady Rebekah was unable to take her eyes off the fleet of dragon ships with their raven banners snaking their way up the river towards her, like an unstoppable dark wave. The church bells were pealing out throughout the fortress of Ryestone Keep, warning the already frantic men, women and children that they were under attack.
The people of the Saxon burgh had been preparing for this day as best they could for some time, having heard stories of barbaric raids by these pirates from the north and knowing it wouldn’t be long before they found their way from the sea inland. Now it seemed that day of reckoning was upon them.
Lady Rebekah knew all too well what the Northmen were capable of, she had witnessed it first-hand when she was a child—a dark memory she could neither forget nor forgive. It was their fault she had grown up an orphan. These heathens were more monsters than men—they cared nothing for Saxon homes or monasteries, burning everything in their sights, causing all that they touched to wither and die.
The late afternoon clouds darkened with the threat of an almighty storm and Rebekah sensed the moment the longships and their warriors hit Saxon soil—she felt it in the trembling of her legs, the tremors coming from the ground. She saw the forking flames of the raiders’ torches burst into life, assisting their ascent through the scatter of farmsteads on the outskirts of the fortress walls, drawing closer and closer, and she propelled herself from her viewpoint on the ramparts.
Racing down the steps to the courtyard, she called for any women and children to enter the great hall, to seek shelter inside. Lord Atol of Ryestone had sent every able man who could fight to the battlements, and she couldn’t just sit idly by and do nothing—she would do her best to protect their subjects from harm.
Ryestone Keep had never felt like home to Rebekah, not since she’d been a young girl and her parents had died, when she’d been brought to live here as the ward of her powerful Uncle Cynerik. Although she had always been treated well, at least until her uncle’s death a few years back, this place hadn’t even come close to replicating the warm family home she’d been born into. Yet right now she would do anything to protect it—the people—against this pagan enemy.
After ushering the last of the villagers through the heavy oak door, she pulled it towards her on the outside and she rested against the wood, taking a moment to gather her strength. She knew how to use a sword and shield. If she could help the men to fortify the battlements, she should fight. The Northmen couldn’t be allowed to breach the walls. If they did, then what? What would that mean for the brave Saxon soldiers and the women and children inside?
Her own daughter...
Dashing back up to the bridge, through the now driving rain, she watched as the gates slowly opened and Lord Atol led out a cavalry to meet the heathen force of ninety or so men. The soldiers on the barricades took aim and released their fire arrows, but the barbarian warriors continued to advance, like savage, wild boars charging, meeting the Saxon army head on.
Rebekah had never witnessed fighting like it—the chilling clashing of metal, grunts coming from the mouths of the men with every heave of their lethal weapons and unforgettable groans of pain. The pagans seemed half-mad, so driven and ferocious. It was bloody and brutal and raw. And to her horror, she saw boorish, beastly-looking men were beginning to scale the crenels at the top of the towering walls. The guards tried to cut them down, three against one, just about holding their own, but for how long? Flames were beginning to lick at the wooden fort, just as fear was engulfing her, as she surveyed the sickening scene before her. Because with terror thundering through her heavy heart, she knew the Saxons of Ryestone Keep would soon be at the mercy of the Danes.
Her eyes sought out the leader of the heathen army. Easy to spot in the fray, he was the most muscular man she had ever seen and he carried a large sword and shield. An iron helmet covered his head and shielded his eyes, and rope-like strands of dark hair descended from beneath. His body screamed danger, his actions ruthless and deadly. He fought with such skill and power, and she watched in morbid fascination as he bore down on Lord Atol, skilfully knocking the weapon out of his hand, sending her Saxon leader cowering backwards.
The battering ram came crashing against the gate, as a deafening crack of thunder reverberated through the fortress, echoing the pounding of her pulse, and just for a moment, she wondered if she could let Lord Atol die... She and the people of Ryestone deserved a better leader and Gytha a better father. They would finally be rid of him, free. And yet seeing the formidable warrior’s boot pin her Lord’s body to the ground, she knew she had to intervene—to try to end this, to stop the heathen running his blade through their ruler and taking control of the fortress. She reached for the white flag of defeat, furiously waving it back and forth along the top of the battlements, hoping in vain that they would see her desperate plea and be merciful.
* * *
‘Stǫðva! Enda!’ Rædan roared.
He gripped the hilt of his sword tighter, his big body freezing in shock. He hadn’t counted on her being right there, on the battlements.
Rebekah.
Glancing up and seeing her frantically waving that ridiculous flag, for a heart-stopping moment he was rendered breathless. It was as if he’d been struck by Thor’s hammer itself, a thunderbolt hitting him hard in the chest.
He had sent a silent word up to the gods that if he saw her again he would feel just a flicker of disdain, a mere memory of a happy youth, but of course, the gods were never that kind.
