Kiss Me, Annabel

“No, no, just three monks. They’re part of the household, not living off on their own.”

“Wait a moment,” Annabel said faintly. “If I’m correct, your household consists of your grandmother, an ancient uncle, an uncle, a young boy and three monks?”

He hesitated.

“And?” she asked, eyebrow raised.

“There’s Rosy McKenna,” he said. “I’m not quite certain how to explain Rosy.”

“Is she a relative?”

“No. She’s Gregory’s mother.”

“Gregory’s mother?” Annabel repeated faintly. He had—had—“That won’t do,” she said. “If you’re taking a wife, Ardmore, you must send other women from the household. Unless you—” A horrible suspicion blossomed in her mind. He looked so innocent, but…

“Why, who do you think Rosy is to me?” he asked, bantering with her as if such a thing were the subject for a tea party. He was not a simpleton, but a madman.

She didn’t know how to answer. The words that came to mind were such things as she’d heard around the stable, and not appropriate to be said aloud.

“Never a lover of mine,” he said, and there was definitely laughter shining in those green eyes. “I wouldna bring you home to meet my lover.” He had her hand again, but she pretended not to notice.

“Well, then,” she said, resisting a sudden urge to grin back at him.

“If I had a lover,” he said. “Which I have not.”

“Oh. So who is Rosy?” she asked hastily, trying to move away from the subject of lovers. “And Gregory?”

“Rosy was my betrothed,” he said.

She snatched her hand away, but a second later he was sitting next to her on the seat, and sure enough, he was laughing at her again. “Ach, but you’re a suspicious one, you are,” he said. “Now, do you truly think I’d bring home a wife if I had a fiancée all of my own waiting for me?”

“Then who is she?”

“We were to marry, many years ago,” he said. And now he had both her hands. “ ’Twas a marriage that my father and his great friend McKenna had worked out when we were wee bairns. So when the time came, Rosy was sent to me in a carriage.” He stopped and his eyes darkened. “On the way that carriage was stopped by some ruffians. She wasn’t found until a week later.”

“Oh, no,” Annabel said softly.

“She hasn’t been in her right mind since. Some nine months later Gregory was born. I would have married her, once we realized she was carrying a child, but back then she couldn’t even give a straight yes or no in the church. And she didn’t like me, you see. She couldn’t even get near me without screaming. I was too big.”

“And too male,” Annabel said, her heart aching for the sadness of it.

“That as well,” Ewan said, kissing her hands one by one, on her curled knuckles. “She’s better now, although a strange man will always upset her. She can play spillikins.”

“Her father?”

“Came to see her once and didn’t want her back. He thought she should be sent to a nunnery, where they care for such poor creatures. Rosy’s half French, you see. But of course, we were at war with France. We sent off a letter to the nunnery anyway, but it turned out that Napoleon had sent all the nuns hither and thither. Instead of sending Rosy to them, we ended up with three monks of our own. They’ve been a great help with caring for the poor girl.”

“So she’s the second reason you came to London for a wife?” Annabel guessed, trying to ignore all those butterfly kisses he was putting on her hands.

“No. The second reason would be Father Armailhac,” he said.

“One of your monks?”

Ewan nodded. “He sent me off to London to dance with a girl.”

“Dance with a girl?” Annabel repeated. “Only that?”

“Well, I interpreted that as finding a wife,” Ewan said. “I hadn’t wanted one, you see. And Father Armailhac disagreed with me. And now I rather see his point.” He was uncurling her fingers like the petals of a flower and he was going to start kissing her palm again…

“You never danced with me,” she said quickly. “Only with Imogen.”

“The Lord moves in mysterious ways,” he said. “Because ’twas you I wanted to dance with, Annabel, ever since the moment I saw you. And ’twas you I wanted to marry as well. Never Imogen.”

The carriage rocked around a corner and Ewan took a quick glance out of the window. “We’re in Stevenage,” he said, “and we’ve made excellent time. We’ll stop at the Pig and Cauldron for the night.”

Annabel pulled her hands away, feeling uncommonly shy. But he turned back to her. A second later his hands cupped her face and he started brushing his lips back and forth against hers. “You’re like the finest wine,” he said, his voice sounding bemused.

Annabel knew just what he meant. His very touch had her heart thundering in her chest. His hands slid over her cheeks, across her hair, and he was going to kiss her, she could feel it—He pulled back.

“We’ve a problem, lass,” he said.

Annabel felt such a severe twinge of disappointment because he hadn’t kissed her that she almost pulled his head down to hers.

“I’m wanting to kiss you, all the time.”

That made her smile.

“Even seeing your lips curve like that,” he said, his voice deepened to a husky velvet, “makes me feel like—”

“Then why don’t you?” she asked, and the provocative smile that curled on her lips was not one shaped in the mirror and practiced to catch a rich husband. In fact, Annabel wouldn’t even have recognized it herself.

She wanted more of his kisses. When they kissed, she didn’t—couldn’t—think about anything but him.

And Ewan clearly wasn’t a man to disappoint a lady. His lips crushed hers in a drugging kiss that seduced and demanded. This time, Annabel shuddered at the very first touch of his mouth, and her body seemed to mold itself to his, hungrily, as if it already knew the hard lines and—

His hands were moving down her back, and she strained forward against him, feeling her breasts crushed against his chest. Instantly that feeling of peace flooded through her. There was something about being in Ewan’s arms, being held by Ewan…it felt like the most protected place in the world. Except that his lips were ravaging hers, moving over them again and again until his tongue finally slipped between her lips. By then, Annabel was ready to cry out because she wanted—she wanted—

She wasn’t even sure. She simply held on, accepting that the world had narrowed to the tight circle of his arms.

When the door swung open and light flooded into the carriage, Annabel didn’t even realize it. Her entire being was focused on the feeling of Ewan’s thick hair sliding through her fingers, the demand of his mouth, the fire racing down her legs, the mindless pleasure of their kiss—

It was Ewan who pulled away, putting his faux countess from him with a reluctance that almost made him laugh aloud. He was like a possessed thing around Annabel. Possessed. He threw a glance at the groomsman holding open the carriage door and the man shut it again instantly. The carriage fell into twilight, but he could still see her. He could reach out and—