Wicked Earl, Wanton Widow Read online

  More than ever, Killian wanted to get home.

  Fate conspired against a speedy journey. It was December now, after all, and the roads were muddy. What wasn’t muddy was slippery. He was thankful for the Dursley equipage, the finest available. The traveling carriage was well-sprung and had all the best refinements. But Killian wanted speed, and he chafed at the slow progress of his journey. He felt helpless sitting for hours on end, doing nothing. He couldn’t read. He couldn’t think. He wanted Rose in his arms. He wanted to know she was still his.

  He wanted to see her face light up and her blue eyes glow when he gave her the little gift he’d found in London. He’d brought other gifts for her too. He’d spent his last day in London shopping for her. He wanted to strip her out of the silk negligee (what there was of it) that he’d purchased and make slow love to her. Alas, now he was alone and aroused. This was possibly the most miserable trip he’d ever been on.

  Three miles out of Pembridge-on-the-Wye and dark coming on fast, a wheel axle broke, proving even the Dursley wealth was no match for Mother Nature, though it had given her a hell of a run for her money. Killian swore, and jumped down to lend a hand.

  The driver and his nephew, along with Killian’s muscle, were able to get the carriage to the side of the road. But there was no question of going further without help. They unhitched the horses, agreeing to ride the rest of the way and send a team back for the carriage later.

  Despite the setback, Killian’s heart soared at the sight of the town steeple coming into view in the dusky twilight, the lights of the main street glowing. His town. It took an effort of supreme will to ride past the turn to Rose’s and keep going towards Pembridge Hall, but he had his duty to Peyton. He couldn’t leave Peyton’s carriage lying in a ditch. Killian chuckled to himself. His duty to Peyton did have its limits though. He’d tell Peyton about the carriage and then let him deal with it.

  Peyton laughed at his report. “Apparently, you find humor in the wreckage of your very expensive carriage?” Killian said, doing a fair imitation of Peyton’s lordly eyebrow-raise.

  “No, it’s you that has me laughing. You can’t wait to be off to Mrs. Janeway’s. So it’s finally happened, has it? The legendary Killian Redbourne has fallen in love?”

  There was no sense in denying the truth. Killian shrugged. “It would seem so. But I wouldn’t laugh too hard. It will happen to you too, just wait and see if it doesn’t.” Peyton looked dubious over this pronouncement, but Killian was too happy to care. He was free at last to see Rose.

  She wasn’t at the grange. The house was dark. Disappointed, Killian stopped in at the pub. The innkeeper would know where everyone was. As it turned out, he didn’t need to ask. The pub was thronged. It took Killian a moment to realize the pub’s patrons weren’t the usual. Tonight, there were women and children, families, gathered around the tables.

  He grabbed one of the barmaids. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re celebrating our cider contracts, sir!” Then she paused, recognizing who she was talking to. Killian imagined he didn’t look quite himself after days on the road and forgave her for the oversight.

  “It’s him, everyone! It’s Lord Pembridge!” She shouted in her excitement.

  All eyes swiveled towards him. Killian smiled, although this was not the discreet homecoming he would have wished. He’d have preferred something more private with Rose. But as Peyton had said, his was a public life now. He searched the crowd for the only set of eyes that mattered. He found them at the back of the room. He started moving towards her, shaking hands and clapping shoulders, accepting good wishes, acutely aware that he’d truly come home, that he was building his future here. But, always, he was moving forwards. He wouldn’t really be home until he reached her.

  Rose’s breath caught. Killian was back! He looked dirty, his greatcoat spattered with mud at the hem, his dark hair loose and tangled, his beard stubbling on his chin. He’d never looked more handsome to her, and Rose very physically felt her hard-won control shatter. She’d had a month to make all the necessary justifications to herself, a month to relegate Killian Redbourne to the status of an unforgettable experience. But that was the problem with the unforgettable. One always remembered. And now he was here, walking toward her with a look of single-minded determination in his coffee-colored eyes.

  His purpose was clear: he wanted her. He’d come back for her, cartel notwithstanding. What should she do? She had only moments to decide. Could she risk her heart again knowing that he could not offer all her heart demanded? Would he make her choose between him and Pembridge-on-the-Wye?

  Killian stood in front of her, tall and strong, desire pulsing through his frame. He took no pains to hide it. Rose bit her lip. No wonder Mrs. Dempsey had swooned. Any woman would kill to be looked at thusly by a man.

  Killian took her by the hand in front of all those assembled. “I need a word with you.” He said softly, although Rose knew everyone would have heard him even if he’d whispered. He led her to one of the private parlors and shut the door firmly behind them.

  “Killian, what…” She did not get any farther. He enveloped her in his arms, his mouth possessing hers, her body held tightly against his, and she gave herself over to it. There was no denying the joy her body took from his. But it was more than that. There was a joy in being with this man that transcended the physical. She knew instinctively no other could provide her the joy she found with him.

  “I missed you. I don’t want to be apart from you like that again.” He whispered between kisses, “I didn’t like wondering if you were still mine. I realized I might have left my intentions unclear.”

  “I thought you weren’t coming back.” It had to be said.

  “It occurred to me, rather belatedly, that you might think that. So I’ve brought you something to convince you otherwise.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet-covered box.

  “What’s this?” Rose asked, her emotions threatening to get the better of her. The evening had turned into a whirlwind of surprises.

  “Open it,” He pushed the box into her hand.

  Rose slipped open the lid and gasped. It was an exquisitely crafted brooch—a ruby shaped in the form of an apple lay on black velvet, a sliver of jade carved to represent a leaf. “It’s beautiful.” She said softly.

  “It’s for a countess who’s crazy enough to let her husband run a cider cartel.” Killian’s voice cracked over his next three words. “Marry me, Rose.”

  Rose looked at him in amazement. By the saints, the great Killian Redbourne, possessor of swooning kisses, was nervous. And that was all the persuasion she needed.

  “I’ll never be a fashionable countess.” She said.

  Killian smiled, relieved hope starting to creep into his expression. “But you’ll be mine. And we’ll be here in Pembridge-on-the–Wye together. London’s had me for fourteen years. You can have me for the rest.” His hands shook slightly as he pinned the brooch to her dress. “Say you’ll be mine?”

  “Yes, Killian, I’ll be yours.” Rose grinned up at him, her arms about his neck. What an extraordinary man she’d found. He’d understood her dilemma before she’d even voiced it and had removed it from consideration. She cocked her head in contemplative fashion. “Do you think they’d miss us, if we slipped out the back?”

  Killian gave her a stare of mock seriousness. “Yes I do, which why I propose we stay right here. But don’t worry, I have it on good authority that tables can be put to several diverse uses.”

  “I wish I’d thought of that.” Rose tugged impatiently at his waistband.

  Killian winked, moving down on top of her. “Someone once told me wishing makes all the difference, my dear, between expectation and hope.”

  Bronwyn Scott is a communications instructor in the Puget Sound area, and is the proud mother of three wonderful children (one boy and two girls). When she’s not teaching or writing, she enjoys playing the piano, traveling—especially to Florence, Italy—and st
udying history and foreign languages. You can learn more about Bronwyn at www.nikkipoppen.com

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  ISBN: 978-1-4268-4874-2

  Wicked Earl, Wanton Widow

  Copyright © 2010 by Nikki Poppen

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