Rebekah’s dark auburn hair was still as vibrant as fire, but no longer loose and flowing free. It was tamed and bound in a braid down the side of her long neck, signifying she was spoken for, and she wore an exquisitely embroidered gown that matched the evergreen of her eyes. Eyes that were focused on the man beneath his boot—her precious Lord in danger, causing her to wave the flag faster, harder. He should have expected her response, that she would try to stop him from killing her lover, for she had shown where her loyalties lay, yet he wasn’t prepared for his chest to burn with such bitterness. He pressed down harder with his foot in anger.
‘Halt your attack,’ he fiercely commanded his men.
Usually, nothing would stop him from storming a Saxon fortress. They didn’t care for the rules of battle. He’d put himself in the heart of the fight many times, driven by his dark memories and the desire to make a name for himself, to make history. And taking down Ryestone Keep meant more to him than anything. He had imagined a great battle, with the fighting going on long into the night, a meeting of strength and skill, but seeing Rebekah again had stopped him in his blood-soaked tracks, and all around them the Saxon soldiers were dropping their weapons in defeat.
When Rædan met the eyes of the man lying on the ground beneath him, he expected to see fear and recognition in Lord Atol’s gaze—perhaps the dawning realisation that the heinous crimes of his past had finally caught up with him—but there was nothing. It was as if not even one memory had been stirred. And instead of begging for forgiveness, the man began begging for his life.
Rædan felt raw anger and disdain rear up inside him. How could his enemy not remember him, when he had often woken in the years since, covered in sweat and reliving the worst evening of his life—the night he’d been parted from all that he knew and cared for in the world?
He wanted to crush the Saxon Lord like the vermin that he was, but the sour taste of dissatisfaction filled his mouth. While this man had destroyed his life and Rædan wanted revenge, an honourable death in battle now seemed too good for him.
Aware of everyone’s eyes on him, especially Rebekah’s, Rædan roughly bundled the Saxon Lord to his feet. He took pleasure in tightly binding the man’s hands with rope and gagging his mouth. He wanted this mighty Lord to be humiliated, to lose all he held dear, to suffer as he had suffered. And a plan began to form in his mind. His men had been tasked with bringing riches back to Nedergaard and Rædan had unearthed a particular prize of his own.
First, he would take Lord Atol’s freedom, next, his wife...
He placed his sword across his hostage’s chest and jostled him forward. ‘Signal to your guards to open the gates,’ he barked. And the Saxon did as he commanded. Rædan turned to his best men, Erik and Arne, and beckoned them to follow, while instructing the rest of his warriors to wait, to maintain their positions over their captives.
His lips twisted at the irony of the familiar large wooden gates of Ryestone Keep slowly opening, welcoming him back inside. And as he crossed the courtyard towards the old stone keep, a cascade of memories crashed over him, for this place had once been his home—another lifetime ago, when he’d been a different person. It was a place where he’d found happiness for a time, before it had been cruelly ripped from him. This fortress represented his past—was it so wrong he wanted to tear it down, eradicate it and all that it stood for?
His strides were long and purposeful as he headed towards the great hall, where the women and children huddled together, comforting each other amid the chaos of the conflict. As a boy, he’d been in awe of the size of this place. It hadn’t changed, but as all eyes turned towards him and his hostage, and muffled gasps rippled around the hall, he realised many of the faces had. He felt a pang of remorse at having inflicted this discomfort upon them, for forcing his way into their home—after all, he had once been one of them—but he instantly crushed it, as he’d learned to suppress all emotions.
A path cleared for him and he shoved the Saxon forward. Rædan allowed himself a moment to bask in his victory, to have their lives in his control, for he had thought of this day of retribution often.
At the top of the hall, he had been expecting to find Lord Cynerik, but instead Rebekah stood in front of a grand wooden chair, waiting for him to draw near. He was impressed by her courage and he wondered, having taken Atol as a hostage, was he responsible for putting her in charge? Where was her uncle?
‘That is close enough,’ she commanded, her eyes flashing as she held up her hand to halt his advance.
She was even more beautiful than he remembered, despite her rain-washed hair and damp clothes. Born into nobility, she had always had power over him—and right now, she looked as if she was ready to fight, wearing leather bracers and boots, holding a sword of her own in her right hand. Did she know how to wield it? Would she consider using it against him? The thought sent a throb of unexpected desire to his groin.
But despite her highborn blood, there was nothing honourable about this woman. He must keep that in mind, despite her beguiling looks. How soon had it been after he’d left that Rebekah had fallen into Atol’s bed? He’d always wondered if the Saxon Lord’s status and wealth would turn her head and the treachery cut deep, wounding his heart and his pride, even now.
